XIV.—MISS GWENDOLYN DEFINES HER POSITION
I FOUND Norris looking better, and it's a sure thing that I was looking worse. I felt weary—the natural reaction of all that deviltry! Exercise with the pitchfork is all right under proper circumstances, but a man near fifty years of age should use more care than I had done in the choice of circumstances.
“What's the matter?” was the query of Norris.
“Been fightin',” I said, remembering how I had answered a similar question of my father one day when I returned from school with a black eye and my trousers torn. “They kep' pickin' on me.”
Then I told him the story of my quarrel with the slim count and its climax. But I said nothing of Forbes's part in the matter. We laughed so loudly that the nurse entered in a panic to see what was the matter.
“Nothing's the matter except good health,” I said. “We're both twenty years younger than we were a short time ago, and if you know any remedy for that go and throw it out of the window.”
She retired from the scene, and we went on with our talk.
“You're about the most versatile lawyer that I ever knew,” said he. “Such devotion I did not deserve or expect. If there's any more fighting to be done we'll hire a boy. For what you have done I say 'Thanks,' and you know what I mean by that. Gosh t' Almighty! I'm going to get out of bed, and we'll have some fun.”
“I'm beginning to long for the old sod!” I remarked.
“So'm I. Let's go south for a little while and then home. It looks as if we should have to take a count with us as a souvenir.”
“The Raspagnetti?” I asked.
“The same,” said he. “Read that.”
He drew from under his pillow a letter from the Count Raspagnetti, which said:
I am sorry that you are sick, for I desire so much to talk with you and tell you, I should say, how profoundly I am in love with your beautiful and accomplished daughter. The esteemed Monsignor who bears this note, and who is my friend and yours also, can tell you that I am worthy of your confidence, although unworthy, so to speak, of such an adorable creature as Miss Gwendolyn. But I feel in my heart that I cannot be happy without her. I assure you that I would rather die than find it impossible to make her my wife. So I hope that you will let me see you soon, if your health should cherish the endurance, and permit me to speak of such things to her.
I had scarcely finished reading it when Norris said:
“The Monsignor, whom I had met in New York, and who is one of the most courtly gentlemen you can imagine, came to see me this morning and recommended the count without reserve as one of the first gentlemen of Italy. I guess he's all right, and I agree with my wife that we will put it up to Gwendolyn and let her do as she likes. If she must have a title I presume she couldn't do better.”
I was about to suggest that she would need a special allowance for hair-restorer, but restrained myself. I thought that I wouldn't say anything disagreeable unless it should be necessary and also susceptible of proof.
“What does Gwendolyn think of him?” I asked.
“I haven't said a word to Gwendolyn about him—yet. I'll have a talk with her tomorrow or perhaps to-night. When I awoke this morning about two o'clock Gwendolyn and her mother were standing by the bed. The girl has taken the notion that she must do the nursing herself. I haven't been fair to them. I guess it's up to me to let them do the marrying. Mrs. Norris seems to like this man, and if Gwendolyn wants him I shall fall in line. I'm not going to be a Czar even in the interest of democracy.”
“It's the wisest possible course,” I agreed.
“I wish that you'd post yourself about the sailings,” said he, as I left him.
I broke a Roman record that evening—went to bed at eight. In Rome the day doesn't really begin until about that hour. At two o'clock people are coming out of the cafés, and the blood of Italy is in full song. Betsey complained that I yelled in my sleep, and I believed her.
The voice of the nightingales awoke me just before daylight. What a mellow-voiced chorus it is! A man has got to search his memory if he's going to try to describe it. The softest tones of the flute are in that song. It has an easy-flowing conversational lilt. It's a kind of swift, tumbling brook of flute music. As the light grew a noisy band of sparrows came on the scene. For a little while the soft phrases of the nightingales were woven into the sparrows' chatter. They ceased suddenly. I rose and dressed and went down into the little park outside my windows just as the sun's light began to show in the sky. In a moment I saw a young lady approaching in one of the garden paths.
She waved to me and called, “Hello, Uncle Soc!”
It was Gwendolyn.
“Child! Why are you not in bed?” I asked.
“I've worked at idleness so long and so hard that I'm taking a little vacation,” said she. “I sat all night with father. He couldn't sleep, and we talked and talked, and then I read to him and he fell asleep half an hour ago, and I came down for a breath of the morning air.”
“Don't get reckless with your holiday—all night is a rather long pull,” I suggested.
“I enjoyed every minute. You see, I've never had a chance to do anything for him. My father has always been so busy, and I away in school or traveling with my mother or Mrs. Mushtop. I was never quite so happy as I am now.”
“There's nothing so restful as honest toil,” I said. “The fact is you've been overworking in the past—struggling with luncheons, teas, dinners, dressmakers, and dances, and getting through at midnight. It's too much for any human being. If you could only go to work in a laundry or a kitchen or a sick-room, how restful and soothing it would be!”
“I understand you now, Uncle Soc,” said she. “We must see that it pays. Last night I was so well paid for my work! I discovered my father. The night passed like magic and filled me with happiness. To-day life is worth living. He told me of his boyhood, and I told him of my girlhood and that I wanted to make it different.
“'You must let me do the nursing,' I said. “'Why?' he asked.
“'Because I love you,' I told him, and what do you think he said?”
“My thinker got overheated and blew up the other day, and is undergoing repairs,” I answered. “So you'll have to tell me.”
“I shall remember it so long as I live,” she went on, with tears in her eyes, “for he said, 'I've found a daughter, and it's the best thing that's happened to me since I found a wife.'”
“My, what a night! You found the greatest luxury in the world, which is work,” I said. “Don't go to dissipating like a child with a can of jelly and make yourself sick of it. Go easy. Be temperate.”
“Uncle Soc, you dear old thing!” she exclaimed. “I'm beginning to know you better, too. I want you to tell me something. Father said that we should be going home soon. Now, what can I take to Richard? It must be something very, very nice—something that he will be sure to like.”
“Why take anything to Richard?” I asked. “I refuse to tell you why,” she answered. “But please remember that I have not the slightest hope of every marrying Richard.”
“You have lost your heart in Italy,” I said. “But I was kind o' hoping that you'd recover it.”
“I know that you and father have been worried about that, but you didn't know me so well as you thought. I had heard much about these Italians, and they are handsome men, and the Count Raspagnetti is a very grand gentleman. I have been impressed, for I am as human as other girls, but I cannot marry the count, and if he asks me I shall tell him so; and I can do it with a clear conscience, for I have given him no encouragement.”
I made no answer, being unhorsed by this unexpected turn.
“I do not propose to marry any one, and if you will think for a moment you will know why.”
In a flash her meaning came to me. She'd have to tell her father's secret to the man she married, and that she would never do. Again that old skeleton in the family closet was grinning at us.
“Gwendolyn, my thinker has been worn out by overwork here in Italy or it would not have been asleep at its post,” I said. “I take off my hat to you and keep it off as long as you're near me. Jiminy Christmas! I like the stuff you're made of, but look here—the case isn't hopeless. I'll show you a way out of this trouble some day. Come on, let's go in and have some breakfast. I'm hungry as a bear.”
“No, thanks! I must go back to my patient,” said the girl. “I never eat any breakfast.”
“The breakfast habit is purely American. You'll acquire it by and by,” I assured her. “Wait until you get a settled liking for long days and short nights.”
She left me, and I thought that I would take a little walk under the trees before going in. I had not gone a dozen paces when Muggs came along. He was looking pale and thin and rather untidy.
“I knew that you were an early riser,” said he. “I came to find you if I could.”
He must have seen a look of anger in my face, for he went on:
“Don't be hard on me. I've come to bring you that two hundred dollars, with fifty added for the hat and coat.”
He gave me a check, and it nearly knocked me down with astonishment. “What cunning ruse is this?” I asked myself, and said: “You're not looking well.”
“I can't eat or sleep,” he continued. “I've been walking the streets since midnight. There's something I wanted to say, but I'm not up to it now. I'll try to see you again within a day or two.”
He bade me good morning and went on, and I was puzzled by the serious look in his face.