"His eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with her--I know those eyes! A man can give that look, too, who can think of beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. I shuddered when I saw those eyes again."

Then she remained obstinately silent The padre, too, did not speak. He ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his mouth.

When, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of Capri, Antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow waves, and placed him respectfully upon the sh.o.r.e; but Lauretta would not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other, splashed hastily to the sh.o.r.e.

"I am going to stop some time at Capri to-day," said the padre, "so you need not wait for me; possibly I may not return home till to-morrow.

And you, Lauretta, remember me to your mother; I shall see you again this week. You are going back to-night?"

"If I have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress.

"You know that I must go back," said Antonino, in what he intended as a tone of indifference; "I will wait for you till the Ave Maria; if you do not come then, it will be all the same to me."

"You must be in time, Lauretta," said the little priest; "you must not leave your mother alone all night. Is it far where you are going?"

"To Anacapri."

"And I to Capri. G.o.d guard you, my child! and you, my son!"

Lauretta kissed his hand, and said a farewell, which the padre and Antonino might have divided between them. Antonino, however, did not claim his share of it; he took off his cap to the padre, and did not look at Lauretta.

When, however, they had both turned their backs upon him, he permitted his glance to follow the padre as he strode carefully up the stony beach, but for a very short distance, and then directed it to the girl, who was mounting the hill to the right, holding his hand over his eyes to shade them from the bright sun. When she reached the place where the road begins to run between the walls, she paused for a moment, as if to take breath, and turned round. The Marina lay at her feet, above her towered the steep cliffs, and before her spread the sea in all its azure beauty. It was, indeed, a view well worth the pause.

Chance so willed it that her glance, sweeping past Antonino's boat, encountered the one which he had sent after her. They both made a movement, like persons who wish to excuse themselves--"a mere matter of accident;" and then the girl continued her way with closely-compressed lips.

CHAPTER II.

It was only an hour after midday, and Antonino had been sitting long on a bench before the little fishing osteria. Something seemed to be pa.s.sing through his mind, for every five minutes he sprang up, stepped out into the sun, and examined carefully the paths which led right and left to the two island towns. "The weather looked suspicious," he told the hostess; "it was clear enough now, but he knew this colour of the sea and sky; it had looked just like this before the last great storm, when the English family were saved with such difficulty. She must remember it?"

"No."

"Well, she would remember what he had said, if it changed before night."

"Have you many visitors over there?" asked the hostess, after a pause.

"They are just beginning to come. We have had hard times till now. The bathers have not arrived yet."

"The spring was late. Have you done better here in Capri?"

"I should not have managed to get macaroni twice a week if it had depended on the boat. Now and then a letter to take to Naples, or a gentleman who wanted a row on the sea or to fish--that was all. But you know that my uncle has got the great orange garden, and is a rich man.

'Tonino,' he said to me, 'as long as I live you shall not want, and afterwards you will be cared for.' So I got through the winter with G.o.d's help."

"Has your uncle children?"

"No; he was never married; he was long in foreign countries where he managed to sc.r.a.pe many a good piaster together; now he has an idea of setting up a large fishery, and is going to put me at the head of the whole affair to see that he gets his rights."

"So you are a made man, Antonino." The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Each one has his burden to bear," he said. Then he sprang up and looked right and left at the weather, though he must have known that there was but one weather-side.

"Let me bring you another flask, your uncle can pay for it," said the hostess.

"Only one gla.s.s more, my head is warm already."

"It won't get into your head, you can drink as much as you like of it.

Here is my husband just coming, you must sit down and chat with him a bit."

And truly the stately patron of the inn approached them just at that moment down the hill, with his net on his shoulder, and his red cap set jauntily sideways on his ringletted hair. He had been into the town with fish, ordered by the great lady for our little friend the padre of Lorento. When he caught sight of the young fisherman he waved him a hearty greeting; then seating himself near him on the bench, began to question and talk. His wife had just brought a fresh flask of pure unadulterated Capri, when the sh.o.r.e sand to their left crackled, and Lauretta advanced towards them from the road to Anacapri. She greeted them with a hasty nod, and stopped irresolutely.

Antonino sprang up; "I must away," he said; "it is a girl from Lorento who came this morning with the padre, and must go back this evening to her sick mother."

"Well, but it is a long time before night," said the host, "she will have time enough to drink a gla.s.s of wine. Here, wife, bring a clean gla.s.s."

"Thank you, I do not wish to drink," said Lauretta, remaining at some little distance.

"Pour out, wife, pour out, she wants pressing."

"Let her alone," said the young man, "she has a will of her own, when once she has made up her mind, no one can make her alter it." And therewith he took a hasty leave, and ran down to his boat, to set the sail, and stood waiting for the girl. She waved a greeting back to the hostess, and then with hesitating steps approached the boat. She glanced on all sides, as if she hoped for the arrival of other pa.s.sengers; but the Marina was deserted; the fishermen slept, or were away at sea with their nets and hooks. A few women and children sat in their doorways, sleeping or spinning; and the strangers who had come across in the morning, delayed their return until the cooler evening.

She was prevented from looking around her long, for before she could turn round, Antonino had taken her in his arms and carried her like a child to the boat. Then he sprang in after her, and with a few strokes from the oars, they were in the open sea.

She seated herself in the fore-part of the boat, with her back half turned towards him, so that he could only see her _en profil_. The expression of her face was even more haughty than usual; the dark hair hung low over the broad low forehead, and around her finely cut nostrils quivered an expression of defiance; her swelling lips were firmly compressed.

After they had sailed on in silence for some time, she felt the sun burning her face, so she took her bread out and threw the handkerchief over her hair; then she began to eat, to dine in fact, for she had eaten nothing at Capri.

Antonino did not contemplate this long in silence. He took two oranges out of the basket which he had brought over full in the morning, and said, "Here is something to eat with your bread, Lauretta--don't think that I kept them for you, they fell out of the basket into the boat, and I found them when I brought the empty ones back."

"You had better eat them yourself, my bread is enough for me."

"They are so refreshing in the heat, and you have had such a long walk."

"They gave me a gla.s.s of water above there, that refreshed me enough."

"As you please," he said, and let them fall back into the basket again.

Fresh silence. The sea was like a mirror, and hardly rustled round the boat's keel--even the white seamews, that had their nests amongst the rocks, pursued their prey without a cry.

"You could take the two oranges home to your mother," Antonino again began.

"We have some at home, and when they are gone, I can go and buy more."

"But take them to her with a kind word from me.

"She does not know you."

"You can tell her who I am."

"_I_ do not know you."