Early the next morning, in the misty light, Lisetta and Mae, the latter
still in her contadina costume, left the house quietly. In an hour the
train for Naples was to start, but Lisetta wanted to say her prayers in
Rome on this Ash Wednesday. They wandered into a little church, one of
the many Roman churches, and knelt side by side, Lisetta with her beads
and her penance, and Mae with her thoughts, which grew dreary enough
before the peasant was ready to go. Mae had already entrusted her money
to Lisetta’s keeping--some one hundred and fifty dollars, which she
had gotten the day before from Albert to buy clothes with--and with her
money she had also resigned all care. She did not know therefore, until
the train started, that their seats were in a third-class carriage.
Every one was hurrying on board, so Mae was obliged to jump in without
a word, and accept her fate as best she could. It was no very pleasant
fate. The van was dirty, crowded, garlic-scented. Mae was plucky,
however, and knew she was to find dirt and dreadful odors everywhere.
Two months of Rome had taught her that. But it grew very dreadful in the
close travelling-carriage. There was an old woman at her side, with a
deformed hand, and two soldiers opposite, who stared rudely at her,
and made loud, unpleasant remarks; and having no books, and nothing to
entertain herself with, she was forced to curl up in a corner, and try
to sleep, which she could not do.
Poor child! it was a hard day. Dull and dreary outside, and within, the
sickening odors and people. Back in Rome, what were they doing? Had they
found out that she had gone? And Eric, how was he feeling? No, no, she
must not think of all this. It belonged to the past. Before her lay
Sorrento, the bay of Naples, oranges, white clouds, and the children of
the sun. Mamma was south, too--if she were only going to her. So the day
dragged on, until with the evening they reached Naples. They spent the
night with a friend of Lisetta, who rented apartments to English and
Americans. Mae was fortunate, therefore, in securing an unlet bedroom
that was comfortably furnished. She enjoyed listening to Lisetta’s
stories of Rome and the Carnival; and after a quiet night in a clean
bed, awoke tolerably happy and very eager for her first sight of the
bay. They took an early train out to Castellamare, and as they left the
city, Mae wondered if Bero were just entering it. But she soon forgot
him and every one in the blue glories of the bay.
At Castellamare, Gaetano, Lisetta’s husband, was awaiting them, with a
malicious little donkey, tricked out gaily enough in tags of color and
tinkling bells. It was very quaint and delightful to get into the funny,
low, rattling cart, and go jogging off, while the feminine sight-seers
fanned themselves in the windows of the ladies’ waiting-room, and
grumbled, and the poor masculine travellers bartered in poor Italian,
with their certain-to-conquer enemies, those triumphant swindlers, the
drivers of the conveyances between Sorrento and Castellamare.
Then they began that wonderful ride along the coast. The horrors of
the day before rolled away like a mist as the donkey jogged along that
miraculous drive. Lisetta and Gaetano chattered together, and Mae sat
very still, with her face to the sea, drinking in all the glory, as she
had longed and planned. Hope revived in her breast, pride had stood by
her all the while, and here was glorious nature coming to her aid. She
was going swiftly to the orange groves and the children of the sun. She
should see Talila and brown babies and dancing, and at night a great,
yellow moon would light up the whole scene. So on and on they went,
the travelling carriages dashing by them now and then, with their three
donkeys abreast, and the driver cracking his whip, and the travellers
oh-ing and ah-ing.
“That is the most picturesque peasant I have yet seen,” said a gentle
lady in brown to her husband, as they passed the humble little party.
“Yes, she is clean, and more like the ideal than the actual peasant, and
I am very glad I have seen her.”
Really, Mae was for the moment, at a quick glance, the ideal peasant.
Her hands lay in her lap, her face was toward the sea, and her attitude
and features were all full of that glow of existence that peasant
portraits possess. She lived and moved and had her being as part of
a great, warm, live picture. If the lady in brown had not passed so
quickly, however, she would have seen a something in Mae’s face that
spoiled her for a peasant, an earnestness in her admiration, a sharp
intensity in her joy, that was very different from the languid content
of a Southern Italian. Her movements were rather like those of the
Northern squirrel, which climbs nimbly and frisks briskly, than like the
sinuous, serpentine motions of the Southern creatures of the soil. We
are, after all, born where we belong, as a rule, and the rest of us soon
belong where we are born.
After a time the donkey pattered along towards a little patch of
houses on the shore. They had already passed a half dozen of similar
settlements. Very dirty children ran about crying, ugly, old women
knitted, mongrel dogs and cats barked and yelped and rolled in the mud.
Bits of orange-peel and old cabbage and other refuse food lay piled near
the doors. There were, to be sure, young girls with dark eyes, plaiting
straw, and the very dirt heaps had a picturesque sort of air. An artist
might linger a moment to look, but never to enter. Yet it was here that
Mae must enter. This was her new home. The neighbors came crowding about
curiously, and she was hurried into the little hut that seemed as if
it were carved roughly from some big garlic, probably by taking out the
heart of it for dinner. Mae hardly comprehended the situation at first,
but when she began to realize that this was a substitute for sea breeze,
and that the coarse clipped patois (which sounded worse in the mass
than when it fell from Lisetta’s lips alone) was in place of the flowing
melody of speech she had longed for, she grew sick at heart. The folly,
the dreadfulness of what she had done, swept over her like a flood, and
with it came dreadful fear. She was helpless,--an outcast. Pride would
never let her go home. She could go nowhere else. They had her money,
and here she must live and die. She sat down in a sort of stupor, and
paid no heed to the squabbling children who pulled at her gown, or the
dogs who sniffed snappingly at the stranger.
Lisetta, busy with greetings and chattings, quite forgot her for a time,
and was dismayed when she saw her sitting disconsolately by. “Come,
Signorina,” she cried, “go down to the bay. Here is Talila; she will
guide you.”
Mae looked up quickly at that. Talila, was she here? A few feet from her
she saw an uncouth woman, with that falling of the jaw most imbeciles
possess, and a vacancy in her eyes. She had her hand raised and was
swearing at one of the children. “Talila,” repeated Mae, rubbing her
eyes, and shivering, “but I thought Talila would be different. You said
she loved children, but this woman swears at them.”
“O, dear, we all swear at them, but we love them; you shall see how they
follow her. Talila, off with you and your babies.” And the next moment
there was a general scamper of brown children headed by this tall,
vacant-looking woman. “Take the lady to the sea,” continued Lisetta. And
Mae arose, as if in a dream, and followed them.
The half-clad children of the sun ran before her as she had dreamed they
would; flowers sprang up along the way, but she did not stop to pluck a
single bud or turn to look at anything. She wandered on in an awful
sort of fright and came at length to the water’s edge. Here there
were row-boats lying at anchor, into which the children clambered. Mae
stepped into one of them and sat down in the stern, and looked about.
All was as she had planned. Her day of heaven was here. She tried to be
brave. O, she tried very hard. She wanted to love and enjoy the sea, and
think beautiful thoughts. She roused a little and stretched herself out
to catch the sunbeams in her eyes, as she had said she would. How warm
they were. An umbrella would be a luxury--and a book! But these belonged
to the world she had left so far behind her. The dirty children babbled
a strange tongue; the water around the boat, by the shore, was covered
with a scum, and alas! alas! the land of her desire was farther off than
ever. Then she remembered that Norman Mann had once said: “If you ever
do disappear I shall know where to look for you.” Would he think of it
now? Would he come for her? If he had only come last night, and would
drive by now to Sorrento. He would be here soon if he had. Would she
call him loudly or shrink down in the boat and hide her face in her
hands till she knew he was a long way past? The rest of them would not
know where to look for her. They did not know anything about Lisetta,
and she had promised not to tell even the padrona. (Faithless Lisetta!)
But of course Norman wouldn’t come for her, after what he had said at
the Capitol. That was what finally drove her away. How unlike him it did
seem to speak of her in that way to Eric. She thought over his words,
and as she did so she seemed to see her mistake, and grasp his meaning.
She sprang up in the boat. “It was the other girl--Miss Rae--he was
speaking of. Oh, oh, oh--and now it is too late. He will hate me
always.”
As she stood there, a carriage rolled by. Some one looked out. “O,
mamma,” said a young voice in English, “look at that pretty little
peasant,” and a kid-gloved hand was stretched through the open window to
spatter a shower of base coin toward her. It was terrible! The children
sprang for it, and, fighting and laughing, ran homewards with the
dreadful Talila. The parti-colored picturesque dress had been a joy to
Mae. Now she longed to tear it off and die--die! No, she was afraid to
die. She would have to live, and she didn’t know how, and she laughed a
bitter sort of laugh.
There was a sound of horses’ feet again. The road lay almost close to
the shore just here. A low exclamation, a vault from his horse, which
was speedily cared for by a dozen boys near at hand, and before Mae knew
it, the officer was beside her once more.
O, how beautiful it was to see some one from the world, fresh, and
clean, and fair. Mae gazed at him in delight, and sprang up warmly,
holding out both her hot hands, “How is Heaven?” asked Bero, as he
raised the white fingers to his lips.
“That is not the custom with us,” said Mae, withdrawing her hand.
“But what is custom in Heaven?” he laughed. “Can’t we do as we please in
our Heaven, Signorina?”
“This isn’t our Heaven, and I don’t please. O, how could you let me come
to this dreadful place. Did you know how awful it would be?”
“Shall I tell you why I said nothing? Let me row you away from all
this,” and he began to untie the boat.
“When did you come?” asked Mae,
“I left Rome last night, reached Naples this morning, and here I am as
soon as possible, Signorina.”
Mae felt herself gradually yielding to the spell of this man’s soft
power. She had grown strangely quiet and passive, and she folded her
hands and looked off seawards in a not unhappy way. She seemed to be
some one else in a strange dream.
“Are you glad I came?” asked Bero, as he jumped into the boat and sat
down opposite her. Mae did not reply. She had almost lost the power of
speech. She only smiled feebly and faintly. Bero had never seen her thus
before, but he realized dimly that it was he who had changed her, and
the sense of his own power excited him the more. He bent his proud head
and flashed his beautiful eyes as he lifted the oars to the locks, and
silently pulled out toward the bay.
As he rowed he gazed fixedly at her, and the frightened, puzzled child
could not turn her eyes from his. His look grew softer and tenderer,
his head bent towards her, the oars moved slower and slower and at last
stopped imperceptibly. Still the man gazed passionately, claimingly, and
the girl breathed harder and let her eyes rest on his, as if he had been
a wondrous, charming serpent, and she a little, unresisting dove. Then
he spoke.
His words were so low, it seemed as if his eyes had found voice; his
words were so caressing, it seemed as if they changed to kisses as they
fell. “Listen,” he said, softly, and drew up his dripping oars and let
the boat drift--“Listen. This is not our Heaven, but I know a villa by
the sea. There are hills and woods about it; flowers, fruits, and in
the day, sunshine, at night, moonlight and music; drives, and walks, and
vines, and arbors. Could you find there your Heaven--with me? May I take
you to my villa?”
When he ceased, his words dropped slowly into silence, and Mae still
gazed at him. She saw him come nearer to her, with his eyes fixed on
hers; she saw his hand leave the oar and move slowly toward hers,
but she was motionless, looking at the picture he had painted her of
life--the cloudless days, moonlit nights--the villa by the sea--the
glowing Piedmontese. Her eyelids trembled, her pulse beat.
Could she take that villa for her home? That man for her husband? She
had half thought till now in soft luxurious Italian, but ‘my home’ and
‘my husband’ said themselves to her in her own mother tongue. She gave
a long shiver, and pulled her eyes from his. It was like waking from
a dream. “No--oh, no; take me home,” she gasped, and turned toward the
shore, where, erect, with folded arms and head bared, stood Norman Mann.
The Italian bit his lip, and said something under his breath, but he
took the oars and pulled ashore. Mae turned her eyes downward and felt
the color creep up, up into her cheeks. It seemed eternity. The boat
was Charon’s, and she was drifting to her fate. Norman Mann stood like a
statue. The wind moved his hair over his forehead, and once Mae saw him
toss the unruly locks back in a familiar way he had. She did not know
why, but the tears half came to her eyes as he did it. He stood as
firm and hard and still as a New England rock, while the Italian swayed
lithely as he pulled the oars, with the curve and motion of a sliding,
slippery stream.
The boat came safely ashore. The Piedmontese helped her to land, and the
three stood silent; but Mae under all her shame felt content to be near
Norman. His voice broke the quiet, quick and clear. “Are you married?”
he asked.
“I! married! What do you--what can he mean?”
“Why is this man here, then?”
Mae stood an instant so still that the heavy breaths of the two men were
distinctly audible, the passionate boundings of Bero’s pulse, the long,
deep throbs of Norman’s heart. The officer stepped toward her. Norman
stood unmoved. The Italian’s eye wandered restlessly, his hand fell to
his sword. Norman’s arms were folded, and his face set.
Mae looked at one, then at the other, perplexedly. Then she understood.
Like lightning, a terrible temptation flashed into her mind. The Italian
loved her, would shield, protect, honor her. Norman must hate her, would
always despise her. Should she lift her little weak woman’s hand and
place it in the man’s hand ready to claim it, or stand still and be
crushed by that other hand there?
Ah! she could not do it. She tried once. She held out weakly her right
hand toward Bero; but the left stretched itself involuntarily to Norman.
Then the two met in each other’s pitiful clasp over her bent head, and
with a low wailing cry she fell in a little heap on the sand.
When she opened her eyes, they were both bending over her. “Take me
home,” she gasped to Norman. He glared at the officer. “Go!” he said.
Bero put his hand to his sword. Mae sprang up. “No,” she said, gently,
“no, my friend, for you have always been kind and friendly to me. Pray
go.” Bero was touched by this. This little girl had taken only good from
him, after all, sympathy and friendliness. Norman was touched also with
the same thought. Then the officer smiled pleasantly. He shrugged his
shoulders slightly, regretfully, and bowed and rode away. And so the
clinking spurs and yellow moustaches and amorous eyes vanished from
Mae’s sight.
As he rode off he was somewhat sorrowful; but he took a picture from his
pocket and looked at it. “She’ll be glad to welcome me back again,”
he said to himself, pleasantly, “and she belongs to my own land. This
little foreigner might have pined for her own home, by and by.” Then he
sighed and shook his head. “Alas! this little stranger will dance before
you often, still!” and he touched his eyes; “but I will put you back
in your place here, now.” This he said, looking at Lillia’s picture and
with his hand on his heart.