The little curate's head wagged slowly to and fro; he seemed uncertain how far to acquiesce in the young girl's reasons. At length he said: "Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven!--And turn your thoughts from such distressing pictures, Laurella; there may be better days in store for you, which will make you forget the past."
"Never shall I forget that!"--she said, and shuddered;--"and you must know, Padre, it is the reason why I have resolved to remain unmarried. I never will be subject to a man, who may beat and then caress me. Were a man now to want to beat or kiss me, I could defend myself; but mother could not:--neither from his blows or kisses, because she loved him. Now I will never so love a man as to be made ill and wretched by him."
"You are but a child; and you talk like one who knows nothing at all of life. Are all men like that poor father of yours? do all illtreat their wives, and give vent to every whim, and gust of passion? Have you never seen a good man yet? or known good wives, who live in peace and harmony with their husbands?"
"But nobody ever knew how father was to mother;--she would have died sooner than complained, or told of him--and all because she loved him. If this be love;--if love can close our lips when they should cry out for help; if it is to make us suffer without resistance, worse than even our worst enemy could make us suffer, then I say, I never will be fond of mortal man."
"I tell you you are childish; you know not what you are saying. When your time comes, you are not likely to be consulted whether you choose to fall in love or not." After a pause; "And that painter: did you think he could have been cruel?"
"He made those eyes I have seen my father make, when he begged my mother's pardon, and took her in his arms to make it up--I know those eyes. A man may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to beat a wife who never did a thing to vex him! It made my flesh creep to see those eyes again."
After this, she would not say another word.--Also the curato remained silent. He bethought himself of more than one wise saying, wherewith the maiden might have been admonished; but he refrained, in consideration of the young boatman, who had been growing rather restless towards the close of this confession.--
When, after two hours' rowing, they reached the little bay of Capri, Antonio took the padre in his arms, and carried him through the last few ripples of shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his legs on dry land. But Laurella did not wait for him to wade back and fetch her. Gathering up her little petticoat, holding in one hand her wooden shoes, and in the other her little bundle, with one splashing step or two, she had reached the shore. "I have some time to stay at Capri," said the priest. "You need not wait--I may not perhaps return before to-morrow. When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your mother;--I will come and see her within the week.--You mean to go back before it gets dark?"--
"If I find an opportunity," answered the young girl, turning all her attention to her skirts.
"I must return, you know;" said Antonio, in a tone which he believed to be of great indifference--"I shall wait here till the Ave Maria--if you should not come, it is the same to me."