change before her, and having been sufficiently admonished by the little outbreak that had taken place, did not torment her further by any attempt at talking. Nothing further was uttered by either of them, except such brief words as the work in hand rendered necessary; and before the Ave Maria Giulia’s little trousseau was completed.
And then came the supper, which was an exact repetition of the noontide meal. Again Giulia contrived to slip into her place after the others had taken their seats. And again she baffled Beppo in an attempt to gain one word, or at least one look, from her, by cutting off her retreat as they rose from the table.
And then there was another night of tears and passionate outbursts, succeeded by sad musings, which only confirmed her in the determination she had reached on the previous night, that no other course was open to her than an absolute avoidance of any private interview or last words of any kind with Beppo, and at every cost a continuation, for the few more hours that remained to her at Bella Luce, of the repelling conduct she had hitherto observed towards him.
And then, da capo!—tears, followed by the sleep that at eighteen years rarely fails to visit pillows so wetted.
In the morning of the Saturday she was still making something to do about the work that had been finished over-night, in order to avoid going down-stairs, till the men should have left the house, when la padrona came into the room, and told her that she had promised his Reverence the Curato that Giulia should go up that morning to the Cura to lend la Nunziata a hand at some work. Possibly, too, his Reverence might wish to say a few words to her, before parting with his parishioner.
Giulia perfectly well understood the meaning of this arrangement, and was not at all disposed to quarrel with it. She was well pleased to spend the day at the Cura; and only hoped that his Reverence’s few words might be as few as possible. So she dallied yet a few minutes in the room over the kitchen, till she saw from the window of it the old farmer and his second son go forth to their work in the vineyard! Could it be that Beppo intended to absent himself from his day’s work, and keep guard in the kitchen till she should come down! Surely under the present circumstances he would not venture upon such a step as that! What should she do? Could she tell la padrona that Beppo was alone in the kitchen, and that she could not pass through it except under her escort? She would jump out of the window rather!
She was not left long, however, in her difficulty. She was still standing at the window, not so carefully concealed as when she had been watching for the men to come home, when Beppo came slowly out of the door. He had only been lingering behind a few minutes in the hope that she would come down! When he had stepped two or three paces from the door, while Giulia was sadly marking his drooping head and dejected mien, he turned and looked up at the window. He evidently saw her, for his head was instantly raised and stretched upwards in an imploring attitude. He dared not raise his hands, for his father and brother were yet within sight of him. Yes! he evidently had seen her; but it could only have been for half an instant. For with a backward bound, as if she had put her foot on red-hot iron, she placed herself out of sight behind the shutter; yet so that she could still see him standing in the same attitude in anxious hope for awhile. Then he turned; his head dropped again on his chest, and he dragged his limbs heavily to his work.
Then Giulia hurried down, and flitting like a frightened thing round to the back of the house from the kitchen door,—for the village of Santa Lucia was a little way up the valley, whereas the vineyard on which the men were at work was to the front of the house, looking down the valley,—set off for the priest’s house.
His reverence, the Curato, was from home when she reached the Cura; but his housekeeper, la Nunziata, was evidently prepared to receive her. She had rather dreaded to encounter the preachment which she expected from the priest, and had still more shrunk from all the questioning and gossipping which she anticipated from la Nunziata. But she was agreeably disappointed in this respect. La Nunziata had evidently received her cue. She just said that she was sorry they were going to lose Giulia from Santa Lucia;—that it was very good of her to give her one more day’s help, as she had so often done, before she went; and then plunged into all the variety of little household matters, which she had, or had made a necessity for attending to.
The priest came home to his dinner at mid-day, but went out again, after his siesta, without Giulia having seen him. She began to flatter herself that the preachment part of the business would be spared her. The day passed better and more quickly than she had hoped; the evening came, and she told la Nunziata that it was time for her to go home. But the housekeeper said that she must not in any case go without having spoken to his Reverence;—that he would soon be in;—and that her orders were to keep Giulia till he came.
The preachment then was to be administered.
It was about half an hour after sundown when Don Evandro returned home,—just about the time they would be finishing supper, and going to their rooms to bed, at Bella Luce. As soon as ever he came in Giulia was called into his little sanctum, evidently for the preachment. She ventured, however, on entering, to say—perhaps with a view of shortening the infliction as much as might be,—that she was afraid they would all be gone to bed at Bella Luce, and would think she was very late.
“Yes! they are all gone to bed by this time, except la Signora Sunta. I have just returned from the farm. You need be in no uneasiness about the time. I told la Sunta to wait for you a little while, as I had not had time to speak to you during the day.”
And then came the expected few words. But, to Giulia’s great surprise, they were not all of the same sort with la padrona’s little attempt at preaching. Don Evandro spoke very kindly;—