Prudence brought her hands together sharply—a gesture of exasperation. “He ain’t going to die any more than I am,” she said. But she knew what life would be in that house with such a threat hanging over it, even though the execution were deferred to some vague future time. Angrily she left the room.
Jo Vanny followed her. “Come along, if you want to,” she said, half impatient, half glad. She felt a sudden desire that some one besides herself should see the sacrifice, see the actual despoiling of the little box she had labored to fill. She went to the wood-shed. It was a gloomy December day, and the vegetables hanging on the walls had a dreary, stone-like look; she climbed up on a barrel, and removed the hay which filled a rough shelf; in a niche behind was her work-box; with it in her hand she climbed down again.
She gave him the box to hold while she counted out the money—nine francs. “There are twelve in all,” she said.
“Then you’ll have three left,” said Jo Vanny.
“Yes, three.” She could not help a sigh of retrospect, the outgoing nine represented so many long hours of toil.
“Let me put the box back,” said the boy. It was quickly and deftly done. “Never mind about it, mamma,” he said, as he jumped down. “I’ll help you to make it up again. I want that front yard as much as you do, now you’ve told me about it; I think it will be beautiful.”
“Well,” said Prudence, “when the flower-beds are all fixed up, and the new front path and swing gate, it will be kind of nice, I reckon.”
“Nice?” said Jo Vanny. “That’s not the word. ’Twill be an ecstasy! a smile! a dream!”
“Bless the boy, what nonsense he talks!” said the step-mother. But she loved to hear his romantic phrases all the same.
They went back to the kitchen. The sacrifice had now become a cheerful one. She bent over the heap. “Here’s your nine francs, Patro,” she shouted. “Come, now, come!”
Pietro felt the money in his hand. He rose quietly. “I’m nearly killed with all your yelling,” he said. Then he took his hat and left the house.
“We did yell,” said Prudence, picking up the fragments of the broken scaldino. “I don’t quite know why we did.”
“Never mind why-ing, but get supper,” said Granmar. “Then go down on your knees and thank the Virgin for giving us such a merciful, mild old man as Pietro. You brought on his stroke; but what did he do? He just took what you gave him, and went away so forgivingly—the soul of a dove, the spice-cake soul!”
In January, the short, sharp winter of Italy had possession of Assisi.
One day towards the last of the month a bitter wind was driving through the bleak, stony little street, sending clouds of gritty, frozen dust before it. The dark, fireless dwellings were colder than the outside air, and the people, swathed in heavy layers of clothing, to which all sorts of old cloaks and shawls and mufflers had been added, were standing about near the open doors of their shops and dwellings, various prominences under apron or coat betraying the hidden scaldino, the earthen dish which Italians tightly hug in winter with the hope that the few coals it contains will keep their benumbed fingers warm. All faces were reddened and frost-bitten. The hands of the children who were too young to hold a scaldino were purple-black.
Prudence Guadagni, with her great basket strapped on her back, came along, receiving but two or three greetings as she passed. Few knew her; fewer still liked her, for was she not a foreigner and a pagan? Besides, what could you do with a woman who drank water, simple water, like a toad, and never touched wine—a woman who did not like oil, good, sweet, wholesome oil! Tonio’s children were much commiserated for having fallen into such hands.
Prudence was dressed as she had been in September, save that she now wore woollen stockings and coarse shoes, and tightly pinned round her spare person a large shawl. This shawl (she called it “my Highland shawl”) had come with her from America; it was green in hue, plaided; she thought it still very handsome. Her step was not as light as it had been; rheumatism had crippled her sorely.
As she left the town and turned up the hill towards home, some one who had been waiting there joined her. “Is that you, Bepper? Were you coming up to the house?” she said.
“Yes,” answered Beppa, showing her white teeth in a smile. “I’m bringing you some news, Denza.”
“Well, what is it? I hope you’re not going to leave your place?”
“I’m going to leave it, and that’s my news: I’m going to be married.”
“My! it’s sudden, isn’t it?” said Prudence, stopping.
“Giuseppe doesn’t think it’s sudden,” said Beppa, laughing and tossing her head; “he thinks I’ve been ages making up my mind. Come on, Denza, do; it’s so cold!”
“I don’t know Giuseppe, do I?” said Prudence, trudging on again; “I don’t remember the name.”
“No; I’ve never brought him up to the house. But the boys know him—Paolo and Pasquale; Augusto, too. He’s well off, Giuseppe is; he’s got beautiful furniture. He’s a first-rate mason, and gets good wages, so I sha’n’t have to work any more—I mean go out to work as I do now.”
“Bepper, do you like him?” said Prudence, stopping again. She took hold of the girl’s wrist and held it tightly.
“Of course I like him,” said Beppa, freeing herself. “How cold your hands are, Denza—ugh!”
“You ain’t marrying him for his furniture? You love him for himself—and better than any one else in the whole world?” Prudence went on, solemnly.
“Oh, how comical you do look, standing there talking about love, with your white hair and your great big basket!” said Beppa, breaking into irrepressible laughter. The cold had not made her hideous, as it makes so many Italians hideous; her face was not empurpled, her fine features were not swollen. She looked handsome. What was even more attractive on such a day, she looked warm. As her merriment ceased, a sudden change came over her. “Sainted Maria! she doubts whether I love him! Love him? Why, you poor old woman, I’d die for him to-morrow. I’d cut myself in pieces for him this minute.” Her great black eyes gleamed; the color flamed in her oval cheeks; she gave a rich, angry laugh.
It was impossible to doubt her, and Prudence did not doubt. “Well, I’m right down glad, Bepper,” she said, in a softened tone—“right down glad, my dear.” She was thinking of her own love for the girl’s father.
“I was coming up,” continued Beppa, “because I thought I’d better talk it over with you.”
“Of course,” said Prudence, cordially. “A girl can’t get married all alone; nobody ever heard of that.”
“I sha’n’t be much alone, for Giuseppe’s family’s a very big one; too big, I tell him—ten brothers and sisters. But they’re all well off, that’s one comfort. Of course I don’t want to shame ’em.”
“Of course not,” said Prudence, assenting again. Then, with the awakened memories still stirring in her heart: “It’s a pity your father isn’t here now,” she said, in a moved tone; “he’d have graced a wedding, Bepper, he was so handsome.” She seldom spoke of Tonio; the subject was too sacred; but it seemed to her as if she might venture a few words to this his daughter on the eve of her own marriage.
“Yes, it’s a pity, I suppose,” answered Beppa. “Still, he would have been an old man now. And ’tain’t likely he would have had a good coat either—that is, not such a one as I should call good.”
“Yes, he would; I’d have made him one,” responded Prudence, with a spark of anger. “This whole basket’s full of coats now.”
“I know you’re wonderful clever with your needle,” said the girl, glancing carelessly at the basket that weighed down her step-mother’s shoulders. “I can’t think how you can sew so steadily, year in, year out; I never could.”
“Well, I’ve had to get stronger spectacles,” Prudence confessed. “And they wouldn’t take my old ones in exchange, neither, though they w
ere perfectly good.”
“They’re robbers, all of them, at that shop,” commented Beppa, agreeingly.
“Now, about your clothes, Bepper—when are you going to begin? I suppose you’ll come home for a while, so as to have time to do ’em; I can help you some, and Nounce too; Nounce can sew a little.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll come home; ’twouldn’t pay me. About the clothes—I’m going to buy ’em.”
“They won’t be half so good,” Prudence began. Then she stopped. “I’m very glad you’ve got the money laid up, my dear,” she said, commendingly.
“Oh, but I haven’t,” answered Beppa, laughing. “I want to borrow it of you; that is what I came up for to-day—to tell you about it.”
Prudence, her heart still softened, looked at the handsome girl with gentle eyes. “Why, of course I’ll lend it to you, Bepper,” she said. “How much do you want?”
“All you’ve got won’t be any too much, I reckon,” answered Beppa, with pride. “I shall have to have things nice, you know; I don’t want to shame ’em.”
“I’ve got twenty-five francs,” said Prudence; “I mean I’ve got that amount saved and put away; ’twas for—for a purpose—something I was going to do; but ’tain’t important; you can have it and welcome.” Her old face, as she said this, looked almost young again. “You see, I’m so glad to have you happy,” she went on. “And I can’t help thinking—if your father had only lived—the first wedding in his family! However, I’ll come—just as though I was your real mother, dear; you sha’n’t miss that. I’ve got my Sunday gown, and five francs will buy me a pair of new shoes; I can earn ’em before the day comes, I guess.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” said Beppa, laughing.
“Why, when’s the wedding? Not for two or three weeks, I suppose?”
“It’s day after to-morrow,” answered Beppa. “Everything’s bought, and all I want is the money to pay for ’em; I knew I could get it of you.”
“Dear me! how quick! And these shoes are really too bad; they’re clear wore out, and all the cleaning in the world won’t make ’em decent.”
“Well, Denza, why do you want to come? You don’t know any of Giuseppe’s family. To tell the truth, I never supposed you’d care about coming, and the table’s all planned out for (at Giuseppe’s sister’s), and there ain’t no place for you.”
“And you didn’t have one saved?”
“I never thought you’d care to come. You see they’re different, they’re all well off, and you don’t like people who are well off—who wear nice clothes. You never wanted us to have nice clothes, and you like to go barefoot.”
“No, I don’t!” said Prudence.
“ ’Tany rate, one would think you did; you always go so in summer. But even if you had new shoes, none of your clothes would be good enough; that bonnet, now—”
“My bonnet? Surely my bonnet’s good?” said the New England woman; her voice faltered, she was struck on a tender point.
“Well, people laugh at it,” answered Beppa, composedly.
They had now reached the house. “You go in,” said Prudence; “I’ll come presently.”
She went round to the wood-shed, unstrapped her basket, and set it down; then she climbed up on the barrel, removed the hay, and took out her work-box. Emptying its contents into her handkerchief, she descended, and, standing there, counted the sum—twenty-seven francs, thirty centimes. “ ’Twon’t be any too much; she don’t want to shame ’em.” She made a package of the money with a piece of brown paper, and, entering the kitchen, she slipped it unobserved into Beppa’s hand.
“Seems to me,” announced Granmar from the bed, “that when a girl comes to tell her own precious Granmar of her wedding, she ought in decency to be offered a bite of something to eat. Any one but Denza would think so. Not that it’s anything to me.”
“Very well, what will you have?” asked Prudence, wearily. Freed from her bonnet and shawl, it could be seen that her once strong figure was much bent; her fingers had grown knotted, enlarged at the joints, and clumsy; years of toil had not aged her so much as these recent nights—such long nights!—of cruel rheumatic pain.
Granmar, in a loud voice, immediately named a succulent dish; Prudence began to prepare it. Before it was ready, Jo Vanny came in.
“You knew I was up here, and you’ve come mousing up for an invitation,” said Beppa, in high good-humor. “I was going to stop and invite you on my way back, Giovanni; there’s a nice place saved for you at the supper.”
“Yes, I knew you were up here, and I’ve brought you a wedding-present,” answered the boy. “I’ve brought one for mamma, too.” And he produced two silk handkerchiefs, one of bright colors, the other of darker hue.
“Is the widow going to be married, too?” said Beppa. “Who under heaven’s the man?”
In spite of the jesting, Prudence’s face showed that she was pleased; she passed her toil-worn hand over the handkerchief softly, almost as though its silk were the cheek of a little child. The improvised feast was turned into a festival now, and of her own accord she added a second dish; the party, Granmar at the head, devoured unknown quantities. When at last there was nothing left, Beppa, carrying her money, departed.
“You know, Jo Vanny, you hadn’t ought to leave your work so often,” said Prudence, following the boy into the garden when he took leave; she spoke in an expostulating tone.
“Oh, I’ve got money,” said Jo Vanny, loftily; “I needn’t crawl.” And carelessly he showed her a gold piece.
But this sudden opulence only alarmed the step-mother. “Why, where did you get that?” she said, anxiously.
“How frightened you look! Your doubts offend me,” pursued Jo Vanny, still with his grand air. “Haven’t I capacities?—hasn’t Heaven sent me a swarming genius? Wasn’t I the acclaimed, even to laurel crowns, of my entire class?”
This was true: Jo Vanny was the only one of Tonio’s children who had profited by the new public schools.
“And now what shall I get for you, mamma?” the boy went on, his tone changing to coaxing; “I want to get you something real nice; what will you have? A new dress to go to Beppa’s wedding in?”
For an instant Prudence’s eyes were suffused. “I ain’t going, Jo Vanny; they don’t want me.”
“They shall want you!” declared Jo Vanny, fiercely.
“I didn’t mean that; I don’t want to go anyhow; I’ve got too much rheumatism. You don’t know,” she went on, drawn out of herself for a moment by the need of sympathy—“you don’t know how it does grip me at night sometimes, Jo Vanny! No; you go to the supper, and tell me all about it afterwards; I like to hear you tell about things just as well as to go myself.”
Jo Vanny passed his hand through his curly locks with an air of desperation. “There it is again—my gift of relating, of narrative; it follows me wherever I go. What will become of me with such talents? I shall never die in my bed; nor have my old age in peace.”
“You go ’long!” said Prudence (or its Italian equivalent). She gave him a push, laughing.
Jo Vanny drew down his cap, put his hands deep in his pockets, and thus close-reefed scudded down the hill in the freezing wind to the shelter of the streets below.
By seven o’clock Nounce and Granmar were both asleep; it was the most comfortable condition in such weather. Prudence adjusted her lamp, put on her strong spectacles, and sat down to sew. The great brick stove gave out no warmth; it was not intended to heat the room; its three yards of length and one yard of breadth had apparently been constructed for the purpose of holding and heating one iron pot. The scaldino at her feet did not keep her warm; she put on her Highland shawl. After a while, as her head (scantily covered with thin white hair) felt the cold also, she went to get her bonnet. As she took it from the box she remembered Beppa’s speech, and the pang came back; in her own mind that bon
net had been the one link that still united her with her old Ledham respectability, the one possession that distinguished her from all these “papish” peasants, with their bare heads and frowzy hair. It was not new, of course, as it had come with her from home. But what signified an old-fashioned shape in a community where there were no shapes of any kind, new or old? At least it was always a bonnet. She put it on, even now from habit pulling out the strings carefully, and pinning the loops on each side of her chin. Then she went back and sat down to her work again.
At eleven o’clock Granmar woke. “Yam! how cold my legs are! Denza, are you there? You give me that green shawl of yours directly; precisely, I am dying.”
Prudence came out from behind her screen, lamp in hand. “I’ve got it on, Granmar; it’s so cold setting up sewing. I’ll get you the blanket from my bed.”
“I don’t want it; it’s as hard as a brick. You give me that shawl; if you’ve got it on, it ’ll be so much the warmer.”
“I’ll give you my other flannel petticoat,” suggested Prudence.
“And I’ll tear it into a thousand pieces,” responded Granmar, viciously. “You give me that shawl, or the next time you leave Nounce alone here, she shall pay for it.”
Granmar was capable of frightening poor little Nounce into spasms. Prudence took off the shawl and spread it over the bed, while Granmar grinned silently.
Carrying the lamp, Prudence went into the bedroom to see what else she could find to put on. She first tried the blanket from her bed; but as it was a very poor one, partly cotton, it was stiff (as Granmar had said), and would not stay pinned; the motion of her arms in sewing would constantly loosen it. In the way of wraps, except her shawl, she possessed almost nothing; so she put on another gown over the one she wore, pinned her second flannel petticoat round her shoulders, and over that a little cloak that belonged to Nounce; then she tied a woollen stocking round her throat, and crowned with her bonnet, and carrying the blanket to put over her knees, she returned to her work.
“I declare I’m clean tired out,” she said to herself; “my feet are like ice. I wouldn’t sew any longer such a bitter night if it warn’t that that work-box ain’t got a thing in it. I can’t bear to think of it empty. But as soon as I’ve got a franc or two to begin with again, I’ll stop these extry hours.”
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