“Malthinu, my little Malthineddu, my sole comfort in all the earth; your daddy is dead,” sobbed Giovanna.
The woman, understanding that Costantino had been found guilty, began to cry as well. Suddenly Aunt Bachissia descended swiftly upon them. Pushing Giovanna into the cottage, she asked the woman to help her unload the horse.
“Are you stark mad, both of you?” she demanded in a low voice. “What need is there to carry on like that, right out here in sight of the white house? I can see the beak of that old Godmother Malthina now. Ah! she will be delighted when she hears of our bad luck.”
“No,” said the woman, “she has come several times to ask for news of Costantino, and she always seemed to feel very sorry. She told me she had dreamed that he was condemned to penal servitude.”
“Oh, yes! that is the kind of sorrow that an ill-tempered cur feels! I know her! She’s a venomous snake, and she can’t forgive us. After all,” she added a few minutes later, walking towards the cottage with the wallet on her back, “she’s right; we can’t forgive ourselves.”
Aunt Martina Dejas was the owner of the white house on the hill, and the mother of that Brontu Dejas whom Giovanna had refused to marry. She was very well off, but a miser, and Aunt Bachissia was quite mistaken in supposing that she hated them. As a fact, the refusal had affected her very little, either one way or the other.
“See here,” said Aunt Bachissia, when they had finished unloading the horse. “Will you do me one favour more, Maria Chicca? Will you take back the horse and tell her that Costantino is to get twenty-seven years in prison? Then watch her face.”
The woman took hold of the bridle, the animal having been hired from the Dejases, and led it towards the white house.
This house, formerly the property of a merchant who had failed, had been bought at public sale a few years before. It was large and commodious, with a portico in front that gave it an almost seignorial air, but which was used as a promenade by Aunt Martina’s chickens and pigs. It was an inappropriate dwelling for rough shepherds like the Dejases, as was shown by its rude furnishings, composed mainly of high clumsy wooden bedsteads, roughly fashioned chests, and heavy chairs and stools. Aunt Martina was seated on the portico, spinning—she could spin even in the dark—when Maria Chicca approached, leading the horse. The house was entirely unlighted, Brontu and the men being off at the sheepfolds, while Aunt Martina never kept a servant. She had other sons and daughters, all married, with whom she lived in a constant state of warfare on account of her miserly habits. Whenever there was any especial stress of work, she got in some of the neighbours to help. Often Giovanna and her mother were hired in this way, being paid in stale or injured farm produce. The Eras, however, were too poor to refuse anything they could get.
“Well, what was the result?” asked the old woman, laying the spindle and a little ball of flax on the bench beside her. She had a thin, nasal voice; round, light eyes, placed close together; a delicate, aquiline nose, and lips that were still full and red. “You are crying, Maria Chicca. I saw those two poor women arrive, but I was afraid to go and ask, because I dreamed last night that he had been sentenced to penal servitude.”
“Ah, no! they have given him twenty-seven years’ imprisonment.”
Aunt Martina appeared to be disappointed; not, indeed, that she bore Costantino any ill-will, but because she had a firm belief in the infallibility of her dreams.
She took the horse by the bridle, saying:
“I will go to the Eras’ this evening, if I possibly can, but I’m not sure. There’s a man coming, he who worked for Basile Ledda; he is going to hire out to us. He was one of the witnesses; but I believe he’s back, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I think he is,” said the other. And, returning to the cottage, she began at once to relate how Aunt Martina felt very sorry; and how she had dreamed that Costantino had got penal servitude; and that Giacobbe Dejas—he was a poor relation of the other Dejases—was going to work for them. Giovanna, who was nursing the child, and gazing down at it sorrowfully, did not so much as raise her eyes. Aunt Bachissia, on the contrary, asked innumerable questions: Had she found the old Dejas alone? Was she spinning—spinning there in the dark?—etc., etc.
“Listen,” she said to Giovanna. “She may be here this evening.”
Giovanna neither moved nor looked up.
“My soul! do you hear me?” cried the mother angrily. “She may come down this evening.”
“Who?” asked Giovanna, in the tone of a person just awake.
“Malthina Dejas!”
“Well, let her go to the devil!”
“Who is to go to the devil?” asked a sonorous voice from the doorway. It was Isidoro Pane, an old leech-fisher related to the Eras. He had come on a visit of condolence. Tall, with blue eyes and a yellow beard, a bone rosary about his waist, and clasping a long staff with a bundle fastened to the top, Uncle Isidoro looked like a pilgrim. He was the poorest and the gentlest and the most peaceable inhabitant of Orlei. When he wanted to swear, all he said was: “May you become a leech-fisher!” He and Costantino were great friends. Often and often had the two sung the holy lauds in church together, and the Eras had named him as a witness for the defence, because no one could testify better than he to the blameless character of the accused man. His name had, however, been rejected. What, indeed, would the testimony of a poor leech-fisher amount to when confronted with the majesty of the law!
The moment she saw him, Giovanna gave way and began to sob.
“The
