Kitabı oku: «Vestigia. Vol. II.», sayfa 4

CHAPTER VI.
ON THE BUOY

There was no difficulty in arranging for that journey to Pisa. As soon as it was settled that they were to go by water, to row themselves the fifteen miles of the old disused canal, Dino volunteered to have the skiff in readiness at a moment's notice. 'I want to be away from here. The sooner we start, the sooner it's all over, the better pleased I shall be,' the young man insisted impatiently.

Ever since his return from Monte Nero he had done nothing but urge upon Valdez the necessity of some immediate action; if it were only to go on this trip to the next town to secure the purchase of the revolver, at least that would be something accomplished. A curious restless gloom had fallen upon Dino's open countenance. It was as if he could never quite free himself from the scathing bitterness of old Andrea's reproaches. He longed for action, definite action, however distasteful. Each slow bright day which passed seemed a long space of painful suspense until he stood cleared in the old fisherman's eyes. 'He may think me a madman if he pleases. He can never think of me again as a coward,' the young man told himself bitterly. Valdez could understand nothing of this sudden change in him.

'You puzzle me, lad – and you lack patience.'

'Patience!' repeated Dino, 'and what for pray? I have read in some book that it is faith, and not prudence, which has power to move mountains. What does anything else matter so long as we have the faith?'

Valdez looked at him very gravely.

'You are sneering, my Dino. And I find that, as a rule, people who distrust or deny their own emotions are justified by many of their subsequent actions in the lack of faith. Don't do it, boy. Not to believe in others,' – the old republican's eye flashed, – 'not to trust in others, is to reduce life to a mean habit,' he said.

They were sitting in Dino's own room, and the young man's gaze wandered restlessly over the walls; it seemed as if he were trying to learn by heart the position of each small familiar object.

'Why, it is like a bit of the old days back again, Valdez, to hear you lecture one!'

'Ay, lad.'

The elder man was following out his own train of thought. 'Perhaps I ought not to be so much surprised at the way it is taking hold of you. Until one is two or three and twenty one thinks of oneself: after that one is preoccupied with life, its combinations and its issues. And life is the bigger thing of the two.'

He stood up and laid his sensitive, long-fingered, musician's hand upon Dino's shoulder. 'Then that is settled. Bring the boat around to-night; and we start early in the morning,' he said slowly. He looked hard into Dino's face, and his lips worked as if on the point of adding something. But whatever it was the words remained unspoken. He turned away, and a moment later Dino heard him wishing Sora Catarina a grave 'Buon giorno!' as he passed through the outer room.

Later in the day Dino had spoken to his mother about his intention of absenting himself for an expedition of two or three days to Pisa. To his surprise Sora Catarina made not the least objection.

He postponed telling her until the last possible moment, acting in this on the opinion he had once heard Drea express about an angry woman's scolding. 'When a woman's got a tongue in her head, the wise man never speaks to her until he's putting his hat on; for it's no matter how hard the wind blows so long as it blows from astern.' But Catarina had not justified this prevision.

It was easy to see that she had something on her mind from the anxious glances which she kept casting in her son's direction, but it was not until he was just at the door and ready to start that she laid down her knitting resolutely, and said:

'My Dino, do you think your mother has gone blind? If you won't speak, I must. But things were different once. When you were a little lad, – it doesn't seem so long ago to me as to you, my boy, – you didn't wait for me to call you when you had hurt yourself. You were quick enough in coming to your mother when anything was paining you then. And a woman loses enough in seeing her children grow too big for her arms to hold 'em; – there's no need of their hearts outgrowing her as well.'

She spoke in a plaintive tone, her voice growing more and more complaining as she went on with her remonstrance; and as she ended she shut her lips tightly and took up her knitting again with an injured expression. 'Whatever you may choose to say, Dino, your mother is not blind.'

'Nay, mother, that is the last thing I should think of saying. But what is it now? You must not take fancies in your head about me, mother. I've not been complaining of anything, you know.'

'Oh, if it's a fancy in my head of course that's the end of it! I've nothing more to say; if it's a fancy that it's more than a week now since I've seen you sit down to eat your dinner like a Christian, as if you knew whether the dish before you were boiled beef or a boiled bone. And perhaps it's my fancy, too, those black rings under your eyes, and the new trick you've learnt of sighing!' She threw her knitting down upon the table, and crossed the room to where Dino was standing.

'My own boy, do you think I can't see that you are breaking your heart about that little girl, that Italia? And it's of no use, my Dino: believe your old mother in this. Her head is turned; she won't have a word more to say to you. There's no harm in the girl, but her head is turned.'

She hesitated for a moment, watching him anxiously. 'Dino! you know if I care for my other boy, my young master, that I nursed and looked after till I hardly could tell which I was fondest of, him or you. But, my Dino, he goes too often to Andrea's, does Gasparo. And that girl takes after her mother – a poor washy, big-eyed thing, who never knew if her soul was her own to pray for until she'd asked her husband. And the girl takes after her mother.'

'You said once you would not speak hardly of Italia again, mother.'

'I said once – I said once! Santa pazienza! it would be a fine task to remember the things one has said once. And besides, I'm saying nothing against her; the Lord keep me from it. Girls! I've been a girl myself. And you know our Leghorn saying – when you want to marry a girl off 'tis easy work doing it; with four rags and four tags you can send the devil from one house into another. But, my Dino, listen.' She laid her hand rather timidly on the cuff of his coat sleeve; what she was going to say would displease him, and she wanted to propitiate him – not to seem as if she too were concerned in his disappointment. 'My Dino, at Monte Nero, we were speaking, between us women, of the young Marchese. And Lucia said she wondered if he would be thinking of marrying soon; she's like all other old maids is Lucia; she can't see a man in the next street without wondering what he thinks about marriage. And Italia looked up; you know that innocent sort o' way of hers; and "Oh no," she says, "Sora Lucia. Oh no," she says. "The Marchese Gasparo is not in love with any of those fine ladies he knows. He told me so, only yesterday," says she. And then I just looked at her. "And pray how did he come to be speaking to you about anything of the kind?" I asked her. And perhaps I spoke a little sharp, for she turned very red, and then she looked at me with her big eyes without speaking, as if I was a painted image of one of the blessed saints. And then she said, "He told me because he was speaking of what his mother wished him to do." His mother! That would be the Signora Marchesa. And it's a proper thing surely that a little chit like that should know more about my old mistress than I do. Yes. "He was speaking of what his mother wished him to do." His mother indeed! not even the Signora Padrona, or the Signora Marchesa, but "his mother!" – that is what she said.'

Dino remained silent.

'Ah,' Catarina went on, merging her particular grievance in that general sense of relief to be found in indiscriminate complaint, 'ah, it's small wonder perhaps that the young master has never been near his old nurse, or given me so much as a "good morning," since the day he came back to Leghorn. And so fond of his old Catarina as he used to be! I remember him when he had the fever; not a spoonful of medicine would he touch if Catarina was not there to give it to him. But things change in this world, they do; it's a pity, while they're about it, they don't sometimes change for the better. There'd be more change i' that.'

Dino smiled faintly. 'Well, well, mother! there's no good fretting over what can't be helped. Don't worry yourself, that's the most important.'

'Ah, don't worry! that's a man's way all over. As if one sent out to the market to buy trouble, for fear of not having enough at home! But it's easy work telling your mother not to worry, Dino, when she sees you going about with such a look on your face.'

'Nay, mother, suppose we let my face take care of itself.' He mastered his impatience with an effort, and added, 'If you would only believe me you would not make yourself so unhappy. Italia and I understand one another perfectly.'

'Well, if that's what you and she call a perfect understanding, 'tis a pity you don't try mistaking one another for a little. It might make you both look a bit happier. It was more like a funeral, coming home the other day, than anything else that I could give a name to. Not that I'm ever i' the right.'

Sora Catarina ended with a stifled sob. She had known from the beginning that no good could come of speaking of this matter to Dino. He was like his father; he might act from impulse, but he would never change his purpose for any one's asking. And now that she had spoken, it all happened precisely as she expected. She went on crying quietly, with a feeling of having only succeeded in verifying her own lack of influence.

But Dino was more deeply affected than appeared on the surface. Like a great many over-sensitive people, who dread and foresee pain, he often denied its very existence; but the pain remained. The idea of Gasparo's growing intimacy with Italia haunted him like an impending sense of evil. A wild plan of warning old Drea, of insisting upon seeing and speaking to him, began to assume more and more of the character of a resolve in the young man's mind. But if he went there to-night Italia would be at home; he could not expose himself to be insulted before Italia; and to-morrow he was going away. There was no use in writing, Drea could only read his own name.

Dino's mind was full of these considerations as he walked down to the Old Port. It was a foggy night, the full moon just rising over the hill-tops shone through a thick white veil; but his plan was only to secure the boat to-night, and row it across the Port to the mouth of the canal. He would leave it moored there for the night; and he knew every inch of the harbour, the fog could make no difference.

It made this difference, that, coming out into the air again from the small stove-heated room where he had been sitting longer than he expected, engaged in bargaining with the owner of the boat, the singular beauty of the night came upon Dino like a revelation.

It was an absolutely white night; the fog hung low above the water. Overhead the full moon shone in a clear blue transparent sky. From the land the harbour looked enshrouded in a clinging cloud; but to any one on the level of the water the fog appeared as a resplendent and glorified vision, a lower heaven of luminous vapour, under which the dark oily-looking sea lay motionless, like a thing asleep. Twenty paces off the largest ship in port only loomed indistinctly, the merest ghost of a vessel, dim, shadowy, unsubstantial; the red and green lights in the rigging were indistinguishable a dozen yards away. They sprang suddenly into visible existence, piercing the whiteness like living jewels, as the boat neared the ship's side. The air was strangely sonorous; the faintest sounds – the laugh of a sailor in the forecastle, or the distant thud of an oar – were exaggerated out of all natural proportion. It was impossible to judge of distances; everything was white, shining, impalpable. On the darkest night there would have been at least some gleam of a signal lantern to steer by; but this was like being lost on enchanted seas of light.

'Una notte stregata; a white night is a witch's night,' said the sailor lad who came down to the steps at the landing to bring Dino the oars for his boat. 'Keep your eyes open, comrade, or you'll be running into something before you've time to sing out an Ave.'

'Ay, ay,' answered Dino cheerfully, stepping into his skiff and pushing her off from shore.

He paddled gently along; the soft moist air was pleasant upon his heated face, and there was no reason for hastening; until to-morrow there was nothing more to be done. The strange appearance of the night was so alluring he felt tempted to make a wider circuit before fastening up his boat. He turned the prow in the direction of the outer sea-wall, away from the shipping, just dipping his oars into the water with a scarcely conscious motion.

He was rowing in the direction of a certain large red buoy, upon whose broad surface he and Italia had often played as children, when to be left there by Drea while the old fisherman went to look after his nets was to be left in possession of a wonderful floating island, a country which no one else claimed, and where the little playmates reigned supreme.

The place was so much associated with the thought of her that, as he drew nearer, it was scarcely strange to Dino to hear what seemed a far-off echo of Italia's singing; he listened to the full contralto notes as if in a dream. It was all a part of the white magic of the night.

His boat moved noiselessly forward; the round outline of the buoy rose close before him. The sound of the low singing had stopped; but was there not something darker, the outline of a seated figure, upon that floating surface?

He looked hard, standing up in his boat, and of a sudden all the dreamy mystery of enchantment vanished. This was no dream, no phantom; it was Italia herself – Italia! his Italia, whom he loved. The quick blood tingled to his finger-tips. He called to her, and fastened his boat alongside, and sprang upon the buoy; it was all the work of an instant.

'Italia!' he said, 'Italia! Italia!'

She gave a little cry, and started to her feet, and looked at him. She stretched out her hands; her heart beat in wild irregular throbs; a contraction passed over her face; she did not know herself if she were laughing or crying.

He made some inarticulate exclamation and knelt suddenly at her feet. Her silken handkerchief had fallen to the ground, it had been warm about her throat; he covered the handkerchief with kisses.

Then he looked up at her as she stood above him steadying herself with one hand upon his shoulder. He held out his arms, and she bent her head without speaking, and their mouths met in a kiss.

The movement had given a sudden impulse to their floating pedestal; it swung violently for one instant from side to side, then the oscillations grew less rapid. The white radiance of the night seemed to close more heavily in about them. There was no sound or motion but in the quiet lapping of the waves.

CHAPTER VII.
BELIEVING

Italia spoke first.

'I knew you would come back to me.'

'Darling!'

He kept his arm about her, and she nestled close against him, her soft cheek pressed against the rough woollen of his pilot coat.

'I knew you would come back, my Dino. For I love you so. And the blessed Madonna is so very good. I prayed to her. I knew you would come back to me.'

She lay quite still for a moment; all her weight resting against his shoulder. Then she moved uneasily. 'You are sure it is you, Dino? Really you? It is not a dream?'

'No, dear.'

He bent his head and covered her hair with softest kisses. 'It is no dream, my Italia. It is like being in Heaven.'

'Yes.'

She sighed with perfect content.

But presently she moved a little away from him and turned, leaning both hands upon his breast. 'Dino, it was quite true, all that I told you, up there, at the church, the other morning. That dreadful morning! Dino, when you went away I felt as if my heart were dead.'

'My poor little Italia!'

'She is a very happy little Italia now. But, Dino, I did mean it then. If you had been obliged not to give up all those things that father does not like – that club, you know, and those bad men – I would have tried to bear it, Dino. I knew you loved me all the same. And it did not matter so much what any one else thought of you. I believed you – always. For you do love me, Dino?'

He pressed his lips to her hair again without speaking.

'Dino! say you do!'

'I do love you, my Italia. I do love you. God knows how much.'

'Dear Dino. I thought you knew that I could always be like a friend to you, like your little sister, whatever happened. But ah, this is better! I am so happy, Dino. And it is such a beautiful world; it seemed so hard to think that we were always to be hurt in it, always apart and miserable; and the happiness all about us, only we shut out from it, you and I.'

She raised her head. 'Do you know, dear, I could not imagine how you would come back to me? No! don't tell me, you can tell me some other time; to-morrow perhaps; now, I don't want to know. But I imagined – I don't know why, it was very foolish – I imagined there would have to be all sorts of talking, explanations first. It is so wonderful, Dino, happiness is always so much – so much – what shall I say? so much happier that one can possibly foresee it. I never thought of – this. And yet it was so simple.' She had slipped one of her little hands in his, and was pressing his fingers tightly over hers with her other hand, with the contented air of a happy child. 'But, do you know, you frightened me when you first called out, my Dino?'

'Did I frighten you, Italia?'

She lifted her head quickly, letting his hand fall. The suppressed tone of his voice had pierced her heart with its suggestion of untold suffering.

'Dino!'

She held her face close to his, trying to look into his averted eyes. 'Dino, you are unhappy about something? Is it – Oh!' – she shrank suddenly away from him and her face grew rigid and her lips trembled. 'Is it – my Dino, forgive me for saying such a thing! – is it that there has been some mistake – again? Is it that – that – oh, Dino! that you did – not – mean —this?'

The miserable words dropped out slowly, one by one.

Whatever punishment he merited by his lack of generous self-control he tasted in its full bitterness in that hour. After what seemed a long long interval of crushing condemning silence she got up very quietly. Dino rose to his feet at the same moment. As the buoy rocked he would have put out his hand to steady her, but the wild look of anguish on her dear face held him motionless. He did not dare to touch her. He covered his eyes with his hands.

Presently she said, 'We cared for each other even when we were little children. Perhaps that is why it seems so – strange, that you could do this to me.'

Her voice began to tremble. Her fingers turned cold; she held them clasped tightly together. So many images, so many memories out of the past, rushed back in one confusing flood upon her; she could find no words, no relief, from pain. All the bewilderment and the misery uttered themselves together in an appeal for help:

'Speak to me, Dino!'

Then he uncovered his face and spoke.

'Italia, before God! until I met you here to-night, by chance, I never thought to take you in my arms on this side Heaven. I cannot tell you what this thing is which has come between us. Your father chooses to believe that it is because I am a republican, because I hold opinions which he thinks mad and wicked, that I will not promise to give up all else and – marry you. He thinks that I have deceived you – that I have acted basely. Italia' – he lifted up his eyes and looked at her – 'I cannot tell you what it is which separates us. I cannot. Only – it would be better for you if you had never seen me. I wish to God that you had never seen me. I must go away very soon, away from Leghorn and the people I have known all my life. And I go away remembering that I have ruined your happiness. Yet I loved you, Italia. I loved you better than my own soul.'

There was a moment's silence; then she spoke very quietly:

'Dino. My father remembers when they threw an Orsini bomb at the procession carrying the blessed sacraments out of the cathedral. He saw a priest killed, and some women and children. And it was the republicans who did it. My father saw it. He saw it done.'

'Dear Italia,' said Dino sadly, 'surely you do not think that I approve of such an act? There are bad men in every place; men who hide their own selfishness and folly under every high ideal, and bring it to discredit. They are like the moths who feed on the coverings of the holy vessels on the altar. Whatever I do with myself it shall not be for my own gain.'

His voice changed a little, and he added, 'But perhaps you will not believe that of me? perhaps you will never believe any good of me again?'

She seemed scarcely to understand what it was he said.

'Dino!'

She stretched out both hands with a sob. It was like the cry of a frightened child for mercy. 'Dino, take me back, take me with you. I must be with you. It doesn't matter about all the rest.'

She threw herself into his arms, pressing her cheek against his, clasping his hands closer about her neck; speaking in short hurried sentences, her soft voice broken with sobs.

'Dino – it could not be again, you know. The dear Madonna would not let you go away from me again. Because, you know, my Dino, I could not bear it. I could not. And no one is expected to do what is impossible. It isn't that I'm not willing, Dino. I would do anything you told me to, anything. But if you asked me to lift a weight that was too heavy for me, I might want to do it, but I could not do it, could I? I should not be strong enough. And I am not strong enough for this – I am not strong enough.'

She kept her face buried on his arm as if she were trying to hide away from what she dreaded. 'Dino. It is such a happy world, dear. I could be so happy. See! even if you had to give up something, some ideas that you care for. My father says all young men have ideas about – about politics and all that – which they change as they get older. And even if you do not change. What does it matter? what does any of the rest of it matter? Dino – !'

He had his arm about her; he could feel her shaking from head to foot with heavy passionate sobs.

'Italia,' he said, 'stop crying. My dear. My poor, poor little child. I can't stand this. Right or wrong, I cannot stand it. It is too much to ask of me. Valdez may do what he pleases, I – ' He bent his head and pressed his lips fervently upon her warm loosened hair. 'Italia, I had promised. I had sworn to do something. But I break my oath. Look! I give it all up – for your sake. Look at me, Italia. They will call me a traitor; but I shall not have betrayed you.'

Poor little Italia! She was very weary. She could not speak for many minutes the choking sobs would force themselves out despite all her efforts to conquer them. She let herself rest passively in his arms, while he called her by every tender name he could devise. But presently the tears were fewer; she checked herself; she lifted up her head and looked at him; her eyes were full of love, but the far-away look in them meant even more than that; they were shining with the enthusiasm of high resolve.

'Forgive me, my Dino. I ought to be stronger – I meant to be stronger. I meant to help you, not to make hard things harder for you to bear. Forgive me. I will not do it any more.' She drew herself gently away from him, and he made no effort to detain her. Her voice grew steadier as she went on speaking. 'You could not do that. You could not be a traitor. Not even for us to be happy together. And it would not be happiness, Dino; there would always be a black cloud between us and happiness. It is not as if we did not know the difference between faith and falsehood, Dino. We do know.'

'I will not, so help me, God! I will not be false to you,' he said roughly.

'My Dino.'

'Italia, why cheat ourselves with words? what is faith or falsehood? what does it all matter if faith means leaving you, and falsehood your making my life a heaven? I love you: the rest is nothing. As for duty – who knows what is duty? Your father thinks it is my duty to stay with you. And another man bids me go. Why should I go? I promised; but is telling you that I loved you no promise? does it imply nothing? Do you tell me to go when I love you?'

'Yes, Dino,' said Italia simply; 'because you love me.'

She took his clenched hand in both of hers, and smoothed out the fingers with a great tenderness.

'Dear, I am not clever like you; I don't understand things. But I believe you. Dino, if it were for another man, and not for yourself, that you had to decide this thing – '

He drew away his hand, and looked away from her across the rippling sea. The breeze was freshening a little; there were long rents of darkness overhead where the fog was breaking, and showing the blue of the sky.

'Dino,' the persuasive voice went on, 'you might deceive yourself, not knowing, but you would not deceive me – your old playmate – your little sweetheart, who trusts you – trusts you against all the world. Dino, tell me. Have you the right to break this promise?'

'No,' he said in a half whisper. Then he added, 'But I would, if you told me to.'

'Yes, Dino. But you would not do it now.'

There was a long silence between them, then he asked abruptly:

'Will your father come back here to fetch you?'

'Yes, dear.'

She had been sitting quite still, watching with saddest eyes the dimpling motion of the water. But his speaking seemed to recall her to herself; she sighed heavily, and stooping, picked up her fallen handkerchief, and knotted it about her throat. Then she pushed her loosened hair back from her temples, smoothing it down with the palms of both hands in a way which was familiar to her: he had watched her do it a hundred times before. She looked up at him, and their eyes met in a long solemn gaze of unspeakable pity and love.

After a moment he took her hand in his very gently and raised it to his lips.

'My good, good little Italia.'

They sat in silence, like two children, holding each other's hands.

*****

After what seemed a long time there was the sound of oars in the distance, and then the shadowy outline of Drea's boat. Dino drew her gently to him. 'It is good-bye, child, God keep you,' he said huskily. Their lips met in a kiss which held the very passion of loss.

In another moment he had stepped from the buoy into his own boat. He went to meet Andrea.

'I have been with Italia. If you like I will listen to anything you have to say to me. But not here. I will follow you to your house,' he said.

He followed at a little distance across the tranquil bay.