CHAPTER XVII_After the Divorce: A Romance

The July evening fell softly, tranquilly, like a bluish veil.

Costantino, seated on the stone bench outside the fisherman's hut, was

thoughtfully counting on his fingers.

Yes; it had been sixty-four days since his return. Six-ty-four days! It

seemed like yesterday, and--it seemed like a century! The exile's

fustian coat had grown worn and shabby; his face, dark and gloomy; and

his heart--yes, his heart as well, had worn away from day to day, from

hour to hour. Eaten into by misery, by rage and passion, it, too, had

turned black, like a thing on the verge of decay.

A habit of dissembling, a result of prison life, had clung to him; so

that now he found it impossible to be really open with any one, much as

he sometimes longed to unburden his heart; while the constant effort to

conceal his feelings harassed him and added to his general misery. A

frozen void seemed to surround him, like a great sea, calm, but

boundless, stretching away in all directions from a shipwrecked mariner.

For two months now he had been swimming in this sea, and he was wearied

out; his forces were spent. Scan the horizon as he would, his soul could

espy no friendly shore across that bleak and desolate expanse; no

prospect of an end to the unequal struggle; the icy water and the

measureless void were slowly swallowing him up.

Every day he would talk of going away, but nothing more. It was a

pretence, like all else that he did; in his heart he knew perfectly well

that now he would never go. Why should he? On this side of the water, or

on that, life would always be the same. He cared for no one; he hated no

one, and he felt that he had become as base and self-centred as his late

comrades in prison. Even Uncle Isidoro, who had meant so much to him at

a distance, now, in the close companionship of daily intercourse, had

become an object of indifference, at times almost of dislike.

When the old man went off on his fishing expeditions, or on the circuits

which he made from time to time through the country to dispose of his

wares, Costantino felt as though a weight had been lifted from him; the

semi-paternal oversight which the other exercised over him having, in

fact, come to both frighten and irritate him.

On this particular evening the fisherman was away, and Costantino was

sensible of this feeling of freedom from an irksome restraint. Now he

could do whatever came into his head, without any one to preach, or that

disagreeable sensation of being watched, which, possibly as a result of

the long years spent in prison, the mere presence of the old man was

sufficient to excite. Moreover, he was expecting a visitor. Although he

professed, now, to despise all women, and did, in fact, usually avoid

them as much as possible, he had allowed himself to be drawn into

relations with a strange creature--a half-witted girl--who lived near

Giovanna. She had surprised him one night prowling about the Dejas house

and had persuaded him to go home with her.

From this individual he got all the gossip of the white house, and he

took refuge with her whenever he thought he had been seen crossing the

common. He was waiting for her now at Isidoro's hut, in the owner's

absence, but he looked down on her, and her foolish talk jarred on him.

Presently she arrived, and Costantino told her to sit down out there on

the stone bench beside him.

"It's hot inside, and there are fleas, and spiders, and--devils. Stay

here in the fresh air," he said, without looking at her.

"But we'll be seen," she objected, in a deep, rough voice.

"All right; suppose we are! It makes no difference to me, why should it

to you?"

"But, as it happens, it does make a difference to me."

"Why?" he said, raising his voice. "Men cannot matter, since they are

all sinners as well; and as for God, he can see us just as well inside

as out."

"Oh, go away!" she said, but without any show of anger. "You've been

drinking." Then she turned away and went into the hut. Striking a light,

she looked into the cupboard where the food was usually kept, and, as

Costantino still did not come, she returned to the door and called to

him: "If you don't come at once I shall go away; but you had better be

careful; I have something to tell you."

He jumped up, and, going inside, took her in his arms. The girl broke

into a wild laugh.

"Ah-ha! you come quick enough now. That brought my little shorn lamb,

eh?"

She was tall and stout, with a small head and a dark, diminutive face,

red lips, and greenish eyes--not ugly, exactly--but rather repellent.

Though she never drank anything herself, she gave an impression of being

always a little tipsy, and was very prone to think that other people

were so, in fact. Still laughing, she went again to the cupboard.

"It's empty," she said. "Nothing there at all; and, do you know, I am

hungry!"

"If you'll wait a moment I'll go and buy something; but first, you must

tell me--"

She turned abruptly, laid one hand on his breast, and with the other

began to rain blows that were anything but playful.

"Ah, you want to know--crocodile. You want to know, do you? That's what

brought you in, is it? Go back--enjoy the air, poor, dear little lamb!

You want me to tell you? You think it is something about Giovanna Era,

eh? And you came in for that, and not to see me?"

"Let go," he said, seizing her hands. "You hit hard; the devil take you!

Yes, that's what I came in for--well?"

"I shan't tell you a word, so there!"

"Now, Mattea," he said gently, "don't make me angry; you are not

ill-natured. See now, I am going off to buy you whatever you want. What

shall it be? What would you like to have?"

He was like a child promising to be good if only it can have what it

wants. And, in fact, at that moment he did want something; he wanted it

badly, and not a nice thing, either. What he wanted was to be told that

Brontu had beaten his wife, or that she had met with an accident, or

that overwhelming disaster of one sort or another had engulfed the house

of Dejas, root and branch. It was, therefore, somewhat disappointing

when Mattea, closing one eye, announced that some cattle had been

stolen, and that Aunt Martina, on hearing the news, had rushed off like

a crazy thing to ascertain the exact extent of the loss. "She will

be up at the folds all night, and your wife is all alone--do you

understand--alone?"

"Well, what difference does that make to me?"

"Stupid! You can go to see her.--You won't go? Why, that's what I came

expressly to tell you! Of course you'll go; I want you to. I'm sorry

for you. After all, you are her husband."

"I'm not. I'm not any one's husband," he said, with a shrug. "I thought

you would have something very different to tell me. Now--what shall I

get you? Beans--milk--bacon--cheese?"

"If you're not any one's husband, then marry me," she said, in a low,

unsteady voice, like a person who has been drinking.

Costantino coughed, and spat on the ground.

Instantly a gleam of intelligence shot into her usually dull,

expressionless eyes.

"Why do you do that?" she asked sharply. "You think, perhaps, that she

is better than I?"

He flushed, and then a heartsick feeling came over him.

"Yes," he said; "you are worse, or--better than she."

"What do you say?"

"If you are not lying at this moment, and didn't come here to lay a trap

for me, with this story of her being alone--well, then you are better

than she."

"Why should I lay a trap for you? I'm sorry for you, that's all. I swear

by the memory of my dead, that if you go there this evening you'll run

no risk whatever."

"Who can believe you, woman, when you don't respect even the dead?"

Mattea, angry and offended, started to leave the hut; but he held her

back.

"A low dog," she said scornfully. "I take pity on you, and you speak to

me like that! What have you to reproach me with? What, I say?" She threw

her head back with a certain pride, knitting her brows, and turning upon

Costantino a look that was altogether new. He stared back at her for a

moment, amazed that a woman of her class should speak in that tone,

should hold up her head, and dare to look at him with such an

expression. Then he began to laugh.

"I'm off now," he said, "but I'll be back in a moment. I'll get some

wine too, even though you don't drink it. Wait for me here--wait, I

say," he repeated roughly, as she followed him to the door. "Don't

bother me." She stood still, and he went out, but before he had gone a

dozen steps he heard her deep voice calling him back.

Returning, he saw the tip of her nose through the crack of the door, and

one eye, regarding him with its habitual look of dull stolidity.

"What do you want, squint-eyed goat?"

"If you are going to her, there is no use in making me wait here."

"Go to the devil whom you came from!" exclaimed Costantino. "I would as

soon think of going to her house as you would of going to church. I say

you are to wait!" and he made as if to tweak her nose, but she quickly

drew back and shut the door.

Ten minutes later Costantino returned, but his strange guest had

disappeared. Thinking that she might be hiding somewhere outside, he

looked for her, calling in a low voice and telling her that he had bread

and meat and fruit, but in vain; she had taken herself off.

An intense stillness reigned all about the hut. Through the night, now

completely fallen, came only the sound of the fig-leaves rustling

mysteriously, as though an invisible hand were shaking a piece of stiff

silk. Nothing else could be heard, and nothing could be seen, except the

stars shining brilliantly in the warm sky.

Costantino felt much aggrieved by Mattea's defection. As lonely as an

outcast dog, what on earth was there for him to do throughout that

interminable evening? He was not sleepy, having, in fact, taken a long

nap in the afternoon, and he had nowhere to go. He began to eat and

drink, talking aloud from time to time in a querulous voice.

"If she imagines that I am coming to see her, she's

green,"--silence--"as green as a rose in springtime. She's crazy."

Another silence. Then--"Coming to see her! Not I; neither her nor the

other one. Mattea is sickening; she seems to be a sort of animal, and

that's all there is about it."

He swore, and then gave a light, purposeless laugh, such as people give

when they are alone. All the while he kept swallowing great gulps of

wine, and each time that he emptied his glass he would thrust out his

lips and exclaim: "Ah--ah--ah!" rubbing his chest up and down to express

the delicious sensation caused by the wine as it flowed down his

throat. Soon he began to feel more cheerful.

"She may go to the devil--or to hell, if she wants to!" he exclaimed,

thinking of Mattea and her sudden disappearance. But all the while he

knew perfectly well that he was forcing himself to dwell despitefully

upon her, in order to keep from thinking of the other. At last he went

out, and, stretching himself upon the stone bench, allowed his thoughts

to take their own course.

"She is alone," he reflected. "Well, what do I care? I loathe her and I

wouldn't go there, not if she were to give me a chest full of gold! What

should I do with gold, anyway?" He put the question to himself in

profound dejection, but immediately began to hum a gay little song,

having got into a way of trying to fool himself as well as other people:

"'Little heart, dear heart,

I await thee day by day,

But, when thou seest me,

Hovereth near the bird of prey.'"

For a time the sound of his own voice--low, monotonous,--arrested his

attention; then his thoughts once more asserted themselves.

"If I were to go there--well, what would happen? Sin, perhaps. But am I

not her husband? I have not the remotest idea of going there, though; I

should think not! Uncle Isidoro makes me laugh--old idiot! 'Go away, go

away,' [imitating Uncle Isidoro's voice], 'if you don't go away,

something dreadful is sure to happen! Brontu Dejas will kill you, or

have you arrested!' Well, if he does, what then?"

He began to sing again, the sharp rustle of the fig-leaves, almost like

the clash of metal blades, accompanying the subdued murmur of his voice:

"'When you see life

Bloom in January,

When you see a swineherd

Making cheese of pork----'"

He shifted his position and his heavy eyelids closed, his head,

supported on one hand, rolling from side to side.

"Well, what then?" he repeated, then opened his eyes, as though startled

by the sound of his own voice. They closed again presently, and he went

on talking to himself:

"No; I would never have her again for my wife. For me she is just an

abandoned woman. She has been living with another man, and, as long as

she has gone to live with him, she might come back and live with me, and

then go and live with some one else! She's no better than Mattea, and I

spit upon them both!"

He opened his eyes and spat on the ground. At the moment he had a

genuine scorn of Giovanna, and yet, at the very same time, tender,

distant memories surged up in his breast. He remembered a kiss he had

once given her as she lay asleep, and how she had opened her eyes with a

startled look, exclaiming: "Oh, I thought it was some one else!" Well,

what manner of foolishness was this for him to be thinking of now? He

was a simpleton, neither more nor less than a simpleton! Moreover, how

could he know, supposing for a moment that he were to go, whether

Giovanna would receive him or drive him away? The man's mind was neither

trained nor developed, yet, at that moment, he was reasoning as a much

more complex nature might have done. He hoped that she would not receive

him; he knew that for himself there was nothing for it but to go on

living and suffering; yet he felt that, should he go to her and be

repulsed, at least a ray of light would penetrate the cold, dreary void

that encircled him. But he wanted her, he longed for her still. From the

day he had lost her his whole being had suffered like a crushed and

twisted limb that still goes on living. Yet, mingled with this sense of

longing there was a spiritual breath as well, the instinct of the

immortal soul which never wholly dies out, even in the most degraded.

He dreamed of Giovanna an honest woman, lost forever in this world, but

restored to him in eternity. Now, if she were to betray her second

husband, even for the sake of her first, she would not--could not--be an

honest woman! So thought Costantino, and yet----

It was, perhaps, ten o'clock, and he had been lying for half an hour or

more on the stone bench, when a mournful strain broke in upon the

stillness. It was the blind man, singing and accompanying himself upon

his rude instrument. His voice, clear enough, but sad and monotonous,

vibrated through the night air with a sobbing suggestion of homesickness

that was hardly human, as though it were the wail of a lost soul,

recalling the few hours of happiness spent upon earth.

The music seemed to be a cry for light, happiness, the joy of living,

all those things whose existence the blind youth half understood, but

could never hope to realise--which the dead have lost, and can never

hope to repossess. Costantino shivered and got up; the voice and the

accompaniment began to die away, growing gradually fainter and fainter,

and ceasing at last altogether. He felt a great wave of agony and

tenderness surge up in his breast. In the darkness, the silence,

the unutterable loneliness that surrounded him, he, too, felt an

overmastering longing, like the blind man's, for light; an agonising

homesickness, like the dead recalling their brief experience of life. He

turned and began to walk in the direction of the village.

At first he seemed to be in a dream, although he heard beneath his feet

the rustle of the dead leaves and stubble blown by the wind about

Isidoro's hut. He rubbed his eyelids and little violet-coloured electric

circles seemed to flash and swim in the air. Soon though, his eyes

becoming used to the darkness, he discerned clearly the light line of

the road, the black cottages, the great, empty void above, where the

stars hung like drops of gold, ready to fall. He walked steadily on,

knowing perfectly whither he was bound, and never wavering for a single

instant. Here and there, on the thresholds of cottages whose owners were

too poor to indulge in the luxury of a light, little groups of people

sat, enjoying the freshness of the night air.

Occasionally the high-pitched voice of a woman would float across the

road, recounting some piece of gossip, or trifling incident of domestic

life. In a lonely angle Costantino espied a pair of lovers; the man,

hearing his footsteps approach, tried to hide his companion, who quickly

turned her face to the wall. Costantino walked on, but presently he

stopped and half turned, thinking he would give the two young people a

fright by calling out: "I am going to tell your father right away!" But

the fear of attracting attention, and being himself discovered, deterred

him, and he went on.

When he discerned the black mass of the almond-tree, rearing itself from

beside the path beyond Aunt Bachissia's cottage, his heart gave a sudden

bound, and then stood still; it was so like a great head with rough,

shaggy locks, thrusting itself out, intently watching for him to appear.

He had fully determined to pass the tree, cross the common, enter the

Dejas house, and speak to Giovanna; it all seemed perfectly simple and

plain, and he was prepared to do it; yet he was frightened, more than

frightened--terrified. A flexible, girlish voice floated out into the

night: "No matter how often you may say it, it's not true!"

He looked all about him; no one was to be seen, and he went on, his

nervousness increasing with every step. Crossing the common, he examined

Aunt Bachissia's cottage; then the white house; then Mattea's hovel;

from the last a faint light shone; the two others were in total

darkness. Again the idea crossed his mind that Mattea might be playing

him a trick; or, perhaps, Aunt Bachissia was with Giovanna, or the

latter might already have gone to bed, and would decline to open the

door! Nevertheless, he walked steadily on, and up on the portico.

Instantly the figure of Giovanna became apparent, seated on the

doorstep. At the same moment she recognised him and leaped to her feet,

rigid with terror. His voice, low, agitated, at once reassured her.

"Don't be frightened. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

A second later they were in each other's arms.

EPILOGUE

A year elapsed.

One night, when Brontu was away from home, Aunt Martina heard, or

thought she heard, a low murmur of voices in Giovanna's room. Had Brontu

come back? the old woman wondered, and if so, why? Could anything have

happened at the sheepfolds?

Tormented by the thought, she finally got up. The door was open, and she

listened a moment. Yes, undoubtedly some one was talking in Giovanna's

room. Not wishing to strike a light, she attempted to cross the room

that separated her own chamber from Giovanna's, in the dark. She made a

misstep, however, and, trying to recover herself, overthrew a chair.

"Holy Mary!" she muttered, setting it right again. Then she groped her

way to the door, felt for the handle, and tried to open it. It was

locked.

"What do you want?" demanded Giovanna's voice instantly.

"Has Brontu got back?"

"No; why?"

"I thought I heard some one talking. Why have you got the door locked?"

"Is it locked? I must have done it without thinking," said Giovanna

innocently. "I'll open it right away; just wait a moment. I was talking

to the baby; she wouldn't go to sleep."

"Mariedda!" called the grandmother. But there was no response.

"Is she asleep now?"

"She is just falling asleep."

In the pause that ensued a painful drama was enacted in the breasts of

the two women.

"I will get up now and open the door," said Giovanna presently in a

strained voice. But the old woman made no reply. Motionless, a cold

chill creeping through her, she _felt_ the horrible truth flash into her

mind like a sudden glare of blinding light. Giovanna must have a lover,

and that lover could be none other than Costantino Ledda. In that moment

of searching illumination a thousand little incidents to which she had

paid no heed at the time, a thousand little unconsidered trifles, rose

up to confront her, and she trembled from head to foot, in a paroxysm of

grief and rage. Yet, when Giovanna repeated: "I will open the door right

away," she was able to control herself, and answer quietly:

"It's not worth while; stay where you are."

Then she turned, and, crossing the room again in the dark, said to

herself with a sort of calm fury: "Now is the time to show them that old

Martina is no fool!"

Her first impulse was to hurry downstairs and look out to see if any one

had climbed from Giovanna's window to the roof below, which, in turn,

gave on another and still lower roof. But she restrained herself,

reflecting very sensibly that if Giovanna saw that she was suspected she

would instantly be on her guard. "No, no; this is a time to dissemble,

old Martina; to pretend, spy, listen, watch--and then?" What was to

happen afterwards? The _afterwards_ suggested such a multitude of

wretched possibilities that the old woman threw herself on her bed in a

torment of agonised conjecture.

What would Brontu do if he knew? Poor Brontu! With all his violent

temper he was such a good fellow at bottom, and so tremendously in love

with Giovanna! But there it was; he was so much in love with Giovanna

that he would be perfectly capable of committing some crime should he

suspect her constancy. Then, what would become of him? thought Aunt

Martina. "Ah, it will be far better for him to know nothing of all this

trouble. I will implore Giovanna to be loyal, and not to betray her poor

husband. And then--suppose, after all, I should be mistaken! Suppose she

really was talking to the baby! Eh, no, no! Some one else was there, and

it could have been no one but Costantino. Oh, wretched creature!

accursed beggar! Is this your gratitude towards those who have fed and

clothed and nourished you? But never mind, we will pay you back! We will

drive you out of this house with a whip, naked as when you came into

it!" And thus, torn by successive impulses of hatred, pity, fury, and

despair. Aunt Martina dragged through the weary night.

One significant circumstance she did recall--that Costantino was said

to be on good terms with Aunt Bachissia, Giovanna's mother. Some time

previously he had set to work in earnest; had rented a little shop, and

was making a good deal of money by his trade of shoemaking. A repulsive

thought came into the old woman's head. What if Aunt Bachissia knew and

encouraged her daughter's intimacy with her first husband! "The old

harpy detests us," said Brontu's mother to herself. "Perhaps Costantino

makes her presents!"

Daybreak found her still wide-eyed and sleepless. Getting up, she went

out to examine the wall above which rose the roofs leading to Giovanna's

window. Not a trace was to be found of any one having been on it. The

dawn was exquisitely tranquil and beautiful; the village was still

asleep, and the fields lay bathed in soft grey haze beneath a silver

sky. Aunt Martina drew a deep breath; she felt as though she had

awakened from a horrible dream; the utter peace and serenity of the

early morning seemed to communicate itself to her distracted spirit.

Then, on a sudden, happening to raise her eyes to Giovanna's window, she

saw the young woman watching her. Instantly the conviction flashed

across her that she too had lain awake the entire night; that she too

was looking now to see if any tell-tale traces remained to betray the

fact that she had had a visitor, and more than that, that she now was

fully aware of Aunt Martina's suspicions. Across the space that divided

them, the two women exchanged a look of mutual fear and hatred. War was

declared!

* * * * *

The battle opened in ominous calm, each side marshalling its forces in

silence and secrecy. Aunt Martina's efforts were directed to allaying

Giovanna's suspicions in the hope that she might some day surprise her

and her lover together. Giovanna, perfectly awake to her mother-in-law's

tactics, pretended not to notice anything, but at the same time

proceeded with great caution in her relations with Costantino.

He had entirely altered his mode of life; he now worked regularly, and

was doing very well; but underneath everything was a sense of

unutterable melancholy, which he was never able wholly to throw off.

"I am doing everything I can to provoke Brontu to break with me," said

Giovanna one day. "I want him to apply for a divorce, so as to be rid of

me; then I will go back to you, beloved, and nothing shall ever part us

again. I will be your servant, your slave--and make you forget all your

past sorrows."

But Costantino only smiled wearily. It was true that he still loved

Giovanna, but it was a very different kind of love from that which she

had formerly inspired in him. Now, there was more of passion, perhaps,

but it did not go so deep, and he knew, though he could not tell her so,

that even were she free to return to him as his wife, he could never be

happy again as in the old days. She was not the woman to whom he had

given his heart, but another and a very different person. One who,

having been false to both husbands in succession, was now, perhaps,

deceiving them simultaneously.

Often Costantino was seized with an access of rage against the entire

human race, Giovanna included. He would have liked to murder some

one--Brontu, or Aunt Bachissia, or even Giovanna, in order to avenge

himself for what he had been made to suffer. And yet, all the time, he

knew himself to be quite incapable of doing anything brutal or violent,

and raged and fumed the more at his own weakness. His heart seemed to

have sunk into a state of torpor, and to have lost the power to enjoy

acutely.

Uncle Isidoro was now constantly urging him to marry again, much as such

an act would be contrary to his own principles.

"I have one wife already," Costantino would reply. "What could I do with

another? Have her betray me too? All women are exactly alike."

Then Uncle Isidoro would sigh, and remain silent. He was in constant

dread lest some new tragedy should befall. He was aware, partly from

intuition and partly because Costantino himself allowed him to have an

inkling of the truth, that the young man was holding secret intercourse

with his former wife, and his daily fear was of some explosion. Thus, he

argued to himself that if Costantino could only be induced to marry some

gentle, affectionate young woman, who would bear him children, he would

come in time to forget the other one, and find rest and peace. To these

suggestions, however, Costantino only gave the same weary smile that had

now become habitual.

"Are you afraid that I will murder some one?" he asked, divining the old

man's nervous terrors. "No, no; there is no need to feel alarmed now;

matters are going too much to my taste just at present for me to do

anything to disturb the current."

The current was, however, in a fair way to be disturbed after that night

on which Aunt Martina made her discovery.

On the following day Costantino went, as his frequent custom now was, to

Aunt Bachissia's cottage.

He had no liking for the old woman who had been chiefly instrumental in

bringing about Giovanna's divorce; there were even moments when the

thought of strangling his ex-mother-in-law got into his blood, filling

his veins with a sensation of almost voluptuous joy. But he went there,

nevertheless, mainly because he took a dreary pleasure in living over

the past in that little cottage where he had once been so happy.

Moreover, he enjoyed listening to Aunt Bachissia's never-ending abuse of

everything connected with the house of Dejas.

Did the old woman know of her daughter's renewed relations with

Costantino? Neither of them had said a word to her on the subject; yet,

like Isidoro, she suspected how matters stood, though, unlike him, she

made no effort to interfere. Costantino had made her a present of a pair

of shoes, and from time to time he performed other little services for

her. Had he asked her to allow him to meet Giovanna in her house, it is

quite possible that she would have offered no objection; but up to the

present time he had neither told nor asked her anything.

On this day, however, he arrived visibly anxious and perturbed, and Aunt

Bachissia, who was sitting by the door spinning, laid down her spindle

and gave him a steady look out of her sharp little eyes.

Night was falling, and Costantino, who had worked hard all day, was

tired, sad, unhappy. The soft brilliance of the summer night, the

silence of the little house, the peaceful solitude of the common, the

warm, sweet breath of the evening, all combined to create a flood of

homesickness for the past, and an acute sense of present misery that was

well-nigh unbearable. He threw himself down on a stool and rested his

elbows on his knees and his forehead on his interlocked hands. For a few

moments neither of them spoke; the man was thinking of Malthineddu, of

his little dead child; he seemed to see him then, playing before the

door, and hot tears trembled in his eyes.

"Do you know," said Aunt Bachissia suddenly, "the old colt is going

crazy?"

"Who?" asked Costantino.

"Who? Why, the old miser, Martina Dejas. She got up out of her bed last

night, and went and banged on my Giovanna's door. She said she heard

some one talking to her. Upon my soul, fancy such a thing! She has gone

entirely mad; she always was half so."

"Ah!" was all that Costantino said.

"Listen, my soul," said Aunt Bachissia, lowering her voice. "Giovanna

tells me that the old colt suspects----"

"What?" asked Costantino, raising his head quickly.

"Suspects that you and Giovanna--you understand? She has not said a

word, the old maniac, but Giovanna has guessed that she has some idea in

her head, and on that account----"

"I understand," said Costantino.

He did understand. Evidently Giovanna had taken this method of warning

him that they would have to be prudent.

"And so, my soul," Aunt Bachissia went on, "for the present it will be

as well for you to stop coming here--just so as not to arouse

suspicions. I will go every once in a while to see you--for a chat, you

know. Ah!" she gave a weary sigh, "you--yes, you are a man! Look at you,

standing there now, as tall and handsome as a banner! When I think of

that little freak of nature--Brontu Dejas--I declare, I wonder what on

earth Giovanna could have been thinking of to--forget you. Ah, if she

had only listened to me!"

Costantino, who had risen and was standing in the doorway, crimsoned

with anger when he heard these outrageous lies being calmly offered for

his acceptance.

"Hold your tongue," he began in a hoarse voice. But Aunt Bachissia was

not listening; she was looking intently up at the white house; presently

she whispered: "Look, my soul, we are being watched now. Giovanna is

right. Do you see the old harpy peering at us? Oh! I could tear out her

eyes!"

Sure enough the figure of Aunt Martina could be seen lurking in the

shadow of the portico. For the moment Costantino, who had never really

borne any especial ill-will towards Brontu's mother, felt all the anger,

and sorrow, and rebelliousness in his nature concentrate into one bitter

longing to do the old woman some bodily harm. He would dearly have liked

to make a wild dash across the common, fall upon her without warning,

and tear her eyes out, as Aunt Bachissia had said.

"Never mind, let her alone," said the latter. "Giovanna has told me that

she is doing everything she can to make them ill-use her and drive her

out of the house. Then we will apply for another divorce--you, my soul,

all you have to do is to be careful and--wait."

"What have I to wait for?" he asked roughly. "Nothing can happen now

that _I_ want."

She said something more, but he was not listening. Standing erect and

motionless on the threshold of the door that had once been _his_ door,

he stared across at the portico of the Dejas house, feeling even

more desolate and forlorn than usual. So, then, his one remaining

consolation, that of holding intercourse with Giovanna, was about to be

torn from him, and by the same people who had stolen from him everything

else that made life pleasant; moreover they might deprive him even of

life itself should he continue his relations with her who really was his

own wife!

Ah, Dejas! accursed race! Yes, now the old mother as well was included

in his hatred of that house, and the longing to cross the common, fling

himself on the portico, and make the still summer evening resound with

her shrill screams of agony, at last overmastered him. With a sudden

movement, right in the middle of one of Aunt Bachissia's sentences, he

stepped out into the twilight, and with rapid strides began to cross the

common. When he had gone about half-way, he stopped, stood motionless

for a moment, and then, altering his direction, walked away. Aunt

Bachissia watched his figure as it was slowly swallowed up by the

shadows; and the silence and languor of the dusk deepened into night.

After that evening Costantino visited her cottage no more.

* * * * *

One day, towards the end of October, Uncle Isidoro Pane had an

unexpected visitor. The old fisherman, seated before his fireplace, was

getting supper ready for himself and Costantino, who still made his home

with him. Outside, the air felt almost cold, the wind was rising, and

long, violet-coloured clouds were flying across the clear, greenish,

western sky. Uncle Isidoro was thinking sadly of that evening when, amid

the chanting of the women, they had interred Giacobbe Dejas in the

dungheap. The earthen pot bubbled on the fire, and from without came the

melancholy rustling of the fig-tree and the bushes, shaken by the wind.

All at once a low knock came on the door.

"Who is there?" asked Uncle Isidoro.

"_Ave Maria!_" The salutation came from Aunt Martina Dejas, who now,

after satisfying herself that the old man was entirely alone, entered

and cautiously closed the door behind her.

"Oh, Martina! _Grazia plena!_" responded the fisherman, astonished to

see who his visitor was.

Her head and shoulders were completely enveloped in a petticoat worn in

lieu of a shawl; her features were paler and more gaunt even than

ordinary, and to Isidoro she seemed to have aged greatly.

"Sit down, Martina Dejas," said he politely, offering her a stool. "What

good wind blows you here?"

"It's an ill wind," she replied. Then, looking all around her, she said:

"I want to talk to you privately; can any one hear us? Where is _he_?"

"Still at the shop; he does not get back till later."

"Listen," said the old woman, seating herself; "you can probably guess

what it is that brings me here?"

"No, I cannot guess, Martina Dejas," declared the other, though all the

time he knew very well. "But why didn't you send for me? I would have

gone to your house."

"At my house there is some one who has the ears of a hare; she can hear

through a stone wall. Now, listen--I don't suppose I have to make you

promise not to tell any one? You wouldn't betray my confidence, would

you?"

"I will not betray you."

"You are a man of the Lord, Isidoro Pane; a very dreadful thing has

happened; will you help me to set it right?"

"If I can," he said, spreading out his arms and hands. "Tell me about

it!"

The old woman sighed.

"Tell you about it! Yes," she said, "that is what I am going to do,

Isidoro; but what I have to say burns my lips, and you are the only

human being I would breathe it to. A terrible misfortune has overtaken

my house. Do you see how old I have grown? For months I have not

been able to close my eyes. Giovanna, my daughter-in-law, has a

lover--Costantino Ledda. You don't seem surprised!" she added quickly,

seeing that the other remained unmoved. "You knew it already! Some one

has known about it! Perhaps there are others too--perhaps every one

knows the disgrace of my house!"

"Easy, easy; don't be frightened. I did not know it, and I don't think

any one else does. It may not be true, either, but if it were, and

people knew about it--no one would be surprised."

"No one would be surprised!"

"Certainly not, Martina Dejas; no one at all. Every one knows perfectly

well--pardon me if I speak frankly--that Giovanna married your son

entirely from motives of self-interest. Now Costantino has come back;

_they_ were in love with one another _before_, and now they are in love

with one another _after_; it is perfectly natural."

"It is perfectly natural! How can you say such things, Isidoro Pane? Is

it perfectly natural for a woman to be unfaithful? For a beggar taken in

out of the streets to betray her benefactors? Is it perfectly natural

that my son, Brontu Dejas, who had the courage to do what not another

soul would have dreamed of doing--is it natural that he should be

deceived?"

"Yes, it is all natural."

"Ah," exclaimed Aunt Martina, getting up, her eyes flashing with anger,

"then it was quite useless for me to come here!"

"Easy, easy!" said the old man again. "Just sit down, Martina, and tell

me quietly what brought you. Let us put all these questions aside--they

are of no use now, anyhow--and discuss the situation as it is. I think I

can guess what it is you want me to do; you want me to use my influence

with Costantino to get him to leave your family in peace----?"

The old woman sat down again, and opened her heart. Yes, that was what

she wanted, that Isidoro should do all he could to induce Costantino to

give Giovanna up.

"This misery will kill me," she said in conclusion, her voice trembling;

"but at least my Brontu will have been spared. Ah, if he should ever

find out about it, he is lost! He is sure to kill some one, either

Giovanna or Costantino. I am continually haunted by the most horrible

presentiments; I keep seeing a smear of blood before my eyes. You will

see, Isidoro; you will see! If we don't find some way to stop this

shameful thing, some horrible tragedy will occur----!"

As she talked, Aunt Martina had been growing steadily paler, until she

was now quite livid; her lips trembled, and her eyes gleamed partly

with anger, partly with unshed tears.

"You alarm me, and you make me feel very sorry for you as well," said

Uncle Isidoro gravely. "But see here, whose fault is it all? I

remember--this visit of yours brings it all back to me--another visit I

once had; it was from Giacobbe Dejas, poor soul. Well, he sat there,

just where you are sitting now, and he said almost the same words: 'We

must find some way to stop this thing; if we don't, some terrible

misfortune will surely happen!' And so we did; we tried our best to stop

that shameful thing, but without avail. You and your son, and all the

rest of you, were determined to bring about your own ruin. You fell into

mortal sin; you broke the laws of God, and now your punishment has

come!"

"We! only we!" exclaimed the old woman haughtily. "No; the fault belongs

to them as well. To Bachissia Era, for her avarice and wickedness in

throwing her daughter at Brontu; and to Giovanna, for abandoning her

first husband when she loved him, and marrying another out of

self-interest! The blame belongs equally to all, or, rather, it does

not; it is _theirs_ alone, for we did nothing but what was good.

It is theirs, theirs, and I hate every one of them--vile, low-born

beggars--traitors. And I can tell you, if Costantino does not give this

thing up, he'll bitterly regret it. Beg, implore, adjure him! Tell him

not to bring ruin on a respectable house, and then,--if he will not

listen----"

"Hush, Martina," begged the fisherman, seeing that she was working

herself into a fury. "Don't talk foolishness. But tell me, are you

really certain that Giovanna and Costantino are meeting each other?"

"Absolutely certain. For three months now, as I told you, I have hardly

closed my eyes. One night I heard some one talking to Giovanna. She saw

right away that I had noticed something, and for a while she was on her

guard. But now--now she has thrown aside all prudence. The other day

they met at Bachissia Era's cottage; I saw them plainly; and not only

that, I heard them; I listened at the door. Then, last night he was with

her again; do you understand? actually in my house, beneath my roof! And

I--I was trembling so with rage I hardly knew what I was about; but I

waited for him below; I was going to speak to him, and then I was going

to stab him--kill him, if I could--I had a knife ready in my hand. But

do you know, I could not stir a limb! I could not even open my lips when

he crept down as stealthily as a thief, first on to the roof, and then

the ground, and away! Ah, I am nothing but a poor old woman; I can't do

a thing. I was just frightened, and I hid. Giovanna knows that I care

more for Brontu than for anything else in the world, and that I would

sacrifice everything to spare him, even the honour of our name. And so

the ungrateful creature is taking advantage of the tenderest feeling

that I have. She is counting on my being afraid to tell him for fear

that he will commit murder, and so be ruined forever, and that is why

she dares to carry it on. But I--I--Isidoro, I will be capable of doing

almost anything if Costantino does not break this off. Tell him so."

"But why don't you speak to Giovanna?" asked the fisherman.

"Because--well, I'm afraid of her. She follows me about and watches me

all the time like a tigress ready to spring. She hates me, just as I

hate her at times; and at the very first word she would fly at me and

choke me to death. I don't dare to open my mouth. Oh, it is all so

horrible! You don't know what days I pass! Death would be far less

bitter than the life I am leading."

As she spoke these words, Aunt Martina buried her face in her hands and

began to sob.

A feeling of intense pity rose in the old fisherman's heart. In the days

of his most grinding poverty he had never been reduced to tears, and to

think of the rich, proud Martina Dejas being actually more wretched than

an old pauper like himself!

"I will do my very best," he said. "Now go, and try not to worry. You

had better get off at once, though; it is time for _him_ to be coming

back." She got up, wrapped the petticoat carefully around her head and

shoulders, and when Isidoro had looked out to make sure that no one was

about who might recognise her, walked slowly away.

The air was sharp; the wind was blowing in gusts, tearing the first dead

leaves from the trees. Aunt Martina, struggling against it, felt more

anxious and depressed even than when she came. It seemed as though that

chill, autumn wind that shook and lashed and tore her, were tearing and

lashing her spirit as well. The presentiments of evil that she had

spoken of as haunting her, were stronger than ever. Passing a certain

wretched little hovel, more forlorn and poverty-stricken than any of the

others, she shot a keen glance at it, and then quickly lowered her eyes,

as though in dread lest some invisible being should read the dark

thought of her soul. The owner of this hovel, a poor peasant, had come

to her some time before, and had asked her to lend him some money. "Lend

it to you!" she had exclaimed derisively. "And how do you propose to

repay it?" "If I can't pay you back in money," the man had replied,

"there may be some other way of showing my gratitude. You could require

any service at all of me."

She understood what he meant. He was ready to undertake anything, even

the commission of a crime, in order to get the money he needed. But she

had not wanted anything, and so had sent him off. Now, passing the

forlorn little house, rapidly falling into ruins, through the darkness

and wind, and melancholy of the night, she saw again before her the

gaunt, resolute figure of this man; his hollow, sunken eyes; his lips,

white from hunger; his dark, bony hands, ready for any act by which he

might hope to snatch a little ease and comfort out of life; and the

horrible schemes of vengeance that were tearing at her selfish old heart

began to take a fearful and well-defined shape.

Thus she passed on. A dark, forbidding form, enveloped in her black

_tunic_, swept by the wind past that wretched hovel like a shadowy

portent of evil.

* * * * *

That same evening Uncle Isidoro reasoned with Costantino at length,

urging him by every argument at his command to avert what otherwise must

inevitably result in a catastrophe for himself, for Giovanna, and for

every one concerned.

Costantino regarded the old man steadily with his usual melancholy

smile. "What," he demanded, "could happen? You admit yourself that the

old harpy will never talk to her son. And--isn't she my wife, Giovanna?

Haven't I a perfect right to be with her whenever I choose?"

"Ah, child of the Lord," sighed Uncle Isidoro, clasping his hands and

shaking his head, "you will be made to suffer for it in some way; you

had better look out: Martina Dejas is capable of anything where her son

is concerned."

A look of hatred came into Costantino's eyes.

"Listen," he said; "my heart is like a vessel full of deadly poison; a

single drop more and it will overflow. Let them look out who have

brought all this on themselves." Then he got up and went out into the

night. For hours he wandered aimlessly about, like one who had lost his

way, in the wind-swept solitude. Then, about midnight, he found himself,

almost without knowing how he got there, as on that first evening,

beneath Giovanna's window. He climbed on the shed and tapped.

Aunt Martina, lying wakeful and alert, heard everything; heard

Costantino approach, heard his knock, heard Giovanna open to him; and

then she knew it was hopeless. Without doubt Isidoro had faithfully

reported his conversation with her, and this was Costantino's reply: he

had come directly and defiantly to Giovanna. "No doubt," thought the old

woman bitterly, "he argues that since old Martina lacks the courage to

make her son unhappy by telling him the truth, he may as well profit by

her weakness. Yes; no doubt that is what he thinks. But, he has

forgotten to take account of what the poor old mother may be stirred up

to do in order to protect her boy! Now, Costantino Ledda, it is between

us two!"

One night as Costantino slid down from the shed beneath Giovanna's

window, he felt something cold and sharp enter his side; in the darkness

he made out the figure of a man, his face covered with a black cloth. He

threw himself upon him, and after a brief struggle, breathless, silent,

determined, he succeeded in throwing him down and disarming him. Then he

let him go without so much as attempting to identify him. What did it

signify who the assassin was? Behind that black mask he knew only too

well that Aunt Martina's gaunt features looked out, and that it was her

hand that had directed the murderous stroke.

He made his way back to Isidoro's hut, and, the fisherman being absent

on one of his journeys, dressed the wound himself, hiding away like a

stricken animal, and concealing what had happened from every one. He did

not even undress, but for three days and nights lay stretched on his

pallet, a prey to the bitterest reflections.

The weather had become cold; outside, the wind whistled among the dry

hedges, and, forcing its way into the hut, made the long threads of

cobweb swing back and forth, and brought down clouds of dust from the

roof. Through the window Costantino could see processions of pale blue

clouds scudding across the cold, bright background of the sky; and he

said to himself that he wanted to die.

Death, death, what else remained for him? The world--his world--was now

only a cold and empty void.

His feeling for Giovanna could never be what it once had been; he had,

indeed, resumed his relations with her, but she could never mean the

same thing to him again after having deserted him in his hour of need.

The very pleasure which he felt in their clandestine intercourse was due

in part to his hatred of the Dejases. The Dejases! The mere thought of

the joy which his death would afford them, even now, aroused him and put

new life into his veins!

"They have stolen everything else of mine," he thought, "and now they

want to take my life as well. But they shan't have it; I will kill one

of them first." He recalled a trial at which he had once been present,

where the accused had proved that he had been attacked, and had struck

back in order to defend himself; the jury had acquitted him. "Well, they

will acquit me; I shall be striking in self-defence. And if they don't

acquit me----!" There arose before him the faces of his fellow-convicts.

The _King of Spades_ smiled at him lugubriously, and behind him he could

see the gloomy walls of the prison courtyard. At least, though, _they_

had been friendly; they might have been murderers, but they had never

tried to assassinate him.

On the third day of his seclusion in Uncle Isidore's hut a storm came

up. Nothing could exceed the comfortless desolation of the poor little

abode. The black clouds travelling overhead seemed to break directly

against the small, bare window; presently some big drops fell from the

roof; one leak in especial, directly over the black, cold fireplace was

so persistent that at last, seeing that the water was forming into a

thin stream, the young man reached out and shoved Uncle Isidoro's

earthenware saucepan beneath it. Drip, drip, drip, the sound was like

the monotonous and melancholy ticking of a clock. Night descended, if

anything colder and more dreary than before; the rain came down

steadily, and the drops fell into the saucepan with the regularity of a

machine. Costantino did not move; he had neither wood wherewith to build

a fire, nor any more food, and it did not occur to him to get up, to

bestir himself, to go out, to live. Perhaps Uncle Isidoro was stalled in

some neighbouring village by the storm, and would not get back.

During the night fever set in, and Costantino was racked by hideous

dreams, painful memories of the past, tempests of anger, mingled with

physical suffering. How long he lay in this condition he could never

remember, only he recollected hearing the steady drip, drip of the water

as it fell into the saucepan, the beating of the rain on the roof, and

the long sob of the wind as it swept about the deserted house. In the

intervals of the fever, when he would arouse from the lethargy that

weighed him down, he was conscious of sharp, shooting pains through all

his limbs, similar to those he had felt in prison on awaking after a

feverish night; and also of a savage, animal desire to do some harm, to

fling himself on some one or some thing, and bite, and tear, and

destroy. Another day and night went by. The rain was falling more

heavily than ever, and that steady, inexorable drip, drip had at last

filled and overflowed the saucepan. Between cold and starvation

Costantino had almost come to the end of his forces. Once he was visited

by a horrid illusion. He thought that a mad dog had thrown him down and

bitten him in the stomach. He awoke shaking, and could not throw the

idea off; perhaps he had been bitten by a mad dog, and this was

hydrophobia! Towards evening the storm died down, though the rain did

not cease entirely. Then, suddenly, he felt that he was dying; he had no

sense of rebellion now; all that was over; he seemed to have lost even

the power to care. To die, to die--Why should he want to go on living?

Everything both within him and about him was black and void. Through all

his fever-ridden dreams one idea had remained persistently by him--that

he was about to commit a crime. Now it was Aunt Martina whom he was on

the point of stabbing; then some one else; but in the intervals of

consciousness he realised that should he live, should he once more find

himself burdened with the dolorous gift of existence, while he would not

even attempt to resist the secret force that was urging him on, it would

matter little against whom his fury expended itself; it might be Aunt

Martina, or Brontu, or some one else. But then--then--deep down in his

soul he could never rid himself of a sense of terror of _what would

happen afterwards_. Yes; he wanted to die, so as to suffer no more and

to be saved from becoming a murderer.

At last the rain was ceasing; it still fell steadily, but more, now,

like a gentle shower, while the wind had died down completely. It was

cold, though, and the damp, chill atmosphere hung over the cabin like a

heavy wet cloth. So unutterably dreary were the weather and the

surroundings that Costantino, recalling the periods of his most acute

misery, could never remember being so utterly and hopelessly wretched

as now. Not even on the day of the sentence, not even on the day when

they had told him of the divorce, nor on that other day of his return:

for on every one of those occasions, desperate as the outlook had been,

there always remained the hope of better things in the life to come.

Then his conscience had been pure; but now, should he go on living, he

believed that he would surely forfeit all hope in the life to come. At

times, goaded by this horror, he would cry aloud, imploring death to

come and save him, as a terrified child cries for its mother.

Thus the hours wore on; he had dropped into a feverish sleep, but awoke

suddenly, trembling with terror at he could not tell what. The rain was

over at last, but in the profound stillness that enwrapped him,

Costantino fancied that he still heard it beating on the roof, and the

drip, drip from the leak over the fireplace; only now the sounds seemed

to come from far, far away, from a world that was already remote. He

thought that he was already dead, or lingering on the extremest confines

of life, in a place of shadows, of silence, of mystery. What would he

find there--just beyond? The light of eternity, or--the darkness of

eternity? He was afraid to open his eyes; he tried to cry out, but could

not utter a sound. Then--a knock came on the door. The sound dragged him

back from that vague tide on which he was floating; he opened his eyes

without moving, conscious both of relief and regret at finding himself

still alive.

The knocking was repeated louder than before. Who could it be? Not Uncle

Isidoro; he would have called out.

Costantino neither stirred nor spoke. Possibly he had not the strength

to get up, but in any case he had no wish to. Why must they come to

disturb him? dragging him back from those mysterious shores on which he

had almost set foot.

Meanwhile the knocking continued still more vigorously, but after a

little it ceased, and everything became perfectly still. A short time

elapsed; then some one again approached the hut; presently the end of a

stout stick was thrust under the door, serving as a lever; the frail

barrier, secured only by a metal hasp, quickly yielded, and the figure

of a woman, with a skirt thrown over her head and shoulders, appeared

for a moment in the opening; stepping inside, she turned and replaced

the rickety door before Costantino was able to recognise her. There was

a moment of breathless silence, during which he could hear his visitor

groping her way about, in the pitchy darkness, on the other side of the

hut; then she spoke, and he recognised the voice of Aunt Bachissia.

"Costantino! Are you there? Where are you? Are you dead or alive? Why

don't you answer? Some one said you had not been seen for three days,

and that Isidoro Pane was away. I came once before and knocked and

knocked, but you wouldn't answer. What's the matter? are you sick?"

Still he made no reply, burying his face like a sulky child.

"My soul!" moaned the woman, "he must be ill as well."

_As well!_ Then some one else was ill! Who, he wondered. Perhaps

Giovanna. He listened intently, still keeping his face covered.

"He has no fire and no light!" she muttered. "What does it all mean?

Wait, I'll strike a light. Where are my matches?"

The pale, blue flame of a sulphur match shot up for a moment, and then

suddenly died away.

Costantino could see nothing, but he heard Aunt Bachissia stumbling her

way towards him, moaning: "Costantino, Costantino!"

A wave of anger swept over him; he tried to cry out, to rise and fling

himself upon her, choke her--but he was powerless. A cold sweat broke

out all over him, and he knew that if he attempted so much as to speak,

he would burst into tears. How hatefully weak he was!

Aunt Bachissia struck another match, and began searching for a light of

some sort, but all she could find was a rude iron lamp hanging on a

nail, with neither wick nor oil. Then she groped her way to the

fireplace, and, stooping down, held out her hand with the lighted match

between her fingers. There were the saucepan full of water, the heap of

wet ashes, the soaked hearthstone, and beyond, half in the circle of

light, the figure of Costantino extended motionless on the pallet. The

match flared up and then went out, and all became again perfectly dark

and silent.

For a moment Aunt Bachissia did not stir; she hardly seemed to breathe;

then a long, choking sob broke from her.

Of what had she been thinking in that moment of silence and darkness?

Did that vision of Costantino lying apparently dead before her awaken a

sudden, agonising sense of what she had done; of her iniquitous

responsibility in the ruin that had been wrought in Giovanna's and

Costantino's lives, and in the lives of every one concerned in the

melancholy drama? Throwing herself on the floor beside the pallet, she

passed her hands tremblingly over his body and face, sobbing in the

darkness and silence: "Costantino, Costantino! are you alive? Answer

me----Yes," she murmured presently, "he is alive, but ill, ill--you are

ill, aren't you?" she went on coaxingly. "Is it a wound? Ah, God! If you

only knew what terrible things have happened! Giovanna sent me; she was

frightened, you know; she thought you might have been hurt, that some

one might have been lying in wait for you; she's more dead than alive

herself--Costantino----!"

At last Costantino gave a moan; something hard in his breast seemed to

melt; he was moved--affected. Then he was not forgotten, after all;

Giovanna had been anxious; she had sent to find out about him; she was

frightened, unhappy. Then, in his changed mood, Aunt Bachissia's words

of a moment before came back to him with fresh meaning. "He is ill _as

well_," she had said. Who was this other person who was ill? Again he

thought of Giovanna, and his heart sank.

"Is it a wound?" she repeated.

"Yes," murmured Costantino.

"Who did it?"

"I don't know; some one hired by Aunt Martina Dejas."

"Ah!" cried Aunt Bachissia, her voice thick with anger; then, in a

changed tone, she said: "The saying goes that God does not pay on

Saturday--well,--Brontu Dejas is dying--poor wretch!"

Costantino felt as though an electric shock had gone through him; he

started to his feet, swayed, and fell back on his knees. In the darkness

his hands encountered those of Aunt Bachissia, and she felt that they

were scorching hot and trembling.

"Costantino! my soul!" she cried, alarmed lest in his weak and

exhausted condition the shock of her news had been too great for him.

"Costantino, what is it? You are shaking all over like a little kid!

Yes; Brontu is very ill. He came back yesterday; it was a holiday, you

know, and he came home so drunk that he was like something crazy. It

seems that he has been drinking all the time lately, even up at the

sheepfolds. So then yesterday when he came in he was horribly drunk, and

he began quarrelling with his mother and Giovanna, and tried to beat

them; they were so frightened that they ran up and locked themselves in

their rooms. Brontu stayed down in the kitchen, and he must have

stretched himself out alongside the fire. After some time they heard him

crying out, but they thought it was just some drunken foolishness, and

did not go down to see what it was. After a while, though, when he had

become quiet, Aunt Martina went and found him lying there unconscious

and frightfully burned. He had evidently fallen asleep and had put his

legs right over the fire,[10] and then his clothing caught. There was an

empty brandy bottle lying beside him. He hasn't come to since, and the

doctor says he can't live through the night. Poor Brontu; he wasn't bad;

he was weak, but not really bad--Costantino! Costantino!--what on earth

is it? What are you doing?" For in the darkness Aunt Bachissia, who had

told her story with moans and sighs of sympathy, partly for Costantino,

partly for Brontu, heard what she at first took to be a burst of insane

laughter. The young man's hands became rigid, his limbs contracted, and

for one wild moment she thought he had lost his reason. Then the truth

broke upon her; he was crying, weeping bitterly, half from weakness and

reaction, but half, too, from horror and sympathy at the awful ending of

a man whom, but a short while before, he had thought that he hated so

much that he was in danger of killing him.

* * * * *

That same night Brontu died, and some time later Giovanna and Costantino

were reunited. Old Aunt Martina, absorbed in her grief and completely

shattered by it, like an oak-tree that has been struck by lightning,

offered no objection, but neither did she forgive the young people, and

she demanded that the little Mariedda should be left under her care.

Thus the two, the old woman and the child, lived on in the white house,

while Giovanna and Costantino returned to the little grey cottage.

There, after a time, another child was born to them--Malthineddu.

* * * * *

It is a soft spring day. Overhead the sky is a tender blue, and all

around the village the fields of grain sway like the waves of a green,

encircling sea. Aunt Martina sits on the portico, spinning, and praying

silently; a white, tragic figure, spiritualised by sorrow.

Aunt Bachissia sits spinning likewise, before the door of the cottage.

Giovanna is sewing, and hard by Costantino works at his bench. No one

speaks, but the thoughts of all are turned on the past.

In the middle of the common Mariedda and Malthineddu are playing

together with gurgles and shouts of joyous laughter, as happy and

unconcerned as the birds on the neighbouring hedges.

Hither and thither they go, trotting from Aunt Martina to Costantino,

from Aunt Bachissia to Giovanna, from Giovanna to Aunt Martina. And each

in turn, even the desolate, heartbroken old grandmother, looks up to

receive them with a smile of tender indulgence. They are the invisible

woof of peace and mutual forgiveness.

THE END

FOOTNOTE:

[10] In Sardinia the fireplaces almost always consist of four stones

placed so as to form a square in the centre of the kitchen. They have no

chimneys.