"Never shall I forget it," she cried, shuddering; "and I tell you, padre, that I will remain a maiden, and be subject to no one who may ill-treat me one moment and caress me the next. If any one tries to strike me or to kiss me now, I know how to defend myself; but my mother could not defend herself, or ward off the blows or the kisses, because she loved him; and I will love no one so much as to give him the power of making me ill and miserable."
"Now, are you not a child, talking as a child, and knowing nothing of what happens in the world? Are all men like your father, giving way to every fancy and ill-humour, and beating their wives? Have you not seen kind-hearted men enough who live in peace and unity with their wives?"
"No one knew either how my father treated my mother, for she would have died a thousand times rather than have said any thing, or complained of him, and all because she loved him. If that is what love does, closing one's lips when one should cry for help, and disarming one against worse than one's worst enemy could do, never shall my heart entrust itself to a man's keeping."
"I tell you that you are a child, and do not know what you are talking about. Much this heart of yours will ask you whether it is to love or not when its time is come! All those fine fancies you have got into that little head won't help you much then! And that painter, did you also inform him that you expected him to ill-treat you?"
"His eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with her--I know those eyes! A man can give that look, too, who can think of beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. I shuddered when I saw those eyes again."
Then she remained obstinately silent The padre, too, did not speak. He ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his mouth.
When, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of Capri, Antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow waves, and placed him respectfully upon the shore; but Lauretta would not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other, splashed hastily to the shore.
"I am going to stop some time at Capri to-day," said the padre, "so you need not wait for me; possibly I may not return home till to-morrow. And you, Lauretta, remember me to your mother; I shall see you again this week. You are going back to-night?"
"If I have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress.
"You know that I must go back," said Antonino, in what he intended as a tone of indifference; "I will wait for you till the Ave Maria; if you do not come then, it will be all the same to me."