Mae Madden Part 9

"I disagree with you entirely," said Norman with energy. "She needs play, relaxation, freedom." Then he was sorry he had said it; Mae's eyes sparkled so.

"She needs," said Eric, pushing back his chair, "to be married. She is in love. That's what's the matter. Read those two last lines, Albert:

'While above, beyond them all, Loud a woman's heart makes call.'

"Don't you see?"

"O, wise young man," laughed Edith. But Mae arose. The scarlet buds in her cheeks flamed into full-blown roses. "There speaks the man," she cried pa.s.sionately, "and pray doesn't a woman's heart ever call for anything but love--aren't life and liberty more than all the love in the world? Oh!" and she stopped abruptly.

"Well, we have wasted more time than is worth while over this young, wild gosling," laughed Albert. "Let us hope she will take our advice."

Mae shook her head involuntarily. There was a smile on Norman Mann's lips.

"Here's health and happiness to the poor child at any rate," he said.

"He pities me," thought Mae, "and I hate him." But then she didn't at all.

Mae wandered off to the kitchen, as usual, that day, for another of Lisetta's stories. The Italian, with her glibness of tongue and ready fund of anecdote, was transformed in her imaginative mind into a veritable improvisatore. Talila was not by any means the only heroine of the little tales. Mae had made the acquaintance of many youths and maidens, and to-day Lisetta, after thinking over her list of important personages, chose the Madre Ilkana as the heroine of the occasion. Mae had already heard one or two amusing incidents connected with this old mother. "I am sure she has a cousin in America," she a.s.serted to-day, before Lisetta began, "for I know her well. She knits all the time, and is as bony as a ledge of rocks, and her eyes are as sharp as her knitting-needles, and her words are the sharpest of all. Her name is Miss Mary Ann Rogers. Is she like the Madre Ilkana?"

Lisetta shook her head. "No, no, Signorina, La Madre is as plump and round as a loaf of bread, and as soft as the b.u.t.ter on it. She has five double chins that she shakes all the while, but then she has stiff bristles, like a man's, growing on them, and her knitting-needles and her words are all sharp as la Signora Maria Anne R-o-o-g-eers, I doubt not. But her eyes! Why, Signorina, she has the evil eye!" This Lisetta said in a whisper, while Giovanni shrugged his shoulders bravely, and little Roberto cuddled closer to Mae.

"Yes," continued Lisetta, "and so no one knows exactly about her eyes, not daring to look directly into them, but as nearly as I can make out they are black, and have a soft veil over them, so that you would think at first they were just about to cry, when suddenly, fires creep up and burn out the drops, and leave her hot and angry and scorching.

"She must be terrible," cried Mae, with a sudden shrinking.

"She IS terrible," replied Lisetta, "but then she is very clever. You will see if she is not clever when you hear the story I shall now tell you," and Lisetta laughed, and showed her own one double chin, with its two little round dimples. Then she smoothed down her peasant ap.r.o.n, bade Giovanni leave off pinching Roberto, and commenced.

"The government hates the banditti," began Lisetta, wisely, "and indeed it should," and she looked gravely at Giovanni, "for they are very wild men, who live reckless bad lives, and steal, and are quite dreadful. But we poor, we do not hate them as the government does, because they are good to us, and do not war with us, and sometimes those we love join them--a brother or a cousin, perhaps,"--and Lisetta's black eyes filled, and her lip quivered. "As for the Madre, she loved them all, and said they were all relations.

"At this time of which I speak, the soldiers were chasing and hunting the banditti very hard, and they had been compelled to hide for their lives up among the mountains. There they would have died, had it not been for the peasants, who supplied them with food. Small parties of the bandits would come out for it. There were two very powerful men of the banditti, who were skirmishing about in this way, not far from the Madre Ilkana's, when they saw two soldiers, in advance of their company, approaching them. The banditti were not afraid for themselves, but they wanted to get back to their friends with the bread and meat, so instead of fighting, they fled to the Madre. She took them in, and bade them be sure they were safe with her. But the soldiers had caught sight of them, and they stopped at every house and enquired and searched for them; and so, soon they came to the Madre Ilkana's. They charged her in the name of the government to give up the banditti in her house. The Madre kept on with her knitting, and told them there were only her two sons in the house, and mothers never gave up their sons to any one.

"'Ha!' laughed one of the soldiers,' mothers must give up their children to King Death, and it is He who wants your bad boys.' Upon which, the Madre arose and cursed them. Curses are common with us, Signorina, but not La Madre's curses. She talked of their mothers to them, and of their sons, and of the Holy Virgin and child, and she cursed them in the name of all these, if they dared steal her children from her. They should take them over her old dead body, she swore, though her knitting-needles and her eyes were her only weapons, and then she turned her eyes full upon them, with the evil spirit leering and laughing out of them, and the soldiers, one of whom was an officer, fell on their knees and shook like leaves, and prayed her to forgive them; saying that they were sure her boys were good sons, and no banditti. And while they knelt crouching there, La Madre knocked on the floor and in rushed the banditti, armed with great knives. They caught and bound the two soldiers, and took away their weapons, and jumped on their horses, and fled.

"La Madre took her knitting again, and sat down quietly by the side of the bound men, until a half hour later some twelve more soldiers cantered up. As they rode by, all the people came to their doorways, and the soldiers stopped and asked if they had seen two hors.e.m.e.n. Then La Madre gathered up her knitting and went quietly out into the crowd. She made a low bow to the man with the biggest feather in his cap, and she told him her story. 'I have two sons,' she said, 'whom I love so well.'

Then she told how the soldiers mistook her sons for banditti, and tried to take them from her in her own house. 'Though I am old, I have a good life among my friends and neighbors here, and I fought a while in my own mind before I said to my sons: Go, my boys, your mother will die for you. But I did it. I bade them bind the soldiers and steal away. Then I sat guarding the men till you came. You will find them safe in my little house there. Now, take me to prison--kill me, but look in my eyes first, and then, whoever lays a hand on me, take La Madre Ilkana's curse.'

"And the people all swore that there were two snakes coiled up in La Madre's eyes then, and they hissed, and struck out with their fiery tongues, and the crowd fell on their knees, and the neighbors all set up a great shout of 'La Madre Ilkana,' so that they quite drowned the voice of the man with the big feather."

"Is that all?" asked Mae, as Lisetta paused. "What did the soldiers do?"

"O, they hired a pa.s.sing carriage to take the men whose horses were stolen back to Castellamare, and they all cantered off, without saying a word to La Madre, and when they had turned a corner of the road, she began to laugh. O, how she laughed! All the people laughed with her, and the children crowed and the dogs barked, for the rest of that whole day.

"And a neighbor who pa.s.sed La Madre's at midnight, said she was laughing out loud then."

CHAPTER IX.

"Signorina." Mae was pa.s.sing down the long hall when she heard the whisper. She turned and saw Lisetta, with shining eyes and pink cheeks, standing at her side. Her pretty plump shoulders were only half covered, and the array of colors about her transformed her into a sort of personified rainbow. This was Lisetta's Carnival attire, and very proud she was of it.

"Why, Lisetta, what do you want, and what makes you so happy?" called Mae.

"O, Signorina, the cousins are here,--and others,--all in mask. They fill Maria's rooms quite full. It is very gay out there, and they all want to see you, Signorina. I have told them how well you speak Italian and how you love Italy, and to-night, they say, you shall be one of us.

So come." All this while Lisetta had been leading Mae swiftly down the corridor, until as she said these last words, she reached and pushed open the door. A great shout of laughter greeted Mae's ear, and a pretty picture met her eyes--gaily decked youths and maidens clapping their hands and chattering brightly, while the padrona was just entering the opposite doorway, bearing two flasks of native wine, and some gla.s.ses.

"'Tis genuine Orvieto," she called out, and this raised another shout.

Then she caught sight of Mae and bowed low towards her. "Here is the little foreign lady," she cried, and a dozen pairs of big black eyes were turned eagerly and warmly on Mae. She bowed and smiled at them, and said in pleading tones, "O, pray do not call me the 'little foreign lady' now. Play I am as good an Italian as my heart could wish I were."

This speech was received with new applause, and the padrona handed around the gla.s.ses saying: "We must drink first to the health of our new Italian. May she never leave us."

"Yes, yes," called Lisetta, lifting high her gla.s.s. "Yes, yes," cried all, and Mae drank as heartily as any of them. Then she shook her head and gazed very scornfully down on her dark, stylish clothes. "I am not thoroughly Italian yet," she cried. "Here, and here, and here," cried one and another, proffering bits of their own gay costumes, and in a moment Mae had received all sorts of tributes--a string of red beads from one, a long sash from another, a big-balled stiletto from a third, so that she was able from the gleanings to trim herself up into at least a grotesque and un-American Carnival figure. Then the Italians with their soft tongues began to flatter her.

"How lovely the Signorina would look in a contadina costume--the home costume," said Lisetta gravely. "It is so beautiful, is it not?" And then those two or three privileged ones, who had seen Lisetta's home, went into ecstasies over its many charms. Lisetta, next to the Signorina, was the heroine of the occasion. She was from a distance, was handsome and clever, and the padrona gave glowing accounts of her full purse, and two pretty donkeys, and house by the sea.

They had a very gay time. Such singing, and then dancing and frolicking, and such a feline softness in all their gaiety. None of the German or Saxon bullying, and barking and showing of teeth; in no wise a game of dogs, which always ends in a fight; but a truly kittenish play, with sharp claws safely tucked out of sight behind the very softest paws, and a rich, gentle curve of motion, inexpressibly witching to our little northern maiden, who was fast losing her head amid it all. Mae did not reflect that felines are treacherous. She only drew a quick, mental picture of the parlor on the other side of the hall, which she compared to this gay scene. Mrs. Jerrold filling in dull row after row of her elaborate sofa cushion, which was bought in all its gorgeousness of floss fawn's head and bead eyes, Edith and Albert hard at work over their note books, or reading up for the sights of to-morrow, Mr. Mann with his open book also, all quiet and studious. Eric, alone, might be softly whistling, or writing an invitation to Miss Hopkins to climb up St. Peter's dome with him, or to visit the tomb of Cecilia Metella, or the Corso, as the case might be, while here--

As Mae reached this point in her musings, the Italians were forming for a dance, so she sprang up to join them. Two or three peasants from the country south had wandered up with the world to Rome, for Carnival time, then for Lent. They had brought with them their pipes and zitterns.

In the mornings they made short pilgrimages, playing in front of the shrines about the city, or roaming out on the campagna to some quiet church. In the evening time they wandered up the stone stairways of the great houses, and paused on the landings before the different homes. If all was still they pa.s.sed on, but if there was noise, laughter, sound of voices, they laid aside their penitential manner, and struck into dance music, flashing their velvety eyes, and striking pretty att.i.tudes, aided greatly by their Alpine hats and sheep-skins and scarlet-banded stockings.

Three of these peasants had appeared at the padrona's doorway, by a sort of magic. They bowed and smiled, and commenced to play. Every one sprang up. "Dance," cried they all, and flew for their partners. Mae found herself in the midst of the crowd, and having the most willing and nimble of feet, she soon toned and coaxed the fashionable waltz on which she had started into accord with the more elastic footsteps of her companion. There was something in the serpentine, winding and unwinding motion, the coaxingness of the steps, that was deliciously intoxicating to Mae. The color came to her cheeks, the smile played around her lips, and when she paused to breathe, she found the Italians showing their white teeth, and clapping their brown hands in her honor, while the tallest musician gazed at her from the dark doorway, with the rapt reverence he gave to all things beautiful and thrilling. She was a new song to him.

"The Signorina is the veriest Italian of us all," cried Lisetta.

"She honors our Italy," called Mae's last partner.

"Her feet are those of a chamois," said one from the north.

"Nay, she flies," replied another.

They all spoke in their earnest manner, and the praises, that fall in fulsome flattery in English, were delicate and stimulating as they slid in soft Italian from their full, red lips. Mae tossed her head carelessly, but she sipped the praises and found them sweet.

"Now for the Tarantella," said the padrona, so Lisetta shook her tambourine wildly, and the very prettiest girl of them all, and a big, brown boy (happy fellow!) began that coquettish bit of witchery. The pretty girl tripped around and around and wreathed her arms over her head, and the boy knelt appealingly and sprang up pa.s.sionately again and again, until the clock struck ten, and the party broke up. Mae shook hands with a new friend. He was a stone-cutter, and was soon to be married, and he poured out all his plans and hopes into her sympathetic ears, and told of his pretty bride to be, and of her dowry. Mae, in turn, sent her love to the happy bride, and took a charm from her watch-chain to go with it, a tiny silver boat, and she sent it with a hope that some day they might both sail over to America. At which the bridegroom shook his head very decidedly, and kissed Mae's hand and bowed himself out. Then, after she had disrobed her of her borrowed plumes, all the others kissed her hand and bowed themselves out, and Roberto and Giovanni awaked, and got up from the corner, and stood on their heads and hallooed as loud as ever they pleased, and the evening was over, and Lisetta and the padrona and the boys and Mae were alone.

"Oh, oh, oh," cried Mae, "how perfectly perfect. Do you always have such good times as this?"

"At home, yes," replied Lisetta, folding her hands and smiling. "We have many a play-day on the bay of Naples." Then she roused herself: "Good night, Signorina," she said, "keep your ears open."

Mae had barely reached her room when she appreciated Lisetta's last words. She heard music in the street below. She raised her window; Eric and Norman lifted the parlor window at the same moment, "Come in here,"

they cried. So in she ran, took a place between them, and they silently listened to the maskers' serenade. The musicians sang at first the gayest of tunes, but suddenly, by some subtile impulse, they changed to quieter minor airs, and sang songs full of tears and pa.s.sion and love and tenderness. Then they silently turned to go. Norman Mann touched Mae on the shoulder. He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers. They were Bero's, but she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far out to watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.

They called out loud their thanks--their "Grazie, grazie," as sweet as any lily just broken from its stem--and as they turned to go Mae saw that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled through his b.u.t.ton-hole or the riband of his hat.

Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his flower tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it to his lips.

He probably dreamed over it that night, and played his dream out in a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the Madonna at the Quattro Fontane the next morning.

O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our lives from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental touch of an unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile! And if our eyes, our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in like manner--as dreams and poems and melody--to give added rhythm and harmony to other lives.

Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs, with a smile wrapped up in it. "I am glad you are so happy," said Norman Mann, smiling down at her. When Norman spoke like that Mae felt only, O, so very content. She quite forgot all grudges against him; she would have liked just at that moment to have the world stand quite still. This was very different from the ordinary Mae. Usually she longed that it might go faster, and would put her pink and white ear quite close to the brown earth to hear if it were turning as swiftly as ever it could. "I like it to hurry, hurry, hurry," said eager, restless Mae. "I love to live quickly and see what's coming next."