'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.