“Oh! I congratulate you.”
“Thank you—I hoped you would.”
She looked away, gravely, toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was silence. Then he leaned toward her.
“Constance, will you marry me?”
“No!”
A pause of four minutes during which Constance stared steadily at the mountain. At the end of that time her curiosity overcame her dignity; she glanced at him sidewise. He was watching her with a smile, partly of amusement, partly of something else.
“Dear Constance, haven’t you had enough of play, are you never going to grow up? You are such a kid!”
She turned back to the mountain.
“I haven’t known you long enough,” she threw over her shoulder.
“Six years!”
“One week and two days.”
“Through three incarnations.”
She laughed a delicious rippling laugh of surrender, and slipped her hand into his.
“You don’t deserve it, Jerry, after the fib you told your sister, but I think—on the whole—I will.”
Neither noticed that Mr. Wilder had stepped out from the house and was strolling down the cypress alley in their direction. He rounded the corner in front of the parapet, and as his eye fell upon them, came to a startled halt. The young man failed to let go of her hand, and Constance glanced at her father with an apprehensive blush.
“Here’s—Tony, Dad. He’s out of jail.”
“I see he is.”
She slipped down from the wall and brought Jerry with her.
“We’d like your parental blessing, please. I’m going to marry him, but don’t look so worried. He isn’t really a donkey-man nor a Magyar nor an orphan nor an organ-grinder nor—any of the things he has said he was. He is just a plain American man and an awful liar!”
The young man held out his hand and Mr. Wilder shook it.
“Jerry,” he said, “I don’t need to tell you how pleased—”
“‘Jerry!’” echoed Constance. “Father, you knew?”
“Long before you did, my dear.” There was a suggestion of triumph in Mr. Wilder’s tone.
“Jerry, you told.” There was reproach, scorn, indignation in hers.
Jerry spread out his hands in a gesture of repudiation.
“What could I do? He asked my name the day we climbed Monte Maggiore; naturally, I couldn’t tell him a lie.”
“Then we haven’t fooled anybody. How unromantic!”
“Oh, yes,” said Jerry, “we’ve fooled lots of people. Gustavo doesn’t understand, and Giuseppe, you noticed, looked rather dazed. Then there’s Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara—”
“Oh!” said Constance, her face suddenly blank.
“You can explain to him now,” said her father, peering through the trees.
A commotion had suddenly arisen on the terrace—the rumble of wheels, the confused mingling of voices. Constance and Jerry looked too. They found the yellow omnibus of the Hotel du Lac, its roof laden with luggage, drawn up at the end of the driveway, and Mrs. Eustace and Nannie on the point of descending. The center of the terrace was already occupied by Lieutenant di Ferara, who, with heels clicked together and white gloved hands at salute, was in the act of achieving a military bow. Miss Hazel fluttering from the door, in one breath welcomed the guests, presented the lieutenant, and ordered Giuseppe to convey the luggage upstairs. Then she glanced questioningly about the terrace.
“I thought Constance and her father were here—Giuseppe!”
Giuseppe dropped his end of a trunk and approached. Miss Hazel handed him the lieutenant’s card. “The signorina and the signore—in the garden, I think.”
Giuseppe advanced upon the garden. Jerry’s face, at the sight, became as blank as Constance’s. The two cast upon each other a glance of guilty terror, and from this looked wildly behind for a means of escape. Their eyes simultaneously lighted on the break in the garden wall. Jerry sprang up and pulled Constance after him. On the top, she gathered her skirts together preparatory to jumping, then turned back for a moment toward her father.
“Dad,” she called in a stage whisper, “you go and meet him like a gentleman. Tell him you are very sorry, but your daughter is not at home today.”
The two conspirators scrambled down on the other side; and Mr. Wilder with a sigh, dutifully stepped forward to greet the guests.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Jerry Junior, by Jean Webster
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