II.
Caterina was glad to return to Naples, to the house in Via Constantinopoli; for alone at Centurano, without the Sannas, and especially without Andrea (who had gone away shooting four times in a fortnight, to make up for lost time), she had been very dull. In those two weeks she had busied herself with putting the villa in order; the furniture had been encased in holland covers and the curtains taken down, Lucia’s room left intact, in readiness for next year. Then the house had been consigned to the care of Matteo, and when this was accomplished she was glad to get away.
She intended making many innovations in her winter quarters. She discussed them at great length with Andrea, whose advice was precious to her. For instance, the dining-room wanted redecorating; she was thinking of having it panelled half-way up with carved oak, an idea suggested by Giovanna Gabrielli-Casacalenda, past mistress in the art of elegance. Caterina had hesitated at first because of the expense, although Andrea had given her permission to spend as much as she chose. They were rich, and did not live up to their income; their property was well managed and lucrative; but she was economically-minded. As for altering the yellow drawing-room which Andrea considered too showy and too provincial, that would not be a serious expense, for the upholsterer was willing to take back all its furniture and hangings, and to exchange them for more modern, neutral-tinted ones. She often consulted Andrea on these matters; he gave her rather absent answers, being preoccupied with a lawsuit about a boundary-wall on their property at Sedile di Porto.
His conferences with his legal advisers often obliged him to be away from home. Indeed, that very morning he had been out since eight o’clock, returning at eleven, apparently exhausted.
“Well, how goes the lawsuit?” inquired Caterina at luncheon.
“Badly.”
“Why? Does our neighbour decline any compromise?”
“He does. He is obstinate; says the right is on his side.”
“But what is the lawyer doing?”
“What can he do? He is moving heaven and earth, like any other lawyer; or pretending to do so.”
“Why don’t you eat?”
“I am not very hungry; out of sorts.”
“After luncheon you ought to take a nap.”
“What an idea! I’ve got to go out again.”
“To the Court? This lawsuit will make you ill.”
“Then I shall have to get well again.”
“Listen to me. Suppose you let the neighbour have his own way?”
“It’s a question of self-respect; but perhaps you are right after all.”
“This lawsuit is a nuisance. This morning Alberto sent for you, and you were out.”
“Who is Alberto?”
“Alberto Sanna.”
“What did he want?”
“The maid told me that he wanted to see you, to ask you to attend to some business for him because he was confined to the house. She told me in confidence that Lucia wished me to know that Alberto spat blood last night in his sleep, but that he did not know it, and they were hiding it from him. She also said that Lucia was crying.”
“And Alberto is another nuisance,” he rejoined, crossly and with a shrug of his shoulders.
“It is for Lucia that I am grieving. How she must suffer!”
No answer.
“I should like to go there to-day, for half an hour,” she ventured to remark.
“What would be the good of it?”
“Only to comfort Lucia....”
“To-day I can’t go there with you, and you know I don’t care for you to go alone.”
“You are right, I won’t go; we will go together this evening.”
Luncheon was over, but they did not leave the table. Andrea was playing with his breadcrumbs.
“Besides our agent, Scognamiglio, will call to-day. He will bring some money for which you must give him a receipt. Tell him he can make a reduction for the third-floor tenants of No. 79 Via Speronzella. They are poor people.”
“Am I to say anything else to him?”
“Give him his monthly salary.”
“A hundred and sixty lire?”
“Yes; but let him give you a receipt.”
“All right; another cup of coffee?”
“Yes; give me another cup, it is weak to-day.”
“Because of your nerves. I wanted to ask you, are we going to the ball of the Unione?”
“... Yes.”
“Shall I order a dress of cream brocade for that ball?”
“Will the colour suit you?”
“The dressmaker says so.”
“They always say so. But order it, anyhow.”
“I will wear my pearls.”
He did not answer. He was gazing abstractedly into the bottom of his cup. Then he looked at her so long and so fixedly that Caterina wondered.
“Well,” he said at last, looking at his watch, “I must be going.”
He rose, and as usual she followed him. He went right through the house; stopping before his writing-table to take a bulky parcel out of it, which he put into his pocket.
“It makes you look fat,” she said, laughing.
“Never mind.”
He dawdled in his bedroom, as if he were looking for something that he had forgotten. Then he took up his hat and gloves.
“You should take your overcoat with you, the air is biting.”
“You are right; I will take it.”
He finished buttoning his gloves. She was standing, looking at him with her serene eyes. He stooped and gave her an absent kiss. Then he turned to go, followed by his wife.
“Arrivederci, Andrea.”
“... Arrivederci.”
He began to descend the stairs; she called out to him from the landing:
“Shall you return late?”
“No. Good-bye, Caterina.”
Lucia had risen late. She told Alberto that she had passed a feverish night. Indeed, her lips were dry and discoloured, her heavy eyelids had livid circles round them. At eleven, she languidly dragged herself, in a black satin dressing-gown, to be present at her husband’s breakfast—two eggs beaten in a cup of café-au-lait—capital stuff for the chest. She sat with her head in her hands. Every now and then dark flushes dyed her face, and she pushed her hair off her temples with a vague gesture that indicated suffering.
“What is the matter with you? You are sadder than usual!”
“I wish I could see you well, Alberto mio. I wish I could give you my heart’s blood.”
“What is it all about? Am I so ill, then?”
“No, Alberto, no. The season is trying to delicate lungs.”
“Well, then, what of it? But I see that you are so good as to be anxious about me. Thank you, dear. But for you I should have been dead by this time.”
“Do not say that—do not say it.”
“Now she is in tears, my poor little thing! I was joking. What a fool I am! My stupid chaff makes you cry. I entreat you not to cry any more.”
“I am not crying, Alberto mio.”
“Have a sip of my coffee.”
“No, thank you, I don’t care for any.”
“Have some; do have some.”
“I am going to take the Sacrament to-day, about one.”
“Ah! beg pardon. I never remember anything. What church are you going to?”
“The same church, Santa Chiara.”
“But your religion makes you suffer, dear.”
“Everything makes me suffer, Alberto mio. It is my destiny. But it is well to suffer for God’s sake!”
“Let us both take holy vows, Lucia.”
“You are joking, but I did seriously intend to be a nun. It was my father who prevented me from doing so. God grant that he may not repent of it.”
“Why, Lucia? Think, if you had become a nun, we should not have met and loved each other, and you would never have been my dear wife.”
“What is the good of love and marriage? All is corruption, everything in this world is putrid.”
“Lucia, you are lugubrious.”
“Forgive me, Alberto mio, the gloom that overshadows my soul leaks out and saddens my beloved one. I will smile sooner than you should be sad.”
“Poor dear, I know what I cost you. But you’ll see how soon I shall get strong, and how we shall amuse ourselves this winter. There will be fêtes, balls, races.”
“I shall never be gay again.”
“Lucia, I shall have to scold you.”
“No, no; let us talk of something else.”
“If you are going to church, you are but just in time.”
“Do you send me away, Alberto?”
“It is midday; you have to go as far as Santa Chiara ... and the sooner you go the sooner you will be back.”
“True, the sooner back.... I must go, mustn’t I?”
“Of course, the air will do you good. Go on foot, the walk will be good for you.”
“What will you do, meanwhile?”
“I shall wait for your return.”
“... You will wait.”
“Yes; perhaps I shall go to sleep in this chair.”
“Are your hands hot, Alberto?”
“No; feel them.”
“Pain in your chest?”
“Nothing of the sort, only slight stitches in the sides, automatic stitches, as the doctor calls them. What are you thinking of? Don’t you see that I am better? Yesterday, I coughed eighteen times; this morning, seventeen; I’m improving.”
“Alberto mio, may health be yours!”
“Yes, yes, I shall get as strong as Andrea! I sent for him this morning, but he never came. He is out in all sorts of weather. Lucky dog!”
She stood listening, with hanging arms and downcast eyes.
“Go and dress, dear; go.”
She moved away slowly, turning to look at him. In half an hour she returned, dressed in black, enveloped in a fur cloak, in which she hid her hands. She came and sat down by him, as if she were already tired.
“You are not fit to walk, Lucia; call a fiacchere.”
“I will....” she said in a faint voice.
“What have you got under your cloak?”
“The prayer-book, a veil, a rosary.”
“All the pious baggage of my little nun. Be a saint to thy heart’s content, my beauty. Thanks to you, we shall all get into Paradise.”
“Do not laugh at religion, Alberto.”
“I never laugh at the objects of your faith. Time’s up, my heart; go, and come back soon.”
Lucia threw her arms round his neck, kissed his thin face, and whispered:
“Forgive....”
“Am I to forgive you for taking the Sacrament? Hasn’t your confessor told you that I ... absolve you?”
She bowed low. Then she drew herself up and looked round, wildly. She went away, bent and tottering, but returned almost immediately.
“I had forgotten to bid you good-bye, Alberto.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Think of me in church, my saint.”
“I will pray for you, Alberto.”
And she went away—tall, black, and stately.