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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1842112 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69474 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69474) diff --git a/old/69474-0.txt b/old/69474-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 498d64d..0000000 --- a/old/69474-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7409 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Modern Trio in an Old Town, by -Katharine Haviland Taylor - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A Modern Trio in an Old Town - -Author: Katharine Haviland Taylor - -Illustrator: Morgan Dennis - -Release Date: December 4, 2022 [eBook #69474] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Krista Zaleski, Marki Desjardins, and the online - Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at - https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made - available by archive.org. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN TRIO IN AN OLD -TOWN *** - - - -[Illustration: “Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on (page 227)] - - - - - A MODERN TRIO IN AN - OLD TOWN - - - BY - KATHARINE HAVILAND TAYLOR - - Author of “Real Stuff,” “Natalie Page,” - “Barbara of Baltimore,” etc. - - - ILLUSTRATED - BY - MORGAN DENNIS - - - [Illustration] - - - NEW YORK - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY - - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. - - - PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY - THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY - RAHWAY, N. J. - - - - - TO - BONNIE BELL GUERNSEY - AND - JESSIE ELIZABETH GUERNSEY - WITH A VERY GREAT DEAL OF MY LOVE - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I APPREHENSIONS 1 - - II THE END OF ONE JOURNEY AND THE START OF ANOTHER 8 - - III LUNCH AND SOME MODERN HISTORY 17 - - IV FLORENCE AND THE NEW HOME 27 - - V NEW FRIENDS, A NEW DAY AND NEW PLANS 38 - - VI MISS PARRISH AND MISS HARRIS-CLARKE 46 - - VII GETTING ACQUAINTED 56 - - VIII SIGNOR PAGGI’S COMPLIMENTS 68 - - IX A STROLLING PICNIC 77 - - X CREAM PUFFS, THE TWILIGHT AND-- 94 - - XI ENTER--SAM DEANE! 103 - - XII DARK CLOUDS 117 - - XIII A PATCH OF BLUE SKY 129 - - XIV STORIES, MUSIC AND TEA 139 - - XV FLORENTINE WINTER 149 - - XVI PLANS FOR A PARTY 159 - - XVII CUPID AND A LADY SANTA CLAUS 167 - - XVIII THE EFFECT OF A SECRET 182 - - XIX CHANGES 197 - - XX A COUNTRY WEDDING AND THE COMING OF SPRING 208 - - XXI FIESOLE, A CLEAR HOT DAY, AND A COOL GARDEN 220 - - XXII A WALK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON 238 - - XXIII MISCHIEVOUS CUPID 253 - - XXIV HOMEWARD BOUND 261 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - FACING PAGE - - “Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on (page 227) _Frontispiece_ - - “Isn’t this simply ghastly?” 60 - - “My name is Sam Deane,” he announced 110 - - Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed Miss Meek 180 - - - - -A MODERN TRIO IN AN OLD TOWN - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - -APPREHENSIONS - - -As I look back through my experience of eighteen years, I realize -that many of my apprehensions have been foolish, because so many of -the things that I dreaded turned out all right. Almost every one of -the parties I thought would be stiff--and I am not very happy at the -sort!--proved to be the kind where every one grew lively. I remember -one that Elaine McDonald had, particularly, because I had said to -mother, “I don’t want to go. They’ll all wear gloves and it will be -_miserable_!” But I did go, and they had a Paul Jones that was so rough -that they broke a chair and knocked over a table, and it was _fine_! -While, on the other hand, there have been parties that I thought would -be nice and informal, and we just went and sat in one place and talked, -and at that sort I smile until my face feels as if it were covered -with shellac, because I don’t _feel_ like smiling at all. And this -all shows--or it should, because I am trying to make it--that I never -should take my apprehensions seriously. But--I seem to have to, and I -always do, and so I felt as if I had real reason for misery, when Mrs. -Hamilton, who had looked after me as I crossed the Atlantic upon the -_Steamship Carpatia_, called me back into the stateroom and said, “By -the way, child, I am not going to Florence, after all--” - -Well, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, which is what I -often do while waiting. - -“But,” she went on, as she fussed with the little jars that contribute -quite a lot toward her beauty, “I shall hunt up some one who is, and -see that you are looked after.” - -“Thank you,” I said, and then I went back to the foot I had originally -been standing on. - -“My friends, the Wiltons, want me to go to Mentone with them,” she -stated as she picked up a little brush she has for her eyebrows and -began to use it, “and their plans sound rather jolly, and so I’ve taken -them up. . . . I’m really sorry not to see you entirely settled, but -there’ll be some one on board who is going up, no doubt.” - -“I suppose so,” I answered in a flat tone that I use while miserable. -Then I wondered what in the world would happen if there was no one on -board who was headed for Florence, because the only Italian I knew was, -“La luna bella,” which is “The beautiful moon,” and I didn’t see what -that would do on a railroad train, and especially since I was going to -travel by day. - -“How do you say Florence in Italian?” I asked, after I changed feet -again. - -“Firenze,” Mrs. Hamilton responded, as she powdered the back of her -hands, “and don’t worry, we’ll surely locate some one who will care for -you--” - -But that only half cheered me, because I had been but a day out of -Boston when I realized that Mrs. Hamilton is like a lot of people who -talk a good deal. She is a good _promiser_, and she promises so much -that she can’t do a third of all she intends to. Really the only thing -she did do that she had forecast doing, was getting seasick, and she, -herself, didn’t entirely cause that. A couple of days of rough weather -helped her. - -However, to go back, I blamed her unjustly this time, for while I was -idling around the deck after dinner, wishing that I had nothing on my -mind to keep me from enjoying the salt tang in the air, and the pretty -phosphorescent, silver lights that gleam in the water where the prow of -the boat cuts it, she came toward me, and said she had found some one -who would help me reach Florence safely. - -“A Mr. Terrance Wake,” she said, “probably you’ve never heard of him, -but he is rather noted. . . . Writes on art, all that sort of thing, -and has a perfect love of a villa near Florence. . . . He says he’ll he -delighted to be of any service to you--” - -“Well, if he’ll just let me follow him, it’ll be all right,” I -answered, and Mrs. Hamilton laughed. - -“Funny child,” she said, and then, “I must go in; I was dummy. . . . -I’ll present Mr. Wake in the morning--” - -After that she vanished in one of the bright-lit doorways from which -came the energetic voices of people who were fondly telling each other -that they had played the wrong card, and again I was alone. I felt -better and I could breathe with more ease. Before she came I had felt -as if my lungs were a size too small for my breath. Being anxious -always makes me feel that way. And I walked--around the deck I had -learned so well--speaking to people as I passed them, exchanging plans, -and promising to send postcards. - -I was awake when Mrs. Hamilton came down to go to bed, which was -unusual for me, for insomnia is not one of my troubles, and I sat up in -the berth to talk. - -“What’s Mr. Wake like?” I asked, as I leaned out and looked down. - -“_Fascinating_ man,” she responded, “but fearfully indifferent!” - -“Does he smoke?” I asked, for I had begun to get anxious again, and -I had actually supposed up a bad awake-dream that had to do with his -going off to smoke, and the train being broken up, and my being left in -a strange country with nothing to help me but a remark about the moon. - -“I don’t know, Jane,” Mrs. Hamilton answered, with an easy little -laugh. Then she added the “Funny child!” she says at me so often, and I -lay back and stared up at the ceiling again. - -“You won’t forget to introduce us, will you?” I asked, as she switched -off the lights. - -“Yo hum,” she yawned, deeply. “No, dear, certainly _not_! Now go to -sleep, for you’ll have lots that’s new to see to-morrow. . . . ’Night.” - -“Good-night,” I answered. . . . But I couldn’t take her advice about -sleep, and in the dark I lay wide eyed, and half unhappy, which is, I -suppose, silly to confess. . . . But I had never met a strange country -before; in fact, I had never been anywhere much before, and the whole -experience was almost overpowering. And it was only after quite an hour -of wakefulness that my eyes grew heavy and I began to dream. - -When I woke up it was morning, a bright, sunny, warm morning, and there -were voices outside which called in a way that was new to me; there -were songs in the calls, even when they were angry. And the ship was -still, so I knew that we must be in the harbor at Genoa. - -Because I was green--and still am and always will be!--I went down to -the bathroom, and ran a tub full of water, and then decided not to -bathe, for no one but a mud turtle could have bathed in that sort of -water! It came right out of the harbor! And so I contented myself with -the wash-bowl instead--the water from that was all right--and then went -back to my stateroom; dressed, closed my steamer trunk and my bag, and -hurried in to breakfast. - -I found Mrs. Hamilton finishing hers, and she pointed out Mr. Wake to -me. He sat at the Captain’s table, and there was a beautiful woman -devoting herself in the most unselfish way to talking to him, and he -ate all the time she did it, and only nodded! I felt certain then that -my day would be a silent one! However, that didn’t worry me. - -“_Marvelous_ man,” Mrs. Hamilton sort of breathed out in a way she does. - -“He certainly can eat oat meal,” I answered, because that was the only -thing I noticed about him. Mrs. Hamilton laughed--she does a great -deal--and turned to tell a young man with a funny little mustache what -I had said, and he laughed. Then Mrs. Hamilton got up, and hurried off, -and I finished my breakfast. - -As I left the dining saloon, I heard her hail me, and I found that she -had actually come back to see that I met Mr. Wake. - -“Mr. Wake!” she called, as he came toward us, “here is my little -charge--” Then she laughed, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile, -he just bowed from the waistline in a manner that was very impressive, -and yet chilling. - -“And it is Miss Jones, whom I am to look out for?” he asked, in a sort -of bored way. - -“Jane,” I answered. “I should think you could call me Jane, because you -are so _much_ older than I am--” - -And then he did laugh. - -“Bully,” he said, “I will! And look here, Jane, I say, you won’t talk -Art to me, will you? Or quote my books?” - -“I didn’t know you wrote any until last night,” I answered, seriously, -and again he laughed. I laughed too, but just to be sociable, because I -didn’t see the joke. - -“We’ll have a fine day!” he said in the kindest and most enthusiastic -manner, and I felt that we would too, but neither of us had any idea of -how fine it would be, nor of all the many, many happy happenings it was -to preface! - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - -THE END OF ONE JOURNEY AND THE START OF ANOTHER - - -After I had said good-by to a great many people, and walked down the -shaking steps with canvas banisters that the sailors hang on the side -of a ship, and stepped into a little tug as three Italians who wore -blue uniforms screamed, “_Attento! Attento!_” I felt as if I were -getting close to the end of my journey, and that the surprise pile must -be getting low, for I couldn’t imagine that things on land could keep -on being so different. But they were, and after I landed, I felt as if -the ship life, which had been a real change for me, had been only a -mild preface. - -The harbor was rough, and getting in was quite hard, which I liked, -and a great many of the women in the tug screamed and held on to the -nearest man, and the Italian sailors called shrilly, and it was all -very nice. - -“Afraid?” Mr. Wake asked of me. It was the first time he had spoken -since he had thanked heaven that I had only one bag. - -“No,” I answered, “I like it. I kind of wish it would go over--of -course I wouldn’t want any one hurt, but I would like to write home -about it--” - -“_Stars!_” said Mr. Wake. - -“Which one would you rescue?” I asked as I looked around. - -“None,” he answered shortly. - -Then I let conversation die, which is what I almost always have to do -when I can’t think of anything to say. I am not at all like my older -sister Roberta, who is socially versed and can go right on talking, -whether she has anything to talk about or not. Roberta is wonderfully -clever, and talented and polished, and strangers can hardly believe we -are sisters. But to get on, I didn’t mind the silence because I had so -much to see. - -The town that cuddled against the hills on the shore was getting closer -and closer, and it was so interesting to see palm trees and such stuff -that one associates with greenhouses, around the Statue of Columbus in -a public square down in front of the town. - -“Like it?” Mr. Wake asked of me, after quite a long interval of silence. - -I nodded. - -“The Italian sun makes the shadows black, doesn’t it?” I questioned, -lazily, for the day and the new sights made me feel half sleepy, “and -the houses so white that you squint when you look at them,” I went on. -“Just the look of the sun makes you feel _warm_--” - -Mr. Wake said I was right. “Personally,” he said, “I think that that -warm look makes a good many people think Italy a warm country. It -isn’t. Florence is penetrating during some of the winter months. Hope -you have heavy enough clothes--” - -“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I have long underwear and everything--” and -then I realized how Roberta would have felt about my confiding that, -and grew silent. And after Mr. Wake said, “That’s good,” in a rather -restrained way, he grew silent too. - -Then suddenly we were bumping against a wharf, and the sailors were -squawking as if the landing were the first one they had ever made, and -ragged small boys with piercing brown eyes and dusky cheeks and black -hair were crying, “Lady, postcard! Buy the _postcard_!” and beggars -held out their hands and whined. And it seemed a pity to me that so -gentle a climate and pretty a country had to welcome people that way. - -However, before I was on land two or three minutes I had forgotten all -about it and was completely absorbed by what Roberta would have termed -“The country’s entire charm.” - -There were occasional palm trees that rose in piercing spikes between -the roofs of dull red tile, and a blue sky so clear that it seemed -thousands of miles from the earth and as if the blue overlaid silver; -and little streets so narrow one felt sure the sun could never creep -into them. But I can’t do justice to these things, I can only tell, and -roughly, of what sank into my mind and stayed there. And the things -that dented my memory enough to stick in it, made their dents by sharp, -_new_ edges. - -For instance: in Pennsylvania I never saw a little curly haired, -brown-skinned baby who looked as if she ought to have wings, sitting -on a curb--without as much as a safety pin on her--and laughing at -the bright pomegranate which she tossed in the air or rolled in the -dirt-filled gutter. - -And I had never seen half clothed little boys turn handsprings in the -street, and then sing out their begging song, which was, “Uno soldo, -Signor! _Uno_ soldo!” nor had I seen a town that lives in the street, -and eats, quarrels, talks and sometimes even sleeps there. - -We had to hurry through Genoa to the station, because we hadn’t any -too much time in which to catch the train for Florence, but we went on -foot and followed our facchino (which is Italian for porter) who had -our bags piled high in a wheelbarrow, and I was glad we walked and that -we were in a hurry, for we took the short cuts through the tiny back -streets, and I think back streets are just like people’s kitchens. You -learn more of the people after you have looked at the dish cloth, and -found out whether they use a nice, hemmed square, or use any old piece -of worn material that happens to be around, than you can from studying -their parlors where everything is all spick and span and stuck up. - -I said so to Mr. Wake as we hurried along, but he didn’t answer. He -couldn’t. Our going was uphill, and it seemed to tire him; he puffed -dreadfully. I decided when I knew him better that I would teach him the -Billy Taft stationary run, and a few of Mr. Camp’s “Daily Dozen,” but -I didn’t speak of it then, because I felt that the thought of further -exercise might not be entirely welcome. - -“Have to run for it,” he panted, as we gained the platform, and we -did, and we got in the train none too soon. I love getting trains that -way, but Mr. Wake didn’t seem to care for it so much, because after he -had tossed the facchino some coins, and put our bags up on the shelf -that is over the seats, he dropped down opposite me, took off his hat, -fanned himself with it, and then wiped the perspiration from his brow. - -“Getting old,” he said, but I shook my head, because my father is a -doctor and I knew why he was out of breath. - -“You’re just a little overweight,” I said, and I couldn’t help looking -at his stomach which stuck out. He saw me do it and he laughed and I -liked the little wrinkles that stood out boldly for that moment, around -his eyes. - -“You know,” he confided, “I’ve been trying to gain the courage to do -something about it, but every one--up to this moment--has discouraged -me! I’d get my mouth set for long walks and short rations, and then -some one would say, ‘Oh, stuff, you’re just right--’” - -“Did they _really_?” I questioned, because I could hardly believe it, -and again he laughed. - -“_Really, Jane!_” he answered. - -“Well,” I commented, “although you are not really fat, you’re too fat -for your height. And you puffed like the dickens after that run, and -it wasn’t _anything_.” And then I broke off with, “What’s that?” for a -horn of the prettiest, clear tone had tooted, and it made me wonder. - -“Horn,” said Mr. Wake, “they do that in the stations before the trains -pull out; haven’t any bells over here, you know. . . . Now watch this -start--smooth as glass; no jolts! Government over _here_ seems to know -how to run railroads.” - -I smiled, because I thought that any government should be able to run -the funny little trains that looked as if they ought to be running -around a Christmas tree, and as if they would fall off at every curve, -to lie, feet up, buzzing until some one started them on again. - -Mr. Wake saw my smile, and I was glad he did, because what it led him -to say helped me lots later. - -“Think they’re funny?” he asked. - -“They look as if they ought to be full of pine needles,” I answered. -“You know how the needles begin to drop all over the Christmas tree -yard about the second of January?” - -“Of course they look like that,” he answered, “we got our patterns for -toys, with many another thing, from this side of the pond. . . . My -child, a great many Americans come over here, and derive real benefit; -they see things that are beautiful and rare, but their gratitude is of -a strange variety, for they evidence it only with bragging.” - -I felt flat. I said so. - -“Pshaw, don’t!” Mr. Wake begged. “I didn’t mean you and I don’t mean -to be a preachy old codger, but I do think one sees more if one -appreciates and doesn’t _de_preciate. You know, as a matter of fact you -wouldn’t go into a neighbor’s house and say, ‘My house is better than -your house, my bath tub is shinier; my doorbell is louder, my front -porch is wider--’ and lots of us--in various ways--do just that, for -this is a neighbor’s house.” - -I said a really humble “Thank you--” and Mr. Wake moved over to sit by -me. He looked down and smiled in a very gentle way, and I began to love -him. - -“You are a very nice, sensible little girl,” he said; “how old are you!” - -I told him. - -“And why are you off here alone at eighteen?” he asked. - -“I am going to Florence to study piano with Mr. Michele Paggi,” I -responded. - -“Well, _well_!” said Mr. Wake. And then he laughed. “I know him,” he -said after the laugh. “And my, my, what a fire-eater he is! Well--you -seem to like adventure. . . . But whatever started you this way?” - -“It really is a fairy story,” I said, “and it is so romantic that I -sometimes can’t quite believe it, and I know I never shall be sure it -isn’t all a dream--” - -“That _is_ nice,” Mr. Wake broke in, “and it’s hard to believe that I -sit by a young lady who instead of asking questions will weave me a -tale. Good fairies in it?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “and a fairy godmother, who wears Paris hats, and -always tilted just a little over one eye, and soft silk dresses, and -gray furs that match her fluffy, wavy, light gray hair--” - -“Ah,” said Mr. Wake, “then she is the sort that I, myself, might fancy!” - -“Oh, you _would_!” I asserted surely; and it seems very, very funny to -recall that now! - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - -LUNCH AND SOME MODERN HISTORY - - -I went into reverse for Mr. Wake, because he seemed interested in my -own fairy story, but I didn’t begin to tell it until after lunch. - -Buying our lunches was the most interesting kind of a business -transaction, and unpacking them was interesting too. - -“At the next station,” Mr. Wake said, “I am going to get two mighty -good lunches that come packed in little baskets, and there will be a -little wicker-covered bottle, full of wine, that you can use for hair -tonic or scent after it’s empty--” - -And then the train slowed and he leaned far out of the opened window -that was in the door of our compartment. - -The station where we found ourselves after we had come to a gentle -stop was much smaller than the one at Genoa, but it had the same -foreign flavor, and a highly charged feeling of imperfectly suppressed -excitement and happiness. I can’t quite explain about this; it rises, -perhaps, from the clear, dazzling sunlight, the masquerade-ball look -that is lent by gay uniforms, and the women who carry trays that are -piled high with small bouquets. But anyway it is there. And this -gaiety was strange to me. Of course at our stations there are always -some people who scream such things as, “_Let us know when you get -to Aggie’s!_” or, “_Don’t forget to write!_” at each other, through -two panes of thick glass, but they don’t seem entirely happy and I -feel that the majority are entirely sober about traveling, and when I -mentioned my feeling to Mr. Wake, he said they had a right to be. - -Mr. Wake called out something in Italian, and his cry mingled with the -shrilly voiced wants of the many Italians who leaned from the other -windows of the train, and a white-aproned man who trundled a truck that -was piled high with little baskets caught the coins that were flung to -him, and handed lunches into the train, and said his “Grazies” and made -his bows. - -And then he reached us, and Mr. Wake bought two baskets for two lire -each, and we sat down and unpacked them. There were bologna sandwiches -and ripe olives--which I then didn’t care for--and a slab of Italian -cheese which I couldn’t name, a very good hard roll, figs and grapes, -very fresh and delicious, and then there was the little gourd-shaped -bottle with wicker around its feet, and a paper napkin. It seemed very -reasonable to me for a few cents, because it was all I needed, and I -always need quite a bit. - -“I don’t know whether I’d better drink this--” I said, about the wine. -“It might make me light-headed--” - -“Nonsense,” said Mr. Wake, “it’s about as likely to as lemonade. . . . -The Italians drink it like water, and you never see one drunk--probably -won’t unless some fool starts a prohibition movement.” - -Then the train made its slippery, oiled start, and I spoke only once -again, and then I was silent for some time. “Do they sell cushions, -too?” I asked. I had seen a whole truck piled high with them, and had -seen some of them being passed into the windows of the train, and I was -naturally curious about everything. - -“Rent them,” Mr. Wake answered. “The people leave them in the train, -and they are rented again on the trip back.” That seemed very strange -to me, too, coming, as I do, from a race that takes everything that -isn’t nailed down, while traveling. - -Then I really ate, and I was glad to have the quiet lull in which to -look at the things we passed. Everything fascinated me, but nothing -seemed real. I expected all the time to hear the click of the nickel -as it drops into one of those boxes holding candy that are clamped to -the back of the seats in our opera house. The country looked like a -drop curtain, or the kind of a scene that brings on a Tyrolean chorus. -There was a lot of pink and white and bright, bright green and salmon -colored houses, with blue shutters; and little shrines set high upon -their walls, under the wide-hanging, gleaming roofs of tiles. . . . And -there were oxen on the smooth white roads we passed, drawing queer, -lumbering looking carts with huge wheels that creaked each time they -completed their uneven circles. . . . I had so many things to interest -me that I was too busy. It made me think of the time that Daddy took -the twins (my youngest sisters) to the circus, and they cried because -they couldn’t look at all the rings at once. I felt that way, and so -surprised over everything. I enjoyed my lunch, but I chewed dully and -without my usual enthusiasm. That was because I was looking so hard at -the same time. Mr. Wake watched me, and his eyes twinkled. I think he -liked the way I felt. Anyway, as I brushed the crumbs from my lap and -put the little basket in which the lunch had come up by my bag, Mr. -Wake said, “You know, I have a firm conviction that you are going to -enjoy Florence.” - -“I’d be an idiot not to, wouldn’t I?” I asked. - -“Surely, but the world is full of idiots. Mr. Carlyle once said, -‘London has a population of three million people, most of whom are -fools’--but tell me your story. You come from Pennsylvania?” - -“Yes,” I answered, “from a little town that has the smell of oil in -the air, and that is surrounded by hills that have oil wells on them. -It’s a fine town. You’d _like_ it.” - -“No doubt,” agreed Mr. Wake, and again he smiled at me. - -“And,” I confided, “I’d never even been to Buffalo, which is our -closest city, so you can imagine what all this does to me--” - -“And who waved the wand?” he asked. - -“Miss Sheila Parrish,” I answered. - -“Miss--” he stopped, then began again, “Miss--_who_?” he asked. - -“Miss Sheila Parrish,” I repeated. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” - -Mr. Wake didn’t answer immediately, and then he said, “It _is_ a pretty -name; I’m thinking it holds a touch of old Ireland and a deal of -romance.” - -“She hasn’t many friends,” I said, “she says she is fond of solitude--” - -Mr. Wake, who was looking down at a strange ring he wore--which I soon -learned was a scarab,--twisted it as he said, “Well, now you have -introduced the fairy who holds the wand, tell me, please, how did she -wave it?” And I told him. - - * * * * * - -It had begun early in May on a rainy day when I had spilled fudge -right in the middle of the front breadth of my one good dress. I felt -dreadfully about it, because Mother is always asking me to wear an -apron, and she works so hard to keep us looking nice that the idea -of making her more work made _me_ miserable. But there the fudge -was, spreading over the floor, with the treacherous pan handle, that -had made me knock it off, looking as mild and blameless as the twins -after they have been eating pink and yellow candy bananas (these are -forbidden) and there I stood looking down miserably at the front of my -skirt and wondering what to do. - -Well, I remember I murmured, “I might as well scrape it up, and get -out of this--” and so I got a palette knife and scraped the top layer -of fudge off the floor for the twins--who don’t care at all what has -happened to any fudge as long as it happens to come to them--and then -I scraped my dress, and sponged it a little, and then--miserable and -feeling weighted--went up to the third floor where I sleep in the same -room with Roberta, and got into my old, faded pink lawn. - -I hated that lawn dress, and it helped me to wear it while I waited for -Mother who was down town buying Ferris waists and garter elastic and -bone buttons and dish towel material and all those things mothers buy -at least once a month, and of course I needed to see mother--as every -one of us always needs her when we have been into mischief! - -I knew she would say, “Never mind, honey, we’ll fix it in no time! I -have more goods and I’ll slip in a new front breadth before you can say -‘Jack Robinson!’” And I knew that I would feel humble and mean because -of her being so nice, but cleared up too, and that I would slide up to -her, and lay my face against her shoulder, and say, “Oh, _Mother_,” in -a tight way, because thinking of how wonderful she is, and how much too -good for us, always makes me want to cry, and I would rather die than -cry. - -The only time when I ever did cry without shame was when my favorite -pitcher was expelled, and most unjustly, from _The Oil City League_. - -However, to get on, I went down stairs, and watered the plants and -dusted and did all those things I never do while feeling well mentally, -and then I sat down and played the piano. - -I didn’t play anything that echoed my mood but I played a dancing, gay, -bright thing. I believe most people save the sad ones for those moments -when they _want_ to feel sentimental, or are not _afraid_ of being sad. - -Anyway I played this thing which sounded as if gipsies might dance to -it in the heart of a summer day, and I played it, I believe, fairly -well. - -After I finished it I sat idle, my hands on the piano keys, feeling -even more depressed than before, and it was into this moment of -dreariness that the fairy godmother stepped. - -Perhaps I heard a little noise, and perhaps I only felt eyes on me, but -in any event, I turned--something made me turn--and then I said, “Why, -Miss Sheila!” for although I had never seen the pretty woman who stood -in the doorway, I had often--very often--seen the picture of the girl -she had been, and the years had not changed her much. - -She came toward me as I got up, and she held out both hands, and I saw -that she had felt tears, for her long lashes were wet, and made into -little points. - -“Bless you, darling child!” she said, as she kissed me, “how did you -know?” and I said, “Mother has a picture of you, and of course we’ve -always talked of you, for Mother loved you so much; she said you were -so _kind_ to her!” - -“Kind to her?” she echoed, “dear soul, think of all that she did for -me--” - -And then her eyes brimmed again, and Mother spoke quickly of how they -had met, because I think she felt that it was too hard for Miss Sheila -to remember the time when Mother, then a trained nurse, had cared for -Miss Sheila’s younger brother who died. - -“Right by the First National,” Mother said, “and there I was, coming -out of Mr. Duffy’s with a pound of liver, and I looked up and saw dear -Miss Sheila!” - -“And I’ve tried to find you everywhere, Margaret,” said Miss Sheila to -Mother, “but that trip--I traveled, you know, after we parted, and I -lost hold of threads for a time, and then when I came back I couldn’t -locate you. I suppose you married the young interne in the Pennsylvania -Hospital, during that interval?” - -Mother laughed, flushed and nodded. - -“He used to write her letters that weighed seven to eight pounds, -_every day_,” said Miss Sheila to me, as she shook her pretty head -disapprovingly, “I assure you the poor postman grew quite stooped; I -hope, Jane, that no young interne writes to _you_?” - -And I told her that none did, and that I wouldn’t let any, because -I wanted a husband whom I would know by sight, anyway, and one that -didn’t smell of ether. - -And then I put my hand on the piano--“It’s this with me,” I said shyly, -because I do feel shy about my playing. It makes me feel lumpy in my -throat from the way I love it, and that embarrasses me. - -“I don’t wonder,” said Miss Sheila as she looked at me searchingly, “I -heard you . . . Jane--” - -And she didn’t wave her wand, but I saw the flicker of its silver magic -in the air-- - -“Jane,” she continued, “I have a hobby, and it is helping girls to -find work that they like, and after finding it, helping them to go -on with it. . . . This, because I, myself, have been without work, -and suffered from it. . . . You can play, my child, and your mother -is going to give me the great pleasure of letting me help you play -better. . . . You are, Margaret? _My dear, remember the old days, and -all that you did for me!_ . . . Jane,” (she turned back to me) “in -Florence there is rather a marvelous teacher named Michele Paggi, and -in October you shall go to him!” - - * * * * * - -That was the story. - -I told it to Mr. Terrance Wake as if he could see our house, and knew -the people in it, including Miss Sheila, who abandoned the party with -whom she was motoring and came to stay with us for a time. - -And as I ended it, on that Italian train that was taking me nearer and -nearer to Florence, I looked up to see that Mr. Wake was still twisting -a scarab ring and looking down at it. - -“So you see,” I said, “why I am here, and why I love Miss Sheila--” - -“Yes,” he said, and he raised his head to smile at me in a strange way. -“Yes--I see--” and then he looked away from me and down again at his -scarab ring. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - -FLORENCE AND THE NEW HOME - - -When we reached Florence, which was well along in the afternoon, -Mr. Wake went with me to the Pension Dante, which is on the Piazza -Indipendenza, not far from the station, and is the place where Miss -Sheila had arranged to have me stay. - -Again a facchino took our baggage and piled it all up, trunks and bags -together, in a wheelbarrow, and then started ahead of us, singing. - -“Don’t you live in the country?” I asked of Mr. Wake, for I had -understood from Mrs. Hamilton that he did. - -“Yes, out the Fiesole way,” he answered; “my goods go to the Piazza del -Duomo where I take a tram.” - -“What’s a duomo?” I asked, because I imagined it was some kind of an -officer in a high, bear-skin cap. It seemed to me that it sounded like -that. But it wasn’t, it was something quite different. - -“It’s the greatest church in an Italian city,” Mr. Wake answered, “and -I think you will probably be able to see the dome of this one from -your window. It is one of the largest domes in Italy; it was the -model for St. Peter’s in Rome, and it was alike the despair of Michael -Angelo, and the pride of its maker, Brunelleschi.” - -I said, “Oh,” because at that time such facts seemed dry to me, and -dulled by dust. I had not learned how much romance may be unearthed by -a puff of breath from some one who knows, as does Mr. Wake, how to blow -aside the years. - -“About a month,” he said, “and you’ll like it, and you’ll be hunting -for old facts.” And then he smiled at me in a way that told me he had -understood my feeling. - -After that our facchino paused and dumped my baggage out of his -wheelbarrow and rang a bell. - -“You’ve evidently reached home,” Mr. Wake hazarded, “and a mighty nice -place it is too, isn’t it, with this square before you? Probably puff -up a million stairs now, and then you’ll tell me I have too much tummy, -won’t you?” - -“No,” I answered, “I did tell you that.” - -He laughed, and we followed the facchino who had put my trunk on his -shoulders, and started before us, up three flights to the Pension Dante. - -“Look here,” said Mr. Wake as we paused on the first landing, “suppose -you take me in training? You walk?” - -“I have to,” I answered. “Father made me promise to walk at least five -miles every day--” - -“Well, that ought to help me,” Mr. Wake commented; “suppose I go, too, -and show you the town?” - -I said I’d like it. - -“I can take you to some spots most tourists miss,” he promised, as we -again started on and up. - -“That’ll be nice,” I said, but I never dreamed then how very nice it -would be, nor of how much I was to enjoy those trips he planned, in -spite of the fact that I learned a good deal in the process. “And I -thank you,” I ended, and he said I was most welcome. - -Then the door at the head of the third flight opened, and I saw -a pretty, plump little Italian woman whose hair rippled like the -waves that follow in the immediate wake of a steamboat, and when she -held out both of her hands to me, and said, “Buona sera, Signorina, -well-_come_!” I felt very much at home, and I loved her right away. - -“Are you Miss Rotelli?” I asked. - -“Yes, Mees Rotelli,” she answered as she nodded like everything, and I -introduced Mr. Wake, and he left me after a promise of looking around -to see how I was in a day or so, and then I followed Miss Rotelli--I -soon called her Miss Julianna--in, - -And _in_-- - -Well, I think that everybody _should_ travel. As Mr. Hemmingway, -whom I met at dinner, says, it is _educational_. One has an idea, or -at least I did, that houses all over the world are about the same. -I expected little differences, but I didn’t expect stone floors, or -Cupids painted on walls, or ceilings that took a field glass to see, or -to see a plaster-of-Paris Madonna on the wall with a tall wrought-iron -candlestick on the floor before it. . . . And I hadn’t expected to see -a box full of sawdust with a broom in it, or that they had to clean -house differently in Florence. . . . I didn’t know that there was -so little water that they had to dampen sawdust and brush it around -the rooms instead of mopping them up as we do. There are many, many -differences, but those things, and Beata, struck into me at first. - -Beata, who had a rose in her hair, and whom I soon found was the cook -and waitress, was sitting in the long corridor into which I had stepped. - -She rose as I came in and bobbed from the knees, as Elaine McDonald, -who is the only girl in our town who ever went to boarding school, did -the first year after she came home. - -“She ees Beata,” said Miss Rotelli, and Beata spoke. “She say -_well-come_,” explained Miss Rotelli. - -“Tell her thank you, if you please,” I said. And then I heard, “Niente, -Signorina Americana!” from Beata, who again sat down and went on -knitting a bright red tie. - -“She make for her sweetheart,” said Miss Rotelli, and I didn’t feel -very far from home at _that_ moment. . . . Roberta makes dozens of ties -and always falters over presenting them, and says that _perhaps_, after -she’s made a _few_ more, she can do better--which mother doesn’t think -very nice, because it makes every poor silly she gives them to think -he’s the first one to have a tie knit for him by Roberta. But Roberta -is like that! It’s all unfair that she should be popular, but--she is! - -However, to get on, I followed Miss Julianna well down a corridor, -which ran straight ahead as one entered the door from the outside hall, -and was so long that it narrowed in the distance almost like a railroad -track, and toward the end of this Miss Julianna opened a door on the -left, and said, “Your room.” She said everything in a clipped way that -was most interesting and, to me, attractive. - -And I went in. - -I felt lots of interest about that room, of course, because I imagined -that I would spend a great deal of time in it for the next six months -at least. I looked around carefully, and then I said, “It’s very -pretty,” although I really didn’t think it was but I wouldn’t for the -world have disappointed Miss Julianna, who looked on and waited, I -thought, a little anxiously. - -“Grazie, Signorina,” she said, which means, “Thank you, Miss,” -and after that she said, all in a level, and very fast, -“Down-the-hall-bath-room-with-water-which-runs-and-real-tub-dinner-at-seven-good-by--” -and after that she nodded her head and backed out. - -Then I took an inventory which resulted in the discovery that I was in -a room that was as big as our Elks’ ball-room at home; a room which was -punctuated at long intervals by one bed, covered with a mustard colored -bed-spread, a bureau which had a mirror that belonged in the funny -mirror place in the County Fair, two chairs that were built for people -with stiff corsets, one chair that was designed for an aviator, (it -went over backward if you weren’t familiar with its management) a wash -stand with some stuff on it that Leslie--about Leslie later--called -“Medieval hardware,” a table with a bright red cover, a black marble -mantel and a footstool which I soon learned it was wise to use if you -didn’t want your feet to grow numb from cold. - -In the exact center of the room was a little rug that looked about as -big as a postage stamp on a cabinet photograph case; and across from -the door was the room’s real attraction which I was yet to explore, and -that was the window. - -I walked over to it slowly; and there, I leaned out, and after I -had leaned out--I don’t know how long--I came back and hunted in my -suitcase for the writing case that Elaine McDonald had got in New York -and given me for a going-away present. And, after I had addressed an -envelope to Mother, and put on “Jackson Ridge, Pennsylvania, Stati -Uniti d’America,” which Miss Sheila had told me to do; and after I had -told about my health and asked about theirs, and said I was safe, and -told of Mr. Wake who had helped me, when Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Sheila’s -acquaintance, had changed her plan, I described _the back yard_. - -“I have just looked out of my window,” I wrote, “and down into a little -court that looks as if it belongs to another age and were sleeping in -this. It is a court upon which all the houses that box this square, -back. It has a fountain in it that has a stone cupid in its center; -there must be a mile and a half of tiny winding paths; and there is -heavy leaved foliage like none I have ever seen. Some of the trees -quite cover the paths, and others of a more lacy variety give one a -glimpse of the red tiles that divide the winding yellow ways from the -green. - -“Across the way is a tan stucco house with green shutters; its next -door neighbor is salmon pink and has flower boxes on its window sills. -The windows are--most of them--set in at different heights. It does -not look neat, but it is pretty; I think even prettier than the way we -do it at home. - -“The sun is so bright that when it rests on anything white, it blinds -you. And all the shadows are black. The roofs are of red tile, and -slope gently. There are some poplar trees” (I found later they were -cypress trees; the shape misled me) “swaying over the top of a low roof -down the block. When I was last at the window a little shopkeeper who -wore a big apron sat in his back door singing, while he polished brass, -and his voice is nearly as good as Mr. Kinsolving’s--” - -(Mr. Kinsolving is our church tenor, and he gets two dollars for -singing at each service, which shows how _fine_ he is; but I honestly -thought that the shopkeeper sung better, but of course I wasn’t -going to write that home for one of the twins to blurt out when they -shouldn’t!) - -“Across the court,” I went on, “is a studio--” - -(It seems strange to me now--my writing about that studio in my first -letter home!) - -“And I can see the artist painting,” my pen scratched on. “He has on a -long white aprony-looking thing, and I can see his arm move before his -canvas which is dark. I think I shall like watching him and thinking -that there is some one else in this block who is trying hard to get on, -as I shall soon! - -“I wish you could see everything I can, dear people, and especially the -court. Marguerite Clarke, as she was in _Prunella_, ought to be dancing -in the court with her Pierrot following; the court looks like that, -and as if it would be full of ghosts who dance the minuet on moonlight -nights--” - -I stopped, reread what I had written, and wondered whether I should -send it, because Roberta, who is much more practical, sometimes thinks -the things I fancy, silly. But then I caught the Mrs. Frank Jones on -the envelope and I knew that it could go. - -For Mother always understood my funny, half hidden, soft moods as well -as my love of baseball and outdoor things, and I knew that she would -like what I had written, even though it would seem foolish to all the -rest. So I kissed the page, and put a little cross where I had kissed -it, and I wrote, “That’s for you, Mother dear--” and then I got up and -brushed my hair really hard, and hurried around at dressing, the way -you do when you have felt almost homesick and are just a little afraid -that the whole feeling may creep over you. - -An hour or so later I heard a tinkling bell, and a soft, musically -rising voice which sung out, “È pronto!” which I found later means “Is -ready,” in Italian, and that “Is ready” in Italian means dinner. But -I understood that night not from “È pronto,” but from the fact that, -after I opened my door and looked into the hall, I saw three other -doors open and very queer looking people come out of them, and go -toddling down the hall. - -The first one was fat, and wore the kind of basque mother was -photographed in when she was very young. Her skirt was a purplish serge -that had once been blue. - -“Well, Miss Bannister!” she called to a thin old lady who came out of -the door almost opposite mine. Miss Bannister’s hair was not applied -quite as it should have been; it seems mean to mention it, but she -never gave you a chance to forget it! Leslie thought she tied it on the -gas jet, then ran under it, and clipped the cord as she ran, and let it -stay just where it dropped, and it did look that way! - -“Hello,” answered this old lady, in a high squeaky voice. “Has she -come?” - -“My eye, yes!” answered the one in the basque, whose name was Miss -Meek, “and a jolly number of boxes too. I say we’ll have a beastly lot -of brag!” - -That made me mad, and I decided that they wouldn’t have any from _me_. -Then they saw me and grew silent, and at the moment another door -opened, and a tall, thin man who walked as if he had casters under him, -came sliding out. - -“Ahem,” he said, “_ahem_! And how is every one to-night? A charming -day,” he went on without waiting for answer, “a charming day! How well -I remember a day such as this in the fall of 1902--” (he paused, and -when he continued, spoke very slowly) “now _was_ it in 1902, _or_ 1903? -How can I fasten it?” (He snapped his fingers and I’m sure he frowned, -although I was walking back of him and couldn’t see.) “But just a -moment, I _can_ locate the year if I reason the thing _through_, and -I make this bold assertion because, if I recall correctly, it was in -the fall of 1902 that I was in England, while the day to which I refer -was beneath Italy’s azure skies, which clearly reveals, and without -possible doubt, that it was in 1903, since--” - -“Oh, lud!” broke in the fat one who wore the purplish blue skirt and -the basque, and was Miss Meek. “Oh, lud!” which I found later was her -way of saying, “Oh, Lord!” - -And then we turned into the dining room--I had followed the crowd at -a respectful distance--and Miss Julianna stepped forward, to say, “La -Signorina Jones, Americana!” and then she turned and said, “Mees Meek, -Mees Banneester, Meester Hemmingway; you must be _friend_!” - -And I said that I hoped they would let me be. And then, a little -flushed because I was not used to meeting so many people at once, I -wiggled into my chair, and Beata came in with the soup. - - - - -CHAPTER FIVE - -NEW FRIENDS, A NEW DAY, AND NEW PLANS - - -I looked at the bunch of paper roses that stood in the center of the -table as I ate my soup, because I felt all the rest looking at me and -it made me uncomfortable; and I suppose I would have looked at them, or -down at my plate, all through the meal, if Miss Bannister hadn’t barked -a question out at me. - -“Where do you come from?” she asked, with an emphasis and a rise in her -sentence that was as new to me as the Italian I was hearing. - -“Pennsylvania,” I answered. - -“Quite a village, I suppose?” she questioned. - -I tried to explain, but right in the middle of my explanation she said: -“One of my deaf days, but no matter, I don’t care in the least. I only -asked to be polite, don’t you know--” - -Which left me feeling as you do when you run for a car, but do nothing -more than reach the spot where it _was_. I ate soup quite hard for -several minutes. - -Then Mr. Hemmingway, who had traveled quite a lot--I learned it -soon!--helped me out by screaming information about the States across -the table to Miss Bannister, who clattered her spoon and kept saying, -“No matter, no matter!” all the time he talked. I felt just exactly -as if I were in the middle of a funny dream, and one that wasn’t -especially nice, and I honestly even half wondered whether I wouldn’t -wake up to tell Mother about it, and have her say, “Now _what_ did you -eat before you went to bed?” - -But I didn’t wake up and the dinner went on; Beata took away our soup -plates, and then brought in big plates of spaghetti, cheese was passed -and sprinkled over this, and I found it good, but difficult to eat, -because it was in long pieces. Several on my plate I know would have -gone around our hose reel _dozens_ of times! Anyway, as I struggled -with this and tried to cut it, Mr. Hemmingway began, and I began to -understand _him_. - -“I am familiar with the States,” he asserted, “although my travels in -the States have not been extensive. I spent a winter in Canada while a -comparatively young man; it was, if I recall correctly, the winter of -1882. _Or was it_ ’83? Now I _should_ know. Ah, I have it! It was ’83, -and my certainty of this pertinent fact comes from the recollection -that in ’82 I was in England, and I know this, because the year prior -to that, which, if you will reckon, was ’81, I was detained in a -village in South Wales, by a sharp attack of fever which was thought -to have been introduced by the importation of French labor upon the -occasion of--” - -And so on. He never got there, but I did feel sorry for him, so I -listened just as hard as I could, which is less trying where you can -eat than at other places. He was having a splendid time, when Miss Meek -cut in to question me. - -“Student?” she boomed out, and she pronounced it, “Stew-dant.” - -I felt pleased, and I wanted to answer nicely, but I had at least six -inches of spaghetti in my mouth--I hadn’t meant to take so much but -it kept trailing up, and I had to lap it in--and so I had to nod. I -should have waited a minute before I let that pleased feeling get on -top, because she shoved it right over a cliff by her next remark, which -was, “_Oh, my eye!_” and she followed that with a prodigious groan. It -wasn’t very flattering. - -“But in a student pension,” began Mr. Hemmingway, “where the rates are -lowered for others by the fact that practising makes the house--in some -ways--less attractive, one must accept the handicap with grace. How -well I remember in Vienna, when I, then quite a boy--let me see, _what -was the year?_” - -“No matter!” barked Miss Bannister, and then Miss Meek added something, -after another groan, that interested me considerably. - -“And two more coming!” she stated. - -“_Are_ there?” I asked quickly. - -“I do not lie,” she answered frigidly, and I stammered out something -about not having meant that she did, but that I was interested. - -“Mees Leslie Parrish,” said Miss Julianna, who came in at the moment, -after Beata who carried a big platter upon which were rounds of meat -all wrapped in overcoats of cabbage leaves in which they had been -baked, “and Mees Viola Harris-Clarke--” - -I was surprised, and I couldn’t quite believe it, because Leslie -Parrish was Miss Sheila’s niece, and I couldn’t see quite why she was -coming to study. - -Miss Sheila told me a good deal about Leslie while she visited us. I -remember one day, while I sat on the guest room bed and helped Miss -Sheila run two-toned ribbon--wonderfully lovely ribbon which was -faint lavender on one side and pale peach pink on the other--into her -beautiful under-things, that she, Miss Sheila, said her own niece -_would_ have played well if she had ever learned to work. And I -remember just how she looked as she tossed a chemise to a chair and -said, “But unhappily, the child has been frightfully, and wrongly -indulged--” - -It made me wonder a lot! - -I knew that Leslie Parrish’s father had lots of money, all the Parrish -family are wealthy, and I knew that she spent her time going to -parties and making visits, and entertaining, for Miss Sheila had told -me that too. So I thought Miss Julianna must be mistaken, because, for -Leslie, the Pension Dante would be very simple. - -“When did you hear this?” I asked. - -“A week, ten days past,” she answered, “in the cable. You did not know?” - -“No,” I answered, “I didn’t.” - -“I suppose you did. Miss Parrish also write for you--” - -“When are they to arrive?” asked Miss Meek. - -“To-morrow, or day after,” Miss Julianna answered, as Beata took away -the plates that had had the meat on them and substituted some plates on -which were lettuce and red cheese. - -After this came a pastry, and that made Miss Bannister say, “Tart -again!” in a high, querulous voice. - -“Bally things!” said Miss Meek, who, I soon found, loved to be thought -a sport and used lots of English slang, I think, because she had been a -governess and still taught English to a few Italians, and was afraid of -being considered school-teachery or prim. - -They both ate their tarts just as if they enjoyed them, while Mr. -Hemmingway began to tell about how the first tart was made in England, -and was side tracked by the reason that had made the man who had told -it to him, _tell_ it to him. I began to see that he was really ever so -funny, and to feel like smiling each time he said, “Now let me see, -it was raining that day _if_ I recall correctly, or was it the day -before that day when it rained so heavily? It seems to me it was _that_ -day, because I remember I had some new galoshes which I had gotten in -East London at one of the curb stalls, and I recall the getting them, -because--” - -And on and on! His mind was full of little paths that led him away -from the main road, which even a clever person could only occasionally -glimpse through the haze Mr. Hemmingway made by details. - -After we had finished the “tart,” Miss Meek pushed back her chair, -and boomed out “Draughts?” to which Miss Bannister, who still seemed -querulous, answered, “If you like--” - -And they got out a checker board from behind a bookcase that was by -a window; Beata cleared one corner of the table, and they began. Mr. -Hemmingway stood looking on, rocking back and forth, first on his heels -and then on his toes, and as he did this he tried, I think, to tell -of a game of checkers he had seen played between experts somewhere in -Brazil, but of course I couldn’t really tell. - -“When I was a youngster--” he began, “now _was_ I twenty-three or was I -twenty-four? It seems to me I was twenty-four, because the year before -I had typhus, and I am certain that that happened in my twenty-third -year, and directly after my convalescence I took passage for South -America which would make me twenty-four at that time, since my birthday -is in November, (_the year’s saddest month_) and having gone directly -after that, I must, therefore, have passed my twenty-fourth birthday--” - -“Ho hum--” grunted out Miss Meek. - -“However, no matter,” said Mr. Hemmingway quickly, “What I was about -to entertain with is the history of my witnessing a match of draughts -played between experts in San Paola. . . . And how keenly I remember -it! The day was fine--” - -“Ho hum!” groaned Miss Meek. - -“What’s he saying?” asked Miss Bannister. - -“Not a bally thing! getting ready, don’t you know!” Miss Meek shouted -in answer, and I did feel sorry for him, but my sympathy wasn’t needed, -for Miss Meek’s attitude, I soon learned, made no impression. - -“I think,” I put in, “I must go to my room; I am so sorry, for I would -love to hear about the match, but I must finish a letter to my family--” - -Which wasn’t true, but didn’t know how to get off without some excuse! - -I went to bed early, but again I didn’t sleep early, and I think it was -fully a half hour before my eyelids closed. A cat down in the court -had made all the screeching, whining, sizzling, hissing noises one cat -can make, and big mosquitos had hummed around to disturb me, too. But -at last I burrowed under the covers, and then I forgot, and when I -woke, the sun was spread out across the square tiled floor in a wide, -blazing streak. And the sky looked flat, as if some giant had stretched -gleaming blue satin all over space; there wasn’t a cloud, nor a feeling -of movement, outside my window, but only the brightness of the keen, -strong sun, and that deep, thick blue. . . . I lay looking out until -some one tapped, and after my answer I heard Beata’s singing voice, -saying: “Buon giorno, Signorina! Acqua calda!” - -And I got up to take in a tall, slender necked brass pitcher which was -filled with water that sent up a cloud of steam. - - - - -CHAPTER SIX - -MISS PARRISH AND MISS HARRIS-CLARKE - - -After I had breakfast, I went back to my room, and tried to forget that -I was almost hungrier than I had been before, and I did this by looking -out into the court, which I found had a morning flavor that differed -from its mood of the afternoon. For instance the little man, instead -of slowly polishing brass and stopping his polishing now and again as -he raised his head and lingered on a particularly nice note in his -singing, swept energetically around the back door of his shop with a -broom that looked as if it belonged in a picture of some witch. And as -he swept he chattered shrilly at a boy who was riveting something on a -bench near the door. - -And there were children chasing each other around the paths, and my -artist wasn’t at work. . . . I realize now--Leslie has taught me many -things--that it wasn’t nice to spy on him, but at that time he seemed -only part of a play I was witnessing, and when I saw what he was doing, -I hadn’t the slightest consciousness about leaning right out of my -window and looking across at his. - -He was cooking his breakfast, in front of an open window that was next -to the big studio window which so lit the room that one could see in -pretty well, and I did wonder what he was eating! I had the greatest -interest in watching him dump it out of the frying-pan on his plate, -and when he leaned out of his window, to wave his frying-pan, and call, -“Gino, buon giorno!” at the little man with the broom, and he, in -turn, waved his broom as he answered, I felt as if the play was really -started. - -Then I watched him eat and of course that wasn’t nice but, as Leslie -said, later, I “lack even a rudimentary knowledge of social graces,” -(and I wanted to punch her for saying so) and so I could frankly enjoy -a lot of things a really polished person would have to pretend they -weren’t watching. - -After my artist had had his breakfast he threw a piece of something -that was left at a cat, and said--so loudly that it floated across the -court to me--“Scat, you green-eyed instrument of Satan!” which led me -to think that he had heard the cat concert, too. - -“American,” I said half aloud, for two things had told me so; one was -his voice, and the other was his dandy throw, for it was a peach. It -took the cat right on the nose. It must have been soft, for, after -the cat had jumped it came crawling back to the bouquet that had been -hurled at it and sniffed at it as cats do, and then it turned around -and sat down and washed its ears and whiskers. That made me like him, -for I like cats, and a great many men don’t hunt things that are -exactly _soft_ to throw at cats who sing all night! - -Then he went to work--I saw him slip into his big, long apron, and take -his brushes out of a mason jar in which they were standing--and I left -the window and opened my steamer trunk, which I had only unlocked the -night before, and did my unpacking. - -At about ten Beata came in, pointed at my made up bed, and said, “No, -_no_, Signorina!” by which I suppose she meant she would do it, and -then she said, “Oh!” in a way that told me she had suddenly remembered -something, and fumbled in her pocket. - -There was a letter in it for me from Miss Sheila, and I opened it with -a great deal of interest, for I imagined that it would have something -in it about Leslie and this Miss Harris-Clarke, and it did. - - “DEAR CHILD:” - -she wrote, in her funny, curly writing which I like so much! - - “I am in receipt of rather astounding news, and news that - does not entirely please me, however, it is news that must be - accepted, and perhaps everything that comes of it will be good; - I am afraid I am often a most apprehensive old maiden lady! - - “Leslie last night telephoned me that she intends to spend - the winter in Florence and study with Signor Paggi, and that - with her will go a young friend who is--only temporarily, I am - afraid--in Leslie’s complete favor. - - “What led to this impulsive plan, I have only a faint notion, - but that makes no difference; it is the work out of it that - bothers me. - - “Because you will be involved, I shall have to be more frank - about Leslie than I like; and I think I shall do it through - rules. - - “You are not to play maid to Leslie; run ribbons in her - clothes, errands for her, or answer her many and various - whims. No doubt this particular interest will last about two - or three weeks, and during that time I insist that you go your - own way in complete independence and remember you are under no - obligation to a girl who is--I am sorry to say--both spoiled - and lazy. - - “Love to you, dear child, and the best of luck with Signor - Paggi; I--I know--am going to live to be even more proud of you - than I am at this moment! - - “Always affectionately and devotedly your friend, - - “SHEILA PARRISH.” - -and then the date. I thought it was a nice letter and I read it several -times and then I tore it up in tiny pieces and sat down to answer -it, and to assure Miss Sheila, without rapping on wood--and it never -_hurts_ to rap on wood!--that I knew that everything would be all right. - -Lunch came right in the middle of my writing, and after lunch I went -to one of the practice rooms--which were way down the hall--and played -for a while. Then I finished my letter, and decided I would go out and -post it, which worried Miss Julianna, whom I met in the hall. - -“No,” she said, shaking her head hard, “You get lost.” - -“But the Italians are awfully easy pointers,” I said--I had learned -even then that they wave their hands a lot--“and as long as they can do -that, and I can say ‘Piazza Indipendenza’ and ‘Pension Dante’ I guess -I’ll get along all right; you see how it would work--” - -“Yes,” she answered, “may-_be_, but thees Meester Wake, he take you -soon? I theenk better to take the small walk first--please?” - -And because she looked anxious, I said, “All right,” and smiled at her -and then said, “Good-by,” and started down the stairs. - -These were of stone, and the banisters made of twisted iron, and the -walls were, like most of the other walls, of painted or frescoed -plaster. The hall was cold and draughty as well as dark, and so quiet -that every step I took echoed loudly, and so, when I stepped out into -the warmth and light and noise of the street, the contrast was complete. - -I blinked a moment before I started, and then I drew a deep breath -because--well, it made you _feel_ that way! - -As in Genoa, I don’t remember half I saw, but I do remember the -_different_ things, and the sort of things that I never could have seen -in a Pennsylvania town of fifteen thousand people that is surrounded -by hills with oil wells on them. - -The first one that struck in was two officers who looked as if they had -just been painted, and wound up somewhere between the shoulder-blades, -although they were much handsomer than any toys I’d ever seen. One of -them had a mustache that tilted up, and he twirled this; the other -flung his wide blue cloak back over his shoulder as he passed me, with -a gesture that _looked_ careless, but couldn’t have been so, because it -was so packed with grace! I walked behind them, looking at their high, -shining boots, and their broad, light blue capes and the gilt braid and -the clanking swords. And I did wonder how they ever could win if they -got mixed up in a real fight, and I knew that they did, for Father had -said they were fine and gallant soldiers. - -Then they turned a corner, and I was ever so sorry until I was diverted -by a man who was sprinkling his pavement with water that he had in a -chianti bottle; he wanted the dust kept down in front of his shop, -which was an antique place, but that quart bottle full of water was all -that he dared use! - -By that time the Park--I mean the Piazza Indipendenza--was behind me, -houses and shops were on the other side instead of green, and the way -was narrow. - -After I walked two blocks on this I saw a fountain that was on the -side of a building opposite, and it was made of blue and white china, -with green leaves and gold oranges and yellow lemons all around it. I -thought it was so wonderful, and for once in my life I thought right, -because even the critics seemed to half enjoy it. I found it was made -by a fellow named della Robbia who had been dead hundreds of years, and -that his work was fairly well known in Italy. Well, I looked at it a -while, and then I remembered my letter, and went up to two old ladies -who were sitting on a doorstep eating some funny little birds that had -been _cooked with the heads and feet still on them_. - -I smiled, stuck out my letter, and said, “Where?” - -And I never heard anything like the outburst that followed! They both -got up and clutched my sleeves, and pointed their hands that were full -of bird-lunch, and nodded their heads and patted my back, and kept -explaining--in forty-seven ways--where the mail box was. It was really -very funny, and I thought I was never going to get away! - -After I did--and I hadn’t half as much idea of where the box was as I -had when I stopped--I went on, and after while I saw something that -looked suspicious, and after I saw a woman drop a postcard in it, I -dropped my letter, and then turned. - -Going back, I waved at the old ladies, and said “Grazie,” which I -had learned meant thank you, and they bobbed their heads and called, -“Niente, niente, Signorina!” - -Then a group of soldiers from the ranks clattered past me in their -olive drab and the heavy shoes that announce their coming, and again -I was at the doorway through which I could reach the Pension Dante, -wondering whether it was really true, or whether my program had slipped -to the floor during the first act? - -And then I rang the pension bell and went in and up. - -Going in, and away from all the shrill, staccato street noises, and the -smells--which sometimes aren’t nice, but are always different--going in -and away from all this seemed tame, but after I got up and Beata had -opened the door, I was glad I had been decent enough to consider Miss -Julianna’s feelings because-- - -Miss Leslie Parrish, of Oyster Bay, Long Island, and Miss Viola -Harris-Clarke, of Ossining, New York, had arrived! I heard them before -they heard me, which is, perhaps, unfair, but it is sometimes also a -decided advantage, and I _needed_ all the advantages on my side! I -knew it as soon as I heard them speak, and that they would probably -consider me countrified and make fun of me. I didn’t care, but I was -glad to get used to the idea of our being so different, before we met -and I was plumped up against all that manner at one time. - -It didn’t take a Signorina Sherlock Holmes to know that they had come, -and I didn’t need Beata’s wild pointing, for I heard their voices -immediately although they were in a room that was well down the hall. - -The first thing I heard was, “Simply _impossible_!” (I knew in a second -that it was Leslie, and that it was her comment about the room) “You -mean to say,” she went on, “that my aunt has _seen_ this?” - -“Si, Signorina,” Miss Julianna answered, and she didn’t sound as if she -were smiling. - -“Well,” I heard in Leslie’s pretty, carefully used voice, “that is very -_strange_! What do you _think_, Viola?” - -“I don’t know, dear,” came in a higher, and a little more artificial -voice, and then there was a silence. - -A short, baffled kind of laugh, prefaced Leslie’s “I’m absolutely at -sea! I don’t know whether to stay or not--but I--vowed I _would_--” - -“We might get a few things,” suggested Viola. - -“_Yes_--” (doubtfully) “but the walls--streaks and soil--I _don’t_ -know!” - -Again there was a silence. - -“You do as you like,” said Miss Julianna quickly and in a rather -brittle way. “I have keep the rooms at order of Mees Parrish, but you -do not haf to stay--” - -And then she came out of the room, and down the hall toward me. -“_Insolent!_” I heard in Leslie’s voice, and I wasn’t much impressed. - - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN - -GETTING ACQUAINTED - - -That night, after a dinner during which Leslie and Viola looked as if -they were chewing lemons, I went to call on them because I thought it -was the polite thing to do. Goodness knows, I didn’t want to! I was -afraid that they would purr along about the weather, and that I would -have to bob my head and smirk and say, “Yes, isn’t it _charmingly_ warm -for this time of year?” and that kind of stuff which certainly bores -me! But they didn’t even bother to do that! They talked across me, and, -although it wasn’t comfortable, I will admit that it was instructive. - -I think one can learn so _much_ about people when they don’t think it -is worth while to be polite, or think they are alone in the bosom of -their family. - -I remember one time I walked home with Elaine McDonald from the Crystal -Emporium where we had had a banana split, and her father, who thought -she had come in alone, barked down at her as if she were a member of a -section gang and he were the boss. - -The thing that made it funny was the fact that he is a purry man, -and always wears a swallow-tail coat on Sunday, and passes the plate, -and stands around after church bobbing and smirking over people, and -saying, “It is a _real_ pleasure to see _you_ here, Mrs. Smith!” (or -Mrs. Jones, or whoever it happened to be) He has a Bible class, too, -and is the President of the Shakespeare Club, and I was surprised -to hear him bawl out--bawl is a crude word, but it does belong -here!--“Elaine, you left the fire on under the boiler and there’s -enough hot water here to scald a hog! You and your mother don’t care -how you run the gas and the bills--” - -And then Elaine said, and, oh, so sweetly, “Papa, dear, Jane Jones is -with me--” - -And he said, “Ahem--how-a--how-a _nice_,” and then sneaked back into -the bathroom and shut the door quietly and finished his shaving in deep -silence. Which just shows--or should, because I am using it for the -express purpose of illustration--how different people may be in public -and while shaving. Of course Leslie and Viola didn’t syrup up in a -hurry as Mr. McDonald did, because they didn’t consider me worth while, -but I knew that they were capable of slapping on a sugar coating if -they’d _wanted_ to. - -But, to get on, after dinner I waited around until half past seven, -because the best people in our town never start out to make calls -before that hour, and I wanted to be correct. Then I went down the -hall and tapped on Leslie’s door because I heard a steady buzzing back -of that and it intimated that the newcomers were together and inside. -After I tapped I waited. Then some one slammed a trunk lid, and I heard -an impatient, “What _is_ it?” - -“It’s me,” I answered, and realized too late that I shouldn’t have said -that. I should have said, “It is I,” but I am always making mistakes. -Then I heard, “Vi, open the door--” - -And Viola Harris-Clarke let me in. - -Leslie, who was leaning over a trunk fishing things out of it, only -looked over her shoulder inquiringly for a second, and then turned back -after a “Hello,” that had a question mark after it. - -“I thought I’d come over and see how you were getting on,” I said. - -“Well, sit down--” said Leslie, “that is, if you can find a place!” -And I pushed aside a pile of silk under-things that was on the end of -a lounge, and roosted there. And then I waited to have Leslie ask how -I was, because at home that always comes first. People usually sit in -rocking chairs, and the called on person will say, as they rock, “Well, -now Mrs. Jones, how are _you_?” And after the caller answers, they get -along to the children and then ask about the father, and next about how -the canning is getting on, or the housecleaning, or the particular -activity that belongs to the season. It is _always_ like that in our -town with any one who calls, which I consider polite and interested -and nice; but I didn’t get it with Leslie; instead she went right on -unpacking. - -I looked at her with a good deal of interest, and I decided that she -was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Her hair is very light in shade -and texture, and she wears it straight off her forehead, flat at the -sides, and in a psyche knot. (I learned later that Paris is through -with the puffs) She is tall and thin and graceful, and her skin is -fair and it flushes easily. Her lashes and brows are dark, and her -lashes curl up, (a few days later I saw her help them curl up with a -little brush) and she has a classic profile, slender hands and feet, -and a languorous, slow way of looking at a person that can be either -flattering or--flatt_en_ing. - -Viola was another story, and just the way she looked explained every -single thing about her. - -You could see that she was a _follower_. - -Her hair had been bobbed, and she had had to bob it, not because it was -becoming to her, but because every one was bobbing it. Now she wore it -as nearly as Leslie wore hers as she could, with a net over it, and -millions of pins to keep the short ends of the slowly lengthening hair -from flying. Her eyebrows were what she called “Frenched” which meant -that she pulled them out and screeched terribly while doing it, and -her finger nails were too pointed and too shiny. Her mouth was too big, -and her chin receded a little, but she might have been nice looking -if she hadn’t made such a freak of herself. She didn’t look _natural_ -at all, and she wasn’t pretty enough to justify all the fuss that the -stupidest person could see she made over every detail. - -She sat on a corner of the table, swinging her legs and humming. - -[Illustration: “Isn’t this simply ghastly?”] - -“Isn’t this simply ghastly?” Leslie asked of me, after an interval of -some minutes’ quiet. - -“What?” I asked. - -“Why, this _place_. I don’t know _what_ Aunt Sheila was _thinking_ of!” -then she dumped dozens of pairs of colored silk stockings out on the -floor, and began to take out more and prettier dresses than I had ever -seen before in all my life. - -“How’d your frocks stand the crossing, dear?” asked Viola lazily. - -“Oh, fairly. . . . Old rags anyway. . . . I didn’t get a new _thing_!” -Then she leaned down again and began to take out perhaps a dozen -petticoats that shone in the light, and silk night-dresses and bloomers -and a pink satin corset, and gray suède shoes with cut-steel buckles, -and some gold shoes with straps and _ostrich_ feather rosettes on the -ankles, and some dark blue patent leather shoes with _red stitching_, -and _red heels_! - -And as she did, she and Viola talked of people and places I had never -_met_, and of how _frightful_ the dinner had been, and of the “utterly -hideous rooms!” - -After quite a little time of this--although I suppose it seemed longer -to me than it really was--Leslie sagged down on the corner of a trunk -she had not yet opened, and hinted about some past chapters of her -story that interested me and that was to have its love scene added in -Florence, which I then, of course, didn’t know. - -“I came here,” she stated, as she looked straight and hard ahead of -her, “on pique.” - -“I _knew_ it!” murmured Viola. - -“Nonsense!” Leslie answered, sharply. “Why how would _you_ know?” - -“Dear, I saw you were _suffering_--” - -That smoothed Leslie; I could see her feathers settle, and when she -went on all the irritation had left her voice. - -“Some one,” she confided, “and it doesn’t matter in the least who, -since he has gone from my life--I assure you I have absolutely put -every _thought_ of him away--intimated that I could do nothing but be a -butterfly. He was brutal, absolutely _brutal_! - -“And I--perfectly enraged--said I could work, and I would show him -that I could. And that very night--Vi, are you sitting on my ostrich -feather fan?--oh, all right, I thought I saw something pink there; no, -I don’t mind the scarf--” - -“Go on, dear,” said Viola, after her exploration and a wiggle that -settled her again. - -“That very night,” Leslie continued, “I telephoned Aunt Sheila, who -happened to be in town and at the Plaza, and I told her I intended to -come here and study with Signor Paggi. She was just as _mean_ as she -could be. ‘Very well, Leslie,’ she said in that crisp way in which she -often speaks. ‘But he won’t keep pupils who don’t work--’ . . . ‘_He -will keep me_,’ I answered, and my voice shook. . . . I was fearfully -overwrought--my heart had already been _trampled upon_--” - -I thought that sounded silly, but Viola didn’t, because she said, “My -_dear_!” rather breathed it out as if some one had taken her lungs and -squeezed them just as she began to speak. - -Leslie looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard, in a way she -considered tragic, and it was, but it also made me think of Roberta’s -canary when it drinks. Then she rubbed her brow, laughed mirthlessly, -and ended with, “_and here I am_!” - -“The bath tub’s the worst,” said Viola, which sort of took the cream -off of Leslie’s tragic moment, and I could see that Leslie didn’t like -it, for she frowned. - -“I don’t know what to do,” said Leslie after a small lull, “whether to -hunt some other place, or stand this--” - -“Our trunks are all here,” Viola stated, “and it would be hard to -move--” (she had unpacked, and I found later she hated effort) “I -wondered whether we couldn’t get a few little extra things--curtains, -and cushions and so on? And the food we could supplement. I can make -fudge and chicken king.” - -“I am certain I can make tea,” said Leslie, “it’s only a matter of the -proper pot and a spirit lamp and some water, and then throwing the -stuff in--I’ve seen it done dozens of times.” - -“And we could buy rolls and things--” - -Then they paused to consider it. - -“Don’t most students do that sort of thing anyway?” I asked. - -“It _would_ be Bohemian,” said Leslie, in a more energetic voice than -I’d heard her use before. - -“And after we get famous they’ll photograph this ghastly hole, and say -_we lived here_--” Viola added, with a far-away, pleased look. - -“I’m willing to try it,” agreed Leslie, in a dull tone I felt she put -on. “I don’t care much--what happens now, anyway!” - -“Poor darling!” murmured Viola, and in that “Poor darling,” I saw the -shadow of a row, for I knew that Viola couldn’t keep that up all the -time, and I knew that when she stopped Leslie would be angry, and I -knew that they were too foolishly and sentimentally intimate to remain -good friends. However, I never dreamed for a second, then, that they -would come to _me_ to complain about each other! Which was just what -they did! - -It was dreadful for me; there was a time when I never went into my room -without finding one or the other waiting to sniff out their tales, -tales which they almost always prefaced in this way: “I _never_ talk -about my friends--” (sniff) “You can ask” (gulp) “_any one_ where I -do--” (sniff) “but I want you to know that I have never been treated--” -(gulp-sniff) “as I have been treated since I came to this place in -company--” (real sob) “with that--that _creature_!” - -When I think of it now, and then that first call, I could, as Viola -says, “Simply _scream_, my dear!” - -But I’m getting ’way ahead of my own story. - -At half past eight, I stood up. - -“Well, I guess I’d better go now,” I said, but neither Leslie nor Viola -said, “Oh, _don’t_ hurry--” as I supposed people always did, and so I -did go. As I reached the door--alone--Leslie spoke: - -“We go to see Signor Paggi to-morrow, don’t we?” she asked. - -“Yes,” I answered, “at one.” - -“We might as well go together,” she suggested, “although--” (her tone -was too careless, and she avoided looking at me) “we, of course, won’t -expect to act like Siamese triplets, will we?” - -“I shall be busy a great deal,” I stated, as I felt myself flush, and -then I went out, and after a stiff good-night, went down the hall to my -own room. It did seem to me that Leslie had been unnecessarily unkind -in giving that hint, for I had only gone because I supposed it was -polite, and I certainly never would push in! Mother had never _let_ us -do that! - -I was angry, and as I undressed, I vowed that I would let Leslie -entirely alone, and that she could make the first advances--if any at -all were ever made--and I wondered what kind of a man _could_ like a -girl of Leslie’s type, and what he had said that had made her do a -thing that was so evidently distasteful. I was really interested, and I -couldn’t help hoping that this man who had been “pushed from her life” -had socked it to her _hard_, (and I found later he had!) and I further -hoped--without even trying to help it--that I could squelch her some -day. Then I said my prayers and crawled into bed. - -As I pulled up the blankets one of the _sounds_ that belong to Florence -tinkled in through my widely opened French windows. . . . Somewhere, -in some little church or convent, bells were ringing and sounding out -steps in mellow tones that floated softly through the air. . . . It -was very, very pretty. . . . And I closed my eyes, and I could see -lilies-of-the-valley and blue bells growing near ferns. . . . That -doesn’t seem very sensible unless you’ve _heard_ those bells, but -if you have--on a warm-aired, soft Italian night--you’ll probably -understand. Then the bells died gently down to nothing and I heard -another sound, and when I heard that I saw people clogging, for it -was a banjo, and I got out of bed in a hurry, and skipped over to the -window without even waiting to put on my slippers. - -I couldn’t see much down in the court, because the wide banners of -light that floated out from the doorways only seemed to intensify the -shadows, and the banjo-player was sitting on a bench by the side of a -back door and not in the light. - -But I could hear, and I heard, in a very pretty voice with the soft -strum of the banjo creeping through: - - “Dozens and dozens of girls I have met, - Sisters and cousins of men in my set: - Tried to be cheerful and give them an earful - Of soft sort of talk, but, oh, gosh! - The strain was something fearful! - Always found after a minute or two - Just to be civil was all I could do. - Now I know why I could never be contented, - I was looking for a pal like you.” - -And I knew the tune, and it is one I liked, and the singing in my own -language was cheering and rather jolly, and the feeling the man put -into the foolishly light words made me laugh, and I leaned far out and -listened. - -Then I heard a snatch of a Neapolitan song that better fitted the look -of the court, and then a bit of opera. . . . The troubadour faltered -on that, and right in the middle of it he stopped, repeated one -phrase, and then called, “Hi, Gino, old Top! Ta tum, ta tum, ta ta, ta -tum--that _right_?” - -And Gino echoed it in his voice, and answered excitedly, “Si, si, -Signor! Brava! Brava, Signor! Brrrava!” - -And then, warmed and cheered and quite myself again, I went back to -bed. - - - - -CHAPTER EIGHT - -SIGNOR PAGGI’S COMPLIMENTS - - -Signor Paggi’s studio is high up in one of those old palaces that seem -to frown at you, and the palace is on the Via Tornabuoni, which is -a street where lots of the wealthy and great people of old Florence -lived, hundreds of years ago. - -At that time of course--years back, in the middle ages--they knew -nothing of modern improvements like portable houses or the sort of -stucco bungalows that get full of cracks after the first frost, and so -they put their houses up in the old-fashioned way, which does seem to -wear well, for they stand to-day as they stood when they were built. - -I liked looking at them; there is a great deal in my nature that -answers to a real fight, and those houses were built for convenient -fighting. Probably then, the architects were fussing over nice, little -windows through which the owner could pour hot oil on a passing enemy, -instead of the sun porches and breakfast rooms and the kind of truck -that now occupies them. - -It gave me a romantic, chilly thrill to see the blank walls of the -first stories, which make the streets where the palaces exist look so -cold and stern, for I realized that they didn’t have low windows in -them because if they had had, people who felt like it could throw in -bricks and things of such forceful nature, too easily. - -They needed this type of dwelling because they scrapped so much. The -Medicis, an old Florentine family, and all dead, but still somewhat -talked about, were always fighting somebody or other, and so were the -Strozzis and Tornabuonis, who were also prominent hundreds of years -ago, but still remembered, I found, by a good many. I, personally, -don’t wonder, and I must admit that more than once during my stay in -Florence I wished I could skip back into the Middle Ages for a day or -so, and root at just one good fight. - -However, I realize that this is not a natural wish for “A young woman -of refinement,” as Leslie would say. - -We reached Signor Michele Paggi’s studio at the time when we should, -in spite of the fact that Leslie kept every one waiting while she took -off a veil with brown speckles in it and put on one that had black dots -stuck on it and then, after that was done, went back to hunt a pair of -gloves with gray and white striped gauntlet tops. - -“First impressions,” she said, and almost apologetically, “are -_everything_, don’t you know? And I’d hate my veil not being right -just this first time--” - -“You have a perfect _genius_ for assembling the proper accessories,” -said Viola, who just a moment before had grumbled out, “_Heavens_, what -is she doing? I never knew any one who could _fuss_ so over nothing!” - -And then we went down our long stairs, through the crowded heart of -Florence, up the four flights of stairs that took us to Signor Paggi’s -floor, and down the hall toward the only door that had a placard on it, -to find that the placard had Signor Michele Paggi’s name on it, and -a curt invitation to walk in scrawled below that. We did. And I knew -that my saying I was frightened reveals a yellow streak, but I _was_ -frightened, so I might as well say it. - -Mr. Paggi’s verdict meant a very great deal to me, and I had heard that -he sometimes refused to teach. And although I had tried not to remember -that, I did remember it as people do remember things they try to cover -in their minds. Those covered thoughts are always straying out! You -are forever seeing a corner of one trailing out from under the thing -you’ve thrown over it--or at least I am--and Mr. Paggi’s turning people -away was one of them. I didn’t know quite what I would do if he turned -me away, because of Miss Sheila and Mother and all the rest. They -expected so much of me and I felt as if I’d die if I couldn’t keep -them from disappointment. And of course I had my own dreams too. - -Well, Leslie and Viola were entirely at ease, and somehow--I -can’t explain--it didn’t help me, in fact their ease made me more -uncomfortable. And while they walked around saying, “_Adorable_ place!” -“So much _atmosphere_!” and things like that, and wiggled their fingers -to limber them up, I sat in a chair that looked better than it felt and -swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, and almost wished that I had -been like Roberta who plays nothing but rag, and ukelele accompaniments. - -After quite a little time of this I saw a copy of the Saturday Evening -Post on the table, and got it, and I was really beginning to be -absorbed in something by Ring Lardner when an Italian girl came in. She -was a sullen type, and she said “Good day,” without smiling. - -“We are waiting for Signor Paggi,” Leslie said in her sweetest way, but -it didn’t melt the girl who answered in the short-clipped manner that -many Italians speak English, ending each word abruptly and completely -before she started another. And she spoke in a level too, which made -her seem most unsympathetic, and fussed over the leaves of a big ledger -as she answered. - -“I don’t know whether he see you--” she stated. - -“But--” (Leslie laughed in an irritated, tried way) “we have an -_appointment_!” - -“He don’t care. When he have headache he don’t care for devil. You can -wait, you can go, it is the same.” And then she disdainfully fluttered -the big leaves she had been turning slowly. - -“Will you be good enough to tell him,” said Leslie in a tight -controlled way, “that Miss _Parrish_, that Miss Leslie _Parrish_ is -here?” - -The girl looked up. - -“No,” she answered, “I do not wish to have the book push through the -air at me--so--” (she made a hitchy, overhead girl-gesture of throwing) -“and he do not care who you are. Why should he care who you are?” she -ended, her eyes now on Leslie and boring into Leslie. It was almost -like a movie! - -“_Really_--” broke out Leslie, and then she stopped and shrugged her -shoulders and walked over to stand by a window that had a row of -century plants on its sill. And here she hummed to pretend that the -whole matter was beneath her notice, but she tapped her foot and _I_ -knew that she was angry. - -Then we waited, and I never felt as if I did so much waiting as I did -then, although the waiting wasn’t stretched across more than half an -hour. It was stretched tightly, and that makes all the difference! - -At last the inner door opened--we came to call what lay behind that -door “The Torture Chamber”--and a woman came flouncing out. After her -passing, a little man with stiff, coarse hair which stood straight -up from his head, and a waxed mustache, paced up and down inside the -little room. He looked as if he should be wearing a red uniform trimmed -with gilt braid and snapping a short, limber whip at crouching lions; -I’ve seen dozens just like him in cages! - -“_Temperamental!_” Leslie whispered, and she was right! - -“_Fascinating_,” Viola answered, in the same kind of a low, highly -charged wheeze. Then we waited some more. - -At last Signor Paggi came to the door and stared at us. - -“Well?” he snapped, and I was glad to leave the business to Leslie, who -stood up and spoke. - -“Signor Paggi,” she said, “we have been sent here, because in America -you are regarded as the most _marvelous_ person--” - -“I do not make fools play,” he broke in, “_You remember that!_ You have -appointment?” - -“Yes,” Leslie answered, and with a good deal of resentment in her tone, -“I told your office girl, but she--in a manner I must, in fairness to -your interests, Signor Paggi, tell you was _insolent_--told me--” - -“Very good secretary,” (he again interrupted) “I can get many pupils, -but only in my life once have I found the good secretary. Come in--” - -And, silent, we followed him. - -The room was large and almost empty. It had a bench in it, a table on -which was some music, a piano, and near that the chair that Signor -Paggi sat in when he wasn’t too agitated to _sit_. - -“You first,” he said, almost before we had crossed the threshold, and -he pointed at me. I went to the piano and sat down. “Well, play!” he -barked and I think I played something of MacDowell’s. - -“Stop!” I heard. I stopped. - -“What do you see?” - -“Nothing,” I answered. - -“It is very clear you see nothing. It is _awful_. You play like a -_peeg_! Toodle, toodle, toodle, SQUEAK! _Oh_--” and then he clasped his -hand to his forehead and glared up at the ceiling. - -“You must see peecture,” he said after a moment of silence, “a pretty -peecture; I give you time to theenk.” (He did) “Now go!” - -And I did. - -I don’t know what I played, but I saw our living room; the lounge that -has grown lumpy from the twins jumping on it; the piles of popular -music on the piano; mother’s darning in a big basket by the table; the -Boston fern in the bay window; even a pan of fudge that didn’t harden, -with a knife in it, and Roberta’s knitting--always a tie--half poked -under a sofa cushion. - -And I suppose that doesn’t _seem_ like a pretty picture, but it was -pretty to me, and it carried me through. - -“You can take lessons from me,” Signor Paggi said, as I finished. I -thanked him in a little squeaky voice that must have sounded funny. - -“And now,” he went on, “you can get up. You theenk you seet upon my -piano stool all day? You do _not_.” - -And then I got up and went over to the bench, and my knees shook more -than they had as I went over to the piano, which was so silly that it -made me ashamed. Leslie took my place, and I don’t think she was much -frightened. She was pretty sure of her playing she told us later, and -she was used to playing for people, and her assurance I thought would -help her, but--it didn’t. Signor Paggi let her play all her selection, -before he spoke, and as he did he _cleaned his nails with a toothpick_. - -“Are you deaf?” he asked in an interested, remote way. - -“Certainly _not_,” Leslie answered haughtily. - -“Ah, how greatly then do I pity you! To hear yourself _play_! Oh, -_my_!” (And again he clasped his forehead and rolled his eyes at the -ceiling) “And also, you improve on Mr. Bach,” he went on, after his -tragedy moment was past. “It is very _kind_ of you to show the master -how he should do. No doubt he is _grateful_! _I_ think he turn in the -grave. . . . Mr. Paderewski have great sense; to work for a country who -is lost is better than to teach some I have met. . . . Oh, _my_! Some -fool teach you that in girls’ school? _You will drop airs with me, and -play what is upon the sheet. You see?_” - -Leslie, with scarlet cheeks, and bright, angry eyes, got up, and -nodded. Then Viola was summoned, and I felt most sorry for her because -she had no nerve and she wobbled all the way over to the piano, but she -did better than either Leslie or I, and she got off with “Skip that and -thanks to heaven it will be shorter!” - -And so ended that hard half hour that seemed hours long, and started -all our winter’s work in Florence. - - - - -CHAPTER NINE - -A STROLLING PICNIC - - -After we had made a slinking exit that took us into the outer room, and -the girl, at a nod from Signor Paggi, had put our names down in the -book and given us slips upon which were our names and lesson hours, -we started down stairs and no one said a word. I think we would have -kept quiet for a long, long time if I hadn’t started laughing, but I -did--very suddenly and without really knowing that I wanted to--and -Viola, after a moment, joined me in a weak, close-to-hysterical way. -Leslie didn’t laugh and her eyes were hard and her chin set, and she -was so angry that she walked as if she had been wound up too tightly. -She made me think of “Mr. Wog,” a mechanical toy man, that the twins -start into the living room from the dining room door sometimes when -Roberta has company. It makes her very angry, because she says it looks -_so_ silly, and she says that it naturally embarrasses a man to realize -that some one has been listening to _every_ word he said. The twins -told me that they wait around in the dark under the dining room table -until they hear the caller tell Roberta that she is so sympathetic, or -beautiful, or that they have _long_ admired her, and then they crawl -out with their wound toy and start it in. Louise, who is the elder by -two minutes, said that “Mr. Wog” almost always broke into Roberta’s -soft, “Oh, _do_ you think so?” and that they always had to stuff their -handkerchiefs right into their mouths to keep from screaming with -giggles. - -But to get on, Leslie walked as Mr. Wog walks, and when she spoke she -did so between sharply indrawn breaths and in a way that told a lot she -didn’t trouble to put into words. - -“Aunt Sheila _knew_ this old _devil_--” she said, “I make _no_ -apologies for calling him that--and what she did was _vicious_, -positively _vicious_! She--she said I wouldn’t stick, _made_ me say -I _would_, in fact--” (she paused, and had to draw several quieting -breaths before she could go on) “in fact I wagered her a cottage that -father gave me last birthday, a _heavenly_ sweet place up on Lake -Placid, I wagered her _that_, that I would stick it out and study with -this horrible person! . . . And if I can ever punish Ben Forbes for -all this, I will consider that life has given me--_all the sweetness I -shall ever crave_!” - -Then we stepped out into the street. - -Of course it seemed about sixteen times as bright as it really was, -because both the halls and Mr. Paggi’s rooms had been dark, and it -seemed more good to be out than I can describe. After I blinked my eyes -into adjustment with the outdoor glare, I stole a side glance at Leslie -and wondered what sticking it out--if she _could_ stick it out--would -do for her? I knew that she would either flare up and leave it all, -or that she’d have to change, and I remembered how Howard McDonald, -who is Elaine’s brother, had learned to keep his temper by playing -baseball. The training, and the having to abide by decisions that he -thought unfair had been _fine_ for him, and after a season of playing -short-stop, everybody wondered whether he had changed, or whether -they’d been mean? “_Will you--can you stand it?_” I questioned inside, -and Leslie answered, almost immediately, quite as if I’d put my wonder -into words. - -“I am going to go through with it,” she stated through set teeth. “If -I die of disease from living in that frightful hole, or from shocked, -shattered nerves after a lesson, perhaps Aunt Sheila _may_ have a -question or two to ask of herself!” - -“He couldn’t have known who you _are_, dear,” said Viola, who was -groping around to find the right key. - -Leslie laughed shortly. - -“Aunt Sheila said I depended on that,” she confided. “That was during -one of her all-too-frequent moments of flattery. Sometimes I think I -have been the most misunderstood girl who has ever lived! And oh, how I -ache, alone, in my fumbling through the dark!” - -She stared ahead like everything after that; I guess she was trying -to look dramatic. Viola said, “Poor _darling, I_ understand.” And -then Leslie said, “I--” (her voice dropped and broke) “I am close to -fainting--I need _tea_--” and so they went to Doney’s which is the -fanciest restaurant in Florence and marked “expensive” in Baedeker. -After the remark about Siamese triplets I didn’t intend to have her -think _I_ wanted to be asked to her party, so I said, “I must leave you -here--” although I had no idea where I was, or where I should be going. - -“Must you, really?” Leslie asked so vaguely, that I got mad all over -again and answered with, “I generally say what I mean,” which of course -was _not_ polite. Then, feeling a little ashamed of myself, I turned -and left them and began to wonder which Italian I should ask where I -was and where I was going--in English; but I kept passing them, and -going farther and farther all the time because the doing it seemed hard. - -Then suddenly I saw some one who was ahead of me, and I hurried, for I -knew the gray homespun coat and the swing of the gray hat brim. - -“Wait!” I called, and he turned, and then he was laughing down at me, -and saying, “I just went up all those stairs that lead to the Pension -Dante to hunt you, and found you out--and found _where_ you were--now -tell me about it!” - -“Oh, Mr. Wake!” I said, and I drew a deep breath because I was so glad -to see him, and so relieved over finding some one who could talk as I -did. - -“Pretty bad?” he questioned, with a kind look. - -“I’m _so_ glad to see you,” I stated, which wasn’t exactly an answer, -but it pleased Mr. Wake, for he said, “Why, dear child, how _mighty_ -fine of you!” and pumped my hands up and down in his. Then he said, -“Look here, I’ve a plan. I say we go collect some food, spoil your -dinner, add another inch to my tummy, and have a picnic. Like ’em?” - -“Love them!” I answered. - -His eyes twinkled down at me, and all the little laugh wrinkles on his -temples stood out. - -“_Good!_” he said, “I know a little shop down here, on a dark arched -street, where Dante may have passed his Beatrice, and in that little -shop there are cakes that must make the angels long to come down on -parole. And near this bake shop is a wine shop, where I shall buy you -either some vermouth, or some coffee, and my plan is to collect our -goods, assemble them, and then eat. Is it welcome?” - -“That’s exactly the sort of thing that suits my temperament,” I -answered. “I can hardly forgive a person who uses a spoon on an ice -cream cone!” - -That made him laugh, although I don’t know why, and he took my hand in -his, and drew it through his arm. - -“Amazingly improper I am told,” he said as he did it, “but a fine way -for comrades to walk, and I feel that we are going to be real comrades -and friends.” - -“I _hope_ so,” I said, for I was liking him more and more all the time. - -Then we didn’t talk for a little time, and I began to enjoy looking -into the windows of the smart shops that are on the Via Tornabuoni, -and at the gay crowds that shift and change so constantly. There were -dandies lounging at the curbs, swinging their canes, curling their -mustaches, and searching through the crowd, with soft-sentimental brown -eyes, for some pretty girl at whom they could stare--to stare, in -Italy, is a compliment! Then there were bright spots made by the women -with their high-heaped trays of flowers, and the funny spots made by -the insistent little boys who try to sell postcards and sometimes can’t -be discouraged even by a sharp “Basta!” which seems to mean “Get out!” -and “Enough!” and other things of that kind, all rolled into one! - -In the street, the sharp cracking of the cabmen’s whips and their -shrill, high calls made a new sound for me to add to my collection, -and the beautiful motors which slid by made me wish that Elaine -McDonald could have _one glimpse_; because one day at Roberta’s sewing -club when all the rest of the girls were saying that my going away was -fine and everything, Elaine had said that she would rather stay in -Pennsylvania than go and hobnob with organ grinders, and _I_ think she -was jealous. - -I liked all this more than I can say, and with Mr. Wake I wasn’t -bothered by the crowds. Florence has about the same population as -Baltimore, although Mr. Wake said it didn’t seem so because so many -Italians crowd in a few rooms, and they live so tightly packed. One can -walk to the edge of the city anywhere easily, for it doesn’t cover much -space, but to me it seemed very large and, at first, confusing. - -After we had walked some time we turned in a tiny street that had an -archway over it, and seemed as dark as ink from contrast to the sunny -street we’d left. I liked it, and, as I picked my way over the big -cobblestones, I said so. - -“It is a part of Florence that most tourists miss,” said Mr. Wake, -“and it is too bad, for it is the most characteristic part. Ah, here -we are--” he ended and we turned in a tiny doorway from which came the -pleasant smell of hot sugar and warm bread. - -We got our cakes--which were very good--and took them in our hands, -and went on a few doors, around a corner, up a few steps--and those -right in the street at the back of some great palace--and then we -turned into a broader way and found a shop that had the entire front -open--they roll up during the day time and stay up even through all the -winter--and here I had coffee and Mr. Wake a tiny glass of wine, and -we ate and drank as the girl who had served us looked on and smiled. -It was _very_ pleasant, and I had a _fine_ time! I told him about my -interview with Signor Paggi and he thought I had got off easily. - -After we had eaten and talked we walked up past the Loggia dei Lanzi -which has statues in it that commemorate all sorts of historic events -and faces the square in which there is a replica of Michael Angelo’s -David; the square is large, and very busy with quickly passing -people, and the people who pause to make small groups that are always -dissolving, and ever reforming; and these people always look futile. I -didn’t know why, but Mr. Wake said that the Palazzo Vecchio, which is -at right angles to the Loggia dei Lanzi and looks scornfully down over -everything, made it. - -“See that old building over there?” he said, as he pointed with his -cane. - -“Um hum,” I answered, as I looked way up at the great big tower, and -tried to keep my mouth shut while doing it. I don’t know why it is so -easy to look up with your mouth open! - -“In there,” said Mr. Wake, “are ghosts who talk of making war upon a -neighboring town. They fear that Fiesole is growing too strong, Fiesole -that looks down from the hill behind you.” - -“Did they fight like that?” I asked. - -“Exactly like that! And without putting anything on the bill-boards -about it beforehand. . . . You see Italy was--not so long ago either--a -land of little countries, for each city had its rulers, and fought for -its rights, to keep its possessions, or to gain others. . . . And a lot -of the plans went on in there--” and again he pointed with his cane. - -“How old is it?” I asked, and then he told me and I gasped, for it was -begun late in twelve hundred and finished in thirteen-hundred, fourteen. - -“Not so old for Florence,” said Mr. Wake, after my gasp, “you know the -original Battistero, or Baptistery, was built probably in seventh or -eighth century. It was remodeled to its present condition, practically, -in 1200.” - -“No, I didn’t,” I said, and humbly. - -“Well, you’ve lots of time. And you’ll need it. There’s lots to see; -the house where Dante lived, and the tomb of Galileo, and the grave of -Mrs. Browning, and the literary landmarks--Thomas Hardy wrote things in -this town, and George Eliot came here, and oh, ever so many more--and -right before you in the middle of this square Savonarola was burned--” - -And I had to ask who he was; I knew that I had heard the name, but I am -lots better at remembering faces then I am at remembering names. - -“The Billy Sunday of the year of our Lord, 1490,” said Mr. Wake, “who, -after he had had more good art burned than has ever been produced -since, displeased his followers, the Florentines, who tortured -him--poor chap--and right over in that building, Jane--and then burned -him.” - -“Why did he want the pictures burned?” I asked. - -“The subjects hadn’t any slickers on,” said Mr. Wake. - -“Feel anything here?” asked Mr. Wake, after we had been quiet a few -minutes. - -“I feel as if I don’t matter much,” I answered. - -“That’s it. . . . The old building smiles scornfully, and says, ‘You -will pass, but I shall stay!’” - -Then we walked across the square between the cabs and motors, with the -crowd, made up of soldiers and officers, and the big policemen--the -carabinieri--who wear flowing capes and feathers in their hats, and -always travel in pairs. As we reached the other side Mr. Wake told me -one more thing, and then took me home. - -I noticed a statue of a man who was carrying off a beautiful woman who -struggled. There was lots of action in it; the girl looked as if she -could play forward and the man looked as if he would be a whopper at -the bat. - -Mr. Wake saw me looking at them and said: “That’s the way they did -it in the old days, and, no doubt, had I lived then, I wouldn’t be a -bachelor. . . . Would you like the story?” - -“Very _much_,” I answered. - -“Well,” he said, as he twirled his cane, “this was the way of it. Very -early in the history of Rome, the debutante crop must have been low, -for there weren’t enough wives for the young men, who were up and -coming and probably wanted some one to darn their socks and to smile -when they told their jokes. And then perhaps there was an extra income -tax on the unmarried; they knew a lot about torture those days and so -it is not impossible! Anyway, the Romans made a great festival in honor -of Neptune, and they invited all the neighboring people to come and -bring their families, and in the midst of the games the young Roman -dandies rushed in among the spectators, and each selected a maiden that -he thought he would like for his wife--it had to be a case of love at -first sight, Jane--and carried her off. - -“Soon after, the Sabine men, who were probably considerably put out, -came bearing down upon Rome with loud shouts and the brandishing of -glittering steel, and I myself can see the glare of it in the sun this -day! . . . But the Romans drove them back that time. However--and now -we have the real nub of the story, Jane, and the real confession of the -heart of woman--although the records have it that the Sabine brides put -up a most unholy row when they started out upon their wedding journeys, -they evidently liked the job of being Roman wives, and really respected -the men who didn’t even give them time to pack or to cry just once -again on mother’s shoulder, for before the second battle opened between -the enraged and outraged Sabines and the conquering males of Rome, the -Roman wives, once Sabine girls, rushed between the warring factions and -plead so prettily for peace that it was granted, and the story goes on -that the two people were so united that their Kings reigned together, -and that all thereafter was both peaceful and prosperous.” - -“Oh!” I said. I did _like_ that story. “Did you ever feel like doing -that!” I asked, for I thought it might be a confession of men as well -as of women. - -“I have,” he answered, “and if I had--perhaps--perhaps it would have -been better!” and then he smiled down at me, but the smile didn’t bring -out his laugh wrinkles, but instead it made him look strangely old and -tired, which made me wonder. We walked on, for a little time, silently. - -“By the way,” I said as we reached the covered corridor that is -opposite the big Uffizi Gallery, “my Fairy Godmother writes letters!” - -“And floats them to you upon dew?” asked Mr. Wake, “or does a spider -throw them to you with a silver, silken thread?” - -“No,” I responded, “she puts a blue charm on the upper right hand -corner, and the letter comes to me!” - -“And something of a marvel at that,” commented Mr. Wake. Then he -dismissed fancies, and added, “You have heard from her?” - -“Twice,” I answered, “I had a letter yesterday, and one that was posted -only an hour after it came to-day.” - -“I’ve a certain feeling--a want for seeing how fairy godmothers write,” -said Mr. Wake. - -“It’s in my pocket,” I told him, and we stopped and I fumbled around -until I found the large, stiff square. - -“There--” I said. Mr. Wake took it. - -“No doubt you think me a strange old chap,” he said. - -“Oh, no,” I answered, “a great many people are interested in writing -nowadays.” - -“It isn’t that, but your fairy godmother brought to my mind the years -when I believed in fairies. . . . A very nice writing, isn’t it? I -think it is most charming, don’t you, Jane?” - -“See how it looks on the page,” I said, taking it from him quickly, and -then the letter from its envelope. “It _is_ pretty, isn’t it?” - -“‘Dear, dear Child:--’” he read, and then suddenly, as if he were -irritated, or had been hurt sharply, added, “Here, here--I don’t want -to be reading your letters! And my soul, I must be getting you home! -I’ve a dinner engagement over South of the Arno, and I will have to -speed up a bit--” - -And we did. - - * * * * * - -At dinner Leslie was uppish and unpleasant. I think she was still -smarting from Mr. Paggi’s attack, and that her pride was so shaken she -had to pretend some of the assurance that she had lost that afternoon. -Anyway, something made her get into a very elaborate dinner dress, and -put a high, Spanish comb in her hair, and wear her big, platinum-set -ring of diamonds, and a little flexible pearl-set bracelet, and a -platinum chain with pearls on that. She looked beautiful, but Mother -never thought it was in good taste to wear things that are unsuitable, -and I don’t either. - -Leslie sailed in after Beata had brought in the soup, and Miss Meek, -with whom Leslie had struck up a feud at the first meal, burst out -with, “Oh, my eye! Look at the Queen of Sheba!” which seemed to make -Leslie awfully mad, so when Miss Bannister asked me what I had done -during the afternoon, I told every one--to change the current--in spite -of the fact that Miss Bannister had said, “One of my deaf days, and it -doesn’t matter in the least, don’t you know. Only asked to be polite. -Pass the bread.” - -“Mr. Wake?” said Leslie, after I had told of my walk, and the Loggia -dei Lanzi and the Sabine story. “And he took you into an alley -restaurant to eat? How _odd_!” - -“Perhaps the poor old bounder is jolly hard up,” said Miss Meek, who -tries to be kind to people she likes. - -“It wasn’t that,” I said, and I said it sharply, for I was getting -more and more out of temper with Leslie. “We were hunting around for -_atmosphere_; you ought to know what it is, _Miss_ Parrish, you talk -about it enough. . . . He has a villa out the Fiesole way and I guess a -person with a villa wouldn’t worry about a few cents, although I would -like him _just_ as well if he had to!” - -“_That’s_ the staunch-hearted flapper!” put in Miss Meek, as -Leslie murmured, “So many of the climbing sort rent fearful little -places--really no more than chicken coops, and then call them villas! -_So_ amusing--” - -“Did you mean my friend?” I asked quickly, as I felt angry hot spots -burn on my cheeks. You have to fasten Leslie. She likes to be mean -in a remote, detached way, which is the meanest way one can be mean! -Of course she didn’t own up to it; I might have known she wouldn’t! -Instead, she answered with, “_Really_, why would I mean your friend -whom I’ve never seen? What _possible_ interest would I have in him?” - -I didn’t answer that; I couldn’t, I was too angry. I ate instead, and -so fast that I afterward came as close to feeling that I had a stomach -as I ever do. If I had known then how Leslie would come to feel about -Mr. Wake, and how she was one day to say, “Why didn’t you _tell_ me he -wrote books?” I would have been comforted. But the veil that covers the -future is both heavy and thick, (I guess I must have gotten that out of -some book, but I can’t remember where) and that evening I was to have -nothing to comfort me. - -Something diverted me on the way to my room, and that was Beata, who -sat in the hall with her head on her pretty arms that were dropped on a -table. - -“Why, Beata!” I said, for she looked so forlorn, and I put my hand on -her shoulder. That made her raise her head, and she looked at me and -tried to smile, but there were tear stains on her cheeks and her heavy -lashes were moist, and I saw that the red tie was crumpled up in her -hand and I was certain that the tie was a little link in her story. - -“Oh, Signorina,” she whimpered, and timidly groped for my hand, and -when she found it she held to it tightly, while I patted her shoulder -with the free one. - -It seemed strange to stand there with her, understanding and helping -each other without a word, when Leslie and I could not understand or -help each other, with all our words in common. - -Leslie sailed by at that moment, and raised her brows as she looked at -the tableau I made with Beata. - -She thought it was common. But it was not. I am not always certain of -my judgment of her then, because at that time I didn’t like her, but -I know I am right in saying that she at that moment was the ordinary -soul, for she would have gone past need, and--raised her brows in -passing! - - - - -CHAPTER TEN - -CREAM PUFFS, THE TWILIGHT, AND-- - - -The week that followed the day of our first visit to Signor Paggi -allowed us all to find our grooves and to settle into them. And each -day I, in my going, started with a continental breakfast--one can slip -over these quickly!--and after I had had my two rolls and a pot of -something that smelled a _little_ like coffee and tasted a _lot_ like -some health drink, I went on to two hours of practising. I finished -these when the clock struck eleven, and then I’d write letters, or -sew fresh collars and cuffs in my blue serge, or wash stockings and -underwear, or walk until it was time for the mellow, soft-toned bell -that hung in the hall to be rung and for Beata to say, “È pronto!” -which of course meant lunch, and that it was one. - -After lunch I had two more hours of practising and then I could do as I -liked again. Sometimes I walked--always if I hadn’t in the morning--and -sometimes I read or wrote, and once in a while Miss Meek asked me -to play “draughts,” by which she meant checkers, or Miss Bannister -would call me in her room to show me some old, faded, once brown, now -yellowing photographs of the house where she had lived as a girl, and -where her father, who had been “The Vicar,” had died. And I always said -they were _beautiful_, and she would nod, and keep on nodding for quite -a while, and point out the vine that her mother had planted, and the -place where her father sat under the trees and read his books, and the -spot where she and her little sister, who was dead, had had their dolly -parties. I think she enjoyed doing it, and I was so glad that I could -look at the photographs and say that they were _lovely!_ and ask her -little questions which she seemed to like answering. - -Dinner and the evenings were all about the same, with Mr. Hemmingway -“a-hemming” and trying to remember, and Miss Meek barking out “Oh, -lud!”, or asking Leslie how “Lady Vere de Vere” was this evening? -And Miss Bannister squeaking out questions and then telling whoever -answered them that she didn’t care what they said. And “not to bother, -please--” and then--my room, for Leslie and Viola were very thick at -that time--and they wouldn’t have included me in any of their plans, -even if I had let my pride weaken and let them see that I was a little -lonely sometimes. - -Of course I knew that I was in Florence to work, and that I was the -luckiest girl in the world to be there, and I told myself that _over_ -and _over_ again! But a person’s heart will go on feeling just as it -wants to--in spite of all the person’s reasoning and sense--and I -must admit that some of those hours after dinner found me--well, not -_exactly_ happy. I think I really would have been pretty close to the -edge of honestly real misery if it hadn’t been for my Artist, who was -working a good deal at night. - -After I’d snapped on my electric light, which only lit the center of -the great big room and made deep shadows behind each piece of furniture -and turned the corners into inky blotches, I used to go to my window. -If my artist were working, I’d go back to the electric turn, switch it -off, and then cross the room again, scramble up to sit on the sill, rub -my shins, for I always seemed to hit something in crossing! and--watch. - -At first, he was painting with a model, and the model was a little -Italian boy, and that was the most fun to see, because the artist’s -arranging him was interesting. He worked quickly those nights, and -not very long. . . . Then came his working alone, and--what Leslie -would have called, “Real _drama_, my dear!” For more than once I saw -him stand away from his canvas, and study it in a way that told me he -didn’t think it right. . . . And once he dropped his palette on a -table, flung himself down in a chair and dropped his head in his hands. - -I can’t describe how interested I got in that picture and in the -artist. I liked him even then--which does seem silly--but I did, and -although I had never seen him enough closely to know his face, nor, of -course, the picture, I felt that I must go tell him that it was _fine_, -and that he mustn’t be discouraged! I reached the point--and after only -a little time of looking into his work room--of talking half aloud, and -saying all the things I wanted to say right to him. - -“It’s _really_ good,” I would say, “you _mustn’t_ get discouraged! What -do you do with that stick you hold?” - -Of course he didn’t answer, but it helped me, and I will say here that -when any one is miserable from thinking of the kind of noise that they -are used to at home, and the way their mother looks when she sits by -the table with the drop light on it, mending, it is a good thing to get -_really_ interested in some one else! I know. I speak from experience! - -That was the way the first week went; the second one started out with -the most interesting experience, and it ended with another one--and one -that I never, at that point, would have imagined _could_ be! But Fate -has a great many little knots in her threads which make her change the -pattern as she weaves, and Viola’s dislike of sickness, and being with -sick people, made Fate pause, then take a stitch and--draw me close to -Leslie! - -I reckoned time, quite naturally, not with the start of a calendar -week, but from the day that I took my lesson. And it was on Wednesday, -at five on a rainy afternoon, just after my second lesson that I came -up the Via Tornabuoni all alone, stopped to buy three cream puffs, and -then thought I’d step into the Duomo which almost fills the big Piazza -del Duomo, and from its dome looks not only over all the city but far -off to the hills. - -It was hazy inside, for incense was floating, but the chill of the -outside air that had come with the rain was gone, and the candles on -the big altar made a pretty bright yellow blotch in the center of all -the gray. - -To people who only know churches in America, churches in Italy won’t -be understood, for Americans go to church stiffly, and then hurry off -criticizing the sermon or complaining about the hymns that were sung; -they never would think of standing around to talk in church the way the -Italians do; or think of going into church carrying a live rooster by -the feet, or of sitting down in the back of a church to eat a loaf of -black bread and a slice of orange-colored cheese. But the Italians do -this, and all sorts of informal things, and it does make the churches -seem very home-like and warm, and it’s nice to go in them. I wandered -around, and I even thought of eating a cream puff, but I decided I -wouldn’t because I hadn’t been brought up to it, and because it would -spoil my dinner and because cream puffs sometimes squeeze out when you -bite and I had on my best suit, so I carried them in that tender way -that a person carries cream puffs and enjoyed the real Italy that one -finds _in_ the churches. - -There was a soldier from the ranks talking with his mother--I heard him -call her “Madre mia”--which means “Mother of mine,” and she smiled up -at him until her face looked like a little winter apple--it was so full -of wrinkles--and kept her hand on his arm which she kept patting. - -Near them, on her knees by a confessional--which is a little box that -looks like a telephone booth but really holds a Priest who _tries_ to -help you, instead of something that squeaks out, “The party doesn’t -_an_swer,”--was another sort of Italian, a woman who was beautifully -dressed, and behind her was her maid who wore the gay costume of the -Roman peasant and who carried the beautiful lady’s little white dog. - -Officers stood in groups chatting. Others came, dropped to their knees -a moment, crossed themselves, and then joined them. - -And a shabby old man with a lump on his back came in, got down to his -knees very stiffly, and there looked at the altar for a long, long time -as his lips moved. I don’t know why that made my throat feel cramped, -because he was getting help, and for that moment all of the big church -was his, and his God was close to him, I know. But I did feel a little -funny, and so I hurried on, to look at a statue by a man named Michael -Angelo, who died nearly four hundred years ago, but whose work is still -in style. - -After that I watched a little boy and girl who were sitting on a -kneeling chair, listened to the Priests, who were having a service up -by the main altar, and then I went out. - -I had been inside quite a little while, I knew, after I saw the outdoor -light, for it was much darker, and the rain less a rain and more a -fog. The people who hurried across the shining square with their funny -flat umbrellas, looked like big black toadstools, and all the lights -reflected in the puddles, and the bright windows were hazed. - -I didn’t want to put up my umbrella, because I love the feeling of a -little moisture on my cheeks when I walk fast and get hot, but I had my -cream puffs, and my best suit on, and so I did. And oh, how lucky it -was that I did, for if I hadn’t--but that comes later. - -I went down the steps, and across the Piazza del Duomo, keeping my eye -out for the trams, (they call street cars “trams” in Florence) the cabs -with their shouting, huddled up drivers, and the purring motors, and I -turned down the street that would take me past the English Pharmacy, -for I needed a toothbrush. - -On this I had gone along a few feet when I saw a man ahead of me who -swayed. I was quite used to seeing drunken men at home, but I wondered -about him; and when I remembered that Mr. Wake said the Italians never -drank too much, I wondered whether he was ill. - -But I only wondered idly, as you do wonder on streets about things you -pass, and I might have passed him if he hadn’t, as I was beside him, -suddenly clutched the handle of my umbrella just below the place I held -it. Then he stood swaying, and looking down at me with eyes that were -glazed and seemed close to sightless, as he said, “I beg pardon, Madam, -I do--humbly beg--your pardon, I--” - -And then he moistened his lips, and stopped, and I saw that he was -really very ill. - -I closed my umbrella, because once at home I saw a country-woman try -to go through the revolving doors of our First National Bank with her -umbrella up, and it impressed me with the fact that you can’t use -umbrellas very skilfully if you are trying, with both hands, to do -something else. And I got it down _just in time_, for the tall man was -swaying, and he needed all the help I gave him and--more! - -“Sit down on this step,” I said, and I put my hand under his arm to -guide him. - -After he was down, his head rolled limply to one side and then dropped -back against the wall, his eyes closed, and when I spoke to him he -didn’t answer. - - - - -CHAPTER ELEVEN - -ENTER--SAM DEANE! - - -I knew he had fainted, but I spoke to him again to make sure, and I -even laid my hand on his shoulder and shook him a little. Then I put -my umbrella on the step, and my bag of cream puffs on that, and began -to sop my handkerchief in the least dirty looking puddle that I could -find. And all the time I did this I frowned just as hard as I could at -two little Italian boys who had paused to look on, and I said “Basta!” -very fiercely, but they didn’t go on; instead they stood eating their -chestnut paste and chattering with the greatest excitement. And soon -their lingering proved a help to me, for their noise made an old lady -pause. She had a tray of combs and hairpins, that were studded with -rhinestones and red glass, hung from her shoulder by a wide tape, and -after she had studied the situation, she slipped the tape down over -her arm, set her tray on the dryest spot she could find, and squatted -before my charge and began to rub his hands. And while she did this she -talked loudly and quickly at me until I was so confused that I lost all -the use and understanding of the thirty or forty Italian words that I -really _did_ know. - -Then a shopkeeper who wore a long, once white apron and who was chewing -a toothpick came along and stopped, and _he_ asked questions, and the -old lady and the little boys all answered at once, and made their arms -go like hard-working, energetic windmills as they answered. Then two -soldiers in their olive drab came along, and _they_ paused and wanted -to know what was wrong, and the little boys and the old lady _and_ -the shopkeeper answered _them_, and they stood talking. And then a -well dressed man of, I should say, the middle class, saw our group, -and joined it, and _he_ wanted to know what was up, and when he was -answered it sounded exactly like the point in a ball game where the -home team makes the first run made, in the last half of the tenth -inning. - -And I suppose it must have been funny, but it didn’t seem so to me -then. The man had been unconscious for so long that I was very, very -much worried, and I didn’t know _what_ to do! - -And when still another man paused and asked _the_ important question, -and the whole thing was enacted again with even more enthusiasm, -and more noise, I felt as if I were absolutely marooned. There was -something very dreadful about those few moments during which I needed -help so badly and had no way of asking for it. - -The last man to join the volunteers stepped forward and I saw that he -was an officer of the Infantry, and he looked as dapper as they always -do in spite of the fact that mud was on his gleaming boots and that -some passing cart or motor had evidently splashed mud up on a corner of -his wide blue cape. - -He bared his head and bowed to me, and then held out a little coral -charm that looked like a horn, and which I found later are carried by -millions of Italians as talismans against all sorts of evil. - -He waved this and just at that moment the tall thin man happened to -open his eyes; I heard the little crowd gasp, and then I saw them bow -their heads and cross themselves quickly--and the little boys got -chestnut paste on their blouses by their doing this--and then there was -even higher, shriller, faster chatter, and through this my charge spoke. - -“What’s--the row?” he asked weakly. - -“You fainted,” I answered. - -“Fool thing to do,” he said, and he tried to get up, but the trying -made him so dizzy that he had to sink back again, and then he closed -his eyes as people do when they are confronted by a whirling world that -has black spots before it. - -“We have lots of time,” I assured him, and just as gently as I could, -for I did feel _so_ sorry for him. And then I turned to the Italians, -and said “Grazie, _grazie_!” as hard as I could, and bowed as if the -affair were quite over, and all of them except the little boys drifted -away. After that I reached down and put my fingers on the sick man’s -wrist, and when I located his pulse I found that it was pretty slow and -that made me ask the elder of the two boys--in two languages, and five -waves--if he could get a glass of water. And that made _him_ nod and -lay down his slab of chestnut paste by my patient on the step, and that -told me a story. And I never in my life have felt so badly, or so sorry -for any one, as I did when I began to understand. - -For the sick man looked at that nibbled little slab, and moistened his -lips, and then he looked away. And then he looked at it again, and -shifted his position, and once he even reached out toward it, and then -he sat back and for a moment covered his eyes. - -And I knew _right then_ why those cream puffs had beckoned me from the -window of the gay pastry shop! I opened the bag. - -“Sometimes,” I said, “when I’m faint, I eat; it takes the blood away -from your stomach or puts it there, or something.” And honestly, -Roberta _couldn’t have said it any better_! - -Well, he took one, and he tried to eat it slowly, but he couldn’t. -After he finished it, he said, “Thank you ever so much--I believe I -must have missed my lunch--I sometimes get interested in work--” and -then he paused and looked down at the bag. - -“It’ll take more than one to help you,” I said, “you were _awfully_ -faint--” - -But he shook his head. “No,” he answered, decidedly, “but thank -you--and so much--you got those for yourself, and I’m afraid I’ve -spoiled your party now--you have been _most kind_--” and then he drank -the water the little boy had brought, said a few words of thanks in -Italian, and sat looking before him. I had settled by him on the step, -and sitting there wasn’t bad, for the rain had turned to so gentle a -mist that it was little more than a fog, and it was getting so dark -that the passing venders thought we were only natives, and so they -didn’t bother us to buy lumpy looking statuettes or postcards or -rhinestone combs. The open-faced shops sent out shafts of light that -were so dulled by the haze that they looked strained, and I can’t -exactly explain but it was sort of cozy and nice in spite of the -dampness, and pretty too. - -After a little time my sick friend turned. “You must get on,” he stated. - -“I’m not in any hurry,” I answered. - -“But it’s getting late for you,” he said as he looked down. I liked his -face even then. Later, Leslie said he wasn’t handsome, and she said -that the only two really handsome men she had ever seen were Ben Forbes -(_and he has a pink wart on his chin!_) and Wallace Reid; but I think -that kind eyes and a good mouth and a firm chin make a man handsome, -and I stick to it that Sam _is_. - -“I’m going to take you home,” I stated, very seriously, and my friend -laughed and then I knew him; for I had heard him laugh in that happy, -quick way as he leaned out of a studio window that looked into our -court and answered the sallies of Gino, who was rubbing his brasses -down below. - -“You are a dear and kind little soul,” he said after the laugh faded, -“but that tickled me; you are about four feet long, aren’t you? And -I’m a perfect telegraph pole, and pretty heavy. Anyway--” he had grown -very serious, “do you think I am going to let you bother any more with -me? You’ve wasted too much time now, and--what’s more important--one of -your lovely cream puffs--” and after he said that he looked at the bag -again, looked away quickly, and swallowed hard. - -I knew I had to do _something_ to make him let me help him, because -I could see that he was stiff-necked, and that he intended to -be independent, and so I said--and rather softly because I was -embarrassed--“But I owe you _lots_--” - -He said, “How come?” and turned again to look down at me, and I told -him, and as I told him he listened hard, and once--of course I must -have been mistaken--I thought his eyes filled. - -“Well,” he said, after I finished, “_Well_,” and then, “_You poor -little chap!_” - -“Oh,” I said, “I’m all right now, but you see you helped me when I was -unhappy and so it’s no more than fair that I should take you home, -and--and--share my cream puffs--” - -Then an old lady who carried a scaldino--which is a funny little stove -that stands on legs and looks like a stewpot--came out of the door, and -we stood up. - -“Can you move?” I asked anxiously. - -“You bet I _can_,” I heard, “I feel _great_! Come on, little friend--” - -“You take my arm,” I ordered, and he did. And he insisted upon carrying -the umbrella too, which we didn’t open, and every once in a while he -leaned down so he could look under my hat, and then he would say, “You -say you _aren’t_ homesick any more?” - -And I’d say, “No, not any more--” - -And he’d answer with, “That’s right. . . . You mustn’t be unhappy, you -know! You just mustn’t be _that_!” - -We walked in an awfully funny way, because his stride was miles long, -and of course mine had to be short. And when he tried to shorten his -stride, it made him teeter like a Japanese official--I know about these -because our choral society gave _The Mikado_ two years ago--while if -I tried to accommodate my step to his I looked as if I were doing the -bent knee walk the twins do, that lowers their bodies and shortens -their legs and looks _awfully_ funny; and they always do it back of -Roberta when she is all dressed up and starts out to do her fancy -calling. - -So we hobbled and hitched along, and suddenly I laughed, and he laughed -too, and then we were even better friends. It is strange, and very -nice, I think, how laughter does this. - -[Illustration: “My name is Sam Deane,” he announced.] - -“My name is Sam Deane,” he announced, after our laughter had trailed -off into a silence that had lasted past two fruit stores and a wine -shop, “what is yours, if I may be so bold as to ask?” - -“Plain Jane Jones,” I answered. “I think yours is a really _nice_ -name!” And then he told me that his wasn’t half as nice as mine, which -was mere kindness, because there is nothing romantic or fancy about -Jane or Jones; but, as Father said, there could be no Clytemnestras in -a flock that was handicapped by the last name _he_ gave us! - - -Then we reached the corner that would take us to the row of houses that -backed on our court, and here we turned, and as we neared his house I -kept getting more and more nervous, because I wanted to say something, -and I didn’t know how to say it. That is a feeling that most women do -not understand, but it comes to me often. - -Mr. Sam Deane helped me, because I think _he_ wanted to say something -that _he_ couldn’t say; anyway, we stood for quite a few minutes before -his door, and then suddenly he said, “I _am_ a dolt; I intend to see -you around the block, of course; it’s much too late for you to walk -alone.” - -“You _are_ just what you said you were,” I interrupted. “I’ve spent an -hour getting you here; it would be too silly for you to try that! I’m -going to take you up to your room, too--” - -“No,” he answered, “really, Little Miss Jane Jones, you’re _not_. I’ll -call Gino. The other wouldn’t do at _all_!” Then his tone changed and -he ended with, “How am I ever going to thank you?” - -“Oh, it was nothing,” I answered, and I looked down at the spot between -the bricks that I was poking with the umbrella I had just recaptured. -He laughed, but not as I had ever heard him laugh before; this was a -tight, short laugh that didn’t seem as if it had much mirth in it. - -“Well, just as you will have it,” he stated, “but--_I know_.” - -“Mr. Deane,” I said, “will you _please_ take my cream puffs?” - -He said, “_No_, my dear.” Said it with his chin set and his head high. - -I waited for a moment, looking up at him. “Won’t you _please_?” I said, -and I was perfectly amazed; my voice shook. - -“You know I’m hungry, don’t you?” he asked stiffly. - -I nodded, “That’s the reason I’m trying to give them to you,” I -explained. “I don’t need them; Miss Julianna always gives us nice -meals, and I only got them for diversion. I thought I’d eat them coming -home because Mr. Paggi makes me nervous, but I’d forgotten my best -suit, and that I had to carry an umbrella--and that made eating them -difficult--” I paused, and looked up to see that my new friend wasn’t -looking over my head any more, but down at me. - -“It’s a devil of an agent who is making my trouble,” he confided, “he -gave me an order, and now--try as hard as I may--I can’t make the thing -suit him; and I can’t tell now whether he’s right, or whether he wants -to revoke the order and is doing it by finding fault. You see, I can’t -see the thing straight any more--” - -Suddenly I thought of Mr. Wake, who knows a great deal about pictures, -and I felt that he would help Sam Deane; I was _sure_ of it. It made me -smile. “I _know_,” I said, “that things will change soon--” - -Then Sam Deane said something that was kind, but of course nonsense. He -said, “They have changed; you--you’ve made them--” - -I poked the hole between the bricks after I said thank you, and then -I realized that it must be getting late, and that I would be late for -dinner if I didn’t hurry, so I held out the bag. - -“_I would take them from you_,” I said, and after a second of -hesitation he took them. He didn’t thank me at all; but he clamped the -bag of cream puffs under his arm--he must have had to scrape them off -the paper when he came to eat them--and then he put both his hands -around my un-umbrellaed hand, and for a minute held it very tightly. - -“I--can’t say anything,” he said in a funny, jerky way. - -“Oh, that’s all right,” I answered. And he laughed a little, and he did -that in a jerky way too. Then he said, “You turn on your light, and -switch it on and off three or four times, will you, when you get in? -I’ll want to know that you’re all right.” - -“I will,” I promised. - -“And look here, you won’t be homesick, will you?” - -“No,” I promised. Then I said “Good-night,” and he said “Good-night,” -and I went off down the street. At the corner I looked back to see him -still on the step and watching me, and that made me nervous, because -people catch cold easily when they aren’t well, and he should have -known it. And furthermore, there wasn’t the least necessity of his -watching me, because I had often been out later than that by myself and -I was quite safe. - -In the Pension I hurried to my room, and took off my hat and coat and -switched my light off and on several times as I had promised, and from -across the court I had a fast-flashed answer. - -Then I went out to dinner where Mr. Hemmingway was telling of his first -trip in a yawl--whatever that is--which had been in the spring of -1871, or 1872, he had a fearful time remembering which; and where Miss -Bannister was telling of the crumpets that they had had for tea when -the gentry came during the years of her girlhood; and where Miss Meek -was making sniff-prefaced remarks about people who made their money -overnight in America--this was for Leslie’s benefit--and where Beata -was to be seen, again with eyelids that were puffed from tears. - -After dinner as I played Canfield in the dining room with Miss Meek -looking on and saying, “That’s the way to it! Now smack the queen on -the king jolly quick!” I thought of all the unfinished stories I had -around me. - -First there was Miss Sheila, whose love story had been unhappy. - -Then there was Mr. Wake, and I felt certain that he had a long story -tangled in the years that he had passed. - -Leslie came next; Leslie who had cared enough for this Ben Forbes man -to come to Florence in order to show him that she was _not_ what he had -said she was. - -And Viola, who for some reason was making a pretense of studying when -she really hated work. - -Beata followed, Beata whose tie-knitting had ceased, and who cried as -she did her dusting or scraped the carrots. - -And I had added, just that evening, another one, and that was Sam -Deane, who was hungry, and who was fighting, and who needed help. - -All of them had stories and all of the stories seemed most interesting, -to me. I, I realized, hadn’t any story, but I didn’t really need it, -while there was so much activity and romance for every one around me. - -Before I undressed, I wrote Mr. Wake a long letter about Sam Deane, and -I said that I was sorry to trouble him, but that I did want his help, -and that Sam Deane lived on the third floor of the building that backed -ours, which would be good for reducing Mr. Wake’s stomach. And then I -signed myself most affectionately and admiringly his, and closed and -addressed and stamped my letter. - -Then I got Beata to take it out. I found her sitting before the wall -shrine and looking at it dully. - -“It must go _quickly_--” I said. And she said something of sweethearts -and love, which was, of course, all off, but I hadn’t the time nor -ability to explain and so I let it go; and then I went back to my room -and undressed and went to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER TWELVE - -DARK CLOUDS - - -The days that followed were dark and gloomy; the cold crept inside and -every one was uncomfortable and almost every one cross. Sometimes I -think that the weather really makes all the history, and certainly if -it hadn’t been damp Leslie wouldn’t have been sick with a cold; and if -she hadn’t had a cold she wouldn’t have quarreled with Viola; and if -Viola and she hadn’t quarreled, Viola wouldn’t have told Miss Meek all -about Leslie’s heart affair; and if Viola hadn’t confided it to Miss -Meek, then Viola and Leslie might have patched up their difference -long before they did. All this happened in the course of two dragging, -rough-surfaced days, during which no one was happy. And I contend that -the strain started from the clouded skies, and the chill which crept in -to cling to the floors and live boldly in the passages. - -Friday afternoon I slipped a slicker over my everyday suit, which is a -belted tweed, and pulled a plain little felt hat low, and started out. -It was raining miserably, but I thought that I could shake off the -queer, unpleasant weight that I felt inside, if I walked hard, for I -had done that before. But everything conspired to hinder me. - -I suppose every one has pictures that they collect without meaning to; -funny, little pictures that live in their minds and spring up at odd -moments; and pictures that sometimes come, with time, to bring back no -more than the _feeling_ of the long forgotten day when the particular -picture hung itself up inside. - -Cats that step reluctantly and pick up their feet in their wet-hating, -curly way, will, I know, always take me back to the damp air of that -afternoon when I walked down past the fish market to the Piazza del -Duomo, where the cobbles shone in the wet and reflected the bobbing -umbrellas, and where, instead of the usual chattering crowds, there -were empty spaces, which was bound to give a feeling of loneliness to -any one who knew and loved the Florence of sunny days. - -I went through this and down past the Loggia dei Lanzi, where there -were no stalls or no hand trucks heaped with flowers, and then through -the court-like street that divides the two upper floors of the big -Uffizi Gallery, on under the little passageway that connects these, and -then along the balustraded walk that overlooks the Arno. - -It is lovely to walk by this river in the sunlight, because then there -are women down below, on the shallow strips of beach that crop up here -and there, who wash clothes by beating them on stones _with_ stones, -and who sing and joke, or call scornful taunts at each other, as they -work. But this day it was empty save for a little boy who sat in the -stern of a moored boat and fished--I suppose with a bent pin on his -string--just as his little American brother might do in my own land. - -After I had walked toward the Grazia Bridge, and crossed the street -to see something I thought pretty in one of the windows of the shops, -I turned and went back toward the Ponte Vecchio, which means “The Old -Bridge,” and as I walked across this I considered what I would buy to -take home to Mother, Father, Roberta and the twins. - -I did this because the bridge is lined with little shops that have -windows that twinkle from the gold and silver they hold and the -gleaming of all the stones I had ever heard of and many, many more. - -Then--and with the weighted, unpleasant feeling still with me--I turned -in the direction that would take me home, and hurried as quickly as I -could because the rain was coming down faster and it was coming on the -slant. - -The people in the shops I passed were idle, and the women huddled up -with the stewpot little stoves they call scaldinoes tucked under their -feet and skirts. They still sat in their doorways although a real -storm raged, and I learned that day, truly, that most of Italy does -live in the street. - -As I turned in the Via Nazionale, which is our street and becomes the -Piazza Indipendenza as soon as it reaches the park, I saw, through an -open door, a piece of stove pipe that stood on four legs and had a -curling little chimney at one end, and that made me smile a little, -for the original pattern was invented by an American sea captain who -wintered in Florence and almost died of the cold; and the stoves--which -Mr. Wake says get much hotter than the infernal regions ever -_could_--are called “American pigs.” - -I found the hall very, very dark, and after I had climbed the stairs -and got in the Pension corridor I found that that also was dark, and -then Miss Julianna came along, switched on the lights, and through that -I heard Beata’s story. - -“She is ashamed,” said Miss Julianna, “to have you see the _cry on her -cheek_.” - -I said I was sorry, as Beata, who had been sitting in the half light by -a table, lowered her head and looked away. - -“It is sad,” Miss Julianna agreed, “the good girl, Beata! She loves -very much, and also has love give to her, but has not the dowry! And -you know here it is necessary.” - -“Can’t she earn it?” I asked. - -“She had save some, but her small brother, Giuseppe, walks of the -crutch, and could be made well; for him she give her money that was -saved. No, Beata?” she ended, after adding a string of Italian that was -too quickly spoken for me to follow. - -Beata nodded, and _she_ spoke quickly, and then she sobbed. - -“She say,” said Miss Julianna, “that she is happy and would do again, -but her heart, poor little foolish one! Her heart go on loving when it -should now _stop_! It is _sad_! No, Signorina?” - -I thought it was! And I went over by Beata and patted her shoulder. -It did seem unfair for her to be unhappy, because she was always _so_ -pleasant and kind. - -“The Signorina Par_reesh_ is more bad of the throat,” went on Miss -Julianna; “I went in; she say, ‘How glad to die, I would be!’ also you -have the letter--_here_--” - -I took the letter with a good deal of hope that trickled off into -nothing as I saw dear Miss Sheila’s writing. It had been over a week -since I had heard from home, and it seemed much longer than it was. -Of course I was glad to hear from Miss Sheila, but I needed a letter -from Mother, all full of an account of the things the twins had done, -and who was calling on Roberta that night, and who was sick, and how -many appendixes Daddy had taken out, and what they’d had for dinner, -and how the geraniums were doing, and how Marshal Foch--who is our -canary--was almost through molting. - -That was what I _needed_ and so I had to swallow hard several times -before I opened Miss Sheila’s letter--I had thought _surely_ the letter -was from Mother--and after I opened it I swallowed harder, for the -twins had contracted diphtheria--as they did everything, together--and -Miss Sheila said that Mother wouldn’t be able to write for some time. -Mother had telegraphed her and asked her to write me and to keep me -informed. - -Well, after I stood around a minute looking down at the page the way -you do when it holds something you’d rather not see, I went along the -corridor to my room, and in there, I sat down in the cold, and wondered -whether the twins were very sick, and then I thought of the times -I’d been cross to them, and then I wondered whether Mother could get -it--and I had to swallow _awfully_ hard over that, and then--I thought -of Father. And I got up very quickly and squared my shoulders, and took -off my coat, and put it over a chair to dry, and hung my hat on the bed -post, and went off down the corridor to Leslie’s room, for Father had -_no use for people who are not sports_. It helped me to remember that. - -Leslie was sitting up with her feet in a tub of hot water, and she had -on a chin strap that tied on top of her head in a funny little bow, and -she was crying. I was sorry for her, and sorrier for myself, and we -were both miserable, but she looked funny. I saw it even then. - -“Always--wear this when--I’m alone,” she said thickly and in jerks. -(She was talking about the rubber strap that was jacking up her chin.) -“Mother--has a double--chin and--_the blood just drains from my heart -when I look_--every time _I look at her_!” - -“I wouldn’t worry about it to-day,” I advised. Then I asked her whether -I could get her anything. She shook her head, and then she spoke. - -“Viola told Miss Meek everything _I’d ever told her_,” she said, “all -about Ben Forbes saying I was idle, and a p-parisite. Don’t you think -that was mean?” - -I did. And I said so. - -She sniffed, and then suddenly, she hid her face in her arm and began -to cry hard. - -“I wish--” she whimpered, “I were--_dead_--” - -And then I got _her_ story. - - * * * * * - -This Benjamin Forbes had lived next door to the Parrishes in New York, -and he did until Leslie was eighteen, which was the year before she -“came out,” (whatever that is) anyway, he used to help Leslie with -her lessons, and take her to the Zoo and riding in the park, and he -bought her candy, (the hard, healthy variety that comes in jars and -is no good, but the only sort she was permitted to eat, and she said -she appreciated the fact that his _intentions_ were kind) and he even -used to go to the dentist’s with her while she was having her teeth -straightened. - -Well, she said that he never thought of her except as a little girl, -but that she _adored_ him, and that one night when she was at a fudge -party at boarding school--and she was only sixteen at the time--when -the other girls were discussing and planning their husbands, she, -Leslie, suddenly knew what sort she wanted, and that the sort was _Ben_. - -And she placed him on an altar then, (I quote; for Leslie’s style is -_not_ mine) and she never wavered once although she had much attention -paid to her, and had had two and a half proposals--the half coming -from the fact that her father plunked right in the center of the third -one, and evicted the suitor, who left in such agitation that he went -without his hat. (Leslie kept it for a souvenir) However, to get on, -Mr. Forbes’ younger brother wasn’t strong, and so Mr. Forbes bought a -ranch and went out there, and he liked it and they stayed. - -He came back after four years, and offered to take Leslie to the -_Hippodrome_, which showed he didn’t know she had grown up, but she -suggested a Russian play instead, and he took her there, but she said -she could see he didn’t enjoy it, and that he was not pleased with her -having matured and that he rather resented it, and he didn’t seem to -know how to talk to her, and he acted baffled, and she said that, as he -groped, and unconsciously showed his disappointment, _every dream and -hope of hers was scattered in the dust_. (I am quoting Leslie again) -Well, he left after he had been in New York a week, but the night -before he left Leslie asked him frankly why he didn’t like her, (she -told him that she could _see_ he didn’t) and then he admitted that he -was a little disappointed. - -“I like girls,” he said, “who can work, and who don’t make playing -their only work. All you can do is go to teas and poppycock parties, -now isn’t it?” (She said he was gentle, but that he told her all he -felt) - -“You can’t,” he went on, “even play the piano as well as you did at -fourteen; you can’t keep house, can you?” (And Leslie couldn’t) “And -it seems to me,” he ended, “that you are content to be a pretty little -parasite, and that disappoints me.” - -And his saying that sent her to Florence, and it started, she said, -a ceaseless ache in her heart. And the ache grew too large to keep -hidden, and Leslie confided in Viola; and Viola, in an effort to make -Miss Meek realize that Leslie was away out of her natural placing, told -Miss Meek that Leslie’s broken heart had led her to seek the solace of -work in these humble surroundings. And Viola’s talking to Miss Meek was -made by the fact that Viola hated sickness, couldn’t bear being with -people who were sick, and--had to talk to some one. - -In that way the confidence became a triangle, and it ended as such -triangles usually do--where it started--for Miss Meek came in to -Leslie’s room and boomed out, “Oho, Miss Smarty! The Queen didn’t rule -every one now, did she? And I’ll say jolly lucky for the Forbes man at -that!” (Miss Meek dislikes Leslie) - -And when Viola appeared later, and said, from the doorway, “Darling, is -there _anything_ I can do for you?” Leslie answered, “You can _try_ to -keep your mouth shut!” and then I think they had a row, although Leslie -says that people of her station _never_ row. It seemed like one to my -simple nature, though, and during the course of it Leslie told Viola -that her people were “nobodies” and that Mrs. Parrish hadn’t been “at -all pleased” when she heard of Viola’s going, and that she, Leslie, -now knew it was a “climber’s scheme”; and then Viola said that Leslie -considered herself more important than she was, and that money wasn’t -_anything_, and that now she knew that society was a “hollow sham,” -since people like Leslie could masquerade as paragons or paramounts, or -something like that--I sort of forget--in it. - -And then they both cried, and Viola slammed the door as she left, and -that started _it_--which was a feud that lasted until Viola had a -trouble that was big enough to make even Leslie forgive her the things -that she had said, on that rainy day that backed so many unpleasant -happenings. - -After I left Leslie, I went to my own room and stood by the window -looking across the court. . . . There was no light in my artist’s -window and there had been no sign of any life in the big room since the -evening that followed my taking him home. - -Mr. Wake had sent me a little note that read: “Sam Deane is all right -now. Will report on Saturday.” But that didn’t tell me whether long Sam -Deane had gone on to another part of the country or to another land or -was still in Florence, and, somehow, it didn’t seem to satisfy me. - -I wondered a lot as I stood there, and I realized that I had -hoped--really without knowing it--that I’d see that tall Deane man -again. But his rooms were empty and dark, and it was raining, and a -swinging sign somewhere in the neighborhood protested in high shrill -squeaks as the wind pushed it back and forth, and the twins had -diphtheria, and I had been so cross to them sometimes, and they were -_so_ dear, and poor Beata had lost her sweetheart, and Leslie was -crying, and Viola angry and miserable--and--I _did_ want to wander out -into our big, yellow-walled kitchen and say “What are you going to have -for supper, Mother?”--and to know that they were _all_--every one of -them--all right. - -The court was growing very dark, and the shadows were gloomy. The rain -was caught by a swooping wind and swished against the windows and -ran down the panes in rivulets. And just after that the Pension bell -jangled loudly, and I thought of the twins and of cablegrams, and when, -after a long, long tightly stretched moment or two, some one tapped on -my door, I had to moisten my lips before I could even half whisper, -“_Come_--” - -And then-- - -Oh, well--there is always, _always_, blue back of the gray! But -somehow, when one is far from home and it rains hard, you sort of -forget it! - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTEEN - -A PATCH OF BLUE SKY - - -It was Beata who had tapped on my door, and after my weak-kneed -“Come--” she opened it and came in, and as she crossed the floor to -reach me she held out a lavender striped box that was tied with silver -cord. I took it, and it did seem to me that the silver cord would never -come untied--I suppose because I was so excited--but at last I got the -knot out and the cover off, and I saw a bunch of big purple violets -that smelled of earth and of their own soft, sweet perfume. I couldn’t -believe they were for _me_! I had never had violets sent to _me_ before. - -But they were for me, and after Beata, who had lingered from interest -and frankly looked on, said, “Signorina, _la carte_!” I picked up the -envelope that was in the bottom of the box, and read on it, - - “For - - “Miss ‘Plain Jane Jones’” - -and then I tore that open and read the letter. It was from Sam Deane -and it said: - - “DEAR LITTLE GOOD SAMARITAN: - - “Lots of luck has come to me--and may I say, bless you? _I - think I must!_ I can’t return the cream puffs, for somehow or - other I mislaid the ones you loaned me, and I’m afraid I can’t - match them. - - “I would like to say lots, but your Mr. Wake is looking over my - shoulder and telling me that you are a dear little girl--and - don’t I know it?--but, dragons or not, I am going to be your - friend, if you will let me. - - “Mr. Wake wonders whether you will go walking with him, - Saturday. He says he will call for you at three and return you - when his waist line is sufficiently reduced. - - “I can’t say thank you for all you have done for me; some day I - will try to tell you how I feel, and I will show you always, by - being - - “Your sincere and devoted friend, - “SAM DEANE.” - -I liked that letter. - -“Beata,” I said, “aren’t they _lovely_?” - -“Si, _si_, Signorina!” said Beata, and she nodded and nodded, and her -eyes shone just as if the violets were hers. And then I went to stand -before the glass, and place them the way girls do, and I was so excited -that I stuck the violet pin right through my corset into my stomach, -_but nothing mattered_! I was just _awfully_ happy! I didn’t know that -violets would make you feel that way, but these did. And Mr. Hemmingway -thought they were beautiful, and tried very hard to recall the first -year he ever “sent a lady a posy” (but he couldn’t remember because he -couldn’t remember which year he had bought a tan and white striped -waistcoat in the Strand or Ludgate Circus, of course he couldn’t -remember where, and the waistcoat buying prefaced the posy giving) and -Miss Meek said that _some_ man had more sense than most of the jolly -idiots, and Miss Bannister asked me who sent them, and let me answer -without telling me it was one of her deaf days, which showed that every -one felt kind and interested. - -And so dinner passed, and after dinner I sat with Leslie a little while -and helped her get in bed; and then brushed my hair while Viola sat in -my room and told about how Leslie’s grandfather had started to make his -fortune in pickles--and she seemed to be glad of it, I couldn’t see -why--and then she squeezed my hand, and said that she was sorry that -she had been so fearfully busy during the first two weeks, and that we -must see lots of each other now--I suppose because she had fought with -Leslie, I know I hadn’t changed any in that short time--and then she -left and so ended that day. - -Saturday was clear and everything was washed and clean by the rain that -had fallen so steadily and long. All the roofs were a brighter red and -the gray and tan houses lightened and the sunlight was dazzling, and -even the song of Florence--which is made by the many, many church and -monastery bells that mix, and tangle, and float across the city to -make pretty, skippy tunes--even this song seemed freshened by all the -scrubbing that the city had undergone. - -I got up quite early and went to my window to look out. Gino was -whistling as he swept around his back door, and talking to his parrot -that he had brought out with the stand to which it was chained. . . . -And I looked above him at the big window through which I had so often -watched my artist, and I realized that Mr. Wake would tell me about -him that day. . . . And then Beata came to call out her gentle, “Buon -giorno, Signorina! Acqua calda!” - -And I answered, and took in the tall, steaming, brass pitcher and began -to bathe and dress. - -I practised a lot in the morning, and brushed my best suit, which I -thought _ought_ to back my violets, and then came lunch, and then -getting into outdoor duds; and at last the Pension bell jangled as it -swung to and fro in answer to a touch from downstairs, and I knew that -Mr. Wake had come. I went out to the head of the stairs, as soon as I -heard the bell ring, and called, “Is it you, Mr. Wake?” And, when I was -answered as I wanted to be, I hurried down. - -It was _very_ good to see him, and I stood in the doorway with him -for several minutes as I told him about the twins, (he was sure they -weren’t very sick) and of Miss Sheila’s promising to write me regularly -about how things went on, and of Leslie’s bad cold. And then I asked -about my friend, Sam Deane. - -“Able to take a _little_ nourishment,” Mr. Wake answered, which I found -later was a joke. “I have quite a story for you,” he went on, “suppose -we start out and talk on the road. Shall we?” - -I nodded, and then blinked as I always did when I stepped from the -dark, gray-walled hall out into the brilliant middle hours of an -Italian day. It was cheerful outside. The cats--and there are millions -of them in Florence; every one sets out food for them, and no one -ever harms them; I think they were blessed, and so protected, by some -Saint beloved of the Florentines--the cats sat sunning themselves and -washing their ears and whiskers, or they strolled without hesitation, -and planted their feet surely, which shows how quickly the sun had -worked at drying things. The old ladies who always sit in doorways and -call to each other, huddled less over their scaldinoes, and little boys -with bare knees ran through the paths in the Piazza Indipendenza or -spun their tops on the pavement on our side of the street. Of course -officers walked slowly, and little knots of soldiers from the ranks -collected on corners to talk, and pretty Italian girls fluttered past. -Every one seemed glad to be out, and happy. It was pleasant. - -“Well?” I prompted after we had turned a corner, and into a street -that was, from the white walls, simply ablaze with sun. “Where _is_ Mr. -Deane?” - -“At the Villa Rossa, now, I think,” Mr. Wake answered. - -“_Your_ house?” I said in surprise. - -“Yes, my dear. . . . And very glad I am to have him. . . . A nice -boy, a very _fine_ boy, and I needed some one to play the banjo in my -garden. . . . I have fountains that look very well in the moonlight, -and a climbing rose tree that has covered one side of my house, and I -have marble benches, and everything that goes with romance, and--not a -hint of the real thing. All wrong it was! And so I am glad to have this -troubadour from Texas--” - -“I called him that too,” I confessed, “I used to like to hear him -play--” - -“And so do I,” Mr. Wake responded, “and I imagine he plays remarkably -badly. There must be ears of love as well as eyes of love. . . . You -like him?” - -“Oh, very _much_!” I stated. Mr. Wake smiled down at me then--I didn’t -know quite why--but I liked it; it gave me something of the same warm -feeling that came from the almost piercing sunlight, and then Mr. Wake -took my hand and drew my arm through his as he had done before. - -“The devil take Signora Grundy,” he said, “I have no use for her at -all, and never had! And how--” (he stopped and coughed and finished -with a jerk) “is the fairy godmother?” - -“Very well,” I answered. - -“Some day,” he said, “you’ll describe her to me? Faith, and I never -will get enough of some fairy tales!” - -“I will,” I promised. And then Mr. Wake went on to tell me of Sam -Deane, and I was glad to hear his story. - -Sam Deane, who was twenty-eight, Mr. Wake said, had won a traveling -scholarship from a well-known art school in the middle west. This had -meant a year in Paris and a thousand dollars allowance beside, and it -was given as a reward for exceptionally good work. - -Well, Sam Deane had come to Paris and worked his year, and then he -decided that he wanted what Mr. Wake said Sam termed “A go at Rome and -Florence,” so he packed his suitcase, tucked his banjo under his arm -and walked most of the way to Rome. And Mr. Wake put in the statement -that Sam was the sort who could get what he really wanted, and I said -I thought so too, and then Mr. Wake smiled down at me again in his -very pleasant, twinkling, warming way which led me to believe that the -weather made him feel well, too. - -Sam Deane did well in Rome where he looked up some of his fellow -workers, and shared a beautiful studio that was set high in a bit of -the old Roman City wall. He got some orders and saw the place, and he -stayed there quite a while and began to feel that Fortune was really -fond of him. - -But in Florence! Oh, that was a different story! - -The haughty city turned her back on him, and she closed her long, slim -fingers round her gold. And Mr. Wake said that Sam had been duped by -the worst scoundrel of an agent that ever lived, and that there was -nothing wrong with the picture Sam was copying, not in the _manner_, -Mr. Wake stated. (He said the subject was ghastly, I don’t know why, I -thought the little boy would have made a pretty picture, but when you -are educated in Art I don’t believe you want them to be pretty) Anyway, -the agent kept putting Sam off, and making him redo his work, for he -had a clause in his contract order that let him do this. And Mr. Wake -said that in this way Signor Bianco usually reduced his slaves to such -despair that they finally let their work go to him for half its real -worth. - -“Now--” Mr. Wake ended, as we drew near a long building that had -medallions all along the front of it, made of the same sort of ware -that I had seen in the fountain up on the Via Nazionale, “Now I’m -going to take a hand. . . . And I know that with a little boosting -and a little advice the young man will _get along_! He has the real -stuff in him. Some of his sketches made me think of the early work of -Davies. Going to keep him with me until he gets a hold, and longer if -he’ll stay. Nice boy, _fine_ boy. . . . Look ahead of you, Jane, my -child. . . . You see the round, blue and white plaques up there? Copied -all over the world, those little white babies with their legs wrapped -in swaddling clothes. They were made by della Robbia back in the -fourteenth century.” - -I thought that was wonderful, and so different from our modern art, -because if you were to hang up a Henry Hutt picture, even indoors, I -don’t believe it would last fifty years. - -I said this to Mr. Wake, who entirely agreed with me. Then he told me -that one of the reasons that the Italians made such beautiful things -was that they took a long time to doing it. A man named Orcagna who is -dead--it is discouraging to think that every one who is great seems to -_have_ to be dead a long, long time--this man worked thirty years on a -shrine that is in a church called Or San Michele. (It is a _beautiful_ -shrine of marble and silver and precious stones and lovely little -carved figures) And Giotto died before his tower was finished--it looks -like a slim lily where it stands by the side of the big fat Duomo--and -Raphael was killed by working too hard over his pictures, and wasn’t -allowed to marry because the Pope thought he should give all of his -time to his work, which seems so sad to me. . . . I kept thinking for -a long time, after Mr. Wake told me that, of how Raphael’s sweetheart -must have felt when Raphael was buried at thirty-seven, for that isn’t -so very old, after all. - -As we stood there talking I saw Viola coming toward us, and after I had -spoken quickly to Mr. Wake, I called to her, because I knew she was -lonely. - -“This is Viola,” I said to Mr. Wake, “her last name is Harris-Clarke, -you say them both,” and then I added, to Viola, “We’re going to see -this church. Do you want to go with us?” - -“But how charming!” she murmured, “and this is Mr. Wake, of whom I have -heard most _pleasant_ things?” - -Mr. Wake bowed from the waistline, but he didn’t seem especially -pleased, or at all excited over the things she had heard of him and -that did surprise me a lot! - - - - -CHAPTER FOURTEEN - -STORIES, MUSIC AND TEA - - -That afternoon was pleasant, but I don’t think that’s the reason -I remember it so clearly. A good many pleasant sight-seeing walks -followed that have grown a little dim, even now. I think it fastened -itself by my beginning to see Viola, and a side of her through which -she was soon to hurt herself so cruelly. I discovered the side through -a little comment of hers on a painting made by Andrea del Sarto, an -artist who painted in Florence a good deal in the fourteen hundreds. -They didn’t have any electric signs then, and so they used paint -instead, and they spread this over the churches--both inside and -out--because they were old fashioned and religious. - -After Viola joined us Mr. Wake said, “The building we face, the one -that has the della Robbia babies smiling down on you from the front -of it, is a hospital for foundlings--little children whose parents -die, or for some reason or other don’t want them--and it is called the -‘Innocenti,’ which means The Innocents, and there, years ago--probably -some time in 1452--a little baby who was later called Leonardo da -Vinci, found a home. It was rather well that he did, wasn’t it? And now -shall we go into the church?” - -“Let’s,” I answered, after I had taken a long look at the stern looking -building that holds inside so much that is lovable. And then we went -into Santissima Annunziata and after we had looked at the glittering -Chapel of the “Annunciation Virgin” and some paintings Mr. Wake told us -were wonderful, we went on into the cloisters. - -As we got about half way in, Mr. Wake put his hand on my arm, drew me -to a standstill, and Viola followed suit. - -“Look above the door,” said Mr. Wake, and we did, to see a pretty -picture of Joseph, and Mary, and a little boy, who was the small -Christ. . . . I liked it very much because it was simple, and it made -you feel _near_ it. Joseph was leaning on a sack of grain, and Mr. -Wake said, when he spoke, that it was called “The Madonna of the Sack” -because of that. - -“But,” he said, “the great story lies behind the pretty face of the -model; for Mary, up there, was Andrea’s ambitious, money-loving -wife. . . . She crept into all his pictures, for she was his model, and -she made him work like mad to paint them, for she was always wanting -the things that do not count, and the things that do not live; and the -money for his pictures could buy these things for her. . . . And while -he worked, she played and wore the fine garments that the silk-makers -guild wove for her. . . . There are millions of her, aren’t there? Poor -blind, foolish women!” he ended. - -“But,” said Viola, “don’t men like to have women interested in their -work? I’m sure that my own dear Father is _stimulated_ by _my_ need for -pretty things.” - -“Surely,” agreed Mr. Wake, “but to be pushed beyond strength and to be -whined at continually is quite a different thing. . . . In this case -it proved to be the killing of the golden goose, for Andrea del Sarto -did not live to a great age--he died at forty-five--and his wife lived -on alone without her beauty and the love of Andrea, and lived long -beyond him. . . . It is said that one day, many years after Andrea -died, an artist who was copying that moon shaped picture up there was -startled by a touch on his shoulder, and he looked up to see an old, -browned, shriveled hag, who smiled down at him a little bitterly. ‘I -see,’ she said, ‘that you are copying the picture of me that my husband -painted?--’ Then perhaps,” Mr. Wake added, “she went in and sent a -little prayer up through the dim ceiling for all of her sisters--gone -and to come--who think more of money and things than they do of love or -the comfort of their beloved.” - -We went in again after that, but I wasn’t much interested in the rest -of the church, and it was so cold inside and out of the sun that I was -glad when we stepped outside again and made our way toward the Piazza -Vittorio Emanuele where there was to be a concert given by one of the -military bands. There was a cluster of gaily uniformed band men in -its center, and hundreds and hundreds of people around them, and at -the edges of the square people sitting at the tables of the open air, -outdoor cafés, drinking and eating whatever they had ordered. It was -very _different_ from anything I’d ever seen, and so full of brightness -and color and a deep, thick sense of enjoyment that I don’t know how to -describe it. But people seemed keyed up by the music, and when the band -master would stand up before his men and wave his baton, every one grew -tense, and when the music started they listened _hard_. - -“Suppose,” said Mr. Wake, after we had pushed by two of the -Bersaglieri, (who are the sharp-shooter soldiers that have cock -feathers drooping from one side of their always tilted, theatrical -looking hats) “we go sit down, and see whether--if we look very -wistful--some waiter won’t come along, and take an order--” - -“_Delightful_,” said Viola, who had been getting more and more airy as -she was more and more impressed with Mr. Wake. - -“I’d like it,” I said, “I’m always hungry, but how about your stomach?” - -“My _dear_!” Viola put in, in a shocked aside, but I paid no attention -because it was no time to quibble. Mr. Wake was taking me out -_primarily for his stomach_, and because he wanted to _reduce it_, and -I didn’t think it would be fair to sit and eat and tempt him. - -After Viola said “My _dear_!” Mr. Wake laughed, and patted my shoulder. - -“Always beginning to reduce _next week_,” he said; “like _Alice in -Wonderland_, ‘jam to-morrow and jam yesterday, but _never jam to-day_!’ -And don’t you think a little fat softens age? Suits my type?--There’s -a table ahead of us, grab it, Jane, before the gentleman with the many -whiskers sits down and pretends he is a piece of sage brush--” - -He did look like sage brush, but the wind blew me to the table Mr. Wake -wanted before it landed the rough, hairy looking person there, and -Viola and Mr. Wake followed and settled. And then I had my first taste -of outdoor eating, which is very foreign, and which I like _so_ much! - -Viola and I had strong, bitter chocolate with whipped cream on it and -French pastries and little cakes with nuts in them, and Mr. Wake had -wine and crackers. And just as our waiter brought the order to us, the -band struck up “Pizzicato Sylvia” and unless you have heard an Italian -band play something shortly and sharply, with a snapping, staccato -touch, you have yet to hear _music_--real _music_-- - -Oh, how I came to love those concerts that were scheduled twice a week, -all winter long, in one or another of the public squares! - -I couldn’t eat, I could just _listen_. And Mr. Wake smiled at me, and -once he put his hand over mine, and I turned my hand until my fingers -could squeeze his. And then I drew a deep breath and shook my head -because the music made me feel that way. And then the band stopped, and -every one was very quiet for a second, and then they clapped and after -that laughter and talk rose with a perfect whir. - -“Wasn’t that _fine_?” I said, as Viola said, “_Enchanting_,” and some -one who had been standing back of me for some moments, leaned down and -said softly, “How do you do, to-day, little Miss Jones?” - -It was my Sam Deane! - -I was startled, but awfully glad to see him, although the idea of -thanking him for those violets before every one made me feel cold and -frightened and stiff. - -“Miss Harris-Clarke, this is Mr. Sam Deane,” said Mr. Wake, “whom I am -proud to present to you--” - -“Delightful,” Viola murmured in her smooth way, and then Sam bowed and -drew up a chair. - -“Will the bottomless pit have something to eat?” asked Mr. Wake. And -Sam Deane grinned at him, and then he said he might _consider_ it. - -“What did you draw?” he asked of me, and I told him, and he ordered -what I had had. - -“I want to write you a little note,” I said. - -“By jings, I _want_ you to,” he answered, and he looked at me and -smiled in a very kind way. I don’t believe there is a nicer man than -Sam Deane! I liked him right off, and I’ve never stopped once since. - -“No one ever sent me any before,” I said in an aside, which was easy, -because Mr. Wake had begun to talk to Viola about the Uffizi Gallery -and the Belli Arti, which is another gallery. - -“What was the matter with the boys?” Sam asked. - -“My sister,” I said, “is _really_ attractive, and _she_ always gets -them. I like them _very_ much, and I was so _excited_ I could hardly -get the box open. And I’d just heard that the twins were sick too, and -the violets helped me a _lot_.” - -He didn’t answer, but he sat looking down at me and smiling, and I felt -as if he would understand my clumsy thanking him. “I thank you _ever_ -so much!” I ended. - -He shook his head, “Nothing,” he answered, “it was absolutely nothing. -I wanted to buy the Pitti Palace and the Boboli gardens and give them -to you, and throw in the Piazzale Michael Angelo for good measure. . . . -Are you--are you going to let me be your good friend?” - -“If you really _want_ to be,” I responded, and I meant it. - -“I want it more than anything,” he said, in an undertone, and then we -were quiet. - -“How are you?” I asked, after the silence had begun to seem strained. - -“Never have been better,” he answered. “Did you know Mr. Wake got me a -sale for my boy picture straight off? He brought another agent in to -see it and he took it. We broke the contract with my old agent. Mr. -Wake said I could with safety. I don’t know what to say to you. . . . -Think of what you’ve _done_ for me.” - -“Oh, no,” I disagreed. - -“Oh, _yes_!” he stated. Then the band began to play “the Blue -Danube” and when I heard it I thought I had never heard waltz time -before. . . . It rose and fell in the softest waves, with the first -beat accented, until one felt as if one _must_ sway with it. - -It was a moment that I shall never forget. I don’t know quite why it -was so vivid. . . . But the great hushed crowd which was pierced by -blue uniforms, and the three-cornered hats of the carabinieri, and the -look on the dark-skinned faces and in the deep brown eyes, and the sun -that slanted across all this to cover an old stone building with gold, -and the people around the little tables, and Viola talking with Mr. -Wake, and Sam Deane, looking at me in a kind way, struck into my heart -to make a picture that will always be remembered. - -When the music stopped, I said, “I don’t know why I am so happy -to-day--” - -And Sam Deane said he was too, but he did know why, which of course was -natural, for he had been close to starving and worried over work, and -all his skies were cleared. - -“I can’t tell you,” I said, “how glad I am that everything is all right -for _you_.” - -He didn’t answer immediately, and he really didn’t answer at all. He -said, “Please keep _on_ feeling that way,” and I promised I would, and -then we stood up, and made our way through the crowd to stand at the -edge of it, and listen to a few more numbers before we went home. - -And on the way--we loitered a little, for we were on the sunny side -of the street, and that makes loitering easy--Mr. Wake told us about -how Mr. Robert Browning had picked up a little yellow book, in one of -the stalls outside of San Lorenzo--which was a church we passed--and -how this book made him write “The Ring and the Book.” Viola said that -she knew it almost word for word, but when Mr. Wake asked her how it -started she couldn’t seem to remember. - -“If I recall,” said Mr. Wake--and it was almost the last information he -imparted, and after that we began to have a _fine_ time--“if I recall -correctly it started out with a very careless sounding few words; they -are, I think, ‘Do you see this ring?’ And then, in the next paragraph, -‘Do you see this little yellow book I hold in my hand?’ . . . And the -poem has lived! The artificial fades and drops away; the real and -simple _roots_.” (He looked at Viola then; I don’t know why) “There is -another poem,” he went on, “that starts in somewhat the same manner and -Jane will know it. That one begins with, ‘Oh, say, can you see by the -dawn’s early light,’ both of them intimately in the vernacular--” - -I didn’t know what “vernacular” meant, but I didn’t have to admit it, -because Viola put in one of her low-breathed, “_Fas_cinatings,” and -after that Mr. Wake was quiet until we reached the twisting stairs that -led to the Pension Dante, when he and Sam Deane said good-by to us. - - - - -CHAPTER FIFTEEN - -FLORENTINE WINTER - - -After that first real walk and our outdoor tea, Viola, Mr. Wake, Sam -Deane and I took a great many walks--always two a week--and I came to -enjoy seeing the things I should see, and hearing about people whom I -had considered of little importance because they were so dead. But Mr. -Wake woke everything up, and shook the dust from all the old stories -and made them live. - -For instance, when we passed Dante’s house he would say, “No use of -stopping; Dante is over at the Pitti Palace talking to Cosimo de Medici -this morning, and I see Gemma” (she was Dante’s wife) “is busy in the -back yard hanging up the wash,” and then we’d all pretend we saw her, -and walk on deciding as we walked, that it would be kinder to slip our -cards under the door without ringing, and that we hadn’t wanted to find -them in, anyway. Mr. Wake made everything modern and _natural_, just -like that! - -He took us to the Pitti Palace, which, in 1440, Luca Pitti commissioned -Brunelleschi to build for him. It was to be a palace more magnificent -than the Riccardi Palace which belonged to the Medici; and the -citizens and Florentine corporations were so much interested that they -aided him. It was so fine that it took years to build, which Mr. Wake -proved when he said that in 1549 it was sold, without its roof, to -Eleanor of Toledo, who was the wife of Cosimo. - -From the Pitti Palace we went to the Uffizi Gallery; through a little -narrow passage that runs from the Pitti across the upper story of the -Ponte Vecchio--the old bridge--along the Arno for a block, and then -turns into the great Uffizi that was built by Vasari in 1560 to ’74 -for the municipal government, and by the order of Cosimo I because -he wanted to use the Palazzo Vecchio, which was then the municipal -building, for his own home. - -Mr. Wake said that a good many people try to look up the history of the -Uffizi family, but he advised me not to try, and when I asked why not -he told me that “Uffizi” means offices. - -All this information was given in a way that made it seem quite -palatable, and not at all like the information that one usually gets. -I enjoyed even the history of the erecting of those great, strong -buildings, and when it came to the families, I loved it. It was truly -interesting to hear of the wars of the blacks and the whites, who -were the opposed and warring factions in Florence of the Middle Ages, -and Mr. Wake told of how they planned their conquests in hidden -ways or under the cover of black night; and of how the Medici power -was overthrown; of a priest who was made so deep a sympathizer of -the oppressed that he tried to stab Cosimo de Medici while he was at -Mass, then of how Cosimo escaped this, and finally died in one of his -peaceful country palaces which stands to-day just as it did then. - -In the Uffizi, Mr. Wake asked me what I would look at if I were alone, -and I said the pictures of wars and animals, and Sam took me around -hunting these, while Viola stuck to Mr. Wake and admired the things -that every one should admire. - -One sunny day, we went to the Piazzale Michelangelo, which is a great, -cleared space on the top of a hill on the south side of the Arno, -riding up in a _tram_ and walking slowly down a cypress shaded path -upon which, at intervals, were the stations of the cross. At another -time we walked out to see Andrea Del Sarto’s last supper, which is in a -tiny church way out in the outskirts of Florence, and is not often seen -by the hurried kind of tourist who uses a guide. - -Then we saw where well-known people had lived--Thomas Hardy, (and he -had had rooms right up near us) and so had George Eliot and Walter -Savage Landor and the Brownings and dozens of others I have forgotten. - -And of course we saw a little house where Boccaccio was supposed to -have lived, and the place in front of Santa Maria Novella (a church) -where he, Boccaccio, met seven lovely ladies, one morning in 1348, just -after Mass, when the city lay stricken under the horror of the plague. -Mr. Wake pointed Boccaccio out to us as we were coming home past the -church, one bleak November afternoon, after a walk that had taken us to -the churches on the South Side of the Arno. - -“There,” he said, “in claret colored doublet and hose is my friend -Boccaccio! He swings a silken purse that has in it many ducats, and he -tries with nonchalance to hide the horror and fear that lurk within his -heart. . . . A serving man whines behind him. ‘Master, master, we had -best be going. . . . Two more have fallen in the way not a disc’s throw -from your excellency, and the streets are filled with death!’. . . But -now--_now!_--Who are these, seven of them, coming out from Mass! Lovely -ladies who greet Boccaccio as a friend, and whose eyes lose their look -of fright for the fleeting second when first Boccaccio comes into -vision and to mind--” - -And then Mr. Wake--in his _seeing_ way told us how that group and two -more youths planned to go up to Boccaccio’s villa which some think was -close to Fiesole--the town that Florence warred upon so often--the -proud, small town that frowned and sneered on Florence from her high -seat upon the hill. And Mr. Wake said that the next day--early--when -the dew was on the grass and the sun yet gentle, Boccaccio’s party -started off, and made their trip in a short two hours; found the villa -more charming than their modest host had promised and that there they -settled. - -And to fill time they told stories, which are, after all this time, -being read. But Mr. Wake said--when _I_ said that I’d like to read -them, that the stories would be the kind of stories that would be told -by people who evaded duty, and kited off by themselves to look out -_for_ themselves. And he said they were not exactly the reading he -would recommend for _me_. - -Viola had read them and so had Leslie. Both of those girls often made -me feel very ignorant, but Sam said he liked me as I was, and that -helped a great deal. - -Leslie went with us only a few times, although I always asked her. -But her quarrel with Viola was as intense as it had been the day when -it started--although they did speak to each other, very coldly--and -I think that kept Leslie from going, as well as the fact that she -was irritated into disliking Mr. Wake by Viola’s and my enthusiasm -over him just at that time. She was nervous and edgy and unhappy, -and disappointed from the toppling of her friendship with Mr. Ben -Forbes. The Florence winter months, which are filled with fog and -a damp, increeping cold, left her physically uncomfortable too, and -she had no real companion and the hard application to work was new to -her; altogether now that I look back, I pity her. But all that came -to Leslie did help her; I know that, and so I suppose that I am only -wasting pity. - -The second time we went walking, Leslie went with us, and she was very -cool and crisp in her greeting to Mr. Wake, and she disagreed with him -about his opinion of the Fra Angelico frescoes in a Monastery called -San Marco, in a sharp way that wasn’t at all nice. - -After we got back from our walk and were settled at dinner, Viola, with -a circumspect look at Leslie, said something about Mr. Wake’s books, -and I saw Leslie look up at her suddenly and piercingly. And before -I went to bed she called me over to her room. She had on a layer of -mud--it was some kind of Russian stuff that she put on to cleanse the -pores--and it made her look like a mummy. I _had_ to giggle. - -“What is the cause of your mirth?” she asked coldly as she stopped -brushing her hair. - -“Well,” I answered, “you look kind of funny.” - -She elevated her chin, and I think she gave me that cool stare with -which she even occasionally subdues Miss Meek, but of course it -couldn’t get through her mud-pie finish. - -“I want to know,” she said after a second of comparative silence, -during which she had slammed her little jars around on her bureau, -and brushed her hair so hard that I thought she’d brush it all out, -“whether it is true that Mr. Wake is a writer?” - -“Why, yes,” I answered, “‘Beautiful Tuscany,’ ‘Hill Roads,’ ‘Old Roman -Byways’ and lots more were written by him.” - -It seemed to irritate her. “It would _seem_ to me,” she confided, “that -you would naturally _mention_ it!” - -I didn’t see why, but I didn’t say so. I just picked up a button hook -and wiggled it around in my hands, the way you do when you have nothing -to do but feel uncomfortable. - -“You lack finish, and are as gauche as any one I _ever_ knew,” she went -on. I didn’t know just what she meant by that, but I knew I didn’t like -it. - -“Don’t you know that when you introduce people,” she questioned, “you -should give some idea of the--the standing of each person so that--that -they may know whom they shall be _nice_ to?” - -I shook my head. - -“Well, you _do_,” she snapped, “and if you have any more people to -present to me, I want to _know_ about them. . . . I positively snapped -at this Mr. Wake--I am fearfully humiliated over it!--and just a -_word_ from you would have saved me.” (She slammed a bureau drawer -shut until everything on the bureau top rattled), “I didn’t imagine he -_could_ be anybody, because Viola Harris-Clarke raved so--” - -“He was my friend in any case,” I said, because I was getting mad, “and -if you’d remembered that and been kind, you’d have spared both of us. I -was ashamed of you--Mr. Wake was being kind to us, and you were rude to -him without any reason for being so.” - -“_You_ ashamed of me?” she echoed, and wheeled on me, to stand looking -at me in a dreadful way. - -“Yes,” I said, “I _was_,” and I said it hard. - -She drew a deep breath, and was about to start in when I decided -I would go. I only heard her say, “You come from the backwoods of -Pennsylvania, and so you cannot understand the--_the infamy of your -statement_, but in New York _I_--my _family_--” - -And into this I broke in with something that was horrible to say, I -know it, but it was a satisfaction. I said, “Good-night old mud-hen,” -and then shut the door. But before I had my own opened, she had jerked -through hers, to stand in the corridor and wave her brush at me, -“Never,” she called loudly, “_Never call me ‘Mud-hen’ again!_” - -“I will if I want to,” I said. “You may count in New York, but I come -from Pennsylvania.” And then I went in my room and felt ashamed. - -For two days after that Leslie cut me out of her talking list, too, and -the only words I had from her were icicle-hung requests to pass things. -On the third, I went into the practice room that was farthest down the -hall--my afternoon hours followed hers that day--and I found her with -her head in her arms, crying. - -I felt very sorry for her, and I put my hand on her shoulder, and I -said, “Leslie,” quite softly, and she turned away from me for a moment, -and then turned to me and clung to my arm. I patted her and smoothed -her hair, and I think I made her feel a little better. - -Anyway, she stopped crying, and wiped her eyes, and asked me to go to -Doney’s with her for tea. But I said I wouldn’t do that. - -“Why not?” she asked in her old, cool, lofty manner and she raised -her brows in a way that confessed she was surprised over my daring to -refuse her invitation. - -“Because,” I answered, “you took Viola, and now you’re mad at her, and -you’re telling every one how _often_ you took her out, and how _much_ -you did for her.” - -She grew red. I think she didn’t like it, but I had to say it. - -“I’ll take a walk,” I said. She didn’t answer that, but, head high, -collected her music and flounced off. After I had practised about an -hour I heard a noise at the doorway, and I looked up to see Leslie -standing in it. - -“You were quite right,” she stated, in the stiffest voice I had ever -heard, and she looked right over my head. “I know it. I will be glad to -walk with you if you like--” - -“All right,” I answered, after a look at the little wrist watch father -had given to me, before I left, “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes; -fourteen and a half more here, and a half to get into my things--” - -And I think that day started our real friendship. - - - - -CHAPTER SIXTEEN - -PLANS FOR A PARTY - - -By Christmas time I was so well acquainted with both Leslie and Viola, -that when, a week before Christmas, Viola called me in her room and -told me what she was writing, I told her that I thought she was foolish. - -“Why?” she asked, as she looked at the envelope that was addressed to -her father. - -“Doesn’t he send you all the money he can?” I questioned in turn. - -“Probably,” (she jabbed holes in the blotter with her pen) “but I need -more. You see early in the game--when _Miss_ Parrish _deigned_ to -notice me, I borrowed money of her, she was always pressing it upon -me--one of her _sweet_ ways of impressing people with her _wealth -importance_--” (I didn’t say anything, but I thought Viola was mean) -“and I need to repay that, and then--my clothes are in _rags_,” (which -was nonsense, for they weren’t) “and I always do ask father for extra -money at Christmas time,” she continued, “because he softens then--or -is in so deep that he thinks a little more won’t matter--anyway, since -I always do ask him, there’s no reason for you to be so shocked--” - -“He’s your father,” I stated, “but I’ll tell _you_, I’d hate to send -_my_ father a letter like that to get around Christmas time!” - -Viola shrugged her shoulders. Then she grew haughty. “As you say,” she -said, “he _is_ my father, and it is _my_ affair--” - -“You asked me about it,” I put in sharply, “I was going by, and you -called me in and said you were writing your father for money, and asked -me what I thought would come of it--” - -“I meant how _much_ would come of it.” - -“Oh.” - -“He’s quite used to it, Jane,” she went on, and almost apologetically, -“Mother has to ask him for extra money _all the time_. . . . We simply -_struggle_, and _pinch_ at every point, but even then we can’t put -up half the appearance that we should, and we never have what _every -one_ around us has--and takes for granted. Did you hear Miss Meek say -‘I’ll wager it’s jolly slummish around the jail!’ yesterday when I was -describing our breakfast room? _Horrid old thing!_” - -I didn’t say so, but Viola had made Miss Meek hazard this opinion -about Ossining because she, Viola, had put on so many unnecessary and -silly airs about her home. Miss Meek added, after her first remark, -that of course she knew nothing whatsoever about it, since she -never had visited such low places. The moment that followed had been -strained--and funny! - -“It does seem,” Viola went on, after she had wiped her pen on her -stocking, and then said something vigorous because she had forgotten -that she wore a brown pair, “it does _seem_ as if Father might _try_ -to do better. It makes it very hard for a girl of my type. . . . It -doesn’t agree with me to accommodate to poverty, or to pinch and scrape -as I have to _all the time_!” - -That was nonsense, but I didn’t say so, because with Leslie and Viola -my opinion about money and things didn’t count. - -So I only stood there a minute, feeling a little sorry for Viola and -very sorry for her father, and wondering why people felt so about that -which Viola called “Appearance,” and then I decided I’d go to my room -and finish a letter I’d started to Mother, who would, Miss Sheila had -stated, write me herself, very soon. - -“Where are you going?” asked Viola after I had said I must hurry on. - -“My room,” I answered, as I turned the door knob. - -“How’d your lesson go?” - -“Pretty well.” - -“If _Miss_ Parrish doesn’t join you, I will later.” - -“All right,” I responded, “but I won’t have a fire--” - -“I should think you’d _die_ without one,” said Viola, pityingly. - -“I get along all right,” I answered, shortly, because it seemed to -me that Viola had better get along without a fire herself--a scuttle -of coal cost about thirty cents, and the kindling that started it, -ten--instead of shivering for me, _while_ she badgered her father for -money that she confessed wouldn’t be easy for him to spare. - -“Don’t be angry,” she called after me. - -“I’m not angry,” I replied. - -“Well, you acted it. . . . Funny holiday, isn’t it? Just sitting in our -rooms. No parties or anything--” - -“We could have one if you and Leslie wouldn’t hitch at it, and spoil -everything,” I responded. “We could get a nice one up--” - -“Well, I’m willing to fly the white flag that evening,” she stated with -an indifference I felt that she put on. - -But that made the party possible, for I saw how it might be managed and -I hurried right on to Leslie’s room to find her lying down on her bed -and staring up at a sky blue ceiling that had gilt stars painted on it. - -“Look here,” I said, as I shut the door after myself, “I think we ought -to have a party, a Christmas party, but we can’t unless you and Viola -stop scrapping for the evening. She said she would; will you?” - -Leslie sat up and drew her padded silk dressing gown around her, and -then answered. “I am sure,” she said, “that I would act as I _always_ -do. One’s personal feelings dare not be aired; I _assure_ you I -_invariably_ exercise restraint--” - -“All right,” I answered and then I sat down on the edge of her bed, and -we planned it. - -“Mr. Wake and Sam will come,” I said, after we had decided to buy those -cracker things that pop and have paper caps in them, and Leslie had -said she would donate some pastries and some French chocolates. - -“Mr. Wake would be fearfully bored,” she objected. - -“I don’t believe it,” I disagreed. - -“But with Miss Meek and Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway? For of -course if we have it here we’ll have to ask the old things!” - -“Probably it’ll be the first party they’ve been to in years,” I stated, -and I saw that Leslie felt a little mean. - -“Well, I’d tell him that the whole institution will be on board,” she -advised, and I said I would. - -“Beata would serve,” said Leslie, who seemed to have a lot of head -about planning the refreshments and how they should be brought on. - -“And she’d like it,” I commented, “probably it’ll help her out.” - -“What’s the matter with her, any way?” Leslie asked, and I’d told -Leslie about forty times, but I told her once again. - -“How much does she need?” she asked, as she lay back and again looked -up at the ceiling. - -“I think about seventy-five dollars,” I answered. Leslie laughed in a -queer, unhappy way. - -“Fancy it’s being as simple as that!” she murmured in an undertone. - -“Not particularly simple, if she can’t get it,” I disagreed. “And poor -Beata doesn’t believe she’ll ever be able to save it, and she loved him -so. His name is Pietro La Nasa, and he _is_ good looking. . . . I’ve -seen him standing in the court--he knows Gino, who owns the brass shop -down there--and he looks up so _longingly_--and you know how much Beata -cries--” - -“Yes, I know--” - -Suddenly Leslie turned and clasped my hand between both of hers. “Look -here, Jane,” she said, and with the prettiest look I had ever seen on -her pretty face, “we’ll try to make this a real party. . . . My father -sent me a little extra money--I had a dividend from something or other -that has done well--and I’d _love_ to spend it this way. . . . As you -say, the crowd here probably haven’t had a good time for years--” - -“And may not again for years--if ever--” I put in. Leslie nodded. - -“We’ll _do_ it,” she said, with lots of energy in her voice. “And you -can ask Viola to help with the decorating and so on. . . . Understand, -_I want nothing to do with her after it is over_. . . . I shall never -forget the things she said to me about my Grandfather who had a -_little_ interest in a factory where they put up chow chow (he made his -_fortune in railroads_) and about my having an inflated idea of my own -importance. I have _not_, but I assure you, Jane, the Harris-Clarkes -are _nobodies_--” - -Well, I’d heard that all about a thousand times before, and I had -got so that I was honestly bored--and for the first time in my -life--whenever Viola started on the Parrishes, or Leslie about the -Harris-Clarkes. - -“I can’t give any presents,” I broke in. - -“I’ll loan you any amount, dear,” said Leslie, quickly. - -“No, you won’t!” I answered. “I won’t give presents because I -_shouldn’t_, but we can have an awfully good time, presents or not!” - -“And will!” she promised, quickly, and then she crawled out and put -a kettle of water over her spirit lamp and began to make tea, and I -had three cups and four crackers and two slices of nut cake and some -kisses. Then, feeling a little refreshed, I went back to my own room, -on the way stopping at Viola’s. “It’s all right,” I said, from the -doorway, “she’ll pretend, if you will--” - -“I’m honestly _glad_,” said Viola. - -Before I started on, I saw her lick the flap of the envelope that was -to take her complaining letter across the sea to her father--I had a -queer, sad feeling as she did it, and then I said a short “By,” and -went on to my own room. - - - - -CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - -CUPID AND A LADY SANTA CLAUS - - -Two days later at about five in the afternoon, Leslie looked around the -living room which was growing dark, as she said, “I think we’ve done -wonderfully!” - -Viola was tying some red tissue paper around the funny little tree that -Leslie, with great effort, had got from a florist, and after she stood -erect and stretched, she responded to Leslie with a murmured, “Simply -_sweet_!” - -“Don’t _you_ think so, Jane?” asked Leslie coolly. She had ignored -Viola all that afternoon by addressing me, and after she did this -pointedly, Viola always huffed up, and appealed to me, too. It made me -feel as if I were interpreter in the tower of Babel, and it left me far -from comfortable! And it was all _so_ silly! - -“I certainly do,” I answered as I looked around, and it was fine! - -Mr. Wake, who had accepted our invitation with great pleasure, had sent -in flowers and big branches of foliage from his place, and these were -in vases, and massed in corners; and Sam, who had just left, had helped -us make twisted red streamers that he had wound around the funny -chandelier, and we had put red paper around all the lumpy vases that -Miss Julianna seemed to like so much; and the bare little tree was on -the center table, with a ring of candles, set up in their own grease -around it. It doesn’t sound especially pretty, but it was, as well as -very cheering. - -Over the back of a chair hung a long red gown that Leslie was going -to wear as she gave out a few little presents. Her giving them was -entirely correct, because the Italian Santa Claus is a lady called -“Befana,” and the only way we changed things was by having the Befana -come on Christmas Eve instead of on Epiphany. - -On the mantel were some pink tarletan stockings filled with -candy--there was no fastening them up, the mantel was made of -marble--and Leslie had got a little piece of mistletoe which Sam had -hung in the doorway. - -“Really, it has the feeling of Christmas,” said Leslie, as she picked -up the gown, which I had made on her with safety pins. - -“_Hasn’t_ it?” murmured Viola, who, in spite of saying the most bitter -things, did want to make up. - -“When it’s lit by candles it will be pretty,” I prophesied, and it was. -Then we picked up the hammers and the nails that always lie around on -the edges of things after you’ve put up Christmas decorations, and went -to dress, closing the door very carefully after us, and locking it. - -Beata, who was tremendously interested in the new version of their -Befana, and who had asked a great deal--through Miss Julianna--about -the person she called “Meester Sant’ Claus,” smiled at us as we passed -the kitchen, and I saw that she hadn’t cried that day, and that she -wore her best dress, and a shabby, yet gay artificial flower in one -side of her dark hair. - -“Sant’ Claus come!” she managed, while we were yet within hearing; -Leslie called “Not yet--” and then we went on, and parted. - -In my room, before I lit the light, I will confess that I had a little -moment of sadness, during which home seemed far away and I wished I -had as much money to spend as Leslie had. . . . I had wanted to give -Miss Meek and Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway very nice presents, -because they needed them, but of course I couldn’t give them much. I -had found for Miss Bannister a leather picture frame in a shop that was -opposite the Pitti Palace--she had said she meant to get a frame for a -picture she had of her old home, but that she always forgot it while -out, (she is really very poor) and I had got for Miss Meek, who is very -gay, a gray comb that had brilliants in it--it was only fifty cents; -I got it in a stall outside of a church called Santa Croce--and I had -got Mr. Hemmingway a book from a little shop back of the Duomo that -had “My memories” written on it in gilt--I mean on the book, not the -Duomo, of course--for I thought he would enjoy writing down some of the -happenings that occurred at the times he never could remember. - -Then I had two lovely colored linen handkerchiefs which had been given -me before I sailed, and fortunately, I had only carried them and -never put them into active use, and I did these up for Beata and Miss -Julianna. - -I didn’t give anything to the others, and I wished I could. I had that -feeling that leads even restrained people to rush out on Christmas -Eve and buy a great deal that they can’t afford, but after I reasoned -it through I knew that I shouldn’t, because I wanted to pay back Miss -Sheila--I had decided that I preferred to do this--and I wanted to -return what I could, as soon as I could, to my own family, who had -sacrificed a great deal for me. Then my allowance wasn’t large--Leslie -told me she considered it about adequate for a week’s allowance of -French pastries and digestion tablets--and so I wrote the rest of my -friends notes. I used my best stationery that hasn’t any blue lines on -it, but instead a silver “J” in the corner, and after I had written: - - “DEAR MR. WAKE: - - “I do hope that you will be very happy this Christmas and - always! - - “Your friend, - “JANE JONES.” - -I snipped a paragraph from Miss Sheila’s last letter, for he seemed to -like hearing about her, and talking of her, and the paragraph was about -him. - - “I am sure,” she had written, “that the Mr. Wake of whom you - write so often, must be a real addition to your Florentine - life. I did, very much, like his story of the wedding of - Lorenzo, The Magnificent.” - -(He was one of the Medici) - - “I saw it, dear, as you said he made you see it. . . . And - wouldn’t Florence be a nice city to be married in? I think if I - had all my life to do over, I would go to a Padre in Florence, - with some unlucky man, and pay a lot of scheming little - wretches to throw roses before me as I left the church. . . . - You see what a romantic mood has attacked your old friend? I - think I _must_ need a tonic! Please write me the titles of your - Mr. Wake’s books; I am ashamed to say that I haven’t read them, - but I want to, and I shall--” - -It did please him, I saw him read it three times that very evening; -twice while Mr. Hemmingway was trying to remember the first time that -he had ever seen a plum pudding brought in, on the center of a blazing -platter; and the third time, while Viola was describing the last -Christmas and dragging in through it a long description of a lodge in -the Adirondacks. - -But to get on, or rather go back and start where I should, Miss -Julianna had a very fine dinner because of our party, and she sat -down with us, which wasn’t always her custom--she often helped in the -kitchen--and Mr. Hemmingway had raked up some greenish black dress -clothes from somewhere, and Miss Bannister had her hair on as nearly -straight as I had ever seen it, and Miss Meek wore a purple velvet -dress with green buttons and a piece of old lace on it, which I had -never before seen, but which she had spoken of in a way that made me -know that she thought it very fine. - -Of course Leslie was beautiful--she had on a new dress made of several -shades of light blue chiffon, and this fluttered and changed as she -walked--and there was a silver ribbon girdle on it, and silver ribbons -knotted here and there over the shining white satin lining, and she -wore silver slippers, and blue stockings with silver lace inserts, and -she had a silver bandeau on her hair. I told her she was lovely. - -Viola had pulled out all her extra eyebrows and looked sort of skinned, -but she felt fixed up, so it was all right. She wore a red velvet dress -that was pretty too. I wore a brown silk dress that had plaid trimming, -and it put me in Miss Meek’s class, but I didn’t mind. - -After we sat down, and made conversation in that stiff way that people -do when they are all wearing their best clothes and aren’t quite used -to them, Mr. Hemmingway stood up and picked up the smaller wine glass -that stood by his plate--we had two sorts of wine--and he looked at me, -bowed, and said, “To the United States and her lovely daughters--” - -I thought it was _very_ kind. - -Then Miss Bannister blinked, and nodded, and squeaked out, “To the -people we love who aren’t here--” - -And I wasn’t a bit ashamed of the fact that my eyes filled with tears -and that I had to blink and swallow like the dickens, because every one -else was doing the same thing. - -After we drank that Mr. Hemmingway said, “It was, if I recall -correctly, the Christmas of ’76 that I first met the customs of Italy -at Christmas and Epiphany; I can, I _think_, without undue assumption -of certainty state _flatly_ that it _was_ in ’76, and I assert -this, because in the fall of ’76 I was experiencing my first attack -of _bronchitis_; and I recall this, because the June of that same -year, ’76, as I have heretofore mentioned, I had taken a trip up the -Severn--or was that, now that I probe, ’74? _Let me see, let me see_--” - -And then Miss Meek boomed out her “Ho hum!” and every one felt more -natural and lots better. After that the stiffness slid away--all -in a second--and Miss Meek tossed her head and told about the fine -Christmases she had seen, and Miss Bannister told of how the children -in the village where she had lived sung carols, and Mr. Hemmingway -searched after dates that wouldn’t come to him; and Viola and Leslie -listened with more kindness than usual. - -After we had had the lumpy, heavy sort of pudding that people always -serve around Christmas, we sat back and talked some more while we -waited for Mr. Wake and Sam to come. And at last the bell in the -hall swung to and fro, and then there _was_ excitement. Beata, who -courtesied very low, let them in, and they called out their greetings -and wishes to every one, even before I had presented them. - -Mr. Wake had a big bag under his arm that was pleasantly lumpy, and he -said that Santa Claus had dropped it on the hillside near Fiesole and -told him to deliver it. Then we all stood up, and after Leslie had lit -the many candles in the drawing room, she rung a bell, and we filed in. - -She summoned Mr. Wake first, and I was glad she did, because going -up to the table where she stood might have been hard for some of the -others. And after Mr. Wake took his present, he gave a little boarding -school bow--that dip at the knees that makes girls shorter than they -are for the second in which they do it--and every one followed his -lead. We did have the best time! But, and I suppose it sounds strange, -it got in your throat and made it feel cramped. I can’t explain why, -but when Miss Bannister and Miss Meek couldn’t, at first, open their -packages because their hands shook so, it did make you feel _queer_. - -Miss Bannister didn’t say anything--she only looked at her presents -while her lips moved--but Miss Meek kept up an incessant string of, -“Oh, I say!” or “How _too_ ripping, don’t you know!” in a voice that -was not entirely steady. And both of them had very bright, little, -round spots of color on their usually faded cheeks, and their eyes were -very, very bright. - -Mr. Hemmingway was so absorbed in a Dunhill pipe that Mr. Wake insisted -Santa had sent, that he didn’t mention a date for fully a half hour. He -only looked at that pipe, and murmured, “My, _my_! Never did think I’d -_own_ one. My, my, _my_!” - -And there were papers and cords all over the floor, and it looked and -felt _quite_ Christmasy. - -It was after Mr. Hemmingway got his pipe that I went over to stand -by Sam at a window; he had been watching me a little, and I thought -perhaps he was lonely for home, or something, because he looked that -way. - -“I think it’s a fine party,” I said, “Don’t you?” - -“Best ever,” he answered. Then he coughed, and fumbled around in his -pocket, and slipped a small box in my hand. “I’d like to say something -darned nice,” he murmured, “but all my parlor conversation seems to -have gone on a vacation--” - -“Is it for _me_?” I asked. I was _surprised_, for I thought that the -violets he had given me only a little time before, were enough! - -“Who the dickens _would_ I give it to?” he answered, in a half -irritated way. “Think I want to give anything to the other two? I -don’t! When I come to think of it, I never did want to buy any truck -for _any_ other girl before--” - -I enjoyed that; every woman does enjoy that sort of thing. And when I -opened the box I almost went over backward; it held the most beautiful -bead bag I’d ever seen; it was really _prettier than any of Leslie’s_! -It had a brown and gold background, and soft pink roses on it, and it -swung from a gold cord, and had sliding gold rings on that. I knew he -shouldn’t have done it for, even to my simple soul, it spelled a lot of -money. - -I couldn’t say much, but I did say, “You shouldn’t have given it to me, -Sam--” - -“Don’t you like it, dear?” he asked. I didn’t mind that “Dear” at all. -In fact I liked it. I had come to think of Sam as the best friend I’d -ever had. - -“I _love_ it,” I answered, “but it must have cost a _great deal_--” - -He laughed down at me. “Look here, young woman,” he said, in his -drawling slow way, “Some day I’m going to _ask_ you to take over the -management of my finances, but until I do, I want the privilege of -buying you a little thing like that once and again--” - -What he said about finances worried me terribly, because I can’t add at -all, and my cash account gives me real pain, and I have almost nothing -to account for or to enter. But even at that, each month there is too -much or too little, which makes me have to add a cream puff, or take -one out. - -“Sam,” I said, “I’d do _anything_ for you, because I like you _so_ -much, but I can’t add. Why don’t you get Mr. Wake to help you! He’s -there anyway, you see, and in a year I’ll be over in America--” - -He slipped his arm through mine, and squeezed it against his side. - -“Mr. Wake is right about you,” he said, as he smiled down at me, in a -sort of a funny way. - -“Why?” I asked. - -“Well, he thinks you a dear little girl. . . . And you are--just that.” - -“Don’t you like it?” I questioned, because it didn’t seem exactly as if -he did. - -“Yes--surely--but, I don’t want you to get over liking me when you grow -up.” - -“Why, Sam, I _couldn’t_!” I protested, and then I slipped my hand in -his, “Don’t you _know_ how much I like you?” I ended very earnestly -because I _did_ want him to understand, and I believe he did, although -Leslie called my name before he answered and I had to go up to get my -presents. - -And after I did, I was absolutely unable to say anything, for every -one had been so _kind_ to me! Miss Bannister had given me one of the -pictures of her old home that she loved so much, and Miss Meek, a -collar that her own mother had embroidered, and Mr. Hemmingway, a pen -holder that he had gotten in Brazil either in ’64 or ’65--he _couldn’t_ -remember which, although he tried very hard to fasten the exact date -in various ways--and Viola gave me a beautiful blue bottle with scent -in it, and Leslie gave me a blouse that I had seen in a shop on the -Lungarno and admired--it was tan pongee with heavy coral stitching, and -about the color of my hair--the tan, I mean, not the coral--and Miss -Julianna had given me a tomato can, that she had painted, with a flower -in it, and I liked it _very_ much; and Beata, a handkerchief that she -had made herself. Mr. Wake gave me a scarab ring, that swung around in -its setting, and had the name of the Princess who had first worn it in -hieroglyphs on the back, and when I went to thank him, he slipped it -on my finger, and made a wish. Then he said to Sam, who had come over -to stand with us, “Want to have a shot, old boy? You can twist it, and -perhaps the gods will listen--” - -So Sam did, and he said it was a _fine_ wish! Then Beata brought in the -refreshments, which were pastries, wine, ices and candies and little -nut-filled cakes, (Leslie lost a filling while eating one) and we -pulled crackers and put on the caps and things that came out of them, -and read the mottoes and Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed Miss -Meek who had wandered over under the mistletoe. And it all made a great -deal of excitement and fun. - -[Illustration: Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed Miss Meek.] - -And after that--just when every one was beginning to have a cold -feeling around the edges, from thinking that it was all almost -over--the very nicest thing happened. Leslie, who had taken off her -long Befana gown, and again looked like a corn flower with silver frost -on it, called out, “One more gift; Befana has brought it to Beata, but -she was only the messenger of Cupid!” - -And then she handed Beata an envelope in which was all the money that -Beata needed for her dowry! - -I never shall forget that moment, and the way Beata looked when she -understood what her gift was. She covered her face with her arm and -sobbed deeply and so hard that it shook her; and Leslie, whose eyes had -grown wet, called Pietro--whom she had got Miss Julianna to ask in for -that hour--and he came from the hall, and Beata explained, and Pietro -kissed her hands, and then Leslie’s, and then raised both of his hands -high and his face to the ceiling, and _exploded_! - -I never heard anything like it, and of course no one except Mr. Wake, -who speaks and understands Italian very well, could understand, but he -did, and he said that Pietro was thanking God for rich Americans, and -for the fact that the hope of his life had come true. - -It made every one feel shaky and upset to look on at Beata and Pietro. -Even Miss Meek had to cough and say, “Oh, my eye! How jolly!” It was -very damp and very sweet, and it was a positive relief to be diverted -by Mr. Hemmingway, who broke the strain by saying: “How well I recall -my first experience with the Latin emotion. It was, if I recall -correctly, in the spring of ’60, and I attest this because of my youth, -and the fact that in ’59 I had my first pearl gray trousers. Those are -fastened in my memory by a tailor who, if I recall, had his place of -business in Ludgate Circus, and I remember him keenly, because--” - -And on and on in his characteristic way. - -Not long after that Sam and Mr. Wake left, and Miss Bannister and Miss -Meek and Mr. Hemmingway gathered up their things and the cords and -papers that had wrapped them, and I saw Mr. Hemmingway enter something -about the evening in the book I gave him, which pleased me, and we all -went to bed. - -I lay awake quite awhile in the dark, the way you do after you’ve been -to a party and had a good time, and I think it was fully an hour before -I slept. Then, after what seemed ten minutes, I woke to see Leslie -standing by my bed, and to feel her hand on my shoulder, shaking me. - -“Heavens, you sleep soundly,” she complained. “I have a toothache, -and _I can’t stand pain_. We’ll have to find some dentist who is in -his office, and I want you to go with me and stay right by me and say -‘Molto sensitivo’ every time I kick you. Oh, _do_ hurry! And _don’t_ -forget to tell him that it’s sensitive.” - -She clamped her hands against her jaw, as she finished speaking, and I -sat up to lean over the edge of my bed and fumble for my slippers. - - - - -CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - -THE EFFECT OF A SECRET - - -It was hard to get down to real work after Christmas, for there was a -spirit of gaiety in the air that was too strong to be ignored. In the -streets was always the shrill noise that came from little tin horns; -children were always playing on the pavements with their new toys, and -you could hardly go a block without seeing a crowd around a vender -of something or other that was built to please small people. . . . -Monkeys that climb up frail, yellow sticks will always make me think of -Florence in holiday dress--I know it! And through them I’ll see again -the thick, taupe fogs that spread over the city so much of the time, to -muffle its bells, leave slime upon its pavements and a dull creeping -cold in all the shadows. - -Or, I’ll see Florence at night and Harlequins and Juliets and Romeos, -or wide sombreroed Spaniards walking beside Egyptian Princesses, or -some girl in the costume of Normandy with a sweetheart in clanking -armor; for in Florence there are many masked balls after Christmas, and -at night one may see the people who go to these strolling along in -the best of good humors, and daring all sorts of things because of the -protection given them by their disguise. - -Paper rose leaves were tossed in the air, every pretty girl was spoken -to, and there was lots of laughter, and the nicest sort of fun. . . . -I, myself, felt that grim Florence must be pleased, for the city of -Florence is built to back brilliant costumes, and not the tweeds and -serges that she sees most. I wondered, as I looked one night when I -was out with Mr. Wake and Sam, whether ghosts in satins and brocades, -the ghosts of brides who had ridden all over Florence on snow white -chargers before their weddings, whether these ghosts weren’t, perhaps, -mingling in the throng. . . . Mr. Wake thought they were, and after -I spoke of my feelings, he pointed out to me, a ghost named Vanna -Tornabuoni, who, because she had been wicked, saw in her mirror -instead of her fair face that of the horned devil! And she therefore -went to confession immediately--in Santa Maria Novella, if I’m not -mistaken--and began a new and a better life. - -And all this was pleasing and most fascinating, but as I said, it -made work difficult even for me, and for Viola--who swayed with any -wind--work stopped. Even Signor Paggi’s most bitter scorn didn’t do -anything but make her weep. - -“I’m sick of it anyway,” she confided to me just before New Year’s -day. “I wish now I’d listened to Father and never come--” - -“Didn’t he want you to?” I asked. - -“No--the old objection, money. But I was wild over being with Leslie -then, and I persuaded him. Now--” (She drew rings on her blotters; -I had dropped into her room to find her writing) “now, I wish I had -listened to him.” - -I didn’t say anything; there wasn’t very much to say. - -“About to-morrow,” she went on--I had come in to tell her that Mr. Wake -asked us to go with him to a monastery called Certosa, on the following -afternoon--“about to-morrow, I don’t know. But I don’t _believe_ I’ll -go this time. I saw a frock and a blouse in a shop on the Lungarno, -and I thought that, if I could make the woman listen to reason, I’d -take them both. She is asking about forty dollars in our money for the -frock, but I think she’ll come down. I’m positively in _rags_, and -I planned to go out about the time Mr. Wake wants us to start. I’m -awfully keen to get that frock--” - -(She never did--something kept her from even wanting it--but of that, -later) - -“Can’t you shop in the morning?” I asked. - -“Hate to get up--” (She drew a larger ring) “Truly sorry; I’d really -like to but I’m obsessed by that blouse and frock. . . . The -frock’s blue, with silver and lavender embroidered, Japanese-looking -motifs. . . . Simply heavenly. . . _French_ in every line! . . . It’s -honestly worth far _more_ than she asks, but I expect to get her down a -few pegs. . . .” - -“Sorry,” I said, and then I went on to Leslie’s room to ask her. I -found her wearing her chin strap and polishing her nails. “Hello,” she -said without changing her expression. (I knew then that she had on a -grease cream that is put on to remove wrinkles. Leslie hasn’t any, but -she says a great aunt whom she looks a lot like has _dozens_, and so -she means to stall them before they even think of coming!) “What do you -want?” - -“Here,” I said, and held out Mr. Wake’s letter, which Leslie took, -held up to the light and looked through, and after murmuring, “Hand -made”--read. - -“Can’t,” she stated, “I suppose you’ll think I’m crazy, but I asked -Miss Meek and Miss Bannister to go out to tea with me to-morrow -afternoon.” - -“I think it’s fine of you,” I disagreed. - -“Not at _all_,” she answered sharply. (She hated being thought -sentimental, and any mention of the kind things that she was coming to -do, more and more regularly, really embarrassed her) “Nothing ‘fine’ -about it at all! Only Miss Meek had never been to Doney’s and I thought -she’d like it.” - -“She will,” I said, and then I told her I was sorry she couldn’t go, -and went back to my own room, and sewed clean collars and cuffs in my -serge dress, and looked over some music which Signor Paggi wanted me -to read away from the piano and try to see and _feel_ in my mind. Then -I went to my window and opened it, to hang out and peer down in the -court. . . . It looked cold, and almost dreary, and I was glad to think -that spring would be along soon, and I hoped that it would be nice, but -I never dreamed, as I stood there, how nice it was to be, nor how many -changes and happy readjustments it was to back. - -Gino came out, as I was looking down, but he didn’t whistle or sing--I -think that Italian whistling and singing is cranked by the bright -sun--and then he went in again. A cat pounced on a dried leaf that -fluttered across one of the brown paths. . . . A brilliant parrot that -hung in his cage outside of a window down the block a little way, -sung out shrilly, and I noticed a dark-skinned woman across the way -hanging clothes out on a line that was strung from her shutter to a -neighbor’s. . . . It was when I was seeing all these things that Beata -tapped, and came in bearing my second letter from home--oh, it was so -good to get them!--and one from Miss Sheila. - -I read them both through several times, and then I slipped Mother’s -letter in the pocket of the dress I wore, and Miss Sheila’s letter into -the pocket of my suit coat, for in Miss Sheila’s letter was news that I -felt sure Mr. Wake would enjoy, and I meant to read it aloud to him on -the following day. - -Certosa is a large and beautiful place that tops a hill, about three -miles outside of Florence, and I enjoyed going there, although it -made me feel sad. I suppose my feeling was silly, but the order is an -ancient one; they take in no new members, and all that are left to -rattle around in the very big place are a half dozen tottering old men, -whose hands shake as they unlock the heavy doors for you, and whose -breath grows short as they travel the long stairs that take one up to -the Capella Prima, which means the main chapel. - -I noticed that the white-bearded, white-haired and white-robed monk who -took us around talked almost incessantly, and Sam told me why. - -“Quiet almost all the time,” he said, “from some vow or other, and I -guess the poor old chaps feel like letting out when they can.” - -I said I thought it was too bad, and that it was pleasanter to think -of men getting old with their families around them, and Sam thought so -too. - -We were out in the Cloister of Certosa. Cloisters are open squares that -are surrounded by the buildings to which they belong, and they are in -all the churches and monasteries and are always most lovely. After -the sifted, gray light of a church, the sunlight and the beautiful -green growing things that fill these spaces are almost too lovely. And -usually a white or brown garbed monk--sometimes wearing no more than -sandals, on his feet--stands in some archway or wanders back and forth -in a loggia and this adds to the picture. - -The cloister we looked on was centered by a well with a wrought iron -top that has been copied a great deal, and after Sam had spoken of it, -he--as he whittled at a stick--asked me whether I intended to marry. I -said I hoped so, but that with women a lot depended upon whether any -man asked them. That made him laugh, and he put his hand over mine. - -“Some one’s bound to ask you,” he said, as he curled up my fingers in -my palm and then undid them again, to do it all over--sometimes Sam is -_very_ restless--“but, Jane, do tell me any old thing won’t do!” - -“Oh, I’d have to _like_ him,” I said, for although I knew little about -love, I felt _certain_ of that. Then Mr. Wake appeared, and he frowned -on us terribly. “Look here, children,” he said, “you know you mustn’t -hold hands in a cloister--” (I laughed, but I got pink, for honestly, -I hadn’t realized I was doing that. It only seemed natural and nice, -and not anything about it made me conscious until that moment!) “You -know,” Mr. Wake went on, “one of these old boys will see you, and -wonder how the thing is done, and pop! some nice evening he’ll crawl -over the wall, and hike down to Florence, and try to find a sweetheart. -Then some jealous brother will see him come in late, and report, and -there’ll be no end of a row. You want to _think of these things_!” - -I tried to free my hand, but Sam held it too tightly, because, I think, -he saw it teased me. - -“Fra Lippo Lippi did that,” said Mr. Wake. “He used to skip over the -wall almost every evening after dark. Then he’d come in late, and -tiptoe through the corridors, carrying his shoes in his hands. Mr. -Browning made a good story about it. Tell you, when you get down to it, -there is _nothing_ new under the sun! . . . Jane, am I going to have -to speak _sharply_ to you, about your conduct?” (He pretended I was -holding Sam’s long hand) - -“You’d better be nice to me,” I said, and I was really almost peevish, -“because I’ve always _tried_ to be nice to you, and I have a letter -from my Miss Sheila, that’s awfully nice--” - -“It’s a _shame_,” said Sam quickly--and I think he was sorry he had -teased me; he is almost always very gentle with me--and he patted my -hand, and returned it to my lap with a great deal of funny ceremony. -Then I ordered him off, and he wandered across the cloister and stood -there smoking and watching us. And _then_ I read Mr. Wake the nice news. - -“Well, what, dear child?” he asked, as I got out the letter. - -“You _wait_,” I said. - -“I am--small person--quite a letter, isn’t it?” - -“Yes--the news is on the last page, I believe,” I answered. “She writes -from front to back, and then down across the middle one. . . . Here -’tis. ‘I have a secret to tell you,’ I read, ‘and one that you must -keep--’” - -“Ah, Eve!” broke in Mr. Wake, as he smiled down at me until all the -little wrinkles stood out around his eyes. - -“Well, you’re _different_,” I said. He swelled. “_Adam!_” I said, and -he told me I was a saucy minx, to go on, and I did. - -“‘This spring,’ Miss Sheila wrote, ‘will see me in Florence, but I -don’t want Leslie to know I shall appear, for if she does I am sure -she’ll want to go back with me. I think this winter is doing her good, -and I want her to stick the entire time through.’ - -“Nice?” I said, as I folded up the letter which made crinkly, crackly -noises as it went into the envelope, because it was written on such -heavy paper. I had supposed Mr. Wake would think it _very_ nice, and -therefore I was surprised to look at him, and see him moisten his lips, -and then hear him say, “I don’t know--” - -“But, Mr. _Wake_!” I said--I was a good deal disappointed--“I thought -you would _like_ meeting her--” - -(He turned, walked away a few steps and then came back) - -“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Wake, “that I am too old to meet a Fairy -Godmother. No doubt--” (he was trying to play, but his tone was a -little stiff) “she’d suggest picnicking in the moonlight--isn’t that -the hour when Fairy Rings are most popular?--and that might make -my shoulders stiff. Then--seriously, dear child--I am no good as a -cavalier; I falter. Children and old ladies are the age for me now, and -soon it will be middle-aged women, whom I shall think of as children. -So I am afraid I’d best refuse your alluring offer.” - -“Well,” I said, and my voice was flat because I felt so, “you know you -don’t have to meet her; Florence is big--” - -“And the world,” he stated, “is big, but sometimes, in spite of the -bigness, one can’t get away from--things--” - -Well, I _didn’t_ understand him. All that winter he had asked me about -Miss Sheila, until whenever I saw him her name just naturally came out -and sat on the tip of my tongue, waiting for the word from him that -would make it jump off into space. It did seem very _queer_! I stuck -the letter deep in my pocket, and tried not to feel disappointed, I -knew that I shouldn’t, but--I _did_! Mr. Wake had been so dear to me, -and was so dear, that I wanted to make him happy, and I’d supposed I -could do so by having a party and asking him to meet Miss Sheila. - -“You know,” he said, and I could see he was trying to get back to -normal, and to make me think he felt quite as usual, “an old person -like me, with a fat tummy, simply _can’t_ meet a fairy godmother--he -wouldn’t know how to act!” - -“Your stomach’s _much_ better,” I answered bluntly, “you needn’t blame -it on _that_! If you don’t want to meet her, just _say_ so, but, I’ll -tell you, _you’ll miss it_! She’s lovely, and she’d be very kind to -you--she’s kind to every one--” - -“Is she?” he broke in, and he smiled in a strange way. - -“Yes,” I answered hotly, “she _is_.” - -We were quiet a moment. Then Mr. Wake put his hand over mine. “Dear -child,” he said, “I’m _sorry_ to disappoint you--” - -“What about examples _now_?” asked Sam, who came strolling up. Then -he saw that there was something straining in the air, and he quickly -changed the subject. “Found a bush all in bloom on the other side of -the court,” he said, “Come over and see it, Jane. Almost as pretty as -you are, back in a second, Signor Wake--” - -“Long as you like,” said Mr. Wake with a wave, by which he meant we -might linger. - -“What is it!” asked Sam, after we had wandered into the center of the -big space that was surrounded on all sides by the building. I told him, -and then I said, “It surprised me; he has talked about her--so much -that at first I thought he must have known her, but she wrote she’d -never known any one named Wake, and now--he doesn’t _want_ to know -her--” - -“Match-maker?” asked Sam. - -“No,” I answered, and a little sharply, because I was still -disappointed, “but I thought he’d _like_ it. And they are both so nice, -and Miss Sheila _is_ lonely--you can see it sometimes, although perhaps -she doesn’t know it--and I _did_ think that if they liked each other it -_would_ be nice--” - -“I’ll tell you what,” said Sam, “I’ll let you make a match for me. I’ll -pick out the girl, and you’ll tell me how to get her--” - -“All right,” I promised, and I felt more dismal than ever. I don’t know -why, but I did. - -“That please you?” he asked. - -“Not entirely,” I answered with candor, “I think you’ll _ruin_ your -career if you marry too early!” - -“It doesn’t look as if I would,” he stated, and he sighed. And I felt -worse than ever. - -“That’ll be the end of our friendship--” I prophesied, and I felt sad, -and my voice sounded it. - -“Sometimes it is,” Sam answered, and then he laughed. I didn’t see how -he could. It was a pleasant day, and the court was full of sunshine, -and the grass and even some of the rose bushes were green--but -everything looked bleak to me--I felt _alone_, and _blue_. - -“Anything wrong?” asked Sam, after we had strolled around a little -while, and looked at the well, and stolen some sprigs of herb from a -little plot that had a few early vegetables in it. - -“There seems to be,” I answered. - -“Why, Jane! . . . How can there be under the warmth of an Italian sun, -and in this lovely place, and with a--a troubadour who--who adores -you?” then he stopped, and I felt much better. I don’t remember when I -have felt so _much_ better. - -“I’m all right now,” I said, and I smiled up at him, and then because -he looked a little different from usual, I thought we’d better go back -to Mr. Wake. I said so. - -“Love him as much as I do,” said Sam, “the dickens with him! Look -here, dear, if there is any--any satisfaction in my liking you, you can -collect it any time, and what’s more--the darned stuff’s rolling up a -whacking big interest.” - -I liked that; I said so. Then I said that we _must_ go back to Mr. -Wake, and I turned to go across the court, and Sam followed, saying -he’d like to shake me. - -Going down to the car we drank the wine that the friars make and sell -in tiny little bottles. And Sam and I got silly and had lots of fun, -but Mr. Wake was unusually quiet. I think, perhaps, we had tired him. - -It was late when I reached home, for we had stopped to hear the last -of a concert that was being given in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, -and that led to a little table with three chairs around it, and some -chocolate, and cakes. - -Then Mr. Wake left us at the Piazza del Duomo, where he took the tram -to Fiesole, and Sam walked up to the Piazza Indipendenza with me; we -didn’t hurry--he told me about his new orders, and I told him how well -the twins were doing--and it seemed to take quite a little time. And it -was all of seven when we stood outside the pension door, on the third -floor, and shook hands. - -“You’ll be late for dinner,” said Sam. - -“It doesn’t matter,” I answered. - -“I _hope_ it won’t be cold,” he said. - -“I don’t care,” I responded. Then he said he was sorry, again, and he -hoped it wouldn’t be cold, again, and I told him it didn’t matter, -again, and then we reached the point we’d both been waiting for, which -was, his saying, “Well, when can I see you again?” - -And after I told him--I said, “day after to-morrow,” because I didn’t -think it was nice to _rush_ things--I went in. I expected to hear -Mr. Hemmingway reminiscing in the dining room, but no sound came -from there; the place seemed strangely and unpleasantly still. I had -expected also to encounter Beata carrying in one of the later courses, -but when my eyes accommodated to the dim light I saw that Beata was -sitting by the table, with her head in her arms, crying. - -“Beata,” I broke out quickly, “not _Pietro_?” for I was afraid that -something had come along to change the course of her plans, which -all led up to and centered around a wedding which was to be early in -February. - -Beata looked up; “Signorina,” she said, “la cablegram--la Signorina -Harrees-Clarke--la poverina, la _poverina_!” - -That was all I stopped to hear. I hurried down the corridor to Viola’s -room, and at that door I paused, for Leslie was sitting on the bed by -Viola, holding both of her hands in hers, and saying, as she stroked -them, “There, dear, _there_!” - - - - -CHAPTER NINETEEN - -CHANGES - - -I found the cablegram that had come for Viola told her that her father -was dead; the father whom she had not written since her complaining, -begging letter of Christmas time. - -It made me feel so sorry for her that I didn’t know what to do; for -I knew that the sorrow would be enough for her without acute regret -attached to it; and I knew that she was going to suffer from that too. - -I stood in the doorway, that afternoon, for quite a few moments before -I could go in, and when I did and Viola saw me, she sat up. Her cheeks -were flushed and she didn’t look as if she had cried. - -“Do you remember that letter?” she said. - -I nodded. I couldn’t speak. - -“What--can you remember _just_ what I said in it?” she asked. I evaded -as hard and convincingly as I could, but it did no good. She remembered -it, only she had to talk of it, and she did it through questioning me. - -“I--I told him that Leslie’s clothes made me feel like a pauper--” she -stated in a hard, high voice, “that--that I’d had to struggle and -pinch--I told him--” - -I broke in then. And I made her lie down, and I got Leslie started at -making tea, and then I helped Viola into bed, and tried to do what -I could to divert her through taking off her clothes and making her -comfortable and brushing her hair, and Leslie took the cue and stopped -saying, “Oh, my dear, how _can_ I help you?” which was not just what -Viola needed then. - -Every one was dreadfully upset, and worried for Viola, and Miss Meek -came over with smelling salts, and Miss Bannister came tiptoeing to -the door to ask what she could do, and Mr. Hemmingway, whose eyes were -flooded in tears, told me of the death of his dear father--and he -remembered the date--and Miss Julianna, with tears on her pretty round -cheeks, came pattering in with offers of all sorts of strange things, -and a little shrine, which she set up by Viola’s bed. - -“La Madre Santa,” she said--which meant “The Sainted Mother”--and -Leslie, who doesn’t seem to understand the people who differ from her -in their way of worship, asked Viola if it should stay. - -“I can take it away, darling,” she said in an undertone, “when Miss -Julianna is gone.” - -But Viola shook her head, and I was glad, for I liked its being there. -I felt a good deal of comfort through the picture of the pretty woman -who held the little baby so tightly in her arms and smiled at any one -who looked at her. We all needed comfort, and some one who could smile. - -It was twelve before Viola slept, and after she did, I put out the -light, and tiptoed down to Leslie’s room. - -I found Leslie sitting up by her table, writing, and I couldn’t help -seeing an envelope on it that was addressed to Ben Forbes. - -She saw that I saw it, and she spoke. - -“Jane,” she said, “I’ve been a perfect fool. . . . I’ve always hated -any one who belittled my importance or anything about me. . . . When -Viola did--you know how it was--” (She drew her pretty pink, quilted -dressing gown closer around her, and went on) “and I imagine the reason -I haven’t been wild over Aunt Sheila was because I felt she didn’t -_worship_. . . And you know I wanted to punish Ben Forbes--because he -told me _the truth_. . . . I’m writing him--” she shoved the sheet -of paper on which she had been writing toward me--“because, after he -had hurt me, _with truth_, I told him that what he said made _no_ -difference to me, that I considered him rather uncouth, and that I -had written him _only_ from kindness, and the fact that I felt he was -rather shut off out there in the wilds--and--lots more! Well, to get -through with this, this afternoon and to-night some things have been -driven home to me by Viola’s losing her own father after she had hurt -him. . . . She’ll have to remember now--all her life--how she had hurt -him just before he died. They say”--Leslie groped for a handkerchief, -and mopped her tears frankly--“they say that all sorts of accidents -happen on--on r-_ranches_--” - -And then she covered her face and sobbed. - -I moved around the table to stand by her and put my arm around her, and -then she spoke. - -“Read--it,” she said, with a big sob between the two words, and I did. - - “DEAR BEN:” she had written. - - “All my life I have been conceited; you must know it now. I - do--which is a miracle--and I’m writing to-night to say that - the truth you told me helped me and is helping me. I am working - hard; I hope I am less a fool. - - “With gratitude, - - “Your old neighbor and friend, - “LESLIE PARRISH.” - -“Is it all right?” she asked, as I laid it down. - -“Yes,” I answered, “but if he likes you, and you hurt him, you ought to -say you are sorry for that--” - -She nodded quickly, and reached for her pen. “What would you say?” she -asked, as she looked down, uncertainly, at her lovely monogramed paper. - -“If I liked him, _really_,” I said, “I would write a postscript. I’d -say something like, ‘Dear Ben, I like you, and I didn’t mean those -things I said when I was cross. I will be very grateful if you will -forgive me--’” - -And she wrote just that. - -“It doesn’t sound like me,” she commented in a voice that shook. -“It’s--it’s too nice.” And, again, she wiped away tears. - -I leaned over, and folded the sheet, and stuck it in the envelope and -sealed it, as Leslie laughed in a funny, weak way. - -“Where are your stamps?” I asked. She told me, and I licked one and -stuck it on. Then we kissed each other, and that was unusual. I never -was so very much for kissing everybody all the time, and I think when -girls do, too much, it’s silly, but it was different that night. Then I -went out and laid the letter on the table in the hall--we always left -them there for the first person who went out to take, and then I looked -in to see that Viola was still sleeping, and after that I went to bed. - -That day began a new sort of life for us all. The tragedy that came to -Viola was like a stone that is thrown into the center of a still pool. -All sorts of widening circles grew from her trouble, and she, herself, -found through it a new depth. I don’t mean that everything changed in -a day, for things don’t change in that manner, but all the time Viola -was building up new habits in place of the old ones that were crumbling -away. - -I saw the roots of a fine strong habit, on the day when she got the -first letter from home written after her father died. - -I was with her when it came, and she looked up from the black-bordered -sheet to say--vacantly, and in a level, stupid-sounding sort of -tone--“He _was_ poor!” I was sewing clean cuffs and collars in my serge -dress and I stuck myself and made a spot of blood on one cuff. I was so -sorry for her that I really shook when anything new that was hard came -to her. - -“Read it, Jane,” she said, and she held out the letter. I did, and -I couldn’t imagine that any one who had ever known or really loved -Viola’s father had written it. It was full of complaints and self-pity, -because the husband of the woman who had written it had died to leave -his widow with less money than she thought she should have. I didn’t -know what to say. Then I suppose I did a dreadful thing, but I did -it without meaning to do anything dreadful, and because I have been -brought up to speak the truth. - -“Maybe,” I said, “he is happier dead.” - -The tears stood out in Viola’s eyes. - -“I only said that,” I explained miserably, “because I thought it might -make you feel better, for if your mother talked to him like that I--I -guess it worried you--” (I stammered terribly over it; it was so hard -to say anything that sounded even half right) - -“I talked that way too,” said Viola. I couldn’t say anything to that. -So I began to sew in my collar. - -“He hated the hyphenated name!” said Viola. I finished sewing in my -collar and began on my last cuff. - -“I don’t mind the money, but I have to think of it--what shall I do? -I hate sponging. I will say I _always_ hated it! Mother can go visit -people--and she will--but I--I _can’t_!” - -“Why don’t you work?” I asked. - -She looked at me hard. “What would I do?” she asked after several -moments of scrutiny. - -“Accompany,” I answered. “Even Devil Paggi” (I am ashamed to say that -we called him that sometimes) “says you can do that--” - -“Yes--” Viola answered in a funny, low voice. - -“He said he’d get any of us positions,” I went on, “and touring with a -great singer wouldn’t be bad--” - -That captured her! - -“Basses are always fat,” she said; “I hope to goodness it will be a -tenor!” Which was a whole lot like Viola, and a joke that I didn’t -appreciate then, for when Viola--who did learn to accompany really -beautifully--got her position, it was with a fat German contralto who -had five children, a fat poodle dog that Viola had to chaperon a great -deal of the time, and a temper that Viola had to suffer, or--leave! - -I stood up a little time after that, and as I stepped into the corridor -I met Leslie, who was taking a letter out for Beata to mail. - -“Look here,” I said, as I swung into step by her, and we reached the -hall near the entrance door, “Viola had a letter from her mother, and -her father hasn’t left much--” - -“How ghastly!” - -“Well,” I said, “I don’t know. . . . It may help Viola--” - -“I’ll lend her anything she needs--any amount,” said Leslie, and then I -spoke. - -“Please _don’t_,” I begged. She drew herself up. - -“Will you be good enough to explain?” she said frigidly, and I did. I -said that, unless she intended to support Viola all her life, she had -no business to get Viola into the habit of taking and expecting, and I -went on to say that it was the one chance for Viola to learn to work, -and that she would be helped through her trouble _by_ work. I was sure -she would, and I was sure that Leslie oughtn’t to help her, and I spoke -with a lot of energy. - -Leslie didn’t like it--Rome wasn’t built in a day!--and then she said -that when she needed my expert advice she’d call for it, and that she -didn’t intend to see Viola starve; and after that, we parted. - -At dinner that night she was frosty as James Whitcomb Riley’s famed -pumpkins, but I could see by Viola’s careless manner (Viola always paid -a great deal of attention to Leslie _after_ she borrowed money) that -Leslie hadn’t spoken to her of her willingness to help. - -For a couple of days Leslie avoided making real conversation with me, -and then one morning while I was practising I looked up to see Leslie -in the doorway. - -She had on a French blue negligee that had pale two-toned pink ribbons -on it, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and she carried -a tray on which was a pot of tea, some little cakes that she knows I -like, and some biscuits. She always got her own breakfast because the -pension allowance was small, and she knew that I was always hungry -until after lunch. - -“Here!” she said, as she set it down on a chair by me. “Suppose you’re -starved as usual. I, myself, am entirely certain that the scant -breakfasts stunt the race--I’m _certain_ that it makes them short--I -want to say several things--” - -I began to eat. “Go ahead,” I said, in a tone that I must confess was -muffled. - -“In the first place--you, ah, you were right about Viola.” (I almost -fainted, but I bit into a biscuit and held on to consciousness) “I see -it now. Then--this afternoon I am going out to buy a wedding present -for Beata, and I want you to go with me; can you?” - -“If you’ll wait till I get through practising--” I answered. - -“Certainly, that’s understood. _Have_ to with you--” (She always -resented and never understood why my first thought _had_ to be music) -“And another thing,” she went on, and she fumbled in the front of her -negligee to find a cablegram, “I’ve heard from him--” - -I took it and read it. - -“He must have cared a lot to write those two pleases in a cablegram,” I -said. - -She nodded and tried not to smile, but the inclination was so much -stronger than her ability to hold it in check, that she smiled in a -silly, ashamed sort of way, and she avoided meeting my eyes. - -Ben Forbes had cabled, “Thank you. Letter follows. Please please write -me again.” - -“I thought I’d get Beata a silver coffee service,” said Leslie, who -can’t seem to accommodate to other people’s circumstances. - -“She’d never use that,” I said. “You might as well get her a wooden leg -or a pair of stilts! I’d get her some horrible picture, or candlesticks -for their front room, or a lamp with a funny, warty, red and green -shade--” - -“You’re right,” she said, and then she went off. She kissed her fingers -to me from the doorway, and again she smiled in that misty, vacant way. - -I practised hard, for that afternoon I had a lesson, and it was that -afternoon that Signor Paggi began to be most kind to me. - -“You have more _feel_ in the tune,” he said. (I was very happy) “I -think Cu_peed_ have come to make you _see_--” he went on. - -“Not to me,” I said, “but to some one I like--” - -“Have as you will,” he stated, “but play again, for me--” - -And I did. And as I did, I thought of how Sam had looked when he heard -me practise that very same music at the Pension Dante. He had said it -was beautiful, and it had helped me. - -Friendship is a wonderful thing! - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY - -A COUNTRY WEDDING AND THE COMING OF SPRING - - -A great deal happened in that slice of time which carried us from -January into spring, although during that interval we felt as if we -were going along almost entirely on the level. You never really do see -the things that happen--not well--until you can look at them over your -shoulder. I realize now that there was lots of excitement, and that -there was really a good deal of abrupt change, but I didn’t see it then. - -In the first place, we all went to Beata’s wedding in February, and I -never did have a better time. - -Her family, who numbered fourteen--with her father and mother, and -Grandmother and Grandfather, and nine brothers and sisters--lived in -a four room house out in the country past the Cascine, which is the -Park in Florence where fashionable people and those who are trying very -hard to become fashionable, drive each afternoon. I didn’t like it; -it didn’t seem very foreign or Italian. But to go on with my story, -an American--or most Americans--would have hesitated about inviting -people to a wedding party in a four room house that was simply crammed -with children, not to mention the sick hen and the sheep with a broken -leg, but it didn’t bother Beata! No, sir, she meant to have a party, -and she had it, and I thought her asking every one she wanted _fine_. -She said, through Miss Julianna, who interpreted, “You know we are -poor, but we have great love in our hearts for you, and would like to -share what we have with you. And will you do us the great honor to come -to my wedding, hear the mass that will follow, and then eat with us the -grand dinner at the house of my dearly loved father?” - -Every one accepted, and on the morning of the fourteenth--which was -the date Leslie had chosen for Beata’s wedding in honor of a certain -Saint who swells the mails on this day each year--we all started out -toward Beata’s home. Leslie, who was increasingly kind and thoughtful, -had hired a big motor which would, with a little squeezing, hold us -all; and into this piled Miss Julianna, Miss Meek (she wore the purple -velvet with the green buttons again) Miss Bannister who had never set -foot in a motor before and was pale from fear (her fright lasted about -a block, and then she got so jazzy that we almost had to tell her not -to rock the boat) Viola, with a wide black band around her arm (Leslie -had suggested that to save Viola’s buying new black clothes) and -Leslie, Mr. Hemmingway and myself. - -The riding out was great fun, for the day was fine, and Miss Meek and -Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway were having such a good time that we -were all infected with it. - -Mr. Hemmingway talked _every_ second about the first time he had ever -seen a motor, which was in Australia, he _thought_ in Sidney, although -oddly enough he could, in retrospect, only see the corner where the -motor stood; and, all corners being pretty much the same, it _might_ -have been in Melbourne. And he thought it was in 1889, although it -might have been in 1888--and so on! - -Miss Meek kept saying, “My _eye_, how _jolly_!” and Miss Bannister, -who, as I said, lost all fear after a block of going, kept asking if -the chauffeur couldn’t “speed it up a bit.” She admitted that she was -“no end keen for going, don’t you know!” - -When we reached the little house, I was so glad that Beata had asked -us, because we saw, through her doing so, a side of life that we hadn’t -come across before. - -The house, which was of tan stucco with the usual, red tiled roof, -stood on a tiny plot of ground over which were strewn all sorts of -things. A broken cart, with one wheel gone, sagged in a corner, -and near the tiny, shed-like barn, through the window of which an -interested horse stuck its head, was a grindstone. Ground-scratching -hens, who chattered in gentle clucks to their puffy, soft broods, -walked in the house and out again as they pleased, and a red rooster -stood on a crumbling stucco wall that was topped with broken glass, -to flap his wings and crow. . . . Down back of the house every inch -of ground was terraced, for it seems that it is best used that way on -hillsides, and because of this the Italian country, in most places, -looks like unending flights of green-grown steps. Up under the eaves -was a really beautiful figure of Christ nailed on the cross, and when -people passed below that they bowed and crossed themselves. - -Of course the sun was over everything, and there were some smells that -weren’t exactly pleasant, but the whole place was pleasing, and a lot -of its picturesque look came from the disorder and dirt. - -And the guests! They were all dressed in their peasant best, and were -laughing and joking, and telling Beata that they wished her many, -strong children--this is quite a proper wish in Italy, and I really -don’t know why it shouldn’t be anywhere; but people _would_ think it -queer, I suppose, if you said it at a wedding in Pennsylvania, or in -New York--and before we started for the church, which was down in the -valley below us, we all joined hands and circled Beata and Pietro who -stood in the center, holding hands and smiling at each other shyly. -Then every one sung while we did this and it was very pretty to hear -and to see and to join in. - -Then we went, arm in arm, down a winding way, over slopes that were -grown with small, gently green olive trees, or between fields of green -that were already beginning to show the brightest growing hue; past -a high-walled villa, and several tumbling houses of the poor. And -whenever we met a person, or a group of them, they--knowing Beata or -not--would call out a blessing upon the pair, and then stand, heads -uncovered, until we had gone from sight. . . . There is something very -warming in the frankness of the Italians’ hearts; I think perhaps, in -the United States, we keep our hearts too heavily covered. - -In the church many candles were burning, and there was a little boy -swinging an incense pot, and it was dark and cool and mysterious, after -all the blaze of the sunshine outdoors. I liked the service--in spite -of the fact that it was very long--and I enjoyed seeing how it was done. - -After it was over, we went back to Beata’s father’s house to find the -little lame brother (who was getting better all the time) waiting for -us at the gate--he had seemed glad to stay with the Grandmother--and -Beata kissed him first, and then her Grandmother, and every one talked -and laughed and joked. And then the refreshments, which were black -bread, bright orange cheese, figs, and wine, were passed, and they did -taste good. - -Just before we left a new guest came, and she carried the tiniest baby -I had ever seen, which was only three days old, and I was very much -surprised when I found out it was hers; because Daddy always makes the -mothers of babies stay in bed at least two weeks, and sometimes much -longer. But it seems that all the peasants get up after two or three -days, and when this woman said she had had to miss the wedding because -of doing a big wash, I was more surprised, but very glad she came, for -she let me hold the baby, who was named Leo Paolo Giovanni Battista -Vincenzo Negri, and was _so_ cunning. - -When the shadows were beginning to grow long and turn purple, we -started back toward Florence, which lay before us in its valley cup, -with all its spires and towers gilded by the last, yellow-gold sunlight. - -I felt a little sad, going in; I don’t know why, unless perhaps it was -because Miss Bannister and Miss Meek and Mr. Hemmingway had had so fine -a time, and I kept wondering, as they talked--excitedly and as fast as -they could and all at once--what they would do after we left. - -But Fate and Mr. Wake helped them. - -Early in March I heard from Miss Sheila that she would be in Florence -some time during April, but I didn’t tell Mr. Wake of this, for since -that day at Certosa we hadn’t talked much of Miss Sheila. And the very -same day that I heard that, Leslie came to me, with one of the big, -square envelopes in her hand that came so often since she had written -Ben Forbes. - -“Ben Forbes is coming over,” she stated. - -“Isn’t that _dandy_?” I answered. I had been practising; I had added an -hour and was doing five a day, at that time. - -“I think so,” she said, looking down. - -“Has he ever been here before?” I asked, and she responded quickly and -with a little remnant of her old irritation in her voice. - -“Heavens, _yes_, child!” she replied, “_dozens_ of times, of course! -But not lately. He says he realizes that he has been keeping himself -too tightly moored, and that he wants a few weeks of real play. . . . -He wants me to plan the whole time for him--” - -“Well,” I said, “I think that’s _great_! What are you going to do?” - -“Oh, take him to the Boboli Gardens, and that sort of thing--he likes -outdoors and isn’t too keen for pictures--and we’ll walk. . . . Where -is that little place where you buy cakes, down in that covered street -near the Arno?” - -It seemed queer to have her ask that--I remembered so clearly her -saying that she thought _eating in alleys_ odd--but I didn’t remind -her, and I told her about that, and about a place where you could get -the best white wine, and then of a restaurant where Sam had taken me -that was always full of Italian artists, and writers and poets, and -where you never saw the gleam of a red Baedeker. - -“He likes that sort of thing,” Leslie confided, “and I want him to have -a good time--” - -“Of course,” I answered. - -She sighed, and then smiled in a sort of a foolish way. “It’ll be nice -to see him,” she said weakly. - -“I should think it would be,” I answered. - -“He’s thirty-three,” she said, “but what’s ten years?” (Leslie is -twenty-three) - -“Nothing,” I stated. It was easy to say the right thing to her that -day, for she put up a sign post at every turn. - -“I think a man should be older than a woman--” said Leslie. I suppose -she meant husband and wife. - -“I do too,” I agreed, and did an arpeggio. - -“Hear about Viola?” she asked, as she leaned against the piano. - -“No.” I stopped and looked up as she spoke. - -“Paggi had a note from a German contralto--she’s pretty well known -too--Madame Heilbig; and she wants a young accompanist, and Signor P. -has recommended Vi. . . . Viola’s to try out with the lady next week -when she goes through here, and I believe Madame Heilbig will tour the -States next year. . . . Viola will _love_ that. She’s already planning -what she will wear. . . . Do you remember how she expected to accompany -a slim tenor with pretty brown eyes?” - -I did, and I laughed. - -Leslie laughed too, but not as kindly as I had--really she didn’t--for -she and Viola, in spite of being friends again, still held a scratchy -feeling toward each other. - -“Nothing ever turns out as I expect it to,” said Leslie, “I’m beginning -to get over being surprised about anything. . . . Do you think a man -would like that flower toque of mine?” - -“He will unless he’s blind,” I replied, and then I told her to get out, -because I had to go on with my work, but I didn’t have much time alone, -for in a second Viola appeared. - -“_Darling_,” she called from the doorway, “have you _heard_ the _news_?” - -I gave up then; I had to. - -“Not your version of it,” I answered; and she came skipping across -the room to drop on a chair near me, and babble. There is no other -description of it! She was so excited that she hardly stopped for -breath. - -“I’m going to get that position!” she announced, “it’ll do me _worlds_ -of good--” (It did!) “And mother is satisfied to stay with Aunt -Clarice--she entertains all the time, you know--and I am going to wear -an orchid chiffon frock, made up over silver cloth, perhaps, and Signor -Paggi says I will sometimes be expected to bow too, and that Madame -Heilbig will pay me well, and I mean to save--because Leslie says all -her income comes from money her father saved--it is the only safety -for a single woman, and capital is really the husband of an old maid, -don’t you know? Or would you wear lavender? I thought of a brocade, -and I could wear artificial violets because they would look like real -ones back of the footlights, and with my name, they might be sort of -romantic, and I can wear violet too, and--” - -I sat and listened, and honestly she went on for a half hour like that. -Then she said, “Hear about Ben Forbes?” - -“Yes,” I answered. - -“Simply _romantic_!” - -“Um hum--” - -“Taking him to the Boboli Gardens, and all that--_artful_, you -know. . . . _Think_ of having a proposal in one of those arched-over -pathways in that heavenly place! _Oh!_” - -“Probably won’t,” I said. - -“He will too,” Viola disagreed, “_she’ll fix it_! . . . Look here, did -you hear about his cook!” - -I hadn’t, and I said so quickly, because I was interested. - -“In the letter before this last one,” said Viola, “I think it came -yesterday, he told Leslie--oh, in detail, my dear!--about his ranch, -and the way the ranch house looked and all that. Made it _frightfully_ -attractive, told her about the patio, what is a patio, anyway?” - -“Enclosed court,” I answered, “I think they have them in some of the -ranch houses in the southwest. They are sort of Mexican--” - -“I see; well, he told her about that, and about how the sunsets looked -on the mountains, it was a perfect _love_ of a letter, but what I was -getting at was this--he said he had a one-eyed Chinese cook who could -spit eight feet. Can you imagine Leslie with _that_?” - -I laughed. It did seem awfully funny. - -Viola laughed too, but as Leslie had, which was not in an entirely kind -way, and then she went on to say almost exactly what Leslie had said -about her. - -“It’ll be the _making_ of her,” she said (and it was!), “but I never -would have believed she would allow herself to care for a man who lives -in the middle of nowhere. However, _nothing_ turns out as one expects -it to. I guess I ought to leave you?” - -“You ought to,” I agreed, “but I don’t suppose you will--” - -“Oh, do come have tea with me,” said Leslie from the doorway, and I -gave up. We went to her room to find her bed covered with the veils -which she had been trying on over her flowered toque. - -“A woman _should_ look her best,” she said, but she flushed and avoided -looking at us as she said it. - -“When will he be here?” asked Viola. - -“Who?” asked Leslie coolly, but something made her drop the shoe horn -with which she was measuring out the tea, and then knock a cream puff -from a heavy piece of china that had been designed to hold soap. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - -FIESOLE, A CLEAR HOT DAY AND A COOL GARDEN - - -April came in as gently and softly as a month could possibly come, and -it held more loveliness than I had ever dreamed could be. The sun was -growing too warm and, some days, the heat was oppressive and going out -unwise; but most of the days were flawless jewels that began with brown -which merged into green, topped and finished with the blue, blue sky. - -It was in the second week in April that we went up to Fiesole, that -proud little town that perches on a high hill, and looks down so -scornfully on the Florence that has always made war upon her. - -I had been there before with Sam, and we had gone up the winding road, -to the place where there are relics of Roman baths and the remains of a -Roman Temple and an open, half-circled Roman theater. But that had been -in the winter, and now it was spring! - -Viola and I went up alone, for Leslie was out somewhere with Ben -Forbes, who had arrived the night before. And all the way up Viola -talked of Leslie’s getting married--and she wasn’t even engaged -then--and of what she, Viola, would wear while _en tour_, which was -what she called her traveling with Madame Heilbig--who had liked her -playing, and instantly engaged her--and of how she, Viola, intended to -go on and some day accompany some one who was really great, while I -looked out at the country which was _so_ beautiful. - -I didn’t mind Viola’s talking very much, although I would have been -glad to look on all that loveliness in silence, but I was glad, when we -reached Fiesole--which is so high that it seems to cling uncertainly to -the top of the hill--and found on reaching there that Viola went off -with Mr. Wake, and that I walked with Sam. - -“And how’s everything?” he asked, after he had smiled down at me in the -kindest way, and told me that he liked my broad hat which I had bought -at the Mercato Nuovo for five lire which is now about twenty-five cents. - -“Better and better,” I answered, and then I told him all the news, as I -always did when we met. We met a good deal too, but there always seemed -to be a lot to say. It is like that when you are real friends. - -“Miss Bannister,” I said, “has had luck. A nephew of hers has lost -his wife, which is hard on him, but fine for Miss Bannister, because -he wants her to come to Devonshire and live in his house, and attend -to giving the cook and what Miss Bannister calls ‘the scullery maid’ -their orders. And he sent her ten pounds--how much is that, Sam?” - -“About fifty hard bones, dear,” he answered. (I was quite used to his -calling me “dear,” and I liked it) - -“Well, that is all for clothes,” I stated, “and I’m going to help her -buy them.” - -“Can you get more than one frock with that?” asked Sam, and I told him -that she certainly could, for only the day before Leslie and I had -shopped. She had helped me to buy the things I was going to take home -to Mother, Roberta, the twins, and Daddy, and we had got lovely things -at most reasonable prices. Hand-embroidered, hand-made night dresses -could be bought for a dollar and a half; waist patterns wonderfully -embroidered, for two dollars; laces (and the laces were _beautiful_), -for about half what one would pay at home--I had bought Mother a set -of broad Irish lace collars and cuffs for four dollars--and quite -everything was like that, one paid less, and got more. - -“Leslie got uncurled ostrich feather fans for some of her friends,” I -went on, “she said for half what she would have to pay for the cheapest -at home--they were twelve and fifteen dollars, I think--and she got -leather frames and hand-bound books too, that were beautiful.” Then I -told Sam that I had found for Father a handtooled card case that I -wanted him to see, and he said he wanted to, and then he said he was -miserable. - -“Why?” I asked, and he told me because I was going away. - -“That won’t stop our being friends,” I answered, and I pretended a -cheerfulness that I really didn’t feel. - -“No,” he answered, “it mustn’t. I’m going to work hard,” he continued, -“and I’m coming over to New York in a year or so for a one man show--” -(I suppose I looked as if I didn’t understand--for I didn’t--and he -explained) “That means,” he said, “an exhibition of my work, all by -itself--Mr. Wake, bless him, thinks I can swing it, and when I come -over I’ll come to see you. But you knew that, didn’t you?” - -“Will you _really_?” I questioned, because I did want to be very sure, -and he said he really would. - -“But then,” I said, “you’ll probably go again--” - -“Um, probably. . . . I used to travel with a banjo tucked under one -arm, and a palette under the other. . . . But I see where, in a couple -of years, things are going to be more complicated, _if I can manage -what I want to_--” - -I didn’t understand him, but I let it go, because Mr. Wake and Viola -had come out of the Cathedral which dominates the wind-swept Piazza -at Fiesole, and Mr. Wake came over to tell Sam to take me in and show -me the bust of a Bishop and his monument that were made by Mino da -Fiesole, and that Mr. Wake liked very much. - -We went in, past the beggars who sat on the steps with open, upturned -palms, past an old lady who was selling baskets, and swore at us -dreadfully when we refused to buy them--among her swearing was a curse -which consists of “Darn the fishes,” and that is very, very wicked in -Italian!--and then, inside we saw the--Sarcophagus, Sam called it, and -loitered around, and then went back out into the glare and stifling -heat that was over everything outside. - -We found Mr. Wake and Viola across the big Piazza, loitering in the -shade, and Mr. Wake said that it was too hot for anything but his own -shady garden and iced tea, and so we left the funny, pretty little -town and started down a narrow roadway that ran between high walls, or -slopes that were covered with olive trees. - -Every color was accentuated. . . . Houses that were faint pink, -seemed salmon; greens almost clashed; the dust of the roadway was a -vivid yellow, and down in the hollow below us, Florence spread out, a -steaming, gleaming mass of tightly packed palaces, shining spires, and -gleaming towers. - -“Ah, Giotto,” said Mr. Wake, as we halted at a bend in the way and -looked down at our own city. He said this, for he loved the tower that -Giotto had planned and had seen half built before his death. “Ever -hear,” said Mr. Wake, “of how the little Giotto was found, and how he -was helped to become the great artist that he was?” - -I hadn’t, and I said so. Viola thought she had, but she said she forgot -so _many_ things, when Mr. Wake questioned her a little. - -“Well,” he said, “since Viola has forgotten, and Jane frankly admits -she doesn’t know, indulge an old man in his love of the telling of -picturesque stories.” - -“I _love_ them,” I said, for I really did. His stories were about -people who had lived and died, and they never had Irish or Hebrew or -Swedish people in them to make him try a dialect. I don’t care so very -much for that sort. And Mr. Wake didn’t even _try_ to be funny, which -is unusual in a man. - -“Well,” he said, as he took off his hat and mopped his brow, “one day -when Cimabue, who was a great artist, and a fine chap, was strolling -through the country he came to a clearing in which a little boy was -tending sheep. And perhaps because he was in an ill humor--probably -thinking all art was going to the bad, for he was a critic too, -you know, and critics have thought that since the beginning of -paint--anyway, I feel that an ill humor set upon him, and that he was, -because of it, minded to stop, and divert himself by talking a bit to a -little country lad. - -“And he said ‘Hello,’ in Italian of course, and the little boy answered -‘Master, I salute you--’ and Cimabue drew near. And when near, he -looked down at a rock upon which the little boy had drawn a picture -with a bit of soft, crumbling stone. The picture was good, and Cimabue -felt a thrill sweep over him--the selfsame sort of thrill that I feel -when Sam shows my dull eyes a bit of his genius--and he took the little -boy with him, after he saw his _people_, and the little boy grew up to -paint pictures of people. Before he painted--early in thirteen hundred, -legend has it, all the pictures had been of stiff, remote, too holy -Saints. But little Giotto, who had learned love and wisdom of the -fields and trees and birds and beasts, painted Madonnas who smiled, and -little babies who held out their arms to be taken, and proud Josephs -who seem to say, ‘Please look at _my_ family.’ . . . Painted, what -Ruskin called, ‘Mamma and Papa and the baby.’ . . . I thank you, ladies -and gentleman,” he ended, with mock ceremony, “for your kind attention!” - -Then he paused outside of a wall that had once been pink, but had been -washed by the rain and faded by sun until it was only a faint peach in -a few sheltered spots, and here he rang a bell. - -Soon after he did this, a girl opened the gate for us, greeted Mr. Wake -and us all with real sweetness, and we trooped into his garden. And I -was glad to see it, for I loved Mr. Wake and I wanted to see where he -lived, but I would have enjoyed it in any case, for it was--without -exception--the prettiest place I had ever seen. - -There were high walls all around it except on the side that looked -down upon Florence. Here the view was interrupted, rather edged, by -groups of tall, slender cypress trees, and here was a low, marble -balustrade. . . . There were vines and clumps of foliage, and in the -center of the lower terrace a little fountain with a laughing cupid in -its center. . . . And there were wicker chairs with hoods on them--Sam -said that they were called beach chairs--and there was a yellow awning -with a bright blue star on it, which had once been the sail of a -Venetian fishing craft. . . . I cannot describe it. . . . While I was -there I could only feel it, and hope I wouldn’t wake. . . . I sank down -in a chair that had a footstool near it, and looked down the green -hillside, toward the city of towers. - -“Like it?” asked Sam, as he dropped on the footstool, and after my nod, -lit a cigarette. - -“Oh,” I murmured. - -“Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on. - -“No,” I answered, “you _couldn’t_.” Then Mr. Wake came up, followed -by Viola who was murmuring, “En_chant_ing,” “A_dor_able,” and “Too -_heav_enly,” one right after the other. And after he had come to stand -smiling down at me, I mentioned Miss Sheila for the first time. - -“Mr. Wake,” I said, “My fairy godmother would love this more than I can -say. It’ll seem strange to you, but she has talked to me of a place -like this. She _really_ has.” - -“Look here,” said Mr. Wake to Sam, “you and Viola go hunt up some tea, -will you--” - -And Sam said, “Of course,” and stood up. - -“And show Viola your last picture,” Mr. Wake added, “and _take your -time to it_!” - -“Yes, _Sir_,” said Sam, and very nicely, considering the fact that he -and Viola don’t get on very well. - -After he had gone, Mr. Wake took out his cigarette case and lit a -cigarette, and then sat down on the end of a chaise longue. - -“My dear,” he said, “I’ve a long story to tell you. . . . And you must -be kind and remember that it is the first time I have ever told it, -and that--the telling it is hard because--I care so--deeply. . . . -But I guess you’d best know, and why I don’t want to meet your--your -Miss Sheila. I believe you’d best know, for you will wonder why I am -so rude, if I don’t explain. . . . The garden, by the way, is the kind -Miss Sheila would like because--long, long years ago--when I was young -in heart and body--she talked of a garden like this, to me--her lover.” - -He paused to stare down upon Florence for some moments, and then, after -he had drawn a deep breath, he went on. - -“About twenty years ago,” he said, “when I was a boy, and named -Terrence O’Gilvey--and right off the sod, Jane--I came to New York. -I had done a bit of writing or two, even then, and I went on a paper; -and, because of my Irish manner I think, my little things took. Anyway, -the first thing I knew a well-known newspaper man named Ford, and then -the Danas and some others began to believe in me and to be kind to me, -and I knew I had got hold of the first rung anyway, and I was mighty -happy. I thought I was as happy as any man could be until I met Sheila -Parrish, and then I was in hell . . . and yet . . . happier than I had -ever been before--and, faith, all because I was so deep in love with -her! - -“It was a quick business, Jane. She smiled gently, and I was gone. I -wanted to get down and let her use my vest for a doormat; I wanted -several other things that might seem extravagant to one of your solid -small tread and common sense, but none of them were enough extravagant -nor enough of an outlet for all that she had taught me to feel. - -“Well, she was good to me. And she let me come to see her, and I -sent her posies, and I wrote her what I am afraid were rhymes, and -no more--but by all the Saints, child, what I felt! And then one day -Heaven opened, and she--she stretched out her lovely hands to me, and -she said, ‘You are more than a dear Irish boy, Terry; I believe you are -a man, and I believe I will listen to your story--’” - -He stopped speaking, and I put my hand out, and laid it on his--I was -_so_ sorry for him! - -For a moment we sat like this, and then he went on. - -“She had a younger brother,” he said, “God rest his soul! He was -bad--as reckless and vicious a youth as has ever been my unhappy -fortune to see, and how _he hurt Sheila_. I saw it, and I suffered a -thousand times for her. I’d find her with tears on her cheeks, and know -that some new devilishness had cropped out. And I railed, as youth will -rail, Jane, and it drove her from me. . . . When, (a long story this, -but I can’t seem to shorten it) after she had set the date for our -wedding, her younger brother was found to have tuberculosis, and she -said that I must wait, while she went west with him and fought with him -for health, I lost control of every brake I had, and I went to pieces. - -“And well, I remember it! Her standing in the high ceilinged drawing -room of the old New York home, and saying, ‘Well, Terry, if you make me -choose, I can do only one thing. I cannot evade duty. My brother may -not last a year--’ and I turned and went-- - -“And the next day I wrote her, but I had no answer. And that was the -end of it, and of everything, and you see, now, why I can’t--meet her.” - -“Why did you change your name!” I asked. I am too dull to say the -appropriate thing, so I usually ask or say what I really want to. - -“An Uncle wanted to adopt me . . . . He was a lonely old chap; I had no -one, and I thought he was mighty pathetic, until he died and left me a -more than fair sized fortune, (A great thing to have, Jane, by the way, -if you’ve a fancy for writing books!) and then, well I thought he was a -humbug, but I was grateful, and I have been ever since--” - -He stood up and smiled down at me. No one who hadn’t known him for long -would have thought his smile stiff, or forced, but I knew that it was. - -“But are you over caring for her?” I asked. “I didn’t know if it were -very real, that it would change--” - -“I am not,” he answered, “what you term ‘over it,’ and there is no -changing for me, but for my peace I think less of it and of the hopes -that the boy named Terrence O’Gilvey sent up to his gods.” - -Then, Viola and Sam came wandering back to stand on the upper terrace -uncertainly, and Mr. Wake called to them. - -“Come on down,” he said, “we’re ready for our tea--” - -And then a maid who wore a scarlet waist, and a black skirt with -scarlet bands around it, a little white cap on her head, and a Roman -striped scarf around her waist, came toward us with a big tray which -she set on a table that Sam brought up. - -It was very, very pretty. . . . But it suddenly seemed hollow. . . . -I wondered whether it were always hollow for Mr. Wake. . . . And I -thought how nice it would be if pretty Miss Sheila were smiling at him -from across the table, and knew, without asking, how many lumps of -sugar he would take, and whether his tea should be strong or weak. - -“How many loads,” asked Sam as he picked up the sugar spoon. - -“Two for me,” I answered. - -“None,” said Viola who is afraid of fat. - -“Where is Leslie?” asked Mr. Wake who had evidently just noticed her -absence. - -“In the Boboli gardens,” answered Viola, on a guess that later proved -correct. - -“Hum--hope she drove over. Aren’t they warning people at the bridges -to-day?” he ended, with a questioning look toward Sam who had gone down -to the town that morning. (On very hot days sentinels, who stand at the -entrance to the bridges, warn people against crossing them, for it is a -risk to do this during the middle hours of the day) - -“No,” Sam replied, “I wandered over the Ponte Vecchio without a word -from any one--” - -“The real heat will come soon,” Mr. Wake prophesied. “Think,” he went -on, “I’ll go to Switzerland in June.” - -“Poor Miss Meek,” I put in, “hates the heat so and has to stay here--” - -“Pshaw,” said Mr. Wake, “that is too bad--Look here,” he said quickly, -after a second’s pause, “I have some Italian friends who want a -governess; I believe they are going to Viareggio for the hot months. -Would she touch that?” - -“She’d _love_ it,” I answered quickly, “she’s wanted a post for ages, -but it’s so hard to get one now, since every one’s so poor from the -war--” - -“And fancy the little Italian beggars saying, ‘My eye! How jolly,’” put -in Sam. - -Every one laughed. “Won’t hurt ’em,” said Mr. Wake easily, “for they -won’t know it’s not top notch proper and the latest thing! I’ll talk -to Lucca to-morrow, and after that I’ll let you know, Jane. Believe I -can fix it--” - -And he did. - -I thought of him a lot going down. So much that Sam thought I felt -badly from the heat. But the heat hadn’t made my depression. I had so -wanted Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake to know and like each other. They were -both lonely, and I loved them both and they seemed alike and suited -to like each other in lots of ways. And I could tell that Mr. Wake -needed Miss Sheila from the manner in which he had talked of her at the -beginning of our friendship. And now it was all over; I could never -present my dear friend to her, nor talk of my Fairy Godmother to him! - -It did seem all wrong, but as Leslie and Viola both said, things turn -out as one doesn’t expect them to. - -I had hoped--of course it was silly--but I had hoped a lot. And now -even my chance for hoping had disappeared. - -“Are you sure,” asked Sam, “that the heat hasn’t done you up?” - -“Sure,” I answered dully. - -“He’s wild over you,” said Viola as we toiled up the stairs that we had -come to call “The last, long mile.” . . . We had sent Sam off at the -door, because he had to walk back to the Piazza del Duomo again to get -his car, and the town was still heavy and sultry with the heat that -the day had held. - -“Nonsense!” I answered sharply. - -“Yes, he is. We might have a double wedding--” - -I was furious. - -“I’m going home to play the organ in the First Presbyterian Church,” -I stated, “and to give music lessons, and I won’t have time to get -married for _years_!” - -She laughed. - -“I’m only eighteen,” I added, and with resentment. - -“I’ll bet on twenty for you,” she said teasingly. - -“Not before I’m twenty-one,” I answered before I thought, and then -I grew pink. Viola laughed, as Maria, the new maid, opened the door -for us. “Oh, he’ll get you,” she prophesied, “and he’ll court you -divinely. . . . It’s plain that he doesn’t like me, but I like and -admire him in spite of it. . . . And you know lots of women go right -along with their careers after marriage.” - -I didn’t answer that, but I did know that if I ever did marry, my first -thought would be to follow, as nearly as I could, the fine career my -Mother had had and to make my husband as comfortable and as happy as -Mother had made Father. For I feel that that should come first. - -“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said, sharply, after we had gone in the cool, -dim corridor, “I don’t want to have to think about it yet.” - -“Sorry,” she said. And I said I was sorry I had been cross. Then the -Pension door opened again, and Leslie, followed by a tall, bronzed -man, came in. I liked his looks, and I was reassured for him, after I -met him, for he had something of Leslie’s manner--an almost lordly, -commanding, I-want-what-I-want-when-I-want-it-and-I-intend-to-get-it -air. I think a good many people who have had _too_ much money and have -been able to issue _too_ many orders get that. But if Leslie was going -to marry him--and I found soon she was--I knew he would need it. - -He stayed for dinner and was very charming to every one, but most -charming to Leslie and after he left, Leslie came to my room to talk. - -“Well?” she questioned from the doorway. - -“I like him,” I answered, as she came toward me. - -“I love him,” she said, and she said it as sensibly and openly as I had -ever heard her say anything, “and,” she continued, “he is going to let -me marry him.” - -I laughed, and she joined me. - -“It isn’t a joke,” she stated after a moment. - -“I know it,” I answered. - -“He said he had been worried ever since that New York visit, over -hurting me,” she went on, “and that, when I dismissed him, he realized -he had been stupid in not knowing before that I had grown up. And he -said, when he realized I was grown up, that he suddenly began to care -for me in a different way. And you know how I feel--” - -(She fumbled for a pink linen handkerchief, wiped her eyes and then -blew her nose) - -“And when I told him I’d cried over him, it almost killed him, but--he -liked it,” she ended. - -I knew he would have liked it, because men all do thoroughly enjoy -hearing about women who cry because they love them (the men) which -seems funny when you consider that, if the same men see them cry, they -almost have a fit and are _far_ from comfortable. But, as I read in -some book, Life is one vast riddle. - -“I’m very happy,” said Leslie, as she stood up. And I said I was very -glad and that I hoped she would keep on being so even after she was -married and settled down. And she said she expected to, and then she -said, in a quick, remembering way, “Oh--” and brought out an unstamped -note that was addressed to me by Miss Sheila. - -“Ben brought this,” she said, “I think from New York; anyway he saw -Aunt Sheila somewhere--” and then she left, and I, alone, read the -note, which held surprising and nice news for me. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - -A WALK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON - - -Miss Sheila was at the Convent of San Girolamo, which is a hospital -that is managed by nuns, at Fiesole. And she had written me about her -plan to go there before the ship landed. - - “I was very stupid and caught a little cold,” - -(I saw in her pretty hand. Later I found out that she had come as close -to pneumonia as any one can!) - - “and the ship’s doctor thinks I should rest a little while. - So I am going to San Girolamo where I spent a few happy weeks - when I was a girl and half ailing, and you, dear child, must - come to see me there. I am going to ask you not to tell Leslie - I am here just now. I am very much ashamed to confess it, but - the idea of much chatter appals me. Ben--who I imagine may see - her!--has promised to keep quiet until I am myself, and ready - to join in all the fun. And then--some parties! - - “Meanwhile, my dear, only your quiet, small self, and I hope - I shall see you soon--Friday? You need not let me know if you - can’t come then, but if you can, be assured of a warm welcome - from your - - “Loving - “SHEILA P.” - -Of course I went, and as soon as I saw Miss Sheila I knew why she -was afraid of noise, for it was easy to see that she had been really -sick. She was quite as pretty as ever, but her skin looked too -transparent and it flushed too easily, and I noticed that small beads -of perspiration stood out on her smooth forehead and short upper lip, -simply from the little exertion and excitement of seeing me. As soon as -I noticed that, I talked, very slowly and steadily, about the valley -that lay below us, and I didn’t look at her until, after a silence, she -said: - -“Jane--you are rather a marvelous child, do you know it? And a great -comfort. You have what made your mother the best nurse I have ever -known, a great deal of real _understanding_.” - -Well, I didn’t agree with her, and I knew she was too kind, but I _did_ -have enough understanding of her stretched, weak, shaky feeling to -know that it wasn’t the time to say--as Leslie or Viola would--“How -perfectly _sweet_ of you! I am _enchanted! Nothing_ could please me -more! But _why_ did you say that? _Won’t_ you explain?” - -Instead I said “Thank you,” which may have given the impression that -I accepted all she said--however, that didn’t matter; the thing that -mattered was getting her to sit back in her deck chair and lose her -wound up feeling and really rest. - -“How is it going?” she asked, after I had asked the name of a big -monastery that lay about half way down the hill below us. - -“Very well,” I answered, “Mother wrote me that the music committee of -the Presbyterian Church are going to employ a substitute until I come -back; that they told Daddy I was really engaged. And Signor Paggi is -going to see that I have some lessons from an organist here to freshen -me up--I took organ lessons at home, you know--and no end of people -tell Mother that they are going to take lessons from me, and it’s all -very satisfactory, and so wonderful that sometimes I can’t believe it -is true!” - -Miss Sheila smiled at me, said a warm, “Dear _child_!” and then I could -feel her draw into a shell. I think that she was afraid I would try to -thank her for all that she’d done, and that she wasn’t equal to it. So -I said, very quickly, “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” and she answered -with relief. - -Then a sweet-faced sister came toward us between the rose bushes which -made a narrow path of the terrace up to the open spot where we sat. -She carried a cup of chocolate for Miss Sheila, and she wanted to get -one for me, but I wouldn’t let her. Then she said, “Drink this, dear,” -to Miss Sheila; asked if she were tired, looked at me searchingly, and -then smiled and gave my shoulder a little pat, and went off in her -gentle, smooth way. - -“They are so kind,” said Miss Sheila, “and sometimes I think that this -is the most beautiful spot in the world.” - -I didn’t blame her for thinking so, (though her thinking so confessed -that she hadn’t seen Mr. Wake’s garden) for the place is most lovely. -It is, in some way connected with Cosimo I, it is said, and the Medici -coat of arms is to be found around in different spots. It is a very old -building, and it is, like everything else on the hillside, perched on -the slant with all its lovely gardens planted on steps. And down below -spreads out the country with little blazing yellow roadways, and pink -and tan villas, and groves of gentle green olive trees, and a church -and monastery that often send up the soft sound of bells. . . . And of -course the sunshine spreads over everything like a gold mantle, and the -little grey-green olive leaves shimmer under every small breeze that -comes along, and sometimes the song of a peasant girl rises. . . . And -of course there were rose leaves scattered on the terraces--blown from -this or that bush--and the scents of many flowers in the warm soft air. - -I can’t describe it, but some day some one will describe it, and then -he will be able to build a villa that is richer and prouder and larger -than another one that the Medicis built out near Fiesole--the one where -Queen Victoria often visited--for a real description would make a real -fortune! - -“You like it, don’t you!” asked Miss Sheila, after she had drunk the -chocolate and eaten the small biscuit, and I had set her cup down on -the soft, short grass. I nodded. It is hard for me to _say_ I like -things when I do like them very much. - -“It has changed you,” said Miss Sheila, “there is a new light in your -eyes; the light of dreams, I think--and now tell me about things, your -friends, your work, and Signor Paggi--” and I did. - -Of course I had to mention Mr. Wake, and each time I did I faltered and -grew conscious, although there was no reason for my doing this, since -Miss Sheila had not known Terrence Wake, but a boy who was Terrence -O’Gilvey. - -He came up quite naturally through my hopes for Miss Meek, and Mr. -Wake’s plan for Mr. Hemmingway--he was going to let Mr. Hemmingway -stay in his villa for the summer months, which would be a great treat -for any one and heaven for a man who had lived for years in a dull -pension--and through his befriending Sam, who was doing so well, and -promising to do much more than well. - -“How kind your Mr. Wake must be,” said Miss Sheila. - -“He is,” I answered. - -“I’d like to meet him,” she said. - -“He’s dreadfully shy,” I responded, after that kind of a hard swallow -that rasps and scratches as it goes down. - -“Heavens, and earth! No man ought to be afraid of an old woman like -me!” Miss Sheila mused. - -“You aren’t old,” I put in, and almost sharply. “You have a prettier -skin than I have, and as Leslie said, your silver hair simply adds a -note of ‘chic.’” - -Miss Sheila laughed. “That sounds like Leslie,” she commented, and -that led her to change the subject, for which I was grateful. “Odd, my -coming over with Ben Forbes, wasn’t it?” - -“Yes, wasn’t it?” - -“Nice man, really. Has something of the Grand Commander manner, -but--he’ll need it. Splendid arrangement I honestly think. . . . I want -to meet your Sam.” - -“I want you to meet him. But he’s not mine,” I answered. - -“But I hope you’ll marry some time,” said Miss Sheila. “Go home and -work a few years if you like, dear, but if you care for any one, and -any one cares for you, don’t let any one, or anything stand between -you; it doesn’t pay.” She paused a moment. “But,” she continued after -this little interval, “if love doesn’t come, I think that a profession -to which you really belong, and a work that would expand through your -own effort, and so grow more interesting to you all the time--I think -that this would be a good insurance against loneliness.” - -I looked at her quickly as she spoke of loneliness. She was staring off -down below where there was a two wheeled, peasant cart lumbering up a -winding hill road; but I felt that she didn’t see that, nor even hear -the shrill, protesting squeaks that came from the unoiled hubs; and for -that moment she came as close to looking tired and faded as I had ever -seen her look. - -“Sometimes,” she stated, in the crisp way she occasionally spoke, -“being an old maid is a _lonely_ business; especially when one is half -ill, Jane, and would like a man to tiptoe into the room and knock over -the waste basket, and get off a muffled ‘Damn,’ and poke the smelling -salts at you, and then wheeze out a loudly whispered, ‘Feeling _any -better_?’” - -Her picture made me smile, but it made me feel _very_ sad for her, and -it all did seem so useless, when down the hill, not half a mile, Mr. -Wake was so lonely, too! But of course I could do nothing about it. - -After about an hour with Miss Sheila that day, I stood up, and said I -guessed I’d better be going, and Miss Sheila said “Oh, no, dear!” But I -insisted, and so she kissed me, and I went off, to pause at the end of -that rose sheltered terrace and wave back at her. Then I went through -the rest of the garden, and past the little chapel where a sweet-faced -young girl knelt before the altar--she was about to take the vows, I -heard later--and out through the gate and down the very long, wide, -shady stone steps that are guarded on either side by tall cypress trees -which, there, seemed like sentinels. - -Then--up a little hill to the Piazza at Fiesole, which was wild with a -high, hot breeze, and there I took the car that clanged its way down -the hillside into sultry Florence. - -That day began my visiting Miss Sheila, and I went up to Fiesole by -myself four times in the next two weeks, and then again with Viola, and -Leslie and Ben Forbes--who seemed to linger on--and it was on that last -afternoon that Miss Sheila said, “Bother! Why didn’t I think of Sam! -I wanted to meet him, and you knew it, Jane! Why didn’t you speak of -asking him to-day?” - -I hadn’t thought that she would want him, and I said so, for I had -supposed that the party was to be sort of a family affair because of -Leslie’s and Ben’s engagement. - -“Well,” said Miss Sheila, “no matter. Bring him up Sunday afternoon.” - -Sunday was a beautiful day in spite of the fact that there was no air -stirring and a feeling of weight over everything. Leslie said she knew -it would rain--she was angry over it, because she and Ben had planned -to motor in the Cascine and then out somewhere in the country--but -I said I thought it wouldn’t, _without_ rapping on wood; and as I -may have said before, it never hurts to rap on wood, whether you are -superstitious, or not. But I didn’t. Instead, I placed my entire trust -in Fate and put on a white lawn dress and the hat I had bought at the -Mercato Nuovo which I had trimmed with some flowers that cost very -little. - -At one I started out with Sam, for he had asked me to go somewhere and -have lunch with him before we started up to the Convent on the hillside. - -We had a good time over our lunch--which we had in the coolest and most -shadowed outdoor café we could find--and Sam ordered the green macaroni -which is manufactured in Bologna--and some cold chicken and a salad, -and some wine of course, and then a sweet that is very famous in Rome, -and wonderfully good. And as we ate we talked the way we always do, -which is hard. - -Then we stood up, and I brushed the crumbs from my lap, and told Sam -that he had a piece of green macaroni on the lapel of his coat, and -after that we started toward the Piazza del Duomo, walking slowly and -keeping on the shady side of the deep, narrow streets. - -In the Piazza Sam bought me a little bunch of blue flowers which were -combined with yellow daisies, and I slipped these in under my broad -sash, and after that we took the car and began our ride up to Fiesole. - -“I’m awfully keen to meet Miss Parrish,” said Sam, “because you like -her so. She isn’t like her niece, is she?” - -“Oh, no!” I answered quickly, “not at all!” - -“Does she believe in careers for women and all that sort of rot?” -asked Sam, as a fat woman who carried a baby and was followed by five -children and a poodle dog, got on. - -“No,” I answered, and then I told him what Miss Sheila had advised. - -“Going to take her advice?” asked Sam, and he turned in the seat and -leaned way over me until he could see under the brim of my broad hat. - -“I don’t know,” I answered, although I did, all suddenly and at that -minute. - -“_Don’t_ you?” he repeated, “Oh, _Jane_!” - -And he looked so miserable--he really did--that I said I did know. And -then I looked out of the window, although there wasn’t much to see just -at that point except a tan stucco wall, with pink and blue tiles set in -it. - -“You’re too young to bother,” said Sam, as he plaited the end of my -sash which I had been careful not to sit on because I didn’t want it -crushed, “but when you get along to the age when I _dare_ court you, -I’ll tell _you_--” he drew a deep breath--“_Well_, you’ll see!” he -ended, in a half threatening way. - -I didn’t answer that. - -“And if I hear of your _looking_ at anybody else,” he went on, “I’ll -come over and fill him up with buckshot.” - -That made me laugh. - -“It’s no joke,” he said quickly, “I’m miserable over--your going -off--and when I think that some one else may _make_ you like him--oh, -the dickens of a lot--well, then I can’t--I simply can’t see -_straight_--” - -“I won’t look at anybody,” I promised, “until you come--” - -It seemed to please him. In fact it seemed to please him so much that -I had to remind him that we were in a street-car and that people might -think it strange to see him kiss my hand--for he did that--but he said -he didn’t give two hundred darns what they thought, and he asked me -again if I meant it, and I knew I did, and I said I did; and he said, -“Well, then, what’s two years?” and he slipped a funny, old hand-made -ring with a garnet setting, that he had always worn, over my finger, -and I let it stay there. - -Then we reached Fiesole, and the woman who carried a baby, called -her five children and the poodle dog, and they got off and the other -passengers, all in Sunday dress, followed, and then Sam and I. - -Miss Sheila met us at the head of the long, broad, cool, shady steps. - -“Hello, Sam,” she said in her dear way, “I’m glad to see you--” - -He bowed, and she said suddenly, “You _are_ a nice boy,” and, after -he smiled and flushed and thanked her, she added, “I was afraid you -weren’t nice _enough_--” - -And then I felt myself grow pink. - -“Children,” she said, after that, “I want you to come in and wait until -I get on my hat, and then walk with me. Will you, or have you been -walking and are you tired?” - -I said we weren’t and that it would be fine, and Sam echoed it and -Miss Sheila put in a quick, “Good!” and turned and hurried toward the -building. - -“Isn’t she beautiful, and lovely?” said Sam. - -“_Isn’t_ she?” I answered. - -“By jings,” he went on, “I wish Mr. Wake would come meet her. . . . Why -won’t he? He got all rattled the other day when Leslie asked him to -call on Miss Sheila with her--said he couldn’t talk to women, all that -sort of rot, and you know he’s always simply tip-top--wonder--” - -“Look here, Sam,” I said, “I can’t tell you, but--” - -And then Miss Sheila came back and put an end to my explaining nothing -to Sam, and at the same time asking him not to press the matter of Mr. -Wake’s meeting Miss Sheila. - -She looked as pretty as I had ever seen her look. She had on a lavender -voile dress that had frilly collars and cuffs on it and a broad low -sash, and she had on her head a drooping hat of the most delicate pink -shade with bunches of lilacs trailing from it, and the combination was -beautiful. - -“Ready,” she said with a smile, “and whither?” - -I suggested going up to the Roman theater and baths, but Sam, who was -that afternoon so light hearted that he was almost silly, said he’d had -a bath only about two hours before, and Miss Sheila said she’d had one -only a few minutes before, and that she preferred walking down hill. - -“But you’ll have to walk back,” I said, for I didn’t want to get _near_ -Mr. Wake’s house! - -“Not until the sun’s lower,” said Sam. - -“And then we could ride,” said Miss Sheila. - -“Exactly Mr. Wake’s spirit,” said Sam. “She ought to know him, now -oughtn’t she, Jane?” - -I could do nothing with him. He acted just exactly as Daddy does -when we have guests and Mother tries to head him off with a little -kick under the table. He always looks at her, and says, “Did you kick -me, my dear? Forgotten to serve some one, or something? Let me see!” -which makes it all the worse, because almost always at that point, he -is serving everything in the dish to one person, or telling a story -he tells about a quick remarriage--to the guest who is remarried. I -imagine most men are like that. - -Anyway, Sam talked--no, he did what Leslie would have called “raved” -about Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila listened and questioned and wanted more. - -“His books,” she said, “are delightful. . . . Little phrases in them -make me think of some one I knew years ago. . . . And his kindness to -Jane has made me like him, too. Did you say his place is out this way?” - -“I did,” Sam answered, “and mighty good luck it is, too,” he added, -“for it’s going to pour--come on--” - -“We’re quite as near the convent,” I put in, in a manner that must have -been agonized. - -“But that’s up hill--” said Miss Sheila, and then she and Sam began to -hurry so fast that it was all I could do to keep up with them, and I -hadn’t a chance to say a word. - -“Sam,” I gasped as we neared Mr. Wake’s wall, and big, far-apart drops -of rain began to fall, “_Sam!_” - -“What’s up?” he asked. - -“Oh, everything!” I answered, “and you’re just acting like a _fool_, -Sam--we _can’t_ go in!” - -But Miss Sheila had pulled the bell cord that hung outside of the gate, -and before it was opened the rain came down in such torrents that we -were drenched. - -“Mr. Wake’s in town,” said Sam to me, in an aside. - -“Why didn’t you _say_ so?” I snapped. - -And then the gate opened. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - -MISCHIEVOUS CUPID - - -The gate was opened by Mr. Wake--who had just come _back_ from -town--and was as wet as we were. - -I felt my heart stop a beat and then treble its pace, and I swallowed -hard although there was no real necessity for it. And as for saying a -word! I couldn’t have gotten out a “Boo” so that any one would have -understood it! - -“Hello,” said Sam, after he had sent a petitioning look at me, that -asked me as plainly as day, to introduce them, “Hello! Glad you’re -here! . . . Miss Parrish, may I present to you our patron saint, Mr. -Wake?” - -_Then_ I think Sam began to see that something unusual was up, for they -stood looking at each other--those two he’d wanted to have meet--and -they didn’t say a word. It was a queer moment which seemed very long, -that moment when we all stood in the hard driving, swirling rain, -_waiting_. - -Miss Sheila broke it, and she did it by holding out her hand, and -saying, “Well, Terry?” and there was a funny little twisted smile on -her pretty lips and the smile didn’t seem miles away from tears. - -And then Mr. Wake put his hand out, in an uncertain, groping sort of -way, and then he said, “_Sheila!_” And I don’t think he knew he said -it, but she did, for the color came flooding back into her cheeks that -had been pale, and tears stood in her eyes. - -There wasn’t very much to _tell_ about in that moment; you can’t _tell_ -about a sunset very well. You can say that the clouds were pink and -gold, and that the sky was full of silver streaks, and a misty purple -haze, but you can’t make the other person see it. You don’t usually do -anything but bore him, and when you try to describe the thing that was -so beautiful, the listener usually says, “I love the outdoors. Nature -for me every time! Hear about the way Babe Ruth batted ’em out Thursday -in Brooklyn?” or something like that which shows you that you have -utterly failed to get your description across the plate. And because -of that I hesitate to try to make others see what I saw in Mr. Wake’s -garden that stormy day. I can only _report_ the pink and the gold, and -the misty purple and the silver streaks, and do that badly. But oh, -they were so very, very beautiful! - -When Mr. Wake spoke he said, “You--haven’t changed--” and he did it -between two gulps and after a deep breath. - -Miss Sheila, who covered her feelings more easily than Mr. Wake, said -“Nonsense, I have gray hair, and wrinkles--” - -“No--” Mr. Wake shook his head. “No--” he said again. - -She smiled at him, and her lips quivered. - -“You,” she said, “can still say pretty things, can’t you?” - -“To you, Sheila,” he answered, and then I thought that Sam and I ought -to move on. I said so in an aside to Sam, who was acting as if he were -sitting in an aisle seat and twisting his program into funny shapes -while he waited--in great suspense--for the hero to get the girl just -before the drop of the last curtain. I think men are much too natural -at times, and that was one of them. - -After I had touched Sam’s arm, and frowned at him, and said, “_Come -on_,” in a sibilant whisper, we went up to the house, and into the big, -living hall and stood there to drain. - -“Gosh,” said Sam, after I had taken off my hat and was wiping poppy -stains from my face--my hat was ruined; the colors of my cheap flowers -had run from the rain. . . . “Gosh, wasn’t that simply _great_! My -gosh, did _you see his face_?” - -“Naturally,” I said, because I was so worked up and excited that it -made me feel snappish. - -“Well, you needn’t be cutting,” said Sam as he tiptoed over to a window -from which he could see Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake, who were about a -block away down by the garden gate. “My soul,” he commented, after he -had looked out, “I’ll say that’s quick work! Didn’t know he had it in -him--_great hat_!” - -“You shouldn’t spy on them, it isn’t fair,” I stated as I joined him. -But we did look for a moment more, at those two people who stood -outdoors, under the savage assaults of that raging storm, but who -felt--I’m certain--as if they were favored by the happiest skies of a -clear June day. - -“Come on, Sam,” I ordered and turned. - -“Gosh ding it,” he asked as he followed me (“Gosh ding it” is his most -intense expression), “wasn’t it _wonderful_?” - -“Um hum--” I murmured. - -“Are you soaked, dear?” - -“A little damp,” I admitted. - -“I’ll get Maria to make us some tea,” said Sam, “and I’ll take you up -to Mr. Wake’s room, and you can shed that once-perky, now depressed -frock and put on one of his dressing gowns. And then come down, and -we’ll toast you up before the fire I make while you change--” - -“All right,” I agreed. - -“This way, dear--” he said then, and I went with him up a twisting -stairs that had a wrought-iron balustrade, over which was growing a -vine that had its feet in a brick colored jardiniere. . . . It was a -very, very pretty house, and more than that. It was built for comfort -too. There were soft, deep low chairs all around, and ash trays on tiny -tables, and magazines, and books--hundreds of books in every room--I -kept thinking of how Miss Sheila would like it. - -After I had taken off my dress, and hung it over the only chair in -the room that wouldn’t be hurt by moisture, I put on the dark green -dressing gown that Sam had laid out for me, and went down stairs -again--holding the robe up around me, for of course it was miles long -for me, and it made me go carefully for fear I would trip. - -Sam had two chairs before the big fireplace, and in this a few sticks -were burning. When he saw me, he laughed, and I laughed too, and then -we settled. Maria came in with a tray that had on it an orange china -tea set, that looked very pretty on that dull, gray day, and there were -yellow flowers tucked into each napkin, and she had orange cake, and -mayonnaise and egg sandwiches to eat with our tea, and so the color -scheme was quite perfect. - -After I had eaten three sandwiches and was about to begin on another--I -wasn’t very hungry, it hadn’t been long since lunch--I spoke. “Sam,” I -said, “don’t you think some one ought to tell them it’s raining?” - -“Not by a good deal!” he answered, as he poured himself some fresh tea. -“They’ll get on to it sometime, all by themselves--” - -“Miss Sheila’s been sick,” I added. I was a little bit worried, but Sam -answered that he thought the soaking wouldn’t hurt her, and it didn’t, -and he added the statement that he didn’t _believe_ Mr. Wake would be -grateful for any interruption just then. - -Then we were quiet a minute as we watched the spluttery little fire -leap and die down, and then leap all over again. I twisted my new ring -as I sat there, for it seemed strange--as well as nice--to wear it. - -“Think,” I said, I was referring to Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake--“how long -it can last--” - -Sam moved his chair closer. - -“Yes--” he said, in an undertone, “think of it--” - -Then one of the long, French windows opened, and the wettest person I -have ever seen came in, and she was followed by another one. - -“Tea,” said Miss Sheila, “how very nice--” and her voice shook on every -single word. - -And then Mr. Wake said, “Ah, yes, tea!” just as if he had recently -discovered the plant and the use for it. - -“Have some,” I said, “and Miss Sheila, you’d better go put on one -of Mr. Wake’s dressing gowns; he has a lavender one that would be -beautiful on you--” - -“What wouldn’t?” asked Mr. Wake. - -“If you think she’s pretty _now_,” I said, “You just wait until she has -dried off!” - -“Dear, foolish child,” murmured Miss Sheila as she took off her -entirely limp hat and ran her fingers through her hair which was -kinking up in funny little curls all over her head. - -Then she sat down on a lounge that stood to one side of the fire, and -Mr. Wake sat down by her, and kept looking at her, and looking at her, -and looking at her. - -“Children,” said Miss Sheila, “I have a long story for you. . . . -Once upon a time there were two foolish young people who were proud -and stubborn, and who trusted the mails of Uncle Sam. . . . And they -quarreled badly; and the man wrote but the young lady never got the -letter, and the young lady--after long months that were filled with -chastening and pride-shattering heartbreak--wrote the young man, but, -ah, me, he had changed his name--” - -“Just as you are going to change yours,” said Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila -laughed and nodded. - -“And so,” said Miss Sheila, “the fates kept them apart, and her hair -turned gray--” - -“And he grew a tummy,” I put in, and Miss Sheila laughed again. - -“And they were both lonely,” said Mr. Wake, “so miserably lonely; you -_were_, Sheila?” - -And she said, “Oh, Terry, I--” and then she remembered Sam and me, and -stopped. - -“Well?” I questioned. - -“Well,” said Miss Sheila, “one fine day the lonely lady who had once -been a happy girl grew so very lonely that she could not stand still, -and so she met two nice children at a convent gate, and she said, -‘Let’s walk--’ and they looked at each other and smiled--and the way -they smiled made her more lonely than ever--and they said ‘Yes,’ and so -they all started down a hill--” - -“And then,” said Mr. Wake, “an old chap who had been down to Florence, -and had gotten his favorite gray suit so wet that he didn’t think that -it would ever come back to shape, heard the tinkle of the bell of his -gate and said, ‘The devil,’ because he was half way up to the house and -everything had tried him that day anyway. But he turned back, and he -opened the gate, and he found--heaven!” - -Then I _knew_ that Sam and I should move! - -“Sam,” I said, “may I see the picture that you’re working on now?” - -“Yes,” Sam answered, and we stood up. - -It made us both very happy to leave those two dear people whom we loved -so well, and who had been lonely, there together. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - -HOMEWARD BOUND! - - -The end of May! And all over again I felt the excitement that comes -with a journey, for I was started for Genoa on the twenty-fifth with -Miss Meek to see that I got aboard the White Star ship safely, and Sam -to see that Miss Meek and I weren’t bored. - -Miss Bannister had gone to England, and Leslie had gone to join her -Mother in Paris where they were to buy a trousseau that would be worn -on a ranch for the benefit of one man and a one-eyed Chinese cook -who could spit eight feet! And Viola had started out with her Madame -Heilbig, who had suddenly decided to tour Switzerland and some of -the Italian cities that are popular in summer--the lake and seashore -points. _Mr. and Mrs. Wake_ had started out in a smart tan motor one -morning, after a little wedding in the American Church--and we didn’t -know where they were, and Mr. Hemmingway had taken up residence in Mr. -Wake’s villa. - -In spite of the scattering, however, I had a few people to see me off, -and to wish me everything good. - -Miss Julianna, who cried, stood by me in the station saying that she -knew that God and the Virgin would see that I was happy because I -should be, which I thought _so_ kind; and Mr. Hemmingway, who had come -all the way to town, stood near with a bouquet that he had picked for -me, trying _so_ hard to remember when he had first seen Genoa--but he -_couldn’t_ fasten it. Miss Meek, who was to join her Italian family in -June, stood close with Sam saying, “My eye, how I’ll miss the jolly -flapper!” And altogether it was warming, but it made my throat lump -too, the way that things that are too warming sometimes do. - -Then the horn sounded, and every one said good-by to me, and I kissed -them all, including Mr. Hemmingway, who wiped his eyes and blew his -nose as he said good-by. Then Miss Meek, and Sam and I followed our -facchino down the platform and went through the gates that took us to -our train. We got a compartment that was rather crowded because it had -one Englishman in it, and they travel with enough scenery for an Uncle -Tom’s Cabin Company; but, after he had moved his portable bath and his -camp stool and his tea basket, there was enough room for us, and we all -settled and began to have a very nice time. - -My heart ached as we went out of Florence, and I couldn’t look back. I -loved it so. - -“You’ll be coming back on the run one of these fine days,” said Miss -Meek, who seemed to feel all I felt. - -“I _hope_ so,” I said. - -“And how could you help it, with your friends up the Fiesole way? Mr. -Wake told me that you were going to visit them out there within a year -or so. Told me so when he arranged for me to take you to Genoa and put -you on the boat, don’t you know--” - -“Well, that’s awfully nice,” I said, and Sam said he thought so too. - -Then--the flying landscape. - -White oxen dragging creaking carts. . . . Little clusters of houses in -pastel tones. . . . White roads that circled terraced hills and groves -of olive trees. - -“Of course,” I said, “I want to see my people--” and I did want to, so -much that my eyes filled as I thought of it. - -“Of course,” said Miss Meek. - -“But it is hard to leave friends, isn’t it?” I added. - -And Miss Meek nodded. Sam put his hand over mine then, and then Miss -Meek seemed to drowse. - -The journey was very short. I cannot remember a shorter seeming one, -though it does take over five hours. Baedecker says “The view of the -Mediterranean beyond Pisa is sadly marred by the frequent tunnels.” -There are over ninety of them; Sam helped me count them. Before I knew -it we had had our lunch and had settled back again, and then we were in -the city that is proud of Columbus, whose statue stands in one of the -public squares on the hillsides, and is surrounded with tall, spikey, -sharp palm trees. - -Out in the bay my ship was moored, and I was to go on it that night so -that Miss Meek and Sam might go back to Florence. I didn’t want to. -I had to think of mother very hard to keep from crying. It is really -complicated to love several countries and many friends, for it makes so -much tugging and not a little hurt. - -I said that just before I said good-by. - -Then Sam, who had been coughing quite a little, and always before he -spoke, asked me if I had my tickets, and I said--for the fortieth time -anyway--that I had, and Miss Meek said, “Look at the birds circling -around the ship. Jolly, what?” - -“They follow it,” I said. - -“A lot will follow that ship,” said Sam. - -And then Miss Meek kissed me, and Sam said, “Look here, dear, if you -can kiss Mr. Hemmingway, I guess you might take a chance on me?” - -And I said I guessed so, and I kissed him. And Miss Meek wiped her -eyes, and kept saying, “No end jolly, a sea trip, don’t you know?” - -And I said, “Yes,” and I kept my hand in Sam’s, and Sam didn’t say -anything. But he did _look_ quite a lot of things. - -And then somehow, I was on board, and alone, and at last in my -stateroom which I was to share with an American woman from Florence who -was going home to visit her mother. - -It was honestly a relief to have the good-bys over. And after I took -off my hat and coat, and had hung up the things from my suitcase in a -half of the small cupboard, I got out the book that the choir had given -me before I left. It is a very nice book made of puffy leather, and it -has “My Trip Abroad” written across it in gold letters, and of course I -had written in it, because that was what was expected. - -I opened it and read: - - “The Madonna of the Chair is in the Pitti Gallery, and it is by - Raphael. The Gallery is very big. It took Sam and me four hours - to go through it.” - -Below this: - - “Sam and I walked to-day, up near Fiesole, and we saw the Villa - Medici where the Princess Mary and Viscount Lascelles visited - Lady Sybil Scott, at the end of their honeymoon. It is a lovely - place. It seems to be so nice that they could be there.” - -Then--over the page--I found a note about the Riccardi Palace. - - “There is a picture in the chapel of the Riccardi Palace,” I - had written, “that was painted by candle light by a man named - Gozzoli, who has been dead for several years. It is a fine - picture and has lots of gold in it and the portraits of the - Medicis who lived in the palace. Sam and I went down near the - Arno and bought buns after seeing it, which was very inspiring.” - -On the next page I had an item about the twins, who were better, and -a note about the tombs of the Medicis and a new tie I had helped Sam -to buy. I was very glad I kept that record. I knew that it would be -helpful. After I had looked at it until I saw all Florence through it, -and Florence was beginning to blur and wiggle because of something -that crept from my heart up into my eyes, I went up on deck and looked -off toward Genoa which lay, in a tangle of many gentle colors, against -the hill. . . . And I took a long, long look at this bit of Italy--the -Italy I loved so very much. - -I knew that somewhere that day, my Miss Sheila--I still called her -that--and Mr. Wake were touring along through pretty country; together, -after the long years apart. - -And I knew that Leslie, and Viola, and Miss Bannister and Miss Meek, -and Mr. Hemmingway were happy. - -And I knew that Sam was miserable. And it sounds strange to say, but -that helped me as much as anything. - -Then I looked at the birds that were flying in wide arcs around the -ship, the birds that followed it. . . . And I knew that Sam was right -in saying that other things would go along with me. . . . And I needed -them, although I needed, more than anything just then, my Mother. . . . -And I needed her because of Sam Deane, which I can’t explain. - -I fumbled in my pocket, and I found her letter, and a little piece of -paper that had been torn from the edge of a newspaper, on which Sam had -written. - -“Dear, dear Jane Jones,” and then, all in a hurried tangle, “I love -you!” (Sam had written this while Miss Meek dozed and an Italian -officer who was smoking outside in the corridor, looked in at us) - -For a fraction of a second I felt more miserable than I ever had -before, and then a warm breeze sprung up and it seemed to fan a warm, -let down, easy feeling into me. And after that I looked down in the -water, and in it I saw the front door of our house, and the porch which -slants toward the steps, and my own Mother in the doorway, smiling and -trying not to cry and Roberta back of her. . . . And the twins jumping -up and down by the gate, and shrilly screaming, “Mother, she’s _here_! -She’s _here_, Mother!” - -And then I felt myself get out of Daddy’s flivver and hurry up the -walk. And I saw every one hugging and kissing me, and every one -crying. . . . I saw this, before it _ever_ happened, just as it really -was to be! - -But I didn’t see the table as it was--which I knew would have on it all -the things I liked best to eat--for I didn’t forecast the _hothouse -roses_; I never _dreamed_ that Roberta would blow her allowance on -these when she could have picked them _right out in the garden_! But -it was all wonderful! Nor did I see the banner that the twins had made -that had - - WELCUM - -painted on it with shoe blackening--they had each ruined a dress -through this--nor did I dream that Elaine McDonald would send me an -angel cake! - -But everything was nicer than I could imagine it would be! - -I wondered, as I thought of my people and getting home, whether any -other girl was as lucky as I, and I decided that none could be. And -realizing how happy I was made me feel a little sad; humble, and -uncomfortably grateful, so I forgot it as soon as I could and tried to -feel natural. - -And Sam’s smile--which I was to see a whole lot and which seemed to -belong with the things I loved--and my people, helped me to do this. - - -THE END - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. 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} -table.autotable td, -table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } - -.tdl {text-align: left;} -.tdr {text-align: right;} -.tdc {text-align: center;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - visibility: hidden; - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: small; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; - text-indent: 0; -} /* page numbers */ - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold;} - -/* Images */ - -img { - max-width: 100%; - height: auto; -} -img.w100 {width: 100%;} - - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -/* Poetry */ -/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ -/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:small; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; -} - -/* indent paragraphs by default */ -p { text-indent: 1.5em;} -h2 { line-height: 150%;} - -.noindent {text-indent: 0em} - -.center {text-align: center; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ml10 {margin-left: 5em;} -.ml20 {margin-left: 6.5em;} - -x-ebookmaker table {width: 95%} - -/* Drop Caps */ -/* must tell PPV that you've use "color:transparent" */ -.illo_drop { - float: left; - clear: left; - width: auto; - height: 3.2em; - margin: -.5em 0em .1em -4em; } - -.x-ebookmaker .illo_drop { - display: none;} - -img.drop-cap -{ - float: left; - margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; -} - -p.drop-cap:first-letter -{ - color: transparent; - visibility: hidden; - margin-left: -0.9em; -} - -.poetry .drop-cap:first-letter -{color: transparent; - visibility: hidden; - margin-left: 0em; -} - -/* Text-only drop cap */ -.dropcap { - float: left; - padding-right: 0.1em; - font-size: 250%; - line-height: 83% - } - -.close {margin-left: -0.5em;} -.x-ebookmaker .close {margin-left: 0em;} -.x-ebookmaker img.drop-cap -{ - display: none; -} - -.x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter -{ - color: black; - visibility: visible; - margin-left: 0.9em; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .poetry .drop-cap:first-letter -{ - color: black; - visibility: visible; - margin-left: 0em; -} - - -/* Fonts */ -.big {font-size: 1.2em;} -.small {font-size: 0.8em;} - -/* Poetry indents */ -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} - -/* Illustration classes */ -.illowp10 {width: 10%;} -.illowp51 {width: 51%;} - - - </style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Modern Trio in an Old Town, by Katharine Haviland Taylor</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Modern Trio in an Old Town</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Katharine Haviland Taylor</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Illustrator: Morgan Dennis</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 4, 2022 [eBook #69474]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Krista Zaleski, Marki Desjardins, and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by archive.org.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN TRIO IN AN OLD TOWN ***</div> - - -<div class="figcenter illowp51" id="i001" style="max-width: 34.0625em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i001.jpg" alt=""> - <div class="caption">“Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on (page 227)</div> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<h1> A MODERN TRIO IN AN - OLD TOWN</h1> - - -<p class="center big p4"> BY<br> - KATHARINE HAVILAND TAYLOR</p> - -<p class="center"> Author of “Real Stuff,” “Natalie Page,” - “Barbara of Baltimore,” etc.</p> - - -<p class="center small p4"> ILLUSTRATED<br> - BY<br> - <span class="big">MORGAN DENNIS</span></p> - - -<div class="figcenter illowp10" id="i003" style="max-width: 15em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i003.png" alt=""> -</div> - - -<p class="center"> NEW YORK<br> - <span class="big">HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY</span> -</p> -</div> - -<p class="center"> -COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY<br> -HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.</p> -<p class="center p6"> -PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY<br> -THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY<br> -RAHWAY, N. J. -</p> - - -<p class="center p6"> -TO<br> -BONNIE BELL GUERNSEY<br> -AND<br> -JESSIE ELIZABETH GUERNSEY<br> -WITH A VERY GREAT DEAL OF MY LOVE<br> -</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2"> CHAPTER</td> -<td class="tdc">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> I</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Apprehensions</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_ONE">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> II</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">The End of One Journey and the Start of Another</span> </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWO">8</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> III</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lunch and Some Modern History</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_THREE">17</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> IV</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Florence and the New Home</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_FOUR">27</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> V </td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">New Friends, a New Day and New Plans</span> </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_FIVE">38</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> VI</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Miss Parrish and Miss Harris-Clarke</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_SIX">46</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> VII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Getting Acquainted</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_SEVEN">56</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> VIII</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Signor Paggi’s Compliments</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_EIGHT">68</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> IX</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">A Strolling Picnic</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_NINE">77</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> X</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Cream Puffs, the Twilight and</span>—</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TEN">94</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XI</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Enter—Sam Deane!</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_ELEVEN">103</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Dark Clouds</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWELVE">117</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XIII</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Patch of Blue Sky</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_THIRTEEN">129</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XIV</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Stories, Music and Tea</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_FOURTEEN">139</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XV</td> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Florentine Winter</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_FIFTEEN">149</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XVI</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Plans for a Party</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_SIXTEEN">159</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XVII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Cupid and a Lady Santa Claus</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN">167</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XVIII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">The Effect of a Secret</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN">182</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XIX</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Changes</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_NINETEEN">197</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XX </td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">A Country Wedding and the Coming of Spring</span> </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY">208</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XXI </td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Fiesole, a Clear Hot Day, and a Cool Garden</span> </td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE">220</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XXII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">A Walk on a Sunday Afternoon</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO">238</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XXIII</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Mischievous Cupid</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE">253</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> XXIV</td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Homeward Bound</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR">261</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"></td> -<td class="tdr"> FACING PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"> “Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on (page 227)</td> -<td class="tdr"> <i><a href="#i001">Frontispiece</a></i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"> “Isn’t this simply ghastly?”</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i071">60</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"> “My name is Sam Deane,” he announced</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i122">110</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"> Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed Miss Meek</td> -<td class="tdr"> <a href="#i193">180</a></td> -</tr> -</table> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_MODERN_TRIO_IN_AN_OLD_TOWN">A MODERN TRIO IN AN OLD TOWN</h2> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_ONE">CHAPTER ONE<br>APPREHENSIONS</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>s</span> I look back through my experience of eighteen years, I realize -that many of my apprehensions have been foolish, because so many of -the things that I dreaded turned out all right. Almost every one of -the parties I thought would be stiff—and I am not very happy at the -sort!—proved to be the kind where every one grew lively. I remember -one that Elaine McDonald had, particularly, because I had said to -mother, “I don’t want to go. They’ll all wear gloves and it will be -<i>miserable</i>!” But I did go, and they had a Paul Jones that was -so rough that they broke a chair and knocked over a table, and it was -<i>fine</i>! While, on the other hand, there have been parties that I -thought would be nice and informal, and we just went and sat in one -place and talked, and at that sort I smile until my face feels as if it -were covered with shellac, because I don’t <i>feel</i> like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> smiling -at all. And this all shows—or it should, because I am trying to make -it—that I never should take my apprehensions seriously. But—I seem -to have to, and I always do, and so I felt as if I had real reason for -misery, when Mrs. Hamilton, who had looked after me as I crossed the -Atlantic upon the <i>Steamship Carpatia</i>, called me back into the -stateroom and said, “By the way, child, I am not going to Florence, -after all—”</p> - -<p>Well, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, which is what I -often do while waiting.</p> - -<p>“But,” she went on, as she fussed with the little jars that contribute -quite a lot toward her beauty, “I shall hunt up some one who is, and -see that you are looked after.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” I said, and then I went back to the foot I had originally -been standing on.</p> - -<p>“My friends, the Wiltons, want me to go to Mentone with them,” she -stated as she picked up a little brush she has for her eyebrows and -began to use it, “and their plans sound rather jolly, and so I’ve taken -them up. . . . I’m really sorry not to see you entirely settled, but -there’ll be some one on board who is going up, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” I answered in a flat tone that I use while miserable. -Then I wondered what in the world would happen if there was no one on -board who was headed for Florence, because the only Italian I knew was, -“La luna bella,” which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> is “The beautiful moon,” and I didn’t see what -that would do on a railroad train, and especially since I was going to -travel by day.</p> - -<p>“How do you say Florence in Italian?” I asked, after I changed feet -again.</p> - -<p>“Firenze,” Mrs. Hamilton responded, as she powdered the back of her -hands, “and don’t worry, we’ll surely locate some one who will care for -you—”</p> - -<p>But that only half cheered me, because I had been but a day out of -Boston when I realized that Mrs. Hamilton is like a lot of people who -talk a good deal. She is a good <i>promiser</i>, and she promises so -much that she can’t do a third of all she intends to. Really the only -thing she did do that she had forecast doing, was getting seasick, and -she, herself, didn’t entirely cause that. A couple of days of rough -weather helped her.</p> - -<p>However, to go back, I blamed her unjustly this time, for while I was -idling around the deck after dinner, wishing that I had nothing on my -mind to keep me from enjoying the salt tang in the air, and the pretty -phosphorescent, silver lights that gleam in the water where the prow of -the boat cuts it, she came toward me, and said she had found some one -who would help me reach Florence safely.</p> - -<p>“A Mr. Terrance Wake,” she said, “probably you’ve never heard of him, -but he is rather noted.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> . . . Writes on art, all that sort of thing, -and has a perfect love of a villa near Florence. . . . He says he’ll he -delighted to be of any service to you—”</p> - -<p>“Well, if he’ll just let me follow him, it’ll be all right,” I -answered, and Mrs. Hamilton laughed.</p> - -<p>“Funny child,” she said, and then, “I must go in; I was dummy. . . . -I’ll present Mr. Wake in the morning—”</p> - -<p>After that she vanished in one of the bright-lit doorways from which -came the energetic voices of people who were fondly telling each other -that they had played the wrong card, and again I was alone. I felt -better and I could breathe with more ease. Before she came I had felt -as if my lungs were a size too small for my breath. Being anxious -always makes me feel that way. And I walked—around the deck I had -learned so well—speaking to people as I passed them, exchanging plans, -and promising to send postcards.</p> - -<p>I was awake when Mrs. Hamilton came down to go to bed, which was -unusual for me, for insomnia is not one of my troubles, and I sat up in -the berth to talk.</p> - -<p>“What’s Mr. Wake like?” I asked, as I leaned out and looked down.</p> - -<p>“<i>Fascinating</i> man,” she responded, “but fearfully indifferent!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p> - -<p>“Does he smoke?” I asked, for I had begun to get anxious again, and -I had actually supposed up a bad awake-dream that had to do with his -going off to smoke, and the train being broken up, and my being left in -a strange country with nothing to help me but a remark about the moon.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, Jane,” Mrs. Hamilton answered, with an easy little -laugh. Then she added the “Funny child!” she says at me so often, and I -lay back and stared up at the ceiling again.</p> - -<p>“You won’t forget to introduce us, will you?” I asked, as she switched -off the lights.</p> - -<p>“Yo hum,” she yawned, deeply. “No, dear, certainly <i>not</i>! Now -go to sleep, for you’ll have lots that’s new to see to-morrow. . . . -’Night.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night,” I answered. . . . But I couldn’t take her advice about -sleep, and in the dark I lay wide eyed, and half unhappy, which is, I -suppose, silly to confess. . . . But I had never met a strange country -before; in fact, I had never been anywhere much before, and the whole -experience was almost overpowering. And it was only after quite an hour -of wakefulness that my eyes grew heavy and I began to dream.</p> - -<p>When I woke up it was morning, a bright, sunny, warm morning, and there -were voices outside which called in a way that was new to me; there -were songs in the calls, even when they were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> angry. And the ship was -still, so I knew that we must be in the harbor at Genoa.</p> - -<p>Because I was green—and still am and always will be!—I went down to -the bathroom, and ran a tub full of water, and then decided not to -bathe, for no one but a mud turtle could have bathed in that sort of -water! It came right out of the harbor! And so I contented myself with -the wash-bowl instead—the water from that was all right—and then went -back to my stateroom; dressed, closed my steamer trunk and my bag, and -hurried in to breakfast.</p> - -<p>I found Mrs. Hamilton finishing hers, and she pointed out Mr. Wake to -me. He sat at the Captain’s table, and there was a beautiful woman -devoting herself in the most unselfish way to talking to him, and he -ate all the time she did it, and only nodded! I felt certain then that -my day would be a silent one! However, that didn’t worry me.</p> - -<p>“<i>Marvelous</i> man,” Mrs. Hamilton sort of breathed out in a way she -does.</p> - -<p>“He certainly can eat oat meal,” I answered, because that was the only -thing I noticed about him. Mrs. Hamilton laughed—she does a great -deal—and turned to tell a young man with a funny little mustache what -I had said, and he laughed. Then Mrs. Hamilton got up, and hurried off, -and I finished my breakfast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p> - -<p>As I left the dining saloon, I heard her hail me, and I found that she -had actually come back to see that I met Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake!” she called, as he came toward us, “here is my little -charge—” Then she laughed, but he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile, -he just bowed from the waistline in a manner that was very impressive, -and yet chilling.</p> - -<p>“And it is Miss Jones, whom I am to look out for?” he asked, in a sort -of bored way.</p> - -<p>“Jane,” I answered. “I should think you could call me Jane, because you -are so <i>much</i> older than I am—”</p> - -<p>And then he did laugh.</p> - -<p>“Bully,” he said, “I will! And look here, Jane, I say, you won’t talk -Art to me, will you? Or quote my books?”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know you wrote any until last night,” I answered, seriously, -and again he laughed. I laughed too, but just to be sociable, because I -didn’t see the joke.</p> - -<p>“We’ll have a fine day!” he said in the kindest and most enthusiastic -manner, and I felt that we would too, but neither of us had any idea of -how fine it would be, nor of all the many, many happy happenings it was -to preface!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWO">CHAPTER TWO<br>THE END OF ONE JOURNEY AND THE START OF ANOTHER</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>fter </span>I had said good-by to a great many people, and walked down the -shaking steps with canvas banisters that the sailors hang on the side -of a ship, and stepped into a little tug as three Italians who wore -blue uniforms screamed, “<i>Attento! Attento!</i>” I felt as if I were -getting close to the end of my journey, and that the surprise pile must -be getting low, for I couldn’t imagine that things on land could keep -on being so different. But they were, and after I landed, I felt as if -the ship life, which had been a real change for me, had been only a -mild preface.</p> - -<p>The harbor was rough, and getting in was quite hard, which I liked, -and a great many of the women in the tug screamed and held on to the -nearest man, and the Italian sailors called shrilly, and it was all -very nice.</p> - -<p>“Afraid?” Mr. Wake asked of me. It was the first time he had spoken -since he had thanked heaven that I had only one bag.</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, “I like it. I kind of wish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> it would go over—of -course I wouldn’t want any one hurt, but I would like to write home -about it—”</p> - -<p>“<i>Stars!</i>” said Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p>“Which one would you rescue?” I asked as I looked around.</p> - -<p>“None,” he answered shortly.</p> - -<p>Then I let conversation die, which is what I almost always have to do -when I can’t think of anything to say. I am not at all like my older -sister Roberta, who is socially versed and can go right on talking, -whether she has anything to talk about or not. Roberta is wonderfully -clever, and talented and polished, and strangers can hardly believe we -are sisters. But to get on, I didn’t mind the silence because I had so -much to see.</p> - -<p>The town that cuddled against the hills on the shore was getting closer -and closer, and it was so interesting to see palm trees and such stuff -that one associates with greenhouses, around the Statue of Columbus in -a public square down in front of the town.</p> - -<p>“Like it?” Mr. Wake asked of me, after quite a long interval of silence.</p> - -<p>I nodded.</p> - -<p>“The Italian sun makes the shadows black, doesn’t it?” I questioned, -lazily, for the day and the new sights made me feel half sleepy, “and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> -the houses so white that you squint when you look at them,” I went on. -“Just the look of the sun makes you feel <i>warm</i>—”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake said I was right. “Personally,” he said, “I think that that -warm look makes a good many people think Italy a warm country. It -isn’t. Florence is penetrating during some of the winter months. Hope -you have heavy enough clothes—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I have long underwear and everything—” and -then I realized how Roberta would have felt about my confiding that, -and grew silent. And after Mr. Wake said, “That’s good,” in a rather -restrained way, he grew silent too.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly we were bumping against a wharf, and the sailors were -squawking as if the landing were the first one they had ever made, -and ragged small boys with piercing brown eyes and dusky cheeks and -black hair were crying, “Lady, postcard! Buy the <i>postcard</i>!” and -beggars held out their hands and whined. And it seemed a pity to me -that so gentle a climate and pretty a country had to welcome people -that way.</p> - -<p>However, before I was on land two or three minutes I had forgotten all -about it and was completely absorbed by what Roberta would have termed -“The country’s entire charm.”</p> - -<p>There were occasional palm trees that rose in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> piercing spikes between -the roofs of dull red tile, and a blue sky so clear that it seemed -thousands of miles from the earth and as if the blue overlaid silver; -and little streets so narrow one felt sure the sun could never creep -into them. But I can’t do justice to these things, I can only tell, and -roughly, of what sank into my mind and stayed there. And the things -that dented my memory enough to stick in it, made their dents by sharp, -<i>new</i> edges.</p> - -<p>For instance: in Pennsylvania I never saw a little curly haired, -brown-skinned baby who looked as if she ought to have wings, sitting -on a curb—without as much as a safety pin on her—and laughing at -the bright pomegranate which she tossed in the air or rolled in the -dirt-filled gutter.</p> - -<p>And I had never seen half clothed little boys turn handsprings in the -street, and then sing out their begging song, which was, “Uno soldo, -Signor! <i>Uno</i> soldo!” nor had I seen a town that lives in the -street, and eats, quarrels, talks and sometimes even sleeps there.</p> - -<p>We had to hurry through Genoa to the station, because we hadn’t any -too much time in which to catch the train for Florence, but we went on -foot and followed our facchino (which is Italian for porter) who had -our bags piled high in a wheelbarrow, and I was glad we walked and that -we were in a hurry, for we took the short cuts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> through the tiny back -streets, and I think back streets are just like people’s kitchens. You -learn more of the people after you have looked at the dish cloth, and -found out whether they use a nice, hemmed square, or use any old piece -of worn material that happens to be around, than you can from studying -their parlors where everything is all spick and span and stuck up.</p> - -<p>I said so to Mr. Wake as we hurried along, but he didn’t answer. He -couldn’t. Our going was uphill, and it seemed to tire him; he puffed -dreadfully. I decided when I knew him better that I would teach him the -Billy Taft stationary run, and a few of Mr. Camp’s “Daily Dozen,” but -I didn’t speak of it then, because I felt that the thought of further -exercise might not be entirely welcome.</p> - -<p>“Have to run for it,” he panted, as we gained the platform, and we -did, and we got in the train none too soon. I love getting trains that -way, but Mr. Wake didn’t seem to care for it so much, because after he -had tossed the facchino some coins, and put our bags up on the shelf -that is over the seats, he dropped down opposite me, took off his hat, -fanned himself with it, and then wiped the perspiration from his brow.</p> - -<p>“Getting old,” he said, but I shook my head, because my father is a -doctor and I knew why he was out of breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> - -<p>“You’re just a little overweight,” I said, and I couldn’t help looking -at his stomach which stuck out. He saw me do it and he laughed and I -liked the little wrinkles that stood out boldly for that moment, around -his eyes.</p> - -<p>“You know,” he confided, “I’ve been trying to gain the courage to do -something about it, but every one—up to this moment—has discouraged -me! I’d get my mouth set for long walks and short rations, and then -some one would say, ‘Oh, stuff, you’re just right—’”</p> - -<p>“Did they <i>really</i>?” I questioned, because I could hardly believe -it, and again he laughed.</p> - -<p>“<i>Really, Jane!</i>” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I commented, “although you are not really fat, you’re too fat -for your height. And you puffed like the dickens after that run, and it -wasn’t <i>anything</i>.” And then I broke off with, “What’s that?” for -a horn of the prettiest, clear tone had tooted, and it made me wonder.</p> - -<p>“Horn,” said Mr. Wake, “they do that in the stations before the trains -pull out; haven’t any bells over here, you know. . . . Now watch this -start—smooth as glass; no jolts! Government over <i>here</i> seems to -know how to run railroads.”</p> - -<p>I smiled, because I thought that any government should be able to run -the funny little trains that looked as if they ought to be running -around<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> a Christmas tree, and as if they would fall off at every curve, -to lie, feet up, buzzing until some one started them on again.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake saw my smile, and I was glad he did, because what it led him -to say helped me lots later.</p> - -<p>“Think they’re funny?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“They look as if they ought to be full of pine needles,” I answered. -“You know how the needles begin to drop all over the Christmas tree -yard about the second of January?”</p> - -<p>“Of course they look like that,” he answered, “we got our patterns for -toys, with many another thing, from this side of the pond. . . . My -child, a great many Americans come over here, and derive real benefit; -they see things that are beautiful and rare, but their gratitude is of -a strange variety, for they evidence it only with bragging.”</p> - -<p>I felt flat. I said so.</p> - -<p>“Pshaw, don’t!” Mr. Wake begged. “I didn’t mean you and I don’t mean -to be a preachy old codger, but I do think one sees more if one -appreciates and doesn’t <i>de</i>preciate. You know, as a matter of -fact you wouldn’t go into a neighbor’s house and say, ‘My house is -better than your house, my bath tub is shinier; my doorbell is louder, -my front porch is wider—’ and lots of us—in various ways—do just -that, for this is a neighbor’s house.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> - -<p>I said a really humble “Thank you—” and Mr. Wake moved over to sit by -me. He looked down and smiled in a very gentle way, and I began to love -him.</p> - -<p>“You are a very nice, sensible little girl,” he said; “how old are you!”</p> - -<p>I told him.</p> - -<p>“And why are you off here alone at eighteen?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“I am going to Florence to study piano with Mr. Michele Paggi,” I -responded.</p> - -<p>“Well, <i>well</i>!” said Mr. Wake. And then he laughed. “I know -him,” he said after the laugh. “And my, my, what a fire-eater he is! -Well—you seem to like adventure. . . . But whatever started you this -way?”</p> - -<p>“It really is a fairy story,” I said, “and it is so romantic that I -sometimes can’t quite believe it, and I know I never shall be sure it -isn’t all a dream—”</p> - -<p>“That <i>is</i> nice,” Mr. Wake broke in, “and it’s hard to believe -that I sit by a young lady who instead of asking questions will weave -me a tale. Good fairies in it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered, “and a fairy godmother, who wears Paris hats, and -always tilted just a little over one eye, and soft silk dresses, and -gray furs that match her fluffy, wavy, light gray hair—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Mr. Wake, “then she is the sort that I, myself, might fancy!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you <i>would</i>!” I asserted surely; and it seems very, very -funny to recall that now!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_THREE">CHAPTER THREE<br>LUNCH AND SOME MODERN HISTORY</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> went</span> into reverse for Mr. Wake, because he seemed interested in my -own fairy story, but I didn’t begin to tell it until after lunch.</p> - -<p>Buying our lunches was the most interesting kind of a business -transaction, and unpacking them was interesting too.</p> - -<p>“At the next station,” Mr. Wake said, “I am going to get two mighty -good lunches that come packed in little baskets, and there will be a -little wicker-covered bottle, full of wine, that you can use for hair -tonic or scent after it’s empty—”</p> - -<p>And then the train slowed and he leaned far out of the opened window -that was in the door of our compartment.</p> - -<p>The station where we found ourselves after we had come to a gentle -stop was much smaller than the one at Genoa, but it had the same -foreign flavor, and a highly charged feeling of imperfectly suppressed -excitement and happiness. I can’t quite explain about this; it rises, -perhaps, from the clear, dazzling sunlight, the masquerade-ball look -that is lent by gay uniforms, and the women who carry trays that are -piled high with small bouquets. But anyway it is there. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> this -gaiety was strange to me. Of course at our stations there are always -some people who scream such things as, “<i>Let us know when you get -to Aggie’s!</i>” or, “<i>Don’t forget to write!</i>” at each other, -through two panes of thick glass, but they don’t seem entirely happy -and I feel that the majority are entirely sober about traveling, and -when I mentioned my feeling to Mr. Wake, he said they had a right to be.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake called out something in Italian, and his cry mingled with the -shrilly voiced wants of the many Italians who leaned from the other -windows of the train, and a white-aproned man who trundled a truck that -was piled high with little baskets caught the coins that were flung to -him, and handed lunches into the train, and said his “Grazies” and made -his bows.</p> - -<p>And then he reached us, and Mr. Wake bought two baskets for two lire -each, and we sat down and unpacked them. There were bologna sandwiches -and ripe olives—which I then didn’t care for—and a slab of Italian -cheese which I couldn’t name, a very good hard roll, figs and grapes, -very fresh and delicious, and then there was the little gourd-shaped -bottle with wicker around its feet, and a paper napkin. It seemed very -reasonable to me for a few cents, because it was all I needed, and I -always need quite a bit.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether I’d better drink this—”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> I said, about the wine. -“It might make me light-headed—”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said Mr. Wake, “it’s about as likely to as lemonade. . . . -The Italians drink it like water, and you never see one drunk—probably -won’t unless some fool starts a prohibition movement.”</p> - -<p>Then the train made its slippery, oiled start, and I spoke only once -again, and then I was silent for some time. “Do they sell cushions, -too?” I asked. I had seen a whole truck piled high with them, and had -seen some of them being passed into the windows of the train, and I was -naturally curious about everything.</p> - -<p>“Rent them,” Mr. Wake answered. “The people leave them in the train, -and they are rented again on the trip back.” That seemed very strange -to me, too, coming, as I do, from a race that takes everything that -isn’t nailed down, while traveling.</p> - -<p>Then I really ate, and I was glad to have the quiet lull in which to -look at the things we passed. Everything fascinated me, but nothing -seemed real. I expected all the time to hear the click of the nickel -as it drops into one of those boxes holding candy that are clamped to -the back of the seats in our opera house. The country looked like a -drop curtain, or the kind of a scene that brings on a Tyrolean chorus. -There was a lot of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> pink and white and bright, bright green and salmon -colored houses, with blue shutters; and little shrines set high upon -their walls, under the wide-hanging, gleaming roofs of tiles. . . . And -there were oxen on the smooth white roads we passed, drawing queer, -lumbering looking carts with huge wheels that creaked each time they -completed their uneven circles. . . . I had so many things to interest -me that I was too busy. It made me think of the time that Daddy took -the twins (my youngest sisters) to the circus, and they cried because -they couldn’t look at all the rings at once. I felt that way, and so -surprised over everything. I enjoyed my lunch, but I chewed dully and -without my usual enthusiasm. That was because I was looking so hard at -the same time. Mr. Wake watched me, and his eyes twinkled. I think he -liked the way I felt. Anyway, as I brushed the crumbs from my lap and -put the little basket in which the lunch had come up by my bag, Mr. -Wake said, “You know, I have a firm conviction that you are going to -enjoy Florence.”</p> - -<p>“I’d be an idiot not to, wouldn’t I?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Surely, but the world is full of idiots. Mr. Carlyle once said, -‘London has a population of three million people, most of whom are -fools’—but tell me your story. You come from Pennsylvania?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered, “from a little town that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> has the smell of oil in -the air, and that is surrounded by hills that have oil wells on them. -It’s a fine town. You’d <i>like</i> it.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt,” agreed Mr. Wake, and again he smiled at me.</p> - -<p>“And,” I confided, “I’d never even been to Buffalo, which is our -closest city, so you can imagine what all this does to me—”</p> - -<p>“And who waved the wand?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Miss Sheila Parrish,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Miss—” he stopped, then began again, “Miss—<i>who</i>?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Miss Sheila Parrish,” I repeated. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake didn’t answer immediately, and then he said, “It <i>is</i> a -pretty name; I’m thinking it holds a touch of old Ireland and a deal of -romance.”</p> - -<p>“She hasn’t many friends,” I said, “she says she is fond of solitude—”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake, who was looking down at a strange ring he wore—which I soon -learned was a scarab,—twisted it as he said, “Well, now you have -introduced the fairy who holds the wand, tell me, please, how did she -wave it?” And I told him.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>It had begun early in May on a rainy day when I had spilled fudge -right in the middle of the front breadth of my one good dress. I felt -dreadfully about it, because Mother is always asking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> me to wear an -apron, and she works so hard to keep us looking nice that the idea of -making her more work made <i>me</i> miserable. But there the fudge -was, spreading over the floor, with the treacherous pan handle, that -had made me knock it off, looking as mild and blameless as the twins -after they have been eating pink and yellow candy bananas (these are -forbidden) and there I stood looking down miserably at the front of my -skirt and wondering what to do.</p> - -<p>Well, I remember I murmured, “I might as well scrape it up, and get -out of this—” and so I got a palette knife and scraped the top layer -of fudge off the floor for the twins—who don’t care at all what has -happened to any fudge as long as it happens to come to them—and then -I scraped my dress, and sponged it a little, and then—miserable and -feeling weighted—went up to the third floor where I sleep in the same -room with Roberta, and got into my old, faded pink lawn.</p> - -<p>I hated that lawn dress, and it helped me to wear it while I waited for -Mother who was down town buying Ferris waists and garter elastic and -bone buttons and dish towel material and all those things mothers buy -at least once a month, and of course I needed to see mother—as every -one of us always needs her when we have been into mischief!</p> - -<p>I knew she would say, “Never mind, honey,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> we’ll fix it in no time! I -have more goods and I’ll slip in a new front breadth before you can -say ‘Jack Robinson!’” And I knew that I would feel humble and mean -because of her being so nice, but cleared up too, and that I would -slide up to her, and lay my face against her shoulder, and say, “Oh, -<i>Mother</i>,” in a tight way, because thinking of how wonderful she -is, and how much too good for us, always makes me want to cry, and I -would rather die than cry.</p> - -<p>The only time when I ever did cry without shame was when my favorite -pitcher was expelled, and most unjustly, from <i>The Oil City -League</i>.</p> - -<p>However, to get on, I went down stairs, and watered the plants and -dusted and did all those things I never do while feeling well mentally, -and then I sat down and played the piano.</p> - -<p>I didn’t play anything that echoed my mood but I played a dancing, gay, -bright thing. I believe most people save the sad ones for those moments -when they <i>want</i> to feel sentimental, or are not <i>afraid</i> of -being sad.</p> - -<p>Anyway I played this thing which sounded as if gipsies might dance to -it in the heart of a summer day, and I played it, I believe, fairly -well.</p> - -<p>After I finished it I sat idle, my hands on the piano keys, feeling -even more depressed than before, and it was into this moment of -dreariness that the fairy godmother stepped.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> - -<p>Perhaps I heard a little noise, and perhaps I only felt eyes on me, but -in any event, I turned—something made me turn—and then I said, “Why, -Miss Sheila!” for although I had never seen the pretty woman who stood -in the doorway, I had often—very often—seen the picture of the girl -she had been, and the years had not changed her much.</p> - -<p>She came toward me as I got up, and she held out both hands, and I saw -that she had felt tears, for her long lashes were wet, and made into -little points.</p> - -<p>“Bless you, darling child!” she said, as she kissed me, “how did you -know?” and I said, “Mother has a picture of you, and of course we’ve -always talked of you, for Mother loved you so much; she said you were -so <i>kind</i> to her!”</p> - -<p>“Kind to her?” she echoed, “dear soul, think of all that she did for -me—”</p> - -<p>And then her eyes brimmed again, and Mother spoke quickly of how they -had met, because I think she felt that it was too hard for Miss Sheila -to remember the time when Mother, then a trained nurse, had cared for -Miss Sheila’s younger brother who died.</p> - -<p>“Right by the First National,” Mother said, “and there I was, coming -out of Mr. Duffy’s with a pound of liver, and I looked up and saw dear -Miss Sheila!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> - -<p>“And I’ve tried to find you everywhere, Margaret,” said Miss Sheila to -Mother, “but that trip—I traveled, you know, after we parted, and I -lost hold of threads for a time, and then when I came back I couldn’t -locate you. I suppose you married the young interne in the Pennsylvania -Hospital, during that interval?”</p> - -<p>Mother laughed, flushed and nodded.</p> - -<p>“He used to write her letters that weighed seven to eight pounds, -<i>every day</i>,” said Miss Sheila to me, as she shook her pretty head -disapprovingly, “I assure you the poor postman grew quite stooped; I -hope, Jane, that no young interne writes to <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>And I told her that none did, and that I wouldn’t let any, because -I wanted a husband whom I would know by sight, anyway, and one that -didn’t smell of ether.</p> - -<p>And then I put my hand on the piano—“It’s this with me,” I said shyly, -because I do feel shy about my playing. It makes me feel lumpy in my -throat from the way I love it, and that embarrasses me.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder,” said Miss Sheila as she looked at me searchingly, “I -heard you . . . Jane—”</p> - -<p>And she didn’t wave her wand, but I saw the flicker of its silver magic -in the air—</p> - -<p>“Jane,” she continued, “I have a hobby, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> it is helping girls to -find work that they like, and after finding it, helping them to go -on with it. . . . This, because I, myself, have been without work, -and suffered from it. . . . You can play, my child, and your mother -is going to give me the great pleasure of letting me help you play -better. . . . You are, Margaret? <i>My dear, remember the old days, and -all that you did for me!</i> . . . Jane,” (she turned back to me) “in -Florence there is rather a marvelous teacher named Michele Paggi, and -in October you shall go to him!”</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>That was the story.</p> - -<p>I told it to Mr. Terrance Wake as if he could see our house, and knew -the people in it, including Miss Sheila, who abandoned the party with -whom she was motoring and came to stay with us for a time.</p> - -<p>And as I ended it, on that Italian train that was taking me nearer and -nearer to Florence, I looked up to see that Mr. Wake was still twisting -a scarab ring and looking down at it.</p> - -<p>“So you see,” I said, “why I am here, and why I love Miss Sheila—”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, and he raised his head to smile at me in a strange way. -“Yes—I see—” and then he looked away from me and down again at his -scarab ring.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_FOUR">CHAPTER FOUR<br>FLORENCE AND THE NEW HOME</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">W</span>hen </span>we reached Florence, which was well along in the afternoon, -Mr. Wake went with me to the Pension Dante, which is on the Piazza -Indipendenza, not far from the station, and is the place where Miss -Sheila had arranged to have me stay.</p> - -<p>Again a facchino took our baggage and piled it all up, trunks and bags -together, in a wheelbarrow, and then started ahead of us, singing.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you live in the country?” I asked of Mr. Wake, for I had -understood from Mrs. Hamilton that he did.</p> - -<p>“Yes, out the Fiesole way,” he answered; “my goods go to the Piazza del -Duomo where I take a tram.”</p> - -<p>“What’s a duomo?” I asked, because I imagined it was some kind of an -officer in a high, bear-skin cap. It seemed to me that it sounded like -that. But it wasn’t, it was something quite different.</p> - -<p>“It’s the greatest church in an Italian city,” Mr. Wake answered, “and -I think you will probably be able to see the dome of this one from -your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> window. It is one of the largest domes in Italy; it was the -model for St. Peter’s in Rome, and it was alike the despair of Michael -Angelo, and the pride of its maker, Brunelleschi.”</p> - -<p>I said, “Oh,” because at that time such facts seemed dry to me, and -dulled by dust. I had not learned how much romance may be unearthed by -a puff of breath from some one who knows, as does Mr. Wake, how to blow -aside the years.</p> - -<p>“About a month,” he said, “and you’ll like it, and you’ll be hunting -for old facts.” And then he smiled at me in a way that told me he had -understood my feeling.</p> - -<p>After that our facchino paused and dumped my baggage out of his -wheelbarrow and rang a bell.</p> - -<p>“You’ve evidently reached home,” Mr. Wake hazarded, “and a mighty nice -place it is too, isn’t it, with this square before you? Probably puff -up a million stairs now, and then you’ll tell me I have too much tummy, -won’t you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, “I did tell you that.”</p> - -<p>He laughed, and we followed the facchino who had put my trunk on his -shoulders, and started before us, up three flights to the Pension Dante.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Mr. Wake as we paused on the first landing, “suppose -you take me in training? You walk?”</p> - -<p>“I have to,” I answered. “Father made me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> promise to walk at least five -miles every day—”</p> - -<p>“Well, that ought to help me,” Mr. Wake commented; “suppose I go, too, -and show you the town?”</p> - -<p>I said I’d like it.</p> - -<p>“I can take you to some spots most tourists miss,” he promised, as we -again started on and up.</p> - -<p>“That’ll be nice,” I said, but I never dreamed then how very nice it -would be, nor of how much I was to enjoy those trips he planned, in -spite of the fact that I learned a good deal in the process. “And I -thank you,” I ended, and he said I was most welcome.</p> - -<p>Then the door at the head of the third flight opened, and I saw -a pretty, plump little Italian woman whose hair rippled like the -waves that follow in the immediate wake of a steamboat, and when she -held out both of her hands to me, and said, “Buona sera, Signorina, -well-<i>come</i>!” I felt very much at home, and I loved her right away.</p> - -<p>“Are you Miss Rotelli?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Mees Rotelli,” she answered as she nodded like everything, and I -introduced Mr. Wake, and he left me after a promise of looking around -to see how I was in a day or so, and then I followed Miss Rotelli—I -soon called her Miss Julianna—in,</p> - -<p>And <i>in</i>—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> - -<p>Well, I think that everybody <i>should</i> travel. As Mr. Hemmingway, -whom I met at dinner, says, it is <i>educational</i>. One has an idea, -or at least I did, that houses all over the world are about the same. -I expected little differences, but I didn’t expect stone floors, or -Cupids painted on walls, or ceilings that took a field glass to see, or -to see a plaster-of-Paris Madonna on the wall with a tall wrought-iron -candlestick on the floor before it. . . . And I hadn’t expected to see -a box full of sawdust with a broom in it, or that they had to clean -house differently in Florence. . . . I didn’t know that there was -so little water that they had to dampen sawdust and brush it around -the rooms instead of mopping them up as we do. There are many, many -differences, but those things, and Beata, struck into me at first.</p> - -<p>Beata, who had a rose in her hair, and whom I soon found was the cook -and waitress, was sitting in the long corridor into which I had stepped.</p> - -<p>She rose as I came in and bobbed from the knees, as Elaine McDonald, -who is the only girl in our town who ever went to boarding school, did -the first year after she came home.</p> - -<p>“She ees Beata,” said Miss Rotelli, and Beata spoke. “She say -<i>well-come</i>,” explained Miss Rotelli.</p> - -<p>“Tell her thank you, if you please,” I said. And then I heard, “Niente, -Signorina Americana!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> from Beata, who again sat down and went on -knitting a bright red tie.</p> - -<p>“She make for her sweetheart,” said Miss Rotelli, and I didn’t -feel very far from home at <i>that</i> moment. . . . Roberta makes -dozens of ties and always falters over presenting them, and says -that <i>perhaps</i>, after she’s made a <i>few</i> more, she can do -better—which mother doesn’t think very nice, because it makes every -poor silly she gives them to think he’s the first one to have a tie -knit for him by Roberta. But Roberta is like that! It’s all unfair that -she should be popular, but—she is!</p> - -<p>However, to get on, I followed Miss Julianna well down a corridor, -which ran straight ahead as one entered the door from the outside hall, -and was so long that it narrowed in the distance almost like a railroad -track, and toward the end of this Miss Julianna opened a door on the -left, and said, “Your room.” She said everything in a clipped way that -was most interesting and, to me, attractive.</p> - -<p>And I went in.</p> - -<p>I felt lots of interest about that room, of course, because I imagined -that I would spend a great deal of time in it for the next six months -at least. I looked around carefully, and then I said, “It’s very -pretty,” although I really didn’t think it was but I wouldn’t for the -world have disappointed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> Miss Julianna, who looked on and waited, I -thought, a little anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Grazie, Signorina,” she said, which means, “Thank you, Miss,” -and after that she said, all in a level, and very fast, -“Down-the-hall-bath-room-with-water-which-runs-and-real-tub-dinner-at-seven-good-by—” -and after that she nodded her head and backed out.</p> - -<p>Then I took an inventory which resulted in the discovery that I was in -a room that was as big as our Elks’ ball-room at home; a room which was -punctuated at long intervals by one bed, covered with a mustard colored -bed-spread, a bureau which had a mirror that belonged in the funny -mirror place in the County Fair, two chairs that were built for people -with stiff corsets, one chair that was designed for an aviator, (it -went over backward if you weren’t familiar with its management) a wash -stand with some stuff on it that Leslie—about Leslie later—called -“Medieval hardware,” a table with a bright red cover, a black marble -mantel and a footstool which I soon learned it was wise to use if you -didn’t want your feet to grow numb from cold.</p> - -<p>In the exact center of the room was a little rug that looked about as -big as a postage stamp on a cabinet photograph case; and across from -the door was the room’s real attraction which I was yet to explore, and -that was the window.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p> - -<p>I walked over to it slowly; and there, I leaned out, and after I -had leaned out—I don’t know how long—I came back and hunted in my -suitcase for the writing case that Elaine McDonald had got in New York -and given me for a going-away present. And, after I had addressed an -envelope to Mother, and put on “Jackson Ridge, Pennsylvania, Stati -Uniti d’America,” which Miss Sheila had told me to do; and after I had -told about my health and asked about theirs, and said I was safe, and -told of Mr. Wake who had helped me, when Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Sheila’s -acquaintance, had changed her plan, I described <i>the back yard</i>.</p> - -<p>“I have just looked out of my window,” I wrote, “and down into a little -court that looks as if it belongs to another age and were sleeping in -this. It is a court upon which all the houses that box this square, -back. It has a fountain in it that has a stone cupid in its center; -there must be a mile and a half of tiny winding paths; and there is -heavy leaved foliage like none I have ever seen. Some of the trees -quite cover the paths, and others of a more lacy variety give one a -glimpse of the red tiles that divide the winding yellow ways from the -green.</p> - -<p>“Across the way is a tan stucco house with green shutters; its next -door neighbor is salmon pink and has flower boxes on its window sills. -The windows are—most of them—set in at different<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> heights. It does -not look neat, but it is pretty; I think even prettier than the way we -do it at home.</p> - -<p>“The sun is so bright that when it rests on anything white, it blinds -you. And all the shadows are black. The roofs are of red tile, and -slope gently. There are some poplar trees” (I found later they were -cypress trees; the shape misled me) “swaying over the top of a low roof -down the block. When I was last at the window a little shopkeeper who -wore a big apron sat in his back door singing, while he polished brass, -and his voice is nearly as good as Mr. Kinsolving’s—”</p> - -<p>(Mr. Kinsolving is our church tenor, and he gets two dollars for -singing at each service, which shows how <i>fine</i> he is; but I -honestly thought that the shopkeeper sung better, but of course I -wasn’t going to write that home for one of the twins to blurt out when -they shouldn’t!)</p> - -<p>“Across the court,” I went on, “is a studio—”</p> - -<p>(It seems strange to me now—my writing about that studio in my first -letter home!)</p> - -<p>“And I can see the artist painting,” my pen scratched on. “He has on a -long white aprony-looking thing, and I can see his arm move before his -canvas which is dark. I think I shall like watching him and thinking -that there is some one else in this block who is trying hard to get on, -as I shall soon!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> - -<p>“I wish you could see everything I can, dear people, and especially -the court. Marguerite Clarke, as she was in <i>Prunella</i>, ought to -be dancing in the court with her Pierrot following; the court looks -like that, and as if it would be full of ghosts who dance the minuet on -moonlight nights—”</p> - -<p>I stopped, reread what I had written, and wondered whether I should -send it, because Roberta, who is much more practical, sometimes thinks -the things I fancy, silly. But then I caught the Mrs. Frank Jones on -the envelope and I knew that it could go.</p> - -<p>For Mother always understood my funny, half hidden, soft moods as well -as my love of baseball and outdoor things, and I knew that she would -like what I had written, even though it would seem foolish to all the -rest. So I kissed the page, and put a little cross where I had kissed -it, and I wrote, “That’s for you, Mother dear—” and then I got up and -brushed my hair really hard, and hurried around at dressing, the way -you do when you have felt almost homesick and are just a little afraid -that the whole feeling may creep over you.</p> - -<p>An hour or so later I heard a tinkling bell, and a soft, musically -rising voice which sung out, “È pronto!” which I found later means “Is -ready,” in Italian, and that “Is ready” in Italian means dinner. But -I understood that night not from “È<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> pronto,” but from the fact that, -after I opened my door and looked into the hall, I saw three other -doors open and very queer looking people come out of them, and go -toddling down the hall.</p> - -<p>The first one was fat, and wore the kind of basque mother was -photographed in when she was very young. Her skirt was a purplish serge -that had once been blue.</p> - -<p>“Well, Miss Bannister!” she called to a thin old lady who came out of -the door almost opposite mine. Miss Bannister’s hair was not applied -quite as it should have been; it seems mean to mention it, but she -never gave you a chance to forget it! Leslie thought she tied it on the -gas jet, then ran under it, and clipped the cord as she ran, and let it -stay just where it dropped, and it did look that way!</p> - -<p>“Hello,” answered this old lady, in a high squeaky voice. “Has she -come?”</p> - -<p>“My eye, yes!” answered the one in the basque, whose name was Miss -Meek, “and a jolly number of boxes too. I say we’ll have a beastly lot -of brag!”</p> - -<p>That made me mad, and I decided that they wouldn’t have any from -<i>me</i>. Then they saw me and grew silent, and at the moment another -door opened, and a tall, thin man who walked as if he had casters under -him, came sliding out.</p> - -<p>“Ahem,” he said, “<i>ahem</i>! And how is every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> one to-night? A -charming day,” he went on without waiting for answer, “a charming day! -How well I remember a day such as this in the fall of 1902—” (he -paused, and when he continued, spoke very slowly) “now <i>was</i> it in -1902, <i>or</i> 1903? How can I fasten it?” (He snapped his fingers and -I’m sure he frowned, although I was walking back of him and couldn’t -see.) “But just a moment, I <i>can</i> locate the year if I reason -the thing <i>through</i>, and I make this bold assertion because, if -I recall correctly, it was in the fall of 1902 that I was in England, -while the day to which I refer was beneath Italy’s azure skies, which -clearly reveals, and without possible doubt, that it was in 1903, -since—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, lud!” broke in the fat one who wore the purplish blue skirt and -the basque, and was Miss Meek. “Oh, lud!” which I found later was her -way of saying, “Oh, Lord!”</p> - -<p>And then we turned into the dining room—I had followed the crowd at -a respectful distance—and Miss Julianna stepped forward, to say, “La -Signorina Jones, Americana!” and then she turned and said, “Mees Meek, -Mees Banneester, Meester Hemmingway; you must be <i>friend</i>!”</p> - -<p>And I said that I hoped they would let me be. And then, a little -flushed because I was not used to meeting so many people at once, I -wiggled into my chair, and Beata came in with the soup.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_FIVE">CHAPTER FIVE<br>NEW FRIENDS, A NEW DAY, AND NEW PLANS</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> looked</span> at the bunch of paper roses that stood in the center of the -table as I ate my soup, because I felt all the rest looking at me and -it made me uncomfortable; and I suppose I would have looked at them, or -down at my plate, all through the meal, if Miss Bannister hadn’t barked -a question out at me.</p> - -<p>“Where do you come from?” she asked, with an emphasis and a rise in her -sentence that was as new to me as the Italian I was hearing.</p> - -<p>“Pennsylvania,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Quite a village, I suppose?” she questioned.</p> - -<p>I tried to explain, but right in the middle of my explanation she said: -“One of my deaf days, but no matter, I don’t care in the least. I only -asked to be polite, don’t you know—”</p> - -<p>Which left me feeling as you do when you run for a car, but do nothing -more than reach the spot where it <i>was</i>. I ate soup quite hard for -several minutes.</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Hemmingway, who had traveled quite a lot—I learned it -soon!—helped me out by screaming information about the States across<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> -the table to Miss Bannister, who clattered her spoon and kept saying, -“No matter, no matter!” all the time he talked. I felt just exactly -as if I were in the middle of a funny dream, and one that wasn’t -especially nice, and I honestly even half wondered whether I wouldn’t -wake up to tell Mother about it, and have her say, “Now <i>what</i> did -you eat before you went to bed?”</p> - -<p>But I didn’t wake up and the dinner went on; Beata took away our -soup plates, and then brought in big plates of spaghetti, cheese was -passed and sprinkled over this, and I found it good, but difficult to -eat, because it was in long pieces. Several on my plate I know would -have gone around our hose reel <i>dozens</i> of times! Anyway, as I -struggled with this and tried to cut it, Mr. Hemmingway began, and I -began to understand <i>him</i>.</p> - -<p>“I am familiar with the States,” he asserted, “although my travels in -the States have not been extensive. I spent a winter in Canada while -a comparatively young man; it was, if I recall correctly, the winter -of 1882. <i>Or was it</i> ’83? Now I <i>should</i> know. Ah, I have -it! It was ’83, and my certainty of this pertinent fact comes from the -recollection that in ’82 I was in England, and I know this, because the -year prior to that, which, if you will reckon, was ’81, I was detained -in a village in South Wales, by a sharp attack of fever which was -thought to have been introduced by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> the importation of French labor -upon the occasion of—”</p> - -<p>And so on. He never got there, but I did feel sorry for him, so I -listened just as hard as I could, which is less trying where you can -eat than at other places. He was having a splendid time, when Miss Meek -cut in to question me.</p> - -<p>“Student?” she boomed out, and she pronounced it, “Stew-dant.”</p> - -<p>I felt pleased, and I wanted to answer nicely, but I had at least six -inches of spaghetti in my mouth—I hadn’t meant to take so much but it -kept trailing up, and I had to lap it in—and so I had to nod. I should -have waited a minute before I let that pleased feeling get on top, -because she shoved it right over a cliff by her next remark, which was, -“<i>Oh, my eye!</i>” and she followed that with a prodigious groan. It -wasn’t very flattering.</p> - -<p>“But in a student pension,” began Mr. Hemmingway, “where the rates are -lowered for others by the fact that practising makes the house—in -some ways—less attractive, one must accept the handicap with grace. -How well I remember in Vienna, when I, then quite a boy—let me see, -<i>what was the year?</i>”</p> - -<p>“No matter!” barked Miss Bannister, and then Miss Meek added something, -after another groan, that interested me considerably.</p> - -<p>“And two more coming!” she stated.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> - -<p>“<i>Are</i> there?” I asked quickly.</p> - -<p>“I do not lie,” she answered frigidly, and I stammered out something -about not having meant that she did, but that I was interested.</p> - -<p>“Mees Leslie Parrish,” said Miss Julianna, who came in at the moment, -after Beata who carried a big platter upon which were rounds of meat -all wrapped in overcoats of cabbage leaves in which they had been -baked, “and Mees Viola Harris-Clarke—”</p> - -<p>I was surprised, and I couldn’t quite believe it, because Leslie -Parrish was Miss Sheila’s niece, and I couldn’t see quite why she was -coming to study.</p> - -<p>Miss Sheila told me a good deal about Leslie while she visited us. I -remember one day, while I sat on the guest room bed and helped Miss -Sheila run two-toned ribbon—wonderfully lovely ribbon which was -faint lavender on one side and pale peach pink on the other—into her -beautiful under-things, that she, Miss Sheila, said her own niece -<i>would</i> have played well if she had ever learned to work. And I -remember just how she looked as she tossed a chemise to a chair and -said, “But unhappily, the child has been frightfully, and wrongly -indulged—”</p> - -<p>It made me wonder a lot!</p> - -<p>I knew that Leslie Parrish’s father had lots of money, all the Parrish -family are wealthy, and I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> knew that she spent her time going to -parties and making visits, and entertaining, for Miss Sheila had told -me that too. So I thought Miss Julianna must be mistaken, because, for -Leslie, the Pension Dante would be very simple.</p> - -<p>“When did you hear this?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“A week, ten days past,” she answered, “in the cable. You did not know?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, “I didn’t.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you did. Miss Parrish also write for you—”</p> - -<p>“When are they to arrive?” asked Miss Meek.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, or day after,” Miss Julianna answered, as Beata took away -the plates that had had the meat on them and substituted some plates on -which were lettuce and red cheese.</p> - -<p>After this came a pastry, and that made Miss Bannister say, “Tart -again!” in a high, querulous voice.</p> - -<p>“Bally things!” said Miss Meek, who, I soon found, loved to be thought -a sport and used lots of English slang, I think, because she had been a -governess and still taught English to a few Italians, and was afraid of -being considered school-teachery or prim.</p> - -<p>They both ate their tarts just as if they enjoyed them, while Mr. -Hemmingway began to tell about how the first tart was made in England, -and was side tracked by the reason that had made the man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> who had told -it to him, <i>tell</i> it to him. I began to see that he was really -ever so funny, and to feel like smiling each time he said, “Now let me -see, it was raining that day <i>if</i> I recall correctly, or was it -the day before that day when it rained so heavily? It seems to me it -was <i>that</i> day, because I remember I had some new galoshes which I -had gotten in East London at one of the curb stalls, and I recall the -getting them, because—”</p> - -<p>And on and on! His mind was full of little paths that led him away -from the main road, which even a clever person could only occasionally -glimpse through the haze Mr. Hemmingway made by details.</p> - -<p>After we had finished the “tart,” Miss Meek pushed back her chair, -and boomed out “Draughts?” to which Miss Bannister, who still seemed -querulous, answered, “If you like—”</p> - -<p>And they got out a checker board from behind a bookcase that was by -a window; Beata cleared one corner of the table, and they began. Mr. -Hemmingway stood looking on, rocking back and forth, first on his heels -and then on his toes, and as he did this he tried, I think, to tell -of a game of checkers he had seen played between experts somewhere in -Brazil, but of course I couldn’t really tell.</p> - -<p>“When I was a youngster—” he began, “now <i>was</i> I twenty-three -or was I twenty-four? It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> seems to me I was twenty-four, because the -year before I had typhus, and I am certain that that happened in my -twenty-third year, and directly after my convalescence I took passage -for South America which would make me twenty-four at that time, since -my birthday is in November, (<i>the year’s saddest month</i>) and -having gone directly after that, I must, therefore, have passed my -twenty-fourth birthday—”</p> - -<p>“Ho hum—” grunted out Miss Meek.</p> - -<p>“However, no matter,” said Mr. Hemmingway quickly, “What I was about -to entertain with is the history of my witnessing a match of draughts -played between experts in San Paola. . . . And how keenly I remember -it! The day was fine—”</p> - -<p>“Ho hum!” groaned Miss Meek.</p> - -<p>“What’s he saying?” asked Miss Bannister.</p> - -<p>“Not a bally thing! getting ready, don’t you know!” Miss Meek shouted -in answer, and I did feel sorry for him, but my sympathy wasn’t needed, -for Miss Meek’s attitude, I soon learned, made no impression.</p> - -<p>“I think,” I put in, “I must go to my room; I am so sorry, for I would -love to hear about the match, but I must finish a letter to my family—”</p> - -<p>Which wasn’t true, but didn’t know how to get off without some excuse!</p> - -<p>I went to bed early, but again I didn’t sleep early, and I think it was -fully a half hour before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> my eyelids closed. A cat down in the court -had made all the screeching, whining, sizzling, hissing noises one cat -can make, and big mosquitos had hummed around to disturb me, too. But -at last I burrowed under the covers, and then I forgot, and when I -woke, the sun was spread out across the square tiled floor in a wide, -blazing streak. And the sky looked flat, as if some giant had stretched -gleaming blue satin all over space; there wasn’t a cloud, nor a feeling -of movement, outside my window, but only the brightness of the keen, -strong sun, and that deep, thick blue. . . . I lay looking out until -some one tapped, and after my answer I heard Beata’s singing voice, -saying: “Buon giorno, Signorina! Acqua calda!”</p> - -<p>And I got up to take in a tall, slender necked brass pitcher which was -filled with water that sent up a cloud of steam.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_SIX">CHAPTER SIX<br>MISS PARRISH AND MISS HARRIS-CLARKE</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>fter </span>I had breakfast, I went back to my room, and tried to forget that -I was almost hungrier than I had been before, and I did this by looking -out into the court, which I found had a morning flavor that differed -from its mood of the afternoon. For instance the little man, instead -of slowly polishing brass and stopping his polishing now and again as -he raised his head and lingered on a particularly nice note in his -singing, swept energetically around the back door of his shop with a -broom that looked as if it belonged in a picture of some witch. And as -he swept he chattered shrilly at a boy who was riveting something on a -bench near the door.</p> - -<p>And there were children chasing each other around the paths, and my -artist wasn’t at work. . . . I realize now—Leslie has taught me many -things—that it wasn’t nice to spy on him, but at that time he seemed -only part of a play I was witnessing, and when I saw what he was doing, -I hadn’t the slightest consciousness about leaning right out of my -window and looking across at his.</p> - -<p>He was cooking his breakfast, in front of an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> open window that was next -to the big studio window which so lit the room that one could see in -pretty well, and I did wonder what he was eating! I had the greatest -interest in watching him dump it out of the frying-pan on his plate, -and when he leaned out of his window, to wave his frying-pan, and call, -“Gino, buon giorno!” at the little man with the broom, and he, in -turn, waved his broom as he answered, I felt as if the play was really -started.</p> - -<p>Then I watched him eat and of course that wasn’t nice but, as Leslie -said, later, I “lack even a rudimentary knowledge of social graces,” -(and I wanted to punch her for saying so) and so I could frankly enjoy -a lot of things a really polished person would have to pretend they -weren’t watching.</p> - -<p>After my artist had had his breakfast he threw a piece of something -that was left at a cat, and said—so loudly that it floated across the -court to me—“Scat, you green-eyed instrument of Satan!” which led me -to think that he had heard the cat concert, too.</p> - -<p>“American,” I said half aloud, for two things had told me so; one was -his voice, and the other was his dandy throw, for it was a peach. It -took the cat right on the nose. It must have been soft, for, after -the cat had jumped it came crawling back to the bouquet that had been -hurled at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> it and sniffed at it as cats do, and then it turned around -and sat down and washed its ears and whiskers. That made me like him, -for I like cats, and a great many men don’t hunt things that are -exactly <i>soft</i> to throw at cats who sing all night!</p> - -<p>Then he went to work—I saw him slip into his big, long apron, and take -his brushes out of a mason jar in which they were standing—and I left -the window and opened my steamer trunk, which I had only unlocked the -night before, and did my unpacking.</p> - -<p>At about ten Beata came in, pointed at my made up bed, and said, “No, -<i>no</i>, Signorina!” by which I suppose she meant she would do -it, and then she said, “Oh!” in a way that told me she had suddenly -remembered something, and fumbled in her pocket.</p> - -<p>There was a letter in it for me from Miss Sheila, and I opened it with -a great deal of interest, for I imagined that it would have something -in it about Leslie and this Miss Harris-Clarke, and it did.</p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">Dear Child</span>:”</p> -</div> -<p class="noindent">she wrote, in her funny, curly writing which I like so much!</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I am in receipt of rather astounding news, and news that -does not entirely please me, however, it is news that must be -accepted, and perhaps everything that comes of it will be good; -I am afraid I am often a most apprehensive old maiden lady!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p> - -<p>“Leslie last night telephoned me that she intends to spend -the winter in Florence and study with Signor Paggi, and that -with her will go a young friend who is—only temporarily, I am -afraid—in Leslie’s complete favor.</p> - -<p>“What led to this impulsive plan, I have only a faint notion, -but that makes no difference; it is the work out of it that -bothers me.</p> - -<p>“Because you will be involved, I shall have to be more frank -about Leslie than I like; and I think I shall do it through -rules.</p> - -<p>“You are not to play maid to Leslie; run ribbons in her -clothes, errands for her, or answer her many and various -whims. No doubt this particular interest will last about two -or three weeks, and during that time I insist that you go your -own way in complete independence and remember you are under no -obligation to a girl who is—I am sorry to say—both spoiled -and lazy.</p> - -<p>“Love to you, dear child, and the best of luck with Signor -Paggi; I—I know—am going to live to be even more proud of you -than I am at this moment!</p> - -<p>“Always affectionately and devotedly your friend,</p> - -<p class="right"> -“<span class="smcap">Sheila Parrish</span>.”<br> -</p> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and then the date. I thought it was a nice letter and I -read it several times and then I tore it up in tiny pieces and sat down -to answer it, and to assure Miss Sheila, without rapping on wood—and -it never <i>hurts</i> to rap on wood!—that I knew that everything -would be all right.</p> - -<p>Lunch came right in the middle of my writing, and after lunch I went -to one of the practice rooms—which were way down the hall—and played -for a while. Then I finished my letter, and decided I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> would go out and -post it, which worried Miss Julianna, whom I met in the hall.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, shaking her head hard, “You get lost.”</p> - -<p>“But the Italians are awfully easy pointers,” I said—I had learned -even then that they wave their hands a lot—“and as long as they can do -that, and I can say ‘Piazza Indipendenza’ and ‘Pension Dante’ I guess -I’ll get along all right; you see how it would work—”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered, “may-<i>be</i>, but thees Meester Wake, he take -you soon? I theenk better to take the small walk first—please?”</p> - -<p>And because she looked anxious, I said, “All right,” and smiled at her -and then said, “Good-by,” and started down the stairs.</p> - -<p>These were of stone, and the banisters made of twisted iron, and the -walls were, like most of the other walls, of painted or frescoed -plaster. The hall was cold and draughty as well as dark, and so quiet -that every step I took echoed loudly, and so, when I stepped out into -the warmth and light and noise of the street, the contrast was complete.</p> - -<p>I blinked a moment before I started, and then I drew a deep breath -because—well, it made you <i>feel</i> that way!</p> - -<p>As in Genoa, I don’t remember half I saw, but I do remember the -<i>different</i> things, and the sort of things that I never could -have seen in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> Pennsylvania town of fifteen thousand people that is -surrounded by hills with oil wells on them.</p> - -<p>The first one that struck in was two officers who looked as if they had -just been painted, and wound up somewhere between the shoulder-blades, -although they were much handsomer than any toys I’d ever seen. One of -them had a mustache that tilted up, and he twirled this; the other -flung his wide blue cloak back over his shoulder as he passed me, with -a gesture that <i>looked</i> careless, but couldn’t have been so, -because it was so packed with grace! I walked behind them, looking at -their high, shining boots, and their broad, light blue capes and the -gilt braid and the clanking swords. And I did wonder how they ever -could win if they got mixed up in a real fight, and I knew that they -did, for Father had said they were fine and gallant soldiers.</p> - -<p>Then they turned a corner, and I was ever so sorry until I was diverted -by a man who was sprinkling his pavement with water that he had in a -chianti bottle; he wanted the dust kept down in front of his shop, -which was an antique place, but that quart bottle full of water was all -that he dared use!</p> - -<p>By that time the Park—I mean the Piazza Indipendenza—was behind me, -houses and shops were on the other side instead of green, and the way -was narrow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> - -<p>After I walked two blocks on this I saw a fountain that was on the -side of a building opposite, and it was made of blue and white china, -with green leaves and gold oranges and yellow lemons all around it. I -thought it was so wonderful, and for once in my life I thought right, -because even the critics seemed to half enjoy it. I found it was made -by a fellow named della Robbia who had been dead hundreds of years, and -that his work was fairly well known in Italy. Well, I looked at it a -while, and then I remembered my letter, and went up to two old ladies -who were sitting on a doorstep eating some funny little birds that had -been <i>cooked with the heads and feet still on them</i>.</p> - -<p>I smiled, stuck out my letter, and said, “Where?”</p> - -<p>And I never heard anything like the outburst that followed! They both -got up and clutched my sleeves, and pointed their hands that were full -of bird-lunch, and nodded their heads and patted my back, and kept -explaining—in forty-seven ways—where the mail box was. It was really -very funny, and I thought I was never going to get away!</p> - -<p>After I did—and I hadn’t half as much idea of where the box was as I -had when I stopped—I went on, and after while I saw something that -looked suspicious, and after I saw a woman drop<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> a postcard in it, I -dropped my letter, and then turned.</p> - -<p>Going back, I waved at the old ladies, and said “Grazie,” which I -had learned meant thank you, and they bobbed their heads and called, -“Niente, niente, Signorina!”</p> - -<p>Then a group of soldiers from the ranks clattered past me in their -olive drab and the heavy shoes that announce their coming, and again -I was at the doorway through which I could reach the Pension Dante, -wondering whether it was really true, or whether my program had slipped -to the floor during the first act?</p> - -<p>And then I rang the pension bell and went in and up.</p> - -<p>Going in, and away from all the shrill, staccato street noises, and the -smells—which sometimes aren’t nice, but are always different—going in -and away from all this seemed tame, but after I got up and Beata had -opened the door, I was glad I had been decent enough to consider Miss -Julianna’s feelings because—</p> - -<p>Miss Leslie Parrish, of Oyster Bay, Long Island, and Miss Viola -Harris-Clarke, of Ossining, New York, had arrived! I heard them before -they heard me, which is, perhaps, unfair, but it is sometimes also a -decided advantage, and I <i>needed</i> all the advantages on my side! -I knew it as soon as I heard them speak, and that they would probably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> -consider me countrified and make fun of me. I didn’t care, but I was -glad to get used to the idea of our being so different, before we met -and I was plumped up against all that manner at one time.</p> - -<p>It didn’t take a Signorina Sherlock Holmes to know that they had come, -and I didn’t need Beata’s wild pointing, for I heard their voices -immediately although they were in a room that was well down the hall.</p> - -<p>The first thing I heard was, “Simply <i>impossible</i>!” (I knew in a -second that it was Leslie, and that it was her comment about the room) -“You mean to say,” she went on, “that my aunt has <i>seen</i> this?”</p> - -<p>“Si, Signorina,” Miss Julianna answered, and she didn’t sound as if she -were smiling.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I heard in Leslie’s pretty, carefully used voice, “that is very -<i>strange</i>! What do you <i>think</i>, Viola?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, dear,” came in a higher, and a little more artificial -voice, and then there was a silence.</p> - -<p>A short, baffled kind of laugh, prefaced Leslie’s “I’m absolutely at -sea! I don’t know whether to stay or not—but I—vowed I <i>would</i>—”</p> - -<p>“We might get a few things,” suggested Viola.</p> - -<p>“<i>Yes</i>—” (doubtfully) “but the walls—streaks and soil—I -<i>don’t</i> know!”</p> - -<p>Again there was a silence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> - -<p>“You do as you like,” said Miss Julianna quickly and in a rather -brittle way. “I have keep the rooms at order of Mees Parrish, but you -do not haf to stay—”</p> - -<p>And then she came out of the room, and down the hall toward me. -“<i>Insolent!</i>” I heard in Leslie’s voice, and I wasn’t much -impressed.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_SEVEN">CHAPTER SEVEN<br>GETTING ACQUAINTED</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>hat </span>night, after a dinner during which Leslie and Viola looked as if -they were chewing lemons, I went to call on them because I thought it -was the polite thing to do. Goodness knows, I didn’t want to! I was -afraid that they would purr along about the weather, and that I would -have to bob my head and smirk and say, “Yes, isn’t it <i>charmingly</i> -warm for this time of year?” and that kind of stuff which certainly -bores me! But they didn’t even bother to do that! They talked across -me, and, although it wasn’t comfortable, I will admit that it was -instructive.</p> - -<p>I think one can learn so <i>much</i> about people when they don’t think -it is worth while to be polite, or think they are alone in the bosom of -their family.</p> - -<p>I remember one time I walked home with Elaine McDonald from the Crystal -Emporium where we had had a banana split, and her father, who thought -she had come in alone, barked down at her as if she were a member of a -section gang and he were the boss.</p> - -<p>The thing that made it funny was the fact that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> he is a purry man, -and always wears a swallow-tail coat on Sunday, and passes the plate, -and stands around after church bobbing and smirking over people, and -saying, “It is a <i>real</i> pleasure to see <i>you</i> here, Mrs. -Smith!” (or Mrs. Jones, or whoever it happened to be) He has a Bible -class, too, and is the President of the Shakespeare Club, and I was -surprised to hear him bawl out—bawl is a crude word, but it does -belong here!—“Elaine, you left the fire on under the boiler and -there’s enough hot water here to scald a hog! You and your mother don’t -care how you run the gas and the bills—”</p> - -<p>And then Elaine said, and, oh, so sweetly, “Papa, dear, Jane Jones is -with me—”</p> - -<p>And he said, “Ahem—how-a—how-a <i>nice</i>,” and then sneaked back -into the bathroom and shut the door quietly and finished his shaving in -deep silence. Which just shows—or should, because I am using it for -the express purpose of illustration—how different people may be in -public and while shaving. Of course Leslie and Viola didn’t syrup up -in a hurry as Mr. McDonald did, because they didn’t consider me worth -while, but I knew that they were capable of slapping on a sugar coating -if they’d <i>wanted</i> to.</p> - -<p>But, to get on, after dinner I waited around until half past seven, -because the best people in our town never start out to make calls -before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> that hour, and I wanted to be correct. Then I went down the -hall and tapped on Leslie’s door because I heard a steady buzzing back -of that and it intimated that the newcomers were together and inside. -After I tapped I waited. Then some one slammed a trunk lid, and I heard -an impatient, “What <i>is</i> it?”</p> - -<p>“It’s me,” I answered, and realized too late that I shouldn’t have said -that. I should have said, “It is I,” but I am always making mistakes. -Then I heard, “Vi, open the door—”</p> - -<p>And Viola Harris-Clarke let me in.</p> - -<p>Leslie, who was leaning over a trunk fishing things out of it, only -looked over her shoulder inquiringly for a second, and then turned back -after a “Hello,” that had a question mark after it.</p> - -<p>“I thought I’d come over and see how you were getting on,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Well, sit down—” said Leslie, “that is, if you can find a place!” -And I pushed aside a pile of silk under-things that was on the end of -a lounge, and roosted there. And then I waited to have Leslie ask how -I was, because at home that always comes first. People usually sit in -rocking chairs, and the called on person will say, as they rock, “Well, -now Mrs. Jones, how are <i>you</i>?” And after the caller answers, they -get along to the children and then ask about the father, and next about -how the canning is getting on, or the housecleaning,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> or the particular -activity that belongs to the season. It is <i>always</i> like that in -our town with any one who calls, which I consider polite and interested -and nice; but I didn’t get it with Leslie; instead she went right on -unpacking.</p> - -<p>I looked at her with a good deal of interest, and I decided that she -was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Her hair is very light in shade -and texture, and she wears it straight off her forehead, flat at the -sides, and in a psyche knot. (I learned later that Paris is through -with the puffs) She is tall and thin and graceful, and her skin is -fair and it flushes easily. Her lashes and brows are dark, and her -lashes curl up, (a few days later I saw her help them curl up with a -little brush) and she has a classic profile, slender hands and feet, -and a languorous, slow way of looking at a person that can be either -flattering or—flatt<i>en</i>ing.</p> - -<p>Viola was another story, and just the way she looked explained every -single thing about her.</p> - -<p>You could see that she was a <i>follower</i>.</p> - -<p>Her hair had been bobbed, and she had had to bob it, not because it was -becoming to her, but because every one was bobbing it. Now she wore it -as nearly as Leslie wore hers as she could, with a net over it, and -millions of pins to keep the short ends of the slowly lengthening hair -from flying. Her eyebrows were what she called “Frenched” which meant -that she pulled them out and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> screeched terribly while doing it, and -her finger nails were too pointed and too shiny. Her mouth was too big, -and her chin receded a little, but she might have been nice looking if -she hadn’t made such a freak of herself. She didn’t look <i>natural</i> -at all, and she wasn’t pretty enough to justify all the fuss that the -stupidest person could see she made over every detail.</p> - -<p>She sat on a corner of the table, swinging her legs and humming.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp51" id="i071" style="max-width: 25.8125em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i071.png" alt=""> - <div class="caption">“Isn’t this simply ghastly?”</div> -</div> - -<p>“Isn’t this simply ghastly?” Leslie asked of me, after an interval of -some minutes’ quiet.</p> - -<p>“What?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Why, this <i>place</i>. I don’t know <i>what</i> Aunt Sheila was -<i>thinking</i> of!” then she dumped dozens of pairs of colored silk -stockings out on the floor, and began to take out more and prettier -dresses than I had ever seen before in all my life.</p> - -<p>“How’d your frocks stand the crossing, dear?” asked Viola lazily.</p> - -<p>“Oh, fairly. . . . Old rags anyway. . . . I didn’t get a new -<i>thing</i>!” Then she leaned down again and began to take out perhaps -a dozen petticoats that shone in the light, and silk night-dresses and -bloomers and a pink satin corset, and gray suède shoes with cut-steel -buckles, and some gold shoes with straps and <i>ostrich</i> feather -rosettes on the ankles, and some dark blue patent leather shoes with -<i>red stitching</i>, and <i>red heels</i>!</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> And as she did, she and -Viola talked of people and places I had never <i>met</i>, and of how -<i>frightful</i> the dinner had been, and of the “utterly hideous -rooms!”</p> - -<p>After quite a little time of this—although I suppose it seemed longer -to me than it really was—Leslie sagged down on the corner of a trunk -she had not yet opened, and hinted about some past chapters of her -story that interested me and that was to have its love scene added in -Florence, which I then, of course, didn’t know.</p> - -<p>“I came here,” she stated, as she looked straight and hard ahead of -her, “on pique.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>knew</i> it!” murmured Viola.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” Leslie answered, sharply. “Why how would <i>you</i> know?”</p> - -<p>“Dear, I saw you were <i>suffering</i>—”</p> - -<p>That smoothed Leslie; I could see her feathers settle, and when she -went on all the irritation had left her voice.</p> - -<p>“Some one,” she confided, “and it doesn’t matter in the least who, -since he has gone from my life—I assure you I have absolutely put -every <i>thought</i> of him away—intimated that I could do nothing but -be a butterfly. He was brutal, absolutely <i>brutal</i>!</p> - -<p>“And I—perfectly enraged—said I could work, and I would show him -that I could. And that very night—Vi, are you sitting on my ostrich -feather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> fan?—oh, all right, I thought I saw something pink there; no, -I don’t mind the scarf—”</p> - -<p>“Go on, dear,” said Viola, after her exploration and a wiggle that -settled her again.</p> - -<p>“That very night,” Leslie continued, “I telephoned Aunt Sheila, who -happened to be in town and at the Plaza, and I told her I intended to -come here and study with Signor Paggi. She was just as <i>mean</i> as -she could be. ‘Very well, Leslie,’ she said in that crisp way in which -she often speaks. ‘But he won’t keep pupils who don’t work—’ . . . -‘<i>He will keep me</i>,’ I answered, and my voice shook. . . . I was -fearfully overwrought—my heart had already been <i>trampled upon</i>—”</p> - -<p>I thought that sounded silly, but Viola didn’t, because she said, “My -<i>dear</i>!” rather breathed it out as if some one had taken her lungs -and squeezed them just as she began to speak.</p> - -<p>Leslie looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard, in a way she -considered tragic, and it was, but it also made me think of Roberta’s -canary when it drinks. Then she rubbed her brow, laughed mirthlessly, -and ended with, “<i>and here I am</i>!”</p> - -<p>“The bath tub’s the worst,” said Viola, which sort of took the cream -off of Leslie’s tragic moment, and I could see that Leslie didn’t like -it, for she frowned.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what to do,” said Leslie after a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> small lull, “whether to -hunt some other place, or stand this—”</p> - -<p>“Our trunks are all here,” Viola stated, “and it would be hard to -move—” (she had unpacked, and I found later she hated effort) “I -wondered whether we couldn’t get a few little extra things—curtains, -and cushions and so on? And the food we could supplement. I can make -fudge and chicken king.”</p> - -<p>“I am certain I can make tea,” said Leslie, “it’s only a matter of the -proper pot and a spirit lamp and some water, and then throwing the -stuff in—I’ve seen it done dozens of times.”</p> - -<p>“And we could buy rolls and things—”</p> - -<p>Then they paused to consider it.</p> - -<p>“Don’t most students do that sort of thing anyway?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“It <i>would</i> be Bohemian,” said Leslie, in a more energetic voice -than I’d heard her use before.</p> - -<p>“And after we get famous they’ll photograph this ghastly hole, and say -<i>we lived here</i>—” Viola added, with a far-away, pleased look.</p> - -<p>“I’m willing to try it,” agreed Leslie, in a dull tone I felt she put -on. “I don’t care much—what happens now, anyway!”</p> - -<p>“Poor darling!” murmured Viola, and in that “Poor darling,” I saw the -shadow of a row, for I knew that Viola couldn’t keep that up all the -time, and I knew that when she stopped Leslie<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> would be angry, and I -knew that they were too foolishly and sentimentally intimate to remain -good friends. However, I never dreamed for a second, then, that they -would come to <i>me</i> to complain about each other! Which was just -what they did!</p> - -<p>It was dreadful for me; there was a time when I never went into my room -without finding one or the other waiting to sniff out their tales, -tales which they almost always prefaced in this way: “I <i>never</i> -talk about my friends—” (sniff) “You can ask” (gulp) “<i>any one</i> -where I do—” (sniff) “but I want you to know that I have never been -treated—” (gulp-sniff) “as I have been treated since I came to this -place in company—” (real sob) “with that—that <i>creature</i>!”</p> - -<p>When I think of it now, and then that first call, I could, as Viola -says, “Simply <i>scream</i>, my dear!”</p> - -<p>But I’m getting ’way ahead of my own story.</p> - -<p>At half past eight, I stood up.</p> - -<p>“Well, I guess I’d better go now,” I said, but neither Leslie nor Viola -said, “Oh, <i>don’t</i> hurry—” as I supposed people always did, and -so I did go. As I reached the door—alone—Leslie spoke:</p> - -<p>“We go to see Signor Paggi to-morrow, don’t we?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered, “at one.”</p> - -<p>“We might as well go together,” she suggested, “although—” (her tone -was too careless, and she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> avoided looking at me) “we, of course, won’t -expect to act like Siamese triplets, will we?”</p> - -<p>“I shall be busy a great deal,” I stated, as I felt myself flush, and -then I went out, and after a stiff good-night, went down the hall to -my own room. It did seem to me that Leslie had been unnecessarily -unkind in giving that hint, for I had only gone because I supposed -it was polite, and I certainly never would push in! Mother had never -<i>let</i> us do that!</p> - -<p>I was angry, and as I undressed, I vowed that I would let Leslie -entirely alone, and that she could make the first advances—if any at -all were ever made—and I wondered what kind of a man <i>could</i> like -a girl of Leslie’s type, and what he had said that had made her do a -thing that was so evidently distasteful. I was really interested, and I -couldn’t help hoping that this man who had been “pushed from her life” -had socked it to her <i>hard</i>, (and I found later he had!) and I -further hoped—without even trying to help it—that I could squelch her -some day. Then I said my prayers and crawled into bed.</p> - -<p>As I pulled up the blankets one of the <i>sounds</i> that belong to -Florence tinkled in through my widely opened French windows. . . . -Somewhere, in some little church or convent, bells were ringing and -sounding out steps in mellow tones that floated softly through the -air. . . . It was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> very, very pretty. . . . And I closed my eyes, and I -could see lilies-of-the-valley and blue bells growing near ferns. . . . -That doesn’t seem very sensible unless you’ve <i>heard</i> those bells, -but if you have—on a warm-aired, soft Italian night—you’ll probably -understand. Then the bells died gently down to nothing and I heard -another sound, and when I heard that I saw people clogging, for it -was a banjo, and I got out of bed in a hurry, and skipped over to the -window without even waiting to put on my slippers.</p> - -<p>I couldn’t see much down in the court, because the wide banners of -light that floated out from the doorways only seemed to intensify the -shadows, and the banjo-player was sitting on a bench by the side of a -back door and not in the light.</p> - -<p>But I could hear, and I heard, in a very pretty voice with the soft -strum of the banjo creeping through:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">“Dozens and dozens of girls I have met,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Sisters and cousins of men in my set:</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Tried to be cheerful and give them an earful</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Of soft sort of talk, but, oh, gosh!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The strain was something fearful!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Always found after a minute or two</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Just to be civil was all I could do.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Now I know why I could never be contented,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I was looking for a pal like you.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And I knew the tune, and it is one I liked, and the singing -in my own language was cheering and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> rather jolly, and the feeling the -man put into the foolishly light words made me laugh, and I leaned far -out and listened.</p> - -<p>Then I heard a snatch of a Neapolitan song that better fitted the look -of the court, and then a bit of opera. . . . The troubadour faltered -on that, and right in the middle of it he stopped, repeated one -phrase, and then called, “Hi, Gino, old Top! Ta tum, ta tum, ta ta, ta -tum—that <i>right</i>?”</p> - -<p>And Gino echoed it in his voice, and answered excitedly, “Si, si, -Signor! Brava! Brava, Signor! Brrrava!”</p> - -<p>And then, warmed and cheered and quite myself again, I went back to -bed.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_EIGHT">CHAPTER EIGHT<br>SIGNOR PAGGI’S COMPLIMENTS</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">S</span>ignor </span>Paggi’s studio is high up in one of those old palaces that seem -to frown at you, and the palace is on the Via Tornabuoni, which is -a street where lots of the wealthy and great people of old Florence -lived, hundreds of years ago.</p> - -<p>At that time of course—years back, in the middle ages—they knew -nothing of modern improvements like portable houses or the sort of -stucco bungalows that get full of cracks after the first frost, and so -they put their houses up in the old-fashioned way, which does seem to -wear well, for they stand to-day as they stood when they were built.</p> - -<p>I liked looking at them; there is a great deal in my nature that -answers to a real fight, and those houses were built for convenient -fighting. Probably then, the architects were fussing over nice, little -windows through which the owner could pour hot oil on a passing enemy, -instead of the sun porches and breakfast rooms and the kind of truck -that now occupies them.</p> - -<p>It gave me a romantic, chilly thrill to see the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> blank walls of the -first stories, which make the streets where the palaces exist look so -cold and stern, for I realized that they didn’t have low windows in -them because if they had had, people who felt like it could throw in -bricks and things of such forceful nature, too easily.</p> - -<p>They needed this type of dwelling because they scrapped so much. The -Medicis, an old Florentine family, and all dead, but still somewhat -talked about, were always fighting somebody or other, and so were the -Strozzis and Tornabuonis, who were also prominent hundreds of years -ago, but still remembered, I found, by a good many. I, personally, -don’t wonder, and I must admit that more than once during my stay in -Florence I wished I could skip back into the Middle Ages for a day or -so, and root at just one good fight.</p> - -<p>However, I realize that this is not a natural wish for “A young woman -of refinement,” as Leslie would say.</p> - -<p>We reached Signor Michele Paggi’s studio at the time when we should, -in spite of the fact that Leslie kept every one waiting while she took -off a veil with brown speckles in it and put on one that had black dots -stuck on it and then, after that was done, went back to hunt a pair of -gloves with gray and white striped gauntlet tops.</p> - -<p>“First impressions,” she said, and almost apologetically, “are -<i>everything</i>, don’t you know?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> And I’d hate my veil not being -right just this first time—”</p> - -<p>“You have a perfect <i>genius</i> for assembling the proper -accessories,” said Viola, who just a moment before had grumbled out, -“<i>Heavens</i>, what is she doing? I never knew any one who could -<i>fuss</i> so over nothing!”</p> - -<p>And then we went down our long stairs, through the crowded heart of -Florence, up the four flights of stairs that took us to Signor Paggi’s -floor, and down the hall toward the only door that had a placard on it, -to find that the placard had Signor Michele Paggi’s name on it, and a -curt invitation to walk in scrawled below that. We did. And I knew that -my saying I was frightened reveals a yellow streak, but I <i>was</i> -frightened, so I might as well say it.</p> - -<p>Mr. Paggi’s verdict meant a very great deal to me, and I had heard that -he sometimes refused to teach. And although I had tried not to remember -that, I did remember it as people do remember things they try to cover -in their minds. Those covered thoughts are always straying out! You -are forever seeing a corner of one trailing out from under the thing -you’ve thrown over it—or at least I am—and Mr. Paggi’s turning people -away was one of them. I didn’t know quite what I would do if he turned -me away, because of Miss Sheila and Mother and all the rest. They -expected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> so much of me and I felt as if I’d die if I couldn’t keep -them from disappointment. And of course I had my own dreams too.</p> - -<p>Well, Leslie and Viola were entirely at ease, and somehow—I -can’t explain—it didn’t help me, in fact their ease made me more -uncomfortable. And while they walked around saying, “<i>Adorable</i> -place!” “So much <i>atmosphere</i>!” and things like that, and wiggled -their fingers to limber them up, I sat in a chair that looked better -than it felt and swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, and almost -wished that I had been like Roberta who plays nothing but rag, and -ukelele accompaniments.</p> - -<p>After quite a little time of this I saw a copy of the Saturday Evening -Post on the table, and got it, and I was really beginning to be -absorbed in something by Ring Lardner when an Italian girl came in. She -was a sullen type, and she said “Good day,” without smiling.</p> - -<p>“We are waiting for Signor Paggi,” Leslie said in her sweetest way, but -it didn’t melt the girl who answered in the short-clipped manner that -many Italians speak English, ending each word abruptly and completely -before she started another. And she spoke in a level too, which made -her seem most unsympathetic, and fussed over the leaves of a big ledger -as she answered.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether he see you—” she stated.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> - -<p>“But—” (Leslie laughed in an irritated, tried way) “we have an -<i>appointment</i>!”</p> - -<p>“He don’t care. When he have headache he don’t care for devil. You can -wait, you can go, it is the same.” And then she disdainfully fluttered -the big leaves she had been turning slowly.</p> - -<p>“Will you be good enough to tell him,” said Leslie in a tight -controlled way, “that Miss <i>Parrish</i>, that Miss Leslie -<i>Parrish</i> is here?”</p> - -<p>The girl looked up.</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered, “I do not wish to have the book push through the -air at me—so—” (she made a hitchy, overhead girl-gesture of throwing) -“and he do not care who you are. Why should he care who you are?” she -ended, her eyes now on Leslie and boring into Leslie. It was almost -like a movie!</p> - -<p>“<i>Really</i>—” broke out Leslie, and then she stopped and shrugged -her shoulders and walked over to stand by a window that had a row -of century plants on its sill. And here she hummed to pretend that -the whole matter was beneath her notice, but she tapped her foot and -<i>I</i> knew that she was angry.</p> - -<p>Then we waited, and I never felt as if I did so much waiting as I did -then, although the waiting wasn’t stretched across more than half an -hour. It was stretched tightly, and that makes all the difference!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>At last the inner door opened—we came to call what lay behind that -door “The Torture Chamber”—and a woman came flouncing out. After her -passing, a little man with stiff, coarse hair which stood straight -up from his head, and a waxed mustache, paced up and down inside the -little room. He looked as if he should be wearing a red uniform trimmed -with gilt braid and snapping a short, limber whip at crouching lions; -I’ve seen dozens just like him in cages!</p> - -<p>“<i>Temperamental!</i>” Leslie whispered, and she was right!</p> - -<p>“<i>Fascinating</i>,” Viola answered, in the same kind of a low, highly -charged wheeze. Then we waited some more.</p> - -<p>At last Signor Paggi came to the door and stared at us.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he snapped, and I was glad to leave the business to Leslie, who -stood up and spoke.</p> - -<p>“Signor Paggi,” she said, “we have been sent here, because in America -you are regarded as the most <i>marvelous</i> person—”</p> - -<p>“I do not make fools play,” he broke in, “<i>You remember that!</i> You -have appointment?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Leslie answered, and with a good deal of resentment in her tone, -“I told your office girl, but she—in a manner I must, in fairness to -your interests, Signor Paggi, tell you was <i>insolent</i>—told me—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> - -<p>“Very good secretary,” (he again interrupted) “I can get many pupils, -but only in my life once have I found the good secretary. Come in—”</p> - -<p>And, silent, we followed him.</p> - -<p>The room was large and almost empty. It had a bench in it, a table on -which was some music, a piano, and near that the chair that Signor -Paggi sat in when he wasn’t too agitated to <i>sit</i>.</p> - -<p>“You first,” he said, almost before we had crossed the threshold, and -he pointed at me. I went to the piano and sat down. “Well, play!” he -barked and I think I played something of MacDowell’s.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” I heard. I stopped.</p> - -<p>“What do you see?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“It is very clear you see nothing. It is <i>awful</i>. You play like a -<i>peeg</i>! Toodle, toodle, toodle, SQUEAK! <i>Oh</i>—” and then he -clasped his hand to his forehead and glared up at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“You must see peecture,” he said after a moment of silence, “a pretty -peecture; I give you time to theenk.” (He did) “Now go!”</p> - -<p>And I did.</p> - -<p>I don’t know what I played, but I saw our living room; the lounge that -has grown lumpy from the twins jumping on it; the piles of popular -music on the piano; mother’s darning in a big basket by the table; the -Boston fern in the bay window;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> even a pan of fudge that didn’t harden, -with a knife in it, and Roberta’s knitting—always a tie—half poked -under a sofa cushion.</p> - -<p>And I suppose that doesn’t <i>seem</i> like a pretty picture, but it -was pretty to me, and it carried me through.</p> - -<p>“You can take lessons from me,” Signor Paggi said, as I finished. I -thanked him in a little squeaky voice that must have sounded funny.</p> - -<p>“And now,” he went on, “you can get up. You theenk you seet upon my -piano stool all day? You do <i>not</i>.”</p> - -<p>And then I got up and went over to the bench, and my knees shook more -than they had as I went over to the piano, which was so silly that -it made me ashamed. Leslie took my place, and I don’t think she was -much frightened. She was pretty sure of her playing she told us later, -and she was used to playing for people, and her assurance I thought -would help her, but—it didn’t. Signor Paggi let her play all her -selection, before he spoke, and as he did he <i>cleaned his nails with -a toothpick</i>.</p> - -<p>“Are you deaf?” he asked in an interested, remote way.</p> - -<p>“Certainly <i>not</i>,” Leslie answered haughtily.</p> - -<p>“Ah, how greatly then do I pity you! To hear yourself <i>play</i>! Oh, -<i>my</i>!” (And again he clasped his forehead and rolled his eyes at -the ceiling)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> “And also, you improve on Mr. Bach,” he went on, after -his tragedy moment was past. “It is very <i>kind</i> of you to show -the master how he should do. No doubt he is <i>grateful</i>! <i>I</i> -think he turn in the grave. . . . Mr. Paderewski have great sense; to -work for a country who is lost is better than to teach some I have -met. . . . Oh, <i>my</i>! Some fool teach you that in girls’ school? -<i>You will drop airs with me, and play what is upon the sheet. You -see?</i>”</p> - -<p>Leslie, with scarlet cheeks, and bright, angry eyes, got up, and -nodded. Then Viola was summoned, and I felt most sorry for her because -she had no nerve and she wobbled all the way over to the piano, but she -did better than either Leslie or I, and she got off with “Skip that and -thanks to heaven it will be shorter!”</p> - -<p>And so ended that hard half hour that seemed hours long, and started -all our winter’s work in Florence.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_NINE">CHAPTER NINE<br>A STROLLING PICNIC</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>fter </span>we had made a slinking exit that took us into the outer room, and -the girl, at a nod from Signor Paggi, had put our names down in the -book and given us slips upon which were our names and lesson hours, -we started down stairs and no one said a word. I think we would have -kept quiet for a long, long time if I hadn’t started laughing, but I -did—very suddenly and without really knowing that I wanted to—and -Viola, after a moment, joined me in a weak, close-to-hysterical way. -Leslie didn’t laugh and her eyes were hard and her chin set, and she -was so angry that she walked as if she had been wound up too tightly. -She made me think of “Mr. Wog,” a mechanical toy man, that the twins -start into the living room from the dining room door sometimes when -Roberta has company. It makes her very angry, because she says it looks -<i>so</i> silly, and she says that it naturally embarrasses a man to -realize that some one has been listening to <i>every</i> word he said. -The twins told me that they wait around in the dark under the dining -room table<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> until they hear the caller tell Roberta that she is so -sympathetic, or beautiful, or that they have <i>long</i> admired her, -and then they crawl out with their wound toy and start it in. Louise, -who is the elder by two minutes, said that “Mr. Wog” almost always -broke into Roberta’s soft, “Oh, <i>do</i> you think so?” and that they -always had to stuff their handkerchiefs right into their mouths to keep -from screaming with giggles.</p> - -<p>But to get on, Leslie walked as Mr. Wog walks, and when she spoke she -did so between sharply indrawn breaths and in a way that told a lot she -didn’t trouble to put into words.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Sheila <i>knew</i> this old <i>devil</i>—” she said, “I make -<i>no</i> apologies for calling him that—and what she did was -<i>vicious</i>, positively <i>vicious</i>! She—she said I wouldn’t -stick, <i>made</i> me say I <i>would</i>, in fact—” (she paused, -and had to draw several quieting breaths before she could go on) -“in fact I wagered her a cottage that father gave me last birthday, -a <i>heavenly</i> sweet place up on Lake Placid, I wagered her -<i>that</i>, that I would stick it out and study with this horrible -person! . . . And if I can ever punish Ben Forbes for all this, I will -consider that life has given me—<i>all the sweetness I shall ever -crave</i>!”</p> - -<p>Then we stepped out into the street.</p> - -<p>Of course it seemed about sixteen times as bright as it really was, -because both the halls and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> Mr. Paggi’s rooms had been dark, and it -seemed more good to be out than I can describe. After I blinked my -eyes into adjustment with the outdoor glare, I stole a side glance at -Leslie and wondered what sticking it out—if she <i>could</i> stick -it out—would do for her? I knew that she would either flare up and -leave it all, or that she’d have to change, and I remembered how Howard -McDonald, who is Elaine’s brother, had learned to keep his temper by -playing baseball. The training, and the having to abide by decisions -that he thought unfair had been <i>fine</i> for him, and after a season -of playing short-stop, everybody wondered whether he had changed, -or whether they’d been mean? “<i>Will you—can you stand it?</i>” I -questioned inside, and Leslie answered, almost immediately, quite as if -I’d put my wonder into words.</p> - -<p>“I am going to go through with it,” she stated through set teeth. “If -I die of disease from living in that frightful hole, or from shocked, -shattered nerves after a lesson, perhaps Aunt Sheila <i>may</i> have a -question or two to ask of herself!”</p> - -<p>“He couldn’t have known who you <i>are</i>, dear,” said Viola, who was -groping around to find the right key.</p> - -<p>Leslie laughed shortly.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Sheila said I depended on that,” she confided. “That was during -one of her all-too-frequent moments of flattery. Sometimes I think I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> -have been the most misunderstood girl who has ever lived! And oh, how I -ache, alone, in my fumbling through the dark!”</p> - -<p>She stared ahead like everything after that; I guess she was trying to -look dramatic. Viola said, “Poor <i>darling, I</i> understand.” And -then Leslie said, “I—” (her voice dropped and broke) “I am close to -fainting—I need <i>tea</i>—” and so they went to Doney’s which is the -fanciest restaurant in Florence and marked “expensive” in Baedeker. -After the remark about Siamese triplets I didn’t intend to have her -think <i>I</i> wanted to be asked to her party, so I said, “I must -leave you here—” although I had no idea where I was, or where I should -be going.</p> - -<p>“Must you, really?” Leslie asked so vaguely, that I got mad all over -again and answered with, “I generally say what I mean,” which of course -was <i>not</i> polite. Then, feeling a little ashamed of myself, I -turned and left them and began to wonder which Italian I should ask -where I was and where I was going—in English; but I kept passing them, -and going farther and farther all the time because the doing it seemed -hard.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly I saw some one who was ahead of me, and I hurried, for I -knew the gray homespun coat and the swing of the gray hat brim.</p> - -<p>“Wait!” I called, and he turned, and then he was laughing down at me, -and saying, “I just went<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> up all those stairs that lead to the Pension -Dante to hunt you, and found you out—and found <i>where</i> you -were—now tell me about it!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Wake!” I said, and I drew a deep breath because I was so glad -to see him, and so relieved over finding some one who could talk as I -did.</p> - -<p>“Pretty bad?” he questioned, with a kind look.</p> - -<p>“I’m <i>so</i> glad to see you,” I stated, which wasn’t exactly an -answer, but it pleased Mr. Wake, for he said, “Why, dear child, how -<i>mighty</i> fine of you!” and pumped my hands up and down in his. -Then he said, “Look here, I’ve a plan. I say we go collect some food, -spoil your dinner, add another inch to my tummy, and have a picnic. -Like ’em?”</p> - -<p>“Love them!” I answered.</p> - -<p>His eyes twinkled down at me, and all the little laugh wrinkles on his -temples stood out.</p> - -<p>“<i>Good!</i>” he said, “I know a little shop down here, on a dark -arched street, where Dante may have passed his Beatrice, and in that -little shop there are cakes that must make the angels long to come down -on parole. And near this bake shop is a wine shop, where I shall buy -you either some vermouth, or some coffee, and my plan is to collect our -goods, assemble them, and then eat. Is it welcome?”</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly the sort of thing that suits my temperament,” I -answered. “I can hardly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> forgive a person who uses a spoon on an ice -cream cone!”</p> - -<p>That made him laugh, although I don’t know why, and he took my hand in -his, and drew it through his arm.</p> - -<p>“Amazingly improper I am told,” he said as he did it, “but a fine way -for comrades to walk, and I feel that we are going to be real comrades -and friends.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>hope</i> so,” I said, for I was liking him more and more all the -time.</p> - -<p>Then we didn’t talk for a little time, and I began to enjoy looking -into the windows of the smart shops that are on the Via Tornabuoni, -and at the gay crowds that shift and change so constantly. There were -dandies lounging at the curbs, swinging their canes, curling their -mustaches, and searching through the crowd, with soft-sentimental brown -eyes, for some pretty girl at whom they could stare—to stare, in -Italy, is a compliment! Then there were bright spots made by the women -with their high-heaped trays of flowers, and the funny spots made by -the insistent little boys who try to sell postcards and sometimes can’t -be discouraged even by a sharp “Basta!” which seems to mean “Get out!” -and “Enough!” and other things of that kind, all rolled into one!</p> - -<p>In the street, the sharp cracking of the cabmen’s whips and their -shrill, high calls made a new sound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> for me to add to my collection, -and the beautiful motors which slid by made me wish that Elaine -McDonald could have <i>one glimpse</i>; because one day at Roberta’s -sewing club when all the rest of the girls were saying that my going -away was fine and everything, Elaine had said that she would rather -stay in Pennsylvania than go and hobnob with organ grinders, and -<i>I</i> think she was jealous.</p> - -<p>I liked all this more than I can say, and with Mr. Wake I wasn’t -bothered by the crowds. Florence has about the same population as -Baltimore, although Mr. Wake said it didn’t seem so because so many -Italians crowd in a few rooms, and they live so tightly packed. One can -walk to the edge of the city anywhere easily, for it doesn’t cover much -space, but to me it seemed very large and, at first, confusing.</p> - -<p>After we had walked some time we turned in a tiny street that had an -archway over it, and seemed as dark as ink from contrast to the sunny -street we’d left. I liked it, and, as I picked my way over the big -cobblestones, I said so.</p> - -<p>“It is a part of Florence that most tourists miss,” said Mr. Wake, -“and it is too bad, for it is the most characteristic part. Ah, here -we are—” he ended and we turned in a tiny doorway from which came the -pleasant smell of hot sugar and warm bread.</p> - -<p>We got our cakes—which were very good—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> took them in our hands, -and went on a few doors, around a corner, up a few steps—and those -right in the street at the back of some great palace—and then we -turned into a broader way and found a shop that had the entire front -open—they roll up during the day time and stay up even through all the -winter—and here I had coffee and Mr. Wake a tiny glass of wine, and -we ate and drank as the girl who had served us looked on and smiled. -It was <i>very</i> pleasant, and I had a <i>fine</i> time! I told him -about my interview with Signor Paggi and he thought I had got off -easily.</p> - -<p>After we had eaten and talked we walked up past the Loggia dei Lanzi -which has statues in it that commemorate all sorts of historic events -and faces the square in which there is a replica of Michael Angelo’s -David; the square is large, and very busy with quickly passing -people, and the people who pause to make small groups that are always -dissolving, and ever reforming; and these people always look futile. I -didn’t know why, but Mr. Wake said that the Palazzo Vecchio, which is -at right angles to the Loggia dei Lanzi and looks scornfully down over -everything, made it.</p> - -<p>“See that old building over there?” he said, as he pointed with his -cane.</p> - -<p>“Um hum,” I answered, as I looked way up at the great big tower, and -tried to keep my mouth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> shut while doing it. I don’t know why it is so -easy to look up with your mouth open!</p> - -<p>“In there,” said Mr. Wake, “are ghosts who talk of making war upon a -neighboring town. They fear that Fiesole is growing too strong, Fiesole -that looks down from the hill behind you.”</p> - -<p>“Did they fight like that?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Exactly like that! And without putting anything on the bill-boards -about it beforehand. . . . You see Italy was—not so long ago either—a -land of little countries, for each city had its rulers, and fought for -its rights, to keep its possessions, or to gain others. . . . And a lot -of the plans went on in there—” and again he pointed with his cane.</p> - -<p>“How old is it?” I asked, and then he told me and I gasped, for it was -begun late in twelve hundred and finished in thirteen-hundred, fourteen.</p> - -<p>“Not so old for Florence,” said Mr. Wake, after my gasp, “you know the -original Battistero, or Baptistery, was built probably in seventh or -eighth century. It was remodeled to its present condition, practically, -in 1200.”</p> - -<p>“No, I didn’t,” I said, and humbly.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’ve lots of time. And you’ll need it. There’s lots to see; -the house where Dante lived, and the tomb of Galileo, and the grave of -Mrs. Browning, and the literary landmarks—Thomas Hardy wrote things in -this town, and George Eliot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> came here, and oh, ever so many more—and -right before you in the middle of this square Savonarola was burned—”</p> - -<p>And I had to ask who he was; I knew that I had heard the name, but I am -lots better at remembering faces then I am at remembering names.</p> - -<p>“The Billy Sunday of the year of our Lord, 1490,” said Mr. Wake, “who, -after he had had more good art burned than has ever been produced -since, displeased his followers, the Florentines, who tortured -him—poor chap—and right over in that building, Jane—and then burned -him.”</p> - -<p>“Why did he want the pictures burned?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“The subjects hadn’t any slickers on,” said Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p>“Feel anything here?” asked Mr. Wake, after we had been quiet a few -minutes.</p> - -<p>“I feel as if I don’t matter much,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“That’s it. . . . The old building smiles scornfully, and says, ‘You -will pass, but I shall stay!’”</p> - -<p>Then we walked across the square between the cabs and motors, with the -crowd, made up of soldiers and officers, and the big policemen—the -carabinieri—who wear flowing capes and feathers in their hats, and -always travel in pairs. As we reached the other side Mr. Wake told me -one more thing, and then took me home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> - -<p>I noticed a statue of a man who was carrying off a beautiful woman who -struggled. There was lots of action in it; the girl looked as if she -could play forward and the man looked as if he would be a whopper at -the bat.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake saw me looking at them and said: “That’s the way they did -it in the old days, and, no doubt, had I lived then, I wouldn’t be a -bachelor. . . . Would you like the story?”</p> - -<p>“Very <i>much</i>,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, as he twirled his cane, “this was the way of it. Very -early in the history of Rome, the debutante crop must have been low, -for there weren’t enough wives for the young men, who were up and -coming and probably wanted some one to darn their socks and to smile -when they told their jokes. And then perhaps there was an extra income -tax on the unmarried; they knew a lot about torture those days and so -it is not impossible! Anyway, the Romans made a great festival in honor -of Neptune, and they invited all the neighboring people to come and -bring their families, and in the midst of the games the young Roman -dandies rushed in among the spectators, and each selected a maiden that -he thought he would like for his wife—it had to be a case of love at -first sight, Jane—and carried her off.</p> - -<p>“Soon after, the Sabine men, who were probably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> considerably put out, -came bearing down upon Rome with loud shouts and the brandishing of -glittering steel, and I myself can see the glare of it in the sun this -day! . . . But the Romans drove them back that time. However—and now -we have the real nub of the story, Jane, and the real confession of the -heart of woman—although the records have it that the Sabine brides put -up a most unholy row when they started out upon their wedding journeys, -they evidently liked the job of being Roman wives, and really respected -the men who didn’t even give them time to pack or to cry just once -again on mother’s shoulder, for before the second battle opened between -the enraged and outraged Sabines and the conquering males of Rome, the -Roman wives, once Sabine girls, rushed between the warring factions and -plead so prettily for peace that it was granted, and the story goes on -that the two people were so united that their Kings reigned together, -and that all thereafter was both peaceful and prosperous.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” I said. I did <i>like</i> that story. “Did you ever feel like -doing that!” I asked, for I thought it might be a confession of men as -well as of women.</p> - -<p>“I have,” he answered, “and if I had—perhaps—perhaps it would have -been better!” and then he smiled down at me, but the smile didn’t bring -out his laugh wrinkles, but instead it made him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> look strangely old and -tired, which made me wonder. We walked on, for a little time, silently.</p> - -<p>“By the way,” I said as we reached the covered corridor that is -opposite the big Uffizi Gallery, “my Fairy Godmother writes letters!”</p> - -<p>“And floats them to you upon dew?” asked Mr. Wake, “or does a spider -throw them to you with a silver, silken thread?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I responded, “she puts a blue charm on the upper right hand -corner, and the letter comes to me!”</p> - -<p>“And something of a marvel at that,” commented Mr. Wake. Then he -dismissed fancies, and added, “You have heard from her?”</p> - -<p>“Twice,” I answered, “I had a letter yesterday, and one that was posted -only an hour after it came to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve a certain feeling—a want for seeing how fairy godmothers write,” -said Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p>“It’s in my pocket,” I told him, and we stopped and I fumbled around -until I found the large, stiff square.</p> - -<p>“There—” I said. Mr. Wake took it.</p> - -<p>“No doubt you think me a strange old chap,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” I answered, “a great many people are interested in writing -nowadays.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t that, but your fairy godmother brought to my mind the years -when I believed in fairies.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> . . . A very nice writing, isn’t it? I -think it is most charming, don’t you, Jane?”</p> - -<p>“See how it looks on the page,” I said, taking it from him quickly, and -then the letter from its envelope. “It <i>is</i> pretty, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“‘Dear, dear Child:—’” he read, and then suddenly, as if he were -irritated, or had been hurt sharply, added, “Here, here—I don’t want -to be reading your letters! And my soul, I must be getting you home! -I’ve a dinner engagement over South of the Arno, and I will have to -speed up a bit—”</p> - -<p>And we did.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>At dinner Leslie was uppish and unpleasant. I think she was still -smarting from Mr. Paggi’s attack, and that her pride was so shaken she -had to pretend some of the assurance that she had lost that afternoon. -Anyway, something made her get into a very elaborate dinner dress, and -put a high, Spanish comb in her hair, and wear her big, platinum-set -ring of diamonds, and a little flexible pearl-set bracelet, and a -platinum chain with pearls on that. She looked beautiful, but Mother -never thought it was in good taste to wear things that are unsuitable, -and I don’t either.</p> - -<p>Leslie sailed in after Beata had brought in the soup, and Miss Meek, -with whom Leslie had struck up a feud at the first meal, burst out -with, “Oh,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> my eye! Look at the Queen of Sheba!” which seemed to make -Leslie awfully mad, so when Miss Bannister asked me what I had done -during the afternoon, I told every one—to change the current—in spite -of the fact that Miss Bannister had said, “One of my deaf days, and it -doesn’t matter in the least, don’t you know. Only asked to be polite. -Pass the bread.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake?” said Leslie, after I had told of my walk, and the Loggia -dei Lanzi and the Sabine story. “And he took you into an alley -restaurant to eat? How <i>odd</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps the poor old bounder is jolly hard up,” said Miss Meek, who -tries to be kind to people she likes.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t that,” I said, and I said it sharply, for I was getting -more and more out of temper with Leslie. “We were hunting around for -<i>atmosphere</i>; you ought to know what it is, <i>Miss</i> Parrish, -you talk about it enough. . . . He has a villa out the Fiesole way -and I guess a person with a villa wouldn’t worry about a few cents, -although I would like him <i>just</i> as well if he had to!”</p> - -<p>“<i>That’s</i> the staunch-hearted flapper!” put in Miss Meek, as -Leslie murmured, “So many of the climbing sort rent fearful little -places—really no more than chicken coops, and then call them villas! -<i>So</i> amusing—”</p> - -<p>“Did you mean my friend?” I asked quickly, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> I felt angry hot spots -burn on my cheeks. You have to fasten Leslie. She likes to be mean -in a remote, detached way, which is the meanest way one can be mean! -Of course she didn’t own up to it; I might have known she wouldn’t! -Instead, she answered with, “<i>Really</i>, why would I mean your -friend whom I’ve never seen? What <i>possible</i> interest would I have -in him?”</p> - -<p>I didn’t answer that; I couldn’t, I was too angry. I ate instead, and -so fast that I afterward came as close to feeling that I had a stomach -as I ever do. If I had known then how Leslie would come to feel about -Mr. Wake, and how she was one day to say, “Why didn’t you <i>tell</i> -me he wrote books?” I would have been comforted. But the veil that -covers the future is both heavy and thick, (I guess I must have gotten -that out of some book, but I can’t remember where) and that evening I -was to have nothing to comfort me.</p> - -<p>Something diverted me on the way to my room, and that was Beata, who -sat in the hall with her head on her pretty arms that were dropped on a -table.</p> - -<p>“Why, Beata!” I said, for she looked so forlorn, and I put my hand on -her shoulder. That made her raise her head, and she looked at me and -tried to smile, but there were tear stains on her cheeks and her heavy -lashes were moist, and I saw that the red tie was crumpled up in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> -hand and I was certain that the tie was a little link in her story.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Signorina,” she whimpered, and timidly groped for my hand, and -when she found it she held to it tightly, while I patted her shoulder -with the free one.</p> - -<p>It seemed strange to stand there with her, understanding and helping -each other without a word, when Leslie and I could not understand or -help each other, with all our words in common.</p> - -<p>Leslie sailed by at that moment, and raised her brows as she looked at -the tableau I made with Beata.</p> - -<p>She thought it was common. But it was not. I am not always certain of -my judgment of her then, because at that time I didn’t like her, but -I know I am right in saying that she at that moment was the ordinary -soul, for she would have gone past need, and—raised her brows in -passing!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TEN">CHAPTER TEN<br>CREAM PUFFS, THE TWILIGHT, AND—</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he </span>week that followed the day of our first visit to Signor Paggi -allowed us all to find our grooves and to settle into them. And -each day I, in my going, started with a continental breakfast—one -can slip over these quickly!—and after I had had my two rolls and -a pot of something that smelled a <i>little</i> like coffee and -tasted a <i>lot</i> like some health drink, I went on to two hours of -practising. I finished these when the clock struck eleven, and then -I’d write letters, or sew fresh collars and cuffs in my blue serge, or -wash stockings and underwear, or walk until it was time for the mellow, -soft-toned bell that hung in the hall to be rung and for Beata to say, -“È pronto!” which of course meant lunch, and that it was one.</p> - -<p>After lunch I had two more hours of practising and then I could do as I -liked again. Sometimes I walked—always if I hadn’t in the morning—and -sometimes I read or wrote, and once in a while Miss Meek asked me -to play “draughts,” by which she meant checkers, or Miss Bannister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> -would call me in her room to show me some old, faded, once brown, now -yellowing photographs of the house where she had lived as a girl, and -where her father, who had been “The Vicar,” had died. And I always said -they were <i>beautiful</i>, and she would nod, and keep on nodding for -quite a while, and point out the vine that her mother had planted, and -the place where her father sat under the trees and read his books, and -the spot where she and her little sister, who was dead, had had their -dolly parties. I think she enjoyed doing it, and I was so glad that I -could look at the photographs and say that they were <i>lovely!</i> and -ask her little questions which she seemed to like answering.</p> - -<p>Dinner and the evenings were all about the same, with Mr. Hemmingway -“a-hemming” and trying to remember, and Miss Meek barking out “Oh, -lud!”, or asking Leslie how “Lady Vere de Vere” was this evening? -And Miss Bannister squeaking out questions and then telling whoever -answered them that she didn’t care what they said. And “not to bother, -please—” and then—my room, for Leslie and Viola were very thick at -that time—and they wouldn’t have included me in any of their plans, -even if I had let my pride weaken and let them see that I was a little -lonely sometimes.</p> - -<p>Of course I knew that I was in Florence to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> work, and that I was -the luckiest girl in the world to be there, and I told myself that -<i>over</i> and <i>over</i> again! But a person’s heart will go on -feeling just as it wants to—in spite of all the person’s reasoning and -sense—and I must admit that some of those hours after dinner found -me—well, not <i>exactly</i> happy. I think I really would have been -pretty close to the edge of honestly real misery if it hadn’t been for -my Artist, who was working a good deal at night.</p> - -<p>After I’d snapped on my electric light, which only lit the center of -the great big room and made deep shadows behind each piece of furniture -and turned the corners into inky blotches, I used to go to my window. -If my artist were working, I’d go back to the electric turn, switch it -off, and then cross the room again, scramble up to sit on the sill, rub -my shins, for I always seemed to hit something in crossing! and—watch.</p> - -<p>At first, he was painting with a model, and the model was a little -Italian boy, and that was the most fun to see, because the artist’s -arranging him was interesting. He worked quickly those nights, and not -very long. . . . Then came his working alone, and—what Leslie would -have called, “Real <i>drama</i>, my dear!” For more than once I saw -him stand away from his canvas, and study it in a way that told me he -didn’t think it right. . . . And once he dropped his palette on a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> -table, flung himself down in a chair and dropped his head in his hands.</p> - -<p>I can’t describe how interested I got in that picture and in the -artist. I liked him even then—which does seem silly—but I did, -and although I had never seen him enough closely to know his face, -nor, of course, the picture, I felt that I must go tell him that it -was <i>fine</i>, and that he mustn’t be discouraged! I reached the -point—and after only a little time of looking into his work room—of -talking half aloud, and saying all the things I wanted to say right to -him.</p> - -<p>“It’s <i>really</i> good,” I would say, “you <i>mustn’t</i> get -discouraged! What do you do with that stick you hold?”</p> - -<p>Of course he didn’t answer, but it helped me, and I will say here that -when any one is miserable from thinking of the kind of noise that they -are used to at home, and the way their mother looks when she sits by -the table with the drop light on it, mending, it is a good thing to -get <i>really</i> interested in some one else! I know. I speak from -experience!</p> - -<p>That was the way the first week went; the second one started out with -the most interesting experience, and it ended with another one—and -one that I never, at that point, would have imagined <i>could</i> be! -But Fate has a great many little knots in her threads which make her -change<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> the pattern as she weaves, and Viola’s dislike of sickness, and -being with sick people, made Fate pause, then take a stitch and—draw -me close to Leslie!</p> - -<p>I reckoned time, quite naturally, not with the start of a calendar -week, but from the day that I took my lesson. And it was on Wednesday, -at five on a rainy afternoon, just after my second lesson that I came -up the Via Tornabuoni all alone, stopped to buy three cream puffs, and -then thought I’d step into the Duomo which almost fills the big Piazza -del Duomo, and from its dome looks not only over all the city but far -off to the hills.</p> - -<p>It was hazy inside, for incense was floating, but the chill of the -outside air that had come with the rain was gone, and the candles on -the big altar made a pretty bright yellow blotch in the center of all -the gray.</p> - -<p>To people who only know churches in America, churches in Italy won’t -be understood, for Americans go to church stiffly, and then hurry off -criticizing the sermon or complaining about the hymns that were sung; -they never would think of standing around to talk in church the way the -Italians do; or think of going into church carrying a live rooster by -the feet, or of sitting down in the back of a church to eat a loaf of -black bread and a slice of orange-colored cheese. But the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> Italians do -this, and all sorts of informal things, and it does make the churches -seem very home-like and warm, and it’s nice to go in them. I wandered -around, and I even thought of eating a cream puff, but I decided I -wouldn’t because I hadn’t been brought up to it, and because it would -spoil my dinner and because cream puffs sometimes squeeze out when you -bite and I had on my best suit, so I carried them in that tender way -that a person carries cream puffs and enjoyed the real Italy that one -finds <i>in</i> the churches.</p> - -<p>There was a soldier from the ranks talking with his mother—I heard him -call her “Madre mia”—which means “Mother of mine,” and she smiled up -at him until her face looked like a little winter apple—it was so full -of wrinkles—and kept her hand on his arm which she kept patting.</p> - -<p>Near them, on her knees by a confessional—which is a little box -that looks like a telephone booth but really holds a Priest who -<i>tries</i> to help you, instead of something that squeaks out, “The -party doesn’t <i>an</i>swer,”—was another sort of Italian, a woman -who was beautifully dressed, and behind her was her maid who wore the -gay costume of the Roman peasant and who carried the beautiful lady’s -little white dog.</p> - -<p>Officers stood in groups chatting. Others came, dropped to their knees -a moment, crossed themselves, and then joined them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> - -<p>And a shabby old man with a lump on his back came in, got down to his -knees very stiffly, and there looked at the altar for a long, long time -as his lips moved. I don’t know why that made my throat feel cramped, -because he was getting help, and for that moment all of the big church -was his, and his God was close to him, I know. But I did feel a little -funny, and so I hurried on, to look at a statue by a man named Michael -Angelo, who died nearly four hundred years ago, but whose work is still -in style.</p> - -<p>After that I watched a little boy and girl who were sitting on a -kneeling chair, listened to the Priests, who were having a service up -by the main altar, and then I went out.</p> - -<p>I had been inside quite a little while, I knew, after I saw the outdoor -light, for it was much darker, and the rain less a rain and more a -fog. The people who hurried across the shining square with their funny -flat umbrellas, looked like big black toadstools, and all the lights -reflected in the puddles, and the bright windows were hazed.</p> - -<p>I didn’t want to put up my umbrella, because I love the feeling of a -little moisture on my cheeks when I walk fast and get hot, but I had my -cream puffs, and my best suit on, and so I did. And oh, how lucky it -was that I did, for if I hadn’t—but that comes later.</p> - -<p>I went down the steps, and across the Piazza<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> del Duomo, keeping my eye -out for the trams, (they call street cars “trams” in Florence) the cabs -with their shouting, huddled up drivers, and the purring motors, and I -turned down the street that would take me past the English Pharmacy, -for I needed a toothbrush.</p> - -<p>On this I had gone along a few feet when I saw a man ahead of me who -swayed. I was quite used to seeing drunken men at home, but I wondered -about him; and when I remembered that Mr. Wake said the Italians never -drank too much, I wondered whether he was ill.</p> - -<p>But I only wondered idly, as you do wonder on streets about things you -pass, and I might have passed him if he hadn’t, as I was beside him, -suddenly clutched the handle of my umbrella just below the place I held -it. Then he stood swaying, and looking down at me with eyes that were -glazed and seemed close to sightless, as he said, “I beg pardon, Madam, -I do—humbly beg—your pardon, I—”</p> - -<p>And then he moistened his lips, and stopped, and I saw that he was -really very ill.</p> - -<p>I closed my umbrella, because once at home I saw a country-woman try -to go through the revolving doors of our First National Bank with her -umbrella up, and it impressed me with the fact that you can’t use -umbrellas very skilfully if you are trying, with both hands, to do -something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> else. And I got it down <i>just in time</i>, for the tall -man was swaying, and he needed all the help I gave him and—more!</p> - -<p>“Sit down on this step,” I said, and I put my hand under his arm to -guide him.</p> - -<p>After he was down, his head rolled limply to one side and then dropped -back against the wall, his eyes closed, and when I spoke to him he -didn’t answer.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_ELEVEN">CHAPTER ELEVEN<br>ENTER—SAM DEANE!</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> knew</span> he had fainted, but I spoke to him again to make sure, and I -even laid my hand on his shoulder and shook him a little. Then I put -my umbrella on the step, and my bag of cream puffs on that, and began -to sop my handkerchief in the least dirty looking puddle that I could -find. And all the time I did this I frowned just as hard as I could at -two little Italian boys who had paused to look on, and I said “Basta!” -very fiercely, but they didn’t go on; instead they stood eating their -chestnut paste and chattering with the greatest excitement. And soon -their lingering proved a help to me, for their noise made an old lady -pause. She had a tray of combs and hairpins, that were studded with -rhinestones and red glass, hung from her shoulder by a wide tape, and -after she had studied the situation, she slipped the tape down over -her arm, set her tray on the dryest spot she could find, and squatted -before my charge and began to rub his hands. And while she did this she -talked loudly and quickly at me until I was so confused that I lost all -the use and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> understanding of the thirty or forty Italian words that I -really <i>did</i> know.</p> - -<p>Then a shopkeeper who wore a long, once white apron and who was chewing -a toothpick came along and stopped, and <i>he</i> asked questions, and -the old lady and the little boys all answered at once, and made their -arms go like hard-working, energetic windmills as they answered. Then -two soldiers in their olive drab came along, and <i>they</i> paused and -wanted to know what was wrong, and the little boys and the old lady -<i>and</i> the shopkeeper answered <i>them</i>, and they stood talking. -And then a well dressed man of, I should say, the middle class, saw our -group, and joined it, and <i>he</i> wanted to know what was up, and -when he was answered it sounded exactly like the point in a ball game -where the home team makes the first run made, in the last half of the -tenth inning.</p> - -<p>And I suppose it must have been funny, but it didn’t seem so to me -then. The man had been unconscious for so long that I was very, very -much worried, and I didn’t know <i>what</i> to do!</p> - -<p>And when still another man paused and asked <i>the</i> important -question, and the whole thing was enacted again with even more -enthusiasm, and more noise, I felt as if I were absolutely marooned. -There was something very dreadful about those few moments during which -I needed help so badly and had no way of asking for it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> - -<p>The last man to join the volunteers stepped forward and I saw that he -was an officer of the Infantry, and he looked as dapper as they always -do in spite of the fact that mud was on his gleaming boots and that -some passing cart or motor had evidently splashed mud up on a corner of -his wide blue cape.</p> - -<p>He bared his head and bowed to me, and then held out a little coral -charm that looked like a horn, and which I found later are carried by -millions of Italians as talismans against all sorts of evil.</p> - -<p>He waved this and just at that moment the tall thin man happened to -open his eyes; I heard the little crowd gasp, and then I saw them bow -their heads and cross themselves quickly—and the little boys got -chestnut paste on their blouses by their doing this—and then there was -even higher, shriller, faster chatter, and through this my charge spoke.</p> - -<p>“What’s—the row?” he asked weakly.</p> - -<p>“You fainted,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Fool thing to do,” he said, and he tried to get up, but the trying -made him so dizzy that he had to sink back again, and then he closed -his eyes as people do when they are confronted by a whirling world that -has black spots before it.</p> - -<p>“We have lots of time,” I assured him, and just as gently as I could, -for I did feel <i>so</i> sorry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> for him. And then I turned to the -Italians, and said “Grazie, <i>grazie</i>!” as hard as I could, and -bowed as if the affair were quite over, and all of them except the -little boys drifted away. After that I reached down and put my fingers -on the sick man’s wrist, and when I located his pulse I found that it -was pretty slow and that made me ask the elder of the two boys—in -two languages, and five waves—if he could get a glass of water. And -that made <i>him</i> nod and lay down his slab of chestnut paste by my -patient on the step, and that told me a story. And I never in my life -have felt so badly, or so sorry for any one, as I did when I began to -understand.</p> - -<p>For the sick man looked at that nibbled little slab, and moistened his -lips, and then he looked away. And then he looked at it again, and -shifted his position, and once he even reached out toward it, and then -he sat back and for a moment covered his eyes.</p> - -<p>And I knew <i>right then</i> why those cream puffs had beckoned me from -the window of the gay pastry shop! I opened the bag.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” I said, “when I’m faint, I eat; it takes the blood away -from your stomach or puts it there, or something.” And honestly, -Roberta <i>couldn’t have said it any better</i>!</p> - -<p>Well, he took one, and he tried to eat it slowly, but he couldn’t. -After he finished it, he said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> “Thank you ever so much—I believe I -must have missed my lunch—I sometimes get interested in work—” and -then he paused and looked down at the bag.</p> - -<p>“It’ll take more than one to help you,” I said, “you were -<i>awfully</i> faint—”</p> - -<p>But he shook his head. “No,” he answered, decidedly, “but thank -you—and so much—you got those for yourself, and I’m afraid I’ve -spoiled your party now—you have been <i>most kind</i>—” and then -he drank the water the little boy had brought, said a few words of -thanks in Italian, and sat looking before him. I had settled by him on -the step, and sitting there wasn’t bad, for the rain had turned to so -gentle a mist that it was little more than a fog, and it was getting -so dark that the passing venders thought we were only natives, and so -they didn’t bother us to buy lumpy looking statuettes or postcards or -rhinestone combs. The open-faced shops sent out shafts of light that -were so dulled by the haze that they looked strained, and I can’t -exactly explain but it was sort of cozy and nice in spite of the -dampness, and pretty too.</p> - -<p>After a little time my sick friend turned. “You must get on,” he stated.</p> - -<p>“I’m not in any hurry,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“But it’s getting late for you,” he said as he looked down. I liked -his face even then. Later,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> Leslie said he wasn’t handsome, and she -said that the only two really handsome men she had ever seen were Ben -Forbes (<i>and he has a pink wart on his chin!</i>) and Wallace Reid; -but I think that kind eyes and a good mouth and a firm chin make a man -handsome, and I stick to it that Sam <i>is</i>.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to take you home,” I stated, very seriously, and my friend -laughed and then I knew him; for I had heard him laugh in that happy, -quick way as he leaned out of a studio window that looked into our -court and answered the sallies of Gino, who was rubbing his brasses -down below.</p> - -<p>“You are a dear and kind little soul,” he said after the laugh faded, -“but that tickled me; you are about four feet long, aren’t you? And -I’m a perfect telegraph pole, and pretty heavy. Anyway—” he had grown -very serious, “do you think I am going to let you bother any more with -me? You’ve wasted too much time now, and—what’s more important—one of -your lovely cream puffs—” and after he said that he looked at the bag -again, looked away quickly, and swallowed hard.</p> - -<p>I knew I had to do <i>something</i> to make him let me help him, -because I could see that he was stiff-necked, and that he intended -to be independent, and so I said—and rather softly because I was -embarrassed—“But I owe you <i>lots</i>—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> - -<p>He said, “How come?” and turned again to look down at me, and I told -him, and as I told him he listened hard, and once—of course I must -have been mistaken—I thought his eyes filled.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, after I finished, “<i>Well</i>,” and then, “<i>You -poor little chap!</i>”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” I said, “I’m all right now, but you see you helped me when I was -unhappy and so it’s no more than fair that I should take you home, -and—and—share my cream puffs—”</p> - -<p>Then an old lady who carried a scaldino—which is a funny little stove -that stands on legs and looks like a stewpot—came out of the door, and -we stood up.</p> - -<p>“Can you move?” I asked anxiously.</p> - -<p>“You bet I <i>can</i>,” I heard, “I feel <i>great</i>! Come on, little -friend—”</p> - -<p>“You take my arm,” I ordered, and he did. And he insisted upon carrying -the umbrella too, which we didn’t open, and every once in a while he -leaned down so he could look under my hat, and then he would say, “You -say you <i>aren’t</i> homesick any more?”</p> - -<p>And I’d say, “No, not any more—”</p> - -<p>And he’d answer with, “That’s right. . . . You mustn’t be unhappy, you -know! You just mustn’t be <i>that</i>!”</p> - -<p>We walked in an awfully funny way, because his stride was miles long, -and of course mine had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> to be short. And when he tried to shorten his -stride, it made him teeter like a Japanese official—I know about these -because our choral society gave <i>The Mikado</i> two years ago—while -if I tried to accommodate my step to his I looked as if I were doing -the bent knee walk the twins do, that lowers their bodies and shortens -their legs and looks <i>awfully</i> funny; and they always do it back -of Roberta when she is all dressed up and starts out to do her fancy -calling.</p> - -<p>So we hobbled and hitched along, and suddenly I laughed, and he laughed -too, and then we were even better friends. It is strange, and very -nice, I think, how laughter does this.</p> -<div class="figcenter illowp51" id="i122" style="max-width: 29.75em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i122.png" alt=""> - <div class="caption">“My name is Sam Deane,” he announced.</div> -</div> -<p>“My name is Sam Deane,” he announced, after our laughter had trailed -off into a silence that had lasted past two fruit stores and a wine -shop, “what is yours, if I may be so bold as to ask?”</p> - -<p>“Plain Jane Jones,” I answered. “I think yours is a really <i>nice</i> -name!” And then he told me that his wasn’t half as nice as mine, which -was mere kindness, because there is nothing romantic or fancy about -Jane or Jones; but, as Father said, there could be no Clytemnestras in -a flock that was handicapped by the last name <i>he</i> gave us!</p> - - - -<p>Then we reached the corner that would take us to the row of houses that -backed on our court, and here we turned, and as we neared his house I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>kept getting more and more nervous, because I wanted to say something, -and I didn’t know how to say it. That is a feeling that most women do -not understand, but it comes to me often.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sam Deane helped me, because I think <i>he</i> wanted to say -something that <i>he</i> couldn’t say; anyway, we stood for quite a -few minutes before his door, and then suddenly he said, “I <i>am</i> a -dolt; I intend to see you around the block, of course; it’s much too -late for you to walk alone.”</p> - -<p>“You <i>are</i> just what you said you were,” I interrupted. “I’ve -spent an hour getting you here; it would be too silly for you to try -that! I’m going to take you up to your room, too—”</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, “really, Little Miss Jane Jones, you’re <i>not</i>. -I’ll call Gino. The other wouldn’t do at <i>all</i>!” Then his tone -changed and he ended with, “How am I ever going to thank you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was nothing,” I answered, and I looked down at the spot between -the bricks that I was poking with the umbrella I had just recaptured. -He laughed, but not as I had ever heard him laugh before; this was a -tight, short laugh that didn’t seem as if it had much mirth in it.</p> - -<p>“Well, just as you will have it,” he stated, “but—<i>I know</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Deane,” I said, “will you <i>please</i> take my cream puffs?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> - -<p>He said, “<i>No</i>, my dear.” Said it with his chin set and his head -high.</p> - -<p>I waited for a moment, looking up at him. “Won’t you <i>please</i>?” I -said, and I was perfectly amazed; my voice shook.</p> - -<p>“You know I’m hungry, don’t you?” he asked stiffly.</p> - -<p>I nodded, “That’s the reason I’m trying to give them to you,” I -explained. “I don’t need them; Miss Julianna always gives us nice -meals, and I only got them for diversion. I thought I’d eat them coming -home because Mr. Paggi makes me nervous, but I’d forgotten my best -suit, and that I had to carry an umbrella—and that made eating them -difficult—” I paused, and looked up to see that my new friend wasn’t -looking over my head any more, but down at me.</p> - -<p>“It’s a devil of an agent who is making my trouble,” he confided, “he -gave me an order, and now—try as hard as I may—I can’t make the thing -suit him; and I can’t tell now whether he’s right, or whether he wants -to revoke the order and is doing it by finding fault. You see, I can’t -see the thing straight any more—”</p> - -<p>Suddenly I thought of Mr. Wake, who knows a great deal about pictures, -and I felt that he would help Sam Deane; I was <i>sure</i> of it. -It made me smile. “I <i>know</i>,” I said, “that things will change -soon—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span></p> - -<p>Then Sam Deane said something that was kind, but of course nonsense. He -said, “They have changed; you—you’ve made them—”</p> - -<p>I poked the hole between the bricks after I said thank you, and then -I realized that it must be getting late, and that I would be late for -dinner if I didn’t hurry, so I held out the bag.</p> - -<p>“<i>I would take them from you</i>,” I said, and after a second of -hesitation he took them. He didn’t thank me at all; but he clamped the -bag of cream puffs under his arm—he must have had to scrape them off -the paper when he came to eat them—and then he put both his hands -around my un-umbrellaed hand, and for a minute held it very tightly.</p> - -<p>“I—can’t say anything,” he said in a funny, jerky way.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” I answered. And he laughed a little, and he did -that in a jerky way too. Then he said, “You turn on your light, and -switch it on and off three or four times, will you, when you get in? -I’ll want to know that you’re all right.”</p> - -<p>“I will,” I promised.</p> - -<p>“And look here, you won’t be homesick, will you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I promised. Then I said “Good-night,” and he said “Good-night,” -and I went off down the street. At the corner I looked back to see him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> -still on the step and watching me, and that made me nervous, because -people catch cold easily when they aren’t well, and he should have -known it. And furthermore, there wasn’t the least necessity of his -watching me, because I had often been out later than that by myself and -I was quite safe.</p> - -<p>In the Pension I hurried to my room, and took off my hat and coat and -switched my light off and on several times as I had promised, and from -across the court I had a fast-flashed answer.</p> - -<p>Then I went out to dinner where Mr. Hemmingway was telling of his first -trip in a yawl—whatever that is—which had been in the spring of -1871, or 1872, he had a fearful time remembering which; and where Miss -Bannister was telling of the crumpets that they had had for tea when -the gentry came during the years of her girlhood; and where Miss Meek -was making sniff-prefaced remarks about people who made their money -overnight in America—this was for Leslie’s benefit—and where Beata -was to be seen, again with eyelids that were puffed from tears.</p> - -<p>After dinner as I played Canfield in the dining room with Miss Meek -looking on and saying, “That’s the way to it! Now smack the queen on -the king jolly quick!” I thought of all the unfinished stories I had -around me.</p> - -<p>First there was Miss Sheila, whose love story had been unhappy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> - -<p>Then there was Mr. Wake, and I felt certain that he had a long story -tangled in the years that he had passed.</p> - -<p>Leslie came next; Leslie who had cared enough for this Ben Forbes man -to come to Florence in order to show him that she was <i>not</i> what -he had said she was.</p> - -<p>And Viola, who for some reason was making a pretense of studying when -she really hated work.</p> - -<p>Beata followed, Beata whose tie-knitting had ceased, and who cried as -she did her dusting or scraped the carrots.</p> - -<p>And I had added, just that evening, another one, and that was Sam -Deane, who was hungry, and who was fighting, and who needed help.</p> - -<p>All of them had stories and all of the stories seemed most interesting, -to me. I, I realized, hadn’t any story, but I didn’t really need it, -while there was so much activity and romance for every one around me.</p> - -<p>Before I undressed, I wrote Mr. Wake a long letter about Sam Deane, and -I said that I was sorry to trouble him, but that I did want his help, -and that Sam Deane lived on the third floor of the building that backed -ours, which would be good for reducing Mr. Wake’s stomach. And then I -signed myself most affectionately and admiringly his, and closed and -addressed and stamped my letter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> - -<p>Then I got Beata to take it out. I found her sitting before the wall -shrine and looking at it dully.</p> - -<p>“It must go <i>quickly</i>—” I said. And she said something of -sweethearts and love, which was, of course, all off, but I hadn’t the -time nor ability to explain and so I let it go; and then I went back to -my room and undressed and went to bed.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWELVE">CHAPTER TWELVE<br>DARK CLOUDS</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he </span>days that followed were dark and gloomy; the cold crept inside and -every one was uncomfortable and almost every one cross. Sometimes I -think that the weather really makes all the history, and certainly if -it hadn’t been damp Leslie wouldn’t have been sick with a cold; and if -she hadn’t had a cold she wouldn’t have quarreled with Viola; and if -Viola and she hadn’t quarreled, Viola wouldn’t have told Miss Meek all -about Leslie’s heart affair; and if Viola hadn’t confided it to Miss -Meek, then Viola and Leslie might have patched up their difference -long before they did. All this happened in the course of two dragging, -rough-surfaced days, during which no one was happy. And I contend that -the strain started from the clouded skies, and the chill which crept in -to cling to the floors and live boldly in the passages.</p> - -<p>Friday afternoon I slipped a slicker over my everyday suit, which is a -belted tweed, and pulled a plain little felt hat low, and started out. -It was raining miserably, but I thought that I could shake<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> off the -queer, unpleasant weight that I felt inside, if I walked hard, for I -had done that before. But everything conspired to hinder me.</p> - -<p>I suppose every one has pictures that they collect without meaning to; -funny, little pictures that live in their minds and spring up at odd -moments; and pictures that sometimes come, with time, to bring back -no more than the <i>feeling</i> of the long forgotten day when the -particular picture hung itself up inside.</p> - -<p>Cats that step reluctantly and pick up their feet in their wet-hating, -curly way, will, I know, always take me back to the damp air of that -afternoon when I walked down past the fish market to the Piazza del -Duomo, where the cobbles shone in the wet and reflected the bobbing -umbrellas, and where, instead of the usual chattering crowds, there -were empty spaces, which was bound to give a feeling of loneliness to -any one who knew and loved the Florence of sunny days.</p> - -<p>I went through this and down past the Loggia dei Lanzi, where there -were no stalls or no hand trucks heaped with flowers, and then through -the court-like street that divides the two upper floors of the big -Uffizi Gallery, on under the little passageway that connects these, and -then along the balustraded walk that overlooks the Arno.</p> - -<p>It is lovely to walk by this river in the sunlight, because then there -are women down below, on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> shallow strips of beach that crop up -here and there, who wash clothes by beating them on stones <i>with</i> -stones, and who sing and joke, or call scornful taunts at each other, -as they work. But this day it was empty save for a little boy who sat -in the stern of a moored boat and fished—I suppose with a bent pin on -his string—just as his little American brother might do in my own land.</p> - -<p>After I had walked toward the Grazia Bridge, and crossed the street -to see something I thought pretty in one of the windows of the shops, -I turned and went back toward the Ponte Vecchio, which means “The Old -Bridge,” and as I walked across this I considered what I would buy to -take home to Mother, Father, Roberta and the twins.</p> - -<p>I did this because the bridge is lined with little shops that have -windows that twinkle from the gold and silver they hold and the -gleaming of all the stones I had ever heard of and many, many more.</p> - -<p>Then—and with the weighted, unpleasant feeling still with me—I turned -in the direction that would take me home, and hurried as quickly as I -could because the rain was coming down faster and it was coming on the -slant.</p> - -<p>The people in the shops I passed were idle, and the women huddled up -with the stewpot little stoves they call scaldinoes tucked under their -feet and skirts. They still sat in their doorways although<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> a real -storm raged, and I learned that day, truly, that most of Italy does -live in the street.</p> - -<p>As I turned in the Via Nazionale, which is our street and becomes the -Piazza Indipendenza as soon as it reaches the park, I saw, through an -open door, a piece of stove pipe that stood on four legs and had a -curling little chimney at one end, and that made me smile a little, -for the original pattern was invented by an American sea captain who -wintered in Florence and almost died of the cold; and the stoves—which -Mr. Wake says get much hotter than the infernal regions ever -<i>could</i>—are called “American pigs.”</p> - -<p>I found the hall very, very dark, and after I had climbed the stairs -and got in the Pension corridor I found that that also was dark, and -then Miss Julianna came along, switched on the lights, and through that -I heard Beata’s story.</p> - -<p>“She is ashamed,” said Miss Julianna, “to have you see the <i>cry on -her cheek</i>.”</p> - -<p>I said I was sorry, as Beata, who had been sitting in the half light by -a table, lowered her head and looked away.</p> - -<p>“It is sad,” Miss Julianna agreed, “the good girl, Beata! She loves -very much, and also has love give to her, but has not the dowry! And -you know here it is necessary.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t she earn it?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“She had save some, but her small brother,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> Giuseppe, walks of the -crutch, and could be made well; for him she give her money that was -saved. No, Beata?” she ended, after adding a string of Italian that was -too quickly spoken for me to follow.</p> - -<p>Beata nodded, and <i>she</i> spoke quickly, and then she sobbed.</p> - -<p>“She say,” said Miss Julianna, “that she is happy and would do again, -but her heart, poor little foolish one! Her heart go on loving when it -should now <i>stop</i>! It is <i>sad</i>! No, Signorina?”</p> - -<p>I thought it was! And I went over by Beata and patted her shoulder. It -did seem unfair for her to be unhappy, because she was always <i>so</i> -pleasant and kind.</p> - -<p>“The Signorina Par<i>reesh</i> is more bad of the throat,” went on Miss -Julianna; “I went in; she say, ‘How glad to die, I would be!’ also you -have the letter—<i>here</i>—”</p> - -<p>I took the letter with a good deal of hope that trickled off into -nothing as I saw dear Miss Sheila’s writing. It had been over a week -since I had heard from home, and it seemed much longer than it was. -Of course I was glad to hear from Miss Sheila, but I needed a letter -from Mother, all full of an account of the things the twins had done, -and who was calling on Roberta that night, and who was sick, and how -many appendixes Daddy had taken out, and what they’d had for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> dinner, -and how the geraniums were doing, and how Marshal Foch—who is our -canary—was almost through molting.</p> - -<p>That was what I <i>needed</i> and so I had to swallow hard several -times before I opened Miss Sheila’s letter—I had thought <i>surely</i> -the letter was from Mother—and after I opened it I swallowed harder, -for the twins had contracted diphtheria—as they did everything, -together—and Miss Sheila said that Mother wouldn’t be able to write -for some time. Mother had telegraphed her and asked her to write me and -to keep me informed.</p> - -<p>Well, after I stood around a minute looking down at the page the way -you do when it holds something you’d rather not see, I went along the -corridor to my room, and in there, I sat down in the cold, and wondered -whether the twins were very sick, and then I thought of the times -I’d been cross to them, and then I wondered whether Mother could get -it—and I had to swallow <i>awfully</i> hard over that, and then—I -thought of Father. And I got up very quickly and squared my shoulders, -and took off my coat, and put it over a chair to dry, and hung my hat -on the bed post, and went off down the corridor to Leslie’s room, for -Father had <i>no use for people who are not sports</i>. It helped me to -remember that.</p> - -<p>Leslie was sitting up with her feet in a tub of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> hot water, and she had -on a chin strap that tied on top of her head in a funny little bow, and -she was crying. I was sorry for her, and sorrier for myself, and we -were both miserable, but she looked funny. I saw it even then.</p> - -<p>“Always—wear this when—I’m alone,” she said thickly and in jerks. -(She was talking about the rubber strap that was jacking up her chin.) -“Mother—has a double—chin and—<i>the blood just drains from my heart -when I look</i>—every time <i>I look at her</i>!”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t worry about it to-day,” I advised. Then I asked her whether -I could get her anything. She shook her head, and then she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Viola told Miss Meek everything <i>I’d ever told her</i>,” she said, -“all about Ben Forbes saying I was idle, and a p-parisite. Don’t you -think that was mean?”</p> - -<p>I did. And I said so.</p> - -<p>She sniffed, and then suddenly, she hid her face in her arm and began -to cry hard.</p> - -<p>“I wish—” she whimpered, “I were—<i>dead</i>—”</p> - -<p>And then I got <i>her</i> story.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> - -<p>This Benjamin Forbes had lived next door to the Parrishes in New York, -and he did until Leslie was eighteen, which was the year before she -“came out,” (whatever that is) anyway, he used to help Leslie with -her lessons, and take her to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> the Zoo and riding in the park, and he -bought her candy, (the hard, healthy variety that comes in jars and is -no good, but the only sort she was permitted to eat, and she said she -appreciated the fact that his <i>intentions</i> were kind) and he even -used to go to the dentist’s with her while she was having her teeth -straightened.</p> - -<p>Well, she said that he never thought of her except as a little girl, -but that she <i>adored</i> him, and that one night when she was at -a fudge party at boarding school—and she was only sixteen at the -time—when the other girls were discussing and planning their husbands, -she, Leslie, suddenly knew what sort she wanted, and that the sort was -<i>Ben</i>.</p> - -<p>And she placed him on an altar then, (I quote; for Leslie’s style is -<i>not</i> mine) and she never wavered once although she had much -attention paid to her, and had had two and a half proposals—the half -coming from the fact that her father plunked right in the center of the -third one, and evicted the suitor, who left in such agitation that he -went without his hat. (Leslie kept it for a souvenir) However, to get -on, Mr. Forbes’ younger brother wasn’t strong, and so Mr. Forbes bought -a ranch and went out there, and he liked it and they stayed.</p> - -<p>He came back after four years, and offered to take Leslie to the -<i>Hippodrome</i>, which showed he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> didn’t know she had grown up, but -she suggested a Russian play instead, and he took her there, but she -said she could see he didn’t enjoy it, and that he was not pleased with -her having matured and that he rather resented it, and he didn’t seem -to know how to talk to her, and he acted baffled, and she said that, as -he groped, and unconsciously showed his disappointment, <i>every dream -and hope of hers was scattered in the dust</i>. (I am quoting Leslie -again) Well, he left after he had been in New York a week, but the -night before he left Leslie asked him frankly why he didn’t like her, -(she told him that she could <i>see</i> he didn’t) and then he admitted -that he was a little disappointed.</p> - -<p>“I like girls,” he said, “who can work, and who don’t make playing -their only work. All you can do is go to teas and poppycock parties, -now isn’t it?” (She said he was gentle, but that he told her all he -felt)</p> - -<p>“You can’t,” he went on, “even play the piano as well as you did at -fourteen; you can’t keep house, can you?” (And Leslie couldn’t) “And -it seems to me,” he ended, “that you are content to be a pretty little -parasite, and that disappoints me.”</p> - -<p>And his saying that sent her to Florence, and it started, she said, -a ceaseless ache in her heart. And the ache grew too large to keep -hidden, and Leslie confided in Viola; and Viola, in an effort to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> make -Miss Meek realize that Leslie was away out of her natural placing, told -Miss Meek that Leslie’s broken heart had led her to seek the solace of -work in these humble surroundings. And Viola’s talking to Miss Meek was -made by the fact that Viola hated sickness, couldn’t bear being with -people who were sick, and—had to talk to some one.</p> - -<p>In that way the confidence became a triangle, and it ended as such -triangles usually do—where it started—for Miss Meek came in to -Leslie’s room and boomed out, “Oho, Miss Smarty! The Queen didn’t rule -every one now, did she? And I’ll say jolly lucky for the Forbes man at -that!” (Miss Meek dislikes Leslie)</p> - -<p>And when Viola appeared later, and said, from the doorway, “Darling, -is there <i>anything</i> I can do for you?” Leslie answered, “You can -<i>try</i> to keep your mouth shut!” and then I think they had a row, -although Leslie says that people of her station <i>never</i> row. It -seemed like one to my simple nature, though, and during the course of -it Leslie told Viola that her people were “nobodies” and that Mrs. -Parrish hadn’t been “at all pleased” when she heard of Viola’s going, -and that she, Leslie, now knew it was a “climber’s scheme”; and then -Viola said that Leslie considered herself more important than she was, -and that money wasn’t <i>anything</i>, and that now she knew that -society<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> was a “hollow sham,” since people like Leslie could masquerade -as paragons or paramounts, or something like that—I sort of forget—in -it.</p> - -<p>And then they both cried, and Viola slammed the door as she left, and -that started <i>it</i>—which was a feud that lasted until Viola had a -trouble that was big enough to make even Leslie forgive her the things -that she had said, on that rainy day that backed so many unpleasant -happenings.</p> - -<p>After I left Leslie, I went to my own room and stood by the window -looking across the court. . . . There was no light in my artist’s -window and there had been no sign of any life in the big room since the -evening that followed my taking him home.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake had sent me a little note that read: “Sam Deane is all right -now. Will report on Saturday.” But that didn’t tell me whether long Sam -Deane had gone on to another part of the country or to another land or -was still in Florence, and, somehow, it didn’t seem to satisfy me.</p> - -<p>I wondered a lot as I stood there, and I realized that I had -hoped—really without knowing it—that I’d see that tall Deane man -again. But his rooms were empty and dark, and it was raining, and a -swinging sign somewhere in the neighborhood protested in high shrill -squeaks as the wind pushed it back and forth, and the twins had -diphtheria, and I had been so cross to them sometimes, and they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> were -<i>so</i> dear, and poor Beata had lost her sweetheart, and Leslie was -crying, and Viola angry and miserable—and—I <i>did</i> want to wander -out into our big, yellow-walled kitchen and say “What are you going to -have for supper, Mother?”—and to know that they were <i>all</i>—every -one of them—all right.</p> - -<p>The court was growing very dark, and the shadows were gloomy. The rain -was caught by a swooping wind and swished against the windows and -ran down the panes in rivulets. And just after that the Pension bell -jangled loudly, and I thought of the twins and of cablegrams, and when, -after a long, long tightly stretched moment or two, some one tapped on -my door, I had to moisten my lips before I could even half whisper, -“<i>Come</i>—”</p> - -<p>And then—</p> - -<p>Oh, well—there is always, <i>always</i>, blue back of the gray! But -somehow, when one is far from home and it rains hard, you sort of -forget it!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_THIRTEEN">CHAPTER THIRTEEN<br>A PATCH OF BLUE SKY</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t </span>was Beata who had tapped on my door, and after my weak-kneed -“Come—” she opened it and came in, and as she crossed the floor to -reach me she held out a lavender striped box that was tied with silver -cord. I took it, and it did seem to me that the silver cord would -never come untied—I suppose because I was so excited—but at last I -got the knot out and the cover off, and I saw a bunch of big purple -violets that smelled of earth and of their own soft, sweet perfume. I -couldn’t believe they were for <i>me</i>! I had never had violets sent -to <i>me</i> before.</p> - -<p>But they were for me, and after Beata, who had lingered from interest -and frankly looked on, said, “Signorina, <i>la carte</i>!” I picked up -the envelope that was in the bottom of the box, and read on it,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="ml10">“For</p> -<p class="ml20"> “Miss ‘Plain Jane Jones’” -</p> -</div> -<p class="noindent">and then I tore that open and read the letter. It was from -Sam Deane and it said:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">Dear Little Good Samaritan</span>:</p> - -<p>“Lots of luck has come to me—and may I say, bless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> you? <i>I -think I must!</i> I can’t return the cream puffs, for somehow -or other I mislaid the ones you loaned me, and I’m afraid I -can’t match them.</p> - -<p>“I would like to say lots, but your Mr. Wake is looking over my -shoulder and telling me that you are a dear little girl—and -don’t I know it?—but, dragons or not, I am going to be your -friend, if you will let me.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake wonders whether you will go walking with him, -Saturday. He says he will call for you at three and return you -when his waist line is sufficiently reduced.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say thank you for all you have done for me; some day I -will try to tell you how I feel, and I will show you always, by -being</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span style="margin-right: 2.5em;">“Your sincere and devoted friend,</span><br> -“<span class="smcap">Sam Deane</span>.”<br> -</p> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">I liked that letter.</p> - -<p>“Beata,” I said, “aren’t they <i>lovely</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Si, <i>si</i>, Signorina!” said Beata, and she nodded and nodded, and -her eyes shone just as if the violets were hers. And then I went to -stand before the glass, and place them the way girls do, and I was so -excited that I stuck the violet pin right through my corset into my -stomach, <i>but nothing mattered</i>! I was just <i>awfully</i> happy! -I didn’t know that violets would make you feel that way, but these did. -And Mr. Hemmingway thought they were beautiful, and tried very hard to -recall the first year he ever “sent a lady a posy” (but he couldn’t -remember because he couldn’t remember which year he had bought a tan -and white<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> striped waistcoat in the Strand or Ludgate Circus, of course -he couldn’t remember where, and the waistcoat buying prefaced the posy -giving) and Miss Meek said that <i>some</i> man had more sense than -most of the jolly idiots, and Miss Bannister asked me who sent them, -and let me answer without telling me it was one of her deaf days, which -showed that every one felt kind and interested.</p> - -<p>And so dinner passed, and after dinner I sat with Leslie a little while -and helped her get in bed; and then brushed my hair while Viola sat in -my room and told about how Leslie’s grandfather had started to make his -fortune in pickles—and she seemed to be glad of it, I couldn’t see -why—and then she squeezed my hand, and said that she was sorry that -she had been so fearfully busy during the first two weeks, and that we -must see lots of each other now—I suppose because she had fought with -Leslie, I know I hadn’t changed any in that short time—and then she -left and so ended that day.</p> - -<p>Saturday was clear and everything was washed and clean by the rain that -had fallen so steadily and long. All the roofs were a brighter red and -the gray and tan houses lightened and the sunlight was dazzling, and -even the song of Florence—which is made by the many, many church and -monastery bells that mix, and tangle, and float across the city to -make pretty, skippy tunes—even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> this song seemed freshened by all the -scrubbing that the city had undergone.</p> - -<p>I got up quite early and went to my window to look out. Gino was -whistling as he swept around his back door, and talking to his parrot -that he had brought out with the stand to which it was chained. . . . -And I looked above him at the big window through which I had so often -watched my artist, and I realized that Mr. Wake would tell me about -him that day. . . . And then Beata came to call out her gentle, “Buon -giorno, Signorina! Acqua calda!”</p> - -<p>And I answered, and took in the tall, steaming, brass pitcher and began -to bathe and dress.</p> - -<p>I practised a lot in the morning, and brushed my best suit, which I -thought <i>ought</i> to back my violets, and then came lunch, and then -getting into outdoor duds; and at last the Pension bell jangled as it -swung to and fro in answer to a touch from downstairs, and I knew that -Mr. Wake had come. I went out to the head of the stairs, as soon as I -heard the bell ring, and called, “Is it you, Mr. Wake?” And, when I was -answered as I wanted to be, I hurried down.</p> - -<p>It was <i>very</i> good to see him, and I stood in the doorway with him -for several minutes as I told him about the twins, (he was sure they -weren’t very sick) and of Miss Sheila’s promising to write me regularly -about how things went on, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> of Leslie’s bad cold. And then I asked -about my friend, Sam Deane.</p> - -<p>“Able to take a <i>little</i> nourishment,” Mr. Wake answered, which -I found later was a joke. “I have quite a story for you,” he went on, -“suppose we start out and talk on the road. Shall we?”</p> - -<p>I nodded, and then blinked as I always did when I stepped from the -dark, gray-walled hall out into the brilliant middle hours of an -Italian day. It was cheerful outside. The cats—and there are millions -of them in Florence; every one sets out food for them, and no one -ever harms them; I think they were blessed, and so protected, by some -Saint beloved of the Florentines—the cats sat sunning themselves and -washing their ears and whiskers, or they strolled without hesitation, -and planted their feet surely, which shows how quickly the sun had -worked at drying things. The old ladies who always sit in doorways and -call to each other, huddled less over their scaldinoes, and little boys -with bare knees ran through the paths in the Piazza Indipendenza or -spun their tops on the pavement on our side of the street. Of course -officers walked slowly, and little knots of soldiers from the ranks -collected on corners to talk, and pretty Italian girls fluttered past. -Every one seemed glad to be out, and happy. It was pleasant.</p> - -<p>“Well?” I prompted after we had turned a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> corner, and into a street -that was, from the white walls, simply ablaze with sun. “Where -<i>is</i> Mr. Deane?”</p> - -<p>“At the Villa Rossa, now, I think,” Mr. Wake answered.</p> - -<p>“<i>Your</i> house?” I said in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear. . . . And very glad I am to have him. . . . A nice boy, -a very <i>fine</i> boy, and I needed some one to play the banjo in my -garden. . . . I have fountains that look very well in the moonlight, -and a climbing rose tree that has covered one side of my house, and I -have marble benches, and everything that goes with romance, and—not a -hint of the real thing. All wrong it was! And so I am glad to have this -troubadour from Texas—”</p> - -<p>“I called him that too,” I confessed, “I used to like to hear him -play—”</p> - -<p>“And so do I,” Mr. Wake responded, “and I imagine he plays remarkably -badly. There must be ears of love as well as eyes of love. . . . You -like him?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very <i>much</i>!” I stated. Mr. Wake smiled down at me then—I -didn’t know quite why—but I liked it; it gave me something of the same -warm feeling that came from the almost piercing sunlight, and then Mr. -Wake took my hand and drew my arm through his as he had done before.</p> - -<p>“The devil take Signora Grundy,” he said, “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> have no use for her at -all, and never had! And how—” (he stopped and coughed and finished -with a jerk) “is the fairy godmother?”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Some day,” he said, “you’ll describe her to me? Faith, and I never -will get enough of some fairy tales!”</p> - -<p>“I will,” I promised. And then Mr. Wake went on to tell me of Sam -Deane, and I was glad to hear his story.</p> - -<p>Sam Deane, who was twenty-eight, Mr. Wake said, had won a traveling -scholarship from a well-known art school in the middle west. This had -meant a year in Paris and a thousand dollars allowance beside, and it -was given as a reward for exceptionally good work.</p> - -<p>Well, Sam Deane had come to Paris and worked his year, and then he -decided that he wanted what Mr. Wake said Sam termed “A go at Rome and -Florence,” so he packed his suitcase, tucked his banjo under his arm -and walked most of the way to Rome. And Mr. Wake put in the statement -that Sam was the sort who could get what he really wanted, and I said -I thought so too, and then Mr. Wake smiled down at me again in his -very pleasant, twinkling, warming way which led me to believe that the -weather made him feel well, too.</p> - -<p>Sam Deane did well in Rome where he looked up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> some of his fellow -workers, and shared a beautiful studio that was set high in a bit of -the old Roman City wall. He got some orders and saw the place, and he -stayed there quite a while and began to feel that Fortune was really -fond of him.</p> - -<p>But in Florence! Oh, that was a different story!</p> - -<p>The haughty city turned her back on him, and she closed her long, -slim fingers round her gold. And Mr. Wake said that Sam had been -duped by the worst scoundrel of an agent that ever lived, and that -there was nothing wrong with the picture Sam was copying, not in the -<i>manner</i>, Mr. Wake stated. (He said the subject was ghastly, I -don’t know why, I thought the little boy would have made a pretty -picture, but when you are educated in Art I don’t believe you want -them to be pretty) Anyway, the agent kept putting Sam off, and making -him redo his work, for he had a clause in his contract order that let -him do this. And Mr. Wake said that in this way Signor Bianco usually -reduced his slaves to such despair that they finally let their work go -to him for half its real worth.</p> - -<p>“Now—” Mr. Wake ended, as we drew near a long building that had -medallions all along the front of it, made of the same sort of ware -that I had seen in the fountain up on the Via Nazionale,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> “Now I’m -going to take a hand. . . . And I know that with a little boosting and -a little advice the young man will <i>get along</i>! He has the real -stuff in him. Some of his sketches made me think of the early work of -Davies. Going to keep him with me until he gets a hold, and longer if -he’ll stay. Nice boy, <i>fine</i> boy. . . . Look ahead of you, Jane, -my child. . . . You see the round, blue and white plaques up there? -Copied all over the world, those little white babies with their legs -wrapped in swaddling clothes. They were made by della Robbia back in -the fourteenth century.”</p> - -<p>I thought that was wonderful, and so different from our modern art, -because if you were to hang up a Henry Hutt picture, even indoors, I -don’t believe it would last fifty years.</p> - -<p>I said this to Mr. Wake, who entirely agreed with me. Then he told me -that one of the reasons that the Italians made such beautiful things -was that they took a long time to doing it. A man named Orcagna who is -dead—it is discouraging to think that every one who is great seems -to <i>have</i> to be dead a long, long time—this man worked thirty -years on a shrine that is in a church called Or San Michele. (It is a -<i>beautiful</i> shrine of marble and silver and precious stones and -lovely little carved figures) And Giotto died before his tower was -finished—it looks like a slim lily where it stands by the side of -the big fat Duomo—and Raphael<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> was killed by working too hard over -his pictures, and wasn’t allowed to marry because the Pope thought -he should give all of his time to his work, which seems so sad to -me. . . . I kept thinking for a long time, after Mr. Wake told me that, -of how Raphael’s sweetheart must have felt when Raphael was buried at -thirty-seven, for that isn’t so very old, after all.</p> - -<p>As we stood there talking I saw Viola coming toward us, and after I had -spoken quickly to Mr. Wake, I called to her, because I knew she was -lonely.</p> - -<p>“This is Viola,” I said to Mr. Wake, “her last name is Harris-Clarke, -you say them both,” and then I added, to Viola, “We’re going to see -this church. Do you want to go with us?”</p> - -<p>“But how charming!” she murmured, “and this is Mr. Wake, of whom I have -heard most <i>pleasant</i> things?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake bowed from the waistline, but he didn’t seem especially -pleased, or at all excited over the things she had heard of him and -that did surprise me a lot!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_FOURTEEN">CHAPTER FOURTEEN<br>STORIES, MUSIC AND TEA</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>hat </span>afternoon was pleasant, but I don’t think that’s the reason -I remember it so clearly. A good many pleasant sight-seeing walks -followed that have grown a little dim, even now. I think it fastened -itself by my beginning to see Viola, and a side of her through which -she was soon to hurt herself so cruelly. I discovered the side through -a little comment of hers on a painting made by Andrea del Sarto, an -artist who painted in Florence a good deal in the fourteen hundreds. -They didn’t have any electric signs then, and so they used paint -instead, and they spread this over the churches—both inside and -out—because they were old fashioned and religious.</p> - -<p>After Viola joined us Mr. Wake said, “The building we face, the one -that has the della Robbia babies smiling down on you from the front -of it, is a hospital for foundlings—little children whose parents -die, or for some reason or other don’t want them—and it is called the -‘Innocenti,’ which means The Innocents, and there, years ago—probably -some time in 1452—a little baby who was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> later called Leonardo da -Vinci, found a home. It was rather well that he did, wasn’t it? And now -shall we go into the church?”</p> - -<p>“Let’s,” I answered, after I had taken a long look at the stern looking -building that holds inside so much that is lovable. And then we went -into Santissima Annunziata and after we had looked at the glittering -Chapel of the “Annunciation Virgin” and some paintings Mr. Wake told us -were wonderful, we went on into the cloisters.</p> - -<p>As we got about half way in, Mr. Wake put his hand on my arm, drew me -to a standstill, and Viola followed suit.</p> - -<p>“Look above the door,” said Mr. Wake, and we did, to see a pretty -picture of Joseph, and Mary, and a little boy, who was the small -Christ. . . . I liked it very much because it was simple, and it made -you feel <i>near</i> it. Joseph was leaning on a sack of grain, and Mr. -Wake said, when he spoke, that it was called “The Madonna of the Sack” -because of that.</p> - -<p>“But,” he said, “the great story lies behind the pretty face of the -model; for Mary, up there, was Andrea’s ambitious, money-loving -wife. . . . She crept into all his pictures, for she was his model, and -she made him work like mad to paint them, for she was always wanting -the things that do not count, and the things that do not live; and the -money for his pictures could buy these things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> for her. . . . And while -he worked, she played and wore the fine garments that the silk-makers -guild wove for her. . . . There are millions of her, aren’t there? Poor -blind, foolish women!” he ended.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Viola, “don’t men like to have women interested in their -work? I’m sure that my own dear Father is <i>stimulated</i> by -<i>my</i> need for pretty things.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” agreed Mr. Wake, “but to be pushed beyond strength and to be -whined at continually is quite a different thing. . . . In this case -it proved to be the killing of the golden goose, for Andrea del Sarto -did not live to a great age—he died at forty-five—and his wife lived -on alone without her beauty and the love of Andrea, and lived long -beyond him. . . . It is said that one day, many years after Andrea -died, an artist who was copying that moon shaped picture up there was -startled by a touch on his shoulder, and he looked up to see an old, -browned, shriveled hag, who smiled down at him a little bitterly. ‘I -see,’ she said, ‘that you are copying the picture of me that my husband -painted?—’ Then perhaps,” Mr. Wake added, “she went in and sent a -little prayer up through the dim ceiling for all of her sisters—gone -and to come—who think more of money and things than they do of love or -the comfort of their beloved.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> - -<p>We went in again after that, but I wasn’t much interested in the rest -of the church, and it was so cold inside and out of the sun that I -was glad when we stepped outside again and made our way toward the -Piazza Vittorio Emanuele where there was to be a concert given by one -of the military bands. There was a cluster of gaily uniformed band men -in its center, and hundreds and hundreds of people around them, and -at the edges of the square people sitting at the tables of the open -air, outdoor cafés, drinking and eating whatever they had ordered. It -was very <i>different</i> from anything I’d ever seen, and so full of -brightness and color and a deep, thick sense of enjoyment that I don’t -know how to describe it. But people seemed keyed up by the music, -and when the band master would stand up before his men and wave his -baton, every one grew tense, and when the music started they listened -<i>hard</i>.</p> - -<p>“Suppose,” said Mr. Wake, after we had pushed by two of the -Bersaglieri, (who are the sharp-shooter soldiers that have cock -feathers drooping from one side of their always tilted, theatrical -looking hats) “we go sit down, and see whether—if we look very -wistful—some waiter won’t come along, and take an order—”</p> - -<p>“<i>Delightful</i>,” said Viola, who had been getting more and more -airy as she was more and more impressed with Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> - -<p>“I’d like it,” I said, “I’m always hungry, but how about your stomach?”</p> - -<p>“My <i>dear</i>!” Viola put in, in a shocked aside, but I paid no -attention because it was no time to quibble. Mr. Wake was taking me out -<i>primarily for his stomach</i>, and because he wanted to <i>reduce -it</i>, and I didn’t think it would be fair to sit and eat and tempt -him.</p> - -<p>After Viola said “My <i>dear</i>!” Mr. Wake laughed, and patted my -shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Always beginning to reduce <i>next week</i>,” he said; “like <i>Alice -in Wonderland</i>, ‘jam to-morrow and jam yesterday, but <i>never jam -to-day</i>!’ And don’t you think a little fat softens age? Suits my -type?—There’s a table ahead of us, grab it, Jane, before the gentleman -with the many whiskers sits down and pretends he is a piece of sage -brush—”</p> - -<p>He did look like sage brush, but the wind blew me to the table Mr. Wake -wanted before it landed the rough, hairy looking person there, and -Viola and Mr. Wake followed and settled. And then I had my first taste -of outdoor eating, which is very foreign, and which I like <i>so</i> -much!</p> - -<p>Viola and I had strong, bitter chocolate with whipped cream on it and -French pastries and little cakes with nuts in them, and Mr. Wake had -wine and crackers. And just as our waiter brought the order to us, the -band struck up “Pizzicato Sylvia” and unless you have heard an Italian -band<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> play something shortly and sharply, with a snapping, staccato -touch, you have yet to hear <i>music</i>—real <i>music</i>—</p> - -<p>Oh, how I came to love those concerts that were scheduled twice a week, -all winter long, in one or another of the public squares!</p> - -<p>I couldn’t eat, I could just <i>listen</i>. And Mr. Wake smiled at -me, and once he put his hand over mine, and I turned my hand until my -fingers could squeeze his. And then I drew a deep breath and shook -my head because the music made me feel that way. And then the band -stopped, and every one was very quiet for a second, and then they -clapped and after that laughter and talk rose with a perfect whir.</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t that <i>fine</i>?” I said, as Viola said, “<i>Enchanting</i>,” -and some one who had been standing back of me for some moments, leaned -down and said softly, “How do you do, to-day, little Miss Jones?”</p> - -<p>It was my Sam Deane!</p> - -<p>I was startled, but awfully glad to see him, although the idea of -thanking him for those violets before every one made me feel cold and -frightened and stiff.</p> - -<p>“Miss Harris-Clarke, this is Mr. Sam Deane,” said Mr. Wake, “whom I am -proud to present to you—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> - -<p>“Delightful,” Viola murmured in her smooth way, and then Sam bowed and -drew up a chair.</p> - -<p>“Will the bottomless pit have something to eat?” asked Mr. Wake. And -Sam Deane grinned at him, and then he said he might <i>consider</i> it.</p> - -<p>“What did you draw?” he asked of me, and I told him, and he ordered -what I had had.</p> - -<p>“I want to write you a little note,” I said.</p> - -<p>“By jings, I <i>want</i> you to,” he answered, and he looked at me and -smiled in a very kind way. I don’t believe there is a nicer man than -Sam Deane! I liked him right off, and I’ve never stopped once since.</p> - -<p>“No one ever sent me any before,” I said in an aside, which was easy, -because Mr. Wake had begun to talk to Viola about the Uffizi Gallery -and the Belli Arti, which is another gallery.</p> - -<p>“What was the matter with the boys?” Sam asked.</p> - -<p>“My sister,” I said, “is <i>really</i> attractive, and <i>she</i> -always gets them. I like them <i>very</i> much, and I was so -<i>excited</i> I could hardly get the box open. And I’d just heard that -the twins were sick too, and the violets helped me a <i>lot</i>.”</p> - -<p>He didn’t answer, but he sat looking down at me and smiling, and I -felt as if he would understand my clumsy thanking him. “I thank you -<i>ever</i> so much!” I ended.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> - -<p>He shook his head, “Nothing,” he answered, “it was absolutely nothing. -I wanted to buy the Pitti Palace and the Boboli gardens and give them -to you, and throw in the Piazzale Michael Angelo for good measure . . . -. Are you—are you going to let me be your good friend?”</p> - -<p>“If you really <i>want</i> to be,” I responded, and I meant it.</p> - -<p>“I want it more than anything,” he said, in an undertone, and then we -were quiet.</p> - -<p>“How are you?” I asked, after the silence had begun to seem strained.</p> - -<p>“Never have been better,” he answered. “Did you know Mr. Wake got me a -sale for my boy picture straight off? He brought another agent in to -see it and he took it. We broke the contract with my old agent. Mr. -Wake said I could with safety. I don’t know what to say to you. . . . -Think of what you’ve <i>done</i> for me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” I disagreed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>yes</i>!” he stated. Then the band began to play “the Blue -Danube” and when I heard it I thought I had never heard waltz time -before. . . . It rose and fell in the softest waves, with the first -beat accented, until one felt as if one <i>must</i> sway with it.</p> - -<p>It was a moment that I shall never forget. I don’t know quite why it -was so vivid. . . . But the great hushed crowd which was pierced by -blue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> uniforms, and the three-cornered hats of the carabinieri, and the -look on the dark-skinned faces and in the deep brown eyes, and the sun -that slanted across all this to cover an old stone building with gold, -and the people around the little tables, and Viola talking with Mr. -Wake, and Sam Deane, looking at me in a kind way, struck into my heart -to make a picture that will always be remembered.</p> - -<p>When the music stopped, I said, “I don’t know why I am so happy -to-day—”</p> - -<p>And Sam Deane said he was too, but he did know why, which of course was -natural, for he had been close to starving and worried over work, and -all his skies were cleared.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you,” I said, “how glad I am that everything is all right -for <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>He didn’t answer immediately, and he really didn’t answer at all. He -said, “Please keep <i>on</i> feeling that way,” and I promised I would, -and then we stood up, and made our way through the crowd to stand at -the edge of it, and listen to a few more numbers before we went home.</p> - -<p>And on the way—we loitered a little, for we were on the sunny side -of the street, and that makes loitering easy—Mr. Wake told us about -how Mr. Robert Browning had picked up a little yellow book, in one of -the stalls outside of San Lorenzo—which was a church we passed—and -how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> this book made him write “The Ring and the Book.” Viola said that -she knew it almost word for word, but when Mr. Wake asked her how it -started she couldn’t seem to remember.</p> - -<p>“If I recall,” said Mr. Wake—and it was almost the last information -he imparted, and after that we began to have a <i>fine</i> time—“if -I recall correctly it started out with a very careless sounding few -words; they are, I think, ‘Do you see this ring?’ And then, in the -next paragraph, ‘Do you see this little yellow book I hold in my -hand?’ . . . And the poem has lived! The artificial fades and drops -away; the real and simple <i>roots</i>.” (He looked at Viola then; -I don’t know why) “There is another poem,” he went on, “that starts -in somewhat the same manner and Jane will know it. That one begins -with, ‘Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light,’ both of them -intimately in the vernacular—”</p> - -<p>I didn’t know what “vernacular” meant, but I didn’t have to admit it, -because Viola put in one of her low-breathed, “<i>Fas</i>cinatings,” -and after that Mr. Wake was quiet until we reached the twisting stairs -that led to the Pension Dante, when he and Sam Deane said good-by to -us.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_FIFTEEN">CHAPTER FIFTEEN<br>FLORENTINE WINTER</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>fter </span>that first real walk and our outdoor tea, Viola, Mr. Wake, Sam -Deane and I took a great many walks—always two a week—and I came to -enjoy seeing the things I should see, and hearing about people whom I -had considered of little importance because they were so dead. But Mr. -Wake woke everything up, and shook the dust from all the old stories -and made them live.</p> - -<p>For instance, when we passed Dante’s house he would say, “No use of -stopping; Dante is over at the Pitti Palace talking to Cosimo de Medici -this morning, and I see Gemma” (she was Dante’s wife) “is busy in the -back yard hanging up the wash,” and then we’d all pretend we saw her, -and walk on deciding as we walked, that it would be kinder to slip our -cards under the door without ringing, and that we hadn’t wanted to find -them in, anyway. Mr. Wake made everything modern and <i>natural</i>, -just like that!</p> - -<p>He took us to the Pitti Palace, which, in 1440, Luca Pitti commissioned -Brunelleschi to build for him. It was to be a palace more magnificent -than the Riccardi Palace which belonged to the Medici;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> and the -citizens and Florentine corporations were so much interested that they -aided him. It was so fine that it took years to build, which Mr. Wake -proved when he said that in 1549 it was sold, without its roof, to -Eleanor of Toledo, who was the wife of Cosimo.</p> - -<p>From the Pitti Palace we went to the Uffizi Gallery; through a little -narrow passage that runs from the Pitti across the upper story of the -Ponte Vecchio—the old bridge—along the Arno for a block, and then -turns into the great Uffizi that was built by Vasari in 1560 to ’74 -for the municipal government, and by the order of Cosimo I because -he wanted to use the Palazzo Vecchio, which was then the municipal -building, for his own home.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake said that a good many people try to look up the history of the -Uffizi family, but he advised me not to try, and when I asked why not -he told me that “Uffizi” means offices.</p> - -<p>All this information was given in a way that made it seem quite -palatable, and not at all like the information that one usually gets. -I enjoyed even the history of the erecting of those great, strong -buildings, and when it came to the families, I loved it. It was truly -interesting to hear of the wars of the blacks and the whites, who -were the opposed and warring factions in Florence of the Middle Ages, -and Mr. Wake told of how they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> planned their conquests in hidden -ways or under the cover of black night; and of how the Medici power -was overthrown; of a priest who was made so deep a sympathizer of -the oppressed that he tried to stab Cosimo de Medici while he was at -Mass, then of how Cosimo escaped this, and finally died in one of his -peaceful country palaces which stands to-day just as it did then.</p> - -<p>In the Uffizi, Mr. Wake asked me what I would look at if I were alone, -and I said the pictures of wars and animals, and Sam took me around -hunting these, while Viola stuck to Mr. Wake and admired the things -that every one should admire.</p> - -<p>One sunny day, we went to the Piazzale Michelangelo, which is a great, -cleared space on the top of a hill on the south side of the Arno, -riding up in a <i>tram</i> and walking slowly down a cypress shaded -path upon which, at intervals, were the stations of the cross. At -another time we walked out to see Andrea Del Sarto’s last supper, which -is in a tiny church way out in the outskirts of Florence, and is not -often seen by the hurried kind of tourist who uses a guide.</p> - -<p>Then we saw where well-known people had lived—Thomas Hardy, (and he -had had rooms right up near us) and so had George Eliot and Walter -Savage Landor and the Brownings and dozens of others I have forgotten.</p> - -<p>And of course we saw a little house where Boccaccio<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> was supposed to -have lived, and the place in front of Santa Maria Novella (a church) -where he, Boccaccio, met seven lovely ladies, one morning in 1348, just -after Mass, when the city lay stricken under the horror of the plague. -Mr. Wake pointed Boccaccio out to us as we were coming home past the -church, one bleak November afternoon, after a walk that had taken us to -the churches on the South Side of the Arno.</p> - -<p>“There,” he said, “in claret colored doublet and hose is my friend -Boccaccio! He swings a silken purse that has in it many ducats, and he -tries with nonchalance to hide the horror and fear that lurk within his -heart. . . . A serving man whines behind him. ‘Master, master, we had -best be going. . . . Two more have fallen in the way not a disc’s throw -from your excellency, and the streets are filled with death!’. . . But -now—<i>now!</i>—Who are these, seven of them, coming out from Mass! -Lovely ladies who greet Boccaccio as a friend, and whose eyes lose -their look of fright for the fleeting second when first Boccaccio comes -into vision and to mind—”</p> - -<p>And then Mr. Wake—in his <i>seeing</i> way told us how that group and -two more youths planned to go up to Boccaccio’s villa which some think -was close to Fiesole—the town that Florence warred upon so often—the -proud, small town that frowned and sneered on Florence from her high<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> -seat upon the hill. And Mr. Wake said that the next day—early—when -the dew was on the grass and the sun yet gentle, Boccaccio’s party -started off, and made their trip in a short two hours; found the villa -more charming than their modest host had promised and that there they -settled.</p> - -<p>And to fill time they told stories, which are, after all this time, -being read. But Mr. Wake said—when <i>I</i> said that I’d like to read -them, that the stories would be the kind of stories that would be told -by people who evaded duty, and kited off by themselves to look out -<i>for</i> themselves. And he said they were not exactly the reading he -would recommend for <i>me</i>.</p> - -<p>Viola had read them and so had Leslie. Both of those girls often made -me feel very ignorant, but Sam said he liked me as I was, and that -helped a great deal.</p> - -<p>Leslie went with us only a few times, although I always asked her. -But her quarrel with Viola was as intense as it had been the day when -it started—although they did speak to each other, very coldly—and -I think that kept Leslie from going, as well as the fact that she -was irritated into disliking Mr. Wake by Viola’s and my enthusiasm -over him just at that time. She was nervous and edgy and unhappy, -and disappointed from the toppling of her friendship with Mr. Ben -Forbes. The Florence winter months, which are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> filled with fog and -a damp, increeping cold, left her physically uncomfortable too, and -she had no real companion and the hard application to work was new to -her; altogether now that I look back, I pity her. But all that came -to Leslie did help her; I know that, and so I suppose that I am only -wasting pity.</p> - -<p>The second time we went walking, Leslie went with us, and she was very -cool and crisp in her greeting to Mr. Wake, and she disagreed with him -about his opinion of the Fra Angelico frescoes in a Monastery called -San Marco, in a sharp way that wasn’t at all nice.</p> - -<p>After we got back from our walk and were settled at dinner, Viola, with -a circumspect look at Leslie, said something about Mr. Wake’s books, -and I saw Leslie look up at her suddenly and piercingly. And before -I went to bed she called me over to her room. She had on a layer of -mud—it was some kind of Russian stuff that she put on to cleanse the -pores—and it made her look like a mummy. I <i>had</i> to giggle.</p> - -<p>“What is the cause of your mirth?” she asked coldly as she stopped -brushing her hair.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I answered, “you look kind of funny.”</p> - -<p>She elevated her chin, and I think she gave me that cool stare with -which she even occasionally subdues Miss Meek, but of course it -couldn’t get through her mud-pie finish.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p> - -<p>“I want to know,” she said after a second of comparative silence, -during which she had slammed her little jars around on her bureau, -and brushed her hair so hard that I thought she’d brush it all out, -“whether it is true that Mr. Wake is a writer?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” I answered, “‘Beautiful Tuscany,’ ‘Hill Roads,’ ‘Old Roman -Byways’ and lots more were written by him.”</p> - -<p>It seemed to irritate her. “It would <i>seem</i> to me,” she confided, -“that you would naturally <i>mention</i> it!”</p> - -<p>I didn’t see why, but I didn’t say so. I just picked up a button hook -and wiggled it around in my hands, the way you do when you have nothing -to do but feel uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“You lack finish, and are as gauche as any one I <i>ever</i> knew,” she -went on. I didn’t know just what she meant by that, but I knew I didn’t -like it.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you know that when you introduce people,” she questioned, “you -should give some idea of the—the standing of each person so that—that -they may know whom they shall be <i>nice</i> to?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>“Well, you <i>do</i>,” she snapped, “and if you have any more people -to present to me, I want to <i>know</i> about them. . . . I positively -snapped at this Mr. Wake—I am fearfully humiliated over it!—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> just -a <i>word</i> from you would have saved me.” (She slammed a bureau -drawer shut until everything on the bureau top rattled), “I didn’t -imagine he <i>could</i> be anybody, because Viola Harris-Clarke raved -so—”</p> - -<p>“He was my friend in any case,” I said, because I was getting mad, “and -if you’d remembered that and been kind, you’d have spared both of us. I -was ashamed of you—Mr. Wake was being kind to us, and you were rude to -him without any reason for being so.”</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> ashamed of me?” she echoed, and wheeled on me, to stand -looking at me in a dreadful way.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, “I <i>was</i>,” and I said it hard.</p> - -<p>She drew a deep breath, and was about to start in when I decided -I would go. I only heard her say, “You come from the backwoods of -Pennsylvania, and so you cannot understand the—<i>the infamy of your -statement</i>, but in New York <i>I</i>—my <i>family</i>—”</p> - -<p>And into this I broke in with something that was horrible to say, I -know it, but it was a satisfaction. I said, “Good-night old mud-hen,” -and then shut the door. But before I had my own opened, she had jerked -through hers, to stand in the corridor and wave her brush at me, -“Never,” she called loudly, “<i>Never call me ‘Mud-hen’ again!</i>”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p> - -<p>“I will if I want to,” I said. “You may count in New York, but I come -from Pennsylvania.” And then I went in my room and felt ashamed.</p> - -<p>For two days after that Leslie cut me out of her talking list, too, and -the only words I had from her were icicle-hung requests to pass things. -On the third, I went into the practice room that was farthest down the -hall—my afternoon hours followed hers that day—and I found her with -her head in her arms, crying.</p> - -<p>I felt very sorry for her, and I put my hand on her shoulder, and I -said, “Leslie,” quite softly, and she turned away from me for a moment, -and then turned to me and clung to my arm. I patted her and smoothed -her hair, and I think I made her feel a little better.</p> - -<p>Anyway, she stopped crying, and wiped her eyes, and asked me to go to -Doney’s with her for tea. But I said I wouldn’t do that.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” she asked in her old, cool, lofty manner and she raised -her brows in a way that confessed she was surprised over my daring to -refuse her invitation.</p> - -<p>“Because,” I answered, “you took Viola, and now you’re mad at her, and -you’re telling every one how <i>often</i> you took her out, and how -<i>much</i> you did for her.”</p> - -<p>She grew red. I think she didn’t like it, but I had to say it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll take a walk,” I said. She didn’t answer that, but, head high, -collected her music and flounced off. After I had practised about an -hour I heard a noise at the doorway, and I looked up to see Leslie -standing in it.</p> - -<p>“You were quite right,” she stated, in the stiffest voice I had ever -heard, and she looked right over my head. “I know it. I will be glad to -walk with you if you like—”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I answered, after a look at the little wrist watch father -had given to me, before I left, “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes; -fourteen and a half more here, and a half to get into my things—”</p> - -<p>And I think that day started our real friendship.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_SIXTEEN">CHAPTER SIXTEEN<br>PLANS FOR A PARTY</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">B</span>y </span>Christmas time I was so well acquainted with both Leslie and Viola, -that when, a week before Christmas, Viola called me in her room and -told me what she was writing, I told her that I thought she was foolish.</p> - -<p>“Why?” she asked, as she looked at the envelope that was addressed to -her father.</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t he send you all the money he can?” I questioned in turn.</p> - -<p>“Probably,” (she jabbed holes in the blotter with her pen) “but -I need more. You see early in the game—when <i>Miss</i> Parrish -<i>deigned</i> to notice me, I borrowed money of her, she was always -pressing it upon me—one of her <i>sweet</i> ways of impressing people -with her <i>wealth importance</i>—” (I didn’t say anything, but I -thought Viola was mean) “and I need to repay that, and then—my clothes -are in <i>rags</i>,” (which was nonsense, for they weren’t) “and I -always do ask father for extra money at Christmas time,” she continued, -“because he softens then—or is in so deep that he thinks a little more -won’t matter—anyway,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> since I always do ask him, there’s no reason for -you to be so shocked—”</p> - -<p>“He’s your father,” I stated, “but I’ll tell <i>you</i>, I’d hate to -send <i>my</i> father a letter like that to get around Christmas time!”</p> - -<p>Viola shrugged her shoulders. Then she grew haughty. “As you say,” she -said, “he <i>is</i> my father, and it is <i>my</i> affair—”</p> - -<p>“You asked me about it,” I put in sharply, “I was going by, and you -called me in and said you were writing your father for money, and asked -me what I thought would come of it—”</p> - -<p>“I meant how <i>much</i> would come of it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh.”</p> - -<p>“He’s quite used to it, Jane,” she went on, and almost apologetically, -“Mother has to ask him for extra money <i>all the time</i>. . . . We -simply <i>struggle</i>, and <i>pinch</i> at every point, but even then -we can’t put up half the appearance that we should, and we never have -what <i>every one</i> around us has—and takes for granted. Did you -hear Miss Meek say ‘I’ll wager it’s jolly slummish around the jail!’ -yesterday when I was describing our breakfast room? <i>Horrid old -thing!</i>”</p> - -<p>I didn’t say so, but Viola had made Miss Meek hazard this opinion -about Ossining because she, Viola, had put on so many unnecessary and -silly airs about her home. Miss Meek added, after her first remark, -that of course she knew nothing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> whatsoever about it, since she -never had visited such low places. The moment that followed had been -strained—and funny!</p> - -<p>“It does seem,” Viola went on, after she had wiped her pen on her -stocking, and then said something vigorous because she had forgotten -that she wore a brown pair, “it does <i>seem</i> as if Father might -<i>try</i> to do better. It makes it very hard for a girl of my -type. . . . It doesn’t agree with me to accommodate to poverty, or to -pinch and scrape as I have to <i>all the time</i>!”</p> - -<p>That was nonsense, but I didn’t say so, because with Leslie and Viola -my opinion about money and things didn’t count.</p> - -<p>So I only stood there a minute, feeling a little sorry for Viola and -very sorry for her father, and wondering why people felt so about that -which Viola called “Appearance,” and then I decided I’d go to my room -and finish a letter I’d started to Mother, who would, Miss Sheila had -stated, write me herself, very soon.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going?” asked Viola after I had said I must hurry on.</p> - -<p>“My room,” I answered, as I turned the door knob.</p> - -<p>“How’d your lesson go?”</p> - -<p>“Pretty well.”</p> - -<p>“If <i>Miss</i> Parrish doesn’t join you, I will later.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> - -<p>“All right,” I responded, “but I won’t have a fire—”</p> - -<p>“I should think you’d <i>die</i> without one,” said Viola, pityingly.</p> - -<p>“I get along all right,” I answered, shortly, because it seemed to -me that Viola had better get along without a fire herself—a scuttle -of coal cost about thirty cents, and the kindling that started it, -ten—instead of shivering for me, <i>while</i> she badgered her father -for money that she confessed wouldn’t be easy for him to spare.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be angry,” she called after me.</p> - -<p>“I’m not angry,” I replied.</p> - -<p>“Well, you acted it. . . . Funny holiday, isn’t it? Just sitting in our -rooms. No parties or anything—”</p> - -<p>“We could have one if you and Leslie wouldn’t hitch at it, and spoil -everything,” I responded. “We could get a nice one up—”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m willing to fly the white flag that evening,” she stated with -an indifference I felt that she put on.</p> - -<p>But that made the party possible, for I saw how it might be managed and -I hurried right on to Leslie’s room to find her lying down on her bed -and staring up at a sky blue ceiling that had gilt stars painted on it.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” I said, as I shut the door after myself, “I think we ought -to have a party, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> Christmas party, but we can’t unless you and Viola -stop scrapping for the evening. She said she would; will you?”</p> - -<p>Leslie sat up and drew her padded silk dressing gown around her, -and then answered. “I am sure,” she said, “that I would act as I -<i>always</i> do. One’s personal feelings dare not be aired; I -<i>assure</i> you I <i>invariably</i> exercise restraint—”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I answered and then I sat down on the edge of her bed, and -we planned it.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake and Sam will come,” I said, after we had decided to buy those -cracker things that pop and have paper caps in them, and Leslie had -said she would donate some pastries and some French chocolates.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake would be fearfully bored,” she objected.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it,” I disagreed.</p> - -<p>“But with Miss Meek and Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway? For of -course if we have it here we’ll have to ask the old things!”</p> - -<p>“Probably it’ll be the first party they’ve been to in years,” I stated, -and I saw that Leslie felt a little mean.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’d tell him that the whole institution will be on board,” she -advised, and I said I would.</p> - -<p>“Beata would serve,” said Leslie, who seemed to have a lot of head -about planning the refreshments and how they should be brought on.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> - -<p>“And she’d like it,” I commented, “probably it’ll help her out.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with her, any way?” Leslie asked, and I’d told -Leslie about forty times, but I told her once again.</p> - -<p>“How much does she need?” she asked, as she lay back and again looked -up at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“I think about seventy-five dollars,” I answered. Leslie laughed in a -queer, unhappy way.</p> - -<p>“Fancy it’s being as simple as that!” she murmured in an undertone.</p> - -<p>“Not particularly simple, if she can’t get it,” I disagreed. “And poor -Beata doesn’t believe she’ll ever be able to save it, and she loved him -so. His name is Pietro La Nasa, and he <i>is</i> good looking. . . . -I’ve seen him standing in the court—he knows Gino, who owns the brass -shop down there—and he looks up so <i>longingly</i>—and you know how -much Beata cries—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know—”</p> - -<p>Suddenly Leslie turned and clasped my hand between both of hers. “Look -here, Jane,” she said, and with the prettiest look I had ever seen on -her pretty face, “we’ll try to make this a real party. . . . My father -sent me a little extra money—I had a dividend from something or other -that has done well—and I’d <i>love</i> to spend it this way. . . . As -you say, the crowd here probably haven’t had a good time for years—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> - -<p>“And may not again for years—if ever—” I put in. Leslie nodded.</p> - -<p>“We’ll <i>do</i> it,” she said, with lots of energy in her -voice. “And you can ask Viola to help with the decorating and so -on. . . . Understand, <i>I want nothing to do with her after it is -over</i>. . . . I shall never forget the things she said to me about my -Grandfather who had a <i>little</i> interest in a factory where they -put up chow chow (he made his <i>fortune in railroads</i>) and about my -having an inflated idea of my own importance. I have <i>not</i>, but I -assure you, Jane, the Harris-Clarkes are <i>nobodies</i>—”</p> - -<p>Well, I’d heard that all about a thousand times before, and I had -got so that I was honestly bored—and for the first time in my -life—whenever Viola started on the Parrishes, or Leslie about the -Harris-Clarkes.</p> - -<p>“I can’t give any presents,” I broke in.</p> - -<p>“I’ll loan you any amount, dear,” said Leslie, quickly.</p> - -<p>“No, you won’t!” I answered. “I won’t give presents because I -<i>shouldn’t</i>, but we can have an awfully good time, presents or -not!”</p> - -<p>“And will!” she promised, quickly, and then she crawled out and put -a kettle of water over her spirit lamp and began to make tea, and I -had three cups and four crackers and two slices of nut cake and some -kisses. Then, feeling a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> refreshed, I went back to my own room, -on the way stopping at Viola’s. “It’s all right,” I said, from the -doorway, “she’ll pretend, if you will—”</p> - -<p>“I’m honestly <i>glad</i>,” said Viola.</p> - -<p>Before I started on, I saw her lick the flap of the envelope that was -to take her complaining letter across the sea to her father—I had a -queer, sad feeling as she did it, and then I said a short “By,” and -went on to my own room.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_SEVENTEEN">CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<br>CUPID AND A LADY SANTA CLAUS</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>wo </span>days later at about five in the afternoon, Leslie looked around the -living room which was growing dark, as she said, “I think we’ve done -wonderfully!”</p> - -<p>Viola was tying some red tissue paper around the funny little tree that -Leslie, with great effort, had got from a florist, and after she stood -erect and stretched, she responded to Leslie with a murmured, “Simply -<i>sweet</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t <i>you</i> think so, Jane?” asked Leslie coolly. She had ignored -Viola all that afternoon by addressing me, and after she did this -pointedly, Viola always huffed up, and appealed to me, too. It made me -feel as if I were interpreter in the tower of Babel, and it left me far -from comfortable! And it was all <i>so</i> silly!</p> - -<p>“I certainly do,” I answered as I looked around, and it was fine!</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake, who had accepted our invitation with great pleasure, had sent -in flowers and big branches of foliage from his place, and these were -in vases, and massed in corners; and Sam, who had just left, had helped -us make twisted red streamers that he had wound around the funny<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> -chandelier, and we had put red paper around all the lumpy vases that -Miss Julianna seemed to like so much; and the bare little tree was on -the center table, with a ring of candles, set up in their own grease -around it. It doesn’t sound especially pretty, but it was, as well as -very cheering.</p> - -<p>Over the back of a chair hung a long red gown that Leslie was going -to wear as she gave out a few little presents. Her giving them was -entirely correct, because the Italian Santa Claus is a lady called -“Befana,” and the only way we changed things was by having the Befana -come on Christmas Eve instead of on Epiphany.</p> - -<p>On the mantel were some pink tarletan stockings filled with -candy—there was no fastening them up, the mantel was made of -marble—and Leslie had got a little piece of mistletoe which Sam had -hung in the doorway.</p> - -<p>“Really, it has the feeling of Christmas,” said Leslie, as she picked -up the gown, which I had made on her with safety pins.</p> - -<p>“<i>Hasn’t</i> it?” murmured Viola, who, in spite of saying the most -bitter things, did want to make up.</p> - -<p>“When it’s lit by candles it will be pretty,” I prophesied, and it was. -Then we picked up the hammers and the nails that always lie around on -the edges of things after you’ve put up Christmas decorations, and went -to dress, closing the door very carefully after us, and locking it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> - -<p>Beata, who was tremendously interested in the new version of their -Befana, and who had asked a great deal—through Miss Julianna—about -the person she called “Meester Sant’ Claus,” smiled at us as we passed -the kitchen, and I saw that she hadn’t cried that day, and that she -wore her best dress, and a shabby, yet gay artificial flower in one -side of her dark hair.</p> - -<p>“Sant’ Claus come!” she managed, while we were yet within hearing; -Leslie called “Not yet—” and then we went on, and parted.</p> - -<p>In my room, before I lit the light, I will confess that I had a little -moment of sadness, during which home seemed far away and I wished I -had as much money to spend as Leslie had. . . . I had wanted to give -Miss Meek and Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway very nice presents, -because they needed them, but of course I couldn’t give them much. I -had found for Miss Bannister a leather picture frame in a shop that was -opposite the Pitti Palace—she had said she meant to get a frame for a -picture she had of her old home, but that she always forgot it while -out, (she is really very poor) and I had got for Miss Meek, who is very -gay, a gray comb that had brilliants in it—it was only fifty cents; -I got it in a stall outside of a church called Santa Croce—and I had -got Mr. Hemmingway a book from a little shop back of the Duomo that -had “My memories” written on it in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> gilt—I mean on the book, not the -Duomo, of course—for I thought he would enjoy writing down some of the -happenings that occurred at the times he never could remember.</p> - -<p>Then I had two lovely colored linen handkerchiefs which had been given -me before I sailed, and fortunately, I had only carried them and -never put them into active use, and I did these up for Beata and Miss -Julianna.</p> - -<p>I didn’t give anything to the others, and I wished I could. I had that -feeling that leads even restrained people to rush out on Christmas -Eve and buy a great deal that they can’t afford, but after I reasoned -it through I knew that I shouldn’t, because I wanted to pay back Miss -Sheila—I had decided that I preferred to do this—and I wanted to -return what I could, as soon as I could, to my own family, who had -sacrificed a great deal for me. Then my allowance wasn’t large—Leslie -told me she considered it about adequate for a week’s allowance of -French pastries and digestion tablets—and so I wrote the rest of my -friends notes. I used my best stationery that hasn’t any blue lines on -it, but instead a silver “J” in the corner, and after I had written:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="noindent"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Wake</span>: -</p> -<p> -“I do hope that you will be very happy this Christmas and -always!</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span style="margin-right: 2.5em;">“Your friend,</span><br> -“<span class="smcap">Jane Jones</span>.”<br> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> - - -<p class="noindent">I snipped a paragraph from Miss Sheila’s last letter, -for he seemed to like hearing about her, and talking of her, and the -paragraph was about him.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I am sure,” she had written, “that the Mr. Wake of whom you -write so often, must be a real addition to your Florentine -life. I did, very much, like his story of the wedding of -Lorenzo, The Magnificent.”</p> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">(He was one of the Medici)</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I saw it, dear, as you said he made you see it. . . . And -wouldn’t Florence be a nice city to be married in? I think if I -had all my life to do over, I would go to a Padre in Florence, -with some unlucky man, and pay a lot of scheming little -wretches to throw roses before me as I left the church. . . . -You see what a romantic mood has attacked your old friend? I -think I <i>must</i> need a tonic! Please write me the titles of -your Mr. Wake’s books; I am ashamed to say that I haven’t read -them, but I want to, and I shall—”</p> -</div> - -<p>It did please him, I saw him read it three times that very evening; -twice while Mr. Hemmingway was trying to remember the first time that -he had ever seen a plum pudding brought in, on the center of a blazing -platter; and the third time, while Viola was describing the last -Christmas and dragging in through it a long description of a lodge in -the Adirondacks.</p> - -<p>But to get on, or rather go back and start where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> I should, Miss -Julianna had a very fine dinner because of our party, and she sat -down with us, which wasn’t always her custom—she often helped in the -kitchen—and Mr. Hemmingway had raked up some greenish black dress -clothes from somewhere, and Miss Bannister had her hair on as nearly -straight as I had ever seen it, and Miss Meek wore a purple velvet -dress with green buttons and a piece of old lace on it, which I had -never before seen, but which she had spoken of in a way that made me -know that she thought it very fine.</p> - -<p>Of course Leslie was beautiful—she had on a new dress made of several -shades of light blue chiffon, and this fluttered and changed as she -walked—and there was a silver ribbon girdle on it, and silver ribbons -knotted here and there over the shining white satin lining, and she -wore silver slippers, and blue stockings with silver lace inserts, and -she had a silver bandeau on her hair. I told her she was lovely.</p> - -<p>Viola had pulled out all her extra eyebrows and looked sort of skinned, -but she felt fixed up, so it was all right. She wore a red velvet dress -that was pretty too. I wore a brown silk dress that had plaid trimming, -and it put me in Miss Meek’s class, but I didn’t mind.</p> - -<p>After we sat down, and made conversation in that stiff way that people -do when they are all wearing their best clothes and aren’t quite used<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> -to them, Mr. Hemmingway stood up and picked up the smaller wine glass -that stood by his plate—we had two sorts of wine—and he looked at me, -bowed, and said, “To the United States and her lovely daughters—”</p> - -<p>I thought it was <i>very</i> kind.</p> - -<p>Then Miss Bannister blinked, and nodded, and squeaked out, “To the -people we love who aren’t here—”</p> - -<p>And I wasn’t a bit ashamed of the fact that my eyes filled with tears -and that I had to blink and swallow like the dickens, because every one -else was doing the same thing.</p> - -<p>After we drank that Mr. Hemmingway said, “It was, if I recall -correctly, the Christmas of ’76 that I first met the customs of Italy -at Christmas and Epiphany; I can, I <i>think</i>, without undue -assumption of certainty state <i>flatly</i> that it <i>was</i> in ’76, -and I assert this, because in the fall of ’76 I was experiencing my -first attack of <i>bronchitis</i>; and I recall this, because the June -of that same year, ’76, as I have heretofore mentioned, I had taken a -trip up the Severn—or was that, now that I probe, ’74? <i>Let me see, -let me see</i>—”</p> - -<p>And then Miss Meek boomed out her “Ho hum!” and every one felt more -natural and lots better. After that the stiffness slid away—all -in a second—and Miss Meek tossed her head and told about the fine -Christmases she had seen, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> Miss Bannister told of how the children -in the village where she had lived sung carols, and Mr. Hemmingway -searched after dates that wouldn’t come to him; and Viola and Leslie -listened with more kindness than usual.</p> - -<p>After we had had the lumpy, heavy sort of pudding that people always -serve around Christmas, we sat back and talked some more while we -waited for Mr. Wake and Sam to come. And at last the bell in the hall -swung to and fro, and then there <i>was</i> excitement. Beata, who -courtesied very low, let them in, and they called out their greetings -and wishes to every one, even before I had presented them.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wake had a big bag under his arm that was pleasantly lumpy, and he -said that Santa Claus had dropped it on the hillside near Fiesole and -told him to deliver it. Then we all stood up, and after Leslie had lit -the many candles in the drawing room, she rung a bell, and we filed in.</p> - -<p>She summoned Mr. Wake first, and I was glad she did, because going -up to the table where she stood might have been hard for some of the -others. And after Mr. Wake took his present, he gave a little boarding -school bow—that dip at the knees that makes girls shorter than they -are for the second in which they do it—and every one followed his -lead. We did have the best time! But, and I suppose it sounds strange, -it got in your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> throat and made it feel cramped. I can’t explain -why, but when Miss Bannister and Miss Meek couldn’t, at first, open -their packages because their hands shook so, it did make you feel -<i>queer</i>.</p> - -<p>Miss Bannister didn’t say anything—she only looked at her presents -while her lips moved—but Miss Meek kept up an incessant string of, -“Oh, I say!” or “How <i>too</i> ripping, don’t you know!” in a voice -that was not entirely steady. And both of them had very bright, little, -round spots of color on their usually faded cheeks, and their eyes were -very, very bright.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hemmingway was so absorbed in a Dunhill pipe that Mr. Wake insisted -Santa had sent, that he didn’t mention a date for fully a half hour. He -only looked at that pipe, and murmured, “My, <i>my</i>! Never did think -I’d <i>own</i> one. My, my, <i>my</i>!”</p> - -<p>And there were papers and cords all over the floor, and it looked and -felt <i>quite</i> Christmasy.</p> - -<p>It was after Mr. Hemmingway got his pipe that I went over to stand -by Sam at a window; he had been watching me a little, and I thought -perhaps he was lonely for home, or something, because he looked that -way.</p> - -<p>“I think it’s a fine party,” I said, “Don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Best ever,” he answered. Then he coughed, and fumbled around in his -pocket, and slipped a small box in my hand. “I’d like to say something -darned nice,” he murmured, “but all my parlor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> conversation seems to -have gone on a vacation—”</p> - -<p>“Is it for <i>me</i>?” I asked. I was <i>surprised</i>, for I thought -that the violets he had given me only a little time before, were enough!</p> - -<p>“Who the dickens <i>would</i> I give it to?” he answered, in a half -irritated way. “Think I want to give anything to the other two? I -don’t! When I come to think of it, I never did want to buy any truck -for <i>any</i> other girl before—”</p> - -<p>I enjoyed that; every woman does enjoy that sort of thing. And when -I opened the box I almost went over backward; it held the most -beautiful bead bag I’d ever seen; it was really <i>prettier than any of -Leslie’s</i>! It had a brown and gold background, and soft pink roses -on it, and it swung from a gold cord, and had sliding gold rings on -that. I knew he shouldn’t have done it for, even to my simple soul, it -spelled a lot of money.</p> - -<p>I couldn’t say much, but I did say, “You shouldn’t have given it to me, -Sam—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you like it, dear?” he asked. I didn’t mind that “Dear” at all. -In fact I liked it. I had come to think of Sam as the best friend I’d -ever had.</p> - -<p>“I <i>love</i> it,” I answered, “but it must have cost a <i>great -deal</i>—”</p> - -<p>He laughed down at me. “Look here, young woman,” he said, in his -drawling slow way, “Some day I’m going to <i>ask</i> you to take over -the management<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> of my finances, but until I do, I want the privilege of -buying you a little thing like that once and again—”</p> - -<p>What he said about finances worried me terribly, because I can’t add at -all, and my cash account gives me real pain, and I have almost nothing -to account for or to enter. But even at that, each month there is too -much or too little, which makes me have to add a cream puff, or take -one out.</p> - -<p>“Sam,” I said, “I’d do <i>anything</i> for you, because I like you -<i>so</i> much, but I can’t add. Why don’t you get Mr. Wake to help -you! He’s there anyway, you see, and in a year I’ll be over in -America—”</p> - -<p>He slipped his arm through mine, and squeezed it against his side.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake is right about you,” he said, as he smiled down at me, in a -sort of a funny way.</p> - -<p>“Why?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, he thinks you a dear little girl. . . . And you are—just that.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you like it?” I questioned, because it didn’t seem exactly as if -he did.</p> - -<p>“Yes—surely—but, I don’t want you to get over liking me when you grow -up.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Sam, I <i>couldn’t</i>!” I protested, and then I slipped my hand -in his, “Don’t you <i>know</i> how much I like you?” I ended very -earnestly because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> I <i>did</i> want him to understand, and I believe -he did, although Leslie called my name before he answered and I had to -go up to get my presents.</p> - -<p>And after I did, I was absolutely unable to say anything, for every -one had been so <i>kind</i> to me! Miss Bannister had given me one of -the pictures of her old home that she loved so much, and Miss Meek, -a collar that her own mother had embroidered, and Mr. Hemmingway, -a pen holder that he had gotten in Brazil either in ’64 or ’65—he -<i>couldn’t</i> remember which, although he tried very hard to fasten -the exact date in various ways—and Viola gave me a beautiful blue -bottle with scent in it, and Leslie gave me a blouse that I had seen -in a shop on the Lungarno and admired—it was tan pongee with heavy -coral stitching, and about the color of my hair—the tan, I mean, not -the coral—and Miss Julianna had given me a tomato can, that she had -painted, with a flower in it, and I liked it <i>very</i> much; and -Beata, a handkerchief that she had made herself. Mr. Wake gave me a -scarab ring, that swung around in its setting, and had the name of the -Princess who had first worn it in hieroglyphs on the back, and when I -went to thank him, he slipped it on my finger, and made a wish. Then he -said to Sam, who had come over to stand with us, “Want to have a shot, -old boy? You can twist it, and perhaps the gods will listen—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p> - -<p>So Sam did, and he said it was a <i>fine</i> wish! Then Beata brought -in the refreshments, which were pastries, wine, ices and candies and -little nut-filled cakes, (Leslie lost a filling while eating one) and -we pulled crackers and put on the caps and things that came out of -them, and read the mottoes and Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed -Miss Meek who had wandered over under the mistletoe. And it all made a -great deal of excitement and fun.</p> - -<div class="figcenter illowp51" id="i193" style="max-width: 29.875em;"> - <img class="w100" src="images/i193.png" alt=""> - <div class="caption">Mr. Hemmingway got so gay that he kissed Miss Meek.</div> -</div> - -<p>And after that—just when every one was beginning to have a cold -feeling around the edges, from thinking that it was all almost -over—the very nicest thing happened. Leslie, who had taken off her -long Befana gown, and again looked like a corn flower with silver frost -on it, called out, “One more gift; Befana has brought it to Beata, but -she was only the messenger of Cupid!”</p> - -<p>And then she handed Beata an envelope in which was all the money that -Beata needed for her dowry!</p> - -<p>I never shall forget that moment, and the way Beata looked when she -understood what her gift was. She covered her face with her arm and -sobbed deeply and so hard that it shook her; and Leslie, whose eyes had -grown wet, called Pietro—whom she had got Miss Julianna to ask in for -that hour—and he came from the hall, and Beata explained, and Pietro -kissed her hands, and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> Leslie’s, and then raised both of his hands -high and his face to the ceiling, and <i>exploded</i>!</p> - -<p>I never heard anything like it, and of course no one except Mr. Wake, -who speaks and understands Italian very well, could understand, but he -did, and he said that Pietro was thanking God for rich Americans, and -for the fact that the hope of his life had come true.</p> - -<p>It made every one feel shaky and upset to look on at Beata and Pietro. -Even Miss Meek had to cough and say, “Oh, my eye! How jolly!” It was -very damp and very sweet, and it was a positive relief to be diverted -by Mr. Hemmingway, who broke the strain by saying: “How well I recall -my first experience with the Latin emotion. It was, if I recall -correctly, in the spring of ’60, and I attest this because of my youth, -and the fact that in ’59 I had my first pearl gray trousers. Those are -fastened in my memory by a tailor who, if I recall, had his place of -business in Ludgate Circus, and I remember him keenly, because—”</p> - -<p>And on and on in his characteristic way.</p> - -<p>Not long after that Sam and Mr. Wake left, and Miss Bannister and Miss -Meek and Mr. Hemmingway gathered up their things and the cords and -papers that had wrapped them, and I saw Mr. Hemmingway enter something -about the evening in the book I gave him, which pleased me, and we all -went to bed.</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> - -<p>I lay awake quite awhile in the dark, the way you do after you’ve been -to a party and had a good time, and I think it was fully an hour before -I slept. Then, after what seemed ten minutes, I woke to see Leslie -standing by my bed, and to feel her hand on my shoulder, shaking me.</p> - -<p>“Heavens, you sleep soundly,” she complained. “I have a toothache, -and <i>I can’t stand pain</i>. We’ll have to find some dentist who is -in his office, and I want you to go with me and stay right by me and -say ‘Molto sensitivo’ every time I kick you. Oh, <i>do</i> hurry! And -<i>don’t</i> forget to tell him that it’s sensitive.”</p> - -<p>She clamped her hands against her jaw, as she finished speaking, and I -sat up to lean over the edge of my bed and fumble for my slippers.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_EIGHTEEN">CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<br>THE EFFECT OF A SECRET</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span>t </span>was hard to get down to real work after Christmas, for there was a -spirit of gaiety in the air that was too strong to be ignored. In the -streets was always the shrill noise that came from little tin horns; -children were always playing on the pavements with their new toys, and -you could hardly go a block without seeing a crowd around a vender -of something or other that was built to please small people. . . . -Monkeys that climb up frail, yellow sticks will always make me think of -Florence in holiday dress—I know it! And through them I’ll see again -the thick, taupe fogs that spread over the city so much of the time, to -muffle its bells, leave slime upon its pavements and a dull creeping -cold in all the shadows.</p> - -<p>Or, I’ll see Florence at night and Harlequins and Juliets and Romeos, -or wide sombreroed Spaniards walking beside Egyptian Princesses, or -some girl in the costume of Normandy with a sweetheart in clanking -armor; for in Florence there are many masked balls after Christmas, and -at night one may see the people who go to these strolling along<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> in -the best of good humors, and daring all sorts of things because of the -protection given them by their disguise.</p> - -<p>Paper rose leaves were tossed in the air, every pretty girl was spoken -to, and there was lots of laughter, and the nicest sort of fun. . . . -I, myself, felt that grim Florence must be pleased, for the city of -Florence is built to back brilliant costumes, and not the tweeds and -serges that she sees most. I wondered, as I looked one night when I -was out with Mr. Wake and Sam, whether ghosts in satins and brocades, -the ghosts of brides who had ridden all over Florence on snow white -chargers before their weddings, whether these ghosts weren’t, perhaps, -mingling in the throng. . . . Mr. Wake thought they were, and after -I spoke of my feelings, he pointed out to me, a ghost named Vanna -Tornabuoni, who, because she had been wicked, saw in her mirror -instead of her fair face that of the horned devil! And she therefore -went to confession immediately—in Santa Maria Novella, if I’m not -mistaken—and began a new and a better life.</p> - -<p>And all this was pleasing and most fascinating, but as I said, it -made work difficult even for me, and for Viola—who swayed with any -wind—work stopped. Even Signor Paggi’s most bitter scorn didn’t do -anything but make her weep.</p> - -<p>“I’m sick of it anyway,” she confided to me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> just before New Year’s -day. “I wish now I’d listened to Father and never come—”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t he want you to?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“No—the old objection, money. But I was wild over being with Leslie -then, and I persuaded him. Now—” (She drew rings on her blotters; -I had dropped into her room to find her writing) “now, I wish I had -listened to him.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t say anything; there wasn’t very much to say.</p> - -<p>“About to-morrow,” she went on—I had come in to tell her that Mr. -Wake asked us to go with him to a monastery called Certosa, on the -following afternoon—“about to-morrow, I don’t know. But I don’t -<i>believe</i> I’ll go this time. I saw a frock and a blouse in a shop -on the Lungarno, and I thought that, if I could make the woman listen -to reason, I’d take them both. She is asking about forty dollars in our -money for the frock, but I think she’ll come down. I’m positively in -<i>rags</i>, and I planned to go out about the time Mr. Wake wants us -to start. I’m awfully keen to get that frock—”</p> - -<p>(She never did—something kept her from even wanting it—but of that, -later)</p> - -<p>“Can’t you shop in the morning?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Hate to get up—” (She drew a larger ring) “Truly sorry; I’d really -like to but I’m obsessed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> by that blouse and frock. . . . The -frock’s blue, with silver and lavender embroidered, Japanese-looking -motifs. . . . Simply heavenly. . . <i>French</i> in every line! . . . -It’s honestly worth far <i>more</i> than she asks, but I expect to get -her down a few pegs. . . .”</p> - -<p>“Sorry,” I said, and then I went on to Leslie’s room to ask her. I -found her wearing her chin strap and polishing her nails. “Hello,” she -said without changing her expression. (I knew then that she had on a -grease cream that is put on to remove wrinkles. Leslie hasn’t any, but -she says a great aunt whom she looks a lot like has <i>dozens</i>, and -so she means to stall them before they even think of coming!) “What do -you want?”</p> - -<p>“Here,” I said, and held out Mr. Wake’s letter, which Leslie took, -held up to the light and looked through, and after murmuring, “Hand -made”—read.</p> - -<p>“Can’t,” she stated, “I suppose you’ll think I’m crazy, but I asked -Miss Meek and Miss Bannister to go out to tea with me to-morrow -afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“I think it’s fine of you,” I disagreed.</p> - -<p>“Not at <i>all</i>,” she answered sharply. (She hated being thought -sentimental, and any mention of the kind things that she was coming to -do, more and more regularly, really embarrassed her)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> “Nothing ‘fine’ -about it at all! Only Miss Meek had never been to Doney’s and I thought -she’d like it.”</p> - -<p>“She will,” I said, and then I told her I was sorry she couldn’t go, -and went back to my own room, and sewed clean collars and cuffs in my -serge dress, and looked over some music which Signor Paggi wanted me -to read away from the piano and try to see and <i>feel</i> in my mind. -Then I went to my window and opened it, to hang out and peer down in -the court. . . . It looked cold, and almost dreary, and I was glad to -think that spring would be along soon, and I hoped that it would be -nice, but I never dreamed, as I stood there, how nice it was to be, nor -how many changes and happy readjustments it was to back.</p> - -<p>Gino came out, as I was looking down, but he didn’t whistle or sing—I -think that Italian whistling and singing is cranked by the bright -sun—and then he went in again. A cat pounced on a dried leaf that -fluttered across one of the brown paths. . . . A brilliant parrot that -hung in his cage outside of a window down the block a little way, -sung out shrilly, and I noticed a dark-skinned woman across the way -hanging clothes out on a line that was strung from her shutter to a -neighbor’s. . . . It was when I was seeing all these things that Beata -tapped, and came in bearing my second letter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> from home—oh, it was so -good to get them!—and one from Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>I read them both through several times, and then I slipped Mother’s -letter in the pocket of the dress I wore, and Miss Sheila’s letter into -the pocket of my suit coat, for in Miss Sheila’s letter was news that I -felt sure Mr. Wake would enjoy, and I meant to read it aloud to him on -the following day.</p> - -<p>Certosa is a large and beautiful place that tops a hill, about three -miles outside of Florence, and I enjoyed going there, although it -made me feel sad. I suppose my feeling was silly, but the order is an -ancient one; they take in no new members, and all that are left to -rattle around in the very big place are a half dozen tottering old men, -whose hands shake as they unlock the heavy doors for you, and whose -breath grows short as they travel the long stairs that take one up to -the Capella Prima, which means the main chapel.</p> - -<p>I noticed that the white-bearded, white-haired and white-robed monk who -took us around talked almost incessantly, and Sam told me why.</p> - -<p>“Quiet almost all the time,” he said, “from some vow or other, and I -guess the poor old chaps feel like letting out when they can.”</p> - -<p>I said I thought it was too bad, and that it was pleasanter to think -of men getting old with their families around them, and Sam thought so -too.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> - -<p>We were out in the Cloister of Certosa. Cloisters are open squares that -are surrounded by the buildings to which they belong, and they are in -all the churches and monasteries and are always most lovely. After -the sifted, gray light of a church, the sunlight and the beautiful -green growing things that fill these spaces are almost too lovely. And -usually a white or brown garbed monk—sometimes wearing no more than -sandals, on his feet—stands in some archway or wanders back and forth -in a loggia and this adds to the picture.</p> - -<p>The cloister we looked on was centered by a well with a wrought iron -top that has been copied a great deal, and after Sam had spoken of it, -he—as he whittled at a stick—asked me whether I intended to marry. I -said I hoped so, but that with women a lot depended upon whether any -man asked them. That made him laugh, and he put his hand over mine.</p> - -<p>“Some one’s bound to ask you,” he said, as he curled up my fingers in -my palm and then undid them again, to do it all over—sometimes Sam is -<i>very</i> restless—“but, Jane, do tell me any old thing won’t do!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’d have to <i>like</i> him,” I said, for although I knew little -about love, I felt <i>certain</i> of that. Then Mr. Wake appeared, -and he frowned on us terribly. “Look here, children,” he said, “you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> -know you mustn’t hold hands in a cloister—” (I laughed, but I got -pink, for honestly, I hadn’t realized I was doing that. It only seemed -natural and nice, and not anything about it made me conscious until -that moment!) “You know,” Mr. Wake went on, “one of these old boys will -see you, and wonder how the thing is done, and pop! some nice evening -he’ll crawl over the wall, and hike down to Florence, and try to find -a sweetheart. Then some jealous brother will see him come in late, and -report, and there’ll be no end of a row. You want to <i>think of these -things</i>!”</p> - -<p>I tried to free my hand, but Sam held it too tightly, because, I think, -he saw it teased me.</p> - -<p>“Fra Lippo Lippi did that,” said Mr. Wake. “He used to skip over the -wall almost every evening after dark. Then he’d come in late, and -tiptoe through the corridors, carrying his shoes in his hands. Mr. -Browning made a good story about it. Tell you, when you get down to it, -there is <i>nothing</i> new under the sun! . . . Jane, am I going to -have to speak <i>sharply</i> to you, about your conduct?” (He pretended -I was holding Sam’s long hand)</p> - -<p>“You’d better be nice to me,” I said, and I was really almost peevish, -“because I’ve always <i>tried</i> to be nice to you, and I have a -letter from my Miss Sheila, that’s awfully nice—”</p> - -<p>“It’s a <i>shame</i>,” said Sam quickly—and I think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> he was sorry he -had teased me; he is almost always very gentle with me—and he patted -my hand, and returned it to my lap with a great deal of funny ceremony. -Then I ordered him off, and he wandered across the cloister and stood -there smoking and watching us. And <i>then</i> I read Mr. Wake the nice -news.</p> - -<p>“Well, what, dear child?” he asked, as I got out the letter.</p> - -<p>“You <i>wait</i>,” I said.</p> - -<p>“I am—small person—quite a letter, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—the news is on the last page, I believe,” I answered. “She writes -from front to back, and then down across the middle one. . . . Here -’tis. ‘I have a secret to tell you,’ I read, ‘and one that you must -keep—’”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Eve!” broke in Mr. Wake, as he smiled down at me until all the -little wrinkles stood out around his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re <i>different</i>,” I said. He swelled. “<i>Adam!</i>” I -said, and he told me I was a saucy minx, to go on, and I did.</p> - -<p>“‘This spring,’ Miss Sheila wrote, ‘will see me in Florence, but I -don’t want Leslie to know I shall appear, for if she does I am sure -she’ll want to go back with me. I think this winter is doing her good, -and I want her to stick the entire time through.’</p> - -<p>“Nice?” I said, as I folded up the letter which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> made crinkly, crackly -noises as it went into the envelope, because it was written on such -heavy paper. I had supposed Mr. Wake would think it <i>very</i> nice, -and therefore I was surprised to look at him, and see him moisten his -lips, and then hear him say, “I don’t know—”</p> - -<p>“But, Mr. <i>Wake</i>!” I said—I was a good deal disappointed—“I -thought you would <i>like</i> meeting her—”</p> - -<p>(He turned, walked away a few steps and then came back)</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Wake, “that I am too old to meet a Fairy -Godmother. No doubt—” (he was trying to play, but his tone was a -little stiff) “she’d suggest picnicking in the moonlight—isn’t that -the hour when Fairy Rings are most popular?—and that might make -my shoulders stiff. Then—seriously, dear child—I am no good as a -cavalier; I falter. Children and old ladies are the age for me now, and -soon it will be middle-aged women, whom I shall think of as children. -So I am afraid I’d best refuse your alluring offer.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said, and my voice was flat because I felt so, “you know you -don’t have to meet her; Florence is big—”</p> - -<p>“And the world,” he stated, “is big, but sometimes, in spite of the -bigness, one can’t get away from—things—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> - -<p>Well, I <i>didn’t</i> understand him. All that winter he had asked me -about Miss Sheila, until whenever I saw him her name just naturally -came out and sat on the tip of my tongue, waiting for the word from him -that would make it jump off into space. It did seem very <i>queer</i>! -I stuck the letter deep in my pocket, and tried not to feel -disappointed, I knew that I shouldn’t, but—I <i>did</i>! Mr. Wake had -been so dear to me, and was so dear, that I wanted to make him happy, -and I’d supposed I could do so by having a party and asking him to meet -Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>“You know,” he said, and I could see he was trying to get back -to normal, and to make me think he felt quite as usual, “an old -person like me, with a fat tummy, simply <i>can’t</i> meet a fairy -godmother—he wouldn’t know how to act!”</p> - -<p>“Your stomach’s <i>much</i> better,” I answered bluntly, “you needn’t -blame it on <i>that</i>! If you don’t want to meet her, just <i>say</i> -so, but, I’ll tell you, <i>you’ll miss it</i>! She’s lovely, and she’d -be very kind to you—she’s kind to every one—”</p> - -<p>“Is she?” he broke in, and he smiled in a strange way.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered hotly, “she <i>is</i>.”</p> - -<p>We were quiet a moment. Then Mr. Wake put his hand over mine. “Dear -child,” he said, “I’m <i>sorry</i> to disappoint you—”</p> - -<p>“What about examples <i>now</i>?” asked Sam, who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> came strolling up. -Then he saw that there was something straining in the air, and he -quickly changed the subject. “Found a bush all in bloom on the other -side of the court,” he said, “Come over and see it, Jane. Almost as -pretty as you are, back in a second, Signor Wake—”</p> - -<p>“Long as you like,” said Mr. Wake with a wave, by which he meant we -might linger.</p> - -<p>“What is it!” asked Sam, after we had wandered into the center of the -big space that was surrounded on all sides by the building. I told him, -and then I said, “It surprised me; he has talked about her—so much -that at first I thought he must have known her, but she wrote she’d -never known any one named Wake, and now—he doesn’t <i>want</i> to know -her—”</p> - -<p>“Match-maker?” asked Sam.</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, and a little sharply, because I was still -disappointed, “but I thought he’d <i>like</i> it. And they are both -so nice, and Miss Sheila <i>is</i> lonely—you can see it sometimes, -although perhaps she doesn’t know it—and I <i>did</i> think that if -they liked each other it <i>would</i> be nice—”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what,” said Sam, “I’ll let you make a match for me. I’ll -pick out the girl, and you’ll tell me how to get her—”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I promised, and I felt more dismal than ever. I don’t know -why, but I did.</p> - -<p>“That please you?” he asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span></p> - -<p>“Not entirely,” I answered with candor, “I think you’ll <i>ruin</i> -your career if you marry too early!”</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t look as if I would,” he stated, and he sighed. And I felt -worse than ever.</p> - -<p>“That’ll be the end of our friendship—” I prophesied, and I felt sad, -and my voice sounded it.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes it is,” Sam answered, and then he laughed. I didn’t see how -he could. It was a pleasant day, and the court was full of sunshine, -and the grass and even some of the rose bushes were green—but -everything looked bleak to me—I felt <i>alone</i>, and <i>blue</i>.</p> - -<p>“Anything wrong?” asked Sam, after we had strolled around a little -while, and looked at the well, and stolen some sprigs of herb from a -little plot that had a few early vegetables in it.</p> - -<p>“There seems to be,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Why, Jane! . . . How can there be under the warmth of an Italian sun, -and in this lovely place, and with a—a troubadour who—who adores -you?” then he stopped, and I felt much better. I don’t remember when I -have felt so <i>much</i> better.</p> - -<p>“I’m all right now,” I said, and I smiled up at him, and then because -he looked a little different from usual, I thought we’d better go back -to Mr. Wake. I said so.</p> - -<p>“Love him as much as I do,” said Sam, “the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> dickens with him! Look -here, dear, if there is any—any satisfaction in my liking you, you can -collect it any time, and what’s more—the darned stuff’s rolling up a -whacking big interest.”</p> - -<p>I liked that; I said so. Then I said that we <i>must</i> go back to Mr. -Wake, and I turned to go across the court, and Sam followed, saying -he’d like to shake me.</p> - -<p>Going down to the car we drank the wine that the friars make and sell -in tiny little bottles. And Sam and I got silly and had lots of fun, -but Mr. Wake was unusually quiet. I think, perhaps, we had tired him.</p> - -<p>It was late when I reached home, for we had stopped to hear the last -of a concert that was being given in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, -and that led to a little table with three chairs around it, and some -chocolate, and cakes.</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Wake left us at the Piazza del Duomo, where he took the tram -to Fiesole, and Sam walked up to the Piazza Indipendenza with me; we -didn’t hurry—he told me about his new orders, and I told him how well -the twins were doing—and it seemed to take quite a little time. And it -was all of seven when we stood outside the pension door, on the third -floor, and shook hands.</p> - -<p>“You’ll be late for dinner,” said Sam.</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t matter,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“I <i>hope</i> it won’t be cold,” he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t care,” I responded. Then he said he was sorry, again, and he -hoped it wouldn’t be cold, again, and I told him it didn’t matter, -again, and then we reached the point we’d both been waiting for, which -was, his saying, “Well, when can I see you again?”</p> - -<p>And after I told him—I said, “day after to-morrow,” because I didn’t -think it was nice to <i>rush</i> things—I went in. I expected to -hear Mr. Hemmingway reminiscing in the dining room, but no sound came -from there; the place seemed strangely and unpleasantly still. I had -expected also to encounter Beata carrying in one of the later courses, -but when my eyes accommodated to the dim light I saw that Beata was -sitting by the table, with her head in her arms, crying.</p> - -<p>“Beata,” I broke out quickly, “not <i>Pietro</i>?” for I was afraid -that something had come along to change the course of her plans, which -all led up to and centered around a wedding which was to be early in -February.</p> - -<p>Beata looked up; “Signorina,” she said, “la cablegram—la Signorina -Harrees-Clarke—la poverina, la <i>poverina</i>!”</p> - -<p>That was all I stopped to hear. I hurried down the corridor to Viola’s -room, and at that door I paused, for Leslie was sitting on the bed by -Viola, holding both of her hands in hers, and saying, as she stroked -them, “There, dear, <i>there</i>!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_NINETEEN">CHAPTER NINETEEN<br>CHANGES</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">I</span> found</span> the cablegram that had come for Viola told her that her father -was dead; the father whom she had not written since her complaining, -begging letter of Christmas time.</p> - -<p>It made me feel so sorry for her that I didn’t know what to do; for -I knew that the sorrow would be enough for her without acute regret -attached to it; and I knew that she was going to suffer from that too.</p> - -<p>I stood in the doorway, that afternoon, for quite a few moments before -I could go in, and when I did and Viola saw me, she sat up. Her cheeks -were flushed and she didn’t look as if she had cried.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember that letter?” she said.</p> - -<p>I nodded. I couldn’t speak.</p> - -<p>“What—can you remember <i>just</i> what I said in it?” she asked. I -evaded as hard and convincingly as I could, but it did no good. She -remembered it, only she had to talk of it, and she did it through -questioning me.</p> - -<p>“I—I told him that Leslie’s clothes made me feel like a pauper—” she -stated in a hard, high<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> voice, “that—that I’d had to struggle and -pinch—I told him—”</p> - -<p>I broke in then. And I made her lie down, and I got Leslie started at -making tea, and then I helped Viola into bed, and tried to do what -I could to divert her through taking off her clothes and making her -comfortable and brushing her hair, and Leslie took the cue and stopped -saying, “Oh, my dear, how <i>can</i> I help you?” which was not just -what Viola needed then.</p> - -<p>Every one was dreadfully upset, and worried for Viola, and Miss Meek -came over with smelling salts, and Miss Bannister came tiptoeing to -the door to ask what she could do, and Mr. Hemmingway, whose eyes were -flooded in tears, told me of the death of his dear father—and he -remembered the date—and Miss Julianna, with tears on her pretty round -cheeks, came pattering in with offers of all sorts of strange things, -and a little shrine, which she set up by Viola’s bed.</p> - -<p>“La Madre Santa,” she said—which meant “The Sainted Mother”—and -Leslie, who doesn’t seem to understand the people who differ from her -in their way of worship, asked Viola if it should stay.</p> - -<p>“I can take it away, darling,” she said in an undertone, “when Miss -Julianna is gone.”</p> - -<p>But Viola shook her head, and I was glad, for I liked its being there. -I felt a good deal of comfort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> through the picture of the pretty woman -who held the little baby so tightly in her arms and smiled at any one -who looked at her. We all needed comfort, and some one who could smile.</p> - -<p>It was twelve before Viola slept, and after she did, I put out the -light, and tiptoed down to Leslie’s room.</p> - -<p>I found Leslie sitting up by her table, writing, and I couldn’t help -seeing an envelope on it that was addressed to Ben Forbes.</p> - -<p>She saw that I saw it, and she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Jane,” she said, “I’ve been a perfect fool. . . . I’ve always hated -any one who belittled my importance or anything about me. . . . When -Viola did—you know how it was—” (She drew her pretty pink, quilted -dressing gown closer around her, and went on) “and I imagine the reason -I haven’t been wild over Aunt Sheila was because I felt she didn’t -<i>worship</i>. . . And you know I wanted to punish Ben Forbes—because -he told me <i>the truth</i>. . . . I’m writing him—” she shoved the -sheet of paper on which she had been writing toward me—“because, -after he had hurt me, <i>with truth</i>, I told him that what he said -made <i>no</i> difference to me, that I considered him rather uncouth, -and that I had written him <i>only</i> from kindness, and the fact -that I felt he was rather shut off out there in the wilds—and—lots -more! Well, to get through with this, this afternoon and to-night<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> -some things have been driven home to me by Viola’s losing her own -father after she had hurt him. . . . She’ll have to remember now—all -her life—how she had hurt him just before he died. They say”—Leslie -groped for a handkerchief, and mopped her tears frankly—“they say that -all sorts of accidents happen on—on r-<i>ranches</i>—”</p> - -<p>And then she covered her face and sobbed.</p> - -<p>I moved around the table to stand by her and put my arm around her, and -then she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Read—it,” she said, with a big sob between the two words, and I did.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="noindent"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Ben</span>:” she had written. -</p> -<p> -“All my life I have been conceited; you must know it now. I -do—which is a miracle—and I’m writing to-night to say that -the truth you told me helped me and is helping me. I am working -hard; I hope I am less a fool.</p> -<p class="right"> - -<span style="margin-right: 12em;">“With gratitude,</span><br> -<span style="margin-right: 2em;">“Your old neighbor and friend,</span><br> -“<span class="smcap">Leslie Parrish</span>.”<br> -</p> -</div> - -<p>“Is it all right?” she asked, as I laid it down.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered, “but if he likes you, and you hurt him, you ought to -say you are sorry for that—”</p> - -<p>She nodded quickly, and reached for her pen. “What would you say?” she -asked, as she looked down, uncertainly, at her lovely monogramed paper.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span></p> - -<p>“If I liked him, <i>really</i>,” I said, “I would write a postscript. -I’d say something like, ‘Dear Ben, I like you, and I didn’t mean those -things I said when I was cross. I will be very grateful if you will -forgive me—’”</p> - -<p>And she wrote just that.</p> - -<p>“It doesn’t sound like me,” she commented in a voice that shook. -“It’s—it’s too nice.” And, again, she wiped away tears.</p> - -<p>I leaned over, and folded the sheet, and stuck it in the envelope and -sealed it, as Leslie laughed in a funny, weak way.</p> - -<p>“Where are your stamps?” I asked. She told me, and I licked one and -stuck it on. Then we kissed each other, and that was unusual. I never -was so very much for kissing everybody all the time, and I think when -girls do, too much, it’s silly, but it was different that night. Then I -went out and laid the letter on the table in the hall—we always left -them there for the first person who went out to take, and then I looked -in to see that Viola was still sleeping, and after that I went to bed.</p> - -<p>That day began a new sort of life for us all. The tragedy that came to -Viola was like a stone that is thrown into the center of a still pool. -All sorts of widening circles grew from her trouble, and she, herself, -found through it a new depth. I don’t mean that everything changed in -a day,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> for things don’t change in that manner, but all the time Viola -was building up new habits in place of the old ones that were crumbling -away.</p> - -<p>I saw the roots of a fine strong habit, on the day when she got the -first letter from home written after her father died.</p> - -<p>I was with her when it came, and she looked up from the black-bordered -sheet to say—vacantly, and in a level, stupid-sounding sort of -tone—“He <i>was</i> poor!” I was sewing clean cuffs and collars in my -serge dress and I stuck myself and made a spot of blood on one cuff. -I was so sorry for her that I really shook when anything new that was -hard came to her.</p> - -<p>“Read it, Jane,” she said, and she held out the letter. I did, and -I couldn’t imagine that any one who had ever known or really loved -Viola’s father had written it. It was full of complaints and self-pity, -because the husband of the woman who had written it had died to leave -his widow with less money than she thought she should have. I didn’t -know what to say. Then I suppose I did a dreadful thing, but I did -it without meaning to do anything dreadful, and because I have been -brought up to speak the truth.</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” I said, “he is happier dead.”</p> - -<p>The tears stood out in Viola’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“I only said that,” I explained miserably, “because I thought it might -make you feel better, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> if your mother talked to him like that I—I -guess it worried you—” (I stammered terribly over it; it was so hard -to say anything that sounded even half right)</p> - -<p>“I talked that way too,” said Viola. I couldn’t say anything to that. -So I began to sew in my collar.</p> - -<p>“He hated the hyphenated name!” said Viola. I finished sewing in my -collar and began on my last cuff.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind the money, but I have to think of it—what shall I do? I -hate sponging. I will say I <i>always</i> hated it! Mother can go visit -people—and she will—but I—I <i>can’t</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you work?” I asked.</p> - -<p>She looked at me hard. “What would I do?” she asked after several -moments of scrutiny.</p> - -<p>“Accompany,” I answered. “Even Devil Paggi” (I am ashamed to say that -we called him that sometimes) “says you can do that—”</p> - -<p>“Yes—” Viola answered in a funny, low voice.</p> - -<p>“He said he’d get any of us positions,” I went on, “and touring with a -great singer wouldn’t be bad—”</p> - -<p>That captured her!</p> - -<p>“Basses are always fat,” she said; “I hope to goodness it will be a -tenor!” Which was a whole lot like Viola, and a joke that I didn’t -appreciate then, for when Viola—who did learn to accompany<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> really -beautifully—got her position, it was with a fat German contralto who -had five children, a fat poodle dog that Viola had to chaperon a great -deal of the time, and a temper that Viola had to suffer, or—leave!</p> - -<p>I stood up a little time after that, and as I stepped into the corridor -I met Leslie, who was taking a letter out for Beata to mail.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” I said, as I swung into step by her, and we reached the -hall near the entrance door, “Viola had a letter from her mother, and -her father hasn’t left much—”</p> - -<p>“How ghastly!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said, “I don’t know. . . . It may help Viola—”</p> - -<p>“I’ll lend her anything she needs—any amount,” said Leslie, and then I -spoke.</p> - -<p>“Please <i>don’t</i>,” I begged. She drew herself up.</p> - -<p>“Will you be good enough to explain?” she said frigidly, and I did. I -said that, unless she intended to support Viola all her life, she had -no business to get Viola into the habit of taking and expecting, and I -went on to say that it was the one chance for Viola to learn to work, -and that she would be helped through her trouble <i>by</i> work. I was -sure she would, and I was sure that Leslie oughtn’t to help her, and I -spoke with a lot of energy.</p> - -<p>Leslie didn’t like it—Rome wasn’t built in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> day!—and then she said -that when she needed my expert advice she’d call for it, and that she -didn’t intend to see Viola starve; and after that, we parted.</p> - -<p>At dinner that night she was frosty as James Whitcomb Riley’s famed -pumpkins, but I could see by Viola’s careless manner (Viola always paid -a great deal of attention to Leslie <i>after</i> she borrowed money) -that Leslie hadn’t spoken to her of her willingness to help.</p> - -<p>For a couple of days Leslie avoided making real conversation with me, -and then one morning while I was practising I looked up to see Leslie -in the doorway.</p> - -<p>She had on a French blue negligee that had pale two-toned pink ribbons -on it, and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and she carried -a tray on which was a pot of tea, some little cakes that she knows I -like, and some biscuits. She always got her own breakfast because the -pension allowance was small, and she knew that I was always hungry -until after lunch.</p> - -<p>“Here!” she said, as she set it down on a chair by me. “Suppose you’re -starved as usual. I, myself, am entirely certain that the scant -breakfasts stunt the race—I’m <i>certain</i> that it makes them -short—I want to say several things—”</p> - -<p>I began to eat. “Go ahead,” I said, in a tone that I must confess was -muffled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> - -<p>“In the first place—you, ah, you were right about Viola.” (I almost -fainted, but I bit into a biscuit and held on to consciousness) “I see -it now. Then—this afternoon I am going out to buy a wedding present -for Beata, and I want you to go with me; can you?”</p> - -<p>“If you’ll wait till I get through practising—” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, that’s understood. <i>Have</i> to with you—” (She always -resented and never understood why my first thought <i>had</i> to be -music) “And another thing,” she went on, and she fumbled in the front -of her negligee to find a cablegram, “I’ve heard from him—”</p> - -<p>I took it and read it.</p> - -<p>“He must have cared a lot to write those two pleases in a cablegram,” I -said.</p> - -<p>She nodded and tried not to smile, but the inclination was so much -stronger than her ability to hold it in check, that she smiled in a -silly, ashamed sort of way, and she avoided meeting my eyes.</p> - -<p>Ben Forbes had cabled, “Thank you. Letter follows. Please please write -me again.”</p> - -<p>“I thought I’d get Beata a silver coffee service,” said Leslie, who -can’t seem to accommodate to other people’s circumstances.</p> - -<p>“She’d never use that,” I said. “You might as well get her a wooden leg -or a pair of stilts! I’d get her some horrible picture, or candlesticks -for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> their front room, or a lamp with a funny, warty, red and green -shade—”</p> - -<p>“You’re right,” she said, and then she went off. She kissed her fingers -to me from the doorway, and again she smiled in that misty, vacant way.</p> - -<p>I practised hard, for that afternoon I had a lesson, and it was that -afternoon that Signor Paggi began to be most kind to me.</p> - -<p>“You have more <i>feel</i> in the tune,” he said. (I was very happy) “I -think Cu<i>peed</i> have come to make you <i>see</i>—” he went on.</p> - -<p>“Not to me,” I said, “but to some one I like—”</p> - -<p>“Have as you will,” he stated, “but play again, for me—”</p> - -<p>And I did. And as I did, I thought of how Sam had looked when he heard -me practise that very same music at the Pension Dante. He had said it -was beautiful, and it had helped me.</p> - -<p>Friendship is a wonderful thing!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY">CHAPTER TWENTY<br>A COUNTRY WEDDING AND THE COMING OF SPRING</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span> great</span> deal happened in that slice of time which carried us from -January into spring, although during that interval we felt as if we -were going along almost entirely on the level. You never really do see -the things that happen—not well—until you can look at them over your -shoulder. I realize now that there was lots of excitement, and that -there was really a good deal of abrupt change, but I didn’t see it then.</p> - -<p>In the first place, we all went to Beata’s wedding in February, and I -never did have a better time.</p> - -<p>Her family, who numbered fourteen—with her father and mother, and -Grandmother and Grandfather, and nine brothers and sisters—lived in -a four room house out in the country past the Cascine, which is the -Park in Florence where fashionable people and those who are trying -very hard to become fashionable, drive each afternoon. I didn’t like -it; it didn’t seem very foreign or Italian. But to go on with my -story, an American—or most Americans—would have hesitated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> about -inviting people to a wedding party in a four room house that was simply -crammed with children, not to mention the sick hen and the sheep with -a broken leg, but it didn’t bother Beata! No, sir, she meant to have a -party, and she had it, and I thought her asking every one she wanted -<i>fine</i>. She said, through Miss Julianna, who interpreted, “You -know we are poor, but we have great love in our hearts for you, and -would like to share what we have with you. And will you do us the great -honor to come to my wedding, hear the mass that will follow, and then -eat with us the grand dinner at the house of my dearly loved father?”</p> - -<p>Every one accepted, and on the morning of the fourteenth—which was -the date Leslie had chosen for Beata’s wedding in honor of a certain -Saint who swells the mails on this day each year—we all started out -toward Beata’s home. Leslie, who was increasingly kind and thoughtful, -had hired a big motor which would, with a little squeezing, hold us -all; and into this piled Miss Julianna, Miss Meek (she wore the purple -velvet with the green buttons again) Miss Bannister who had never set -foot in a motor before and was pale from fear (her fright lasted about -a block, and then she got so jazzy that we almost had to tell her not -to rock the boat) Viola, with a wide black band around her arm (Leslie -had suggested that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> to save Viola’s buying new black clothes) and -Leslie, Mr. Hemmingway and myself.</p> - -<p>The riding out was great fun, for the day was fine, and Miss Meek and -Miss Bannister and Mr. Hemmingway were having such a good time that we -were all infected with it.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hemmingway talked <i>every</i> second about the first time he had -ever seen a motor, which was in Australia, he <i>thought</i> in Sidney, -although oddly enough he could, in retrospect, only see the corner -where the motor stood; and, all corners being pretty much the same, it -<i>might</i> have been in Melbourne. And he thought it was in 1889, -although it might have been in 1888—and so on!</p> - -<p>Miss Meek kept saying, “My <i>eye</i>, how <i>jolly</i>!” and Miss -Bannister, who, as I said, lost all fear after a block of going, kept -asking if the chauffeur couldn’t “speed it up a bit.” She admitted that -she was “no end keen for going, don’t you know!”</p> - -<p>When we reached the little house, I was so glad that Beata had asked -us, because we saw, through her doing so, a side of life that we hadn’t -come across before.</p> - -<p>The house, which was of tan stucco with the usual, red tiled roof, -stood on a tiny plot of ground over which were strewn all sorts of -things. A broken cart, with one wheel gone, sagged in a corner, -and near the tiny, shed-like barn, through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> the window of which an -interested horse stuck its head, was a grindstone. Ground-scratching -hens, who chattered in gentle clucks to their puffy, soft broods, -walked in the house and out again as they pleased, and a red rooster -stood on a crumbling stucco wall that was topped with broken glass, -to flap his wings and crow. . . . Down back of the house every inch -of ground was terraced, for it seems that it is best used that way on -hillsides, and because of this the Italian country, in most places, -looks like unending flights of green-grown steps. Up under the eaves -was a really beautiful figure of Christ nailed on the cross, and when -people passed below that they bowed and crossed themselves.</p> - -<p>Of course the sun was over everything, and there were some smells that -weren’t exactly pleasant, but the whole place was pleasing, and a lot -of its picturesque look came from the disorder and dirt.</p> - -<p>And the guests! They were all dressed in their peasant best, and were -laughing and joking, and telling Beata that they wished her many, -strong children—this is quite a proper wish in Italy, and I really -don’t know why it shouldn’t be anywhere; but people <i>would</i> think -it queer, I suppose, if you said it at a wedding in Pennsylvania, or -in New York—and before we started for the church, which was down in -the valley below us, we all joined<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> hands and circled Beata and Pietro -who stood in the center, holding hands and smiling at each other shyly. -Then every one sung while we did this and it was very pretty to hear -and to see and to join in.</p> - -<p>Then we went, arm in arm, down a winding way, over slopes that were -grown with small, gently green olive trees, or between fields of green -that were already beginning to show the brightest growing hue; past -a high-walled villa, and several tumbling houses of the poor. And -whenever we met a person, or a group of them, they—knowing Beata or -not—would call out a blessing upon the pair, and then stand, heads -uncovered, until we had gone from sight. . . . There is something very -warming in the frankness of the Italians’ hearts; I think perhaps, in -the United States, we keep our hearts too heavily covered.</p> - -<p>In the church many candles were burning, and there was a little boy -swinging an incense pot, and it was dark and cool and mysterious, after -all the blaze of the sunshine outdoors. I liked the service—in spite -of the fact that it was very long—and I enjoyed seeing how it was done.</p> - -<p>After it was over, we went back to Beata’s father’s house to find the -little lame brother (who was getting better all the time) waiting for -us at the gate—he had seemed glad to stay with the Grandmother—and -Beata kissed him first, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> then her Grandmother, and every one talked -and laughed and joked. And then the refreshments, which were black -bread, bright orange cheese, figs, and wine, were passed, and they did -taste good.</p> - -<p>Just before we left a new guest came, and she carried the tiniest baby -I had ever seen, which was only three days old, and I was very much -surprised when I found out it was hers; because Daddy always makes the -mothers of babies stay in bed at least two weeks, and sometimes much -longer. But it seems that all the peasants get up after two or three -days, and when this woman said she had had to miss the wedding because -of doing a big wash, I was more surprised, but very glad she came, for -she let me hold the baby, who was named Leo Paolo Giovanni Battista -Vincenzo Negri, and was <i>so</i> cunning.</p> - -<p>When the shadows were beginning to grow long and turn purple, we -started back toward Florence, which lay before us in its valley cup, -with all its spires and towers gilded by the last, yellow-gold sunlight.</p> - -<p>I felt a little sad, going in; I don’t know why, unless perhaps it was -because Miss Bannister and Miss Meek and Mr. Hemmingway had had so fine -a time, and I kept wondering, as they talked—excitedly and as fast as -they could and all at once—what they would do after we left.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span></p> - -<p>But Fate and Mr. Wake helped them.</p> - -<p>Early in March I heard from Miss Sheila that she would be in Florence -some time during April, but I didn’t tell Mr. Wake of this, for since -that day at Certosa we hadn’t talked much of Miss Sheila. And the very -same day that I heard that, Leslie came to me, with one of the big, -square envelopes in her hand that came so often since she had written -Ben Forbes.</p> - -<p>“Ben Forbes is coming over,” she stated.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that <i>dandy</i>?” I answered. I had been practising; I had -added an hour and was doing five a day, at that time.</p> - -<p>“I think so,” she said, looking down.</p> - -<p>“Has he ever been here before?” I asked, and she responded quickly and -with a little remnant of her old irritation in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Heavens, <i>yes</i>, child!” she replied, “<i>dozens</i> of times, of -course! But not lately. He says he realizes that he has been keeping -himself too tightly moored, and that he wants a few weeks of real -play. . . . He wants me to plan the whole time for him—”</p> - -<p>“Well,” I said, “I think that’s <i>great</i>! What are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, take him to the Boboli Gardens, and that sort of thing—he likes -outdoors and isn’t too keen for pictures—and we’ll walk. . . . Where -is that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> little place where you buy cakes, down in that covered street -near the Arno?”</p> - -<p>It seemed queer to have her ask that—I remembered so clearly her -saying that she thought <i>eating in alleys</i> odd—but I didn’t -remind her, and I told her about that, and about a place where you -could get the best white wine, and then of a restaurant where Sam had -taken me that was always full of Italian artists, and writers and -poets, and where you never saw the gleam of a red Baedeker.</p> - -<p>“He likes that sort of thing,” Leslie confided, “and I want him to have -a good time—”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” I answered.</p> - -<p>She sighed, and then smiled in a sort of a foolish way. “It’ll be nice -to see him,” she said weakly.</p> - -<p>“I should think it would be,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“He’s thirty-three,” she said, “but what’s ten years?” (Leslie is -twenty-three)</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” I stated. It was easy to say the right thing to her that -day, for she put up a sign post at every turn.</p> - -<p>“I think a man should be older than a woman—” said Leslie. I suppose -she meant husband and wife.</p> - -<p>“I do too,” I agreed, and did an arpeggio.</p> - -<p>“Hear about Viola?” she asked, as she leaned against the piano.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> - -<p>“No.” I stopped and looked up as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Paggi had a note from a German contralto—she’s pretty well known -too—Madame Heilbig; and she wants a young accompanist, and Signor P. -has recommended Vi. . . . Viola’s to try out with the lady next week -when she goes through here, and I believe Madame Heilbig will tour the -States next year. . . . Viola will <i>love</i> that. She’s already -planning what she will wear. . . . Do you remember how she expected to -accompany a slim tenor with pretty brown eyes?”</p> - -<p>I did, and I laughed.</p> - -<p>Leslie laughed too, but not as kindly as I had—really she didn’t—for -she and Viola, in spite of being friends again, still held a scratchy -feeling toward each other.</p> - -<p>“Nothing ever turns out as I expect it to,” said Leslie, “I’m beginning -to get over being surprised about anything. . . . Do you think a man -would like that flower toque of mine?”</p> - -<p>“He will unless he’s blind,” I replied, and then I told her to get out, -because I had to go on with my work, but I didn’t have much time alone, -for in a second Viola appeared.</p> - -<p>“<i>Darling</i>,” she called from the doorway, “have you <i>heard</i> -the <i>news</i>?”</p> - -<p>I gave up then; I had to.</p> - -<p>“Not your version of it,” I answered; and she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> came skipping across -the room to drop on a chair near me, and babble. There is no other -description of it! She was so excited that she hardly stopped for -breath.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to get that position!” she announced, “it’ll do me -<i>worlds</i> of good—” (It did!) “And mother is satisfied to stay -with Aunt Clarice—she entertains all the time, you know—and I am -going to wear an orchid chiffon frock, made up over silver cloth, -perhaps, and Signor Paggi says I will sometimes be expected to bow too, -and that Madame Heilbig will pay me well, and I mean to save—because -Leslie says all her income comes from money her father saved—it is the -only safety for a single woman, and capital is really the husband of -an old maid, don’t you know? Or would you wear lavender? I thought of -a brocade, and I could wear artificial violets because they would look -like real ones back of the footlights, and with my name, they might be -sort of romantic, and I can wear violet too, and—”</p> - -<p>I sat and listened, and honestly she went on for a half hour like that. -Then she said, “Hear about Ben Forbes?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“Simply <i>romantic</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Um hum—”</p> - -<p>“Taking him to the Boboli Gardens, and all that—<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span><i>artful</i>, -you know. . . . <i>Think</i> of having a proposal in one of those -arched-over pathways in that heavenly place! <i>Oh!</i>”</p> - -<p>“Probably won’t,” I said.</p> - -<p>“He will too,” Viola disagreed, “<i>she’ll fix it</i>! . . . Look here, -did you hear about his cook!”</p> - -<p>I hadn’t, and I said so quickly, because I was interested.</p> - -<p>“In the letter before this last one,” said Viola, “I think it came -yesterday, he told Leslie—oh, in detail, my dear!—about his -ranch, and the way the ranch house looked and all that. Made it -<i>frightfully</i> attractive, told her about the patio, what is a -patio, anyway?”</p> - -<p>“Enclosed court,” I answered, “I think they have them in some of the -ranch houses in the southwest. They are sort of Mexican—”</p> - -<p>“I see; well, he told her about that, and about how the sunsets looked -on the mountains, it was a perfect <i>love</i> of a letter, but what -I was getting at was this—he said he had a one-eyed Chinese cook who -could spit eight feet. Can you imagine Leslie with <i>that</i>?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. It did seem awfully funny.</p> - -<p>Viola laughed too, but as Leslie had, which was not in an entirely kind -way, and then she went on to say almost exactly what Leslie had said -about her.</p> - -<p>“It’ll be the <i>making</i> of her,” she said (and it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> was!), “but I -never would have believed she would allow herself to care for a man who -lives in the middle of nowhere. However, <i>nothing</i> turns out as -one expects it to. I guess I ought to leave you?”</p> - -<p>“You ought to,” I agreed, “but I don’t suppose you will—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do come have tea with me,” said Leslie from the doorway, and I -gave up. We went to her room to find her bed covered with the veils -which she had been trying on over her flowered toque.</p> - -<p>“A woman <i>should</i> look her best,” she said, but she flushed and -avoided looking at us as she said it.</p> - -<p>“When will he be here?” asked Viola.</p> - -<p>“Who?” asked Leslie coolly, but something made her drop the shoe horn -with which she was measuring out the tea, and then knock a cream puff -from a heavy piece of china that had been designed to hold soap.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE">CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE<br>FIESOLE, A CLEAR HOT DAY AND A COOL GARDEN</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap close"><span class="dropcap">A</span>pril </span>came in as gently and softly as a month could possibly come, and -it held more loveliness than I had ever dreamed could be. The sun was -growing too warm and, some days, the heat was oppressive and going out -unwise; but most of the days were flawless jewels that began with brown -which merged into green, topped and finished with the blue, blue sky.</p> - -<p>It was in the second week in April that we went up to Fiesole, that -proud little town that perches on a high hill, and looks down so -scornfully on the Florence that has always made war upon her.</p> - -<p>I had been there before with Sam, and we had gone up the winding road, -to the place where there are relics of Roman baths and the remains of a -Roman Temple and an open, half-circled Roman theater. But that had been -in the winter, and now it was spring!</p> - -<p>Viola and I went up alone, for Leslie was out somewhere with Ben -Forbes, who had arrived the night before. And all the way up Viola -talked of Leslie’s getting married—and she wasn’t even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> engaged -then—and of what she, Viola, would wear while <i>en tour</i>, which -was what she called her traveling with Madame Heilbig—who had liked -her playing, and instantly engaged her—and of how she, Viola, intended -to go on and some day accompany some one who was really great, while I -looked out at the country which was <i>so</i> beautiful.</p> - -<p>I didn’t mind Viola’s talking very much, although I would have been -glad to look on all that loveliness in silence, but I was glad, when we -reached Fiesole—which is so high that it seems to cling uncertainly to -the top of the hill—and found on reaching there that Viola went off -with Mr. Wake, and that I walked with Sam.</p> - -<p>“And how’s everything?” he asked, after he had smiled down at me in the -kindest way, and told me that he liked my broad hat which I had bought -at the Mercato Nuovo for five lire which is now about twenty-five cents.</p> - -<p>“Better and better,” I answered, and then I told him all the news, as I -always did when we met. We met a good deal too, but there always seemed -to be a lot to say. It is like that when you are real friends.</p> - -<p>“Miss Bannister,” I said, “has had luck. A nephew of hers has lost -his wife, which is hard on him, but fine for Miss Bannister, because -he wants her to come to Devonshire and live in his house, and attend -to giving the cook and what Miss Bannister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> calls ‘the scullery maid’ -their orders. And he sent her ten pounds—how much is that, Sam?”</p> - -<p>“About fifty hard bones, dear,” he answered. (I was quite used to his -calling me “dear,” and I liked it)</p> - -<p>“Well, that is all for clothes,” I stated, “and I’m going to help her -buy them.”</p> - -<p>“Can you get more than one frock with that?” asked Sam, and I told -him that she certainly could, for only the day before Leslie and I -had shopped. She had helped me to buy the things I was going to take -home to Mother, Roberta, the twins, and Daddy, and we had got lovely -things at most reasonable prices. Hand-embroidered, hand-made night -dresses could be bought for a dollar and a half; waist patterns -wonderfully embroidered, for two dollars; laces (and the laces were -<i>beautiful</i>), for about half what one would pay at home—I had -bought Mother a set of broad Irish lace collars and cuffs for four -dollars—and quite everything was like that, one paid less, and got -more.</p> - -<p>“Leslie got uncurled ostrich feather fans for some of her friends,” I -went on, “she said for half what she would have to pay for the cheapest -at home—they were twelve and fifteen dollars, I think—and she got -leather frames and hand-bound books too, that were beautiful.” Then I -told Sam that I had found for Father a handtooled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> card case that I -wanted him to see, and he said he wanted to, and then he said he was -miserable.</p> - -<p>“Why?” I asked, and he told me because I was going away.</p> - -<p>“That won’t stop our being friends,” I answered, and I pretended a -cheerfulness that I really didn’t feel.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, “it mustn’t. I’m going to work hard,” he continued, -“and I’m coming over to New York in a year or so for a one man show—” -(I suppose I looked as if I didn’t understand—for I didn’t—and he -explained) “That means,” he said, “an exhibition of my work, all by -itself—Mr. Wake, bless him, thinks I can swing it, and when I come -over I’ll come to see you. But you knew that, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Will you <i>really</i>?” I questioned, because I did want to be very -sure, and he said he really would.</p> - -<p>“But then,” I said, “you’ll probably go again—”</p> - -<p>“Um, probably. . . . I used to travel with a banjo tucked under one -arm, and a palette under the other. . . . But I see where, in a couple -of years, things are going to be more complicated, <i>if I can manage -what I want to</i>—”</p> - -<p>I didn’t understand him, but I let it go, because Mr. Wake and Viola -had come out of the Cathedral which dominates the wind-swept Piazza -at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> Fiesole, and Mr. Wake came over to tell Sam to take me in and show -me the bust of a Bishop and his monument that were made by Mino da -Fiesole, and that Mr. Wake liked very much.</p> - -<p>We went in, past the beggars who sat on the steps with open, upturned -palms, past an old lady who was selling baskets, and swore at us -dreadfully when we refused to buy them—among her swearing was a curse -which consists of “Darn the fishes,” and that is very, very wicked in -Italian!—and then, inside we saw the—Sarcophagus, Sam called it, and -loitered around, and then went back out into the glare and stifling -heat that was over everything outside.</p> - -<p>We found Mr. Wake and Viola across the big Piazza, loitering in the -shade, and Mr. Wake said that it was too hot for anything but his own -shady garden and iced tea, and so we left the funny, pretty little -town and started down a narrow roadway that ran between high walls, or -slopes that were covered with olive trees.</p> - -<p>Every color was accentuated. . . . Houses that were faint pink, -seemed salmon; greens almost clashed; the dust of the roadway was a -vivid yellow, and down in the hollow below us, Florence spread out, a -steaming, gleaming mass of tightly packed palaces, shining spires, and -gleaming towers.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Giotto,” said Mr. Wake, as we halted at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> a bend in the way and -looked down at our own city. He said this, for he loved the tower that -Giotto had planned and had seen half built before his death. “Ever -hear,” said Mr. Wake, “of how the little Giotto was found, and how he -was helped to become the great artist that he was?”</p> - -<p>I hadn’t, and I said so. Viola thought she had, but she said she forgot -so <i>many</i> things, when Mr. Wake questioned her a little.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “since Viola has forgotten, and Jane frankly admits -she doesn’t know, indulge an old man in his love of the telling of -picturesque stories.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>love</i> them,” I said, for I really did. His stories were about -people who had lived and died, and they never had Irish or Hebrew or -Swedish people in them to make him try a dialect. I don’t care so very -much for that sort. And Mr. Wake didn’t even <i>try</i> to be funny, -which is unusual in a man.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, as he took off his hat and mopped his brow, “one day -when Cimabue, who was a great artist, and a fine chap, was strolling -through the country he came to a clearing in which a little boy was -tending sheep. And perhaps because he was in an ill humor—probably -thinking all art was going to the bad, for he was a critic too, -you know, and critics have thought that since the beginning of -paint—anyway, I feel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> that an ill humor set upon him, and that he was, -because of it, minded to stop, and divert himself by talking a bit to a -little country lad.</p> - -<p>“And he said ‘Hello,’ in Italian of course, and the little boy answered -‘Master, I salute you—’ and Cimabue drew near. And when near, he -looked down at a rock upon which the little boy had drawn a picture -with a bit of soft, crumbling stone. The picture was good, and Cimabue -felt a thrill sweep over him—the selfsame sort of thrill that I feel -when Sam shows my dull eyes a bit of his genius—and he took the little -boy with him, after he saw his <i>people</i>, and the little boy grew -up to paint pictures of people. Before he painted—early in thirteen -hundred, legend has it, all the pictures had been of stiff, remote, too -holy Saints. But little Giotto, who had learned love and wisdom of the -fields and trees and birds and beasts, painted Madonnas who smiled, and -little babies who held out their arms to be taken, and proud Josephs -who seem to say, ‘Please look at <i>my</i> family.’ . . . Painted, what -Ruskin called, ‘Mamma and Papa and the baby.’ . . . I thank you, ladies -and gentleman,” he ended, with mock ceremony, “for your kind attention!”</p> - -<p>Then he paused outside of a wall that had once been pink, but had been -washed by the rain and faded by sun until it was only a faint peach in -a few sheltered spots, and here he rang a bell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p> - -<p>Soon after he did this, a girl opened the gate for us, greeted Mr. Wake -and us all with real sweetness, and we trooped into his garden. And I -was glad to see it, for I loved Mr. Wake and I wanted to see where he -lived, but I would have enjoyed it in any case, for it was—without -exception—the prettiest place I had ever seen.</p> - -<p>There were high walls all around it except on the side that looked -down upon Florence. Here the view was interrupted, rather edged, by -groups of tall, slender cypress trees, and here was a low, marble -balustrade. . . . There were vines and clumps of foliage, and in the -center of the lower terrace a little fountain with a laughing cupid in -its center. . . . And there were wicker chairs with hoods on them—Sam -said that they were called beach chairs—and there was a yellow awning -with a bright blue star on it, which had once been the sail of a -Venetian fishing craft. . . . I cannot describe it. . . . While I was -there I could only feel it, and hope I wouldn’t wake. . . . I sank down -in a chair that had a footstool near it, and looked down the green -hillside, toward the city of towers.</p> - -<p>“Like it?” asked Sam, as he dropped on the footstool, and after my nod, -lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” I murmured.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on.</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, “you <i>couldn’t</i>.” Then Mr. Wake came -up, followed by Viola who was murmuring,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> “En<i>chant</i>ing,” -“A<i>dor</i>able,” and “Too <i>heav</i>enly,” one right after the -other. And after he had come to stand smiling down at me, I mentioned -Miss Sheila for the first time.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake,” I said, “My fairy godmother would love this more than I can -say. It’ll seem strange to you, but she has talked to me of a place -like this. She <i>really</i> has.”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Mr. Wake to Sam, “you and Viola go hunt up some tea, -will you—”</p> - -<p>And Sam said, “Of course,” and stood up.</p> - -<p>“And show Viola your last picture,” Mr. Wake added, “and <i>take your -time to it</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, <i>Sir</i>,” said Sam, and very nicely, considering the fact that -he and Viola don’t get on very well.</p> - -<p>After he had gone, Mr. Wake took out his cigarette case and lit a -cigarette, and then sat down on the end of a chaise longue.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said, “I’ve a long story to tell you. . . . And you must -be kind and remember that it is the first time I have ever told it, -and that—the telling it is hard because—I care so—deeply. . . . -But I guess you’d best know, and why I don’t want to meet your—your -Miss Sheila. I believe you’d best know, for you will wonder why I am -so rude, if I don’t explain. . . . The garden, by the way, is the kind -Miss Sheila would like because—long, long years ago—when I was young -in heart<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> and body—she talked of a garden like this, to me—her lover.”</p> - -<p>He paused to stare down upon Florence for some moments, and then, after -he had drawn a deep breath, he went on.</p> - -<p>“About twenty years ago,” he said, “when I was a boy, and named -Terrence O’Gilvey—and right off the sod, Jane—I came to New York. -I had done a bit of writing or two, even then, and I went on a paper; -and, because of my Irish manner I think, my little things took. Anyway, -the first thing I knew a well-known newspaper man named Ford, and then -the Danas and some others began to believe in me and to be kind to me, -and I knew I had got hold of the first rung anyway, and I was mighty -happy. I thought I was as happy as any man could be until I met Sheila -Parrish, and then I was in hell . . . and yet . . . happier than I had -ever been before—and, faith, all because I was so deep in love with -her!</p> - -<p>“It was a quick business, Jane. She smiled gently, and I was gone. I -wanted to get down and let her use my vest for a doormat; I wanted -several other things that might seem extravagant to one of your solid -small tread and common sense, but none of them were enough extravagant -nor enough of an outlet for all that she had taught me to feel.</p> - -<p>“Well, she was good to me. And she let me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> come to see her, and I -sent her posies, and I wrote her what I am afraid were rhymes, and -no more—but by all the Saints, child, what I felt! And then one day -Heaven opened, and she—she stretched out her lovely hands to me, and -she said, ‘You are more than a dear Irish boy, Terry; I believe you are -a man, and I believe I will listen to your story—’”</p> - -<p>He stopped speaking, and I put my hand out, and laid it on his—I was -<i>so</i> sorry for him!</p> - -<p>For a moment we sat like this, and then he went on.</p> - -<p>“She had a younger brother,” he said, “God rest his soul! He was -bad—as reckless and vicious a youth as has ever been my unhappy -fortune to see, and how <i>he hurt Sheila</i>. I saw it, and I suffered -a thousand times for her. I’d find her with tears on her cheeks, and -know that some new devilishness had cropped out. And I railed, as youth -will rail, Jane, and it drove her from me. . . . When, (a long story -this, but I can’t seem to shorten it) after she had set the date for -our wedding, her younger brother was found to have tuberculosis, and -she said that I must wait, while she went west with him and fought with -him for health, I lost control of every brake I had, and I went to -pieces.</p> - -<p>“And well, I remember it! Her standing in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> the high ceilinged drawing -room of the old New York home, and saying, ‘Well, Terry, if you make me -choose, I can do only one thing. I cannot evade duty. My brother may -not last a year—’ and I turned and went—</p> - -<p>“And the next day I wrote her, but I had no answer. And that was the -end of it, and of everything, and you see, now, why I can’t—meet her.”</p> - -<p>“Why did you change your name!” I asked. I am too dull to say the -appropriate thing, so I usually ask or say what I really want to.</p> - -<p>“An Uncle wanted to adopt me . . . . He was a lonely old chap; I had no -one, and I thought he was mighty pathetic, until he died and left me a -more than fair sized fortune, (A great thing to have, Jane, by the way, -if you’ve a fancy for writing books!) and then, well I thought he was a -humbug, but I was grateful, and I have been ever since—”</p> - -<p>He stood up and smiled down at me. No one who hadn’t known him for long -would have thought his smile stiff, or forced, but I knew that it was.</p> - -<p>“But are you over caring for her?” I asked. “I didn’t know if it were -very real, that it would change—”</p> - -<p>“I am not,” he answered, “what you term ‘over it,’ and there is no -changing for me, but for my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> peace I think less of it and of the hopes -that the boy named Terrence O’Gilvey sent up to his gods.”</p> - -<p>Then, Viola and Sam came wandering back to stand on the upper terrace -uncertainly, and Mr. Wake called to them.</p> - -<p>“Come on down,” he said, “we’re ready for our tea—”</p> - -<p>And then a maid who wore a scarlet waist, and a black skirt with -scarlet bands around it, a little white cap on her head, and a Roman -striped scarf around her waist, came toward us with a big tray which -she set on a table that Sam brought up.</p> - -<p>It was very, very pretty. . . . But it suddenly seemed hollow. . . . -I wondered whether it were always hollow for Mr. Wake. . . . And I -thought how nice it would be if pretty Miss Sheila were smiling at him -from across the table, and knew, without asking, how many lumps of -sugar he would take, and whether his tea should be strong or weak.</p> - -<p>“How many loads,” asked Sam as he picked up the sugar spoon.</p> - -<p>“Two for me,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“None,” said Viola who is afraid of fat.</p> - -<p>“Where is Leslie?” asked Mr. Wake who had evidently just noticed her -absence.</p> - -<p>“In the Boboli gardens,” answered Viola, on a guess that later proved -correct.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<p>“Hum—hope she drove over. Aren’t they warning people at the bridges -to-day?” he ended, with a questioning look toward Sam who had gone down -to the town that morning. (On very hot days sentinels, who stand at the -entrance to the bridges, warn people against crossing them, for it is a -risk to do this during the middle hours of the day)</p> - -<p>“No,” Sam replied, “I wandered over the Ponte Vecchio without a word -from any one—”</p> - -<p>“The real heat will come soon,” Mr. Wake prophesied. “Think,” he went -on, “I’ll go to Switzerland in June.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Miss Meek,” I put in, “hates the heat so and has to stay here—”</p> - -<p>“Pshaw,” said Mr. Wake, “that is too bad—Look here,” he said quickly, -after a second’s pause, “I have some Italian friends who want a -governess; I believe they are going to Viareggio for the hot months. -Would she touch that?”</p> - -<p>“She’d <i>love</i> it,” I answered quickly, “she’s wanted a post for -ages, but it’s so hard to get one now, since every one’s so poor from -the war—”</p> - -<p>“And fancy the little Italian beggars saying, ‘My eye! How jolly,’” put -in Sam.</p> - -<p>Every one laughed. “Won’t hurt ’em,” said Mr. Wake easily, “for they -won’t know it’s not top notch proper and the latest thing! I’ll talk<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> -to Lucca to-morrow, and after that I’ll let you know, Jane. Believe I -can fix it—”</p> - -<p>And he did.</p> - -<p>I thought of him a lot going down. So much that Sam thought I felt -badly from the heat. But the heat hadn’t made my depression. I had so -wanted Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake to know and like each other. They were -both lonely, and I loved them both and they seemed alike and suited -to like each other in lots of ways. And I could tell that Mr. Wake -needed Miss Sheila from the manner in which he had talked of her at the -beginning of our friendship. And now it was all over; I could never -present my dear friend to her, nor talk of my Fairy Godmother to him!</p> - -<p>It did seem all wrong, but as Leslie and Viola both said, things turn -out as one doesn’t expect them to.</p> - -<p>I had hoped—of course it was silly—but I had hoped a lot. And now -even my chance for hoping had disappeared.</p> - -<p>“Are you sure,” asked Sam, “that the heat hasn’t done you up?”</p> - -<p>“Sure,” I answered dully.</p> - -<p>“He’s wild over you,” said Viola as we toiled up the stairs that we had -come to call “The last, long mile.” . . . We had sent Sam off at the -door, because he had to walk back to the Piazza del Duomo again to get -his car, and the town was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> still heavy and sultry with the heat that -the day had held.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” I answered sharply.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he is. We might have a double wedding—”</p> - -<p>I was furious.</p> - -<p>“I’m going home to play the organ in the First Presbyterian Church,” -I stated, “and to give music lessons, and I won’t have time to get -married for <i>years</i>!”</p> - -<p>She laughed.</p> - -<p>“I’m only eighteen,” I added, and with resentment.</p> - -<p>“I’ll bet on twenty for you,” she said teasingly.</p> - -<p>“Not before I’m twenty-one,” I answered before I thought, and then -I grew pink. Viola laughed, as Maria, the new maid, opened the door -for us. “Oh, he’ll get you,” she prophesied, “and he’ll court you -divinely. . . . It’s plain that he doesn’t like me, but I like and -admire him in spite of it. . . . And you know lots of women go right -along with their careers after marriage.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t answer that, but I did know that if I ever did marry, my first -thought would be to follow, as nearly as I could, the fine career my -Mother had had and to make my husband as comfortable and as happy as -Mother had made Father. For I feel that that should come first.</p> - -<p>“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said, sharply, after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> we had gone in the cool, -dim corridor, “I don’t want to have to think about it yet.”</p> - -<p>“Sorry,” she said. And I said I was sorry I had been cross. Then the -Pension door opened again, and Leslie, followed by a tall, bronzed -man, came in. I liked his looks, and I was reassured for him, after I -met him, for he had something of Leslie’s manner—an almost lordly, -commanding, I-want-what-I-want-when-I-want-it-and-I-intend-to-get-it -air. I think a good many people who have had <i>too</i> much money and -have been able to issue <i>too</i> many orders get that. But if Leslie -was going to marry him—and I found soon she was—I knew he would need -it.</p> - -<p>He stayed for dinner and was very charming to every one, but most -charming to Leslie and after he left, Leslie came to my room to talk.</p> - -<p>“Well?” she questioned from the doorway.</p> - -<p>“I like him,” I answered, as she came toward me.</p> - -<p>“I love him,” she said, and she said it as sensibly and openly as I had -ever heard her say anything, “and,” she continued, “he is going to let -me marry him.”</p> - -<p>I laughed, and she joined me.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t a joke,” she stated after a moment.</p> - -<p>“I know it,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“He said he had been worried ever since that New York visit, over -hurting me,” she went on,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> “and that, when I dismissed him, he realized -he had been stupid in not knowing before that I had grown up. And he -said, when he realized I was grown up, that he suddenly began to care -for me in a different way. And you know how I feel—”</p> - -<p>(She fumbled for a pink linen handkerchief, wiped her eyes and then -blew her nose)</p> - -<p>“And when I told him I’d cried over him, it almost killed him, but—he -liked it,” she ended.</p> - -<p>I knew he would have liked it, because men all do thoroughly enjoy -hearing about women who cry because they love them (the men) which -seems funny when you consider that, if the same men see them cry, they -almost have a fit and are <i>far</i> from comfortable. But, as I read -in some book, Life is one vast riddle.</p> - -<p>“I’m very happy,” said Leslie, as she stood up. And I said I was very -glad and that I hoped she would keep on being so even after she was -married and settled down. And she said she expected to, and then she -said, in a quick, remembering way, “Oh—” and brought out an unstamped -note that was addressed to me by Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>“Ben brought this,” she said, “I think from New York; anyway he saw -Aunt Sheila somewhere—” and then she left, and I, alone, read the -note, which held surprising and nice news for me.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO">CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO<br>A WALK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">M</span>iss </span>Sheila was at the Convent of San Girolamo, which is a hospital -that is managed by nuns, at Fiesole. And she had written me about her -plan to go there before the ship landed.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I was very stupid and caught a little cold,”</p> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">(I saw in her pretty hand. Later I found out that she had -come as close to pneumonia as any one can!)</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="noindent">“and the ship’s doctor thinks I should rest a -little while. So I am going to San Girolamo where I spent a few -happy weeks when I was a girl and half ailing, and you, dear -child, must come to see me there. I am going to ask you not -to tell Leslie I am here just now. I am very much ashamed to -confess it, but the idea of much chatter appals me. Ben—who -I imagine may see her!—has promised to keep quiet until I -am myself, and ready to join in all the fun. And then—some -parties!</p> - -<p>“Meanwhile, my dear, only your quiet, small self, and I hope -I shall see you soon—Friday? You need not let me know if you -can’t come then, but if you can, be assured of a warm welcome -from your</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span style="margin-right: 3.5em;">“Loving</span><br> -“<span class="smcap">Sheila P.</span>”<br> -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span></p> - - -<p>Of course I went, and as soon as I saw Miss Sheila I knew why she -was afraid of noise, for it was easy to see that she had been really -sick. She was quite as pretty as ever, but her skin looked too -transparent and it flushed too easily, and I noticed that small beads -of perspiration stood out on her smooth forehead and short upper lip, -simply from the little exertion and excitement of seeing me. As soon as -I noticed that, I talked, very slowly and steadily, about the valley -that lay below us, and I didn’t look at her until, after a silence, she -said:</p> - -<p>“Jane—you are rather a marvelous child, do you know it? And a great -comfort. You have what made your mother the best nurse I have ever -known, a great deal of real <i>understanding</i>.”</p> - -<p>Well, I didn’t agree with her, and I knew she was too kind, but I -<i>did</i> have enough understanding of her stretched, weak, shaky -feeling to know that it wasn’t the time to say—as Leslie or Viola -would—“How perfectly <i>sweet</i> of you! I am <i>enchanted! -Nothing</i> could please me more! But <i>why</i> did you say that? -<i>Won’t</i> you explain?”</p> - -<p>Instead I said “Thank you,” which may have given the impression that -I accepted all she said—however, that didn’t matter; the thing that -mattered was getting her to sit back in her deck chair and lose her -wound up feeling and really rest.</p> - -<p>“How is it going?” she asked, after I had asked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> the name of a big -monastery that lay about half way down the hill below us.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” I answered, “Mother wrote me that the music committee of -the Presbyterian Church are going to employ a substitute until I come -back; that they told Daddy I was really engaged. And Signor Paggi is -going to see that I have some lessons from an organist here to freshen -me up—I took organ lessons at home, you know—and no end of people -tell Mother that they are going to take lessons from me, and it’s all -very satisfactory, and so wonderful that sometimes I can’t believe it -is true!”</p> - -<p>Miss Sheila smiled at me, said a warm, “Dear <i>child</i>!” and then I -could feel her draw into a shell. I think that she was afraid I would -try to thank her for all that she’d done, and that she wasn’t equal -to it. So I said, very quickly, “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” and she -answered with relief.</p> - -<p>Then a sweet-faced sister came toward us between the rose bushes which -made a narrow path of the terrace up to the open spot where we sat. -She carried a cup of chocolate for Miss Sheila, and she wanted to get -one for me, but I wouldn’t let her. Then she said, “Drink this, dear,” -to Miss Sheila; asked if she were tired, looked at me searchingly, and -then smiled and gave my shoulder a little pat, and went off in her -gentle, smooth way.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span></p> - -<p>“They are so kind,” said Miss Sheila, “and sometimes I think that this -is the most beautiful spot in the world.”</p> - -<p>I didn’t blame her for thinking so, (though her thinking so confessed -that she hadn’t seen Mr. Wake’s garden) for the place is most lovely. -It is, in some way connected with Cosimo I, it is said, and the Medici -coat of arms is to be found around in different spots. It is a very old -building, and it is, like everything else on the hillside, perched on -the slant with all its lovely gardens planted on steps. And down below -spreads out the country with little blazing yellow roadways, and pink -and tan villas, and groves of gentle green olive trees, and a church -and monastery that often send up the soft sound of bells. . . . And of -course the sunshine spreads over everything like a gold mantle, and the -little grey-green olive leaves shimmer under every small breeze that -comes along, and sometimes the song of a peasant girl rises. . . . And -of course there were rose leaves scattered on the terraces—blown from -this or that bush—and the scents of many flowers in the warm soft air.</p> - -<p>I can’t describe it, but some day some one will describe it, and then -he will be able to build a villa that is richer and prouder and larger -than another one that the Medicis built out near Fiesole—the one where -Queen Victoria often visited—for a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> real description would make a real -fortune!</p> - -<p>“You like it, don’t you!” asked Miss Sheila, after she had drunk the -chocolate and eaten the small biscuit, and I had set her cup down on -the soft, short grass. I nodded. It is hard for me to <i>say</i> I like -things when I do like them very much.</p> - -<p>“It has changed you,” said Miss Sheila, “there is a new light in your -eyes; the light of dreams, I think—and now tell me about things, your -friends, your work, and Signor Paggi—” and I did.</p> - -<p>Of course I had to mention Mr. Wake, and each time I did I faltered and -grew conscious, although there was no reason for my doing this, since -Miss Sheila had not known Terrence Wake, but a boy who was Terrence -O’Gilvey.</p> - -<p>He came up quite naturally through my hopes for Miss Meek, and Mr. -Wake’s plan for Mr. Hemmingway—he was going to let Mr. Hemmingway -stay in his villa for the summer months, which would be a great treat -for any one and heaven for a man who had lived for years in a dull -pension—and through his befriending Sam, who was doing so well, and -promising to do much more than well.</p> - -<p>“How kind your Mr. Wake must be,” said Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>“He is,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“I’d like to meet him,” she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p> - -<p>“He’s dreadfully shy,” I responded, after that kind of a hard swallow -that rasps and scratches as it goes down.</p> - -<p>“Heavens, and earth! No man ought to be afraid of an old woman like -me!” Miss Sheila mused.</p> - -<p>“You aren’t old,” I put in, and almost sharply. “You have a prettier -skin than I have, and as Leslie said, your silver hair simply adds a -note of ‘chic.’”</p> - -<p>Miss Sheila laughed. “That sounds like Leslie,” she commented, and -that led her to change the subject, for which I was grateful. “Odd, my -coming over with Ben Forbes, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Nice man, really. Has something of the Grand Commander manner, -but—he’ll need it. Splendid arrangement I honestly think. . . . I want -to meet your Sam.”</p> - -<p>“I want you to meet him. But he’s not mine,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“But I hope you’ll marry some time,” said Miss Sheila. “Go home and -work a few years if you like, dear, but if you care for any one, and -any one cares for you, don’t let any one, or anything stand between -you; it doesn’t pay.” She paused a moment. “But,” she continued after -this little interval, “if love doesn’t come, I think that a profession -to which you really belong, and a work that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> would expand through your -own effort, and so grow more interesting to you all the time—I think -that this would be a good insurance against loneliness.”</p> - -<p>I looked at her quickly as she spoke of loneliness. She was staring off -down below where there was a two wheeled, peasant cart lumbering up a -winding hill road; but I felt that she didn’t see that, nor even hear -the shrill, protesting squeaks that came from the unoiled hubs; and for -that moment she came as close to looking tired and faded as I had ever -seen her look.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes,” she stated, in the crisp way she occasionally spoke, -“being an old maid is a <i>lonely</i> business; especially when one -is half ill, Jane, and would like a man to tiptoe into the room and -knock over the waste basket, and get off a muffled ‘Damn,’ and poke the -smelling salts at you, and then wheeze out a loudly whispered, ‘Feeling -<i>any better</i>?’”</p> - -<p>Her picture made me smile, but it made me feel <i>very</i> sad for her, -and it all did seem so useless, when down the hill, not half a mile, -Mr. Wake was so lonely, too! But of course I could do nothing about it.</p> - -<p>After about an hour with Miss Sheila that day, I stood up, and said I -guessed I’d better be going, and Miss Sheila said “Oh, no, dear!” But I -insisted, and so she kissed me, and I went off, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> pause at the end of -that rose sheltered terrace and wave back at her. Then I went through -the rest of the garden, and past the little chapel where a sweet-faced -young girl knelt before the altar—she was about to take the vows, I -heard later—and out through the gate and down the very long, wide, -shady stone steps that are guarded on either side by tall cypress trees -which, there, seemed like sentinels.</p> - -<p>Then—up a little hill to the Piazza at Fiesole, which was wild with a -high, hot breeze, and there I took the car that clanged its way down -the hillside into sultry Florence.</p> - -<p>That day began my visiting Miss Sheila, and I went up to Fiesole by -myself four times in the next two weeks, and then again with Viola, and -Leslie and Ben Forbes—who seemed to linger on—and it was on that last -afternoon that Miss Sheila said, “Bother! Why didn’t I think of Sam! -I wanted to meet him, and you knew it, Jane! Why didn’t you speak of -asking him to-day?”</p> - -<p>I hadn’t thought that she would want him, and I said so, for I had -supposed that the party was to be sort of a family affair because of -Leslie’s and Ben’s engagement.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Miss Sheila, “no matter. Bring him up Sunday afternoon.”</p> - -<p>Sunday was a beautiful day in spite of the fact that there was no air -stirring and a feeling of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> weight over everything. Leslie said she knew -it would rain—she was angry over it, because she and Ben had planned -to motor in the Cascine and then out somewhere in the country—but I -said I thought it wouldn’t, <i>without</i> rapping on wood; and as I -may have said before, it never hurts to rap on wood, whether you are -superstitious, or not. But I didn’t. Instead, I placed my entire trust -in Fate and put on a white lawn dress and the hat I had bought at the -Mercato Nuovo which I had trimmed with some flowers that cost very -little.</p> - -<p>At one I started out with Sam, for he had asked me to go somewhere and -have lunch with him before we started up to the Convent on the hillside.</p> - -<p>We had a good time over our lunch—which we had in the coolest and most -shadowed outdoor café we could find—and Sam ordered the green macaroni -which is manufactured in Bologna—and some cold chicken and a salad, -and some wine of course, and then a sweet that is very famous in Rome, -and wonderfully good. And as we ate we talked the way we always do, -which is hard.</p> - -<p>Then we stood up, and I brushed the crumbs from my lap, and told Sam -that he had a piece of green macaroni on the lapel of his coat, and -after that we started toward the Piazza del Duomo, walking slowly and -keeping on the shady side of the deep, narrow streets.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> - -<p>In the Piazza Sam bought me a little bunch of blue flowers which were -combined with yellow daisies, and I slipped these in under my broad -sash, and after that we took the car and began our ride up to Fiesole.</p> - -<p>“I’m awfully keen to meet Miss Parrish,” said Sam, “because you like -her so. She isn’t like her niece, is she?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” I answered quickly, “not at all!”</p> - -<p>“Does she believe in careers for women and all that sort of rot?” -asked Sam, as a fat woman who carried a baby and was followed by five -children and a poodle dog, got on.</p> - -<p>“No,” I answered, and then I told him what Miss Sheila had advised.</p> - -<p>“Going to take her advice?” asked Sam, and he turned in the seat and -leaned way over me until he could see under the brim of my broad hat.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” I answered, although I did, all suddenly and at that -minute.</p> - -<p>“<i>Don’t</i> you?” he repeated, “Oh, <i>Jane</i>!”</p> - -<p>And he looked so miserable—he really did—that I said I did know. And -then I looked out of the window, although there wasn’t much to see just -at that point except a tan stucco wall, with pink and blue tiles set in -it.</p> - -<p>“You’re too young to bother,” said Sam, as he plaited the end of my -sash which I had been careful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> not to sit on because I didn’t want it -crushed, “but when you get along to the age when I <i>dare</i> court -you, I’ll tell <i>you</i>—” he drew a deep breath—“<i>Well</i>, -you’ll see!” he ended, in a half threatening way.</p> - -<p>I didn’t answer that.</p> - -<p>“And if I hear of your <i>looking</i> at anybody else,” he went on, -“I’ll come over and fill him up with buckshot.”</p> - -<p>That made me laugh.</p> - -<p>“It’s no joke,” he said quickly, “I’m miserable over—your going -off—and when I think that some one else may <i>make</i> you like -him—oh, the dickens of a lot—well, then I can’t—I simply can’t see -<i>straight</i>—”</p> - -<p>“I won’t look at anybody,” I promised, “until you come—”</p> - -<p>It seemed to please him. In fact it seemed to please him so much that -I had to remind him that we were in a street-car and that people might -think it strange to see him kiss my hand—for he did that—but he said -he didn’t give two hundred darns what they thought, and he asked me -again if I meant it, and I knew I did, and I said I did; and he said, -“Well, then, what’s two years?” and he slipped a funny, old hand-made -ring with a garnet setting, that he had always worn, over my finger, -and I let it stay there.</p> - -<p>Then we reached Fiesole, and the woman who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> carried a baby, called -her five children and the poodle dog, and they got off and the other -passengers, all in Sunday dress, followed, and then Sam and I.</p> - -<p>Miss Sheila met us at the head of the long, broad, cool, shady steps.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Sam,” she said in her dear way, “I’m glad to see you—”</p> - -<p>He bowed, and she said suddenly, “You <i>are</i> a nice boy,” and, -after he smiled and flushed and thanked her, she added, “I was afraid -you weren’t nice <i>enough</i>—”</p> - -<p>And then I felt myself grow pink.</p> - -<p>“Children,” she said, after that, “I want you to come in and wait until -I get on my hat, and then walk with me. Will you, or have you been -walking and are you tired?”</p> - -<p>I said we weren’t and that it would be fine, and Sam echoed it and -Miss Sheila put in a quick, “Good!” and turned and hurried toward the -building.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t she beautiful, and lovely?” said Sam.</p> - -<p>“<i>Isn’t</i> she?” I answered.</p> - -<p>“By jings,” he went on, “I wish Mr. Wake would come meet her. . . . Why -won’t he? He got all rattled the other day when Leslie asked him to -call on Miss Sheila with her—said he couldn’t talk to women, all that -sort of rot, and you know he’s always simply tip-top—wonder—”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> - -<p>“Look here, Sam,” I said, “I can’t tell you, but—”</p> - -<p>And then Miss Sheila came back and put an end to my explaining nothing -to Sam, and at the same time asking him not to press the matter of Mr. -Wake’s meeting Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>She looked as pretty as I had ever seen her look. She had on a lavender -voile dress that had frilly collars and cuffs on it and a broad low -sash, and she had on her head a drooping hat of the most delicate pink -shade with bunches of lilacs trailing from it, and the combination was -beautiful.</p> - -<p>“Ready,” she said with a smile, “and whither?”</p> - -<p>I suggested going up to the Roman theater and baths, but Sam, who was -that afternoon so light hearted that he was almost silly, said he’d had -a bath only about two hours before, and Miss Sheila said she’d had one -only a few minutes before, and that she preferred walking down hill.</p> - -<p>“But you’ll have to walk back,” I said, for I didn’t want to get -<i>near</i> Mr. Wake’s house!</p> - -<p>“Not until the sun’s lower,” said Sam.</p> - -<p>“And then we could ride,” said Miss Sheila.</p> - -<p>“Exactly Mr. Wake’s spirit,” said Sam. “She ought to know him, now -oughtn’t she, Jane?”</p> - -<p>I could do nothing with him. He acted just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> exactly as Daddy does -when we have guests and Mother tries to head him off with a little -kick under the table. He always looks at her, and says, “Did you kick -me, my dear? Forgotten to serve some one, or something? Let me see!” -which makes it all the worse, because almost always at that point, he -is serving everything in the dish to one person, or telling a story -he tells about a quick remarriage—to the guest who is remarried. I -imagine most men are like that.</p> - -<p>Anyway, Sam talked—no, he did what Leslie would have called “raved” -about Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila listened and questioned and wanted more.</p> - -<p>“His books,” she said, “are delightful. . . . Little phrases in them -make me think of some one I knew years ago. . . . And his kindness to -Jane has made me like him, too. Did you say his place is out this way?”</p> - -<p>“I did,” Sam answered, “and mighty good luck it is, too,” he added, -“for it’s going to pour—come on—”</p> - -<p>“We’re quite as near the convent,” I put in, in a manner that must have -been agonized.</p> - -<p>“But that’s up hill—” said Miss Sheila, and then she and Sam began to -hurry so fast that it was all I could do to keep up with them, and I -hadn’t a chance to say a word.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span></p> - -<p>“Sam,” I gasped as we neared Mr. Wake’s wall, and big, far-apart drops -of rain began to fall, “<i>Sam!</i>”</p> - -<p>“What’s up?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, everything!” I answered, “and you’re just acting like a -<i>fool</i>, Sam—we <i>can’t</i> go in!”</p> - -<p>But Miss Sheila had pulled the bell cord that hung outside of the gate, -and before it was opened the rain came down in such torrents that we -were drenched.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Wake’s in town,” said Sam to me, in an aside.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you <i>say</i> so?” I snapped.</p> - -<p>And then the gate opened.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE">CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE<br>MISCHIEVOUS CUPID</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he </span>gate was opened by Mr. Wake—who had just come <i>back</i> from -town—and was as wet as we were.</p> - -<p>I felt my heart stop a beat and then treble its pace, and I swallowed -hard although there was no real necessity for it. And as for saying a -word! I couldn’t have gotten out a “Boo” so that any one would have -understood it!</p> - -<p>“Hello,” said Sam, after he had sent a petitioning look at me, that -asked me as plainly as day, to introduce them, “Hello! Glad you’re -here! . . . Miss Parrish, may I present to you our patron saint, Mr. -Wake?”</p> - -<p><i>Then</i> I think Sam began to see that something unusual was up, -for they stood looking at each other—those two he’d wanted to have -meet—and they didn’t say a word. It was a queer moment which seemed -very long, that moment when we all stood in the hard driving, swirling -rain, <i>waiting</i>.</p> - -<p>Miss Sheila broke it, and she did it by holding out her hand, and -saying, “Well, Terry?” and there was a funny little twisted smile on -her pretty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> lips and the smile didn’t seem miles away from tears.</p> - -<p>And then Mr. Wake put his hand out, in an uncertain, groping sort of -way, and then he said, “<i>Sheila!</i>” And I don’t think he knew he -said it, but she did, for the color came flooding back into her cheeks -that had been pale, and tears stood in her eyes.</p> - -<p>There wasn’t very much to <i>tell</i> about in that moment; you can’t -<i>tell</i> about a sunset very well. You can say that the clouds -were pink and gold, and that the sky was full of silver streaks, and -a misty purple haze, but you can’t make the other person see it. You -don’t usually do anything but bore him, and when you try to describe -the thing that was so beautiful, the listener usually says, “I love the -outdoors. Nature for me every time! Hear about the way Babe Ruth batted -’em out Thursday in Brooklyn?” or something like that which shows you -that you have utterly failed to get your description across the plate. -And because of that I hesitate to try to make others see what I saw in -Mr. Wake’s garden that stormy day. I can only <i>report</i> the pink -and the gold, and the misty purple and the silver streaks, and do that -badly. But oh, they were so very, very beautiful!</p> - -<p>When Mr. Wake spoke he said, “You—haven’t changed—” and he did it -between two gulps and after a deep breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p> - -<p>Miss Sheila, who covered her feelings more easily than Mr. Wake, said -“Nonsense, I have gray hair, and wrinkles—”</p> - -<p>“No—” Mr. Wake shook his head. “No—” he said again.</p> - -<p>She smiled at him, and her lips quivered.</p> - -<p>“You,” she said, “can still say pretty things, can’t you?”</p> - -<p>“To you, Sheila,” he answered, and then I thought that Sam and I ought -to move on. I said so in an aside to Sam, who was acting as if he were -sitting in an aisle seat and twisting his program into funny shapes -while he waited—in great suspense—for the hero to get the girl just -before the drop of the last curtain. I think men are much too natural -at times, and that was one of them.</p> - -<p>After I had touched Sam’s arm, and frowned at him, and said, “<i>Come -on</i>,” in a sibilant whisper, we went up to the house, and into the -big, living hall and stood there to drain.</p> - -<p>“Gosh,” said Sam, after I had taken off my hat and was wiping poppy -stains from my face—my hat was ruined; the colors of my cheap flowers -had run from the rain. . . . “Gosh, wasn’t that simply <i>great</i>! My -gosh, did <i>you see his face</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” I said, because I was so worked up and excited that it -made me feel snappish.</p> - -<p>“Well, you needn’t be cutting,” said Sam as he tiptoed over to a window -from which he could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> see Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake, who were about a -block away down by the garden gate. “My soul,” he commented, after he -had looked out, “I’ll say that’s quick work! Didn’t know he had it in -him—<i>great hat</i>!”</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t spy on them, it isn’t fair,” I stated as I joined him. -But we did look for a moment more, at those two people who stood -outdoors, under the savage assaults of that raging storm, but who -felt—I’m certain—as if they were favored by the happiest skies of a -clear June day.</p> - -<p>“Come on, Sam,” I ordered and turned.</p> - -<p>“Gosh ding it,” he asked as he followed me (“Gosh ding it” is his most -intense expression), “wasn’t it <i>wonderful</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Um hum—” I murmured.</p> - -<p>“Are you soaked, dear?”</p> - -<p>“A little damp,” I admitted.</p> - -<p>“I’ll get Maria to make us some tea,” said Sam, “and I’ll take you up -to Mr. Wake’s room, and you can shed that once-perky, now depressed -frock and put on one of his dressing gowns. And then come down, and -we’ll toast you up before the fire I make while you change—”</p> - -<p>“All right,” I agreed.</p> - -<p>“This way, dear—” he said then, and I went with him up a twisting -stairs that had a wrought-iron balustrade, over which was growing a -vine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> that had its feet in a brick colored jardiniere. . . . It was a -very, very pretty house, and more than that. It was built for comfort -too. There were soft, deep low chairs all around, and ash trays on tiny -tables, and magazines, and books—hundreds of books in every room—I -kept thinking of how Miss Sheila would like it.</p> - -<p>After I had taken off my dress, and hung it over the only chair in -the room that wouldn’t be hurt by moisture, I put on the dark green -dressing gown that Sam had laid out for me, and went down stairs -again—holding the robe up around me, for of course it was miles long -for me, and it made me go carefully for fear I would trip.</p> - -<p>Sam had two chairs before the big fireplace, and in this a few sticks -were burning. When he saw me, he laughed, and I laughed too, and then -we settled. Maria came in with a tray that had on it an orange china -tea set, that looked very pretty on that dull, gray day, and there were -yellow flowers tucked into each napkin, and she had orange cake, and -mayonnaise and egg sandwiches to eat with our tea, and so the color -scheme was quite perfect.</p> - -<p>After I had eaten three sandwiches and was about to begin on another—I -wasn’t very hungry, it hadn’t been long since lunch—I spoke. “Sam,” I -said, “don’t you think some one ought to tell them it’s raining?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> - -<p>“Not by a good deal!” he answered, as he poured himself some fresh tea. -“They’ll get on to it sometime, all by themselves—”</p> - -<p>“Miss Sheila’s been sick,” I added. I was a little bit worried, but Sam -answered that he thought the soaking wouldn’t hurt her, and it didn’t, -and he added the statement that he didn’t <i>believe</i> Mr. Wake would -be grateful for any interruption just then.</p> - -<p>Then we were quiet a minute as we watched the spluttery little fire -leap and die down, and then leap all over again. I twisted my new ring -as I sat there, for it seemed strange—as well as nice—to wear it.</p> - -<p>“Think,” I said, I was referring to Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake—“how long -it can last—”</p> - -<p>Sam moved his chair closer.</p> - -<p>“Yes—” he said, in an undertone, “think of it—”</p> - -<p>Then one of the long, French windows opened, and the wettest person I -have ever seen came in, and she was followed by another one.</p> - -<p>“Tea,” said Miss Sheila, “how very nice—” and her voice shook on every -single word.</p> - -<p>And then Mr. Wake said, “Ah, yes, tea!” just as if he had recently -discovered the plant and the use for it.</p> - -<p>“Have some,” I said, “and Miss Sheila, you’d better go put on one -of Mr. Wake’s dressing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> gowns; he has a lavender one that would be -beautiful on you—”</p> - -<p>“What wouldn’t?” asked Mr. Wake.</p> - -<p>“If you think she’s pretty <i>now</i>,” I said, “You just wait until -she has dried off!”</p> - -<p>“Dear, foolish child,” murmured Miss Sheila as she took off her -entirely limp hat and ran her fingers through her hair which was -kinking up in funny little curls all over her head.</p> - -<p>Then she sat down on a lounge that stood to one side of the fire, and -Mr. Wake sat down by her, and kept looking at her, and looking at her, -and looking at her.</p> - -<p>“Children,” said Miss Sheila, “I have a long story for you. . . . -Once upon a time there were two foolish young people who were proud -and stubborn, and who trusted the mails of Uncle Sam. . . . And they -quarreled badly; and the man wrote but the young lady never got the -letter, and the young lady—after long months that were filled with -chastening and pride-shattering heartbreak—wrote the young man, but, -ah, me, he had changed his name—”</p> - -<p>“Just as you are going to change yours,” said Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila -laughed and nodded.</p> - -<p>“And so,” said Miss Sheila, “the fates kept them apart, and her hair -turned gray—”</p> - -<p>“And he grew a tummy,” I put in, and Miss Sheila laughed again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span></p> - -<p>“And they were both lonely,” said Mr. Wake, “so miserably lonely; you -<i>were</i>, Sheila?”</p> - -<p>And she said, “Oh, Terry, I—” and then she remembered Sam and me, and -stopped.</p> - -<p>“Well?” I questioned.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Miss Sheila, “one fine day the lonely lady who had once -been a happy girl grew so very lonely that she could not stand still, -and so she met two nice children at a convent gate, and she said, -‘Let’s walk—’ and they looked at each other and smiled—and the way -they smiled made her more lonely than ever—and they said ‘Yes,’ and so -they all started down a hill—”</p> - -<p>“And then,” said Mr. Wake, “an old chap who had been down to Florence, -and had gotten his favorite gray suit so wet that he didn’t think that -it would ever come back to shape, heard the tinkle of the bell of his -gate and said, ‘The devil,’ because he was half way up to the house and -everything had tried him that day anyway. But he turned back, and he -opened the gate, and he found—heaven!”</p> - -<p>Then I <i>knew</i> that Sam and I should move!</p> - -<p>“Sam,” I said, “may I see the picture that you’re working on now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Sam answered, and we stood up.</p> - -<p>It made us both very happy to leave those two dear people whom we loved -so well, and who had been lonely, there together.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_TWENTY-FOUR">CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR<br>HOMEWARD BOUND!</h2></div> - - -<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap"><span class="dropcap">T</span>he </span>end of May! And all over again I felt the excitement that comes -with a journey, for I was started for Genoa on the twenty-fifth with -Miss Meek to see that I got aboard the White Star ship safely, and Sam -to see that Miss Meek and I weren’t bored.</p> - -<p>Miss Bannister had gone to England, and Leslie had gone to join her -Mother in Paris where they were to buy a trousseau that would be worn -on a ranch for the benefit of one man and a one-eyed Chinese cook -who could spit eight feet! And Viola had started out with her Madame -Heilbig, who had suddenly decided to tour Switzerland and some of -the Italian cities that are popular in summer—the lake and seashore -points. <i>Mr. and Mrs. Wake</i> had started out in a smart tan motor -one morning, after a little wedding in the American Church—and we -didn’t know where they were, and Mr. Hemmingway had taken up residence -in Mr. Wake’s villa.</p> - -<p>In spite of the scattering, however, I had a few people to see me off, -and to wish me everything good.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span></p> - -<p>Miss Julianna, who cried, stood by me in the station saying that she -knew that God and the Virgin would see that I was happy because I -should be, which I thought <i>so</i> kind; and Mr. Hemmingway, who -had come all the way to town, stood near with a bouquet that he had -picked for me, trying <i>so</i> hard to remember when he had first seen -Genoa—but he <i>couldn’t</i> fasten it. Miss Meek, who was to join her -Italian family in June, stood close with Sam saying, “My eye, how I’ll -miss the jolly flapper!” And altogether it was warming, but it made my -throat lump too, the way that things that are too warming sometimes do.</p> - -<p>Then the horn sounded, and every one said good-by to me, and I kissed -them all, including Mr. Hemmingway, who wiped his eyes and blew his -nose as he said good-by. Then Miss Meek, and Sam and I followed our -facchino down the platform and went through the gates that took us to -our train. We got a compartment that was rather crowded because it had -one Englishman in it, and they travel with enough scenery for an Uncle -Tom’s Cabin Company; but, after he had moved his portable bath and his -camp stool and his tea basket, there was enough room for us, and we all -settled and began to have a very nice time.</p> - -<p>My heart ached as we went out of Florence, and I couldn’t look back. I -loved it so.</p> - -<p>“You’ll be coming back on the run one of these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> fine days,” said Miss -Meek, who seemed to feel all I felt.</p> - -<p>“I <i>hope</i> so,” I said.</p> - -<p>“And how could you help it, with your friends up the Fiesole way? Mr. -Wake told me that you were going to visit them out there within a year -or so. Told me so when he arranged for me to take you to Genoa and put -you on the boat, don’t you know—”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s awfully nice,” I said, and Sam said he thought so too.</p> - -<p>Then—the flying landscape.</p> - -<p>White oxen dragging creaking carts. . . . Little clusters of houses in -pastel tones. . . . White roads that circled terraced hills and groves -of olive trees.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” I said, “I want to see my people—” and I did want to, so -much that my eyes filled as I thought of it.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said Miss Meek.</p> - -<p>“But it is hard to leave friends, isn’t it?” I added.</p> - -<p>And Miss Meek nodded. Sam put his hand over mine then, and then Miss -Meek seemed to drowse.</p> - -<p>The journey was very short. I cannot remember a shorter seeming one, -though it does take over five hours. Baedecker says “The view of the -Mediterranean beyond Pisa is sadly marred by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> the frequent tunnels.” -There are over ninety of them; Sam helped me count them. Before I knew -it we had had our lunch and had settled back again, and then we were in -the city that is proud of Columbus, whose statue stands in one of the -public squares on the hillsides, and is surrounded with tall, spikey, -sharp palm trees.</p> - -<p>Out in the bay my ship was moored, and I was to go on it that night so -that Miss Meek and Sam might go back to Florence. I didn’t want to. -I had to think of mother very hard to keep from crying. It is really -complicated to love several countries and many friends, for it makes so -much tugging and not a little hurt.</p> - -<p>I said that just before I said good-by.</p> - -<p>Then Sam, who had been coughing quite a little, and always before he -spoke, asked me if I had my tickets, and I said—for the fortieth time -anyway—that I had, and Miss Meek said, “Look at the birds circling -around the ship. Jolly, what?”</p> - -<p>“They follow it,” I said.</p> - -<p>“A lot will follow that ship,” said Sam.</p> - -<p>And then Miss Meek kissed me, and Sam said, “Look here, dear, if you -can kiss Mr. Hemmingway, I guess you might take a chance on me?”</p> - -<p>And I said I guessed so, and I kissed him. And Miss Meek wiped her -eyes, and kept saying, “No end jolly, a sea trip, don’t you know?”</p> - -<p>And I said, “Yes,” and I kept my hand in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> Sam’s, and Sam didn’t say -anything. But he did <i>look</i> quite a lot of things.</p> - -<p>And then somehow, I was on board, and alone, and at last in my -stateroom which I was to share with an American woman from Florence who -was going home to visit her mother.</p> - -<p>It was honestly a relief to have the good-bys over. And after I took -off my hat and coat, and had hung up the things from my suitcase in a -half of the small cupboard, I got out the book that the choir had given -me before I left. It is a very nice book made of puffy leather, and it -has “My Trip Abroad” written across it in gold letters, and of course I -had written in it, because that was what was expected.</p> - -<p>I opened it and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“The Madonna of the Chair is in the Pitti Gallery, and it is by -Raphael. The Gallery is very big. It took Sam and me four hours -to go through it.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Below this:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Sam and I walked to-day, up near Fiesole, and we saw the Villa -Medici where the Princess Mary and Viscount Lascelles visited -Lady Sybil Scott, at the end of their honeymoon. It is a lovely -place. It seems to be so nice that they could be there.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Then—over the page—I found a note about the Riccardi Palace.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“There is a picture in the chapel of the Riccardi Palace,” I -had written, “that was painted by candle light by a man named -Gozzoli, who has been dead for several years. It is a fine -picture and has lots of gold in it and the portraits of the -Medicis who lived in the palace. Sam and I went down near the -Arno and bought buns after seeing it, which was very inspiring.”</p> -</div> - -<p>On the next page I had an item about the twins, who were better, and -a note about the tombs of the Medicis and a new tie I had helped Sam -to buy. I was very glad I kept that record. I knew that it would be -helpful. After I had looked at it until I saw all Florence through it, -and Florence was beginning to blur and wiggle because of something -that crept from my heart up into my eyes, I went up on deck and looked -off toward Genoa which lay, in a tangle of many gentle colors, against -the hill. . . . And I took a long, long look at this bit of Italy—the -Italy I loved so very much.</p> - -<p>I knew that somewhere that day, my Miss Sheila—I still called her -that—and Mr. Wake were touring along through pretty country; together, -after the long years apart.</p> - -<p>And I knew that Leslie, and Viola, and Miss Bannister and Miss Meek, -and Mr. Hemmingway were happy.</p> - -<p>And I knew that Sam was miserable. And it sounds strange to say, but -that helped me as much as anything.</p> - -<p>Then I looked at the birds that were flying in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> wide arcs around the -ship, the birds that followed it. . . . And I knew that Sam was right -in saying that other things would go along with me. . . . And I needed -them, although I needed, more than anything just then, my Mother. . . . -And I needed her because of Sam Deane, which I can’t explain.</p> - -<p>I fumbled in my pocket, and I found her letter, and a little piece of -paper that had been torn from the edge of a newspaper, on which Sam had -written.</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear Jane Jones,” and then, all in a hurried tangle, “I love -you!” (Sam had written this while Miss Meek dozed and an Italian -officer who was smoking outside in the corridor, looked in at us)</p> - -<p>For a fraction of a second I felt more miserable than I ever had -before, and then a warm breeze sprung up and it seemed to fan a warm, -let down, easy feeling into me. And after that I looked down in the -water, and in it I saw the front door of our house, and the porch which -slants toward the steps, and my own Mother in the doorway, smiling -and trying not to cry and Roberta back of her. . . . And the twins -jumping up and down by the gate, and shrilly screaming, “Mother, she’s -<i>here</i>! She’s <i>here</i>, Mother!”</p> - -<p>And then I felt myself get out of Daddy’s flivver and hurry up the -walk. And I saw every one hugging and kissing me, and every one -crying. . . .<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> I saw this, before it <i>ever</i> happened, just as it -really was to be!</p> - -<p>But I didn’t see the table as it was—which I knew would have on -it all the things I liked best to eat—for I didn’t forecast the -<i>hothouse roses</i>; I never <i>dreamed</i> that Roberta would blow -her allowance on these when she could have picked them <i>right out in -the garden</i>! But it was all wonderful! Nor did I see the banner that -the twins had made that had</p> - -<p class="center"> -WELCUM<br> -</p> - -<p class="noindent">painted on it with shoe blackening—they had each ruined a -dress through this—nor did I dream that Elaine McDonald would send me -an angel cake!</p> - -<p>But everything was nicer than I could imagine it would be!</p> - -<p>I wondered, as I thought of my people and getting home, whether any -other girl was as lucky as I, and I decided that none could be. And -realizing how happy I was made me feel a little sad; humble, and -uncomfortably grateful, so I forgot it as soon as I could and tried to -feel natural.</p> - -<p>And Sam’s smile—which I was to see a whole lot and which seemed to -belong with the things I loved—and my people, helped me to do this.</p> - - -<p class="p4 center">THE END</p> - - -<div class="transnote"> -<p>Transcriber’s Notes</p> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations -in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other -spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.</p> - -<p>Italics are represented thus _italic_.</p> -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN TRIO IN AN OLD TOWN ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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