“Naturally, I was not flattered to find that your real reason for staying at home today, was that you were expecting more entertaining callers.”
“Is there any use in discussing it further? I am not going to climb any more mountains, and I shall not, as I told you, need a donkey-man again.”
“Then I’m discharged?”
“If you wish to put it so. You must see for yourself that the play has gone far enough. However, it has been amusing, and we will at least part friends.”
She held out her hand; it was a mark of definite dismissal rather than a token of friendly forgiveness.
Tony bowed over her hand in perfect mimicry of the lieutenant’s manner. “Signorina, addio!” He gravely raised it to his lips.
She snatched her hand away quickly and without glancing at him turned toward the house. He let her cross half the terrace then he called softly:
“Signorina!”
She kept on without pausing. He took a quick step after.
“Signorina, a moment!”
She half turned.
“Well?”
“I beg of you—one little favor. There are two American ladies expected at the Hotel du Lac and I thought—perhaps—would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation?”
Constance turned back without a word and walked into the house.
Mr. Wilder’s conversation at dinner that night was of the day’s excursion and Tony. He was elated, enthusiastic, glowing. Mountain-climbing was the most interesting pursuit in the world; he would begin tomorrow and exhaust the Alps. And as for Tony—his intelligence, his discretion, his cleverness—there never had been such a guide. Constance listened silently, her eyes on her plate. At another time it might have occurred to her that her father’s enthusiasm was excessive, but tonight she was occupied with her thoughts, and she had no reason in the world to suspect him of guile. She decided, however, to postpone the announcement of Tony’s dismissal; tomorrow mountain-climbing might look less alluring.
Dinner over, Mr. Wilder with a tired if satisfied sigh, dropped into a chair to finish his reading of the London Times. He no longer skimmed his paper lightly as in the days when papers were to be had hot at any hour. He read it carefully, painstakingly, from the first advertisement to the last obituary; and he laid it down in the end with a disappointed sigh that there were not more residential properties for hire, that the day’s death list was so meager.
Miss Hazel settled herself to her knitting. She was making a rain-bow shawl of seven colors and an intricate pattern, and she had to count her stitches; conversation was impossible. Constance, vaguely restless, picked up a book and laid it down, and finally sauntered out to the terrace with no thought in the world but to see the moon rise over the mountains.
As she approached the parapet she became aware that someone was lounging on the water-steps smoking a cigarette. The smoker rose politely but ventured no remark.
“Is that you, Giuseppe?” she asked in Italian.
“No, signorina. It is I—Tony. I am waiting for orders.”
“For orders!” There was astonishment as well as indignation in her tone. “I thought I made it clear—”
“That I was discharged? Yes, signorina. But I have been so fortunate as to find another place. The Signor Papa has engage me. I go wif him; we climb all ze mountain around.” He waved his hand largely to comprise the whole landscape. “I sink perhaps it is better so—for the Signor Papa and me to go alone. Mountain climbing is too hard; zere is too much fatigue, signorina, for you.”
He bowed humbly and deferentially, and retired to the steps and his cigarette.
CHAPTER XII
alf past six on the following morning found Constance and her father rising from the breakfast table and Tony turning in at the gate. Constance’s nod of greeting was barely perceptible, and her father’s eye contained a twinkle as he watched her. Tony studied her mountain-climbing costume with an air of concern.
“You go wif us, signorina?” His expression was blended of surprise and disapproval, but in spite of himself his tone was triumphant. “You say to me yesterday you no want to climb any more mountain.”
“I have changed my mind.”
“But zis mountain today too long, too high. You get tired, signorina. Perhaps anozzer day we take li’l’ baby mountain, zen you can go.”
“I am going today.”
“It is not possible, signorina. I have not brought ze donk’.”
“Oh, I’m going to walk.”
“As you please, signorina.”
He sighed patiently. Then he looked up and caught her eye. They both laughed.
“Signorina,” he whispered, “I ver’ happy today. Zat Costantina she more kind. Yesterday ver’ unkind; I go home ver’ sad. But today I sink—”
“Yes?”
“I sink after all maybe she like me li’l’ bit.”
Giuseppe rowed the three climbers a mile or so down the lake and set them ashore at the base of their mountain. They started up gaily and had accomplished half their journey before they thought of being tired. Tony surpassed himself; if he had been entertaining the day before he was doubly so now. His spirits were bubbling over and contagious. He and Constance acted like two children out of school. They ran races and talked to the peasants in the wayside cottages. They drove a herd of goats for half a mile while the goatherd strolled behind and smoked Tony’s cigarettes. Constance took a water jar from a little girl they met coming from the fountain and endeavored to balance it on her own head, with the result that she nearly drowned both herself and the child.
They finally stopped for luncheon in a grove of chestnut trees with sheep nibbling on the hillside below them and a shepherd boy somewhere out of sight playing on a mouth organ. It should have been a flute, but they were in a forgiving mood. Constance this time did her share of the work. She and Tony together spread the cloth and made the coffee while her father fanned himself and looked on. If Mr. Wilder had any unusual thoughts in regard to the donkey-man, they were at least not reflected in his face.
When they had finished their meal Tony spread his coat under a tree.
“Signorina,” he said, “perhaps you li’l’ tired? Look, I make nice place to sleep. You lie down and rest while ze Signor Papa and me, we have li’l’ smoke. Zen after one, two hours I come call you.”
