Part 27 (2/2)
”Very wrong! Terribly wrong! Forgive me, but it looked as if you were proposing some transaction, some bargain, and the Marchesa is sure to believe we are in league with you! Oh, it is awful!”
She wrung her clenched hands as if striving to press into shape, to remodel a more level professorial head for him. In utter amazement the poor Professor kept repeating: ”Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, what an a.s.s I am!” without really comprehending the nature of his blunder. Luisa flung herself upon the parapet overhanging the lake, and stared into the water. Suddenly she started up, beating the back of her right hand upon the palm of her left, her face brightening. ”Take me to your study,”
said she. ”Can I leave Maria here?” The Professor nodded, and, trembling, accompanied her to the study. Luisa took a sheet of paper and wrote rapidly: ”Luisa Maironi Rigey begs to inform the Marchesa Maironi Scremin that Professor Beniamino Gilardoni is a most faithful friend of both her husband and herself, but that they nevertheless heartily disapprove of his inopportune use of a doc.u.ment which should have been disposed of in a different manner. Therefore, no communication from the Marchesa is either expected or desired.”
When she had finished she silently held out the letter to the Professor.
”Oh no!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had read it; ”For the love of Heaven don't send that letter! What if your husband should find it out?
Think what a misfortune for me, for you yourself! And how can it possibly be kept from your husband?” Luisa did not answer, but gazed fixedly at him, not thinking of him, but of Franco; thinking that the Marchesa might look upon the letter as a snare, an attempt to intimidate her, she took it back and tore it in pieces, with a sigh. The Professor became radiant, and wished to kiss her hand, but she protested. She had not done it for his sake or for Franco's but for other reasons. The sacrifice of this outlet for her feelings exasperated her still more against Franco. ”He is wrong! He is wrong!” she repeated, with bitterness in her heart, and neither she nor the Professor noticed that Maria was in the room. On seeing her mother leave the garden the little one no longer wished to remain with Pinella, so he had brought her to the door of the study, opening it noiselessly for her. The child, struck by her mother's expression, stopped and stared at her with a look of terror. She saw her tear the letter and heard her exclaim: ”He is wrong!” and then she began to cry. Luisa hastened to her, folded her in her arms, and consoled her, and then they immediately took their departure. The Professor's parting words were: ”For pity's sake, be silent!”
”Why be silent?” Maria quickly demanded. Her mother did not heed her; her thoughts were elsewhere. Three or four times Maria repeated: ”Why be silent?” until at last Luisa said: ”Hus.h.!.+ That will do.” Then she was quiet for a time, but presently she began again, simply to tease her mother, and lifting her little, laughing face repeated: ”Why be silent?”
This time she was well scolded, and once more became silent; but when they were pa.s.sing below the cemetery, only a few steps from home, she again burst forth, with the same mischievous laugh. Then Luisa, who had been absorbed in the effort to compose her face into an expression of indifference, simply gave her a shake, but it sufficed to silence her.
That day Maria was in very high spirits. At dinner, while jesting with her mother, she suddenly recalled the reprimands she had received when out walking, and looking covertly at Luisa, once more repeated her ”Why be silent?” with the same timid and provoking little laugh. Her mother pretended not to hear, so she persevered. Then Luisa checked her with an ”Enough!” so unusually stern that Maria's little mouth opened wider and wider, and the tears began to flow. Uncle Piero exclaimed: ”Oh dear me!”
and Franco frowned, showing that he disapproved of his wife's action. As Maria kept on crying, he vented his displeasure upon her, took her in his arms, and carried her off, screaming like an eagle. ”Better still!”
said Uncle Piero. ”Fine disciplinarians, both of you!” ”You let them alone,” said Cia, for Luisa did not speak. ”Parents must be obeyed.”
”That's it! Let us have your wisdom also!” Uncle Piero retorted, and Cia relapsed into sullen silence.
Meanwhile Franco returned, having deposited Maria in one corner of the alcove-room, grumbling something about people who seemed bound to make children cry. And now Luisa also was vexed, and went to fetch Maria, whom she presently brought back in a lachrymose but mute state. The short meal ended badly, for Maria would not eat, and all the others were out of temper for one reason or another; all save Uncle Piero, who set about lecturing Maria, half seriously half playfully, until he succeeded in bringing a little suns.h.i.+ne back to her face. After dinner Franco went to look after some flower-pots, which he kept in the cellar below the little hanging garden, and took Maria with him. Seeing her once more in good spirits, he gently questioned her about what had happened. What did she mean by that ”Why be silent?” ”I don't know.” ”But why did mamma not wish you to say it?” ”I don't know. I kept saying that, and mamma kept scolding me.” ”When?” ”Out walking.” ”Where did you go?” ”To the Signor Ladroni's.” (It was Uncle Piero who had thus simplified the Professor's name.) ”And did you begin saying that when you were at Signor Ladroni's house?” ”No. Signor Ladroni said it to mamma.” ”What did he say?” ”Why, papa, you don't understand anything! He said: 'For pity's sake be silent!'” Franco said no more. ”Mamma tore a paper at Signor Ladroni's house,” Maria added, believing her father would be all the better pleased the more she told him concerning that visit, but he ordered her to be quiet. On returning to the house Franco asked Luisa, with an expression that was far from amiable, why she had made the child cry.
Luisa scrutinised him closely. It seemed to her he suspected something, and she asked indignantly if he expected her to seek to justify herself for such petty matters. ”Oh no!” Franco answered coldly, and went into the garden to see if the dry leaves at the base of the orange-trees and the straw around the trunks were in order, for the night promised to be very cold. As he worked over the plants he reflected that had they possessed intelligence and words they would have shown themselves more affectionate, more grateful than usual, on account of his imminent departure, while Luisa had the heart to be harsh with him. He did not remember that he also had been harsh. Luisa, on the other hand, at once regretted her answer, but she could not hold him back, throw her arms about his neck, and end it all with a kiss or two; that other matter weighed too heavily on her heart. Franco finished swathing his orange trees and came into the house for his cape, intending to go to church at Albogasio. Luisa, who was in the kitchen peeling some chestnuts, heard him pa.s.s through the corridor, stood hesitating a moment, struggling with herself, and then rushed out, catching up with him just as he was starting downstairs.
”Franco!” said she. Franco did not answer, but seemed to repulse her.
Then she seized his arm and dragged him into the neighbouring alcove room.
”What do you want?” said he, shaken, but still determined to appear vexed. Luisa, instead of answering, threw her arms about his neck, drew his unwilling head upon her breast, and said softly--
”We must not quarrel these last days.”
He had expected words of excuse, and pushed his wife's arm aside, answering dryly--
”I have not quarrelled. Perhaps you will tell me,” he added, ”what Professor Gilardoni confided to you that was such a great secret that he felt obliged to entreat you to be silent.”
Luisa looked at him, amazed and pained. ”You doubted me?” said she. ”You questioned the child? Did you indeed do that?”
”Well,” he cried, ”and what if I did? Anyway, I am well aware you always think the worst of me. Listen now. I don't want to know anything.” She interrupted him. ”But I will tell you! I will tell you!” His conscience was p.r.i.c.king him a little on account of his questioning of the child, and now seeing Luisa ready to speak, he would not listen to her, and forbade her to explain. But his heart was full to overflowing with bitterness, for which he must find an outlet. He complained that since Christmas Eve she had not been the same to him. Why protest? He had seen it clearly. Indeed, something else had long been clear to him. What? Oh, something very natural! Perfectly natural! Was he, after all, worthy of her love? Certainly not. He was only a poor useless creature, and nothing more. Was it not natural that upon knowing him better she should love him less? For surely she did love him less than at one time!
Luisa trembled, fearful that this might be true.
”No, Franco, no!” she cried, but her very dread of not saying the words with proper conviction was sufficient to paralyze her voice. He had expected a violent denial, and murmured terrified: ”My G.o.d!” Then it was her turn to be terrified, and she pressed him despairingly in her arms, sobbing: ”No, no, no!” By means of some magnetic current they understood each other's every thought, and remained long united in a close embrace, speaking in a mute, spasmodic effort of their whole being, complaining one of the other, reproaching, pa.s.sionately striving to draw together again, revelling in the sharp and bitter delight of being, for the moment, united by sheer force of will and of love, in spite of the secret disunion of their ideas, of their natures; and all this without a word, without a sound.
Franco once more started to go to church. He would not invite Luisa to accompany him, hoping she would do so of her own free will, but she did not, fearing he might not wish it.
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