Part 89 (2/2)

Pancrazio would tell Alvina about his wife and her ailments. And he seemed always anxious to prove that he had been so good to her. No doubt he had been good to her, also. But there was something underneath--malevolent in his spirit, some caged-in sort of cruelty, malignant beyond his control. It crept out in his stories. And it revealed itself in his fear of his dead wife. Alvina knew that in the night the elderly man was afraid of his dead wife, and of her ghost or her avenging spirit. He would huddle over the fire in fear.

In the same way the cemetery had a fascination of horror for him--as, she noticed, for most of the natives. It was an ugly, square place, all stone slabs and wall-cupboards, enclosed in four-square stone walls, and lying away beneath Pescocalascio village obvious as if it were on a plate.

”That is our cemetery,” Pancrazio said, pointing it out to her, ”where we shall all be carried some day.”

And there was fear, horror in his voice. He told her how the men had carried his wife there--a long journey over the hill-tracks, almost two hours.

These were days of waiting--horrible days of waiting for Ciccio to be called up. One batch of young men left the village--and there was a lugubrious sort of saturnalia, men and women alike got rather drunk, the young men left amid howls of lamentation and shrieks of distress. Crowds accompanied them to Ossona, whence they were marched towards the railway. It was a horrible event.

A s.h.i.+ver of horror and death went through the valley. In a lugubrious way, they seemed to enjoy it.

”You'll never be satisfied till you've gone,” she said to Ciccio.

”Why don't they be quick and call you?”

”It will be next week,” he said, looking at her darkly. In the twilight he came to her, when she could hardly see him.

”Are you sorry you came here with me, Allaye?” he asked. There was malice in the very question.

She put down the spoon and looked up from the fire. He stood shadowy, his head ducked forward, the firelight faint on his enigmatic, timeless, half-smiling face.

”I'm not sorry,” she answered slowly, using all her courage.

”Because I love you--”

She crouched quite still on the hearth. He turned aside his face.

After a moment or two he went out. She stirred her pot slowly and sadly. She had to go downstairs for something.

And there on the landing she saw him standing in the darkness with his arm over his face, as if fending a blow.

”What is it?” she said, laying her hand on him. He uncovered his face.

”I would take you away if I could,” he said.

”I can wait for you,” she answered.

He threw himself in a chair that stood at a table there on the broad landing, and buried his head in his arms.

”Don't wait for me! Don't wait for me!” he cried, his voice m.u.f.fled.

”Why not?” she said, filled with terror. He made no sign. ”Why not?”

she insisted. And she laid her fingers on his head.

He got up and turned to her.

”I love you, even if it kills me,” she said.

But he only turned aside again, leaned his arm against the wall, and hid his face, utterly noiseless.

”What is it?” she said. ”What is it? I don't understand.” He wiped his sleeve across his face, and turned to her.

”I haven't any hope,” he said, in a dull, dogged voice.

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