But they lasted on this occasion until two o’clock.
“It don’t seem as if I’d ever known it quite so baking as it is to-night.” It was Prudence who spoke; she spoke to Nounce; she must speak to some one.
Nounce answered with one of her patient smiles. She often smiled patiently, as though it were something which she was expected to do.
Prudence was sitting in the wood-shed resting; she had been down to town to carry home some work. Now the narrow streets there, thrown into shade by the high buildings on each side, were a refuge from the heat; now the dark houses, like burrows, gave relief to eyes blinded by the yellow glare. It was the 30th of August. From the first day of April the broad valley and this brown hill had simmered in the hot light, which filled the heavens and lay over the earth day after day, without a change, without a cloud, relentless, splendid; each month the ground had grown warmer and drier, the roads more white, more deep in dust; insect life, myriad legged and winged, had been everywhere; under the stones lurked the scorpions.
In former summers here this never-ending light, the long days of burning sunshine, the nights with the persistent moon, the importunate nightingales, and the magnificent procession of the stars had sometimes driven the New England woman almost mad; she had felt as if she must bury her head in the earth somewhere to find the blessed darkness again, to feel its cool pressure against her tired eyes. But this year these things had not troubled her; the possibility of realizing her long-cherished hope at last had made the time seem short, had made the heat nothing, the light forgotten; each day, after fifteen hours of toil, she had been sorry that she could not accomplish more.
But she had accomplished much; the hope was now almost a reality. “Nounce,” she said, “do you know I’m ’most too happy to live. I shall have to tell you: I’ve got all the money saved up at last, and the men are coming to-morrow to take away the cow-shed. Think of that!”
Nounce thought of it; she nodded appreciatively.
Prudence took the girl’s slender hand in hers and went on: “Yes, to-morrow. And it ’ll cost forty-eight francs. But with the two francs for wine-money it will come to fifty in all. By this time to-morrow night it will be gone!” She drew in her breath with a satisfied sound. “I’ve got seventy-five francs in all, Nounce. When Bepper married, of course I knew I couldn’t get it done for Fourth of July. And so I thought I’d try for Thanksgiving—that is, Thanksgiving time; I never know the exact day now. Well, here it’s only the last day of August, and the cow-shed will be gone to-morrow. Then will come the new fence; and then the fun, the real fun, Nounce, of laying out our front yard! It ’ll have a nice straight path down to the gate, currant bushes in neat rows along the sides, two big flowerin’ shrubs, and little flower beds bordered with box. I tell you you won’t know your own house when you come in a decent gate and up a nice path to the front door; all these years we’ve been slinking in and out of a back door, just as though we didn’t have no front one. I don’t believe myself in tramping in and out of a front door every day; but on Sundays, now, when we have on our best clothes, we shall come in and out respectably. You’ll feel like another person, Nounce; and I’m sure I shall—I shall feel like Ledham again—my!” And Prudence actually laughed.
Still holding Nounce’s hand, she went round to the front of the house.
The cow-shed was shedding forth its usual odors; Prudence took a stone and struck a great resounding blow on its side. She struck with so much force that she hurt her hand. “Never mind—it done me good!” she said, laughing again.
She took little Nounce by the arm and led her down the descent. “I shall have to make the front walk all over,” she explained. “And here ’ll be the gate, down here—a swing one. And the path will go from here straight up to the door. Then the fence will go along here—palings, you know, painted white; a good clean American white, with none of these yellows in it, you may depend. And over there—and there—along the sides, the fence will be just plain boards, notched at the top; the currant bushes will run along there. In the middle, here—and here—will be the big flowerin’ shrubs. And then the little flower-beds bordered with box. Oh, Nounce, I can’t hardly believe it—it will be so beautiful! I really can’t!”
Nounce waited a moment. Then she came closer to her step-mother, and after looking quickly all about her, whispered, “You needn’t if you don’t want to; there’s here yet to believe.”
“It’s just as good as here,” answered Prudence, almost indignantly. “I’ve got the money, and the bargain’s all made; nothing could be surer than that.”
The next morning Nounce was awakened by the touch of a hand on her shoulder. It was her step-mother. “I’ve got to go down to town,” she said, in a low tone. “You must try to get Granmar’s breakfast yourself, Nounce; do it as well as you can. And—and I’ve changed my mind about the front yard; it ’ll be done some time, but not now. And we won’t talk any more about it for the present, Nounce; that ’ll please me most; and you’re a good girl, and always want to please me, I know.”
She kissed her, and went out softly.
In October three Americans came to Assisi. Two came to sketch the Giotto frescos in the church of St. Francis; the third came for her own entertainment; she read Symonds, and wandered about exploring the ancient town.
One day her wanderings led her to the little Guadagni house on the height. The back gate was open, and through it she saw an old woman staggering, then falling, under the weight of a sack of potatoes which she was trying to carry on her back.
The American rushed in to help her. “It’s much too heavy for you,” she said, indignantly, after she had given her assistance. “Oh dear—I mean, è troppo grave,” she added, elevating her voice.
“Are you English?” said the old woman. “I’m an American myself; but I ain’t deef. The sack warn’t too heavy; it’s only that I ain’t so strong as I used to be—it’s perfectly redeculous!”
“You’re not strong at all,” responded the stranger, still indignantly, looking at the wasted old face and trembling hands.
A week later Prudence was in bed, and an American nurse was in charge.
This nurse, whose name was Baily, was a calm woman with long strong arms, monotonous voice, and distinct New England pronunciation; her Italian (which was grammatically correct) was delivered in the vowels of Vermont.
One day, soon after her arrival, she remarked to Granmar, “That yell of yours, now—that yam—is a very unusual thing.”
“My sufferings draw it from me,” answered Granmar, flattered by the adjective used. “I’m a very pious woman; I don’t want to swear.”
“I think I have never heard it equalled, except possibly in lunatic asylums,” Marilla Baily went on. “I have had a great deal to do with lunatic asylums; I am what is called an expert; that is, I find out people who are troublesome, and send them there; I never say much about it, but just make my observations; then, when I’ve got the papers out, whiff!—off they go.”
Granmar put her hand over her mouth apprehensively, and surveyed her in silence. From that time the atmosphere of the kitchen was remarkably quiet.
Marilla Baily had come from Florence at the bidding of the American who had helped to carry the potatoes. This American was staying at the Albergo del Subasio with her friends who were sketching Giotto; but she spent most of her time with Prudence Wilkin.
“You see, I minded it because it was him,” Prudence explained to her one day, at the close of a long conversation. “For I’d always been so fond of the boy; I had him first when he warn’t but two years old—just a baby—and so purty and cunning! He always called me mamma—the only one of the children, ’cept poor Nounce there, that really seemed to care for me. And I cared everything for him. I went straight down to town and hunted all over. But he warn’t to be found. I tried it the next day, and the next, not saying what I wanted, of course; but nobody knew wher
e he was, and at last I made up my mind that he’d gone away. For three weeks I waited; I was almost dead; I couldn’t do nothing; I felt as if I was broke in two, and only the skin held me together. Every morning I’d say to myself, ‘There’ll certainly come a letter to-day, and he’ll tell me all about it.’ But the letter didn’t come, and didn’t come. From the beginning, of course, I knew it was him—I couldn’t help but know; Jo Vanny was the only person in the whole world that knew where it was. For I’d showed it to him one day—the work-box, I mean—and let him put it back in the hole behind the hay—’twas the time I took the money out for Patro. At last I did get a letter, and he said as how he’d meant to put it back the very next morning, sure. But something had happened, so he couldn’t, and so he’d gone away. And now he was working just as hard as he could, he said, so as to be able to pay it back soon; he hardly played on his mandolin at all now, he said, he was working so hard. You see, he wasn’t bad himself, poor little fellow, but he was led away by bad men; gambling’s an awful thing, once you get started in it, and he was sort of drove to take that money, meaning all the while to pay it back. Well, of course I felt ever so much better just as soon as I got that letter. And I began to work again. But I didn’t get on as well as I’d oughter; I can’t understand why. That day, now, when I first saw you—when you ran in to help me—I hadn’t been feeling sick at all; there warn’t no sense in my tumbling down that way all of a sudden.”
One lovely afternoon in November Prudence’s bed was carried out to the front of the dark little house.
The cow-shed was gone. A straight path, freshly paved, led down to a swing gate set in a new paling fence, flower beds bordered the path, and in the centre of the open spaces on each side there was a large rose bush. The fence was painted a glittering white; there had been an attempt at grass; currant bushes in straight rows bordered the two sides.
Prudence lay looking at it all in peaceful silence. “It’s mighty purty,” she said at last, with grateful emphasis. “It’s everything I planned to have, and a great deal nicer than I could have done it myself, though I thought about it goodness knows how many years!”
“I’m not surprised that you thought about it,” the American answered. “It was the view you were longing for—fancy its having been cut off so long by that miserable stable! But now you have it in perfection.”
“You mean the view of the garden,” said Prudence. “There wasn’t much to look at before; but now it’s real sweet.”
“No; I mean the great landscape all about us here,” responded the American, surprised. She paused. Then seeing that Prudence did not lift her eyes, she began to enumerate its features, to point them out with her folded parasol. “That broad Umbrian plain, Prudence, with those tall slender trees; the other towns shining on their hills, like Perugia over there; the gleam of the river; the velvety blue of the mountains; the color of it all—I do believe it is the very loveliest view in the whole world!”
“I don’t know as I’ve ever noticed it much—the view,” Prudence answered. She turned her eyes towards the horizon for a moment. “You see I was always thinking about my front yard.”
“The front yard is very nice now,” said the American. “I am so glad you are pleased; we couldn’t get snowballs or Missouri currant, so we had to take roses.” She paused; but she could not give up the subject without one more attempt. “You have probably noticed the view without being aware of it,” she went on; “it is so beautiful that you must have noticed it. If you should leave it you would find yourself missing it very much, I dare say.”
“Mebbe,” responded Prudence. “Still, I ain’t so sure. The truth is, I don’t care much for these Eyetalian views; it seems to me a poor sort of country, and always did.” Then, wishing to be more responsive to the tastes of this new friend, if she could be so honestly, she added, “But I like views, as a general thing; there was a very purty view from Sage’s Hill, I remember.”
“Sage’s Hill?”
“Yes; the hill near Ledham. You told me you knew Ledham. You could see all the fields and medders of Josiah Strong’s farm, and Deacon Mayberry’s too; perfectly level, and not a stone in ’em. And the turnpike for miles and miles, with three toll-gates in sight. Then, on the other side, there were the factories to make it lively. It was a sweet view.”
A few days afterwards she said: “People tell us that we never get what we want in this world, don’t they? But I’m fortunate. I think I’ve always been purty fortunate. I got my front yard, after all.”
A week later, when they told her that death was near, “My! I’d no idea I was so sick as that,” she whispered. Then, looking at them anxiously, “What ’ll become of Nounce?”
They assured her that Nounce should be provided for. “You know you have to be sorter patient with her,” she explained; “but she’s growing quicker-witted every day.”
Later, “I should like so much to see Jo Vanny,” she murmured, longingly; “but of course I can’t. You must get Bepper to send him my love, my dearest, dearest love.”
Last of all, as her dulled eyes turned from the little window and rested upon her friend: “It seems a pity—But perhaps I shall find—”
A Pink Villa
* * *
“YES, of the three, I liked Pierre best,” said Mrs. Churchill. “Yet it was hard to choose. I have lived so long in Italy that I confess it would have been a pleasure to see Eva at court; it’s a very pretty little court they have now at Rome, I assure you, with that lovely Queen Margherita at the head. The old Marchese is to resign his post this month, and the King has already signified his intention of giving it to Gino. Eva, as the Marchesa Lamberti, living in that ideal old Lamberti palace, you know—Eva, I flatter myself, would have shone in her small way as brightly as Queen Margherita in hers. You may think I am assuming a good deal, Philip. But you have no idea how much pains has been taken with that child; she literally is fitted for a court or for any other high position. Yet at the same time she is very childlike. I have kept her so purposely; she has almost never been out of my sight. The Lambertis are one of the best among the old Roman families, and there could not be a more striking proof of Gino’s devotion than his having persuaded his father to say (as he did to me two months ago) that he should be proud to welcome Eva ‘as she is,’ which meant that her very small dowry would not be considered an objection. As to Eva herself, of course the Lambertis, or any other family, would be proud to receive her,” pursued Mrs. Churchill, with the quiet pride which in its unruffled serenity became her well. “But not to hesitate over her mere pittance of a portion, that is very remarkable; for the marriage-portion is considered a sacred point by all Italians; they are brought up to respect it—as we respect the Constitution.”
“It’s a very pretty picture,” answered Philip Dallas—“the court and Queen Margherita, the handsome Gino and the old Lamberti palace. But I’m a little bewildered, Fanny; you speak of it all so appreciatively, yet Gino was certainly not the name you mentioned; Pierre, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Pierre,” answered Mrs. Churchill, laughing and sighing with the same breath. “I’ve strayed far. But the truth is, I did like Gino, and I wanted to tell you about him. No, Eva will not be the Marchesa Lamberti, and live in the old palace; I have declined that offer. Well, then, the next was Thornton Stanley.”
“Thornton Stanley? Has he turned up here? I used to know him very well.”
“I thought perhaps you might.”
“He is a capital fellow—when he can forget his first editions.”
Mrs. Churchill folded her arms, placing one hand on each elbow, and slightly hugging herself. “He has forgotten them more than once in this house,” she said, triumphantly.
“He is not only a capital fellow, but he has a large fortune—ten times as large, I venture to say, as your Lambertis have.”
“I know that. But—”
“But you prefer an old palace.
I am afraid Stanley could not build Eva an old castle. Couldn’t you manage to jog on with half a dozen new ones?”
“The trouble with Thornton Stanley was his own uncertainty,” said Fanny; “he was not in the least firm about staying over here, though he pretended he was. I could see that he would be always going home. More than that, I should not be at all surprised if at the end of five years—three even—he should have bought or built a house in New York, and settled down there forever.”
“And you don’t want that for your American daughter, renegade?”
Mrs. Churchill unfolded her arms. “No one can be a warmer American than I am, Philip—no one. During the war I nearly cried my eyes out; have you forgotten that? I scraped lint; I wanted to go to the front as nurse—everything. What days they were! We lived then. I sometimes think we have never lived since.”
Dallas felt a little bored. He was of the same age as Fanny Churchill; but the school-girl, whose feelings were already those of a woman, had had her nature stirred to its depths by events which the lad had been too young to take seriously to heart. His heart had never caught up with them, though, of course, his reason had.
“Yes, I know you are flamingly patriotic,” he said. “All the same, you don’t want Eva to live in Fiftieth Street.”
“In Fiftieth Street?”
“I chose the name at random. In New York.”
“I don’t see why you should be sarcastic,” said Fanny. “Of course I expect to go back myself some time; I could not be content without that. But Eva—Eva is different; she has been brought up over here entirely; she was only three when I came abroad. It seems such a pity that all that should be wasted.”
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 45
