BELIEVING.
Italia spoke first.
'I knew you would come back to me.'
'Darling!'
He kept his arm about her, and she nestled close against him, her soft
cheek pressed against the rough woollen of his pilot coat.
'I _knew_ you would come back, my Dino. For I love you so. And the
blessed Madonna is so very good. I prayed to her. I knew you would
come back to me.'
She lay quite still for a moment; all her weight resting against his
shoulder. Then she moved uneasily. 'You are sure it is you, Dino?
Really you? It is not a dream?'
'No, dear.'
He bent his head and covered her hair with softest kisses. 'It is no
dream, my Italia. It is like being in Heaven.'
'Yes.'
She sighed with perfect content.
But presently she moved a little away from him and turned, leaning both
hands upon his breast. 'Dino, it was quite true, all that I told you,
up there, at the church, the other morning. That dreadful morning!
Dino, when you went away I felt as if my heart were dead.'
'My poor little Italia!'
'She is a very happy little Italia now. But, Dino, I did mean it then.
If you had been obliged not to give up all those things that father
does not like--that club, you know, and those bad men--I would have
tried to bear it, Dino. I knew you loved me all the same. And it did
not matter so much what any one else thought of you. _I_ believed
you--always. For you do love me, Dino?'
He pressed his lips to her hair again without speaking.
'Dino! say you do!'
'I do love you, my Italia. I do love you. God knows how much.'
'Dear Dino. I thought you knew that I could always be like a friend to
you, like your little sister, whatever happened. But ah, this is
better! I am so happy, Dino. And it is such a beautiful world; it
seemed so hard to think that we were always to be hurt in it, always
apart and miserable; and the happiness all about us, only we shut out
from it, you and I.'
She raised her head. 'Do you know, dear, I could not imagine _how_ you
would come back to me? No! don't tell me, you can tell me some other
time; to-morrow perhaps; now, I don't want to know. But I imagined--I
don't know why, it was very foolish--I imagined there would have to be
all sorts of talking, explanations first. It is so wonderful, Dino,
happiness is always so much--so much--what shall I say? so much
_happier_ that one can possibly foresee it. I never thought of--this.
And yet it was so simple.' She had slipped one of her little hands in
his, and was pressing his fingers tightly over hers with her other
hand, with the contented air of a happy child. 'But, do you know, you
frightened me when you first called out, my Dino?'
'Did I frighten you, Italia?'
She lifted her head quickly, letting his hand fall. The suppressed
tone of his voice had pierced her heart with its suggestion of untold
suffering.
'Dino!'
She held her face close to his, trying to look into his averted eyes.
'Dino, you are unhappy about something? Is it--Oh!'--she shrank
suddenly away from him and her face grew rigid and her lips trembled.
'Is it--my Dino, forgive me for saying such a thing!--is it that there
has been some mistake--again? Is it that--that--oh, Dino! that you
did--not--mean--_this_?'
The miserable words dropped out slowly, one by one.
Whatever punishment he merited by his lack of generous self-control he
tasted in its full bitterness in that hour. After what seemed a long
long interval of crushing condemning silence she got up very quietly.
Dino rose to his feet at the same moment. As the buoy rocked he would
have put out his hand to steady her, but the wild look of anguish on
her dear face held him motionless. He did not dare to touch her. He
covered his eyes with his hands.
Presently she said, 'We cared for each other even when we were little
children. Perhaps that is why it seems so--strange, that you could do
this to me.'
Her voice began to tremble. Her fingers turned cold; she held them
clasped tightly together. So many images, so many memories out of the
past, rushed back in one confusing flood upon her; she could find no
words, no relief, from pain. All the bewilderment and the misery
uttered themselves together in an appeal for help:
'Speak to me, Dino!'
Then he uncovered his face and spoke.
'Italia, before God! until I met you here to-night, by chance, I never
thought to take you in my arms on this side Heaven. I cannot tell you
what this thing is which has come between us. Your father chooses to
believe that it is because I am a republican, because I hold opinions
which he thinks mad and wicked, that I will not promise to give up all
else and--marry you. He thinks that I have deceived you--that I have
acted basely. Italia'--he lifted up his eyes and looked at her--'I
cannot tell you what it is which separates us. I _cannot_. Only--it
would be better for you if you had never seen me. I wish to God that
you had never seen me. I must go away very soon, away from Leghorn and
the people I have known all my life. And I go away remembering that I
have ruined your happiness. Yet I loved you, Italia. I loved you
better than my own soul.'
There was a moment's silence; then she spoke very quietly:
'Dino. My father remembers when they threw an Orsini bomb at the
procession carrying the blessed sacraments out of the cathedral. He
saw a priest killed, and some women and children. And it was the
republicans who did it. My father saw it. He saw it done.'
'Dear Italia,' said Dino sadly, 'surely you do not think that I approve
of such an act? There are bad men in every place; men who hide their
own selfishness and folly under every high ideal, and bring it to
discredit. They are like the moths who feed on the coverings of the
holy vessels on the altar. Whatever I do with myself it shall not be
for my own gain.'
His voice changed a little, and he added, 'But perhaps you will not
believe that of me? perhaps you will never believe any good of me
again?'
She seemed scarcely to understand what it was he said.
'Dino!'
She stretched out both hands with a sob. It was like the cry of a
frightened child for mercy. 'Dino, take me back, take me with you. I
must be with you. It doesn't matter about all the rest.'
She threw herself into his arms, pressing her cheek against his,
clasping his hands closer about her neck; speaking in short hurried
sentences, her soft voice broken with sobs.
'Dino--it could not be again, you know. The dear Madonna would not let
you go away from me again. Because, you know, my Dino, I could not
bear it. I could not. And no one is expected to do what is
impossible. It isn't that I'm not willing, Dino. I would do anything
you told me to, anything. But if you asked me to lift a weight that
was too heavy for me, I might want to do it, but I could not do it,
could I? I should not be strong enough. And I am not strong enough
for this--I am not strong enough.'
She kept her face buried on his arm as if she were trying to hide away
from what she dreaded. 'Dino. It is such a happy world, dear. I
could be so happy. See! even if you had to give up something, some
ideas that you care for. My father says all young men have ideas
about--about politics and all that--which they change as they get
older. And even if you do not change. What does it matter? what does
any of the rest of it matter? Dino----!'
He had his arm about her; he could feel her shaking from head to foot
with heavy passionate sobs.
'Italia,' he said, 'stop crying. My dear. My poor, poor little child.
I can't stand this. Right or wrong, I cannot stand it. It is too much
to ask of me. Valdez may do what he pleases, I----' He bent his head
and pressed his lips fervently upon her warm loosened hair. 'Italia, I
had promised. I had sworn to do something. But I break my oath.
Look! I give it all up--for your sake. Look at me, Italia. They will
call me a traitor; but I shall not have betrayed you.'
Poor little Italia! She was very weary. She could not speak for many
minutes the choking sobs _would_ force themselves out despite all her
efforts to conquer them. She let herself rest passively in his arms,
while he called her by every tender name he could devise. But
presently the tears were fewer; she checked herself; she lifted up her
head and looked at him; her eyes were full of love, but the far-away
look in them meant even more than that; they were shining with the
enthusiasm of high resolve.
'Forgive me, my Dino. I ought to be stronger--I meant to be stronger.
I meant to help you, not to make hard things harder for you to bear.
Forgive me. I will not do it any more.' She drew herself gently away
from him, and he made no effort to detain her. Her voice grew steadier
as she went on speaking. 'You could not do that. You could not be a
traitor. Not even for us to be happy together. And it would not be
happiness, Dino; there would always be a black cloud between us and
happiness. It is not as if we did not know the difference between
faith and falsehood, Dino. We do know.'
'I will not, so help me, God! I will not be false to you,' he said
roughly.
'My Dino.'
'Italia, why cheat ourselves with words? what is faith or falsehood?
what does it all matter if faith means leaving you, and falsehood your
making my life a heaven? I love you: the rest is nothing. As for
duty--who knows what is duty? Your father thinks it is my duty to stay
with you. And another man bids me go. Why should I go? I promised;
but is telling you that I loved you no promise? does it imply nothing?
Do you tell me to go when I love you?'
'Yes, Dino,' said Italia simply; 'because you love me.'
She took his clenched hand in both of hers, and smoothed out the
fingers with a great tenderness.
'Dear, I am not clever like you; I don't understand things. But I
believe you. Dino, if it were for another man, and not for yourself,
that you had to decide this thing----'
He drew away his hand, and looked away from her across the rippling
sea. The breeze was freshening a little; there were long rents of
darkness overhead where the fog was breaking, and showing the blue of
the sky.
'Dino,' the persuasive voice went on, 'you might deceive yourself, not
knowing, but you would not deceive me--your old playmate--your little
sweetheart, who trusts you--trusts you against all the world. Dino,
tell me. Have you the right to break this promise?'
'No,' he said in a half whisper. Then he added, 'But I would, if you
told me to.'
'Yes, Dino. But you would not do it now.'
There was a long silence between them, then he asked abruptly:
'Will your father come back here to fetch you?'
'Yes, dear.'
She had been sitting quite still, watching with saddest eyes the
dimpling motion of the water. But his speaking seemed to recall her to
herself; she sighed heavily, and stooping, picked up her fallen
handkerchief, and knotted it about her throat. Then she pushed her
loosened hair back from her temples, smoothing it down with the palms
of both hands in a way which was familiar to her: he had watched her do
it a hundred times before. She looked up at him, and their eyes met in
a long solemn gaze of unspeakable pity and love.
After a moment he took her hand in his very gently and raised it to his
lips.
'My good, good little Italia.'
They sat in silence, like two children, holding each other's hands.
* * * * *
After what seemed a long time there was the sound of oars in the
distance, and then the shadowy outline of Drea's boat. Dino drew her
gently to him. 'It is good-bye, child, God keep you,' he said huskily.
Their lips met in a kiss which held the very passion of loss.
In another moment he had stepped from the buoy into his own boat. He
went to meet Andrea.
'I have been with Italia. If you like I will listen to anything you
have to say to me. But not here. I will follow you to your house,' he
said.
He followed at a little distance across the tranquil bay.