After the Divorce Part 31

"Costantino, Costantino!" exclaimed the old man in a hurt voice.

Costantino pulled up a tuft of rushes, threw it from him, and gazed again into the distance. His face was working as it had done on the morning of his return, after he had closed the door of Isidoro's hut; his brain swam, once or twice he gulped down the bitter saliva that rose in his throat; then he spoke:

"Well, after all, why does the priest insist so on my going? Am I not actually her husband? Suppose even that she were to come back to me?

Wouldn't it be coming back to her own husband?"

"If she were to come back to you, my dear fellow, it would be Brontu Dejas either killing you or having you arrested."

"Well, you needn't be afraid; I don't want her. She's a fallen woman, as far as I am concerned. I shall go off somewhere, to a distance, and marry some one else."

"Oh, no! You would never do that," murmured Isidoro appealingly. "You are too good a Christian."

"No; I would never do that," repeated Costantino mechanically.

"Never in the world; you are far too good a Christian." The old man said it again, but without conviction. The experience of a long life was battling with the tenets of his simple faith.

"If he does not do it," he sighed to himself, "it will not be merely because he is a good Christian."

FOOTNOTE:

[9] Head of cattle.

CHAPTER XVII

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 pa.s.sion, 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 hara.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+pwrecked 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 sh.o.r.e 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 companions.h.i.+p of daily intercourse, had become an object of indifference, at times almost of dislike.

When the old man went off on his fis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d, 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 p.r.o.ne 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."