CHAPTER XVII
THE FALCON SAVES THE DOVE
“Marianna!”
It was the austere voice of Carolina, and a love scene behind the second-cabin smoking room came to an abrupt close. Though it was not the first stolen meeting with Armando that she had broken up during the voyage, Carolina had never told the girl that she must shun other suitors because of a husband already chosen for her in New York. Profiting by her experience as a meddler in the love affairs of others, she had deemed best to conceal her matrimonial plans for Casa Di Bello until it should be too late for Marianna to defy her wishes. Not until the final day of the passage, therefore, did she let out the cat. Then she pictured to the girl the splendid future prepared for her as the wife of Signor Di Bello, the merchant prince of Mulberry.
“But I am promised to Armando,” said Marianna. “How can I marry any one else?”
“Bah! A poor devil whom you would have to feed. You will never see him again. In America he will soon forget you and find another amorosa. With my brother for a husband you will be a signora—as fine a lady as any in America. We have many pigs in Mulberry. With this good-for-naught sculptor you would soon be one of them.”
“He is as good as any one else—even your brother. Anyhow, I love him.”
The hour had come for Carolina to assert her power. “Love him!” she snapped. “What if you do? Will love put meat in your soup? You are matta [crazy]. Perhaps I shall find a way to give you reason. Do you think you would like to be homeless in that?”
The ship was nearing the Battery, and Carolina pointed toward the New York shore. With deep satisfaction she perceived that the girl’s spirit quailed before the awful vastness of the city. Presently Marianna caught sight of Armando coming from the companion way with his poor little valise, which she knew contained all his worldly goods. What if she defied her aunt, and cast her fortunes at once with him? No. She could not add to his burden. But need she do so? Could she not rather be a help? Toil had been ever her lot. She could not remember when she had not worked away her days—until, until Aunt Carolina had taken her up, had provided her with fine clothes, and made her live like a signora. No matter; she would rather be poor and work for Armando. But New York! That great monster crouching there in its Sunday nap, and sending lazy curls of steaming breath from its thousands of snouts! It was that they would have to dare—to fight that!
“You are a ninny to stand there in doubt—to think of doing anything but what I say,” Carolina went on. “See the clothes I have bought you. Do you know what I paid in Genova for that dress, that hat, those shoes? Well, I paid sixty lire, not counting the buttons and lining. But what can one expect from a silly girl? I buy you fine clothes, I bring you to America in second class like a signora. I offer you a signore for a husband, with a beautiful house to live in. But you, the goose, say you like better to dress in rags, to have a beggar for a husband, to starve, to live in the streets; for into the streets you go, remember, if you continue to play the fool.”
Carolina was no stranger to the lotus that gives languor of conscience toward means when the end cries for attainment. Moreover, her present mood was bordering desperation. The mishap that laid her low for so many months had worn off her veneer of placidity, and she returned to America much the same galvanic Italian that she was the day she first set foot in Castle Garden—the Carolina of pre-churchly days, who flared up and left her brother’s roof after a quarrel over watermelons, and put herself under holy orders. Unluckily for her peace of mind, while she lay a prisoner in the mountains waiting for broken bones to knit, she had received advices regularly concerning affairs at Casa Di Bello—especially affairs matrimonial. The letters were in the fine hand of the public writer of Mulberry, but the message they bore came from Carolina’s faithful ally, Angelica. In her zeal to serve, the cook only added wormwood to her mistress’s cup of gall, for her missives always told darkly of some would-be wife threatening the castle. The last letter had spoken with maddening vagueness of a crisis surely at hand, and Carolina’s instinct told her that the crisis was Juno. For this reason she had sailed a week before the day given her brother as the one of her intended departure. How could she remain supine in Genoa when Casa Di Bello stood menaced with an invasion that meant ruin to her fond designs? With Juno driven back, Carolina saw the battle won, for she had no doubt at all of her power to mould the will of a lovelorn maid. She was guilefully confident that there would arise no balk to her plans through Marianna’s refusal to be wived by Di Bello, for, with a subtilty deep set in her nature, she had counted from the outset, other arguments failing, that she should persuade the damsel in the end by the homely device of threatening to turn her adrift. Wherefore, having begun the assault, and observing that this line of tactics had melted Marianna to a thoughtful silence, she followed it up while they crossed the ferry from Hoboken, seated in a cab, their luggage on top. As they rolled over the cobbles of the lower East Side and the warm breath of May entered the window, Carolina gave her picture of a girl homeless and starving in the big city many a convincing touch. At Broadway, chance came to her aid with an object lesson. There was a cable-car blockade, and while the cab waited, a haggard woman, young but aged by vice and want, put her open hand into the window. Carolina drove her away with an angry word and a contemptuous stare.