"Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well, viejo. It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you for----"
A sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He dared not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a marked weight and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.
"For my wife!" ... His heart was beating fast. "It is time you----"
The Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. "That was left for you to judge."
He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa"s death, thick, snow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door, and called out in his strong voice--
"Linda."
Her answer came sharp and faint from within; and the appalled Nostromo stood up, too, but remained mute, gazing at the door. He was afraid. He was not afraid of being refused the girl he loved--no mere refusal could stand between him and a woman he desired--but the shining spectre of the treasure rose before him, claiming his allegiance in a silence that could not be gainsaid. He was afraid, because, neither dead nor alive, like the Gringos on Azuera, he belonged body and soul to the unlawfulness of his audacity. He was afraid of being forbidden the island. He was afraid, and said nothing.
Seeing the two men standing up side by side to await her, Linda stopped in the doorway. Nothing could alter the pa.s.sionate dead whiteness of her face; but her black eyes seemed to catch and concentrate all the light of the low sun in a flaming spark within the black depths, covered at once by the slow descent of heavy eyelids.
"Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor." Old Viola"s voice resounded with a force that seemed to fill the whole gulf.
She stepped forward with her eyes nearly closed, like a sleep-walker in a beatific dream.
Nostromo made a superhuman effort. "It is time, Linda, we two were betrothed," he said, steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.
She put her hand into his offered palm, lowering her head, dark with bronze glints, upon which her father"s hand rested for a moment.
"And so the soul of the dead is satisfied."
This came from Giorgio Viola, who went on talking for a while of his dead wife; while the two, sitting side by side, never looked at each other. Then the old man ceased; and Linda, motionless, began to speak.
"Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I have lived for you alone, Gian" Battista. And that you knew! You knew it ... Battistino."
She p.r.o.nounced the name exactly with her mother"s intonation. A gloom as of the grave covered Nostromo"s heart.
"Yes. I knew," he said.
The heroic Garibaldino sat on the same bench bowing his h.o.a.ry head, his old soul dwelling alone with its memories, tender and violent, terrible and dreary--solitary on the earth full of men.
And Linda, his best-loved daughter, was saying, "I was yours ever since I can remember. I had only to think of you for the earth to become empty to my eyes. When you were there, I could see no one else. I was yours.
Nothing is changed. The world belongs to you, and you let me live in it." ... She dropped her low, vibrating voice to a still lower note, and found other things to say--torturing for the man at her side. Her murmur ran on ardent and voluble. She did not seem to see her sister, who came out with an altar-cloth she was embroidering in her hands, and pa.s.sed in front of them, silent, fresh, fair, with a quick glance and a faint smile, to sit a little away on the other side of Nostromo.
The evening was still. The sun sank almost to the edge of a purple ocean; and the white lighthouse, livid against the background of clouds filling the head of the gulf, bore the lantern red and glowing, like a live ember kindled by the fire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure, raised the altar-cloth from time to time to hide nervous yawns, as of a young panther.
Suddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and seizing her head, covered her face with kisses. Nostromo"s brain reeled. When she left her, as if stunned by the violent caresses, with her hands lying in her lap, the slave of the treasure felt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Giorgio lifted his leonine head.
"Where are you going, Linda?"
"To the light, padre mio."
"Si, si--to your duty."
He got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter; then, in a tone whose festive note seemed the echo of a mood lost in the night of ages--
"I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son! The old man knows where to find a bottle of wine, too."
He turned to Giselle, with a change to austere tenderness.
"And you, little one, pray not to the G.o.d of priests and slaves, but to the G.o.d of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children, to give thee a man like this one for a husband."
His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostromo"s shoulder; then he went in. The hopeless slave of the San Tome silver felt at these words the venomous fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was appalled by the novelty of the experience, by its force, by its physical intimacy. A husband! A husband for her! And yet it was natural that Giselle should have a husband at some time or other. He had never realized that before. In discovering that her beauty could belong to another he felt as though he could kill this one of old Giorgio"s daughters also. He muttered moodily--
"They say you love Ramirez."
She shook her head without looking at him. Coppery glints rippled to and fro on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft, pure sheen of a priceless pearl in the splendour of the sunset, mingling the gloom of starry s.p.a.ces, the purple of the sea, and the crimson of the sky in a magnificent stillness.
"No," she said, slowly. "I never loved him. I think I never ... He loves me--perhaps."
The seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes remained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought.
"Ramirez told you he loved you?" asked Nostromo, restraining himself.
"Ah! once--one evening ..."
"The miserable ... Ha!"
He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute with anger.
"Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian" Battista! Poor wretch that I am!"
she lamented in ingenuous tones. "I told Linda, and she scolded--she scolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And she told father, who took down his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then you came, and she told you."
He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white throat, which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating, delicate, and alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible?
It dawned upon him that in these last years he had really seen very little--nothing--of her. Nothing. She had come into the world like a thing unknown. She had come upon him unawares. She was a danger. A frightful danger. The instinctive mood of fierce determination that had never failed him before the perils of this life added its steady force to the violence of his pa.s.sion. She, in a voice that recalled to him the song of running water, the tinkling of a silver bell, continued--
"And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to the sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sanctissima Madre.
My hair shall turn grey on this tedious island. I could hate you, Gian"
Battista!"
He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She bemoaned her fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its perfume in the coolness of the evening, the indefinable seduction of her person. Was it her fault that n.o.body ever had admired Linda? Even when they were little, going out with their mother to Ma.s.s, she remembered that people took no notice of Linda, who was fearless, and chose instead to frighten her, who was timid, with their attention. It was her hair like gold, she supposed.
He broke out--
"Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips like the rose; your round arms, your white throat." ...
Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply all over to the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was no more self-conscious than a flower. But she was pleased. And perhaps even a flower loves to hear itself praised. He glanced down, and added, impetuously--
"Your little feet!"
Leaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she seemed to bask languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only her lowered eyes glanced at her little feet.
"And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is terrible. Ah!
now she will understand better since you have told her you love her. She will not be so fierce."