Section 56

“Make haste, then,” she said. “Make haste, Giovanni, my lover, my master, for I will give thee up to no one but God. And I am afraid of Linda.”
He guessed at her shudder, and swore to do his best. He trusted the courage of her love. She promised to be brave in order to be loved aiways—far away in a white palace upon a hill above a blue sea. Then with a timid, tentative eagerness she murmured— |
“Where is it? Where? ‘Tell me that, Giovanni.”
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He opened his mouth and remained silent—thunder- struck.
“Not that! Not that!’’ he gasped out, appalled at the spell of secrecy that had kept him dumb before so many people falling upon his lips again with unimpaired force. Not even to her. Not even toher. It was too dangerous. “I forbid thee to ask,” he cried at her, deadening cautiously the anger of his voice.
He had not regained his freedom. The spectre of the unlawful treasure arose, standing by her side like a figure of silver, pitiless and secret, with a finger on its pale lips. His soul died within him at the vision of himself creeping in ‘presently along the ravine, with the smell of earth, of damp foliage in his nostrils—creeping in, determined in a purpose that numbed his breast, 1nd creeping out again loaded with silver, with his ears alert to every sound. It must be done on this very night—that work of a craven slave!
He stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips, with a muttered command—
“Tell him I would not stay,” and was gone suddenly from her, silent, without as much as a footfall in the dark night.
She sat still, her head resting indolently against the
wall, and her little feet in white stockings and black slippers crossed over each other. Old Giorgio, coming out, did not seem to be surprised at the intelligence as much as she had vaguely feared. For she was full of inexplicable fear now—fear of everything and everybody except of her Giovanni and his treasure. But that was incredible.
The heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo’s abrupt departure with a sagacious indulgence. He remem- bered his own feelings, and exhibited a masculine pene tration of the true state of the case.
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“Va bene. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter how fair the woman, it galls a little. Liberty, liberty.
‘There’s more than one kind! He has said the great
word, and son Gian’ Battista is not tame.” He seemed to be instructing the motionless and scared Giselle. ah “A man should not be tame,” he added, dog- matically out of the doorway. Her stillness and silence seemed to displease him. “Do not give way to the enviousness of your sister’s lot,” he admonished her, very grave, in his deep voice.
Presently he had to come to the door again to call in
his younger daughter. It was late. He shouted her jame three times before she even moved her head. Left
alone, she had become the helpless prey of astonish- ment. She walked into the bedroom she shared with Linda like a person profoundly asleep. That aspect was so marked that even old Giorgio, spectacled, raising his eyes from the Bible, shook his head as she shut the door behind her.
She walked right across the room without looking at anything, and sat down at once by the open window. Linda, stealing down from the tower in the exuberance of her happiness, found her with a lighted candle at her back, facing the black night full of sighing gusts of wind and the sound of distant showers—a true night of the gulf, too dense for the eye of God and the wiles of the devil. She did not turn her head at the opening of the door.
There was something in that immobility which reached Linda in the depths of her paradise. The elder sister guessed angrily: the child is thinking of that
wretched Ramirez. Linda longed to talk. She said
in her arbitrary voice, “Giselle!” and was not answered by the slightest movement. The girl that was going to live in a palace and walk on
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ground of her own was ready to die with terror. Not for anything in the world would she have turned her head to face her sister. Her heart was beating madly. She said with subdued haste—
“Do not speak to me. I am praying.”
Linda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Giselle sat on unbelieving, lost, dazed, patient, as if waiting for the confirmation of the incredible. The hopeless black- ness of the clouds seemed part of a dream, too. She waited.
She did not wait in vain. The man whose soul was dead within him, creeping out of the ravine, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam of the lighted win- dow, and could not help retracing his steps from the beach.
On that impenetrable background, obliterating the lofty mountains by the seaboard, she saw the slave of the San Tomé silver, as if by an extraordinary power of amiracle. She accepted his return as if henceforth the world could hold no surprise for all eternity.
She rose, compelled and rigid, and began to speak long before the light from within fell upon the face of the approaching man.
“You. have come back to carry me off. It is well! Open thy arms, Giovanni, my lover. I am coming.”
His prudent footsteps stopped, and with his eyes glistening wildly, he spoke in a harsh voice:
“Not yet. I must grow rich slowly .Yow.. «godt A threatening note came into his tone. “Do not forget that you have a thief for your lover.”
“Yes! Yes!” she whispered, hastily. ‘Come nearer! Listen! Do not give me up, Giovanni! Never, never! . . . I will be patient! . . .”
Her form drooped consolingly over the low casement
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towards the slave of the unlawful treasure. The light in the room went out, and weighted with silver, the mag- nificent Capataz clasped her round her white neck in the darkness of the gulf as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On THE day Mrs. Gould was going, in Dr. Monyge ham’s words, to “give a tertulia,” Captain Fidanza went down the side of his schooner lying in Sulaco harbour, calm, unbending, deliberate in the way he sat down in his dinghy and took up his sculls. He was later than usual. The afternoon was well advanced before
he landed on the beach of the Great Isabel, and with a |
steady pace climbed the slope of the island.
From a distance he made out Giselle sitting in a chair tilted back against the end of the house, under the win- dow of the girl’s room. She had her embroidery in her hands, and held it well up to her eyes. The tranquillity of that girlish figure exasperated the feeling of perpetual struggle and strife he carried in his breast. He became angry. It seemed to him that she ought to hear the clanking of his fetters—his silver fetters, from afar, And while ashore that day, he had met the doctor with the evil eye, who had looked at him very hard.
The raising of her eyes mollified him. They smiled in their flower-like freshness straight upon his heart. Then she frowned. It was a warning to be cautious. He stopped some distance away, and in a loud, indifferent tone, said—
“Good day, Giselle. Is Linda up yet?”
“Yes. She is in the big room with father.”
He approached then, and, looking through the win. dow into the bedroom for fear of being detected by Linda returning there for some reason, he said, moving only his lips—
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You love me?”’
“More than my life.” She went on with her em- broidery under his contemplating gaze and continued to speak, looking at her work, “Or I could not live. I could not, Giovanni. For this life is like death. Oh, Giovanni, I shall perish if you do not take me away.”
He smiled carelessly. “I will come to the window when it’s dark,” he said.
_ “No, don’t, Giovanni. Not-to-night. Linda and a5 have been talking together for a long time to ay.”
“What about?”
“Ramirez, I fancy I heard. I do not know. i am afraid. I am always afraid. It is like dying a thousand times a day. Your love is to me like your treasure to you. It is there, but I can never get enough of it.”
He looked at her very still. She was beautiful. His desire had grown within him. He had two masters now. But she was incapable of sustained emotion. She was sincere in what she said, but she slept placidly at night. When she saw him she flamed up always. Then only an increased taciturnity marked the change in her. She was afraid of betraying herself. She was afraid of pain, of bodily harm, of sharp words, of facing anger, and witnessing violence. For her soul was light and tender with a pagan sincerity in its impules. She murmured—
“Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vineyard op the hills, for which we are starving our love.”
She ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at the corner of the house.
Nostromo turned to his affianced wife with a greeting, and was amazed at her sunken eyes, at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness and anguish in her face.
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“Have you been ill?” he asked, trying to put some concern into this question. :
Her black eyes blazed at him. “Am I thinner?” she asked.
“Yes—perhaps—a little.”
“And older?”
“Every day counts—for all of us.”
“I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger,”’ she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him.
She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves.
“No fear of that,” he said, absently.
She turned away as if it had been something final, and
busied herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn some- where deep within him. His answers were slow in com- ing, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the in- tegrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni’s warning as to Ramirez’s designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to “Son Gian’ Battista.” It was a touch lof senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house.
Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had dis- appeared, walking towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father.
Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that
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man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her prom- ised husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa’s grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway work- shops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone.
The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart—well and good. Everything was per- mitted to Gian’ Battista. But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protec- tion. What duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself.
Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing. But woman-like she put pas- sion into her stoicism. Giselle’sshort answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the whitest rieck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, “Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?” And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situa-
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tion. “She knows nothing. She cannot know any- thing,” reflected Giselle. “Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true,’’ Linda tried to persuade herself.
But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking her- self stoically, ‘Will they meet to-night?’’ She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father.
The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, “‘a
young man yet.” In one way or another a good deal of -
talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would have been, had made him rest- less. He slept very little now; but for several nights past instead of reading—or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould’s silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour. -
Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing.
“No,” the old man interrupted. “But son Gian’ Battista told me—quite of himself—that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoun- drelly town of negroes to help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . ButIamnotsoold. No!”
She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their ob-
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THE LIGHTHOUSE 551 stinate notions which must be humoured—his poor wife was like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. “May be. May be,” he mumbled.
She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and walked over to her.
“Listen—you,” she said, roughly.
The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes—the Chica—this vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle’s heart.
Linda said, “Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the island.”
“What folly!”’ answered the other, and in a perver- sity born of long restraint, she added: “He is not the man,” in a jesting tone with a trembling audacity.
“No?” said Linda, through her clenched teeth. “Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night.”
“Jt is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen to me.”
“T shall say nothing—never any more—to anybody,” cried Linda, passionately.
This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon—the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much silver.
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To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her father’s watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island.
Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for the magnifi- cent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body.
“And with our mother looking on,” she murmured. “My own sister—the Chica!” :