Heimatlos Part 8

"Rico," was the answer.

"Mine is Silvio. How old are you?"

"I am eleven."

"So am I," said the little one.

"Why, Silvio, you are forgetting!" broke in Mrs. Menotti. "You are not quite four, so Rico can see that you have made a mistake."

Silvio changed the subject. "Play something, Rico," he said.

Rico stepped some distance away from the bed before beginning to play. Mrs. Menotti sat in her accustomed place at the head of the bed.

It was hard to tire Silvio by playing for him. Rico had exhausted his entire list of pieces, and yet the boy called for more. Mrs. Menotti tactfully brought in a plate of grapes and had Rico take her chair by the bed, where he and Silvio might enjoy them together. She slipped out of the room unnoticed by the children. She rejoiced to get out to the garden, for it had been days since Silvio would consent to her leaving him.

The children did not find it embarra.s.sing to talk together. Rico could answer all the questions that Silvio asked, and was never at a loss to find a way of making himself understood where words failed him. The mother had time to take a long walk about the garden without Silvio's having once called for her.

It was getting dark when she returned. Rico rose to leave, but Silvio caught hold of his jacket and begged him to stay.

"Unless you promise to come to see me every day I will not let you go," he said.

"But, Silvio," said the mother, "you must remember that Rico cannot promise that, even if he would like to, for he must first ask the people with whom he is living. I will go to see them to-morrow, and perhaps we can arrange it so that Rico can come every day."

Silvio grasped Rico's hand lovingly as he said good-by. "I hope you won't forget to come every day," he said. Rico was sorry to leave them. He loved Silvio and his mother for being so good to him. A homelike atmosphere filled the place and made him wish that his work might be done for them instead of for the people at the hotel.

The next afternoon Mrs. Menotti called at the Golden Sun. The landlady was much flattered by this visit. She met her guest very cordially and led her to the parlor upstairs. Mrs. Menotti at once made her errand known, urging the landlady to let her have Rico at least a few evenings a week, saying that she should be glad to pay well for the favor.

The landlady had been thankful that Mrs. Menotti had not interfered with her keeping Rico, so she willingly promised to let him go any evening that he did not have to play for dances. She was willing, she said, to let Mrs. Menotti pay what she pleased.

It was agreed that Mrs. Menotti should clothe Rico in return for the time he would give her. This pleased the landlady immensely, for not only would she have all his help for nothing, but he would soon be earning something besides.

The days pa.s.sed quickly for Rico. In a short time he was speaking Italian as if he had always known it. It came to him the more readily because he had once known it; then, too, he had a good ear, and caught the true Italian accent with wonderful ease.

The landlady found Rico much more useful than she had expected. She praised his neat way of doing his work by saying that she could not have done it better herself. If he were sent on an errand, he never failed to return promptly. He was industrious, patient, and good-tempered. When people questioned him about his past, he was very reticent. The landlady respected his silence and did not ask any questions. Thus he never gave his reason for coming to Peschiera. A story was told around the town, however, that Rico had run away from the people who had abused him in the mountains, that he had suffered many hardships on the long journey before he came to Peschiera, and that he had found the people there so kind-hearted that he had decided to go no farther. Whenever the landlady told the story, she always added that Rico deserved the good fortune of having found a home with them.

The first week of Rico's stay at the Golden Sun more people than usual a.s.sembled for the regular dance out of curiosity to see the little boy who had had such strange experiences, and to hear him play. In fact, so many came that the capacity of the house was taxed. The landlady flitted about among her guests as rosy as if she herself were the Golden Sun. Once, as she pa.s.sed her husband, she whispered, "I told you that Rico would help out our dances."

Rico listened to the music as the pieces were played, and soon found no trouble in playing with the others. When the dancing ceased, he was asked to play the Peschiera song, and the dancers sang it enthusiastically as a fitting close to their evening of fun. It seemed to Rico that they had been boisterously happy all the evening. The noise had hurt his ears and racked his nerves so that he was thankful when it was over. The crowd dispersed after the song, and Rico hurried away to his attic bed, where he could at least have quiet.

Later that evening the landlady said to her husband: "You see how well my plan works? The next time Rico can take the place of one of the players, so that we need hire but two."

The husband smiled at his wife's sagacity and added: "Yes, and he ought to be a favorite with those who give tips. There is no question of his getting something in that way."

Only two days later there was a dance in Desenzano, and Rico was sent with the other players. The people there did not sing the Peschiera song, but they were as boisterous or worse than the Golden Sun crowd had been. The coa.r.s.e laughter made Rico shudder, so that from beginning to end he thought, "If it were only over!" He carried home a pocketful of pennies, which he put uncounted into the landlady's lap.

She praised him for doing this and prepared a good supper for him.

Rico had been promised for another dance in Riva the following week, and he was glad to go, for it would give him the opportunity to see closely what he had always looked at from a distance. Riva lies at the opposite end of the lake from Peschiera, and the white houses of the little towns built along the sh.o.r.e under the towering, rocky cliffs, had always seemed to throw him a glance of welcome.

The musicians crossed the lake in an open boat under a clear blue sky.

Rico's thoughts were mostly with Stineli. He wished again that she might know how pretty the lake was, especially since she had at first doubted its existence. He knew how much she would enjoy the beautiful sight, and how much it would surprise her to see it. He meant to tell her all about it when he went back to her.

The boat landed at Riva all too soon, and a few moments later Rico was playing for the same kind of people that he had played for at the two preceding dances. It occurred to him that it was much pleasanter to look at the white houses and friendly rocks from his accustomed place on the opposite sh.o.r.e, or to amuse Silvio at Mrs. Menotti's, than to play amid the present tumult and applause. As they were returning to Peschiera that night he found no time to look about the town, though he had long wished to see the place.

When there were no dances Rico was allowed to go to Mrs. Menotti's every evening, for the landlady wished to prove herself grateful not only to Rico but to Mrs. Menotti as well. These evenings were Rico's greatest pleasure. He invariably went to the bridge for a short time on his way over. It always gave him fresh comfort, for he knew to a certainty that it was a place that had once been a part of his home.

He had found the exact spot where his mother used to sit most frequently when she held and fondled him. He would sit there and think it over and over, actually living in the spirit of the past. Each time he had to force himself to realize that Silvio needed him and would be waiting. Though it was always a little hard to leave the place, his peace of mind was restored as soon as he came to Mrs. Menotti's, for she had endeared herself to him, and he realized that from her he received more affection than from any one else except Stineli.

Mrs. Menotti had heard the story about Rico's suffering in the hills, and she considered it wise to forbear asking questions, for fear of recalling to his mind painful scenes that had much better be forgotten. She longed to take Rico away from the hotel, for she knew that it was not the place for a sensitive nature such as his, but she saw that this would be an impossibility. Once she fondly put her hand on his head and said, "You poor little orphan, I do so wish I could keep you."

To Silvio, Rico became more and more necessary. He spoke of him at all times of the day and was always listening for his coming. Rico could speak fluently by this time, and it was Silvio's greatest comfort to listen to the stories he would tell him. One day Rico told him about Stineli. Silvio was so interested that Rico enjoyed telling him about her. He told of Stineli's seeing her brother Sam fall into the creek, and how she reached the place in time to catch one of his feet, holding on to him until the father, for whom she called as loudly as she could, should get to them. The frightened boy was in the meantime screaming with all his might. The father, taking it for granted that children are always noisy, did not trouble himself to go immediately, but when he had leisurely strolled across the field to find out why they called, he found Stineli still holding her brother.

Rico told how she drew pictures for Peter and made playthings for Urschli out of wood, moss, or rushes,--sometimes with all combined,--and how all the children wanted her when they were sick, because she could entertain them so well. He also told of the good times he and Stineli had enjoyed together, and he became so animated in the telling that one would scarcely have recognized the quiet, sober Rico. Silvio's delight in these stories made both boys forget to look at the clock in time for Rico to leave as early as usual. He was startled to see how late it was and hastily rose to go.

"Good night, Silvio," he said. "I am sorry that I cannot come to-morrow or the next day, but I must play for some dances."

This was too much for Silvio's patience, and he called to his mother, who hastily came from the garden in the greatest anxiety.

"Mother!" he cried, "Rico shall not go back to the hotel any more! I want him to stay here and I wish that you would make him. You will do it, won't you, Rico?"

"If I didn't have to help at the hotel, I would," answered Rico.

Mrs. Menotti had feared such a scene for some time, but was troubled to know how to meet it even now. She knew too well what Rico was worth to the landlady and her husband in dollars and cents to entertain the faintest hope of their letting him go from them. She tried to quiet Silvio as best she could, and affectionately drew Rico to her, saying "You poor little orphan! I wish it were so that you might stay with us."

"What is an orphan? I want to be one, too," said Silvio.

"I am afraid my little boy is naughty to-night," Mrs. Menotti admonished him. "An orphan is one who has neither father nor mother, and no place that he can call home. Don't ever wish that again."

Mrs. Menotti did not notice Rico's pathetic glance when she gave Silvio the meaning of the word. Later when she saw that Rico was gone, she supposed that he had slipped away without saying good night, for the sake of keeping Silvio quiet, and she gave it no further thought.

"Now, Silvio," she said, as she sat down by his bed, "I want to tell you something, so that you will never make such a fuss again. We have no more right to take Rico away from those people than they would have to take you away from me. How should you like never to see the garden again?"

"I would come right home if they took me," was Silvio's valiant answer, but the ill.u.s.tration had served to quiet him, and he was soon tucked in his little bed and willing to go to sleep.

It would be hard to tell just what pa.s.sed in Rico's mind when he quietly left the house that night and went down to the bridge. "I know now that I am an orphan," he murmured, "and that there is no place that I can call home." He longed to stay on the bridge all night, for its sweet a.s.sociation with the past was his only comfort, but he knew that the landlady would become alarmed at his absence, so he forced himself away to his cheerless attic.

He did not need a candle to find his way to the bed, and he much preferred not to see his surroundings. An eager desire to see Stineli possessed him. He meant to tell her how it comforted him to know that she cared for him. It was late in the night before he could quiet his thoughts for sleep.

CHAPTER XV

AN EMPHATIC APPEAL

The matter, however, was not at all satisfactorily settled for Silvio.

He understood that he must do without Rico for two days, but it wore upon his patience as the hours dragged along. He fretted and tossed about, wishing continually for Rico. Before the second day was over Mrs. Menotti's strength had been severely taxed.

When Rico understood that he was really homeless, his thoughts turned to Stineli more than ever before. A new feeling of satisfaction came to him as he considered how much her friendship had meant to him and how much the future might mean if they could be again together as in days past. So continually had she been in his mind the last few days, that he had scarcely reached Silvio's side before he said, "Silvio, it seems to me as if no one could be quite happy without Stineli."

"Mamma, I want Stineli," said Silvio, as he pulled himself to a sitting posture. "I want her to come to me because I can't have Rico, and he says that no one can be quite happy without her."