Chapter IV

The old cloister of Santa Croce, with its classic columns, had today a festive appearance. In front of the garden, sloping down at the mountain's side, one gets a glimpse at the river Sarno, where the Porta di Stabia once was located, and the image of Minerva in terra cotta--the guardian Deity of Pompeii, was excavated intact, now in the Museum at Naples.

The old chapel was gayly decorated with rare flowers and tropical plants today, and the finest adornments of the ancient cloister, which had slumbered peacefully and been forgotten in their cupboards for a century, were brought out by the serving brothers, and cleansed and dusted of their cobwebs. They whispered excitedly putting their heads together, for the marriage of a high-born couple was a rare event within these ancient walls.

The fat prior smiled in the triple folds of his chin, on all the preparations, with quite unusual benevolence. His little steel-gray eyes, keen and shrewd in their glance, fairly sparkled as he thought of the rich fee which would come to his cloister on such an occasion from a generous noble house.

The cook of the monastery, Brother Salvatore, had some days earlier announced the festive event to Concetta's father, who supplied them with fish on fast-days. Concetta was quite childishly delighted. A noble wedding--the handsome pair--the rich costumes--all that she had never seen in her whole life; so she teased her father until he promised to take her to the wedding. Her cheeks glowed, her big eyes sparkled with pleasure, when she was sitting in the boat in her Sunday best and thinking of all the splendors that were going to be exhibited before her.

"If I understood aright the look Saint Cecelia gave me, I shall soon be standing there too!" she whispered to herself with a happy smile, while her father sat opposite her and plied the oars with accustomed hands. "Oh, the happiness, the happiness of belonging to him!" she went on in her whispered colloquy with herself, both hands clasped before her face, blushing with maidenly modesty.

Gloomy clouds began to obscure the sun. The magnificent landscape was in a few minutes wrapped, as it were, in a dark veil of mist. With shining eyes she sat in the boat watching the sky, and drinking draughts of joy with which mingled no drop of sin or selfishness in its crystal waves of purity; for she had grown up with nature as ignorant as her plants at home, of the roar and strife, the burning hate and cunning intrigue of the great world of men and women.

Frequent puffs of wind made the boat now tremble and rock. The fear of an approaching storm had laid hold of the animal world as well; the terrified sea-gulls flew wildly over Concetta's head, while a hideous owl in the neighboring olive-grove uttered its long-drawn, harsh notes, which floated out over the river. Concetta saw and heard nothing. Her thoughts were with the man to whom she had given herself in almost superhuman love, whom she was tempted to adore like the holy image of Christ before which she knelt in lowly reverence, imploring His blessing on her beloved.

She heard the sound of the great bell, which was only rung on great occasions; the nearer she came, the more joyfully beat her heart. A gaily-decked steamer lay already at the landing stage, so that they had to go a little further in order to land. They had no sooner found a place where they could moor their boat than Concetta with impatient haste sprang ashore. They then climbed the steep hill as quickly as possible. Great raindrops fell again, and began to wet Concetta's Sunday dress.

At last they reached the cloister; but they had come near missing the ceremony. The solemn tones of the organ were still sounding impressively through the chapel. Concetta, with shining eyes and wet through and through, was standing near the chapel door, contemplating the undreamed-of splendor of costumes of the high-born ladies. The bridal pair, surrounded by wedding guests congratulating them heartily, were not yet visible.

"Now! now!" there was a general movement towards the outer door of the chapel.

"Here they are coming now," whispered Concetta with sparkling eyes full of expectation, to her father, whose head was bowed reverently. Everybody rushed on in order to have an advantageous place when the bridal party passed.

Girls all in white came first, carrying bouquets in their hands, and then Luigi--pale and haggard--looking like a bad conscience personified; and on his arm came the bride all in white!

Concetta saw and heard no more.

The tortured image of Saint Antoni in the entrance stared ghostly at her, dripping drops of blood. The decaying walls of the old cloister tottered about her, flames sprang up towards her from yawning abysses; lightning shot across her brain, and Beelzebub with his infernal band gnashed his teeth at her in a laugh of malicious triumph.

She recoiled, dazed with awe-struck terror without a sound, without a cry she moved unobserved by the jostling crowd behind Luigi. Her blue eyes wide open never turned from him an instant, as if struck dumb by a horror too great for words or cry.

A little keen steel blade was glistening in her hand, and the next instant Luigi was stabbed through his treacherous heart. He fell senseless at the feet of his newly wedded bride.

The frightened wedding guests, fearing a fainting spell, rushed to him, but the blood was now flowing freely from the spot where she had stabbed him. Nobody saw her do it. He was quickly carried into the monastery, followed by the wedding guests.

Concetta uttered a wild cry, and rushed weeping aloud down the hill towards the harbor. It was already dark; the wind was now blowing with the vehemence of a hurricane over the foaming waters, and the roar of thunder shook the bathing-houses on the left hand side of the harbor. Concetta, with a sudden headlong rush, breathless and horrified had reached the landing pier. With a loud cry she threw herself into the foaming waves and disappeared.

At the same moment her father and brother Salvatore, running after her, had reached the water.

Poor Niccolo, trembling in every limb, was at first rendered almost helpless with horror; but the despair which began to hold sway over him gave him now superhuman strength. With frantic haste he unfastened his little boat, and rowed gesticulating wildly to the spot where he had seen her sink. He loved his only daughter with a love that was akin to idolatry. His grey hair fluttered wildly about his furrowed and heated brow; great tears trickled down his dark cheeks, and panting aloud he gazed down into the foaming gloomy depths.

"Santissima!" he cried aloud, "Madonna! My greatest treasure--my only child! Have mercy!"

A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the stormy surface and then--he saw the red dress floating upon the waves. "Cara mia!" he cried, with a stammering tongue, wild with joy when he had grasped her and dragged the dear form into the boat. Calling her ceaselessly by endearing names, he pressed her to his heart as though to bring back warmth and life to her young body, and covered her dear face with passionate kisses, but the beautiful head fell back pale and lifeless; the great blue eyes were closed; she was dead.

With horror in his wide strained eyes, and pallor on his quivering lips, he gazed at the prostrate form before him, the lifeless eyes staring now blankly at the sky,--the hue of life and exuberant health still glowing on the full cheeks adorned with every grace of youth and beauty.

"Morte--morte!" stammered the father, frantic with grief, tearing his grey hair despairingly. No merry glance, no roguish smile she had any more for him.

"Figlia mia morte!" he cried, beating his breast wildly. "You will be avenged, none of them will escape!" And holding the dead Concetta in his arms, he stood there erect with flaming eyes and panting breath swearing the oath of the deadly feud between him and the family, clenching his fists threateningly. The mighty grief tore at his heart strings and finally, brought bitter tears to his burning eyes, great drops streaming down over his grief-stricken face.

On the pier, Brother Salvatore had sunk upon his knees and clasped the silver crucifix, which hung at his side by a cord. Holding it out towards the boat, he raised his voice, "Benedizione!" he cried aloud. A shiver shook his emaciated frame as if the spectacle which he beheld, would have burned itself indelibly upon his memory.

The lightning flashes showed from afar the silver cross as it were--a symbol of atonement and--forgiveness.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected without comment. Inconsistencies in the use of hyphens has been addressed where possible. Otherwise the author's non-use of accents, spelling and punctuation have been left intact with the following exception:

Page 161: The word "thought" was changed to "though" in the following phrase: "though it looked as if she was even too shy for that."