CHAPTER II.
It was only an hour after midday, and Antonino had been sitting long on a bench before the little fishing osteria. Something seemed to be passing through his mind, for every five minutes he sprang up, stepped out into the sun, and examined carefully the paths which led right and left to the two island towns. "The weather looked suspicious," he told the hostess; "it was clear enough now, but he knew this colour of the sea and sky; it had looked just like this before the last great storm, when the English family were saved with such difficulty. She must remember it?"
"No."
"Well, she would remember what he had said, if it changed before night."
"Have you many visitors over there?" asked the hostess, after a pause.
"They are just beginning to come. We have had hard times till now. The bathers have not arrived yet."
"The spring was late. Have you done better here in Capri?"
"I should not have managed to get macaroni twice a week if it had depended on the boat. Now and then a letter to take to Naples, or a gentleman who wanted a row on the sea or to fish--that was all. But you know that my uncle has got the great orange garden, and is a rich man. 'Tonino,' he said to me, 'as long as I live you shall not want, and afterwards you will be cared for.' So I got through the winter with God's help."
"Has your uncle children?"
"No; he was never married; he was long in foreign countries where he managed to scrape many a good piaster together; now he has an idea of setting up a large fishery, and is going to put me at the head of the whole affair to see that he gets his rights."
"So you are a made man, Antonino." The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Each one has his burden to bear," he said. Then he sprang up and looked right and left at the weather, though he must have known that there was but one weather-side.
"Let me bring you another flask, your uncle can pay for it," said the hostess.
"Only one glass more, my head is warm already."
"It won't get into your head, you can drink as much as you like of it. Here is my husband just coming, you must sit down and chat with him a bit."
And truly the stately patron of the inn approached them just at that moment down the hill, with his net on his shoulder, and his red cap set jauntily sideways on his ringletted hair. He had been into the town with fish, ordered by the great lady for our little friend the padre of Lorento. When he caught sight of the young fisherman he waved him a hearty greeting; then seating himself near him on the bench, began to question and talk. His wife had just brought a fresh flask of pure unadulterated Capri, when the shore sand to their left crackled, and Lauretta advanced towards them from the road to Anacapri. She greeted them with a hasty nod, and stopped irresolutely.
Antonino sprang up; "I must away," he said; "it is a girl from Lorento who came this morning with the padre, and must go back this evening to her sick mother."
"Well, but it is a long time before night," said the host, "she will have time enough to drink a glass of wine. Here, wife, bring a clean glass."
"Thank you, I do not wish to drink," said Lauretta, remaining at some little distance.
"Pour out, wife, pour out, she wants pressing."
"Let her alone," said the young man, "she has a will of her own, when once she has made up her mind, no one can make her alter it." And therewith he took a hasty leave, and ran down to his boat, to set the sail, and stood waiting for the girl. She waved a greeting back to the hostess, and then with hesitating steps approached the boat. She glanced on all sides, as if she hoped for the arrival of other passengers; but the Marina was deserted; the fishermen slept, or were away at sea with their nets and hooks. A few women and children sat in their doorways, sleeping or spinning; and the strangers who had come across in the morning, delayed their return until the cooler evening. She was prevented from looking around her long, for before she could turn round, Antonino had taken her in his arms and carried her like a child to the boat. Then he sprang in after her, and with a few strokes from the oars, they were in the open sea.
She seated herself in the fore-part of the boat, with her back half turned towards him, so that he could only see her en profil. The expression of her face was even more haughty than usual; the dark hair hung low over the broad low forehead, and around her finely cut nostrils quivered an expression of defiance; her swelling lips were firmly compressed.
After they had sailed on in silence for some time, she felt the sun burning her face, so she took her bread out and threw the handkerchief over her hair; then she began to eat, to dine in fact, for she had eaten nothing at Capri.
Antonino did not contemplate this long in silence. He took two oranges out of the basket which he had brought over full in the morning, and said, "Here is something to eat with your bread, Lauretta--don't think that I kept them for you, they fell out of the basket into the boat, and I found them when I brought the empty ones back."
"You had better eat them yourself, my bread is enough for me."
"They are so refreshing in the heat, and you have had such a long walk."
"They gave me a glass of water above there, that refreshed me enough."
"As you please," he said, and let them fall back into the basket again.
Fresh silence. The sea was like a mirror, and hardly rustled round the boat's keel--even the white seamews, that had their nests amongst the rocks, pursued their prey without a cry.
"You could take the two oranges home to your mother," Antonino again began.
"We have some at home, and when they are gone, I can go and buy more."
"But take them to her with a kind word from me.
"She does not know you."
"You can tell her who I am."
"I do not know you."
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 passed 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 pass 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 compassionately, 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 masses around her neck. She struck out boldly with her arms, and swam, without a sound, steadily from the boat towards the shore. 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, God 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 shore. 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 shore. 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.