CHAPTER VIII

FROM SEA TO MOUNTAIN

“All of Italy that remains for us is to be compressed into the next two or three days,” said Sidney regretfully, as she watched the last red sail fade from sight upon the lagoons of Venice. “Oh that those days were limitless and that we could recover that lost power of the ancients who counted their years by centuries. If one might live to be as old as Methuselah, for example, it would be nothing to spend a hundred years in Italy. I almost believe I love Venice the best of all. How about you, Gabriella?”

“I am not sure. I think Sorrento comes first with me, and then Florence, though it is hard to decide. I think I love it all from the top of the boot to the toe, and would be satisfied to live anywhere in it between Switzerland and Sicily. How do you suppose Signor Rondinelli became possessed of the idea that I represented the wealth of the party?” she asked suddenly.

“Miss Bailey must have told him so,” replied Miss Cavendish. “She evidently discovered that one of us is not a pauper, and was under the impression that it was you.”

“Oh!” returned Gabriella, and lapsed into silence.

“I think it would be good fun if you would keep up that impression,” said Sidney, after a pause. “Think what numbers of romances you might have. Your personality plus gold would attract the heiress seekers as sugar does a swarm of ants.”

“But where would your innings be?” questioned Gabriella.

“I don’t want them. I couldn’t cope with those brilliant and beautiful soldiers if I had the opportunity. I think it would be much better to allow me the retirement my looks afford, and let you go forth to battle with the fortune hunters. I was ever ‘a violet by a mossy stone’ you know. I hope you did not tell the count that you refused him because you were not able to fill his coffers.”

“No, I must confess that I did not. I felt at the time that it was rather mean of me to keep on sailing under false colors, but now I am glad I did. I do believe, Sid, that it would be fun to change places. I should not in the least mind carrying out the plan, and should like to see confusion written in the various languages. I know how it appears in Italian already. Perhaps we shall have German next. It is a go, Sid. I am the heiress, if you please. You shall see how well I will fill the rôle without ever declaring in so many words what I wish to suggest.”

They watched the landscape from the car windows and presently Sidney nudged Gabriella. “Please to see our opposite neighbor. I envied him his neatly packed basket of luncheon when we came in, but I do so no more.”

Gabriella glanced at her vis-à-vis to behold a thin red stream trickling down upon the man’s shoulder. He was gazing out the window in utter unconsciousness that he was losing the better part of his flask of wine.

“Would you dare to tell him?” whispered Sidney.

“We needn’t, but Gem can. She is absorbed in her accounts, but when she has stopped reducing that last column of francs and centimes to dollars and cents, I’ll speak to her. She can’t bear to be interrupted when she is doing her sums, you know.”

“And in the meantime our Italian friend will lose all his wine, and what is a meal without wine to a Latin?”

“Tell him then.”

“Oh, I can’t; I shouldn’t know what to say, and Gem has the dictionary.”

Just at this moment Miss Cavendish looked up, a smile of satisfaction upon her face. “It is better than I thought,” she announced. “So far it has cost us but fifteen dollars a week apiece for everything, board, lodging, washing, travelling expenses and--”

Here Sidney clutched her. “I can’t stand it another minute. It will soak through. Please tell him.”

“What?” Miss Cavendish turned an amazed countenance upon her. “What are you talking about, Sidney?”

“That man, and his bottle of wine,” she whispered. “Do tell him that it is leaking.”

Miss Cavendish grasped the situation, and after presenting a disjointed sentence to their travelling companion, was given voluble thanks in perfectly good English, to the utter confusion of the girls. The bottle was then restored to a perpendicular position, while Sidney and Gabriella vainly tried to suppress an attack of giggles.

“And to think,” whispered Sidney, “we have been disclosing our inmost thoughts.”

“And Gem has gone so far as to confide to him the state of our finances. Did you ever know such first-class idiots as we are?”

“But he looks so Italian,” murmured Sidney, “as if he never had even heard a word of English before. I hope he does not understand enough to distinguish what we are saying under our breath.” But the rest of the way little was said by any of the three ladies, and when the Italian left the carriage, at Verona, all breathed a sigh of relief.

“All the same,” said Gabriella, after she had graciously returned the very polite bow he made at leaving, “we had our fun out of him, if we did afford him amusement. I wish, however, that we had let the wine drip its very last drop before we had told him.”

“You revengeful creature; I am sure he could not have been more unobtrusively polite,” said Miss Cavendish. “We never in the world could have told, by his expression, that he understood a word of what we were saying.”

“That’s just what I have against him,” returned Gabriella; “he ought to have looked as if he understood and then we shouldn’t have made such geese of ourselves.”

“Nevertheless, it was his intention to be as courteous as possible,” Miss Cavendish insisted. “Indeed, I think the most humble of these Italians could give us lessons in politeness. I shall never forget our dear little _padrona’s_ beautiful courtesy.”

“Yes, and didn’t you feel like some high muckamuck when the entire family, even to the old grandmother, followed us to the water’s edge and stood there bowing till we were out of sight?”

“And they were so grateful for the largess we bestowed,” added Sidney.

“The smalless, you mean,” Gabriella put in, “for we do not break ourselves when we give tips.”

“I am sure,” said Miss Cavendish slightly aggrieved, “we give enough. It seems to me that I have tipped everybody and everything in Italy.”

“Except your soup plate,” broke in Gabriella saucily; “I notice you are never guilty of tipping that.”

Miss Cavendish paid no attention to the interruption but went on: “They usually expect so much from Americans, that I think it is unjust to others to give more than seems fair. I am perfectly willing to give as much as the service is worth, but when it makes it difficult for those who have to economize, I think one should forbear the overpaying. It is indulging one’s self in generosity at the expense of one’s fellow countrymen.”

“Shall you ever forget the bland way in which that delightful old fellow in Naples said, when we discovered that he had charged three prices: ‘but you are so reech-a and we are so poor-a?’ It seemed quite reason enough in his mind, and he was not in the least abashed at the fact of his having been detected.”

“They are like children,” returned Miss Cavendish, “and for that reason we can forgive them much.”

“We are leaving Verona,” said Gabriella, poking her head out of the window. “I didn’t notice it before. I wonder if our friend of the wine flask is one of the two gentlemen of Verona.”

“He certainly is a gentleman,” remarked Miss Cavendish, still defending their late companion. “Why do you smile, Gabriella?”

“Oh, only because I shook my head and scowled so savagely at two women who were making for the carriage, that they backed away and went into the next. I think now we shall have this to ourselves the rest of the way.”

“I don’t mind travelling with the people,” said Sidney. “They are rather entertaining, and one learns many things about manners and customs, in a train.”

“It seems to me that we had enough of it this morning,” said Gabriella. “If another man with a lunch basket comes in, I shall not be able to stand it, I am afraid. Why didn’t we get one of those nice little baskets, by the way?”

“Because we shall get to Milan in time for our next meal,” Miss Cavendish told her.

“Did you hear that American voice? Why do such people travel? What do they get out of a trip?” said Gabriella.

“What was she saying?” asked Miss Cavendish.

“She announced to the world at large, very much through her nose, that she meant to travel first-class. ‘I can’t stand them fumeries,’ was her parting remark. I suppose she came abroad because her opposite neighbor went last year, and she will travel as rapidly as she can in order to get over all the ground possible; three months, no doubt for an extended tour of Europe. Can’t you fancy it? Oh, Gem, you certainly were a wise woman not to join a party. What might we not have had thrust upon us?”

“You are a little too severe, dearie, for there is a deal to be gained from travelling with others. Travel at least ought to teach us to live and let live, and we ought to return home with a broader charity.”

“Or else with a ruined disposition,” returned Gabriella saucily.

“Answer for your own,” laughed Miss Cavendish; “mine has already been severely tested.”

“Wicked, bad old woman to talk so to her dear little goddaughter,” returned Gabriella. “I’ll never come over again with you.”

“Then I can bring Sidney, who never says naughty things to me.”

For answer Gabriella snuggled up close to the older woman, called her all sorts of pet names, and made “love-eyes” at her as she had done from babyhood.

“There is one thing we all must learn,” said Sidney, watching the by-play, “and that is to cultivate a gentle tone of voice. That woman’s rasping notes still ring in my ears. I notice that there are very few Americans whose voices cannot be heard above all others.”

“Oh, but consider; we do not screech like peacocks, as the Italians do,” said Gabriella in her slow drawl. “Do I speak like an American phonograph, Sid? If I do, I’ll talk no more.”

“Oh, you, no, I didn’t mean you,” returned Sidney quickly. “To be sure you would never be mistaken for an Englishwoman, still you neither whine, talk through your nose, nor clip your words. I think you will do if you will remember not to shout, nor laugh loud when you are excited; it is then that we Americans lose control of our voices.”

“Alas, alas,” sighed Gabriella, “I believe you are right. Please call me down when I soar too high, and I’ll do the same for you. Gem never forgets herself.”

“She has had the advantage over you of fifteen years of practice,” remarked Miss Cavendish, “and she has likewise lost her girlish excitability.”

“She has not lost her enthusiasm, though; she will never outgrow that,” said Gabriella affectionately.

But here Milan was reached, and Gabriella rushed from the train to find a porter to take the luggage. It promised to be a difficult task, for the passengers were many and the porters few. “_Facchino! Facchino!_” called Miss Cavendish, her head out of the car window.

“_Facchino_,” called Sidney the other side, but not one seemed able to spare time to attend to them.

Gabriella clutched first one and then the other, but all were already spoken for. “Do go and help the child,” said Miss Cavendish to Sidney. “I will watch the luggage.” And Sidney joined forces with Gabriella. Yet up to the time the train was ready to start not one disengaged porter could be found. “What shall we do?” cried Miss Cavendish in despair. “I can’t leave the luggage, and I must get off.”

“This is where our American system of checking seems mighty fine,” said Gabriella. “I’ll come in and we’ll tumble out the baggage, not luggage, if you please on this occasion. We can manage it somehow.”

But just here a soft voice behind Miss Cavendish asked, “What is the matter? Can’t we help you?” and turning, she saw two Englishwomen who had taken places in this special compartment. “The train will be going,” they warned her; “you’d best get off,” and they summarily bundled Miss Cavendish from the carriage, and by the strength of their own beringed hands and braceleted arms lifted the heavy hand trunks through the windows just in time for them to be received by their anxious owners.

“Oh, dear,” said Gabriella, looking after the departing train, “I wish I could run after it and thank them again. Did you ever see such dear kind things? I foresee plainly that I shall become an Anglomaniac before I sail for home. I must get myself in training, for now I see why the English girls of necessity must be athletic.”

“I feel quite overpowered,” said Miss Cavendish. “They were certainly friends in need. I suppose we might have lifted down those trunks ourselves, but every minute I hoped we could get hold of a porter, and I was afraid to leave the things for fear they might be stolen, or the train would start. That certainly was an experience I do not want to repeat.”

“We have never had any trouble before, and I have been so proud of my little trunk, but I begin to think it might be better to register.”

“Oh, no, we need not do that, I am sure,” said Gabriella. “We shall probably never have such an experience again, and we have saved no end of money by always having our trunks in the carriage with us wherever we went. I should not wonder if we could take them over the Simplon pass with us. Next time if we don’t get hold of a _facchino_ right away, I shall lug them myself.”

After the quiet waterways of Venice, Milan seemed bustling and noisy. “I don’t like it,” declared Sidney. “Take out the cathedral and Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper, and it may share the fate of a buried city for all I care. It is noisy, wicked and uninteresting.”

“Ah, but the cathedral is well worth stopping to see,” said Miss Cavendish as they left the door of the great church.

“The light streaming across those vaulted arches was wonderful,” said Gabriella dreamily. “I shall never forget that, and as for the Last Supper, dilapidated as it is, there is nothing to compare to it in all the well preserved copies which share the room with it. Leonardo alone seems to have had a vision of his Lord. Oh, what a pity, what a pity that so great a triumph of art should be lost to the world as eventually it must be. Nothing has ever impressed me more. Surely Leonardo was inspired if ever artist was. No, Sidney, I don’t regret coming to Milan, though now that we have seen the cathedral and that great picture I want to go.”

“If it were the opera season,” remarked Miss Cavendish, “we might feel that it would be worth while to linger, but I agree with you, Gabriella, we have seen all that has any charm for us.”

“So now for the lakes and that heavenly ride over the Simplon pass. I know it is going to be heavenly.”

“Unless it should be a rainy day, and you know it is so likely to rain in the mountains,” said Sidney.

“You old pessimist,” cried Gabriella. “It isn’t going to rain, or if it does, only a very little, just enough for us to see the clouds rolling around the tops of the mountains and the beautiful distance breaking through as we come down into the valley.”

“What do you know about it?” asked Miss Cavendish.

“I am like the little boy who had eaten green apples and who suffered therefrom; when his Christian Science aunt insisted that he had no pain in his little tum, that it was only imagination, he said: ‘I reckon I know better than you; I have inside information.’ That is my case. My prophetic soul tells me that we shall have a glorious trip.”

“I most devoutly hope so,” returned Miss Cavendish, “for I have been thirsting for that mountain scenery for days.”

“Let me see, this is the plan, isn’t it? We leave early to-morrow morning for the lakes, spend a couple of days thereabouts and arrive at that place with the funny name--Domodossola, in the evening. I am sure I shall like that town or village or whatever it is. Then the next morning we get into a real diligence, and go over a real Swiss mountain pass, all snow and glaciers and such things. Much as I hate to leave Italy, I shall be glad to get to Switzerland, for I think Milan is an ugly link between the two, and I shall be glad to leave it.”

“But not the cathedral?” interposed Miss Cavendish.

“No, of course not; it is Milan’s saving grace, to my mind. Without that I should remember it only as a bad, ugly, noisy place and I don’t care who hears me say it. Besides, the maid told me to-day that among the lower classes cats are considered as an excellent article of food, and that the poor things, even when they are known to be pets, are frequently stolen to be cooked and eaten. Isn’t that horrible? Almost like cannibalism, isn’t it? No, I shall have no glad memories of Milan.”

“Gabriella, are you sure you are not making that up?” asked Sidney.

“No, I really am not. It was what the maid told me.”

“Then she was hoaxing you.”

“She seemed perfectly serious, and she speaks English very well, so I could not have mistaken her. No, after that hullabaloo that kept up in the street the entire night, I am ready to believe anything of this place, and I yearn for a peaceful Swiss valley.”