CHAPTER II.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXII, Issue 46, 23 February 1901, Page 3 (Supplement)

CHAPTER 11.

A week later Donna Laura was In her cottage at Pentl, a half-forgotten country seat belonging to her husband's family, that she had never before visited. As she stood on the verandah in the afternoon among roses and orange and citron blossoms her old heart was drunk with joy. "I will see tilth n£afn—yes, I will see my son," she kept on saying. She was alone. Business would detain the Baron In Naples for a few days longer, and her companion and the servants were busy setting the house in order. When she got to the park gate she let her eyes rest curiously upon the panorama lying prostrate in the heat of the Juty sun. Penti's white houses, surmonnted by a tower and two or three tall trees, stood out from the heaven's blue ttinopy. At their foot the river flowed, a silver white ribbon In the stony flatland.

"Down there he is," said Donna Laura to herself, and every fibre of her motherly trembled at the thought. She walked on briskly—the heat, the blinding sta didn't exist for her. At a turning in the road two barefoot women -with baskets upon their heads came along. "Can you tell me where Luca Marino lives?" She could not. resist the temptation to pronounce the dear name freely and openly with her full voice. "Beg • your pardon, Sjguora," replied the women, "we are not from Penti." How stupid, thought Donna Laura. She was disappointed, almost angry. A tired feeling overcame "her. Her eyes began to hurt, red circles danced before them. Her head felt heavy. The first houses of Pent! loomed through » forest of sunflowers. Upon the stone steps.of a low dwelling sat a young woman w|th soft eyes and an amiable smile. "Where may you be going, Signora?" she «ked with naive curiosity. Donna Laura was almost at the end of her strength. Slie was short of breath and her face, glowed "I am faint," she said, Instead of answering. /Slowly the woman got up. "May It please yow to come in and rest?" The room, where several small children trawled about, picking up things and tryjiig: to chew whatever they found, was lowcelllnged, dark, and smelt of "poor People." , Donna Lauru sat down near the floor, while her hostess indulged in fulsome small talk. To cut her short, the Signora "ftea after awhile: "Can you show me the *ay to Luca Marino's house?" The woman pointed put a red building at the river's edge, at the end of the town-. "There it is, in the midst of the Poplars. Do you want anything from them, S'gnora?" Donna Laura bent forward to see better, and,- though eyes and limbs ached, her motherly sentiment swelled her bosom joyonsly. This, then, was her son's home. And suddenly, as if by a mirage, the Wtoge in the Provence stood before he? memory. She saw the shadows °* the trees on the lawn, the hill fiat, coverea np tlie borizon In tbe south, - toe quilt on her snowy bed—ah, it had such a Strange pattern! She saw the spot on the *81l in the room where she lay, saw the little tray on which the Marquis had fetched her a glass of crystal water from the *611, saw again her quaintly arrayed peasant nurse, the dog, and goat—all these Persons and things and animals stood vividly before her mental eye, though it was *orty years since she saw them. "¥ou want to be rowed across the river, 4on't you?" continued the woman. "Well, be glad of a fare. He has both »ferry and a boat and'is doing nicely, and 'It's a good thing for Penti, too, for formerly everybody went to Prezzi and forded over—now our grocers and wine dealers > Set the trade." And though Donna Laura ""Mie no reply the woman insisted upon tattling. "Luca," she explained, "wasn't ;.W»n here. The Martinos brought him up because they hare no children of their own,

and when be married some line gentleman in Naples Utted him put as a ferryman. What luck—don't you think so. Slguora? He t-an live like a. landed proprietor now. Too bad he drinks." "A drunkard! My son! Impossible." Donna. Laura took up her skirts and half ran out. "Adieu, adieu," uud she threw some small change to the children. "Take the footpath, lady. Keep to the right; you can't fail," shouted the woman after her. CHAPTEIi 111. Though not feeling secure on her feet, Donna Laura hastened to get out of talking d'stance. After a while she had to cross a little meadow where half v dozen beggars were dozing. One of them started up as she passed and stammered mechanically: "A lew pennies for a poor old man, for God's sake, a few pennies." A moment later the whole gang was at her heels, pleading and lamenting. One of the lot had something the mutter with, his legs and moved about by grotesque leaps like a wounded ape. A second walked upon his arms like a grasshopper, A third exhibited the stump of a limb, a fourth a goitre, that swung below his chin like a bull's dewlap —sights at once disheartening and disgusting. "For God's sake, give me a penny, Signora." Supplicating, whining, and threatening voices frightened Donna Launi. She would have cried for help If she had been able. She started to run. The beggars doubled their pace, jumping, hobbling, crawling, and stamping. Their outstretched hands touched her arms, her shoulders. They demanded alms as a right, as a duty. Donua Laura emptied her purse into the hollow of her hand and threw the contents, a few francs, behind her. She had forgotten to provide herself with money. The beggars cast themselves upon the ground, each trying to catch one or more of the silver pieces. In an lnstaut they were lighting, kicking, and curslug each other. Three drew a prize, the other three took up the pursuit. She found two more coins. The hunchback got one. the handwalker another. A cretin alone went unrewarded. He began to cry and lick the tears from his cheeks. At last Donna Laura reached the house in the midst of the poplars, and as the gate was wide open, she entered the grass grown yard, where a scene of neglect and improvidence met her cultured eyes. The place was littered with all sorts of agricultural implements—Wanton disorder, unsavoury conditions everywhere. '"What do you want, woman? Going1 to the other side?" A bald headed old man, with an ill-shapen, bent body, on crooked leg's, got up from a bench and regarded Donna Laura with inquisitive eyes. "Yes, yes," answered the Baroness. "Very well, Luca is coming." He pointed towards the river. Seeing that Donna Laura had tears in her eyes, he continued. "What are you cryingl for woman? Are you ill?" "No—it's nothing-." The old man asked no more. His had been a hard life and the sorrows of others gave him little concern. A few minutes later the boat ran up to the shore and jLuca Marino jumped out. He was a tall, spare man, in the forties, with sunburnt face and scant hair. His dishevelled moustache of uncertain colour hung: zigzag about his coarse mouth, while his cheeks and chin were dirty with two weeks' growth of beard. In his eyes, seamed with scarlet veins — regular drunkard's, eyes—there was not a gleam of intelligence. He wore his shirt half open, exhibiting- a hairy breast. On Ms head sat a dirty cap. "Lands," he said with an oath, spitting out, "devil take the fellow who invented work." And pushing his cap still further back, he wiped off the sweat with the back of his hand. ■As he siood there with legs far apart, swearing and hiccoughing:, it was plain that he was a brute, and an awkward one. Walking, he swung his big, red, bony fists to and fro. "Gad," he bellowed, "was ever man so pestered with thirst as I? And that woman of mine is slower than a snail" Donna Laura stood like a statue, her speech, will, consciousness even, were gone. This burly ruffian- lier son—the issue of that lovers' idyl in beautiful, joyous Provence. A middle aged woman with an old face, a face telling of much hard labour and no pleasure, no sunshine—Donna Laara:s daughter in law—ran up to- her husband with a jug of wine. He emptied it at one draught, wiped his lips with his hand, and sucked up the drops that clung to his moustache. Then, looking hard at Donna Laura, he said grudgingly, as if he regretted the labour she asked of him, "Well, lam ready." A boy of 18, his son, helped him to put down some planks. As Donna Laura neither spoke nor moved, the old man came up and said, "Why don't you go? Tfou mustn't let them wait." Donna Laura followed the summoriS mechanically. She was unable to think, for her brain was lamed by the blow dealt her pride, her motherly sentiments. Alas, this brute was her flesh and blood. A great void yawned in her i.cart. The Test of her reasoning power slipped away from her. Persons, things, sounds assumed fantastic forms. Luca pushed his boat into the deep water. The sun was now burning upon the whole length of the snore, causing white mists to rise. A group of men came to the edge of the water, the beggars that had frightened Donna Laura. They stood around the poor cretin and gesticulated wildly. At intervals the wind carried some word-frag-ment to the passengers. The ferrymen had doffed their shirts to work with all their strength against the stream. Luca sat a few feet away from his mother, turning his naked back upon her. His skin was brown and dirty; sweat ran from it; the ribs were strongly marked. Donna Laura could not take her eyes from the disagreeable sight; they were wide open, staring, vacant. One of the passengers took his bundle from under the bench and said: "Here we are." Luca threw out the anchor. The boat swung with the tide, gave a jerk, and rested. Two of the younger men helped Donna Laura to the shore. Then all left. The land was dotted with vines, endless rows of them, with a few trees here and there that accentuated rather than broke the monotony. Donna Laura felt lost in this shadeless desert, the ground of which seemed to be receding under her feet. Her pulses hammered against the temples, her ears tingled with strange noises. She struck her foot against a stone, stumbled, fell down, and .rose again, but her poor old body reeled, her hinds clutched the air for support. In the meantime the beggars had forced the cretin to swim across the river to obtain his share of the strange lady's bounty. They had pushed him into the water. The poor devil swam like a dog, under a hail-

storm of missiles intended to frighten him from turning back. And the whole gang whistled, howled, and yelled with delight over the cruel joke. When the tide threatened to carry the idiot away they hustled along the shore, crying, amid shouts of laughter: MHe is sinking! He is winking!" let the idiot succeeded iv gaining terra lirma, and, half naked, dripping, repulsive as he was, crawled up to Donna Laura, with outstretched hands.

The disordered brain of the poor old woman couldn't grasp the situation; she thought she. was threatened. The mere possibility of coming into contact with this ugly brute made her hair rise with .fright. She fled towards the river, and, coming to the edge of the water, fell in head first. The water rose high over her body, then closed and became smooth again. Circles began to form; they became bigger and bigger, until the tide swallowed them up. When the beggars saw the accident they ran to Luca's house to give the alarm. He and another man, Martino, jumped into small boats and rowed across. Martino rowed up and down over a distance of some twenty paces, and Luca searched the river bottom with a long pole having a hook at the end. Every time he encountered resistance he grunted: "There, wo got it; now let's be off to Chiachla's." But his thirst was disappointed again and again. Finally, at the end of half an hour, he cried: "Here it Is, and no mistake." He leaned over the edge of the bout, bent his knees to steady himself, and then slowly raised the load, while his muscles trembled with the unusual exertion. Martiuo, drawing in his oars, said: "Shall I help thee?" "No," answered Luen. "This stiff Is as light ns a. feather, the lightest I ever raised."