Under the Big Dipper

by Desiderius George Dery

Morton smiled and promised that he would wire and write whenever he could do so without endangering the attainment of his ultimate object. He begged him to be of good cheer and to be patient—all would end well. His father’s agent had instructions to be at the Count’s service. Mr. Kelly, Morton’s agent, would call on him from time to time, and he begged Count Rondell to make liberal use of his time.

The old man could not speak, so overcome was he with emotion; but he pressed Morton’s hands and looked the gratitude he felt.

The hour had now approached when Morton must leave. The doctor also had come in and whispered that the patient was being overtaxed. Morton therefore rose:

“Count Rondell, my dear friend, I know what is in your mind. Let me assure you, that come what may, I shall do my best to look after your daughter. If you should not be here to protect her—I will. If she does not find a suitable home at the court,—I shall bring her to my mother, who will be her friend. Have no anxiety, dear friend. Think only of yourself—think only of getting well again. But, again, whatever happens she will never want a friend so long as I live.” He reached for the sick man’s hand and as a final word, said earnestly, “I will succeed.”

Count Rondell’s eyes had been closed while Morton was speaking. He now opened them wide, and a wan, happy smile irradiated his face. He pressed with feverish clasp the hand held out to him and whispered rather than spoke: “May God reward you, my son. If I get well—I shall be your debtor for life; if I die before your return—I shall die happy. May God bless you, my boy—Good-bye!”

“Au revoir, Count—be of good courage and get well!”

Morton withdrew hastily, afraid to trust himself any longer because of the stress of his emotions, and glad to relieve his mind in discussing the final arrangements for the Count’s care with Dr. Brown. To his agent, who was also waiting in the hotel, he entrusted the moneys the Count had given him with the request that they be deposited at the local branch of the “Banca Nationale” in the name and to the order of the Count. He was to draw on Morton’s funds for all that was needed for the Count’s comfort and to stop at no expense, if necessary.

Leaving the hotel, he threaded his way through the narrow and crowded streets and arrived at the railway station, very tired and hungry. A nearby osteria invited him with its cheerful aspect. In the sunny back-room the brown-faced comely hostess served him a bountiful meal of which he ate heartily. When he had finished, he looked at his watch and found he had still plenty of time. He thought of the cables he had received and took them from his pocket. “Father rather unwell but not serious according Brooks. Delay permissible. All well and send love, Mother.” His father had cabled more laconically: “Go ahead. Christmas will do. Agency has orders.”

He rang the bell and asked for pen, ink and paper. The smiling landlady bowed and returned with a green and orange striped penholder and a tiny bottle partly filled with a pale bluish fluid. What should he write? He leaned over the table and played with the penholder idly, sipping occasionally the chianti from a many-colored glass goblet. The slanting rays of the October sun lighted up the plainly furnished room with its whitewashed walls on which hung a chromo of a rosy-cheeked Madonna and child, and a dark crucifix. The wax flowers on the mantelpiece attracted a bee which buzzed noisily against the bell-shaped glass covering. Occasionally Morton would look up and glance through the open window through which he dreamily noticed the little brick-paved garden, deeply shaded by the high wall and the buildings enclosing it. A few brilliantly colored dahlias, some clumps of chrysanthemums, and a few tomato plants despoiled of their crimson glory waved gently in the wind. A solitary starling skipped in and out from between the beds furtively glancing about with bright eyes and seemingly quite unenthusiastic over the place in which he found himself. Even in sunny Italy, the autumnal season has its sad forebodings.

Morton felt he owed his mother some reason for the change he had made in his original plans. She would certainly expect an explanation. What should he say without betraying the confidence imposed in him by Count Rondell? And yet he longed to tell her of what was really impelling him. Should he send her the photograph? And if he did what could he say? No—he must say nothing about the girl. He must write generalities,—perhaps drop a hint or so, and let it go at that.