Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART THIRD: THE LIGHTHOUSE 13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN (continued)

"No fear of that," he said, absently.

She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied
herself with household cares while Nostromo talked with her
father. Conversation with the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age
had left his faculties unimpaired, only they seemed to have
withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in
coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was
more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old
lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed
Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger
daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said
nothing of his cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touch of
senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the
task of guarding alone the honour of his house.

Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking
towards the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a
haggard smile, sat down by the side of her father.

Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez
had waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The
jealous ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only
fixed with precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that
sense of unreality and deception which, instead of bliss and
security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised
husband. She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon
Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretchedness and
shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa's grave,
subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the
railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of
Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his
desire of burying his wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the
stone.

The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her
heart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista.
But why trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her
spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She dried her tears. And
Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could
toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What
duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a
man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help
herself.