Four Phases of Love Part 8

It was not the first time that she had thus denied him. A year before, when the painter had just arrived at Lorento, it chanced one summer evening that Antonino and some other young fellows of the town were playing boicia on an open piece of ground near the High-street--then it was that the Neapolitan first saw Lauretta, who, bearing a water-jar on her head, swept by without seeming to notice his presence. Struck with her beauty, he stood gazing at her, forgetting that he was just in the centre of the play-ground, and might have cleared it in two steps. A ball, thrown by no friendly hand, struck him on the ancle, and reminded him that that was not the place to lose himself in reveries. He looked round as if he expected an apology; the young fisherman who had thrown the ball, stood silent and defiant amongst his companions, and the stranger thought it his best policy to avoid a discussion and go. But people had talked about the affair at the time, and spoke anew about it when the painter began openly to pay his court to Lauretta. "I do not know him," she had said angrily, when the painter asked her whether she refused him for the sake of this uncivil youth. And yet the story had reached her ears too; and since that time, whenever she met Antonino, she recognized him well enough.

And now they sat in the boat like the bitterest enemies, and the heart of each beat fiercely. Antonine's usually good-tempered face was deeply flushed. He struck his oars into the water till the foam splashed over them, and his lips moved from time to time as if he spoke evil words.

She pretended not to observe it, put on her most indifferent expression, bent over the side of the boat and let the water run through her fingers; then she took off her handkerchief and arranged her hair as if she had been alone; only her eyebrows still drew together, and in vain she held her wet hand against her burning cheeks to cool them.

Now they reached the centre of the bay, and far or near there was not a sail to be seen--the island was far behind them, before them the coast lay bathed in sun-mist; not even a seamew broke in upon the intense solitude. Antonino glanced around him. An idea seemed to force its way through his mind; the flush fled quickly from his cheek, and he dropped the oars. In spite of herself, Lauretta looked around excited, but fearless.

"I must make an end of this," burst from the fisherman's lips; "it has lasted too long already; I wonder that it has not sent me mad before this! You do not know me, you say? Have you not long enough seen how I pa.s.sed you like a madman, with my heart bursting to speak to you? You saw it, for then you put on your evil look and turned your back upon me."

"What had I to talk to you about?" she answered shortly. "I saw long ago that you wanted to attach yourself to me; but I do not want to be gossipped about for nothing, and less than nothing, for I will never marry you, neither you nor any one!"

"Nor any one? You will not always say that, because you sent away the painter. Bah! you were a child then. You will get lonesome some day, and then, mad as you are, you will take the first that comes."

"No one knows his future. Perhaps I may change my mind; what is it to you if I do?"

"What is it to me?" he cried, and sprang so violently from his seat that the boat rocked again. "What is that to me! and you can ask me that, when you know how I feel towards you? Unhappy shall it be for him who is received better than I have been!"

"Have I engaged myself to you? Am I to blame if you let your brain wander? What right have you over me?"

"Oh!" he cried, "truly is it not written down. No lawyer has signed it and sealed it. But I feel that I have as much right over you as I have to enter heaven if I die an honest man. Do you think that I will look on calmly when you go to church with another, and the girls pa.s.s by me and shrug their shoulders? Do you think that I will be so insulted?"

"Do what you like. I shall not trouble myself, scold as you may. I too will do as _I_ please."

"You shall not say so long," he cried, and his whole frame quivered. "I am man enough not to let my life be destroyed by such fancies. Do you know that you are here in my power, and must do as _I_ will?"

She shrank together, and her eyes gleamed at him.

"Murder me if you like." she said, slowly.

"We must not do things by halves." he replied, sadly; "there is room for both of us in the sea, I cannot save you, child," and he spoke almost compa.s.sionately, dreamingly. "But we must dive below, both of us--and at once--and now," he shrieked, madly seizing her by both arms.

But in an instant he drew back his right hand, the blood streamed from it--she had bitten him to the bone.

"_Must_ I do what you will?" she cried, freeing herself from him with a sudden turn; "let us, see whether I am in your power." And then she sprang over the gunwale of the boat and disappeared for a moment beneath the waves.

She soon rose again; her clothes dung tightly around her; the water had loosened her hair, which hung in heavy ma.s.ses around her neck. She struck out boldly with her arms, and swam, without a sound, steadily from the boat towards the sh.o.r.e. Sudden terror seemed to have paralyzed Antonino. He stood bent forward in the boat, his eyes fixed staringly upon her, as if a miracle was being enacted before them. Then he shook himself, sprang to the oars, and rowed with all the strength he could command towards her, whilst the boarding of his boat grew ever redder from his free-streaming blood.

In a moment he was by her side, rapidly as she swam. "For the sake of the ever blessed Virgin," he cried, "come into the boat! I have been a madman, G.o.d knows what took away my reason. It struck into my brain like lightning from heaven, and burnt in me, till I knew not what I did or said. I do not ask you to forgive me, only save your life, and come into the boat again."

She swam on as if she heard not. "You can never reach the land, it is still two miglia off. Think of your mother: if anything happened to you, she would die of grief!"

She measured with a glance the distance from the sh.o.r.e. Then, without saying a word, she swam to the boat, and seized the gunwale. He moved across to help her; his jacket, which was lying on the seat, slid off into the sea as the boat heeled over with the girl's weight. She swung herself lithely up, and regained her former seat. When he saw her safe, he seized the oars again. But she spread out her dripping garments and wrung the water from her hair. As she did it, she glanced at the flooring of the boat, and saw the blood; then she cast a hasty look at his hand, which wielded the oar as unwounded. "There," she said, and reached him her handkerchief. He shook his head and rowed onwards. At last she rose, stepped over to him, and bound the handkerchief tightly over the deep wound. Then, in spite of his resistance, she took one of the oars from him, and seating herself opposite to him, though without looking at him, her gaze fixed on oar reddened with his blood, helped on the boat with vigorous strokes. They were both pale and silent. As they neared the land they met the fishermen who were moving to sea to cast their nets for the night. They greeted Antonino, and laughed at Lauretta: neither of them answered a word.

The sun was still high over Procida when they reached the marina.

Lauretta shook her gown, now nearly dried, and sprang on sh.o.r.e. The old spinning woman who had seen them start in the morning stood again on her roof. "What is the matter with your hand, 'Tonino?" she called down to him. "Jesus! the boat is swimming in blood!"

"'Tis nothing, Commare," answered the young man; "I tore it on a nail that stuck out too far. It will be well by to-morrow. The blood is only near the hand, and that makes it look worse than it is."

"I will come and put some herbs upon it, Comparello. Wait, I will be down with you directly."

"Don't trouble yourself, Commare; it is all over now and to-morrow it will be gone and forgotten. I have a good skin that soon grows over a wound."

"Addio!" said Lauretta, turning towards the path that led up from the beach.

"Good night," called the fisherman after her, without looking towards her. Then he took his tackle out of the boat, and his baskets, and strode up the narrow stone steps to his hut.

CHAPTER III.

There was no one but himself in the two rooms, through which he now paced to and fro. Through the unglazed windows, only closed by wooden shutters, the wind blew in still more refreshingly than on the calm sea, and the solitude pleased him. He paused before the little picture of the Virgin, and gazed thoughtfully at the silver paper star-glory pasted around it. Yet he thought not of prayer. For what should he pray now, when he had nothing more to hope for!

And to-day the sun seemed to stand still.

He longed for night, for he was weary, and the loss of blood had affected him more than he would confess. He felt a violent pain in his hand, seated himself on a stool, and loosened the bandage. The repressed blood sprang forwards again, and his hand was much swollen around the wound. He washed it carefully, and held it long in the cold water. When he withdrew it he could plainly see the marks of Lauretta's teeth. "She was right," he said to himself; "I was a brute and deserved no better. I will send her back her handkerchief to-morrow morning by Giuseppe, for me shall she never see again." He washed the handkerchief carefully, and spread it out in the sun, after he had bound up his maimed limb again as well as he could with his left hand and his teeth.

Then he threw himself upon his bed and closed his eyes.

The bright moon and the pain of his hand awoke him out of a half sleep.

He sprang up to calm the throbbing beat of the blood in cold water, when he heard a rustling at his door. "Who is there?" he said, and opened it. Lauretta stood before him.

Without saying much she entered. She threw aside the handkerchief she had worn over her head, and placed a basket on the table. Then she drew a deep sigh.

"You are come for your handkerchief," he said; "you might have spared yourself the trouble, for tomorrow morning I should have asked Giuseppe to take it to you."

"It is not for the handkerchief," she answered, hastily; "I have been on the mountain gathering herbs that are good for wounds--there!" and she raised the cover of her basket.

"Too much trouble," he said, without any harshness--"too much trouble.

It is better already--much better; and even if it were worse, I have deserved it. What do you do here so late? If any one were to see you--you know how they talk, though they know not what they say?"

"I do not trouble myself about them," she answered vehemently; "but your hand I _must_ see, and put herbs upon it, for you can never do it with your left."

"I a.s.sure you that there is no necessity for such trouble!"

"Then let me see it, that I may believe it."

She seized his hand before he could prevent her, and untied the bandage. When she saw the angry swelling, she shrank together, and screamed "Jesus, Maria!"

"It is a little swollen," he said; "a day and a night will put it all right again."

She shook her head. "You will not be at sea again for a week!"

"The day after to-morrow, I hope--what does it matter?"

In the mean time she had found a basin, and washed the wound afresh, which he suffered her to do like a child; then she laid the healing leaves of the herbs upon it, which soon a.s.suaged the burning pain, and bound up the hand with strips of linen which she had brought with her.

When she had finished, he said, "I thank you--and listen--if you will do me one kindness more--'forgive me for letting such madness get possession of me to-day, and forget all that I have said and done. I do not know myself how it all happened. _You_ never gave me any cause for it--never, never! And you shall never more hear anything from me that can annoy you."

"It is _I_ who have to pray for your pardon," she said, interrupting him; "_I_ should have told you all, differently and better, and not have irritated you by my rude manner; and now, even this wound----"