ON THE BUOY.
There was no difficulty in arranging for that journey to Pisa. As soon
as it was settled that they were to go by water, to row themselves the
fifteen miles of the old disused canal, Dino volunteered to have the
skiff in readiness at a moment's notice. 'I want to be away from here.
The sooner we start, the sooner it's all over, the better pleased I
shall be,' the young man insisted impatiently.
Ever since his return from Monte Nero he had done nothing but urge upon
Valdez the necessity of some immediate action; if it were only to go on
this trip to the next town to secure the purchase of the revolver, at
least that would be something accomplished. A curious restless gloom
had fallen upon Dino's open countenance. It was as if he could never
quite free himself from the scathing bitterness of old Andrea's
reproaches. He longed for action, definite action, however
distasteful. Each slow bright day which passed seemed a long space of
painful suspense until he stood cleared in the old fisherman's eyes.
'He may think me a madman if he pleases. He can never think of me
again as a coward,' the young man told himself bitterly. Valdez could
understand nothing of this sudden change in him.
'You puzzle me, lad--and you lack patience.'
'Patience!' repeated Dino, 'and what for pray? I have read in some
book that it is faith, and not prudence, which has power to move
mountains. What does anything else matter so long as we have the
faith?'
Valdez looked at him very gravely.
'You are sneering, my Dino. And I find that, as a rule, people who
distrust or deny their own emotions are justified by many of their
subsequent actions in the lack of faith. Don't do it, boy. Not to
believe in others,'--the old republican's eye flashed,--'not to trust
in others, is to reduce life to a mean habit,' he said.
They were sitting in Dino's own room, and the young man's gaze wandered
restlessly over the walls; it seemed as if he were trying to learn by
heart the position of each small familiar object.
'Why, it is like a bit of the old days back again, Valdez, to hear you
lecture one!'
'Ay, lad.'
The elder man was following out his own train of thought. 'Perhaps I
ought not to be so much surprised at the way it is taking hold of you.
Until one is two or three and twenty one thinks of oneself: after that
one is preoccupied with life, its combinations and its issues. And
life is the bigger thing of the two.'
He stood up and laid his sensitive, long-fingered, musician's hand upon
Dino's shoulder. 'Then that is settled. Bring the boat around
to-night; and we start early in the morning,' he said slowly. He
looked hard into Dino's face, and his lips worked as if on the point of
adding something. But whatever it was the words remained unspoken. He
turned away, and a moment later Dino heard him wishing Sora Catarina a
grave '_Buon giorno!_' as he passed through the outer room.
Later in the day Dino had spoken to his mother about his intention of
absenting himself for an expedition of two or three days to Pisa. To
his surprise Sora Catarina made not the least objection.
He postponed telling her until the last possible moment, acting in this
on the opinion he had once heard Drea express about an angry woman's
scolding. 'When a woman's got a tongue in her head, the wise man never
speaks to her until he's putting his hat on; for it's no matter how
hard the wind blows so long as it blows from astern.' But Catarina had
not justified this prevision.
It was easy to see that she had something on her mind from the anxious
glances which she kept casting in her son's direction, but it was not
until he was just at the door and ready to start that she laid down her
knitting resolutely, and said:
'My Dino, do you think your mother has gone blind? If you won't speak,
I must. But things were different once. When you were a little
lad,--it doesn't seem so long ago to me as to you, my boy,--you didn't
wait for me to call you when you had hurt yourself. You were quick
enough in coming to your mother when anything was paining you _then_.
And a woman loses enough in seeing her children grow too big for her
arms to hold 'em;--there's no need of their hearts outgrowing her as
well.'
She spoke in a plaintive tone, her voice growing more and more
complaining as she went on with her remonstrance; and as she ended she
shut her lips tightly and took up her knitting again with an injured
expression. 'Whatever you may choose to say, Dino, your mother is not
blind.'
'Nay, mother, that is the last thing I should think of saying. But
what is it now? You must not take fancies in your head about me,
mother. I've not been complaining of anything, you know.'
'Oh, if it's a fancy in my head of course that's the end of it! I've
nothing more to say; if it's a fancy that it's more than a week now
since I've seen you sit down to eat your dinner like a Christian, as if
you knew whether the dish before you were boiled beef or a boiled bone.
And perhaps it's my fancy, too, those black rings under your eyes, and
the new trick you've learnt of sighing!' She threw her knitting down
upon the table, and crossed the room to where Dino was standing.
'My own boy, do you think I can't see that you are breaking your heart
about that little girl, that Italia? And it's of no use, my Dino:
believe your old mother in this. Her head is turned; she won't have a
word more to say to you. There's no harm in the girl, but her head is
turned.'
She hesitated for a moment, watching him anxiously. 'Dino! you know if
I care for my other boy, my young master, that I nursed and looked
after till I hardly could tell which I was fondest of, him or you.
But, my Dino, he goes too often to Andrea's, does Gasparo. And that
girl takes after her mother--a poor washy, big-eyed thing, who never
knew if her soul was her own to pray for until she'd asked her husband.
And the girl takes after her mother.'
'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.
Dino's mind was full of these considerations as he walked down to the
Old Port. It was a foggy night, the full moon just rising over the
hill-tops shone through a thick white veil; but his plan was only to
secure the boat to-night, and row it across the Port to the mouth of
the canal. He would leave it moored there for the night; and he knew
every inch of the harbour, the fog could make no difference.
It made this difference, that, coming out into the air again from the
small stove-heated room where he had been sitting longer than he
expected, engaged in bargaining with the owner of the boat, the
singular beauty of the night came upon Dino like a revelation.
It was an absolutely white night; the fog hung low above the water.
Overhead the full moon shone in a clear blue transparent sky. From the
land the harbour looked enshrouded in a clinging cloud; but to any one
on the level of the water the fog appeared as a resplendent and
glorified vision, a lower heaven of luminous vapour, under which the
dark oily-looking sea lay motionless, like a thing asleep. Twenty
paces off the largest ship in port only loomed indistinctly, the merest
ghost of a vessel, dim, shadowy, unsubstantial; the red and green
lights in the rigging were indistinguishable a dozen yards away. They
sprang suddenly into visible existence, piercing the whiteness like
living jewels, as the boat neared the ship's side. The air was
strangely sonorous; the faintest sounds--the laugh of a sailor in the
forecastle, or the distant thud of an oar--were exaggerated out of all
natural proportion. It was impossible to judge of distances;
everything was white, shining, impalpable. On the darkest night there
would have been at least some gleam of a signal lantern to steer by;
but this was like being lost on enchanted seas of light.
'_Una notte stregata_; a white night is a witch's night,' said the
sailor lad who came down to the steps at the landing to bring Dino the
oars for his boat. 'Keep your eyes open, comrade, or you'll be running
into something before you've time to sing out an _Ave_.'
'Ay, ay,' answered Dino cheerfully, stepping into his skiff and pushing
her off from shore.
He paddled gently along; the soft moist air was pleasant upon his
heated face, and there was no reason for hastening; until to-morrow
there was nothing more to be done. The strange appearance of the night
was so alluring he felt tempted to make a wider circuit before
fastening up his boat. He turned the prow in the direction of the
outer sea-wall, away from the shipping, just dipping his oars into the
water with a scarcely conscious motion.
He was rowing in the direction of a certain large red buoy, upon whose
broad surface he and Italia had often played as children, when to be
left there by Drea while the old fisherman went to look after his nets
was to be left in possession of a wonderful floating island, a country
which no one else claimed, and where the little playmates reigned
supreme.
The place was so much associated with the thought of her that, as he
drew nearer, it was scarcely strange to Dino to hear what seemed a
far-off echo of Italia's singing; he listened to the full contralto
notes as if in a dream. It was all a part of the white magic of the
night.
His boat moved noiselessly forward; the round outline of the buoy rose
close before him. The sound of the low singing had stopped; but was
there not something darker, the outline of a seated figure, upon that
floating surface?
He looked hard, standing up in his boat, and of a sudden all the dreamy
mystery of enchantment vanished. This was no dream, no phantom; it was
Italia herself--Italia! his Italia, whom he loved. The quick blood
tingled to his finger-tips. He called to her, and fastened his boat
alongside, and sprang upon the buoy; it was all the work of an instant.
'Italia!' he said, 'Italia! Italia!'
She gave a little cry, and started to her feet, and looked at him. She
stretched out her hands; her heart beat in wild irregular throbs; a
contraction passed over her face; she did not know herself if she were
laughing or crying.
He made some inarticulate exclamation and knelt suddenly at her feet.
Her silken handkerchief had fallen to the ground, it had been warm
about her throat; he covered the handkerchief with kisses.
Then he looked up at her as she stood above him steadying herself with
one hand upon his shoulder. He held out his arms, and she bent her
head without speaking, and their mouths met in a kiss.
The movement had given a sudden impulse to their floating pedestal; it
swung violently for one instant from side to side, then the
oscillations grew less rapid. The white radiance of the night seemed
to close more heavily in about them. There was no sound or motion but
in the quiet lapping of the waves.