Adam’s Breed

do his military service; all the way to Italy he had gone⁠—Geppe, who had seldom even been out of London. In the end he had actually wanted to go, glad of anything for the sake of a change, but Rosa was anxious because of those hands of his, which so easily blistered. The life would be hard, they might set him to digging, they might teach him how to dig trenches⁠—two years he must serve in an infantry regiment. Poor Geppe, the life would be hard. Berta, whose heart had been caught on the rebound, wished to marry a young man called Albert Cole, the commercial traveler whom Geppe had once met and had longed to emulate. Nerone had disliked Albert Cole at sight⁠—he had the misfortune to be English⁠—Nerone was rude whenever he called, so Berta had decided to marry him at once; they were going to be married next month. And here Rosa’s eyes welled over with tears, for Cole called himself an agnostic.

“I do not know what that means,” she said helplessly. “It cannot be anything to do with Saint Agnes, for he does not believe in the saints, and my Berta wishes to give up her Church; they will marry at a register office.”

Berta said terrible things, it seemed⁠—things connected with babies. They had made such a painful impression on Rosa that she knew most of them by heart. “Me and Bert aren’t going to be bothered with children, we know a thing or two, me and Bert!” That was one of the statements⁠—oh, yes, but there were others⁠—Rosa actually blushed while she told them, she could not even look at Maddalena.

And then there was Nerone who had suddenly grown homesick, talking of nothing but Italy ever since his grandson’s departure. “I am old,” he would mutter; “I feel I must go home. All my life I have saved in order to go home⁠—I feel that the moment has arrived.”

Rosa expected him to sell up his business, which, however, he put off doing. From week to week he would put it off⁠—they none of them knew where they were.

“He is so moody and queer,” complained Rosa. “When Mario and I think he means to see about it, he will suddenly run off and start counting his money, and then he will come back to us shaking his head. He will say, ‘No, not yet, just a month or two longer⁠—a few more little shillings must go home to Siena before their old papa can join them.’ ”

Maddalena would listen and sympathize because Rosa had given her milk to Gian-Luca. She did not like Nerone or Geppe or Berta, but since they belonged to Gian-Luca’s foster-mother she felt that they somehow belonged to her.

Fabio always made Maddalena welcome; he approved of the quiet young wife. The Signora Rocca was also quite friendly and would often invite herself to tea. But with her Maddalena found little in common; the Signora Rocca talked only of religion, a religion so alien to that of Maddalena as to form a kind of barrier between them. Perhaps the signora was conscious of this fact, for she sent Maddalena many hot little pamphlets regarding the climatic conditions in hell, and a good few on purgatorial fires.

The Padrona of the Capo would patronize; she would give much advice regarding Gian-Luca, and this with a gentleness hard to resent. “As an old married woman⁠—” she would usually begin, and then she would patronize.

The girls that Maddalena had known in the still-room were fond of coming to see her. “Bon Dieu! It is you who are lucky⁠—” they would say, “to be married to Monsieur Boselli!”

They were all just a little in love with Gian-Luca, but they genuinely liked his wife. They were lighthearted creatures who were always laughing, and they teased Maddalena for being so solemn, and because of her funny, broken English. In the end she would have to laugh with them and be merry, for their youth and good spirits were infectious.

There were plenty of people who were glad to know her, to take her into their lives, and yet only one person in all the world who counted⁠—that was how it was with Maddalena. Ah, but some day soon there would be another⁠—surely there must be another? He would be very small and have strange, light eyes, and his hair when it grew would be ashen blond, and his name would be just Gian-Luca. A great welcome was always awaiting this other. A great welcome? Why, all the mothers of the ages were waiting in the mothering soul of Maddalena, crying out love within her.

“I shall never be lonely any more,” she would think; “all day I can care for and play with the child, and then he will sit with me by the window, watching for his father, who will surely love me when I have given him a son.”

Once she spoke of these things to Gian-Luca, scanning his face for a light in his eyes⁠—a light that did not come.

“Ma si,” he smiled kindly, “you shall tell me when it is so⁠—for the rest, we are surely very well as we are. Children are a great expense, my Maddalena; now if Mario had not had Berta and Geppe he would certainly have felt more free to make his way⁠—he might have left the Capo before he was too old.”

And Maddalena wondered exceedingly. Did not they spring from a race who loved children? A race of eager, imperative fathers? And then, with a little sinking of the heart, she suddenly remembered that Gian-Luca was different⁠—that Gian-Luca had never known a father.

IV

She missed her own father very much these days, and sometimes she would go to see the old priest, for the sake of calling him “Father.” All kindness and tolerance was Father Antonio, whose placid blue eyes could see into the heart⁠—they had seen into so many hearts in their time that now they