Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 January 1886 — LUCIA'S DUTY. [ARTICLE]

LUCIA'S DUTY.

BY CATHABINE CHILDAS, “You do not love me, Lucia!” The speaker was a tall, good-looking young fellow, dressed in the picturesqe costume of the shepherds of the Albano Mountains, but his handsome features were spoilt by an expression of petulant ill-humor. The girl whom ho addressed as Lucia sighed deeply, but she did not raise her eyes nor make any answer. “Is this your last word?” continued the young man. “You moan to say you prefer that wretched foundling that miserable, nameless cripple, to me?” “See here, Enrico: what you ask me is impossible! How can I turn out of doors a helpless child of six years old? Who is to feed him? Who is to take care of him?” “But we are poor people. Why are we to keen a stranger’s child?” Lucia lifted her head eagerly; the “we” sounded encouraging. “Dear Enrico, you shall have no expense. He shall not cost you a farthing. The English signora who taught me to knit has promised to buy all I do. I shall earn a good deal, lam sure. See, I have already begun a stocking, and the work goes on—goes on; whether I watch the goats, or the soup upon tho lire, I knit and knit. Look, how fast it goes!" and Lucia made the steel needles glitter in the sunlight. “Bah! That is nonsense, and the English lady will very likely never come again. Those foreigners are not to be relied on. Besides, when we are married you will have more to do. There will be my clothes to see to, and why are you to be saddled with a foundling? He is no relation of yours." “True, but he is almost like a brother. Did not my dear mother find him lost among the hills four years ago? Did she not take care of him as if he were her own? Has he not always shared our food and our Lome? And now that she is dead—she that was his best friend, always patient when I was angry, always gentle when I was severe—now, before she has lain a month in her cold grave, I am to turn out the poor child she rescued from death? No, Enrico mio, such a thing is not possible. As for loving you, ah! you know ” Here the poor girl’s voice broke, and she said no more. But Enrico did not seem convinced either by her glowing words or her silent tears. He made no attempt to console her; he stood there frowning, and kicking the loose stones of the road, looking just what he was, a bad-tempered, selfish fellow. Ho Lad been brought up with Lucia, and had loved her after his own fashion ever since they were children—that is to say, he had tyrannized over her himself, but had fought her battles with others—and Lucia had reIrnid his championship with the deepest ove and admiration of her little heart. Enrico had taken to spending his winters in Rome, picking up what he could get as a model, and returning to his native mountains during the summer months. His affection for Lucia had become a habit, though, as she was poor, he looked upon iimself as a very magnanimous young fellow for offering to marry her, considerirfg Low many girls were fascinated by Lis person and manners. But as to the cripple, the littie orphan that Lucia’s mother had been silly enough to adopt, that was quite another matter. He wasn’t going to* be saddled with him, a useless creature, that could never be turned to account. Just then the poor child who was the cause of the lovers’ estrangement came hopping and wriggling toward them. One leg dangled, perfectly useless, but he had a crutch, and by means of this and his uninjured leg he managed to get over the ground tolerably fast. Enrico saw the child coming, but took no notice; he only kicked the stones more viciously than before. “Take care, Enrico!” cried Lncia, anxiously; “you very nearly hit his head.” She spoke too late. Enrico had sent a ehaip flint full into the little cripple’s face. It struck his lip and mado him cry. Without a word of regret or farewell, Enrico turned on his heels and strode quickly .away. The two creatures he had wounded so •cruelly wept in each other’s arms. Little Pipino’s face was cut, and the smart was hard to bear, but what was that compared to the pain in the true and loyal heart of Lucia?

“Do not cry,” whispered Pipino, forgetful of his own hurt, and stroking Lucia’s face with his small, thin hands, “do not •cry. He is a bad man. When I grow big And strong I will kill him! * “No, dear little one, you must not say such things. It is very wicked to be revengeful. Enrico did rrot mean to hurt you.” “Yes, he did. He told me yesterday he should like to wring my neck. He would have boxed my ears too, if Nicolo Prato had not come up just in time.. Enrico is a ■coward; he ran away when he saw Nicolo.” “Hush, Pipino!’ said Lucia, angrily. “Little boys know nothing about men. Nicolo Prato can box people’s ears too, I dare say.” “Ah, but not ours,” said Pipino, with .such a comic expression that Lucia could not help smi'ing and blushing. She knew very well why big, rough Nicolo Prato was so kind to the little cripple, but she tried to pretend ignorance. “Come, come,” she said, when she had washed Pipino’s faoe and dressed his

wound, “a plate of soup, and then off to bed.” “I don't want any soup. Nicolo gave me some, and I took it all, because I knew there would be more for you.” “That was very naughty of you! You are never to do so again—do yon year?” The child made no answer.* He took his I reproof with an air of tolerant superiority, ! and walked off to his primitive couch. I He was soon asleep, but Lucia lay awake I all night. Her love for Enrico was deep and sincere, and now an end had come—an end to all her fond hopes and bright plans for the future. Enrico had never been a model character by any means, but his winter in Rome had made him worse. He had come back more idle, more selfish, more careless than ever; before that he had never talked of turning poor Pipino adrift. It was a night of sorrow and tears for Lucia, but she adhered firmly to her purpose. It was a cruel, unjust .thing that Enrico wished her to do, and great as was her love for him, she dared not yield. The autumn days drew on. Visitors were flocking to Italy. Without a word of farewell to Lucia, Eurico loft Genzano and went down to Rome. It was a long dreary winter. People never remembered so much snow. There was much distress about, and Lucia, in spite of her hard work and her constant knitting, began to despair. The English lady had never come back, and it was difficult to find food for herself and Pipino. But Nicolo Prato never forsook them. He was always bringing small presents, ostensibly for Pipino, and Lucia could not be ungracious to the child’s benefactor. She recollected with shame and regret how often she had laughed at the big, rough peasant—how she had encouraged Enrico to make fun of his awkward ways, and how she had mimicked his bashful speech. And now he was the only friend who stood between her and starvation. News sometimes came of Enrico. It was a cold winter, and Rome was crowded with strangers; the models were “coining money;” so Enrico sent word. But never a message for her; she was nothing to him now’. She had only the tiny, clinging hands of the cripple to caress her, and his baby talk to give comfort for the future. And while she sat and grieved in silence, Nicolo, the warm-hearted, awkward peasant, stood timidly aloof, longing, but not daring, to cast his love and devotion at her feet. One evening Pipino was later than usual. Lucia grew alarmed. What could have happened to the child? The twilight grew deeper, still Pipino did,not appear. Suddenly a firm, heavy tread was heard, and Nicolo stood in the doorway. “What is it?” cried Lucia. “Where is the child?” “Don’t be alarmed,” said Nicolo, standing awkwardly on the doorstep, uncertain whether to retreat or advance. “He is at my house ” “Your house? Why? Has anything happened?” “It is nothing serious. His crutch slipped upon a stone; I earned him home.” “But why did you not bring him here?” It was too dark for her to see the flush of embarrassment which spread o.ver the honest fellow’s face as he stammered his reply: “It was so much farther—my house is bigger—he thought—l thought——” “ Whatever you thought, it was foolish,” cried Lucia, stamping her foot impatiently. “If the child is in your house, how can I go and nurse him?” “Ah, Siguorina Lucia!” sighed Nicolo, and then he w’as silent. Lucia grew embarrassed in her turn—neither spoke for a few seconds. “This is folly,” exclaimed Lucia. “Why are we wasting time while the child is suffering? I must go and fetch him here.” Nicolo felt it was now or never. He stepped further into the room and seized her two hands eagerly. Lucia was too amazed to utter a word. “Yes, Lucia,” he said, “let us go; but if you come to my house, you must never leave it again. I w’ant you there—to stay with me always—so does Pipino. I will work for you both. I am strong. I can earn enough for us all. You will not mind my mother living with us. She loves you already, and she is not old; she is *no trouble. You can mind the house together.” Lucia was so bewildered by this avalanche of words that she could not speak. The shy, bashful Nicolo, emboldened by her silence and the semi- darkness, came closer still, and put one arm around her, holding fast her other hand. “Come!” he said gently, drawing her to him—“Pipino wants you.” “Ah, no!” she said, suddenly rousing herself with a cry, and pushing Nicolo violently away. “How can yon say such things to me? It is only *a few months sin ce—since ” “You were betrothed to Enrico. I know; do not think I forget it. I know, too, lam a poor, rough, ugly fellow by the side of him, but I will take care of the child.” Lucia sank panting into a chair. Her old love for Enrico, her affection for Pipino. her gratitude to Nicolo, all fought and struggled iu her heart. Then she started up again. “Why do you keep me talking here and the child is suffering? Is it a bad accident?" “It is not dangerous, and my mother is with him. Give me an answer, Lucia. I love you with my whole heart; will you marry me?” The girl burst into a passion of tears. She knew what Nicolo said was true. Even when she had laughed and scoffed at him the most she had always known he loved her. And yet—and yet her foolish heart clung to Enrico. “Nicolo,”-she cried, and at the sound of his name the honest fellow thrilled all over—“Nicolo, forgive me. I can not forget Enrico.” “Ah!” came like a gasp from the breast of Nicolo; then he was silent, and nothing was audible but Lucia’s sobs. “I know,” she said pleadingly—“l know lam foolish. He is perhaps careless and idle; but if he were to return and say to me, Lucia mia, forgive me and many me, why, then, Nicolo ” “He will never 6ay so,” intemipted Nicolo harshly. “Yesterday he married Maddalena.”

“Maddalena!” panted Lucia, a hot flush tingling her'whole body. It was the name of the worst girl in Genzano, who had gone to Eome that winter. “Tell mo that again,” she said quietly—- “ Enrico has married Maddalena?” “Yes,” answered Nicolo, very quietly also. j A wave of outraged love and indignation swept over Lucia, and overwhelmed for- ! ever in its depths the memory of Enrico. “I did not speak before," said Nicolo, in ■ a broken voice. “I was afraid I should j have no chance, but I have loved you as

: long as Enrico. I have toiled and slaved jto get a home for you, and I will work for ; you all my life. Come —Pipino wants ; you.” j She rose with an hysterical laugh, wrapped a shawl round her, and went out with : Nicolo into the twilight. | It was a grave and solemn walk; both | realized what was implied in it. , Nicolo's mother met them at the door, and welcomed Lucia with a silent embrace; the two young people went on to where j Pipino lay upon tho bed. ! He greeted them with a shout of rap- ] ture. “I told you so,” he said. “I knew she ; would come if Pipino wanted her.” He threw an arm round each of their ' necks, and drew their faces down to his and kissed them. Then he said, half roguishly, half gravely: “Now kiss each other.” But Lucia rebelled, and rising from his hold with flushed cheeks, began to- reprove him. “How is this, Pipino? Is it a trick you have played upon me?” “No, no,” cried the child eageriy. “The doctor says I have hurt my leg badly; but I don’t care if it makes Nicolo happy.” And so the little orphan, who had severed one love-match, cemented another, and Lucia became the wife of Nicolo Prato. The spring days came, and all things seemed to prosper. The English signora took up her abode again iu Albano. and often visited the young wife and little Pipino, who had not only recovered from his accident, but was getting less lame under the skillful treatment of the kind doctor. The boy was very clever, too. People began to shake their heads wisely, and prophesy that he would do great things some day. “Ah!” they said, “it was a lucky hour for Lucia when she took that child. He will turn out a genius.” Sad accounts came from Rome—sad stories of the life led by Enrico and Maddalena, but they never reached Lucia’s ears. Nicolo guarded against that. To him, also, the mere mention of the names brought bitter memories, and no allusion to them ever crossed his lips. And so Lucia’s life went on, passed in tranquil happiness. The love she had accepted was honest and sincere, not full of stormy gusts, like the passion of Enrico, but patient and unselfish, filling every day's commonplace duties with sweet and thoughtful attentions. With her husband at her side, Pipino growing up, and baby voices calling her mother, Lucia has reason to bless the day she took the name of Prato.