perhaps return before to-morrow. When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your mother;--I will come and see her within the week.--You mean to go back before it gets dark?"--
"If I find an opportunity," answered the young girl, turning all her attention to her skirts.
"I must return, you know;" said Antonio, in a tone which he believed to be of great indifference--"I shall wait here till the Ave Maria--if you should not come, it is the same to me."
"You must come;" interposed the little priest:--"you never can leave your mother all alone at night--Is it far you have to go?"
"To a vineyard by Anacapri."
"And I to Capri, so now God bless you, child--and you, my son."
Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, for the Padre and Antonio to divide between them. Antonio, however, appropriated no part of it to himself, he pulled off his cap exclusively to the padre, without even looking at Laurella. But after they had turned their backs, he let his eyes travel but a short way with the padre, as he went toiling over the deep bed of small loose stones; he soon sent them after the maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to climb the heights, holding one hand above her eyes to protect them from the scorching sun. Just before the path disappeared behind high walls, she stopped, as if to gather breath, and looked behind her. At her feet lay the marina; the rugged rocks rose high around her; the sea was shining in the rarest of its deep blue splendour. The scene was surely worth a moment's pause. But as chance would have it, her eye, in glancing past Antonio's boat, met with Antonio's own, which had been following her as she climbed.
Each made a slight movement, as persons do who would excuse themselves for some mistake; and then, with her darkest look, the maiden went her way.
Hardly one hour had passed since noon, and yet for the last two, Antonio had been sitting waiting on the bench before the fisher's tavern. He must have been very much preoccupied with something, for he jumped up every moment to step out into the sunshine, and look carefully up and down the roads, which, parting right and left, lead to the only two little towns upon the island. He did not altogether trust the weather, he then said to the hostess of the Osteria; to be sure, it was clear enough, but he did not quite like that tint of sea and sky. Just so it had looked, he said, before that last awful storm, when the English family had been so nearly lost; surely she must remember it?
No, indeed, she said, she didn't.
Well, if the weather should happen to change before the night, she was to think of him, he said.
"Have you many fine folk over there?" she asked him, after a while.
"They are only just beginning; as yet, the season has been bad enough; those who came to bathe, came late.
"The spring came late. Have you not been earning more than we at Capri?"
"Not enough to give me maccaroni twice a week, if I had had nothing but the boat;--only a letter now and then to take to Naples;--or a gentleman to row out into the open sea, that he might fish. But you know I have an uncle who is rich:--he owns more than one fine orange garden,--and; 'Tonino,' says he to me; 'while I live you shall not suffer want, and when I am gone you will find that I have taken care of you;' and so, with God's help, I got through the winter."
"Has he children, this uncle who is so rich?"
"No, he never married; he was long in foreign parts, and many a good piastre he has laid together. He is going to set up a great fishing business, and set me over it, to see the rights of it."
"Why, then you are a made man, Tonino!"
The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Every man has his own burthen;" he said, starting up again to have another look at the weather, turning his eyes right and left, although he must have known that there can be no weather side but one.
"Let me fetch you another bottle;" said the Hostess; "your uncle can well afford to pay for it."
"Not more than one glass, it is a fiery wine you have in Capri, and my head is hot already."
"It does not heat the blood; you may drink as much of it as you like. And here is my husband coming, so you must sit awhile, and talk to him."
And in fact, with his nets over his shoulder, and his red cap upon his curly head, down came the comely padrone of the Osteria. He had been taking a dish of fish to that great lady, to set before the little curato. As soon as he caught sight of the young boatman, he began waving him a most cordial welcome; and came to sit beside him on the bench, chattering and asking questions. Just as his wife was bringing her second bottle of pure unadulterated Capri, they heard the crisp sand crunch, and Laurella was seen approaching from the left hand road to Anacapri. She nodded slightly in salutation; then stopped, and hesitated.
Antonio sprang from his seat;--"I must go," he said; "It is a young Sorrento girl, who came over with the Signer curato in the morning. She has to get back to her sick mother before night."
"Well, well, time enough yet before night;" observed the fisherman; "time enough to take a glass of wine. Wife, I say, another glass!"
"I thank you; I had rather not;"--and Laurella kept her distance.
"Fill the glasses, wife; fill them both, I say; she only wants a little pressing."
"Don't," interposed the lad. "It is a wilful head of her own she has; a saint could not persuade her to what she does not choose." And taking a hasty leave, he ran down to the boat, loosened the rope and stood waiting for Laurella.--Again she bent her head to the hostess, and slowly approached the water, with lingering steps--she looked around on every side, as if in hopes of seeing some other passenger. But the marina was deserted. The fishermen were asleep, or rowing about the coast with rods or nets; a few women and children sat before their doors, spinning or sleeping--such strangers as had come over in the morning, were waiting for the cool of the evening to return. She had not time to look about her long; before she could prevent him, Antonio had seized her in his arms, and carried her to the boat, as if she had been an infant. He leapt in after her, and with a stroke or two of his oar, they were in deep water.
She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back to him, so that he could only see her profile. She wore a sterner look than ever, the low straight brow was shaded by her hair; the rounded lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril occasionally gave a wilful quiver. After they had gone on a while in silence, she began to feel the scorching of the sun; and unloosening her bundle, she threw the handkerchief over her head, and began to make her dinner of the bread; for in Capri she had eaten nothing.
Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the oranges, with which the baskets had been filled in the morning: "Here is something to eat to your bread, Laurella;" he said: "don't think I kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only found them when I brought the baskets back to the boat."
"Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me."
"They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far."
"They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me."
"As you please;" he said,--and let them drop into the basket
Silence again; the sea was smooth as glass. Not a ripple was heard against the prow. Even the white seabirds that roost among those caves, pursued their prey with soundless flight.
