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Jerry Junior

Год написания книги
2018
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“You needn’t bother. Your guide would be Italian, and it’s too much of a strain to talk to a man all day in dumb show.” He folded his arms with a weary sigh. “A week of Valedolmo! An eternity!”

Gustavo echoed the sigh. Though he did not entirely comprehend the trouble, still he was of a generously sympathetic nature.

“It is a pity,” he observed casually, “zat you are not acquaint wif ze Signor Americano who lives in Villa Rosa. He also finds Valedolmo undiverting. He comes—but often—to talk wif me. He has fear of forgetting how to spik Angleesh, he says.”

The young man opened his eyes.

“What are you talking about—a Signor Americano here in Valedolmo?”

“Sicuramente, in zat rose-color villa wif ze cypress trees and ze terrazzo on ze   lake. His daughter, la Signorina Costantina, she live wif him—ver’ yong, ver’ beautiful—” Gustavo rolled his eyes and clasped his hands—“beautiful like ze angels in Paradise—and she spik Italia like I spik Angleesh.”

Jerymn Hilliard Jr. unfolded his arms and sat up alertly.

“You mean to tell me that you had an American family up your sleeve all this time and never said a word about it?” His tone was stern.

“Scusi, signore, I have not known zat you have ze plaisir of zer acquaintance.”

“The pleasure of their acquaintance! Good heavens, Gustavo, when one ship-wrecked man meets another ship-wrecked man on a desert island must they be introduced before they can speak?”

“Si, signore.”

“And why, may I ask, should an intelligent American family be living in Valedolmo?”

“I do not know, signore. I have heard ze Signor Papa’s healf was no good, and   ze doctors in Americk’ zay say to heem, ‘you need change, to breave ze beautiful climate of Italia.’ And he say, ‘all right, I go to Valedolmo.’ It is small, signore, but ver’ famosa. Oh, yes, molto famosa. In ze autumn and ze spring foreigners come from all ze world—Angleesh, French, German—tutti! Ze Hotel du Lac is full. Every day we turn peoples away.”

“So! I seem to have struck the wrong season.—But about this American family, what’s their name?”

“La familia Veeldair from Nuovo York.”

“Veeldair.” He shook his head. “That’s not American, Gustavo, at least when you say it. But never mind, if they come from New York it’s all right. How many are there—just two?”

“But no! Ze papa and ze signorina and ze—ze—” he rolled his eyes in search of the word—“ze aunt!”

“Another aunt! The sky appears to be raining aunts today. What does she do for amusement—the signorina who is beautiful as the angels?”

Gustavo spread out his hands.

“Valedolmo, signore, is on ze frontier. It is—what you say—garrison città. Many soldiers, many officers—captains, lieutenants, wif uniforms and swords. Zay take tea on ze terrazzo wif ze Signor Papa and ze Signora Aunt, and most specialmente wif ze Signorina Costantina. Ze Signor Papa say he come for his healf, but if you ask me, I sink maybe he come to marry his daughter.”

“I see! And yet, Gustavo, American papas are generally not so keen as you might suppose about marrying their daughters to foreign captains and lieutenants even if they have got uniforms and swords. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Signor Papa were just a little nervous over the situation. It seems to me there might be an opening for a likely young fellow speaking the English language, even if he hasn’t a uniform and sword. How does he strike you?”

“Si, signore.”

“I’m glad you agree with me. It is now five minutes past four; do you think   the American family would be taking a siesta?”

“I do not know, signore.” Gustavo’s tone was still patient.

“And whereabouts is the rose-colored villa with the terrace on the lake?”

“It is a quarter of a hour beyond ze Porta Sant’ Antonio. If ze gate is shut you ring at ze bell and Giuseppe will open. But ze road is ver’ hot and ver’ dusty. It is more cooler to take ze paf by ze lake. Straight to ze left for ten minutes and step over ze wall; it is broken in zat place and quite easy.”

“Thank you, that is a wise suggestion; I shall step over the wall by all means.” He jumped to his feet and looked about for his hat. “You turn to the left and straight ahead for ten minutes? Good-bye then till dinner. I go in search of the Signorina Costantina who is beautiful as the angels in Paradise, and who lives in a rose-colored villa set in a cypress grove on the shores of Lake Garda—not a bad setting for romance, is it,   Gustavo?—Dinner, I believe, is at seven o’clock?”

“Si, signore, at seven; and would you like veal cooked Milanese fashion?”

“Nothing would please me more. We have only had veal Milanese fashion five times since I came.”

He waved his hand jauntily and strolled whistling down the arbor that led to the lake. Gustavo looked after him and shook his head. Then he took out the two-lire piece and rang it on the table. The metal rang true. He shrugged his shoulders and turned back indoors to order the veal.

CHAPTER II

The terrace of Villa Rosa juts out into the lake, bordered on three sides by a stone parapet, and shaded above by a yellow-ochre awning. Masses of oleanders hang over the wall and drop pink petals into the blue waters below. As a study in color the terrace is perfect, but, like the court-yard of the Hotel du Lac, decidedly too hot for mid-afternoon. To the right of the terrace, however, is a shady garden set in alleys of cypress trees, and separated from the lake by a strip of beach and a low balustrade. There could be no better resting place for a warm afternoon.

It was close upon four—five minutes past to be accurate—and the usual afternoon quiet that enveloped the garden had fled before the garrulous advent of four   girls. Three of them, with black eyes and blacker hair, were kneeling on the beach thumping and scrubbing a pile of linen. In spite of their chatter they were working busily, and the grass beyond the water-wall was already white with bleaching sheets, while a lace trimmed petticoat fluttered from a near-by oleander, and a row of silk stockings stretched the length of the parapet. The most undeductive observer would have guessed by this time that the pink villa, visible through the trees, contained no such modern conveniences as stationary tubs.

The fourth girl, with gray eyes and yellow-brown hair, was sitting at ease on the balustrade, fanning herself with a wide brimmed hat and dangling her feet, clad in white tennis shoes, over the edge. She wore a suit of white linen cut sailor fashion, low at the throat and with sleeves rolled to the elbows. She looked very cool and comfortable and free as she talked, with the utmost friendliness, to the three girls below. Her Italian, to an   unaccustomed ear, was exactly as glib as theirs.

The washer-girls were dressed in the gayest of peasant clothes—green and scarlet petticoats, flowered kerchiefs, coral beads and flashing earrings; you would have to go far into the hills in these degenerate days before meeting their match on an Italian highway. But the girl on the wall, who was actual if not titular ruler of the domain of Villa Rosa, possessed a keen eye for effect; and—she plausibly argued—since one must have washer-women about, why not, in the name of all that is beautiful, have them in harmony with tradition and the landscape? Accordingly, she designed and purchased their costumes herself.

There drifted presently into sight from around the little promontory that hid the village, a blue and white boat with yellow lateen sails. She was propelled gondolier fashion, for the wind was a mere breath, by a picturesque youth in a suit of dark blue with white sash and flaring collar   —the hand of the girl on the wall was here visible also.

The boat fluttering in toward shore, looked like a giant butterfly; and her name, emblazoned in gold on her prow, was, appropriately, the Farfalla. Earlier in the season, with a green hull and a dingy brown sail, she had been prosaically enough, the Maria. But since the advent of the girl all this had been changed. The Farfalla dropped her yellow wings with the air of a salute, and lighted at the foot of the water-steps under the terrace. The girl on the parapet leaned forward eagerly.

“Did you get any mail, Giuseppe?” she called.

“Si, signorina.” He scrambled up the steps and presented a copy of the London Times.

She received it with a shrug. Clearly, she felt little interest in the London Times. Giuseppe took himself back to his boat and commenced fussing about its fittings, dusting the seats, plumping up the cushions,   with an air of absorption which deceived nobody. The signorina watched him a moment with amused comprehension, then she called peremptorily:

“Giuseppe, you know you must spade the garden border.”

Poor Giuseppe, in spite of his nautical costume, was man of all work. He glanced dismally toward the garden border which lay basking in the sunshine under the wall that divided Villa Rosa from the rest of the world. It contained every known flower which blossoms in July in the kingdom of Italy from camellias and hydrangeas to heliotrope and wall flowers. Its spading was a complicated business and it lay too far off to permit of conversation. Giuseppe was not only a lazy, but also a social soul.

“Signorina,” he suggested, “would you not like a sail?”

She shook her head. “There is not wind enough and it is too hot and too sunny.”

“But yes, there’s a wind, and cool—when you get out on the lake. I will put   up the awning, signorina, the sun shall not touch you.”

She continued to shake her head and her eyes wandered suggestively to the hydrangeas, but Giuseppe still made a feint of preoccupation. Not being a cruel mistress, she dropped the subject, and turned back to her conversation with the washer-girls. They were discussing—a pleasant topic for a sultry summer afternoon—the probable content of Paradise. The three girls were of the opinion that it was made up of warm sunshine and cool shade, of flowers and singing birds and sparkling waters, of blue skies and cloud-capped mountains—not unlike, it will be observed, the very scene which at the moment stretched before them. In so much they were all agreed, but there were several debatable points. Whether the stones were made of gold, and whether the houses were not gold too, and, that being the case, whether it would not hurt your eyes to look at them. Marietta declared, blasphemously, as the others thought, that she   preferred a simple gray stone villa or at most one of pink stucco, to all the golden edifices that Paradise contained.

It was by now fifteen minutes past four, and a spectator had arrived, though none of the five were aware of his presence. The spectator was standing on the wall above the garden border examining with appreciation the idyllic scene below him, and with most particular appreciation, the dainty white-clad person of the girl on the balustrade. He was wondering—anxiously—how he might make his presence known. For no very tangible reason he had suddenly become conscious that the matter would be easier if he carried in his pocket a letter of introduction. The purlieus of Villa Rosa in no wise resembled a desert island; and in the face of that very fluent Italian, the suspicion was forcing itself upon him that after all, the mere fact of a common country was not a sufficient bond of union. He had definitely decided to withdraw, when the matter was taken from his hands.

The wall—as Gustavo had pointed out—was broken; it was owing to this fact that he had been so easily able to climb it. Now, as he stealthily turned, preparing to re-descend in the direction whence he had come, the loose stone beneath his foot slipped and he slipped with it. Five startled pairs of eyes were turned in his direction. What they saw, was a young man in flannels suddenly throw up his arms, slide into an azalea bush, from this to the balustrade, and finally land on all fours on the narrow strip of beach, a shower of pink petals and crumbling masonry falling about him. A momentary silence followed; then the washer-girls, making sure that he was not injured, broke into a shrill chorus of laughter, while the Farfalla rocked under impact of Giuseppe’s mirth. The girl on the wall alone remained grave.

The young man picked himself up, restored his guide book to his pocket, and blushingly stepped forward, hat in hand, to make an apology. One knee bore a   splash of mud, and his tumbled hair was sprinkled with azalea blossoms.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean to come so suddenly; I’m afraid I broke your wall.”
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