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diff --git a/old/sprsn10.txt b/old/sprsn10.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 744f293..0000000 --- a/old/sprsn10.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,26177 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Etext A Spirit in Prison, by Robert Hichens -#2 in our series by Robert Hichens - -Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check -the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! - -Please take a look at the important information in this header. -We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an -electronic path open for the next readers. - -Please do not remove this. - -This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. -Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.07.00*END* - - - - - -Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com -Emma Dudding, emma_302@hotmail.com -and John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz - -PREPARERS' NOTE - - This text was prepared from a 1908 edition, published by Harper & - Brothers, New York and London. - - - - - -A SPIRIT IN PRISON - -by Robert Hichens - - - - -A SPIRIT IN PRISON - - - -CHAPTER I - -Somewhere, not far off on the still sea that held the tiny islet in a -warm embrace, a boy's voice was singing "Napoli Bella." - -Vere heard the song as she sat in the sun with her face set towards -Nisida and the distant peak of Ischia; and instinctively she shifted -her position, and turned her head, looking towards the calm and -untroubled water that stretched between her and Naples. For the voice -that sang of the beautiful city was coming towards her from the -beautiful city, hymning the siren it had left perhaps but two hours -ago. - -On his pedestal set upon rock San Francesco seemed to be attentive to -the voice. He stood beyond the sheltered pool of the sea that divided -the islet from the mainland, staring across at Vere as if he envied -her; he who was rooted in Italy and deprived of her exquisite freedom. -His beard hung down to his waist, his cross protruded over his left -shoulder, and his robe of dusty grayish brown touched his feet, which -had never wandered one step since he was made, and set there to keep -watch over the fishermen who come to sleep under the lee of the island -by night. - -Now it was brilliant daylight. The sun shone vividly over the Bay of -Naples, over the great and vital city, over Vesuvius, the long line of -the land towards Sorrento, over Capri with its shadowy mountain, and -Posilippo with its tree-guarded villas. And in the sharp radiance of -May the careless voice of the fisher-boy sang the familiar song that -Vere had always known and seldom heeded. - -To-day, why she did not know, Vere listened to it attentively. -Something in the sound of the voice caught her attention, roused -within her a sense of sympathy. - -Carelessness and happiness make a swift appeal to young hearts, and -this voice was careless, and sounded very happy. There was a -deliberate gruffness in it, a determination to be manly, which proved -the vocalist to be no man. Vere knew at once that a boy was singing, -and she felt that she must see him. - -She got up, went into the little garden at the edge of the cliff, and -looked over the wall. - -There was a boat moving slowly towards her, not very far away. In it -were three figures, all stripped for diving, and wearing white cotton -drawers. Two were sitting on the gunwale with their knees drawn up -nearly to their chins. The third was standing, and with a languid, but -strong and regular movement, was propelling the boat forward with big- -bladed oars. This was the singer, and as the boat drew nearer Vere -could see that he had the young, lithe form of a boy. - -While she watched, leaning down from her eyrie, the boat and the song -stopped, and the singer let go his oars and turned to the men behind -him. The boat had reached a place near the rocks that was good ground -for /frutti di mare/. - -Vere had often seen the divers in the Bay of Naples at their curious -toil. Yet it never ceased to interest her. She had a passion for the -sea, and for all things connected with it. Now she leaned a little -lower over the wall, with her eyes fixed on the boat and its -occupants. - -Upon the water she saw corks floating, and presently one of the men -swung himself round and sat facing the sea, with his back to the boat -and his bare legs dipping into the water. The boy had dropped down to -the bottom of the craft. His hands were busy arranging clothes, or -tackle, and his lusty voice again rang out to the glory of "Napoli, -bella Napoli." There was something infectious in his happy-go-lucky -light-heartedness. Vere smiled as she listened, but there was a -wistfulness in her heart. At that moment a very common desire of young -and vigorous girls assailed her--the desire to be a boy; not a boy -born of rich parents, destined to the idle, aimless life of -aristocratic young Neapolitans, but a brown, badly dressed, or -scarcely dressed at all boy of the people. - -She was often light-hearted, careless. But was she ever as light- -hearted and careless as that singing boy? She supposed herself to be -free. But was she, could she ever be at liberty as he was? - -The man who had been dipping his feet in the sea rested one hand on -the gunwale, let his body droop forward, dropped into the water, -paddled for a moment, reached one of the floating corks, turned over -head downwards, describing a circle which showed his chocolate-colored -back arched, kicked up his feet and disappeared. The second man -lounged lazily from the boat into the sea and imitated him. The boy -sat still and went on singing. Vere felt disappointed. Was not he -going to dive too? She wanted him to dive. If she were that boy she -would go in, she felt sure of it, before the men. It must be lovely to -sink down into the underworld of the sea, to rifle from the rocks -their fruit, that grew thick as fruit on the trees. But the boy--he -was lazy, good for nothing but singing. She was half ashamed of him. -Whimsically, and laughing to herself at her own absurdity, she lifted -her two hands, brown with the sun, to her lips, and cried with all her -might: - -"Va dentro, pigro! Va dentro!" - -As her voice died away, the boy stopped singing, sprang into the sea, -kicked up his feet and disappeared. - -Vere was conscious of a thrill that was like a thrill of triumph. - -"He obeyed me!" she thought. - -A pleasant feeling of power came to her. From her eyrie on the rock -she was directing these strange sea doings. She was ruling over the -men of the sea. - -The empty boat swayed softly on the water, but its three former -occupants were all hidden by the sea. It seemed as if they would never -come up again. Vere began to hold her breath as they were holding -theirs. At last a dark head rose above the surface, then another. The -two men paddled for a minute, drawing the air into their lungs. But -the boy did not reappear. - -As the seconds passed, Vere began to feel proud of him. He was doing -that which she would have tried to do had she been a boy. He was -rivalling the men. - -Another second slipped away--and another. He was more than rivalling, -he was beating the men. - -They dived once more. She saw the sun gleam on their backs, which -looked polished as they turned slowly over, almost like brown -porpoises. - -But the boy remained hidden beneath the veil of water. - -Vere began to feel anxious. What if some accident had happened? What -if he had been caught by the seaweed, or if his groping hand had been -retained by some crevice of the rock? There was a pain at her heart. -Her quick imagination was at work. It seemed to her as if she felt his -agony, took part in his struggle to regain his freedom. She clinched -her small hands and set her teeth. She held her breath, trying to feel -exactly as he was feeling. And then suddenly she lifted her hands up -to her face, covering her nostrils. What a horrible sensation it was, -this suffocation, this pressing of the life out of the body, almost as -one may push a person brutally out of a room! She could bear it no -more, and she dropped her hands. As she did so the boy's dark head -rose above the sea. - -Vere uttered a cry of joy. - -"Brave! Bravo!" - -She felt as if he had returned from the dead. He was a wonderful boy. - -"Bravo! Bravissimo!" - -Serenely unconscious of her enthusiasm, the boy swam slowly for a -moment, breathing the air into his lungs, then serenely dived again. - -"Vere!" called a woman's voice from the house--"Vere!" - -"Madre!" cried the girl in reply, but without turning away from the -sea. "I am here! Do come out! I want to show you something." - -On a narrow terrace looking towards Naples a tall figure appeared. - -"Where are you?" - -"Here! here!" - -The mother smiled and left the terrace, passed through a little gate, -and almost directly was standing beside the girl, saying: - -"What is it? Is there a school of whales in the Bay, or have you -sighted the sea-serpent coming from Capri?" - -"No, no! But--you see that boat?" - -"Yes. The men are diving for /frutti di mare/, aren't they?" - -Vere nodded. - -"The men are nothing. But there is a boy who is wonderful." - -"Why? What does he do?" - -"He stays under water an extraordinary time. Now wait. Have you got a -watch, Madre?" - -"Yes." - -"Take it out, there's a darling, and time him. I want to know--there -he is! You see!" - -"Yes." - -"Have you got your watch? Wait till he goes under! Wait a minute! -There! He's gone! Now begin." - -She drew into her lungs a long breath, and held it. The mother smiled, -keeping her eyes obediently on the watch which lay in her hand. - -There was a silence between them as the seconds passed. - -"Really," began the mother presently, "he must be--" - -"Hush, Madre, hush!" - -The girl had clasped her hands tightly. Her eyes never left the sea. -The tick, tick of the watch was just audible in the stillness of the -May morning. At last-- - -"There he is!" cried the girl. "Quick! How long has he been under?" - -"Just fifty seconds." - -"I wonder--I'm sure it's a record. If only Gaspare were here! When -will he be back from Naples with Monsieur Emile?" - -"About twelve, I should think. But I doubt if they can sail." She -looked out to sea, and added: "I think the wind is changing to -scirocco. They may be later." - -"He's gone down again!" - -"I never saw you so interested in a diver before," said the mother. -"What made you begin to look at the boy?" - -"He was singing. I heard him, and his voice made me feel--" She -paused. - -"What?" said her mother. - -"I don't know. /Un poco diavolesca/, I'm afraid. One thing, though! It -made me long to be a boy." - -"Did it?" - -"Yes! Madre, tell me truly--sea-water on your lips, as the fishermen -say--now truly, did you ever want me to be a boy?" - -Hermione Delarey did not answer for a moment. She looked away over the -still sea, that seemed to be slowly losing its color, and she thought -of another sea, of the Ionian waters that she had loved so much. They -had taken her husband from her before her child was born, and this -child's question recalled to her the sharp agony of those days and -nights in Sicily, when Maurice lay unburied in the Casa del Prete, and -afterwards in the hospital at Marechiaro--of other days and nights in -Italy, when, isolated with the Sicilian boy, Gaspare, she had waited -patiently for the coming of her child. - -"Sea-water, Madre, sea-water on your lips!" - -Her mother looked down at her. - -"Do you think I wished it, Vere?" - -"To-day I do." - -"Why to-day?" - -"Because I wish it so much. And it seems to me as if perhaps I wish it -because you once wished it for me. You thought I should be a boy?" - -"I felt sure you would be a boy." - -"Madre! How strange!" - -The girl was looking up at her mother. Her dark eyes--almost Sicilian -eyes they were--opened very wide, and her lips remained slightly -parted after she had spoken. - -"I wonder why that was?" she said at length. - -"I have wondered too. It may have been that I was always thinking of -your father in those days, recalling him--well, recalling him as he -had been in Sicily. He went away from me so suddenly that somehow his -going, even when it had happened, for a long time seemed to be an -impossibility. And I fancied, I suppose, that my child would be him in -a way." - -"Come back?" - -"Or never quite gone." - -The girl was silent for a moment. - -"Povera Madre mia!" at last she said. - -But she did not seem distressed for herself. No personal grievance, no -doubt of complete love assailed her. And the fact that this was so -demonstrated, very quietly and very completely, the relation existing -between this mother and this child. - -"I wonder, now," Vere said, presently, "why I never specially wished -to be a boy until to-day--because, after all, it can't be from you -that the wish came. If it had been it must have come long ago. And it -didn't. It only came when I heard that boy's voice. He sings like all -the boys, you know, that have ever enjoyed themselves, that are still -enjoying themselves in the sun." - -"I wish he would sing once more!" said Hermione. - -"Perhaps he will. Look! He's getting into the boat. And the men are -stopping too." - -The boy was very quick in his movements. Almost before Vere had -finished speaking he had pulled on his blue jersey and white trousers, -and again taken the big oars in his hands. Standing up, with his face -set towards the islet, he began once more to propel the boat towards -it. And as he swung his body slowly to and fro he opened his lips and -sang lustily once more, - - "O Napoli, bella Napoli!" - -Hermione and Vere sat silently listening as the song grew louder and -louder, till the boat was almost in the shadow of the islet, and the -boy, with a strong stroke of the left oar turned its prow towards the -pool over which San Francesco watched. - -"They're going into the Saint's Pool to have a siesta," said Vere. -"Isn't he a splendid boy, Madre?" - -As she spoke the boat was passing almost directly beneath them, and -they saw its name painted in red letters on the prow, /Sirena del -Mare/. The two men, one young, one middle-aged, were staring before -them at the rocks. But the boy, more sensitive, perhaps, than they -were to the watching eyes of women, looked straight up to Vere and to -her mother. They saw his level rows of white teeth gleaming as the -song came out from his parted lips, the shining of his eager dark -eyes, full of the careless merriment of youth, the black, low-growing -hair stirring in the light sea breeze about his brow, bronzed by sun -and wind. His slight figure swayed with an easy motion that had the -grace of perfectly controlled activity, and his brown hands gripped -the great oars with a firmness almost of steel, as the boat glided -under the lee of the island, and vanished from the eyes of the -watchers into the shadowy pool of San Francesco. - -When the boat had disappeared, Vere lifted herself up and turned round -to her mother. - -"Isn't he a jolly boy, Madre?" - -"Yes," said Hermione. - -She spoke in a low voice. Her eyes were still on the sea where the -boat had passed. - -"Yes," she repeated, almost as if to herself. - -For the first time a little cloud went over Vere's sensitive face. - -"Madre, how horribly I must have disappointed you," she said. - -The mother did not break into protestations. She always treated her -child with sincerity. - -"Just for a moment, Vere," she answered. "And then, very soon, you -made me feel how much more intimate can be the relationship between a -mother and a daughter than between a mother and any son." - -"Is that true, really?" - -"I think it is." - -"But why should that be?" - -"Don't you think that Monsieur Emile can tell you much better than I? -I feel all the things, you know, that he can explain." - -There was a touch of something that was like a half-hidden irony in -her voice. - -"Monsieur Emile! Yes, I think he understands almost everything about -people," said Vere, quite without irony. "But could a man explain such -a thing as well as a woman? I don't think so." - -"We have the instincts, perhaps, men the vocabulary. Come, Vere, I -want to look over into the Saint's Pool and see what those men are -doing." - -Vere laughed. - -"Take care, Madre, or Gaspare will be jealous." - -A soft look came into Hermione's face. - -"Gaspare and I know each other," she said, quietly. - -"But he could be jealous--horribly jealous." - -"Of you, perhaps, Vere, but never of me. Gaspare and I have passed -through too much together for anything of that kind. Nobody could ever -take his place with me, and he knows it quite well." - -"Gaspare's a darling, and I love him," said Vere, rather -inconsequently. "Shall we look over into the Pool from the pavilion, -or go down by the steps?" - -"We'll look over." - -They passed in through a gateway to the narrow terrace that fronted -the Casa del Mare facing Vesuvius, entered the house, traversed a -little hall, came out again into the air by a door on its farther -side, and made their way to a small pavilion that looked upon the Pool -of San Francesco. Almost immediately below, in the cool shadow of the -cliff, the boat was moored. The two men, lying at full length in it, -their faces buried in their hands, were already asleep. But the boy, -sitting astride on the prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side -of it to the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather -seriously, a hunch of yellow bread, from which he cut from time to -time large pieces with a clasp knife. As he ate, lifting the pieces of -bread to his mouth with the knife, against whose blade he held them -with his thumb, he stared down at the depths below, transparent here -almost to the sea bed. His eyes were wide with reverie. He seemed -another boy, not the gay singer of five minutes ago. But then he had -been in the blaze of the sun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he -had caught the influence of the dimmer light, the lack of motion, the -delicate hush at the feet of San Francesco. - -This time he did not know that he was being watched. His reverie, -perhaps, was too deep, or their gaze less concentrated than it had -been before. And after a moment, Hermione moved away. - -"You are going in, Madre?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you mind if I give something to that boy?" - -"Do you mean money?" - -"Oh no. But the poor thing's eating dry bread, and--" - -"And what, you puss?" - -"Well, he's a very obedient boy." - -"How can you know that?" - -"He was idling in the boat, and I called out to him to jump into the -sea, and he jumped in immediately." - -"Do you think because he heard you?" - -"Certainly I do." - -"You conceited little creature! Perhaps he was only pleasing himself!" - -"No, Madre, no. I think I should like to give him a little reward -presently--for his singing too." - -"Get him a dolce, then, from Carmela, if there is one. And you can -give him some cigarettes." - -"I will. He'll love that. Oh dear! I wish he didn't make me -dissatisfied with myself!" - -"Nonsense, Vere!" - -Hermione bent down and kissed her child. Then she went rather quickly -away from the pavilion and entered the Casa del Mare. - - - -CHAPTER II - -After her mother had gone, Vere waited for a moment, then ran lightly -to the house, possessed herself of a dolce and a packet of cigarettes, -and went down the steps to the Pool of San Francesco, full of -hospitable intentions towards the singing boy. She found him still -sitting astride of the boat's prow, not yet free of his reverie -apparently; for when she gave a low call of "Pescator!" prolonging the -last syllable with the emphasis and the accent of Naples, but always -softly, he started, and nearly dropped into the sea the piece of bread -he was lifting to his mouth. Recovering himself in time to save the -bread deftly with one brown hand, he turned half round, leaning on his -left arm, and stared at Vere with large, inquiring eyes. She stood by -the steps and beckoned to him, lifting up the packet of cigarettes, -then pointing to his sleeping companions: - -"Come here for a minute!" - -The boy smiled, sprang up, and leaped onto the islet. As he came to -her, with the easy, swinging walk of the barefooted sea-people, he -pulled up his white trousers, and threw out his chest with an obvious -desire to "fare figura" before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When -he reached her he lifted his hand to his bare head forgetfully, -meaning to take off his cap to her. Finding that he had no cap, he -made a laughing grimace, threw up his chin and, thrusting his tongue -against his upper teeth and opening wide his mouth, uttered a little -sound most characteristically Neapolitan--a sound that seemed lightly -condemnatory of himself. This done, he stood still before Vere, -looking at the cigarettes and at the dolce. - -"I've brought these for you," she said. - -"Grazie, Signorina." - -He did not hold out his hand, but his eyes, now devoted entirely to -the cigarettes, began to shine with pleasure. Vere did not give him -the presents at once. She had something to explain first. - -"We mustn't wake them," she said, pointing towards the boat in which -the men were sleeping. "Come a little way with me." - -She retreated a few steps from the sea, followed closely by the eager -boy. - -"We sha'n't disturb them now," she said, stopping. "Do you know why -I've brought you these?" - -She stretched out her hands, with the dolce and the cigarettes. - -The boy threw his chin up again and half shut his eyes. - -"No, Signorina." - -"Because you did what I told you." - -She spoke rather with the air of a little queen. - -"I don't understand." - -"Didn't you hear me call out to you from up there?"--she pointed to -the cliff above their heads--"when you were sitting in the boat? I -called to you to go in after the men." - -"Why?" - -"Why! Because I thought you were a lazy boy." - -He laughed. All his brown face gave itself up to laughter--eyes, -teeth, lips, cheeks, chin. His whole body seemed to be laughing. The -idea of his being lazy seemed to delight his whole spirit. - -"You would have been lazy if you hadn't done what I told you," said -Vere, emphatically, forcing her words through his merriment with -determination. "You know you would." - -"I never heard you call, Signorina." - -"You didn't?" - -He shook his head several times, bent down, dipped his fingers in the -sea, put them to his lips: "I say it." - -"Really?" - -There was a note of disappointment in her voice. She felt dethroned. - -"But then, you haven't earned these," she said, looking at him almost -with rebuke, "if you went in of your own accord." - -"I go in because it is my mestiere, Signorina," the boy said, simply. -"I go in by force." - -He looked at her and then again at the cigarettes. His expression -said, "Can you refuse me?" There was a quite definite and conscious -attempt to cajole her to generosity in his eyes, and in the pose he -assumed. Vere saw it, and knew that if there had been a mirror within -reach at that moment the boy would have been looking into it, frankly -admiring himself. - -In Italy the narcissus blooms at all seasons of the year. - -She was charmed by the boy, for he did his luring well, and she was -susceptible to all that was naturally picturesque. But a gay little -spirit of resistance sprang up like a flame and danced within her. - -She let her hands fall to her sides. - -"But you like going in?" - -"Signorina?" - -"You enjoy diving?" - -He shrugged his shoulders, and again used what seemed with him a -favorite expression. - -"Signorina, I must enjoy it, by force." - -"You do it wonderfully. Do you know that? You do it better than the -men." - -Again the conscious look came into the boy's face and body, as if his -soul were faintly swaggering. - -"There is no one in the Bay who can dive better than I can," he -answered. "Giovannino thinks he can. Well, let him think so. He would -not dare to make a bet with me." - -"He would lose it if he did," said Vere. "I'm sure he would. Just now -you were under water nearly a minute by my mother's watch." - -"Where is the Signora?" said the boy, looking round. - -"Why d'you ask?" - -"Why--I can stay under longer than that." - -"Now, look here!" said the girl, eagerly. "Never mind Madre! Go down -once for me, won't you? Go down once for me, and you shall have the -dolce and two packets of cigarettes." - -"I don't want the dolce, Signorina; a dolce is for women," he said, -with the complete bluntness characteristic of Southern Italians and of -Sicilians. - -"The cigarettes, then." - -"Va bene. But the water is too shallow here." - -"We'll take my boat." - -She pointed to a small boat, white with a green line, that was moored -close to them. - -"Va bene," said the boy again. - -He rolled his white trousers up above his knees, stripped off his blue -jersey, leaving the thin vest that was beneath it, folded the jersey -neatly and laid it on the stones, tightened his trousers at the back, -then caught hold of the rope by which Vere's boat was moored to the -shore and pulled the boat in. - -Very carefully he helped Vere into it. - -"I know a good place," he said, "where you can see right down to the -bottom." - -Taking the oars he slowly paddled a little way out to a deep clear -pool of the sea. - -"I'll go in here, Signorina." - -He stood up straight, with his feet planted on each side of the boat's -prow, and glanced at the water intimately, as might a fish. Then he -shot one more glance at Vere and at the cigarettes, made the sign of -the cross, lifted his brown arms above his head, uttered a cry, and -dived cleanly below the water, going down obliquely till he was quite -dim in the water. - -Vere watched him with deep attention. This feat of the boy fascinated -her. The water between them made him look remote, delicate and -unearthly--neither boy nor fish. His head, she could see, was almost -touching the bottom. She fancied that he was actually touching bottom -with his hands. Yes, he was. Bending low over the water she saw his -brown fingers, stretched out and well divided, promenading over the -basin of the sea as lightly and springily as the claws of a crab tip- -toeing to some hiding-place. Presently he let himself down a little -more, pressed his flat palms against the ground, and with the impetus -thus gained made his body shoot back towards the surface feet -foremost. Then bringing his body up till it was in a straight line -with his feet, he swam slowly under water, curving first in this -direction then in that, with a lithe ease that was enchantingly -graceful. Finally, he turned over on his back and sank slowly down -until he looked like a corpse lying at the bottom of the sea. - -Then Vere felt a sickness of fear steal over her, and leaning over the -sea till her face almost touched the water, she cried out fiercely: - -"Come up! Come up! Presto! Presto!" - -As the boy had seemed to obey her when she cried out to him from the -summit of the cliff, so he seemed to obey her now. - -When her voice died down into the sea-depths he rose from those -depths, and she saw his eyes laughing, his lips laughing at her, freed -from the strange veil of the water, which had cast upon him a spectral -aspect, the likeness of a thing deserted by its soul. - -"Did you hear me that time?" Vere said, rather eagerly. - -The boy lifted his dark head from the water to shake it, drew a long -breath, trod water, then threw up his chin with the touch of tongue -against teeth which is the Neapolitan negative. - -"You didn't! Then why did you come up?" - -He swam to the boat. - -"It pleased me to come." - -She looked doubtful. - -"I believe you are birbante," she said, slowly. "I am nearly sure you -are." - -The boy was just getting out, pulling himself up slowly to the boat by -his arms, with his wet hands grasping the gunwale firmly. He looked at -Vere, with the salt drops running down his sunburnt face, and dripping -from his thick, matted hair to his strong neck and shoulders. Again -his whole face laughed, as, nimbly, he brought his legs from the water -and stood beside her. - -"Birbante, Signorina?" - -"Yes. Are you from Naples?" - -"I come from Mergellina, Signorina." - -Vere looked at him half-doubtfully, but still with innocent -admiration. There was something perfectly fearless and capable about -him that attracted her. - -He rowed in to shore. - -"How old are you?" she asked. - -"Sixteen years old, Signorina." - -"I am sixteen, too." - -They reached the islet, and Vere got out. The boy followed her, -fastened the boat, and moved away a few steps. She wondered why, till -she saw him stop in a sun-patch and let the beams fall full upon him. - -"You aren't afraid of catching cold?" she asked. - -He threw up his chin. His eyes went to the cigarettes. - -"Yes," said Vere, in answer to the look, "you shall have one. Here!" - -She held out the packet. Very carefully and neatly the boy, after -holding his right hand for a moment to the sun to get dry, drew out a -cigarette. - -"Oh, you want a match!" - -He sprang away and ran lightly to the boat. Without waking his -companions he found a matchbox and lit the cigarette. Then he came -back, on the way stopping to get into his jersey. - -Vere sat down on a narrow seat let into the rock close to the sun- -patch. She was nursing the dolce on her knee. - -"You won't have it?" she asked. - -He gave her his usual negative, again stepping full into the sun. - -"Well, then, I shall eat it. You say a dolce is for women!" - -"Si, Signorina," he answered, quite seriously. - -She began to devour it slowly, while the boy drew the cigarette smoke -into his lungs voluptuously. - -"And you are only sixteen?" she asked. - -"Si, Signorina." - -"As young as I am! But you look almost a man." - -"Signorina, I have always worked. I am a man." - -He squared his shoulders. She liked the determination, the resolution -in his face; and she liked the face, too. He was a very handsome boy, -she thought, but somehow he did not look quite Neapolitan. His eyes -lacked the round and staring impudence characteristic of many -Neapolitans she had seen. There was something at times impassive in -their gaze. In shape they were long, and slightly depressed at the -corners by the cheeks, and they had full, almost heavy, lids. The -features of the boy were small and straight, and gave no promise of -eventual coarseness. He was splendidly made. When Vere looked at him -she thought of an arrow. Yet he was very muscular, and before he dived -she had noticed that on his arms the biceps swelled up like smooth -balls of iron beneath the shining brown skin. - -"What month were you born in?" she asked. - -"Signorina, I believe I was born in March. I believe I was sixteen -last March." - -"Then I am older than you are!" - -This seemed to the boy a matter of indifference, though it was -evidently exercising the girl beside him. She had finished the dolce -now, and he was smoking the last fraction of an inch of the cigarette, -economically determined to waste none of it, even though he burnt his -fingers. - -"Have another cigarette," Vere added, after a pause during which she -considered him carefully. "You can't get anything more out of that -one." - -"Grazie, Signorina." - -He took it eagerly. - -"Do tell me your name, won't you?" Vere went on. - -"Ruffo, Signorina." - -"Ruffo--that's a nice name. It sounds strong and bold. And you live at -Mergellina?" - -"Si, Signorina. But I wasn't born there. I wasn't born in Naples at -all." - -"Where were you born?" - -"In America, Signorina, near New York. I am a Sicilian." - -"A Sicilian, are you!" - -"Si, Signorina." - -"I am a little bit Sicilian, too; only a little tiny bit--but still--" - -She waited to see the effect upon him. He looked at her steadily with -his long bright eyes. - -"You are Sicilian, Signorina?" - -"My great-grandmother was." - -"Si?" - -His voice sounded incredulous. - -"Don't you believe me?" she cried, rather hotly. - -"Ma si, Signorina! Only--that's not very Sicilian, if the rest is -English. You are English, Signorina, aren't you?" - -"The rest of me is. Are you all Sicilian?" - -"Signorina, my mother is Sicilian." - -"And your father, too?" - -"Signorina, my father is dead," he said, in a changed voice. "Now I -live with my mother and my step-father. He--Patrigno--he is -Neapolitan." - -There was a movement in the boat. The boy looked round. - -"I must go back to the boat, Signorina," he said. - -"Oh, must you?" Vere said. "What a pity! But look, they are really -still asleep." - -"I must go back, Signorina," he protested. - -"You want to sleep, too, perhaps?" - -He seized the excuse. - -"Si, Signorina. Being under the sea so much--it tires the head and the -eyes. I want to sleep, too." - -His face, full of life, denied his words, but Vere only said: - -"Here are the cigarettes." - -"Grazie, Signorina." - -"And I promised you another packet. Well, wait here--just here, d'you -see?--under the bridge, and I'll throw it down, and you must catch -it." - -"Si, Signorina." - -He took his stand on the spot she pointed out, and she disappeared up -the steps towards the house. - -"Madre! Madre!" - -Hermione heard Vere's voice calling below a moment later. - -"What is it?" - -There was a quick step on the stairs, and the girl ran in. - -"One more packet of cigarettes--may I? It's instead of the dolce. -Ruffo says only women eat sweet things." - -"Ruffo!" - -"Yes, that's his name. He's been diving for me. You never saw anything -like it! And he's a Sicilian. Isn't it odd? And sixteen--just as I am. -May I have the cigarettes for him?" - -"Yes, of course. In that drawer there's a whole box of the ones -Monsieur Emile likes." - -"There would be ten cigarettes in a packet. I'll give him ten." - -She counted them swiftly out. - -"There! And I'll make him catch them all, one by one. It will be more -fun than throwing only a packet. Addio, mia bella Madre! Addi-io! -Addi-io!" - -And singing the words to the tune of "Addio, mia bella Napoli," she -flitted out of the room and down the stairs. - -"Ruffo! Ruffo!" - -A minute later she was leaning over the bridge to the boy, who stood -sentinel below. He looked up, and saw her laughing face full of merry -mischief, and prepared to catch the packet she had promised him. - -"Ruffo, I'm so sorry, but I can't find another packet of cigarettes." - -The boy's bright face changed, looked almost sad, but he called up: - -"Non fa niente, Signorina!" He stood still for a moment, then made a -gesture of salutation, and added; "Thank you, Signorina. A rivederci!" - -He moved to go to the boat, but Vere cried out, quickly: - -"Wait, Ruffo! Can you catch well?" - -"Signorina?" - -"Look out now!" - -Her arm was thrust out over the bridge, and Ruffo, staring up, saw a -big cigarette--a cigarette such as he had never seen--in her small -fingers. Quickly he made a receptacle of his joined hands, his eyes -sparkling and his lips parted with happy anticipation. - -"One!" - -The cigarette fell and was caught. - -"Two!" - -A second fell. But this time Ruffo was unprepared, and it dropped on -the rock by his bare feet. - -"Stupido!" laughed the girl. - -"Ma, Signorina--!" - -"Three!" - -It had become a game between them, and continued to be a game until -all the ten cigarettes had made their journey through the air. - -Vere would not let Ruffo know when a cigarette was coming, but kept -him on the alert, pretending, holding it poised above him between his -finger and thumb until even his eyes blinked from gazing upward; then -dropping it when she thought he was unprepared, or throwing it like a -missile. But she soon knew that she had found her match in the boy. -And when he caught the tenth and last cigarette in his mouth she -clapped her hands, and cried out so enthusiastically that one of the -men in the boat heaved himself up from the bottom, and, choking down a -yawn, stared with heavy amazement at the young virgin of the rocks, -and uttered a "Che Diavolo!" under his stiff mustache. - -Vere saw his astonishment, and swiftly, with a parting wave of her -hand to Ruffo, she disappeared, leaving her protégé to run off gayly -with his booty to his comrades of the /Sirena del Mare/. - - - -CHAPTER III - -"I can see the boat, Vere," said Hermione, when the girl came back, -her eyes still gleaming with memories of the fun of the cigarette game -with Ruffo. - -"Where, Madre?" - -She sat down quickly beside her mother on the window-seat, leaning -against her confidentially and looking out over the sea. Hermione put -her arm round the girl's shoulder. - -"There! Don't you see!" She pointed. "It has passed Casa Pantano." - -"I see! Yes, that is Gaspare, and Monsieur Emile in the stern. They -won't be late for lunch. I almost wish they would, Madre." - -"Why?" - -"I'm not a bit hungry. Ruffo wouldn't eat the dolce, so I did." - -"Ruffo! You seem to have made great friends with that boy." - -She did not speak rebukingly, but with a sort of tender amusement. - -"I really have," returned Vere. - -She put her head against her mother's shoulder. - -"Isn't this odd, Madre? Twice in the short time I've known Ruffo, he's -obeyed me. The first time he was in the boat. I called out to him to -dive in, and he did it instantly. The second time he was under water, -at the very bottom of the sea. He looked as if he were dead, and for a -minute I felt frightened. So I called out to him to come up, and he -came up directly." - -"But that only shows that he's a polite boy and does what you wish." - -"No, no. He didn't hear me either time. He had no idea I had called. -But each time I did, without hearing me he had the sudden wish to do -what I wanted. Now, isn't that curious?" - -She paused. - -"Madre?" she added. - -"You think you influenced him?" - -"Don't you think I did?" - -"Perhaps so. There's a sympathetic link of youth between you. You are -gloriously young, both of you, little daughter. And youth turns -naturally to youth, though I'm afraid old age doesn't always turn -naturally to old age." - -"What do you know about old age, Madre? You haven't a gray hair." - -She spoke with anxious encouragement. - -"It's true. My hair declines to get gray." - -"I don't believe you'll ever be gray." - -"Probably not. But there's another grayness--Life behind one instead -of before; the emotional--" - -She stopped herself. This was not for Vere. - -"They're close in," she said, looking out of the window. - -She waved her hand. The big man in the stern of the boat took off his -hat in reply, and waved his hand, too. The rower pulled with the -vivacity that comes to men near the end of a task, and the boat shot -into the Pool of the Saint, where Ruffo was at that moment enjoying -his third cigarette. - -"I'll run down and meet Monsieur Emile," said Vere. - -And she disappeared as swiftly as she had come. - -The big man who got out of the boat could not claim Hermione's -immunity from gray hairs. His beard was lightly powdered with them, -and though much of the still thick hair on his head was brown, and his -figure was erect, and looked strong and athletic--he seemed what he -was, a man of middle age, who had lived, and thought, and observed -much. His eyes had the peculiar expression of eyes that have seen very -many and very various sights. It was difficult to imagine them not -looking keenly intelligent. The vivacity of youth was no longer in -them, but the vividness of intellect, of an intellect almost fiercely -alive and tenacious of its life, was never absent from them. - -As Artois got out, the boat's prow was being held by the Sicilian, -Gaspare, now a man of thirty-five, but still young-looking. Many -Sicilians grow old quickly--hard life wears them out. But Gaspare's -fate had been easier than that of most of his contemporaries and -friends of Marechiaro. Ever since the tragic death of the beloved -master, whom he still always spoke of as "mio Padrone," he had been -Hermione's faithful attendant and devoted friend. Yes, she knew him to -be that--she wished him to be that. Their stations in life might be -different, but they had come to sorrow together. They had suffered -together and been in sympathy while they suffered. He had loved what -she had loved, lost it when she had lost it, wept for it when she had -wept. - -And he had been with her when she had waited for the coming of the -child. - -Hermione really cared for three people: Gaspare was one of them. He -knew it. The other two were Vere and Emile Artois. - -"Vere," said Artois, taking her two hands closely in his large hands, -and gazing into her face with the kind, even affectionate directness -that she loved in him: "do you know that to-day you are looking -insolent?" - -"Insolent!" said the girl. "How dare you!" - -She tried to take her hands away. - -"Insolently young," he said, keeping them authoritatively. - -"But I am young. What do you mean, Monsieur Emile?" - -"I? It is your meaning I am searching for." - -"I sha'n't let you find it. You are much too curious about people. But ---I've been having a game this morning." - -"A game! Who was your playmate?" - -"Never mind. - -But her bright eyes went for the fraction of a second to Ruffo, who -close by in the boat was lying at his ease, his head thrown back, and -one of the cigarettes between his lips. - -"What! That boy there?" - -"Nonsense! Come along! Madre has been sitting at the window for ages -looking out for the boat. Couldn't you sail at all Gaspare?" - -Artois had let go her hands, and now she turned to the Sicilian. - -"To Naples, Signorina, and nearly to the Antico Giuseppone coming -back." - -"But we had to do a lot of tacking," said Artois. "Mon Dieu! That boy -is smoking one of my cigarettes! You sacrilegious little creature! You -have been robbing my box!" - -Gaspare's eyes followed Artois' to Ruffo, who was watching them -attentively, but who now looked suddenly sleepy. - -"It belongs to Madre." - -"It was bought for me." - -"I like you better with a pipe. You are too big for cigarettes. And -besides, artists always smoke pipes." - -"Allow me to forget that I try to be an artist when I come to the -island, Vere." - -"Yes, yes, I will," she said, with a pretty air of relenting. "You -poor thing, here you are a king incognito, and we all treat you quite -familiarly. I'll even go first, regardless of etiquette." And she went -off to the steps that led upward to the house. - -Artois followed her. As he went he said to Ruffo in the Neapolitan -dialect: - -"It's a good cigarette, isn't it? You are in luck this morning." - -"Si, Signore," said the boy, smiling. "The Signorina gave me ten." - -And he blew out a happy cloud. - -There was something in his welcoming readiness of response, something -in his look and voice, that seemed to stir within the tenacious mind -of Artois a quivering chord of memory. - -"I wonder if I have spoken to that boy in Naples?" he thought, as he -mounted the steps behind Vere. - -Hermione met him at the door of her room, and they went in almost -directly to lunch with Vere. When the meal was over Vere disappeared, -without saying why, and Hermione and Artois returned to Hermione's -room to have coffee. By this time the day was absolutely windless, the -sky had become nearly white, and the sea was a pale gray, flecked here -and there with patches of white. - -"This is like a June day of scirocco," said Artois, as he lit his pipe -with the air of a man thoroughly at home. "I wonder if it will succeed -in affecting Vere's spirits. This morning, when I arrived, she looked -wildly young. But the day held still some blue then." - -Hermione was settling herself slowly in a low chair near the window -that faced Capri. The curious, rather ghastly light from the sea fell -over her. - -"Vere is very sensitive to almost all influences," she said. "You know -that, Emile." - -"Yes," he said, throwing away the match he had been using; "and the -influence of this morning roused her to joy. What was it?" - -"She was very excited watching a diver for /frutti di mare/." - -"A boy about seventeen or eighteen, black hair, Arab eyes, bronze -skin, a smile difficult to refuse, and a figure almost as perfect as a -Nubian's, but rather squarer about the shoulders?" - -"You have seen him, then?" - -"Smoking ten of my special Khali Targa cigarettes, with his bare toes -cocked up, and one hand drooping into the Saint's Pool." - -Hermione smiled. - -"My cigarettes! They're common property here," she said. - -"That boy can't be a pure-bred Neapolitan, surely. And yet he speaks -the language. There's no mistaking the blow he gives to the last -syllable of a sentence." - -"He's a Sicilian, Vere says." - -"Pure bred?" - -"I don't know." - -"I fancy I must have run across him somewhere in or about Naples. It -is he who made Vere, as I told her, look so insolently young this -morning." - -"Ah, you noticed! I, too, thought I had never seen her so full of the -inner spirit of youth--almost as he was in Sicily." - -"Yes," Artois said, gravely. "In some things she is very much his -daughter." - -"In some things only?" asked Hermione. - -"Don't you think so? Don't you think she has much of you in her also? -I do." - -"Has she? I don't know that I see it. I don't know that I want to see -it. I always look for him in Vere. You see, I dreamed of having a boy. -Vere is instead of the boy I dreamed of, the boy--who never came, who -will never come." - -"My friend," said Artois, very seriously and gently, "are you still -allowing your mind to dwell upon that old imagination? And with Vere -before you, can you regard her merely as a substitute, an understudy?" - -An energy that was not free from passion suddenly flamed up in -Hermione. - -"I love Vere," she said. "She is very close to me. She knows it. She -does not doubt me or my love." - -"But," he quietly persisted, "you still allow your mind to rove -ungoverned among those dangerous ways of the past?" - -"Emile," she said, still speaking with vehemence, "it may be very easy -to a strong man like you to direct his thoughts, to keep them out of -one path and guide them along another. It may be--I don't know whether -it is; but I don't pretend to such strength. I don't believe it is -ever given to women. Perhaps even strength has its sex--I sometimes -think so. I have my strength, believe me. But don't require of me the -peculiar strength that is male." - -"The truth is that you love living in the past as the Bedouin loves -living in the desert." - -"It was my oasis," she answered, simply. - -"And all these years--they have made no difference?" - -"Did you think they would? Did you think they had?" - -"I hoped so. I thought--I had begun to think that you lived again in -Vere." - -"Emile, you can always stand the truth, can't you? Don't say you -can't. That would hurt me horribly. Perhaps you do not know how -sometimes I mentally lean on you. And I like to feel that if you knew -the absolute truth of me you would still look upon me with the same -kind, understanding eyes as now. Perhaps no one else would. Would you, -do you think?" - -"I hope and believe I could," he said. "You do not live in Vere. Is -that it?" - -"I know it is considered the right, the perfectly natural thing that a -mother, stricken as I have been, should find in time perfect peace and -contentment in her child. Even you--you spoke of 'living again.' It's -the consecrated phrase, Emile, isn't it? I ought to be living again in -Vere. Well, I'm not doing that. With my nature I could never do that. -Is that horrible?" - -"Ma pauvre amie!" he said. - -He bent down and touched her hand. - -"I don't know," she said, more calmly, as if relieved, but still with -an undercurrent of passion, "whether I could ever live again in the -life of another. But if I did it would be in the life of a man. I am -not made to live in a woman's life, really to live, giving out the -force that is in me. I know I'm a middle-aged woman--to these Italians -here more than that, an old woman. But I'm not a finished woman, and I -never shall be till I die. Vere is my child. I love her tenderly; more -than that--passionately. She has always been close to me, as you know. -But no, Emile, my relation to Vere, hers to me, does not satisfy all -my need of love, my power to love. No, no, it doesn't. There's -something in me that wants more, much more than that. There's -something in me that--I think only a son of his could have satisfied -my yearning. A son might have been Maurice come back to me, come back -in a different, beautiful, wonderfully pure relation. I prayed for a -son. I needed a son. Don't misunderstand me, Emile; in a way a son -could never have been so close to me as Vere is,--but I could have -lived in him as I can never live in Vere. I could have lived in him -almost as once I lived in Maurice. And to-day I--" - -She got up suddenly from her chair, put her arms on the window-frame, -and leaned out to the strange, white day. - -"Emile," she said, in a moment, turning round to him, "I want to get -away, on to the sea. Will you row me out, into the Grotto of -Virgil?[*] It's so dreadfully white here, white and ghastly. I can't -talk naturally here. And I should like to go on a little farther, now -I've begun. It would do me good to make a clean breast of it, dear -brother confessor. Shall we take the little boat and go?" - -[*] The grotto described in this book is not really the Grotto of - Virgil, but it is often called so by the fishermen along the coast. - -"Of course," he said. - -"I'll get a hat." - -She was away for two or three minutes. During that time Artois stood -by the window that looked towards Ischia. The stillness of the day was -intense, and gave to his mind a sensation of dream. Far off across the -gray-and-white waters, partially muffled in clouds that almost -resembled mist, the mountains of Ischia were rather suggested, -mysteriously indicated, than clearly seen. The gray cliffs towards -Bagnoli went down into motionless water gray as they were, but of a -different, more pathetic shade. - -There was a luminous whiteness in the sky that affected the eyes, as -snow does. - -Artois, as he looked, thought this world looked very old, a world -arranged for the elderly to dwell in. Was it not, therefore, an -appropriate setting for him and for Hermione? As this idea came into -his mind it sent a rather bitter smile to his lips, and Hermione, -coming in just then, saw the smile and said,-- - -"What is it, Emile? Why are you smiling?" - -"Perhaps I will tell you when we are on the sea," he answered. - -He looked at her. She had on a black hat, over which a white veil was -fastened. It was tied beneath her chin, and hung down in a cloud over -her breast. It made him think of the strange misty clouds which -brooded about the breasts of the mountains of Ischia. - -"Shall we go?" she said. - -"Yes. What is Vere doing?" - -"She is in her room." - -"What is she doing there?" - -"Reading, I suppose. She often shuts herself up. She loves reading -almost more than I do." - -"Well?" - -Hermione led the way down-stairs. When they were outside, on the crest -of the islet, the peculiar sickliness of the weather struck them both -more forcibly. - -"This is the strangest scirocco effect I think I have ever seen," said -Artois. "It is as if nature were under the influence of a drug, and -had fallen into a morbid dream, with eyes wide open, and pale, inert -and folded hands. I should like to see Naples to-day, and notice if -this weather has any effect upon that amazing population. I wonder if -my young friend, Marchese Isidoro Panacci-- By-the-way, I haven't told -you about him?" - -"No." - -"I must. But not now. We will continue our former conversation. Where -shall we find the boat, the small one?" - -"Gaspare will bring it--Gaspare! Gaspare!" - -"Signora!" cried a strong voice below. - -"La piccola barca!" - -"Va bene, Signora!" - -They descended slowly. It would have been almost impossible to do -anything quickly on such a day. The smallest movement, indeed, seemed -almost an outrage, likely to disturb the great white dreamer of the -sea. When they reached the foot of the cliff Gaspare was there, -holding the little craft in which Vere had gone out with Ruffo. - -"Do you want me, Signora?" - -"No, thank you, Gaspare. Don Emilio will row me. We are only going a -very little way." - -She stepped in. As Artois followed her he said to Gaspare: - -"Those fishermen have gone?" - -"Five minutes ago, Signore. There they are!" - -He pointed to a boat at some distance, moving slowly in the direction -of Posilipo. - -"I have been talking with them. One says he is of my country, a -Sicilian." - -"The boy?" - -"Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak Sicilian, and he has -never been in Sicily, poveretto!" - -Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there was almost a hint -of contempt. - -"A rivederci, Signore," he added, pushing off the little boat. - -"A rivederci, Gaspare." - -Artois took the oars and paddled very gently out, keeping near to the -cliffs of the opposite shore. - -"Even San Francesco looks weary to-day," he said, glancing across the -pool at the Saint on his pedestal. "I should not be surprised if, when -we return, we find that he has laid down his cross and is reclining -like the tired fishermen who come here in the night. Where shall we -go?" - -"To the Grotto of Virgil." - -"I wonder if Virgil was ever in his grotto? I wonder if he ever came -here on such a day of scirocco as this, and felt that the world was -very old, and he was even older than the world?" - -"Do you feel like that to-day?" - -"I feel that this is a world suitable for the old, for those who have -white hairs to accord with the white waters, and whose nights are the -white nights of age." - -"Was that why you were smiling so strangely just now when I came in?" - -"Yes." - -He rowed on softly. The boat slipped out of the Pool of the Saint, and -then they saw the Capo Coroglio and the Island of Nisida with its -fort. On their right, and close to them, rose the weary-looking -cliffs, honey-combed with caverns, and seamed with fissures as an old -and haggard face is seamed with wrinkles that tell of many cares. - -"Here is the grotto," said Hermione, almost directly. "Row in gently." - -He obeyed her and turned the boat, sending it in under the mighty roof -of rock. - -A darkness fell upon them. They had a safe, enclosed sensation in -escaping for a moment from the white day, almost as if they had -escaped from a white enemy. - -Artois let the oars lie still in the water, keeping his hands lightly -upon them, and both Hermione and he were silent for a few minutes, -listening to the tiny sounds made now and then by drops of moisture -which fell from the cavern roof softly into the almost silent sea. At -last Artois said: - -"You are out of the whiteness now. This is a shadowed place like a -confessional, where murmuring lips tell to strangers the stories of -their lives. I am not a stranger, but tell me, my friend, about -yourself and Vere. Perhaps you scarcely know how deeply the mother and -child problem interests me--that is, when mother and child are two -real forces, as you and Vere are." - -"Then you think Vere has force?" - -"Do not you?" - -"What kind of force?" - -"You mean physical, intellectual, or moral? Suppose I say she has the -force of charm!" - -"Indeed she has that, as he had. That is one of the attributes she -derives from Maurice." - -"Yes. He had a wonderful charm. And then, Vere has passion." - -"You think so?" - -"I am sure of it. Where does she get that from?" - -"He was full of the passion of the South." - -"I think Vere has a touch of Northern passion in her, too, combined -perhaps with the other. And that, I think, she derives from you. Then -I discern in Vere intellectual force, immature, embryonic if you like, -but unmistakable." - -"That does not come from me," Hermione said, suddenly, almost with -bitterness. - -"Why--why will you be unnecessarily humiliated?" Artois exclaimed. - -His voice was confusedly echoed by the cavern, which broke into faint, -but deep mutterings. Hermione looked up quickly to the mysterious -vault which brooded above them, and listened till the chaotic noises -died away. Then she said: - -"Do you know what they remind me of?" - -"Of what?" - -"My efforts. Those efforts I made long ago to live again in work." - -"When you wrote?" - -"Yes, when I tried to throw my mind and my heart down upon paper. How -strange it was! I had Vere--but she wasn't enough to still the ache. -And I knew what work can be, what a consolation, because I knew you. -And I stretched out my hands to it--I stretched out my soul. And it -was no use; I wasn't made to be a successful writer. When I spoke from -my heart to try and move men and save myself, my words were seized, as -yours were just now by the rock--seized, and broken, and flung back in -confusion. They struck my heart like stones. Emile, I'm one of those -people who can only do one thing: I can only feel." - -"It is true that you could never be an artist. Perhaps you were made -to be an inspiration." - -"But that's not enough. The role of starter to those who race--I -haven't the temperament to reconcile myself to that. It's not that I -have in me a conceit which demands to be fed. But I have in me a force -that clamors to exercise itself. Only when I was living on Monte Amato -with Maurice did I feel that the force was being used as God meant it -to be used." - -"In loving?" - -"In loving passionately something that was utterly worthy to be -loved." - -Artois was silent. He knew Hermione's mistake. He knew what had never -been told him: that Maurice had been false to her for the love of the -peasant girl Maddalena. He knew that Maurice had been done to death by -the betrayed girl's father, Salvatore. And Gaspare knew these things, -too. But through all these years these two men had so respected -silence, the nobility of it, the grand necessity of it in certain -circumstances of life, that they had never spoken to each other of the -black truth known to them both. Indeed, Artois believed that even now, -after more than sixteen years, if he ventured one word against the -dead man Gaspare would be ready to fly at his throat in defence of the -loved Padrone. For this divined and persistent loyalty Artois had a -sensation of absolute love. Between him and Gaspare there must always -be the barrier of a great and mutual reserve. Yet that very reserve, -because there was something truly delicate, and truly noble in it, was -as a link of steel between them. They were watchdogs of Hermione. They -had been watchdogs through all these years, guarding her from the -knowledge of a truth. And so well had they done her service that now -to-day she was able to say, with clasped hands and the light of -passion in her eyes: - -"Something that was utterly worthy to be loved." - -When Artois spoke again he said: - -"And that force cannot be fully used in loving Vere?" - -"No, Emile. Is that very horrible, very unnatural?" - -"Why should it be?" - -"I have tried--I have tried for years, Emile, to make Vere enough. I -have even been false with myself. I have said to myself that she was -enough. I did that after I knew that I could never produce work of any -value. When Vere was a baby I lived only for her. Again, when she was -beginning to grow up, I tried to live, I did live only for her. And I -remember I used to say, I kept on saying to myself, 'This is enough -for me. I do not need any more than this. I have had my life. I am now -a middle-aged woman. I must live in my child. This will be my -satisfaction. This is my satisfaction. This is using rightly and -naturally all that force I feel within me.' I kept on saying this. But -there is something within one which rises up and defies a lie--however -beautiful the lie is, however noble it is. And I think even a lie can -sometimes be both. Don't you, Emile?" - -It almost seemed to him for a moment that she knew his lie and -Gaspare's. - -"Yes," he said. "I do think so." - -"Well, that lie of mine--it was defied. And it had no more courage." - -"I want you to tell me something," he said, quietly. "I want you to -tell me what has happened to-day." - -"To-day?" - -"Yes. Something has happened either to-day or very recently--I am sure -of it--that has stirred up within you this feeling of acute -dissatisfaction. It was always there. But something has called it into -the open. What has done that?" - -Hermione hesitated. - -"Perhaps you don't know," he said. - -"I was wondering--yes, I do know. I must be truthful with myself--with -you. I do know. But it seems so strange, so almost inexplicable, and -even rather absurd." - -"Truth often seems absurd." - -"It was that boy, that diver for /frutti di mare/--Ruffo." - -"The boy with the Arab eyes?" - -"Yes. Of course I have seen many boys full of life and gayety and -music. There are so many in Italy. But--well, I don't know--perhaps it -was partly Vere." - -"How do you mean?" - -"Vere was so interested in him. It may have been that. Or perhaps it -was something in his look and in his voice when he was singing. I -don't really know what it was. But that boy made me feel--more -horribly than I have ever felt before--that Vere is not enough. Emile, -there is some hunger, so persistent, so peculiar, so intense, that one -feels as if it must be satisfied eventually, as if it were impossible -for it not to be satisfied. I think that human hunger for immortal -life is like that, and I think my hunger for a son is like that. I -know my hunger can never be satisfied. And yet it lives on in me just -as if it knew more than I know, as if it knew that it could and must. -After all these years I can't, no, I can't reconcile myself to the -fact that Maurice was taken from me so utterly, that he died without -stamping himself upon a son. It seems as if it couldn't be. And I feel -to-day that I cannot bear that it is." - -There were tears standing in her eyes. She had spoken with a force of -feeling, with a depth of sincerity, that startled Artois, intimately -as he knew her. Till this moment he had not quite realized the -wonderful persistence of love in the hearts of certain women, and not -only the persistence of love's existence, but of its existence -undiminished, unabated by time. - -"How am I to bear it?" she said, as he did not speak. - -"I cannot tell. I am not worthy to know. And besides, I must say to -you, Hermione, that one of the greatest mysteries in human life, at -any rate to me, is this: how some human beings do bear the burdens -laid upon them. Christ bore His cross. But there has only been, since -the beginning of things, one Christ, and it is unthinkable that there -can ever be another. But all those who are not Christ, how is it they -bear what they do bear? It is easy to talk of bravery, the necessity -for it in life. It is always very easy to talk. The thing that is -impossible is to understand. How can you come to me to help you, my -friend? And suppose I were to try. How could I try, except by saying -that I think Vere is very worthy to be loved with all your love?" - -"You love Vere, don't you, Emile?" - -"Yes." - -"And I do. You don't doubt that?" - -"Never." - -"After all I have said, the way I have spoken, you might." - -"I do not doubt it for a moment." - -"I wonder if there is any mother who would not, if I spoke to her as I -have spoken to you to-day?" - -"I think there is a great deal of untruth spoken of mother's love, a -great deal of misconception about it, as there is about most very -strange, and very wonderful and beautiful things. But are you so sure -that if your husband had stamped himself upon a boy this force within -you could have been satisfied?" - -"I have believed so." - -She was silent. Then she added, quietly, "I do believe so." - -He did not speak, but sat looking down at the sea, which was full of -dim color in the cave. - -"I think you are doubting that it would have been so?" she said, at -last. - -"Yes, that is true. I am doubting." - -"I wonder why?" - -"I cannot help feeling that there is passion in you, such passion as -could not be satisfied in any strict, maternal relationship." - -"But I am old, dear Emile," she said, very simply. - -"When I was standing by that window, looking at the mountains of -Ischia, I was saying to myself, 'This is an old, tired world, suitable -for me--and for you. We are in our right environment to-day.' I was -saying that, Hermione, but was I believing it, really? I don't think I -was. And I am ten years older than you, and I have been given a nature -that was, I think, always older than yours could ever be." - -"I wonder if that is so." - -She looked at him very directly, even searchingly, not with eager -curiosity, but with deep inquiry. - -"You know, Emile," she added, "I tell you very much, but you tell me -very little. Not that I wish to ask anything--no. I respect all your -reserve. And about your work: you tell me all that. It is a great -thing in my life, your work. Perhaps you don't realize how sometimes I -live in the book that you are doing, almost as if I were writing it -myself. But your inner life--" - -"But I have been frankness itself with you," said Artois. "To no one -have I ever said so much as to you." - -"Yes, I know, about many things. But about emotion, love,--not -friendship, the other love--do you get on without that? When you say -your nature has always been older than mine, do you mean that it has -always been harder to move by love, that it has had less need of -love?" - -"I think so. For many years in my life I think that work has filled -the place love occupies in many, perhaps in most men's lives. -Everything comes second to work. I know that, because if any one -attempts to interfere with my work, or to usurp any of the time that -should be given to it, any regard I may have for that person turns at -once to irritation, almost to hatred." - -"I have never done that?" - -"You--no. Of course, I have been like other men. When I was young-- -well, Hermione, after all I am a Frenchman, and though I am of -Normandy, still I passed many years in Paris, as you know." - -"All that I understand. But the real thing? Such as I have known?" - -"I have never broken my heart for any one, though I have known -agitations. But even those were long ago. And since I was thirty-five -I have never felt really dominated by any one. Before that time I -occasionally passed under the yoke, I believe, like other men. Why do -you fix your eyes on me like that?" - -"I was wondering if you could ever pass under the yoke again." - -"Honestly, I do not think so. I am not sure. When can one be certain -that one will never be, or do, this or that? Surely,"--he smiled,-- -"you are not afraid for me?" - -"I do not say that. But I think you have forces in you not fully -exercised even by your work." - -"Possibly. But there the years do really step in and count for -something, even for much. There is no doubt that as the years -increase, the man who cares at all for intellectual pleasures is able -to care for them more, is able to substitute them, without keen -regret, without wailing and gnashing of teeth, for certain other -pleasures, to which, perhaps, formerly he clung. That is why the man -who is mentally and bodily--you know what I mean?" - -"Yes." - -"Has such an immense advantage in years of decline over the man who is -merely a bodily man." - -"I am sure that is true. But--" - -"What is it?" - -"The heart? What about that?" - -"Perhaps there are some hearts that can fulfil themselves sufficiently -in friendship." - -As Artois said this his eyes rested upon Hermione with an expression -in them that revealed much that he never spoke in words. She put out -her hand, and took his, and pressed it, holding hers over it upon the -oar. - -"Emile," she said, "sometimes you make me feel unworthy and ungrateful -because--because I still need, I dare to need more than I have been -given. Without you I don't know how I should have faced it." - -"Without me you would never have had to face it." - -That was the cry that rose up perpetually in the heart of Artois, the -cry that Hermione must never hear. He said to her now: - -"Without you, Hermione, I should be dust in the dust of Africa!" - -"Perhaps we each owe something to the other," she said. "It is blessed -to have a debt to a friend." - -"Would to God that I could pay all my debt to you!" Artois exclaimed. - -Again the cavern took up his voice and threw it back to the sea in -confused and hollow mutterings. They both looked up, as if some one -were above them, warning them or rebuking them. At that instant they -had the feeling that they were being watched. But there was only the -empty gray sea about them, and over their heads the rugged, weary rock -that had leaned over the sea for countless years. - -"Hark!" said Artois, "it is telling me that my debt to you can never -be paid: only in one way could it be partially discharged. If I could -show you a path to happiness, the happiness you long for, and need, -the passionate happiness of the heart that is giving where it rejoices -to give--for your happiness must always be in generosity--I should -have partially paid my debt to you. But that is impossible." - -"I've made you sad to-day by my complaining," she said, with self- -rebuke; "I'm sorry. You didn't realize?" - -"How it was with you? No, not quite--I thought you were more at peace -than you are." - -"Till to-day I believe I was half deceived too." - -"That singing boy, that--what is his name?" - -"Ruffo." - -"That Ruffo, I should like to run a knife into him under the left -shoulder-blade. How dare he, a ragamuffin from some hovel of Naples, -make you know that you are unhappy?" - -"How strange it is what outside things, or people who have no -connection with us or with our lives, can do to us unconsciously!" she -said. "I have heard a hundred boys sing on the Bay, seen a hundred -rowing their boats into the Pool--and just this one touches some -chord, and all the strings of my soul quiver." - -"Some people act upon us somewhat as nature does sometimes. And Vere -paid the boy. There is another irony of unconsciousness. Vere, bone of -your bone, flesh of your flesh, rewards your pain-giver. How we hide -ourselves from those we love best and live with most intimately! You, -her mother, are a stranger to Vere. Does not to-day prove it?" - -"Ah, but Vere is not a stranger to me. That is where the mother has -the advantage of the child." - -Artois did not make any response to this remark. To cover his silence, -perhaps, he grasped the oars more firmly and began to back the boat -out of the cave. Both felt that it was no longer necessary to stay in -this confessional of the rock. - -As they came out under the grayness of the sky, Hermione, with a -change of tone, said: - -"And your friend? The Marchese--what is his name?" - -"Isidoro Panacci." - -"Tell me about him." - -"He is a very perfect type of a complete Neapolitan of his class. He -has scarcely travelled at all, except in Italy. Once he has been in -Paris, where I met him, and once to Lucerne for a fortnight. Both his -father and mother are Neapolitans. He is a charming fellow, utterly -unintellectual, but quite clever; shrewd, sharp at reading character, -marvellously able to take care of himself, and hold his own with -anybody. A cat to fall on his feet! He is apparently born without any -sense of fear, and with a profound belief in destiny. He can drive -four-in-hand, swim for any number of hours without tiring, ride--well, -as an Italian cavalry officer can ride, and that is not badly. His -accomplishments? He can speak French--abominably, and pick out all -imaginable tunes on the piano, putting instinctively quite tolerable -basses. I don't think he ever reads anything, except the /Giorno/ and -the /Mattino/. He doesn't care for politics, and likes cards, but -apparently not too much. They're no craze with him. He knows Naples -inside out, and is as frank as a child that has never been punished." - -"I should think he must be decidedly attractive?" - -"Oh, he is. One great attraction he has--he appears to have no sense -at all that difference of age can be a barrier between two men. He is -twenty-four, and I am what I am. He is quite unaware that there is any -gulf between us. In every way he treats me as if I were twenty-four." - -"Is that refreshing or embarrassing?" - -"I find it generally refreshing. His family accepts the situation with -perfect naivete. I am welcomed as Doro's chum with all the good-will -in the world." - -Hermione could not help laughing, and Artois echoed her laugh. - -"Merely talking about him has made you look years younger," she -declared. "The influence of the day has lifted from you." - -"It would not have fallen upon Isidoro, I think. And yet he is full of -sentiment. He is a curious instance of a very common Neapolitan -obsession." - -"What is that?" - -"He is entirely obsessed by woman. His life centres round woman. You -observe I use the singular. I do that because it is so much more -plural than the plural in this case. His life is passed in love- -affairs, in a sort of chaos of amours." - -"How strange that is!" - -"You think so, my friend?" - -"Yes. I never can understand how human beings can pass from love to -love, as many of them do. I never could understand it, even before I-- -even before Sicily." - -"You are not made to understand such a thing." - -"But you do?" - -"I? Well, perhaps. But the loves of men are not as your love." - -"Yet his was," she answered. "And he was a true Southerner, despite -his father. - -"Yes, he was a true Southerner," Artois replied. - -For once he was off his guard with her, and uttered his real thought -of Maurice, not without a touch of the irony that was characteristic -of him. - -Immediately he had spoken he was aware of his indiscretion. But -Hermione had not noticed it. He saw by her eyes that she was far away -in Sicily. And when the boat slipped into the Saint's Pool, and -Gaspare came to the water's edge to hold the prow while they got out, -she rose from her seat slowly, and almost reluctantly, like one -disturbed in a dream that she would fain continue. - -"Have you seen the Signorina, Gaspare?" she asked him. "Has she been -out?" - -"No, Signora. She is still in the house." - -"Still reading!" said Artois. "Vere must be quite a book-worm!" - -"Will you stay to dinner, Emile?" - -"Alas, I have promised the Marchesino Isidoro to dine with him. Give -me a cup of tea /a la Russe/, and one of Ruffo's cigarettes, and then -I must bid you adieu. I'll take the boat to the Antico Giuseppone, and -then get another there as far as the gardens." - -"One of Ruffo's cigarettes!" Hermione echoed, as they went up the -steps. "That boy seems to have made himself one of the family -already." - -"Yet I wish, as I said in the cave, that I had put a knife into him -under the left shoulder-blade--before this morning." - -They spoke lightly. It seemed as if each desired for the moment to get -away from their mood in the confessional of Virgil's Grotto, and from -the sadness of the white and silent day. - -As to Ruffo, about whom they jested, he was in sight of Naples, and -not far from Mergellina, still rowing with tireless young arms, and -singing to "Bella Napoli," with a strong resolve in his heart to -return to the Saint's Pool on the first opportunity and dive for more -cigarettes. - - - -CHAPTER IV - -At the Antico Giuseppone, Artois left the boat from the islet and, -taking another, was rowed towards the public gardens of Naples, whose -trees were faintly visible far off across the Bay. Usually he talked -familiarly to any Neapolitan with whom he found himself, but to-day he -was taciturn, and sat in the stern of the broad-bottomed craft looking -towards the city in silence while the boatman plied his oars. The -memory of his conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil, of -her manner, the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice there, gave -him food for thought that was deep and serious. - -Although Artois had an authoritative, and often an ironical manner -that frightened timid people, he was a man capable of much emotion and -of great loyalty. He did not easily trust or easily love, but in those -whose worth he had thoroughly proved he had a confidence as complete -as that of a child. And where he placed his complete confidence he -placed also his affection. The one went with the other almost as -inevitably as the wave goes with the wind. - -In their discussion about the emotion of the heart Artois had spoken -the truth to Hermione. As he had grown older he had felt the influence -of women less. The pleasures of sentiment had been gradually -superceded in his nature--or so at least he honestly believed--by the -purely intellectual pleasures. More and more completely and -contentedly had he lived in his work, and in the life of preparation -for it. This life could never be narrow, for Artois was a traveller, -and studied many lands. - -In the years that had elapsed since the tragedy in Sicily, when the -husband of Hermione had met his death suddenly in the sea, almost in -sight of the home of the girl he had betrayed, the fame of Artois had -grown steadily. And he was jealous of his fame almost as a good woman -is jealous of her honor. This jealousy had led him to a certain -selfishness of which he was quite aware--even to a certain hardness -such as he had hinted to Hermione. Those who strove, or seemed likely -to strive to interrupt him in his work, he pushed out of his life. -Even if they were charming women he got rid of them. And the fact that -he did so proved to him, and not improbably to them, that he was more -wrapped up in the gratification of the mind than in the gratification -of the heart, or of the body. It was not that the charm of charming -women had ceased to please him, but it seemed to have ceased really to -fascinate him. - -Long ago, before Hermione married, he had felt for her a warm and -intimate friendship. He had even been jealous of Maurice. Without -being at all in love, he had cared enough for Hermione to be jealous. -Before her marriage he had looked forward in imagination down a vista -of long years, and had seen her with a husband, then with children, -always more definitely separated from himself. - -And he had seen himself exceptionally alone, even almost miserably -alone. - -Then fate had spun tragedy into her web. He had nearly died in Africa, -and had been nursed back to life by this friend of whom he had been -jealous. And they had gone together to Sicily, to the husband whose -memory Hermione still adored. And then had followed swiftly the -murder, the murderer's departure to America, saved by the silence of -Gaspare, and the journey of the bereaved woman to Italy, where Artois -had left her and returned to France. - -Once more Artois had his friend, released from the love of another -man. But he wished it were not so. Hermione's generosity met with a -full response of generosity from him. All his egotism and selfishness -dropped from him then, shaken down like dead leaves by the tempest of -a genuine emotion. His knowledge of her grief, his understanding of -its depth, brought to him a sorrow that was keen, and even exquisitely -painful. For a long while he was preoccupied by an intense desire to -assuage it. He strove to do so by acting almost in defiance of his -nature, by fostering deception. From the Abetone Hermione had written -him letters, human documents--the tale of the suffering of a woman's -heart. Many reserves she had from him and from every one. The most -intimate agony was for her alone, and she kept it in her soul as the -priest keeps the Sacred Host in its tabernacle. But some of her grief -she showed in her letters, and some of her desire for comfort. And -without any definite intention, she indicated to her subtle and -devoted friend the only way in which he could console her. - -For once, driven by his emotion, he took that way. - -He allowed Hermione to believe that he agreed with her in the -conception she had formed of her husband's love for her. It was -difficult for him to do this, for he had an almost cruel passion for -truth, and generally a clear insight into human character. Far less -than many others would have condemned did he, in his mind, condemn the -man who was dead for the sin against love that he had committed. He -had understood Maurice as Hermione had not understood him, and -knowledge is full of pardon. But though he could pardon easily he -could not easily pretend. By pretending he sinned against himself, and -helped his friend some steps along the way to peace. He thought he had -helped her to go much farther along that way than she had gone. And he -thought that Vere had helped her, too. - -Now the hollow mutterings of the rock in Virgil's Grotto seemed to be -in his heart, as he realized how permanent was the storm in Hermione's -nature. Something for her he had done. And something--much more, no -doubt--Vere had done. But how little it all was! - -Their helplessness gave him a new understanding of woman. - -Hermione had allowed him great privileges, had allowed him to protect -her, had taken his advice. After Vere was born she had wished to go -back again to Sicily. The house of the priest, where she had been so -happy, and so sad, drew her. She longed for it. She desired to make it -her home. He had fought against her in this matter, and had been aided -by Gaspare. - -There had been a subtle understanding, never expressed, between the -boy and him. - -Artois had played upon her intellect, had appealed, too, to her -mother's heart. - -He had not urged her to try to forget, but he had urged her not -morbidly to remember, not to cherish and to foster the memory of the -tragedy which had broken her life. To go back to that tiny home, -solitary in its beautiful situation, in the changed circumstances -which were hers, would be, he told her, to court and to summon sorrow. -He was even cruel to be kind. When Hermione combated his view, -assuring him that to her Monte Amato was like a sacred place, a place -hallowed by memories of happiness, he recalled the despair in which -that happiness had ended. With all the force at his command, and it -was great, he drew the picture of the life that would be in comparison -with the life that had been. And he told her finally that what she -wished to do was morbid, was unworthy of her strength of character, -was even wicked now that she was a mother. He brought before her mind -those widows who make a cult of their dead. Would she be one of them? -Would she steep a little child in such an atmosphere of memories, -casting a young and tender mind backward into a cruel past instead of -leading it forward into a joyous present? Maurice had been the very -soul of happiness. Vere must be linked with the sunbeams. With his -utmost subtlety Artois described and traced the effect upon a tiny and -sensitive child of a mother's influence, whether for good or evil, -until Hermione, who had a deep reverence for his knowledge of all -phases of human nature, at last, almost in despite of the truth within -her, of the interior voice which said to her, "With you and Vere it -would not be so," caught alarm from his apparent alarm, drew distrust -of herself from his apparent distrust of her. - -Gaspare, too, played his part. When Hermione spoke to him of returning -to the priest's house, almost wildly, and with the hot energy that -bursts so readily up in Sicilians, he begged her not to go back to the -/maledetta casa/ in which his Padrone's dead body had lain. As he -spoke a genuine fear of the cottage came upon him. All the latent -superstition that dwells in the contadino was stirred as dust by a -wind. In clouds it flew up about his mind. Fear looked out of his -great eyes. Dread was eloquent in his gestures. And he, too, referred -to the child, to the /povera piccola bambina/. It would cast ill-luck -on the child to bring her up in a chamber of death. Her saint would -forsake her. She too would die. The boy worked himself up into a -fever. His face was white. Drops of sweat stood on his forehead. - -He had set out to be deceptive--what he would have called /un poco -birbante/, and he had even deceived himself. He knew that it would be -dangerous for his Padrona to live again near Marechiaro. Any day a -chance scrap of gossip might reach her ears. In time she would be -certain almost to hear something of the dead Padrone's close -acquaintance with the dwellers in the Casa delle Sirene. She would -question him, perhaps. She would suspect something. She would inquire. -She would search. She would find out the hideous truth. It was this -fear which made him argue on the same side as Artois. But in doing so -he caught another fear from his own words. He became really natural, -really truthful in his fear. And--she scarcely knew why--Hermione was -even more governed by him than by Artois. He had lived with them in -the Casa del Prete, had been an intimate part of their life there. And -he was Sicilian of the soil. The boy had a real power to move, to -dominate her, which he did not then suspect. - -Again and again he repeated those words, "/La povera bambina--la -povera piccola bambina/." And at last Hermione was overcome. - -"I won't go to Sicily," she said to Artois. "For if I went there I -could only go to Monte Amato. I won't go until Vere is old enough to -wish to go, to wish to see the house where her father and I were -happy." - -And she had never gone back. For Artois had not been satisfied with -this early victory. - -In returning from a tour in North America the following spring, when -Vere was nearly two years old, he had paid a visit to Marechiaro, and, -while there, had seen the contadino from whom Hermione had rented, and -still rented, the house of the priest. The man was middle-aged, -ignorant but shrewd, and very greedy. Artois made friends with him, -and casually, over a glass of /moscato/, talked about his affairs and -the land question in Sicily. The peasant became communicative and, of -course, loud in his complaining. His land yielded nothing. The price -of almonds had gone down. The lemon crop had been ruined by the -storms. As to the vines--they were all devoured by the phylloxera, and -he had no money to buy and plant vines from America. Artois hinted -that he received a good rent from the English lady for the cottage on -Monte Amato. The contadino acknowledged that he received a fair price -for the cottage and the land about it; but the house, he declared, -would go to rack and ruin with no one ever in it, and the land was -lying idle, for the English lady would have everything left exactly as -it had been when she lived there with her husband. Artois seized upon -this hint of what was in the peasant's mind, and bemoaned with him his -situation. The house ought to be occupied, the land all about it, up -to the very door, and behind upon the sunny mountain-side, planted -with American vines. If it belonged to him that was what he would do-- -plant American vines, and when the years of yielding came, give a good -percentage on all the wine made and sold to the man who had tended the -vineyard. - -The peasant's love of money awoke. He only let the cottage to Hermione -year by year, and had no contract with her extending beyond a twelve- -months' lease. Before Artois left Marechiaro the tender treachery was -arranged. When the year's lease was up, the contadino wrote to her -declining to renew it. She answered, protesting, offering more money. -But it was all in vain. The man replied that he had already let the -cottage and the land around it to a grower of vines for a long term of -years, and that he was getting double the annual price she offered. - -Hermione was indignant and bitterly distressed. When this letter -reached her she was at Fiesole with Vere in a villa which she had -taken. She would probably have started at once for Sicily; but Vere -was just then ill with some infantile complaint, and could not be -left. Artois, who was in Rome, and had received from her the news of -this carefully arranged disaster, offered to go to Sicily on her -behalf--and actually went. He returned to tell her that the house of -the priest was already occupied by contadini, and all the land up to -the very door in process of being dug up and planted with vines. It -was useless to make any further offer. The thing was done. - -Hermione said nothing, but Artois saw in her eyes how keenly she was -suffering, and turned his own eyes away. He was only trying to -preserve her from greater unhappiness, the agony of ever finding out -the truth; but he felt guilty at that moment, and as if he had been -cruel to the woman who roused all his tenderness, all his protective -instinct. - -"I shall not go back to Marechiaro now," Hermione said. "I shall not -go back even to see the grave. I could never feel that anything of his -spirit lingered there. But I did feel, I should have felt again, as if -something of him still loved that little house on the mountain, still -stayed among the oak-trees. It seemed to me that when I took Vere to -the Casa del Prete she would have learned to know something of her -father there that she could never have learned to know in another -place. But now--no, I shall not go back. If I did I should even lose -my memories, perhaps, and I could not bear that." - -And she had not returned. Gaspare went to Marechiaro sometimes, to see -his family and his friends. He visited the grave and saw that it was -properly kept. But Hermione remained in Italy. For some time she lived -near Florence, first at Fiesole, later at Bellosguardo. When the -summer heat came she took a villa at the Abetone. Or she spent some -months with Vere beside the sea. As the girl grew older she developed -a passion for the sea, and seemed to care little for the fascination -of the pine forests. Hermione, noting this, gave up going to the -Abetone and took a house by the sea for the whole summer. Two years -they were at Santa Margherita, one year at Sorrento. - -Then, sailing one evening on the sea towards Bagnoli, they saw the -house on the islet beyond the Pool of San Francesco. Vere was -enchanted by it. - -"To live in it," she exclaimed, "would be almost like living in the -sea!" - -Hermione, too, was fascinated by its situation, the loneliness, the -wildness, yet the radiant cheerfulness of it. She made inquiries, -found that it was owned by a Neapolitan who scarcely ever went there, -and eventually succeeded in getting it on a long lease. For two years -now she and Vere had spent the summer there. - -Artois had noticed that since Hermione had been in the Casa del Mare -an old desire had begun to revive in her. She spoke more frequently of -Sicily. Often she stood on the rock and looked across the sea, and he -knew that she was thinking of those beloved coasts--of the Ionian -waters, of the blossoming almond-trees among the olives and the rocks, -of the scarlet geraniums glowing among the thorny cactus, of the giant -watercourses leading up into the mountains. A hunger was awake in her, -now that she had a home so near the enchanted island. - -He realized it. But he was no longer much afraid. So many years had -passed that even if Hermione revisited Marechiaro he believed there -would be little or no danger now of her ever learning the truth. It -had never been known in the village, and if it had been suspected, all -the suspicions must have long ago died down. He had been successful in -his protection. He was thankful for that. It was the one thing he had -been able to do for the friend who had done so much for him. - -The tragedy had occurred because of him. Because of him all knowledge -of it had been kept from Hermione, and would now be kept from her -forever--because of him and Gaspare. - -This he had been able to do. But how powerless he was, and how -powerless was Vere! - -Now he looked vaguely at the villas of Posilipo, and he realized this -thoroughly. - -Something for her he had done, and something Vere had done. But how -little it all was! - -To-day a new light had been thrown upon Hermione, and he realized what -she was as he had never realized it before. No, she was right. She -could never live fully in a girl child--she was not made to do that. -Why had he ever thought, hoped that perhaps it might be so, that -perhaps Vere might some day completely and happily fill her life? Long -ago he had encouraged her to work, to write. Misled by her keen -intelligence, her enthusiasm, her sincerity and vitality, by the -passion that was in her, the great heart, the power of feeling, the -power of criticising and inspiring another which she had freely shown -to him, Artois had believed--as he had once said to her in London-- -that she might be an artist, but that she preferred to be simply a -woman. But he found it was not so. Hermione had not the peculiar gift -of the writer. She could feel, but she could not arrange. She could -discern, but she could not expose. A flood of words came to her, but -not the inevitable word. She could not take that exquisite leap from -the known into the unknown which genius can take with the certainty of -alighting on firm ground. In short, she was not formed and endowed to -be an artist. About such matters Artois knew only how to be sincere. -He was sincere with his friend, and she thanked him for being so. - -One possible life was taken from Hermione, the life of the artist who -lives in the life of the work. - -There remained the life in Vere. - -To-day Artois knew from Hermione's own lips that she could not live -completely in her child, and he felt that he had been blind as men are -often blind about women, are blind because they are secretly selfish. -The man lives for himself, but he thinks it natural, even -distinctively womanly, that women should live for others--for him, for -some other man, for their children. What man finds his life in his -child? But the woman--she surely ought to, and without difficulty. -Hermione had been sincere to-day, and Artois knew his blindness, and -knew his secret selfishness. - -The gray was lifting a little over Naples, the distant shadowy form of -Vesuvius was becoming clearer, more firm in outline. But the boatman -rowed slowly, influenced by the scirocco. - -How, then, was Hermione to live? How was she to find happiness or -peace? It was a problem which he debated with an ardor that had in it -something of passion. And he began to wonder how it would have been if -he had acted differently, if he had allowed her to find out what he -suspected to be the exact truth of the dead man. Long ago he had saved -her from suffering. But by doing so had he not dedicated her, not to a -greater, but to a longer suffering? He might have defiled a beautiful -memory. He must have done so had he acted differently. But if he had -defiled it, might not Hermione have been the subject of a great -revulsion? Horror can kill, but it can also cure. It can surely root -out love. But from such a heart as Hermione's? - -Despite all his understanding of women, Artois felt at a loss to-day. -He could not make up his mind what would have been the effect upon -Hermione if she had learned that her husband had betrayed her. - -Presently he left that subject and came to Vere. - -When he did this he was conscious at once of a change within him. His -tenderness and pity for Hermione were replaced by another tenderness -and pity. And these were wholly for Vere. Hermione was suffering -because of Maurice. But Vere was surely suffering, subconsciously, -because of Hermione. - -There were two links in the chain of suffering, that between Maurice -and Hermione, and that between Hermione and Vere. - -For a moment he felt as if Vere were bereaved, were motherless. The -sensation passed directly he realized the exaggeration in his mind. -But he still felt as if the girl were deprived of something which she -ought to possess, which, till now, he had thought she did possess. It -seemed to him that Vere stood quite outside of her mother's life, -instead of in it, in its centre, its core; and he pitied the child, -almost as he pitied other children from time to time, children to whom -their parents were indifferent. And yet Hermione loved Vere, and Vere -could not know what he had only known completely to-day--that the -mother often felt lonely with the child. - -Vere did not know that, but surely some day she would find it out. - -Artois knew her character well, knew that she was very sensitive, very -passionate, quick to feel and quick to understand. He discovered in -her qualities inherited both from her father and her mother, -attributes both English and Sicilian. In appearance she resembled her -father. She had "thrown back" to the Sicilian ancestor, as he had. She -had the Southern eyes, the Southern grace, the Southern vivacity and -warmth that had made him so attractive. But Artois divined a certain -stubbornness in Vere that had been lacking in the dead man, a -stubbornness that took its rise not in stupidity but in a secret -consciousness of force. - -Vere, Artois thought, might be violent, but would not be fickle. She -had a loyalty in her that was Sicilian in its fervor, a sense of -gratitude such as the contadini have, although by many it is denied to -them; a quick and lively temper, but a disposition that responded to -joy, to brightness, to gayety, to sunlight, with a swiftness, almost a -fierceness, that was entirely un-English. - -Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, could never have -his gift of thoughtlessness. For she had intellect, derived from -Hermione, and an old truthfulness that was certainly not Sicilian. -Often there were what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her -sincerity. The strains in her, united, made, he thought, a fascinating -blend. But as yet she was undeveloped--an interesting, a charming -child, but only a child. In many ways she was young for her age. -Highly intelligent, she was anything rather than "knowing." Her -innocence was like clear water in a spring. The graciousness of youth -was hers to the full. - -As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new thing, of the -wonderful beauty of such innocent youth. - -It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet that link in the -chain did exist. Vere had not something that surely she ought to have, -and, without consciously missing it, she must sometimes subtly, -perhaps vaguely, be aware that there was a lack in her life. Her -mother gave her great love. But she was not to her mother what a son -would have been. And the love that is mingled with regret has surely -something shadowy in it. - -Maurice Delarey had been as the embodiment of joy. It was strange that -from the fount of joy sorrow was thrown up. But so it was. From him -sorrow had come. From him sorrow might still come, even for Vere. - -In the white and silent day Artois again felt the stirring of -intuition, as he had felt it long ago. But now he roused himself, and -resolutely, almost angrily, detached his mind from its excursions -towards the future. - -"Do you often think of to-morrow?" he suddenly said to the boatman, -breaking from his silence. - -"Signore?" - -"Do you often wonder what is going to happen to-morrow, what you will -do, whether you will be happy or sad?" - -The man threw up his head. - -"No, Signore. Whatever comes is destiny. If I have food to-day it is -enough for me. Why should I bother about to-morrow's maccheroni?" - -Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the platform of stone that -projected beneath the wall of the Marina. - -As he stepped out he gave the boatman a generous /buonamano/. - -"You are quite right, comrade," he said. "It is the greatest mistake -in the world to bother about to-morrow's maccheroni." - - - -CHAPTER V - -Three days after Artois' conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of -Virgil the Marchesino Isidoro Panacci came smiling into his friend's -apartments in the Hotel Royal des Etrangers. He was smartly dressed in -the palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink socks, -brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected by many young -Neopolitans, and a round straw hat, with a small brim, that was set -slightly on the side of his curly head. In his mouth was a cigarette, -and in his buttonhole a pink carnation. He took Artois' hand with his -left hand, squeezed it affectionately, murmured "Caro Emilio," and sat -down in an easy attitude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on a -table near by. - -It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had -just dropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with -"Caro Emilio," and it never occurred to him that possibly he might be -interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could not -realize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw him -sometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was -sure anybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him -play a valse on the piano, or a bit of the "Boheme," than bend over a -table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him. -But it was not only that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type, -and a singularly perfect one. - -Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair opposite -to the sofa. - -"Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of -the sea!" - -The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also shone in his -round and boyish eyes. - -"I have just come out of the sea. Papa and I have been bathing at the -Eldorado. We swam round the Castello until we were opposite your -windows, and sang 'Funiculi, funicula!' in the water, to serenade you. -Why didn't you hear us? Papa has a splendid voice, almost like -Tamagno's in the gramophone, when he sings the 'Addio' from 'Otello.' -Of course we kept a little out at sea. Papa is so easily recognized by -his red mustaches. But still you might have heard us." - -"I did." - -"Then why didn't you come unto the balcony, amico mio?" - -"Because I thought you were street singers." - -"Davvero? Papa would be angry. And he is in a bad temper to-day -anyhow." - -"Why?" - -"Well, I believe Gilda Mai is going to bring a /causa/ against -Viviano. Of course he won't marry her, and she never expected he -could. Why, she used to be a milliner in the Toledo. I remember it -perfectly, and now Sigismondo-- But it's really Gilda that has made -papa angry. You see, he has paid twice for me, once four thousand -lire, and the other time three thousand five hundred. And then he has -lost a lot at Lotto lately. He has no luck. And then he, too, was in a -row yesterday evening." - -"The Marchese?" - -"Yes, in the Chiaia. He slapped Signora Merani's face twice before -every one." - -"Diavolo! What! a lady?" - -"Well, if you like to call her so," returned Doro, negligently. "Her -husband is an impiegato of the Post-office, or something of the kind." - -"But why should the Marchese slap her face in the Chiaia?" - -"Because she provoked him. They took a flat in the house my father -owns in the Strada Chiatamone. After a time they got behind with the -rent. He let them stay on for six months without paying, and then he -turned them out. What should he do?" Doro began to gesticulate. He -held his right hand up on a level with his face, with the fingers all -drawn together and pressed against the thumb, and moved it violently -backwards and forwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his nose, -then throwing it out towards Artois. "What else, I say? Was he to give -his beautiful rooms to them for nothing? And she with a face like-- -have you, I ask you, Emilio, have you seen her teeth?" - -"I have never seen the Signora in my life!" - -"You have never seen her teeth? Dio Mio!" He opened his two hands, -and, lifting his arms, shook them loosely above his head, shutting his -eyes for an instant as if to ward off some dreadful vision. "They are -like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli's! Basta!" He dropped his -hands and opened his eyes. "Yesterday papa was walking in the Chiaia. -He met Signori Merani, and she began to abuse him. She had a red -parasol. She shook it at him! She called him vigliacco--papa, a -Panacci, dei Duchi di Vedrano! The parasol--it was a bright red, it -infuriated papa. He told the Signora to stop. She knows his temper. -Every one in Naples knows our tempers, every one! I, Viviano, even -Sigismondo, we are all the same, we are all exactly like papa. If we -are insulted we cannot control ourselves. You know it, Emilio!" - -"I am perfectly certain of it," said Artois. "I am positive you none -of you can." - -"It does not matter whether it is a man or a woman. We must do -something with our hands. We have got to. Papa told the Signora he -should strike her at once unless she put down the red parasol and was -silent. What did she do, the imbecile? She stuck out her face like -this,"--he thrust his face forward with the right cheek turned towards -Artois--"and said, 'Strike me! strike me!' Papa obeyed her. Poom! -Poom! He gave her a smack on each cheek before every one. 'You want -education!' he said to her. 'And I shall give it you.' And now she may -bring a /processo/ too. But did you really think we were street -singers?" He threw himself back, took the cigarette from his mouth, -and laughed. Then he caught hold of his blond mustache with both -hands, gave it an upward twist, at the same time pouting his big lips, -and added: - -"We shall bring a /causa/ against you for that!" - -"No, Doro, you and I must never quarrel. By the way, though, I want to -see you angry. Every one talks of the Panacci temper, but when I am -with you I always see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he -is as lively as a boy. Viviano--" - -"Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey -from whom another monkey has snatched a nut?" - -"No." - -"It is like this--" - -With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into the -likeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fierce -simian cries. - -"No, I can't do it." - -With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling self -again. - -"Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the -other way when he passes along the Marina where the women are bathing -in the summer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you -come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you know -how religious she is. But then, of course, men--that does not matter. -Religion is for women, and they understand that quite well." - -The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. One virtue he had in -the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom he -considered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy -never occurred to him. - -"Mamma would hate it if we were saints," he continued. - -"I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension on that score," -said Artois. - -"No, I don't think so," returned the Marchesino, quite seriously. - -He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve him. Occasionally -it was fitful, and when summoned by irony remained at a distance. - -"It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry," he continued, -reverting to the remark of Artois; "you ought to. Till you have seen a -Panacci angry you do not really know him. With you, of course, I could -never be angry--never, never. You are my friend, my comrade. To you I -tell everything." - -A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. Evidently a new thought -had started into his active mind, for his face suddenly changed, and -became serious, even sentimental. - -"What is it?" asked Artois. - -"To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl--Madonna! Emilio, she -had a little nose that was perfect--perfect. How she was simpatica! -What a beautiful girl!" - -His whole face assumed a melting expression, and he pursed his lips in -the form of a kiss. - -"She was in the sea, too?" asked Artois. - -"No. If she had been! But I was with papa. It was just after we had -been serenading you. She had heard us, I am sure, for she was -laughing. I dived under the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks -for her. I did the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. She never -took her eyes from me. As to papa--she never glanced at him. Poor -papa! He was angry. She had her mother with her, I think--a Signora, -tall, flat, ugly, but she was simpatica, too. She had nice eyes, and -when I did the seal she could not help laughing, though I think she -was rather sad." - -"What sort of boat were they in?" Artois asked, with sudden interest. - -"A white boat with a green line." - -"And they were coming from the direction of Posilipo?" - -"Ma si! Emilio, do you know them? Do you know the perfect little -nose?" - -The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of his friend. - -"I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother--she is flat as a -Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, -intelligent. And the girl is a little brown--from the sun--with eyes -full of fun and fire, dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet--there is -something English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not cold. And -when she laughs! Her teeth are not like the keys of a piano from -Bordicelli's. And she is full of passion, of flame, of sentiment, as I -am. And she is young, perhaps sixteen. Do you know her? Present me, -Emilio! I have presented you to all my friends." - -"Mio caro, you have made me your debtor for life." - -"It isn't true!" - -"Indeed it is true. But I do not know who these ladies are. They may -be Italians. They may be tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have -left Naples. Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I tell who -they are?" - -The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor vanished. His gesticulating -hands fell to his sides. His expressive face grew melancholy. - -"Of course. How can you tell? Directly I was out of the sea and -dressed, I went to Santa Lucia. I examined every boat, but the white -boat with the green line was not there, Basta!" - -He lit a fresh cigarette and was silent for a moment. Then he said: - -"Emilio caro, will you come out with me to-night?" - -"With pleasure." - -"In the boat. There will be a moon. We will dine at the Antico -Giuseppone." - -"So far off as that?" Artois said, rather abruptly. - -"Why not? To-day I hate the town. I want tranquility. At the Antico -Giuseppone there will be scarcely any one. It is early in the season. -And afterwards we will fish for sarde, or saraglie. Take me away from -Naples, Emilio; take me away! For to-night, if I stay--well, I feel -that I shall not be santo." - -Artois burst into his big roaring laugh. - -"And why do you want to be santo to-night?" he asked. - -"The beautiful girl! I wish to keep her memory, if only for one -night." - -"Very well, then. We will fish, and you shall be a saint." - -"Caro Emilio! Perhaps Viviano will come, too. But I think he will be -with Lidia. She is singing to-night at the Teatro Nuovo. Be ready at -half-past seven. I will call for you. And now I shall leave you." - -He got up, went over to a mirror, carefully arranged his tie, and put -on his straw hat at exactly the most impudent angle. - -"I shall leave you to write your book while I meet papa at the villa. -Do you know why papa is so careful to be always at the villa at four -o'clock just now?" - -"No!" - -"Nor does mamma! If she did! Povera mamma! But she can always go to -Mass. A rivederci, Emilio." - -He moved his hat a little more to one side and went out, swinging his -walking-stick gently to and fro in a manner that was pensive and -almost sentimental. - - - -CHAPTER VI - -The Marchesino Panacci was generally very sincere with his friends, -and the boyish expression in his eyes was not altogether deceptive, -for despite his wide knowledge of certain aspects of life, not wholly -admirable, there was really something of the simplicity of a child--of -a child that could be very naughty--in his disposition. But if he -could be naïve he could also be mischievous and even subtle, and he -was very swift in grasping a situation, very sharp in reading -character, very cunning in the pursuit of his pleasure, very adroit in -deception, if he thought that publicity of pursuit would be likely to -lead to the frustration of his purpose. - -He had seen at once that Artois either knew, or suspected, who were -the occupants of the white boat with the green line, and he had also -seen that, influenced perhaps by one of those second thoughts which -lead men into caution, Artois desired to conceal his knowledge, or -suspicion. Instantly the Marchesino had, therefore, dropped the -subject, and as instantly he had devised a little plan to clear the -matter up. - -The Marchesino knew that when Artois had arrived in Naples he had had -no friends in the town or neighborhood. But he also knew that recently -an Englishwoman, an old friend of the novelist, had come upon the -scene, that she was living somewhere not far off, and that Artois had -been to visit her once or twice by sea. Artois had spoken of her very -casually, and the Marchesino's interest in her had not been awakened. -He was not an inquisitive man by nature, and was always very busy with -his own pursuit of pleasure. But he remembered now that once he had -seen his friend being rowed in the direction of Posilipo, and that in -the evening of the same day Artois had mentioned having been to visit -his English friend. This fact had suggested to the Marchesino that if -his suspicion were correct, and the ladies in the white boat with the -green line were this English friend and a daughter, they probably -lived in some villa as easily reached by sea as by land. Such villas -are more numerous towards the point of the Capo di Posilipo than -nearer Naples, as the high road, after the Mergellina, mounts the hill -and diverges farther and farther from the sea. The Antico Giuseppone -is a small waterside ristorante at the point of the Capo di Posilipo, -a little below the Villa Rosebery. - -The Marchesino's suggestion of a dinner there that evening had been -prompted by the desire to draw his friend into the neighborhood of his -charmer of the sea. Once there he might either find some pretext for -making her acquaintance through Artois--if Artois did know her--or, if -that were impossible, he might at least find out where she lived. By -the manner of Artois when the Antico Giuseppone was mentioned, he knew -at once that he was playing his cards well. The occupants of the white -boat were known to the novelist. They did live somewhere near the -Antico Giuseppone. And certainly Artois had no desire to bring about -his--the Marchesino's--acquaintance with them. - -That this was so, neither surprised nor seriously vexed the -Marchesino. He knew a good deal of his friend's character, knew that -Artois, despite his geniality and friendliness, was often reserved-- -even with him. During their short intimacy he had certainly told -Artois a great deal more about his affairs with women than had been -told to him in return. This fact was borne in upon him now. But he did -not feel angry. A careless good-nature was an essential part of his -character. He did not feel angry at his friend's secrecy, but he did -feel mischievous. His lively desire to know the girl with "the perfect -little nose" was backed up now by another desire--to teach "Caro -Emilio" that it was better to meet complete frankness with complete -frankness. - -He had strolled out of his friend's room pensively, acting the -melancholy youth who had lost all hope of succeeding in his desire; -but directly the door was shut his manner changed. Disregarding the -lift, he ran lightly down the stairs, made his way swiftly by the -revolving door into the street, crossed it, and walked towards the -harbor of Santa Lucia, where quantities of pleasure-boats lie waiting -for hire, and the boatmen are gathered in knots smoking and gossiping, -or are strolling singly up and down near the water's edge, keeping a -sharp look-out for possible customers. - -As the Marchesino turned on the bridge that leads towards Castel dell' -Ovo one of these boatmen met him and saluted him. - -"Good-day, Giuseppe," said the Marchesino, addressing him familiarly -with a broad Neapolitan accent. - -"Good-day, Signorino Marchesino," replied the man. "Do you want a -boat? I will take you for--" - -The Marchesino drew out his cigarette case. - -"I don't want a boat. But perhaps you can tell me something." - -"What is it, Signorino Marchesino?" said the man, looking eagerly at -the cigarette case which was now open, and which displayed two -tempting rows of fat Egyptian cigarettes reposing side by side. - -"Do you know a boat--white with a green line--which sometimes comes -into the harbor from the direction of Posilipo? It was here this -afternoon, or it passed here. I don't know whether it went on to the -Arsenal." - -"White with a green line?" said the man. "That might be--who was there -in it, Signorino Marchesino?" - -"Two ladies, one old and one very young. The young lady--" - -"Those must be the ladies from the island," interrupted the man. "The -English ladies who come in the summer to the Casa del Mare as they -call it, on the island close to the Grotto of Virgilio by San -Francesco's Pool. They were here this afternoon, but they're gone -back. Their boat is white with a green line, Signorino Marchesino." - -"Grazie, Giuseppe," said the Marchesino, with an immovable -countenance. "Do you smoke cigarettes?' - -"Signorino Marchesino, I do when I have any soldi to buy them with." - -"Take these." - -The Marchesino emptied one side of his cigarette case into the -boatman's hand, called a hired carriage, and drove off towards the -Villa--the horse going at a frantic trot, while the coachman, holding -a rein in each hand, ejaculated, "A--ah!" every ten seconds, in a -voice that was fiercely hortatory. - -Artois, from his window, saw the carriage rattle past, and saw his -friend leaning back in it, with alert eyes, to scan every woman -passing by. He stood on the balcony for a moment till the noise of the -wheels on the stone pavement died away. When he returned to his -writing-table the mood for work was gone. He sat down in his chair. He -took up his pen. But he found himself thinking of two people, the -extraordinary difference between whom was the cause of his now linking -them together in his mind. He found himself thinking of the Marchesino -and of Vere. - -Not for a moment did he doubt the identity of the two women in the -white boat. They were Hermione and Vere. The Marchesino had read him -rightly, but Artois was not aware of it. His friend had deceived him, -as almost any sharp-witted Neapolitan can deceive even a clever -forestiere. Certainly he did not particularly wish to introduce his -friend to Vere. Yet now he was thinking of the two in connection, and -not without amusement. What would they be like together? How would -Vere's divine innocence receive the amiable seductions of the -Marchesino? Artois, in fancy, could see his friend Doro for once -completely disarmed by a child. Vere's innocence did not spring from -folly, but was backed up by excellent brains. It was that fact which -made it so beautiful. The innocence and the brains together might well -read Doro a pretty little lesson. And Vere after the lesson--would she -be changed? Would she lose by giving, even if the gift were a lesson? - -Artois had certainly felt that his instinct told him not to do what -Doro wanted. He had been moved, he supposed now, by a protective -sentiment. Vere was delicious as she was. And Doro--he was delightful -as he was. The girl was enchanting in her ignorance. The youth--to -Artois the Marchesino seemed almost a boy, indeed, often quite a boy-- -was admirable in his precocity. He embodied Naples, its gay -/furberia/, and yet that was hardly the word--perhaps rather one -should say its sunny naughtiness, its reckless devotion to life purged -of thought. And Vere--what did she embody? Not Sicily, though she was -in some ways so Sicilian. Not England; certainly not that! - -Suddenly Artois was conscious that he knew Doro much better than he -knew Vere. He remembered the statement of an Austrian psychologist, -that men are far more mysterious than women, and shook his head over -it now. He felt strongly the mystery that lay hidden deep down in the -innocence of Vere, in the innocence of every girl-child of Vere's age -who had brains, temperament and perfect purity. What a marvellous -combination they made! He imagined the clear flame of them burning in -the night of the world of men. Vere must be happy. - -When he said this to himself he knew that, perhaps for the first time, -he was despairing of something that he ardently desired. He was -transferring a wish, that was something like a prayer in the heart of -one who had seldom prayed. He was giving up hope for Hermione and -fastening hope on Vere. For a moment that seemed like treachery, like -an abandoning of Hermione. Since their interview on the sea Artois had -felt that, for Hermione, all possibility of real happiness was over. -She could not detach her love. It had been fastened irrevocably on -Maurice. It was now fastened irrevocably on Maurice's memory. Long -ago, had she, while he was alive, found out what he had done, her -passion for him might have died, and in the course of years she might -have been able to love again. But now it was surely too late. She had -lived with her memory too long. It was her blessing--to remember, to -recall, how love had blessed her life for a time. And if that memory -were desecrated now she would be as one wrecked in the storm of life. -Yet with that memory how she suffered! - -What could he do for her? His chivalry must exercise itself. He must -remain in the lists, if only to fight for Hermione in Vere. And the -Marchesino? Artois seemed to divine that he might be an enemy in -certain circumstances. - -A warmth of sentiment, not very common in Artois, generated within him -by such thoughts as these, thoughts that detained him from work, still -glowed in his heart when evening fell and the Marchesino came gayly in -to take him out upon the sea. - -"There's a little wind, Emilio," he said, as they got into the boat in -the harbor of Santa Lucia; "we can sail to the Antico Giuseppone. And -after dinner we'll fish for sarde. Isn't it warm? One could sleep out -on such a night." - -They had two men with them. When they got beyond the breakwater the -sail was set, the Marchesino took the helm, and the boat slipped -through the smooth sea, rounded the rocks on which the old fort stands -to stare at Capri, radiant now as a magic isle in the curiously -ethereal light of evening, and headed for the distant point of land -which hid Ischia from their eyes. The freedom of the Bay of Naples was -granted them--the freedom of the sea. As they ran out into the open -water, and Artois saw the round gray eyes of the Marchesino dancing to -the merry music of a complete bodily pleasure, he felt like a man -escaping. He looked back at the city almost as at a sad life over, and -despite his deep and persistent interest in men he understood the joy -of the hermit who casts them from him and escapes into the wilds. The -radiance of the Bay, one of the most radiant of all the inlets of the -sea, bold and glaring in the brilliant daytime, becomes exquisitely -delicate towards night. Vesuvius, its fiery watcher, looks like a -kindly guardian, until perhaps the darkness shows the flame upon its -flanks, the flame bursting forth from the mouth it opens to the sky; -and the coast-line by Sorrento, the lifted crest of Capri, even the -hill of Posilipo, appear romantic and enticing, calling lands holding -wonderful pleasures for men, joys in their rocks and trees, joys in -their dim recesses, joys and soft realities fulfilling every dream -upon their coasts washed by the whispering waves. - -The eyes of the Marchesino were dancing with physical pleasure. Artois -wondered how much he felt the beauty of the evening, and how. His -friend evidently saw the question in his eyes, for he said: - -"The man who knows not Naples knows not pleasure." - -"Is that a Neapolitan saying?" asked Artois. - -"Yes, and it is true. There is no town like Naples for pleasure. Even -your Paris, Emilio, with all its theatres, its cocottes, its -restaurants--no, it is not Naples. No wonder the forestiere come here. -In Naples they are free. They can do what they will. They know we -shall not mind. We are never shocked." - -"And do you think we are easily shocked in Paris?" - -"No, but it is not the same. You have not Vesuvius there. You have not -the sea, you have not the sun." - -Artois began laughingly to protest against the last statement, but the -Marchesino would not have it. - -"No, no, it shines--I know that,--but it is not the sun we have here." - -He spoke to the seamen in the Neapolitan dialect. They were brown, -muscular fellows. In their eyes were the extraordinary boldness and -directness of the sea. Neither of them looked gay. Many of the -Neapolitans who are much upon the sea have serious, even grave faces. -These were intensely, almost overpoweringly male. They seemed to -partake of the essence of the elements of nature, as if blood of the -sea ran in their veins, as if they were hot with the grim and inner -fires of the sun. When they spoke their faces showed a certain -changefulness that denoted intelligence, but never lost the look of -force, of an almost tense masculinity ready to battle, perpetually -alive to hold its own. - -The Marchesino was also very masculine, but in a different way and -more consciously than they were. He was not cultured, but such -civilization as he had endowed him with a power to catch the moods of -others not possessed by these men, in whom persistence was more -visible than adroitness, unless indeed any question of money was to -the fore. - -"We shall get to the Giuseppone by eight, Emilio," the Marchesino -said, dropping his conversation with the men, which had been about the -best hour and place for their fishing. "Are you hungry?" - -"I shall be," said Artois. "This wind brings an appetite with it. How -well you steer!" - -The Marchesino nodded carelessly. - -As the boat drew ever nearer to the point, running swiftly before the -light breeze, its occupants were silent. Artois was watching the -evening, with the eyes of a lover of nature, but also with the eyes of -one who takes notes. The Marchesino seemed to be intent on his -occupation of pilot. As to the two sailors, they sat in the accustomed -calm and staring silence of seafaring men, with wide eyes looking out -over the element that ministered to their wants. They saw it -differently, perhaps, from Artois, to whom it gave now an intense -aesthetic pleasure, differently from the Marchesino, to whom it was -just a path to possible excitement, possible gratification of a new -and dancing desire. They connected it with strange superstitions, with -gifts, with deprivations, with death. Familiar and mysterious it was -purely to them as to all seamen, like a woman possessed whose soul is -far away. - -Just as the clocks of Posilipo were striking eight the Marchesino -steered the boat into the quay of the Antico Guiseppone. - -Although it was early in the season a few deal tables were set out by -the waterside, and a swarthy waiter, with huge mustaches and a napkin -over his arm, came delicately over the stones to ask their wishes. - -"Will you let me order dinner, Emilio?" said the Marchesino: "I know -what they do best here." - -Artois agreed, and while the waiter shuffled to carry out the -Marchesino's directions the two friends strolled near the edge of the -sea. - -The breeze had been kindly. Having served them well it was now dying -down to its repose, leaving the evening that was near to night -profoundly calm. As Artois walked along the quay he felt the approach -of calm like the approach of a potentate, serene in the vast -consciousness of power. Peace was invading the sea, irresistible -peace. The night was at hand. Already Naples uncoiled its chain of -lamps along the Bay. In the gardens of Posilipo the lights of the -houses gleamed. Opposite, but very far off across the sea, shone the -tiny flames of the houses of Portici, of Torre del Greco, of Torre -Annunziata, of Castellamare. Against the gathering darkness Vesuvius -belched slowly soft clouds of rose-colored vapor, which went up like a -menace into the dim vault of the sky. The sea was without waves. The -boats by the wharf, where the road ascends past the villa Rosebery to -the village of Posilipo, scarcely moved. Near them, in a group, -lounging against the wall and talking rapidly, stood the two sailors -from Naples with the boatmen of the Guiseppone. Oil lamps glimmered -upon two or three of the deal tables, round one of which was gathered -a party consisting of seven large women, three children, and two very -thin middle-aged men with bright eyes, all of whom were eating -oysters. Farther on, from a small arbor that gave access to a -fisherman's house, which seemed to be constructed partially in a cave -of the rock, and which was gained by a steep and crumbling stairway of -stone, a mother called shrilly to some half-naked little boys who were -fishing with tiny hand-nets in the sea. By the table which was -destined to the Marchesino and Artois three ambulant musicians were -hovering, holding in their broad and dirty hands two shabby mandolins -and a guitar. In the distance a cook with a white cap on his head and -bare arms was visible, as he moved to and fro in the lighted kitchen -of the old ristorante, preparing a "zuppa di pesce" for the gentlemen -from Naples. - -"Che bella notte!" said the Marchesino, suddenly. - -His voice sounded sentimental. He twisted his mustaches and added: - -"Emilio, we ought to have brought two beautiful women with us -to-night. What are the moon and the sea to men without beautiful -women?" - -"And the fishing?" said Artois. - -"To the devil with the fishing," replied the young man. "Ecco! Our -dinner is ready, with thanks to the Madonna!" - -They sat down, one on each side of the small table, with a smoking -lamp between them. - -"I have ordered vino bianco," said the Marchesino, who still looked -sentimental. "Cameriere, take away the lamp. Put it on the next table. -Va bene. We are going to have 'zuppa di pesce,' gamberi and veal -cutlets. The wine is Capri. Now then," he added, with sudden violence -and the coarsest imaginable Neapolitan accent, "if you fellows play -'Santa Lucia,' 'Napoli Bella,' or 'Sole mio' you'll have my knife in -you. I am not an Inglese. I am a Neapolitan. Remember that!" - -He proved it with a string of gutter words and oaths, at which the -musicians smiled with pleasure. Then, turning again to Artois, he -continued: - -"If one doesn't tell them they think one is an imbecile. Emilio caro, -do you not love to see the moon with a beautiful girl?" - -His curious assumption that Artois and he were contemporaries because -they were friends, and his apparently absolute blindness to the fact -that a man of sixty and a man of twenty-four are hardly likely to -regard the other sex with an exactly similar enthusiasm, always -secretly entertained the novelist, who made it his business with this -friend to be accommodating, and who seldom, if ever, showed himself -authoritative, or revealed any part of his real inner self. - -"Ma si!" he replied; "the night and the moon are made for love." - -"Everything is made for love," returned the Marchesino. "Take plenty -of soaked bread, Emilio. They know how to make this zuppa here. -Everything is made for love.--Look! There is a boat coming with women -in it!" - -At a short distance from the shore a rowing boat was visible; and from -it now came shrill sounds of very common voices, followed by shouts of -male laughter. - -"Perhaps they are beautiful," said the Marchesino, at once on the -alert. - -The boat drew in to the quay, and from it there sprang, with much -noise and many gesticulations, two over-dressed women--probably, -indeed almost certainly, /canzonettiste/--and the two large young men, -whose brown fingers and whose chests gleamed with false diamonds. As -they passed the table where the two friends were sitting, the -Marchesino raked the women with his bold gray eyes. One of them was -large and artificially blonde, with a spreading bust, immense hips, a -small waist, and a quantity of pale dyed hair, on which was perched a -bright blue hat. The other was fiercely dark, with masses of coarse -black hair, big, blatant eyes that looked quite black in the dim -lamplight, and a figure that suggested a self-conscious snake. Both -were young. They returned the Marchesino's stare with vigorous -impudence as they swung by. - -"What sympathetic creatures!" he murmured. "They are two angels. I -believe I have seen one of them at the Margherita. What was her name-- -Maria Leoni, I fancy." - -He looked enviously at the young men. The arrival of the lobster -distracted his attention for the moment; but it was obvious that the -appearance of these women had increased the feeling of sentimentality -already generated in him by the softness and stillness of the night. - -The three musicians, rendered greedy rather than inspired by the -presence of more clients, now began to pluck a lively street tune from -their instruments; and the waiter, whose mustaches seemed if possible -bigger now that night was truly come, poured the white wine into the -glasses with the air of one making a libation. - -As the Marchesino ate, he frequently looked towards the party at the -neighboring table. He was evidently filled with envy of the two men -whose jewels glittered as they gesticulated with their big brown -hands. But presently their pleasure and success recalled to him -something which he had momentarily forgotten, the reason why he had -planned this expedition. He was in pursuit. The recollection cheered -him up, restored to him the strength of his manhood, put him right -with himself. The envy and the almost sickly sentimentality vanished -from him, and he broke into the usual gay conversation which seldom -failed him, either by day or night. - -It was past nine before they had finished their coffee. The two -boatmen had been regaled and had drunk a bottle of wine, and the moon -was rising and making the oil lamps of the Guiseppone look pitiful. -From the table where the canzonettiste were established came peals of -laughter, which obviously upset the seven large and respectable women -who had been eating oysters, and who now sat staring heavily at the -gay revellers, while the two thin middle-aged men with bright eyes -began to look furtively cheerful, and even rather younger than they -were. The musicians passed round a small leaden tray for soldi, and -the waiter brought the Marchesino the bill, and looked inquiringly at -Artois, aware that he at least was not a Neapolitan. Artois gave him -something and satisfied the musicians, while the Marchesino disputed -the bill, not because he minded paying, but merely to prove that he -was a Neapolitan and not an imbecile. The matter was settled at last, -and they went towards the boat; the Marchesino casting many backward -glances towards the two angels, who, with their lovers, were becoming -riotous in their gayety as the moon came up. - -"Are we going out into the Bay?" said Artois, as they stepped into the -boat, and were pushed off. - -"Where is the best fishing-ground?" asked the Marchesino of the elder -of the two men. - -"Towards the islet, Signorino Marchesino," he replied at once, looking -his interlocutor full in the face with steady eyes, but remaining -perfectly grave. - -Artois glanced at the man sharply. For the first time it occurred to -him that possibly his friend had arranged this expedition with a -purpose other than that which he had put forward. It was not the -fisherman's voice which had made Artois wonder, but the voice of the -Marchesino. - -"There are generally plenty of sarde round the islet," continued the -fisherman, "but if the Signori would not be too tired it would be best -to stay out the night. We shall get many more fish towards morning, -and we can run the boat into the Pool of San Francesco, and have some -sleep there, if the Signori like. We others generally take a nap -there, and go to work further on in the night. But of course it is as -the Signori prefer." - -"They want to keep us out all night to get more pay," said the -Marchesino to Artois, in bad French. - -He had divined the suspicion that had suddenly risen up in his friend, -and was resolved to lay it to rest, without, however, abandoning his -purpose, which had become much more ardent with the coming of the -night. The voices of the laughing women were ringing in his ears. He -felt adventurous. The youth in him was rioting, and he was longing to -be gay, as the men with those women were being gay. - -"What do you think, Emilio caro?" he asked. - -Then before Artois could reply, he said: - -"After all, what do a few soldi matter? Who could sleep in a room on -such a night? It might be August, when one bathes at midnight, and -sings canzoni till dawn. Let us do as he says. Let us rest in the-- -what is the pool?" he asked of the fishermen, pretending not to know -the name. - -"The pool of San Francesco, Signorino Marchesino." - -"Pool of San Francesco. I remember now. That is the place where all -the fishermen along the coast towards Nisida go to sleep. I have slept -there many times when I was a boy, and so has Viviano. To-night shall -we do as the fishermen, Emilio?" - -There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes for the moment -looked so simple, though as eager as a child's. - -"Anything you like, mon ami," said Artois. - -He did not want to go to San Francesco's Pool with the Marchesino, but -he did not wish to seem reluctant to go. And he said to himself now -that his interior hesitation was absurd. Night had fallen. By the time -they reached the Pool the inmates of the Case del Mare would probably -be asleep. Even if they were not, what did it matter? The boat would -lie among the vessels of the fishermen. The Marchesino and he would -share the fishermen's repose. And even if Hermione and Vere should -chance to be out of doors they would not see him, or, if they did, -would not recognize him in the night. - -His slight uneasiness, prompted by a vague idea that the Marchesino -was secretly mischievous, had possibly some plan in his mind connected -with the islet, was surely without foundation. - -He told himself so as the fisherman laid hold of their oars and set -the boat's prow towards the point of land which conceals the small -harbor of the Villa Rosebery. - -The shrill voices of the two singers died away from their ears, but -lingered in the memory of the Marchesino, as the silence of the sea -took the boat to itself, the sea silence and the magic of the moon. - -He turned his face towards the silver, beyond which, hidden as yet, -was the islet where dwelt the child he meant to know. - - - -CHAPTER VII - -Although Hermione had told Artois that she could not find complete -rest and happiness in her child, that she could not live again in Vere -fully and intensely as she had lived once, as she still had it in her -surely to live, she and Vere were in a singularly close relationship. -They had never yet been separated for more than a few days. Vere had -not been to school, and much of her education had been undertaken by -her mother. In Florence she had been to classes and lectures. She had -had lessons in languages, French, German, and Italian, in music and -drawing. But Hermione had been her only permanent teacher, and until -her sixteenth birthday she had never been enthusiastic about anything -without carrying her enthusiasm to her mother, for sympathy, -explanation, or encouragement. - -Sorrow had not quenched the elan of Hermione's nature. What she had -told Artois had been true--she was not a finished woman, nor would she -ever be, so long as she was alive and conscious. Her hunger for love, -her passionate remembrance of the past, her incapacity to sink herself -in any one since her husband's death, her persistent, though -concealed, worship of his memory, all these things proved her -vitality. Artois was right when he said that she was a force. There -was something in her that was red-hot, although she was now a middle- -aged woman. She needed much more than most people, because she had -much more than most people have to give. - -Her failure to express herself in an art had been a tragedy. From this -tragedy she turned, not with bitterness, but perhaps with an almost -fiercer energy, to Vere. Her intellect, released from fruitless toil, -was running loose demanding some employment. She sought that -employment in developing the powers of her child. Vere was not -specially studious. Such an out-of-door temperament as hers could -never belong to a bookworm or a recluse. But she was naturally clever, -as her father had not been, and she was enthusiastic not only in -pleasure but in work. Long ago Hermione, trying with loving anxiety to -educate her boyish husband, to make him understand certain subtleties -of her own, had found herself frustrated. When she made such attempts -with Vere she was met half way. The girl understood with swiftness -even those things with which she was not specially in sympathy. Her -father's mind had slipped away, ever so gracefully, from all which it -did not love. Vere's could grasp even an unloved subject. There was -mental grit in her--Artois knew it. In all her work until her -sixteenth year Vere had consulted her mother. Nothing of her child -till then was ever hidden from Hermione, except those things which the -human being cannot reveal, and sometimes scarcely knows of. The child -drew very much from her mother, responded to her enthusiasm, yet -preserved instinctively, and quite without self-consciousness, her own -individuality. - -Artois had noticed this, and this had led him to say that Vere also -was a force. - -But when she was sixteen Vere woke up to something. Until now no one -but herself knew to what. Sometimes she shut herself up alone in her -room for long periods. When she came out she looked lazy, her mother -thought, and she liked to go then to some nook of the rocks and sit -alone, or to push a boat out into the centre of the Saint's Pool, and -lie in it with her hands clasped behind her head looking up at the -passing clouds or at the radiance of the blue. - -Hermione knew how fond Vere was of reading, and supposed that this -love was increasing as the child grew older. She sometimes felt a -little lonely, but she was unselfish. Vere's freedom was quite -innocent. She, the mother, would not seek to interfere with it. Soon -after dinner on the evening of the Marchesino's expedition with -Artois, Vere had got up from the sofa, on which she had been sitting -with a book of Rossetti's poems in her hand, had gone over to one of -the windows, and had stood for two or three minutes looking out over -the sea. Then she had turned round, come up to her mother and kissed -her tenderly--more tenderly, Hermione thought, even than usual. - -"Good-night, Madre mia," she had said. - -And then, without another word, she had gone swiftly out of the room. - -After Vere had gone the room seemed very silent. In the evening, if -they stayed in the house, they usually sat in Hermione's room up- -stairs. They had been sitting there to-night. The shutters were not -closed. The window that faced the sea towards Capri was open. A little -moonlight began to mingle subtly with the light from the two lamps, to -make it whiter, cleaner, suggestive of outdoor things and large -spaces. Hermione had been reading when Vere was reading. She did not -read now Vere was gone. Laying down her book she sat listening to the -silence, realizing the world without. Almost at her feet was the sea, -before her a wide-stretching expanse, behind her, confronted by the -desolate rocks, the hollow and mysterious caverns. In the night, the -Saint, unwearied, watched his Pool. Not very far off, yet delightfully -remote, lay Naples with its furious activities, its gayeties, its -intensities of sin, of misery, of pleasure. In the Galleria, tourists -from the hotels and from the ships were wandering rather vaguely, -watched and followed by newspaper sellers, by touts, by greedy, pale- -faced boys, and old, worn-out men, all hungry for money and -indifferent how it was gained. Along the Marina, with its huge serpent -of lights, the street singers and players were making their nightly -pilgrimage, pausing, wherever they saw a lighted window or a dark -figure on a balcony, to play and sing the tunes of which they were -weary long ago. On the wall, high above the sea, were dotted the -dilettante fishermen with their long rods and lines. And below, before -each stone staircase that descended to the water, was a waiting boat, -and in the moonlight rose up the loud cry of "Barca! Barca!" to -attract the attention of any casual passer-by. - -And here, on this more truly sea-like sea, distant from the great -crowd and from the thronging houses, the real fishermen who live by -the sea were alert and at work, or were plunged in the quiet sleep -that is a preparation for long hours of nocturnal wakefulness. - -Hermione thought of it all, was aware of it, felt it, as she sat there -opposite to the open window. Then she looked over to her writing- -table, on which stood a large photograph of her dead husband, then to -the sofa where Vere had been. She saw the volume of Rossetti lying -beside the cushion that still showed a shallow dent where the child's -head had been resting. - -And then she shut her eyes, and asked her imagination to take her away -for a moment, over the sea to Messina, and along the curving shore, -and up by winding paths to a mountain, and into a little room in a -tiny, whitewashed house, not the house of the sea, but of the priest. -It still stood there, and the terrace was still before it. And the -olive-trees rustled, perhaps, just now in the wind beneath the stars. - -Yes, she was there. Lucrezia and Gaspare were in bed. But she and -Maurice were sitting in the straw chairs on each side of the table, -facing the open French window and the flight of shallow steps that led -down to the terrace. - -Faintly she heard the whisper of the sea about the islet, but she -would not let it hinder her imagination: she translated it by means of -her imagination into the whisper of the wind low down there, in the -ravine among the trees. And that act made her think of the ravine, -seemed presently to set her in the ravine. She was there in the night -with Gaspare. They were hurrying down towards the sea. He was behind -her, and she could hear his footsteps--longing to go faster. But she -was breathless, her heart was beating, there was terror in her soul. -What was that? A rattle of stones in the darkness, and then an old -voice muttering "Benedicite!" - -She opened her eyes and moved suddenly, like one intolerably stirred. -What a foe the imagination can be--what a foe! She got up and went to -the window. She must drive away that memory of the ravine, of all that -followed after. Often she lingered with it, but to-night, somehow, she -could not, she dared not. She was less brave than usual to-night. - -She leaned out of the window. - -"Am I a fool?" - -That was what she was saying to herself. And she was comparing herself -now with other people, other women. Did she know one who could not -uproot an old memory, who could suffer, and desire, and internally -weep, after more than sixteen years? - -"I suppose it is preposterous." - -She deliberately chose that ugly word to describe her own condition of -soul. But instantly it seemed to her as if far down in that soul -something rose up and answered: - -"No, it is not. It is beautiful. It is divine. It is more--it is due. -He gave you the greatest gift. He gave you what the whole world is -always seeking; even in blindness, even in ignorance, even in terrible -vice. He gave you love. How should you forget him?" - -Far away on the sea that was faintly silvered by the moon there was a -black speck. It was, or seemed from the distance to be, motionless. -Hermione's eyes were attracted to it, and again her imagination -carried her to Sicily. She stood on the shore by the inlet, she saw -the boat coming in from the open sea. Then it stopped midway--like -that boat. - -She heard Gaspare furiously weeping. - -But the boat moved, and the sound that was in her imagination died -away, and she said to herself, "All that was long ago." - -The boat out there was no doubt occupied by Neapolitan fishermen, and -she was here on the islet in the Sea of Naples, and Sicily was far -away across the moonlit waters. As to Gaspare--she was sure he was not -weeping, faithful though he was to the memory of the dead Padrone. - -And Vere? Hermione wondered what Vere was doing. She felt sure, though -she did not know why, that Vere had not gone to bed. She realized -to-night that her child was growing up rapidly, was passing from the -stage of childhood to the stage of girlhood, was on the threshold of -all the mysterious experiences that life holds for those who have -ardent temperaments and eager interests, and passionate desires and -fearless hearts. - -To-night Hermione felt very strongly the difference between the father -and the daughter. There was a gravity in Vere, a firmness that Maurice -had lacked. Full of life and warmth as she was, she was not the pure -spirit of joy that he had been in those first days in Sicily. She was -not irresponsible. She was more keenly aware of others, of just how -they were feeling, of just how they were thinking, than Maurice had -been. - -Vere was very individual. - -With that thought there came to Hermione a deeper sense of loneliness. -She was conscious now in this moment, as she had never been conscious -before, of the independence of her child's character. The knowledge of -this independence seemed to come upon her suddenly--she could not tell -why; and she saw Vere apart from her, detached, like a column in a -lonely place. - -Vere must not escape from her. She must accompany her child step by -step. She must not be left alone. She had told Emile that she could -not live again in Vere. And that was true. Vere was not enough. But -Vere was very much. Without Vere, what would her life be? - -A wave of melancholy flowed over her to-night, a tide come from she -knew not where. Making an effort to stem it, she recalled her -happiness with Maurice after that day of the Tarantella. How -groundless had really been her melancholy then! She had imagined him -escaping from her, but he had remained with her, and loved her. He had -been good to her until the end, tender and faithful. If she had ever -had a rival, that rival had been Sicily. Always her imagination was -her torturer. - -Her failure in art had been a tragedy because of this. If she could -have set her imagination free in an art she would have been far safer -than she was. Emile Artois was really lonelier than she, for he had -not a child. But his art surely saved him securely from her sense of -desolation. And then he was a man, and men must need far less than -women do. Hermione felt that it was so. She thought of Emile in his -most helpless moment, in that period when he was ill in Kairouan -before she came. Even then she believed that he could not have felt -quite so much alone as she did now; for men never long to be taken -care of as women do. And yet she was well, in this tranquil house -which was her own--with Vere, her child, and Gaspare, her devoted -servant. - -As mentally she recounted her benefits, the strength there was in her -arose, protesting. She called herself harsh names: egoist, craven, -/faineant/. But it was no use to attack herself. In the deeps of her -poor, eager, passionate, hungry woman's nature something wept, and -needed, and could not be comforted, and could not be schooled. It -complained as one feeble, but really it must be strong; for it was -pitilessly persistent in its grieving. It had a strange endurance. -Life, the passing of the years, could not change it, could not still -it. Those eternal hungers of which Hermione had spoken to Artois--they -must have their meaning. Somewhere, surely, there are the happy -hunting-grounds, dreamed of by the red man--there are the Elysian -Fields where the souls that have longed and suffered will find the -ultimate peace. - -There came a tap at the door. - -Hermione started up from the cushion against which she had pressed her -head, and opened her eyes, instinctively laying her hand on Vere's -volume of Rossetti, and pretending to read it. - -"Avanti!" she said. - -The door opened and Gaspare appeared. Hermione felt an immediate -sensation of comfort. - -"Gaspare," she said, "what is it? I thought you were in bed." - -"Ha bisogna Lei?" he said. - -It was a most familiar phrase to Hermione. It had been often on -Gaspare's lips when he was a boy in Sicily, and she had always loved -it, feeling as if it sprang from a nature pleasantly ready to do -anything in her service. But to-night it had an almost startling -appropriateness, breaking in as if in direct response to her gnawing -hunger of the heart. As she looked at Gaspare, standing by the door in -his dark-blue clothes, with an earnest expression on his strong, -handsome face, she felt as if he must have come just then because he -was conscious that she had so much need of help and consolation. And -she could not answer "no" to his simple question. - -"Come in, Gaspare," she said, "and shut the door. I'm all alone. I -should like to have a little talk with you." - -He obeyed her, shut the door gently, and came up to her with the -comfortable confidence of one safe in his welcome, desired not merely -as a servant but as a friend by his Padrona. - -"Did you want to say anything particular, Gaspare?" Hermione asked -him. "Here--take a cigarette." - -She gave him one. He took it gently, twitching his nose as he did so. -This was a little trick he had when he was pleased. - -"You can smoke it here, if you like." - -"Grazie, Signora." - -He lit it gravely and took a whiff. Then he said: - -"The Signorina is outside." - -"Is she?" - -Hermione looked towards the window. - -"It is a lovely night." - -"Si, Signora." - -He took another whiff, and turned his great eyes here and there, -looking about the room. Hermione began to wonder what he had to say to -her. She was certain that he had come to her for some reason other -than just to ask if she had need of him. - -"It does the Signorina good to get a breath of air before she goes to -bed," Hermione added, after a moment of silence. "It makes her sleep." - -"Si, Signora." - -He still stood calmly beside her, but now he looked at her with the -odd directness which had been characteristic of him as a boy, and -which he had not lost as a man. - -"The Signorina is getting quite big, Signora," he said. "Have you -noticed? Per Dio! In Sicily, if the Signorina was a Sicilian, the -giovinotti would be asking to marry her." - -"Ah, but, Gaspare, the Signorina is not a Sicilian," she said. "She is -English, you know, and English girls do not generally think of such -things till they are much older than Sicilians." - -"But, Signora," said Gaspare, with the bluntness which in him was -never rudeness, but merely the sincerity which he considered due to -his Padrona--due also to himself, "my Padrone was like a real -Sicilian, and the Signorina is his daughter. She must be like a -Sicilian too, by force." - -"Your Padrone, yes, he was a real Sicilian," Hermione said softly. -"But, well, the Signorina has much more English blood in her veins -than Sicilian. She has only a little Sicilian blood." - -"But the Signorina thinks she is almost a Sicilian. She wishes to be a -Sicilian." - -"How do you know that, Gaspare?" she asked, smiling a little at his -firmness and persistence. - -"The Signorina said so the other day to the giovinotto who had the -cigarettes, Signora. I talked to him, and he told me. He said the -Signorina had said to him that she was partly a Sicilian, and that he -had said 'no,' that she was English. And when he said that--he said to -me--the Signorina was quite angry. He could see that she was angry by -her face." - -"I suppose that is the Sicilian blood, Gaspare. There is some in the -Signorina's veins, of course. And then, you know, both her father and -I loved your country. I think the Signorina must often long to see -Sicily." - -"Does she say so?" asked Gaspare, looking rather less calm. - -"She has not lately. I think she is very happy here. Don't you?" - -"Si, Signora. But the Signorina is growing up now, and she is a little -Sicilian anyhow, Signora." - -He paused, looking steadily at his Padrona. - -"What is it, Gaspare? What do you want to say to me?" - -"Signora, perhaps you will say it is not my business, but in my -country we do not let girls go about by themselves after they are -sixteen. We know it is better not. Ecco!" - -Hermione had some difficulty in not smiling. But she knew that if she -smiled he might be offended. So she kept her countenance and said: - -"What do you mean, Gaspare? The Signorina is nearly always with me." - -"No, Signora. The Signorina can go wherever she likes. She can speak -to any one she pleases. She is free as a boy is free." - -"Certainly she is free. I wish her to be free." - -"Va bene, Signora, va bene." - -A cloud came over his face, and he moved as if to go. But Hermione -stopped him. - -"Wait a minute, Gaspare. I want you to understand. I like your care -for the Signorina. You know I trust you and depend on you more than on -almost any one. But you must remember that I am English, and in -England, you know, things in some ways are very different from what -they are in Sicily. Any English girl would be allowed the freedom of -the Signorina." - -"Why?" - -"Why not? What harm does it do? The Signorina does not go to Naples -alone." - -"Per Dio!" he interrupted, in a tone almost of horror. - -"Of course I should never allow that. But here on the island--why, -what could happen to her here? Come, Gaspare, tell me what it is you -are thinking of. You haven't told me yet. I knew directly you came in -that you had something you wanted to say. What is it?" - -"I know it is not my business," he said. "And I should never speak to -the Signorina, but--" - -"Well, Gaspare?" - -"Signora, all sorts of people come here to the island--men from -Naples. We do not know them. We cannot tell who they are. And they can -all see the Signorina. And they can even talk to her." - -"The fishermen, you mean?" - -"Any one who comes in a boat." - -"Well, but scarcely any one ever comes but the fishermen. You know -that." - -"Oh, it was all very well when the Signorina was a little girl, a -child, Signora," he said, almost hotly. "But now it is different. It -is quite different." - -Suddenly Hermione understood. She remembered what Vere had said about -Gaspare being jealous. He must certainly be thinking of the boy-diver, -of Ruffo. - -"You think the Signorina oughtn't to talk to the fishermen?" she said. - -"What do we know of the fishermen of Naples, Signora? We are not -Neapolitans. We are strangers here. We do not know their habits. We do -not know what they think. They are different from us. If we were in -Sicily! I am a Sicilian. I can tell. But when men come from Naples -saying they are Sicilians, how can I tell whether they are ruffiani or -not?" - -Gaspare's inner thought stood revealed. - -"I see, Gaspare," Hermione said, quietly. "You think I should not have -let the Signorina talk to that boy the other day. But I saw him -myself, and I gave the Signorina leave to take him some cigarettes. -And he dived for her. She told me all about it. She always tells me -everything." - -"I do not doubt the Signorina," said Gaspare. "But I thought it was my -duty to tell you what I thought, Signora. Why should people come here -saying they are of my country, saying they are Sicilians, and talking -as the Neapolitans talk?" - -"Well, but at the time, you didn't doubt that boy was what he said he -was, did you?" - -"Signora, I did not know. I could not know. But since then I have been -thinking." - -"Well, Gaspare, you are quite right to tell me. I prefer that. I have -much faith in you, and always shall have. But we must not say anything -like this to the Signorina. She would not understand what we meant." - -"No, Signora. The Signorina is too good." - -"She would not understand, and I think she would be hurt"--Hermione -used the word "/offesa/,"--"as you would be if you fancied I thought -something strange about you." - -"Si, Signora." - -"Good-night, Gaspare." - -"Good-night, Signora. Buon riposo." - -He moved towards the door. When he reached it he stopped and added: - -"I am going to bed, Signora." - -"Go. Sleep well." - -"Grazie, Signora. The Signorina is still outside, I am sure." - -"She goes out for a minute nearly every evening, Gaspare. She likes -the air and to look at the sea." - -"Si, Signora; in a minute I shall go to bed. Buon riposo." - -And he went out. - -When he had gone Hermione remained at first where she was. But Gaspare -had effectually changed her mood, had driven away what she chose to -call her egoism, had concentrated all her thoughts on Vere. He had -never before spoken like this about the child. It was a sudden waking -up on his part to the fact that Vere was growing up to womanhood. - -When he chose, Gaspare could always, or nearly always, make his -Padrona catch his mood, there was something so definite about him that -he made an impression. And, though he was easily inclined to be -suspicious of those whom he did not know well, Hermione knew him to be -both intelligent and shrewd, especially about those for whom he had -affection. She wondered now whether it were possible that Gaspare saw, -understood, or even divined intuitively, more clearly than she did-- -she, a mother! - -It was surely very unlikely. - -She remembered that Gaspare had a jealous nature, like most of his -countrymen. - -Nevertheless he had suddenly made the islet seem different to her. She -had thought of it as remote, as pleasantly far away from Naples, -isolated in the quiet sea. But it was very easy to reach from Naples, -and, as Gaspare had said, what did they know, or understand, of the -Neapolitans, they who were strangers in the land? - -She wondered whether Vere was still outside. To-night she certainly -envisaged Vere newly. Never till to-night had she thought of her as -anything but a child; as characteristic, as ardent, as determined -sometimes, perhaps as forceful even, but always with a child's mind -behind it all. - -But to the people of the South Vere was already a woman--even to -Gaspare, who had held her in his arms when she was in long clothes. At -least Hermione supposed so now, after what Gaspare had said about the -giovinotti, who, in Sicily, would have been wishing to marry Vere, had -she been Sicilian. And perhaps even the mind of Vere was more grown-up -than her mother had been ready to suppose. - -The mother was conscious of a slight but distinct uneasiness. It was -vague. Had she been asked to explain it she could not, perhaps, have -done so. - -Presently, after a minute or two of hesitation, she went to the window -that faced north, opened it, and stood by, listening. It was from the -sea on this side that the fishermen who lived in the Mergellina, and -in the town of Naples, came to the islet. It was from this direction -that Ruffo had come three days ago. - -Evidently Gaspare had been turning over the boy's acquaintance with -Vere in his mind all that time, disapproving of it, secretly -condemning Hermione for having allowed it. No, not that; Hermione felt -that he was quite incapable of condemning her. But he was a watchdog -who did not bark, but who was ready to bite all those who ventured to -approach his two mistresses unless he was sure of their credentials. -And of this boy's, Ruffo's, he was not sure. - -Hermione recalled the boy; his brown healthiness, his laughing eyes -and lips, his strong young body, his careless happy voice. And she -found herself instinctively listening by the window to hear that voice -again. - -Now, as she looked out, the loveliness of the night appealed to her -strongly, and she felt sure that Vere must be still outside, somewhere -under the moon. - -Just beneath the window was the narrow terrace, on to which she had -stepped out, obedient to Vere's call, three days ago. Perhaps Vere was -there, or in the garden beyond. She extinguished the lamp. She went to -her bedroom to get a lace shawl, which she put over her head and drew -round her shoulders like a mantilla. Then she looked into Vere's room, -and found it empty. - -A moment later she was on the terrace bathed in the radiance of the -moon. - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -Vere was outside under the stars. When she had said good-night and had -slipped away, it was with the desire to be alone, to see no one, to -speak with no one till next morning. But the desires of the young -change quickly, and Vere's presently changed. - -She came out of the house, and passing over the bridge that connected -together the two cliffs of which the islet was composed, reached the -limit of the islet. At the edge of the precipice was a seat, and there -she sat down. For some time she rested motionless, absorbing the -beauty and the silence of the night. She was looking towards Ischia. -She wished to look that way, to forget all about Naples, the great -city which lay behind her. - -Here were the ancient caves darkening with their mystery the silver -wonder of the sea. Here the venerable shore stretched towards lands -she did not know. They called to the leaping desires of her heart as -the city did not call. They carried her away. - -Often, from this seat, on dark and moonless nights, she had watched -the fishermen's torches flaring below her in the blackness, and had -thrilled at the mystery of their occupation, and had imagined them -lifting from the sea strange and wonderful treasures, that must change -the current of their lives: pearls such as had never before been given -to the breasts of women, caskets that had lain for years beneath the -waters, bottles in which were stoppered up magicians who, released, -came forth in smoke, as in the Eastern story. - -Once she had spoken of this last imagination to Gaspare, and had seen -his face suddenly change and look excited, vivid, and then sad. She -had asked him why he looked like that, and, after a moment of -hesitation, he had told her how, long ago, before she was born, his -Padrone had read to him such a tale as they lay together upon a -mountain side in Sicily. Vere had eagerly questioned him, and he, -speaking with vehemence in the heat of his recollection, had brought -before her a picture of that scene in his simple life; had shown her -how he lay, and how the Padrone lay, he listening, the Padrone, book -in hand, reading about the "mago africano." He had even told Vere of -their conversation afterwards, and how he had said that he would -always be free, that he would never be "stoppered up," like the "mago -africano." And when she had wondered at his memory growing still more -excited he had told her many other things of which his Padrone and he -had talked together, and had made her feel the life of the past on -Monte Amato as no cultured person, she believed, could ever have made -her feel it. But when she had sought to question him about her -father's death he had become silent, and she had seen that it would be -impossible to make him obey her and tell her all the details that she -longed to know. - -To-night Vere could see no fishermen at work. The silver of the sea -below her was unbroken by the black forms of gliding boats, the -silence was unbroken by calling voices. And to-night she was glad that -it was so; for she was in the mood to be quite alone. As she sat there -very still she seemed to herself to be drawing nearer to the sea, and -drawing the sea to her. Indeed, she was making some such imaginative -attempt as her mother was making in the house--to become, in fancy at -least, one with something outside of her, to be fused with the sea, as -her mother desired to be fused with her. But Vere's endeavor was not -tragic, like her mother's, but was almost tenderly happy. She thought -she felt the sea responding to her as she responded to the sea. And -she was very glad in that thought. - -Presently she began to wonder about the fishermen. - -How did they feel about the sea? To her the sea was romantic and -personal. Was it romantic and personal to them? They were romantic to -her because of their connection with the sea, which had imprinted upon -them something of itself, showed forth in them, by means of them, -something surely of its own character; but probably, almost certainly, -she supposed, they were unconscious of this. They lived by the sea. -Perhaps they thought of it as of a vast money-bag, into which they -dipped their hands to get enough to live by. Or perhaps they thought -of it as an enemy, against which they lived in perpetual war, from -which they wrung, as it were at the sword's point, a poor and -precarious booty. - -As she sat thinking about this Vere began to change in her desire, to -wish there were some fishermen out to-night about the islet, and that -she could have speech of them. She would like to find out from one of -them how they regarded the sea. - -She smiled as she imagined a conversation between herself and some -strong, brown, wild Neapolitan, she questioning and he replying. How -he would misunderstand her! He would probably think her mad. And yet -sometimes the men of the sea in their roughness are imaginative. They -are superstitious. But a man--no, she could not question a man. Her -mind went to the boy diver, Ruffo. She had often thought about Ruffo -during the last three days. She had expected to see him again. He had -said nothing about returning to the islet, but she had felt sure he -would return, if only in the hope of being given some more cigarettes. -Boys in his position, she knew well, do not get a present of Khali -Targa cigarettes every day of the week. How happy he had looked when -he was smoking them! She remembered exactly the expression of his -brown face now, as she sat watching the empty, moonlit sea. It was not -greedy. It was voluptuous. She remembered seeing somewhere a picture -of some Sultan of the East reclining on a divan and smoking a chibouk. -She thought Ruffo had looked rather like the Sultan, serenely secure -of all earthly enjoyment. At that moment the Pool of San Francesco had -stood to the boy for the Paradise of Mahomet. - -But Ruffo had not come again. - -Each morning Vere had listened for his voice, had looked down upon the -sea for his boat, but all in vain. On the third day she had felt -almost angry with him unreasonably. But then she remembered that he -was not his own master, not the owner of the boat. Of course, he could -not do what he liked. If he could--well, then he would have come back. -She was positive of that. - -If he ever did come back, she said to herself now, she would question -him about the sea. She would get at his thoughts about the sea, at his -feelings. She wondered if they could possibly be at all like hers. It -was unlikely, she supposed. They two were so very different. And -yet--! - -She smiled to herself again, imagining question and answer with Ruffo. -He would not think her mad, even if she puzzled him. They understood -each other. Even her mother had said that they seemed to be in -sympathy. And that was true. Difference of rank need not, indeed -cannot, destroy the magic chain if it exists, cannot prevent its links -from being forged. She knew that her mother was in sympathy with -Gaspare, and Gaspare with her mother. So there was no reason why she -should not be in sympathy with Ruffo. - -If he were here to-night she would begin at once to talk to him about -the sea. But of course he would never come at night to the islet. - -Vere knew that the Neapolitan fishermen usually keep each to his own -special branch of the common profession. By this time of night, no -doubt, Ruffo was in his home at the Mergellina, sitting in the midst -of his family, or was strolling with lively companions of his own age, -or, perhaps, was fast asleep in bed. - -Vere felt that it would be horrible to go to bed on such a night, to -shut herself in from the moon and the sea. The fishermen who slept in -the shelter of the Saint's Pool were enviable. They had the stars -above them, the waters about them, the gentle winds to caress them as -they lay in the very midst of romance. - -She wondered whether there were any boats in the Saint's Pool -to-night. She had not been to see. A few steps and she could look -over. She got up and went back to the bridge, treading softly because -she was thinking of repose. There she stopped and looked down. She saw -two boats on the far side of the Pool almost at the feet of the Saint. -The men in them must be lying down, for Vere could see only the boats, -looking black, and filled with a confused blackness--of sails -probably, and sleeping men. The rest of the pool was empty, part of it -bright with the radiance of the moon, part of it shading away to the -mysterious dimness of still water at night under the lee of cliffs. - -For some time the girl stood, watching. Just at that moment her active -brain almost ceased to work, stilled by the reverie that is born of -certain night visions. Without these motionless boats the Pool of the -Saint would have been calm. With them, its stillness seemed almost -ineffably profound. The hint of life bound in the cores of sleep, -prisoner to rest, deepened Nature's impression and sent Vere into -reverie. There were no trees here. No birds sang, for although it was -the month of the nightingales, none ever came to sing to San -Francesco. No insects chirped or hummed. All was stark and almost -fearfully still as in a world abandoned; and the light fell on the old -faces of the rocks faintly, as if it feared to show the ravages made -in them by the storms of the long ages they had confronted and defied. - -Vere had a sensation of sinking very slowly down into a gulf, as she -stood there, not falling, but sinking, down into some world of quiet -things, farther and farther down, leaving all the sounds of life far -up in light above her. And descent was exquisite, easy and natural, -and, indeed, inevitable. Nothing called her from below. For where she -was going there were no voices. Yet she felt that at last there would -be something to receive her; mystical stillness, mystical peace. - -A silky sound--far off--checked that imaginative descent that seemed -so physical, first merely arrested it, then, always silky, but growing -louder, took her swiftly and softly back to the summit she had left. -Now she was conscious again of herself and of the night. She was -listening. The sound that had broken her reverie was the gentle sweep -of big-bladed oars through the calm sea. As she knew this she saw, -away to the right, a black shadow stealing across the silver waste -beyond the islet. It pushed its way to the water at her very feet, and -chose that as its anchorage. - -The figure of the rower stood up straight and black for a moment, -looking lonely in the night. - -Vere could not see his face, but she knew at once that he was Ruffo. -Her inclination was to bend down with the soft cry of "Pescator!" -which she had sent to him on the sunny morning of their meeting. She -checked it, why she scarcely knew, in obedience to some imperious -prompting of her nature. But she kept her eyes on him. And they were -full of will. She was willing him not to lie down in the bottom of the -boat and sleep. She knew that he and his companions must have come to -the pool at that hour to rest. There were three other men in the boat. -Two had been sitting on the gunwale of it, and now lay down. The -third, who was in the bows, exchanged some words with the rower, who -replied. Vere could hear the sound of their voices, but not what they -said. The conversation continued for two or three minutes, while Ruffo -was taking in the oars and laying them one on each side of the boat. -When he had done this he stretched up his arms to their full length -above his head, and a loud noise of a prolonged yawn came up to Vere, -and nearly made her laugh. Long as it was, it seemed to her to end -abruptly. The arms dropped down. - -She felt sure he had seen her watching, and stayed quite still, -wondering what he was going to do. Perhaps he would tell the other -man. She found herself quickly hoping that he would not. That she was -there ought to be their little secret. - -All this that was passing through her mind was utterly foreign to any -coquetry. Vere had no more feeling of sex in regard to Ruffo than she -would have had if she had been a boy herself. The sympathy she felt -with him was otherwise founded, deep down in mysteries beyond the -mysteries of sex. - -Again Ruffo and the man who had not lain down spoke together. But the -man did not look up to Vere. He must have looked if his attention had -been drawn to the fact that she was there--a little spy upon the men -of the sea, considering them from her eminence. - -Ruffo had not told. She was glad. - -Presently the man moved from his place in the bows. She saw him lift a -leg to get over into the stern, treading carefully in order not to -trample on his sleeping companions. Then his black figure seemed to -shut up like a telescope. He had become one with the dimness in the -boat, was no longer detached from it. Only Ruffo was still detached. -Was he going to sleep, too? - -A certain tenseness came into Vere's body. She kept her eyes, which -she had opened very wide, fixed upon the black figure. It remained -standing. The head moved. He was certainly looking up. She realized -that he was not sleepy, despite that yawn,--that he would like to -speak to her--to let her know that he knew she was there. - -Perhaps he did not dare to--or, not that, perhaps fishermen's -etiquette, already enshrined in his nature, did not permit him to come -ashore. The boat was so close to the land that he could step on to it -easily. - -She leaned down. - -"Pescator!" - -It was scarcely more than a whisper. But the night was so intensely -still that he heard it. Or, if not that, he felt it. His shadow--so it -seemed in the shadow of the cliff--flitted out of the boat and -disappeared. - -He was coming--to have that talk about the sea. - - - -CHAPTER IX - -"Buona sera, Signorina." - -"Buona sera, Ruffo." - -She did not feign surprise when he came up to her. - -"So you fish at night?" she said. "I thought the divers for /frutti di -mare/ did not do that." - -"Signorina, I have been taken into the boat of Mandano Giuseppe." - -He spoke rather proudly, and evidently thought she would know of whom -he was telling her. "I fish for sarde now." - -"Is that better for you?" - -"Si, Signorina, of course." - -"I am glad of that." - -"Si, Signorina." - -He stood beside her quite at his ease. To-night he had on a cap, but -it was pushed well off his brow, and showed plenty of his thick, dark -hair. - -"When did you see me?" she asked. - -"Almost directly, Signorina." - -"And what made you look up?" - -"Signorina?" - -"Why did you look up directly?" - -"Non lo so, Signorina." - -"I think it was because I made you feel that I was there," she said. -"I think you obey me without knowing it. You did the same the other -day." - -"Perhaps, Signorina." - -"Have you smoked all the cigarettes?" - -She saw him smile, showing his teeth. - -"Si, Signorina, long ago. I smoked them the same day." - -"You shouldn't. It is bad for a boy, and you are younger than I am, -you know." - -The smile grew wider. - -"What are you laughing at?" - -"I don't know, Signorina." - -"Do you think it is funny to be younger than I am?" - -"Si, Signorina." - -"I suppose you feel quite as if you were a man?" - -"If I could not work as well as a man Giuseppe would not have taken me -into his boat. But of course with a lady it is all different. A lady -does not have to work. Poor women get old very soon, Signorina." - -"Your mother, is she old?" - -"My mamma! I don't know. Yes, I suppose she is rather old." - -He seemed to be considering. - -"Si, Signorina, my mamma is rather old. But then she has had a lot of -trouble, my poor mamma!" - -"I am sorry. Is she like you?" - -"I don't know, Signorina; I have never thought about it. What does it -matter?" - -"It may not matter, but such things are interesting sometimes." - -"Are they, Signorina?" - -Then, evidently with a polite desire to please her and carry on the -conversation in the direction indicated by her, he added: - -"And are you like your Signora Madre, Signorina?" - -Vere felt inclined to smile, but she answered, quite seriously. - -"I don't believe I am. My mother is very tall, much taller than I am, -and not so dark. My eyes are much darker than hers and quite -different." - -"I think you have the eyes of a Sicilian, Signorina." - -Again Vere was conscious of a simple effort on the part of the boy to -be gallant. And he had a good memory too. He had not forgotten her -three-days'-old claim to Sicilian blood. The night mitigated the -blunders of his temperament, it seemed. Vere could not help being -pleased. There was something in her that ever turned towards the -Sicily she had never seen. And this boy had not seen Sicily either. - -"Isn't it odd that you and I have never seen Sicily?" she said, "and -that both our mothers have? And mine is all English, you know." - -"My mamma would be very glad to kiss the hand of your Signora Mother," -replied Ruffo. "I told her about the kind ladies who gave me -cigarettes, and that the Signorina had never seen her father. When she -heard that the Signorina was born after her father was dead, and that -her father had died in Sicily, she said--my poor mamma!--'If ever I -see the Signorina's mother, I shall kiss her hand. She was a widow -before she was a mother; may the Madonna comfort her.' My mamma spoke -just like that, Signorina. And then she cried for a long time. But -when Patrigno came in she stopped crying at once." - -"Did she? Why was that?" - -"I don't know, Signorina." - -Vere was silent for a moment. Then she said: - -"Is your Patrigno kind to you, Ruffo?" - -The boy looked at her, then swiftly looked away. - -"Kind enough, Signorina," he answered. - -Then they both kept silence. They were standing side by side thus, -looking down rather vaguely at the Saint's pool, when another boat -floated gently into it, going over to the far side, where already lay -the two boats at the feet of San Francesco. Vere saw it with -indifference. She was accustomed to the advent of the fishermen at -this hour. Ruffo stared at it for a moment with a critical inquiring -gaze. The boat drew up near the land and stopped. There was a faint -murmur of voices, then silence again. - -The Marchesino had told the two sailors that they could have an hour -or two of sleep before beginning to fish. - -The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to sleep at once. But -Artois and the Marchesino, lounging on a pile of rugs deftly arranged -in the bottom of the stern of the boat, smoked their cigars in a -silence laid upon them by the night silence of the Pool. Neither of -them had as yet caught sight of the figures of Vere and Ruffo, which -were becoming more clearly relieved as the moon rose and brought a -larger world within its radiance, of its light. Artois was satisfied -that the members of the Casa del Mare were in bed. As they approached -the house he had seen no light from its windows. The silence about the -islet was profound, and gave him the impression of being in the very -heart of the night. And this impression lasted, and so tricked his -mind that he forgot that the hour was not really late. He lay back, -lazily smoking his cigar, and drinking in the stark beauty round about -him, a beauty delicately and mysteriously fashioned by the night, -which, as by a miracle, had laid hold of bareness and barren ugliness, -and turned them to its exquisite purposes, shrinking from no material -in its certainty of its own power to transform. - -The Marchesino, too, lay back, with his great, gray eyes staring about -him. While the feelings of his friend had moved towards satisfaction, -his had undergone a less pleasant change. His plan seemed to be going -awry, and he began to think of himself as of a fool. What had he -anticipated? What had he expected of this expedition? He had been, as -usual, politely waiting on destiny. He had come to the islet in the -hope that Destiny would meet him there and treat him with every -kindness and hospitality, forestalling his desires. But lo! He was -abandoned in a boat among a lot of taciturn men, while the object of -all his thoughts and pains, his plots and hopes, was, doubtless, -hermetically sealed in the home on the cliff above him. - -Several Neapolitan words, familiar in street circles, ran through his -mind, but did not issue from his lips, and his face remained perfectly -calm--almost seraphic in expression. - -Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at "caro Emilio." He -wished his friend would follow the example of the men and go to sleep. -He wanted to feel himself alone in wakefulness and unobserved. For he -was not resigned to an empty fate. The voices of the laughing women at -the Antico Giuseppone still rang through his memory. He was -adventurous by nature. What he would do if Emilio would only slumber -he did not know. But it was certain he would do something. The islet, -dark and distinct in outline beneath the moon, summoned him. Was he a -Neapolitan and not beneath her window? It was absurd. And he was not -at all accustomed to control himself or to fight his own impulses. For -the moment "caro Emilio" became "maledetto Emilio" in his mind. -Sleepless as Providence, Emilio reclined there. A slightly distracted -look came into the Marchesino's eyes as he glanced away from his -friend and stared once more at the islet, which he longed so ardently -to invade. - -This time he saw the figures of Vere and Ruffo above him in the -moonlight, which now sharply relieved them. He gazed. And as he gazed -they moved away from the bridge, going towards the seat where Vere had -been before she had seen Ruffo. - -Vere had on a white dress. - -The heart of the Marchesino leaped. He was sure it was the girl of the -white boat. Then the inhabitants of the house on the islet were not -asleep, were not even in bed. They--she at least, and that was all he -cared for--were out enjoying the moon and the sea. How favorable was -the night! But who was with her? - -The Marchesino had very keen eyes. And now he used them with almost -fierce intensity. But Ruffo was on the far side of Vere. It was not -possible to discern more than that he was male, and taller than the -girl in the white dress. - -Jealousy leaped up in the Marchesino, that quick and almost frivolous -jealousy which, in the Southerner, can so easily deepen into the -deadliness that leads to crime. Not for a moment did he doubt that the -man with Vere was a lover. This was a blow which, somehow, he had not -expected. The girl in the white boat had looked enchantingly young. -When he had played the seal for her she had laughed like a child. He-- -even he, who believed in no one's simplicity, made sceptical by his -own naughtiness so early developed towards a fine maturity!--had not -expected anything like this. And these English, who pride themselves -upon their propriety, their stiffness, their cold respectability! -These English misses! - -"Ouf!" - -It was out of the Marchesino's mouth before he was aware of it, an -exclamation of cynical disgust. - -"What's the matter, amico mio?" said Artois, in a low voice. - -"Niente!" said the Marchesino, recollecting himself. "Are not you -going to sleep?" - -"Yes," said Artois, throwing away his cigar end. "I am. And you?" - -"I too!" - -The Marchesino was surprised by his friend's reply. He did not -understand the desire of Artois not to have his sense of the romance -of their situation broken in upon by conversation just then. The -romance of women was not with Artois, but the romance of Nature was. -He wanted to keep it. And now he settled himself a little lower in the -boat, under the shadow of its side, and seemed to be giving himself to -sleep. - -The Marchesino thanked the Madonna, and made his little pretence of -slumber too, but he kept his head above the gunwale, leaning it on his -arm with a supporting cushion beneath; and though he really did shut -both his eyes for a short time, to deceive caro Emilio, he very soon -opened them again, and gazed towards the islet. He could not see the -two figures now. Rage seized him. First the two men at the Antico -Giuseppone, and now this man on the islet! Every one was companioned. -Every one was enjoying the night as it was meant to be enjoyed. He--he -alone was the sport of "il maledetto destino." He longed to commit -some act of violence. Then he glanced cautiously round without moving. - -The two sailors were sleeping. He could hear their regular and rather -loud breathing. Artois lay quite still. The Marchesino turned his body -very carefully so that he might see the face of his friend. As he did -so Artois, who had been looking straight up at the stars, shut his -eyes, and simulated sleep. His suspicion of Doro, that this expedition -had been undertaken with some hidden motive, was suddenly renewed by -this sly and furtive movement, which certainly suggested purpose and -the desire to conceal it. - -So caro Emilio slept very peacefully, and breathed with the calm -regularity of a sucking child. But in this sleep of a child he was -presently aware that the boat was moving--in fact was being very -adroitly moved. Though his eyes were shut he felt the moonlight leave -his face presently, and knew they were taken by the shadow of the -islet. Then the boat stopped. - -A moment later Artois was aware that the boat contained three people -instead of four. - -The Marchesino had left it to take a little stroll on shore. - -Artois lay still. He knew how light is the slumber of seamen in a boat -with the wide airs about them, and felt sure that the sailors must -have been waked by the tour of the boat across the Pool. Yet they had -not moved, and they continued apparently to sleep. He guessed that a -glance from their "Padrone" had advised them not to wake. And this was -the truth. - -At the first movement of the boat both the men had looked up and had -received their message from the Marchesino's expressive eyes. They -realized at once that he had some design which he wished to keep from -the knowledge of his friend, the forestiere. Of course it must be -connected with a woman. They were not particularly curious. They had -always lived in Naples, and knew their aristocracy. So they merely -returned the Marchesino's glance with one of comprehension and -composed themselves once more to repose. - -The Marchesino did not come back, and presently Artois lifted himself -up a little, and looked out. - -The boat was right under the lee of the islet, almost touching the -shore, but the sea was so perfectly still that it scarcely moved, and -was not in any danger of striking against the rock. The sailors had -seen that, too, before they slept again. - -Artois sat quite up. He wondered a good deal what his friend was -doing. One thing was certain--he was trespassing. The islet belonged -to Hermione, and no one had any right to be upon it without her -invitation. Artois had that right, and was now considering whether or -not he should use it, follow the Marchesino and tell him--what he had -not told him--that the owner of the islet was the English friend of -whom he had spoken. - -For Artois the romance of the night in which he had been revelling was -now thoroughly disturbed. He looked again towards the two sailors, -suspecting their sleep. Then he got up quietly, and stepped out of the -boat onto the shore. His doing so gave a slight impetus to the boat, -which floated out a little way into the Pool. But the men in it seemed -to sleep on. - -Artois stood still for a moment at the edge of the sea. His great -limbs were cramped, and he stretched them. Then he went slowly towards -the steps. He reached the plateau before the Casa del Mare. The -Marchesino was not there. He looked up at the house. As he did so the -front door opened and Hermione came out, wrapped in a white lace -shawl. - -"Emile?" she said, stopping with her hand on the door. "Why--how -extraordinary!" - -She came to him. - -"Have you come to pay us a nocturnal visit, or--there's nothing the -matter?" - -"No," he said. - -For perhaps the first time in his life he felt embarrassed with -Hermione. He took her hand. - -"I don't believe you meant me to know you were here," she said, guided -by the extraordinary intuition of woman. - -"To tell the truth," he answered, "I did not expect to see you. I -thought you were all in bed." - -"Oh no. I have been on the terrace and in the garden. Vere is out -somewhere. I was just going to look for her." - -There was a distinct question in her prominent eyes as she fixed them -on him. - -"No, I haven't seen Vere," he said, answering it. - -"Are you alone?" she asked, abruptly. - -"No. You remember my mentioning my friend, the Marchesino Panacci? -Well, he is with me. We were going to fish. The fishermen suggested -our sleeping in the Saint's Pool for an hour or two first. I found -Doro gone and came to look for him." - -There was still a faint embarrassment in his manner. - -"I believe you have seen him," he added. "He was bathing the other day -when you were passing in the boat,--I think it was you. Did you see a -young man who did some tricks in the water?" - -"Oh yes, an impudent young creature. He pretended to be a porpoise and -a seal. He made us laugh. Vere was delighted with him. Is that your -friend? Where can he be?" - -"Where is Vere?" said Artois. - -Their eyes met, and suddenly his embarrassment passed away. - -"You don't mean that--?" - -"My friend, you know what these Neapolitans are. Doro came back from -his bathe raving about Vere. I did not tell him I knew her. I think--I -am sure he has guessed it, and much more. Let us go and find him. It -seems you are to know him. E il destino." - -"You don't want me to know him?" she said, as they turned away from -the house. - -"I don't know that there is any real reason why you should not. But my -instinct was against the acquaintance. Where can Vere be? Does she -often come out alone at night?" - -"Very often. Ah! There she is, beyond the bridge, and--is that the -Marchesino Panacci with her? Why--no, it's--" - -"It is Ruffo," Artois said. - -Vere and the boy were standing near the edge of the cliff and talking -earnestly together, but as Hermione and Artois came towards them they -turned round as if moved by a mutual impulse. Ruffo took off his cap -and Vere cried out: - -"Monsieur Emile!" - -She came up to him quickly. He noticed that her face looked -extraordinarily alive, that her dark eyes were fiery with expression. - -"Good-evening, Vere," he said. - -He took her small hand. - -"Buona sera, Ruffo," he added. - -He looked from one to the other, and saw the perfect simplicity of -both. - -"Tell me, Vere," he said. "Have you seen any one on the islet -to-night?" - -"Yes, just now. Why? What made you think so?" - -"Well?" - -"A man--a gentleman came. I told him he was trespassing." - -Artois smiled. Ruffo stood by, his cap in his hand, looking -attentively at Vere, who had spoken in French. She glanced at him, and -suddenly broke into Italian. - -"He was that absurd boy we saw in the sea, Madre, the other day, who -pretended to be a seal, and made me laugh. He reminded me of it, and -asked me if I didn't recognize him." - -"What did you say?" - -"I said 'No' and 'Good-night.' " - -"And did he go?" asked Artois. - -"No, he would not go. I don't know what he wanted. He looked quite -odd, as if he were feeling angry inside, and didn't wish to show it. -And he began trying to talk. But as I didn't really know him--after -all, laughing at a man because he pretends to be a seal is scarcely -knowing him, is it, Monsieur Emile?" - -"No," he said, smiling at her smile. - -"I said 'good-night' again in such a way that he had to go." - -"And so he went!" said Artois. - -"Yes. Do you know him, Monsieur Emile?" - -"Yes. He came with me to-night." - -A little look of penitence came into the girl's face. - -"Oh, I am sorry." - -"Why should you be?" - -"Well, he began saying something about knowing friends of mine, or--I -didn't really listen very much, because Ruffo was telling me all about -the sea--and I thought it was all nonsense. He was absurdly -complimentary first, you see! and so, when he began about friends, I -only said 'good-night' again. And--and I'm really afraid I turned my -back upon him. And now he's a friend of yours. Monsieur Emile! I am -sorry!" - -Already the Marchesino had had that lesson of which Artois had thought -in Naples. Artois laughed aloud. - -"It doesn't matter, Vere. My friend is not too sensitive." - -"Buona sera, Signorina! Buona sera, Signora! Buon riposo!" - -It was Ruffo preparing to go, feeling that he scarcely belonged to -this company, although he looked in no way shy, and had been smiling -broadly at Vere's narrative of the discomfiture of the Marchesino. - -"Ruffo," said Hermione, "you must wait a moment." - -"Si, Signora?" - -"I am going to give you a few more cigarettes." - -Vere sent a silent but brilliant "Thank you" to her mother. They all -walked towards the house. - -Vere and her mother were in front, Artois and Ruffo behind. Artois -looked very closely and even curiously at the boy. - -"Have I ever seen you before?" he asked, as they came to the bridge. - -"Signore?" - -"Not the other morning. But have we ever met in Naples?" - -"I have seen you pass by sometimes at the Mergellina, Signore." - -"That must be it then!" Artois thought, "I have seen you there without -consciously noticing you." - -"You live there?" he said. - -"Si, Signore; I live with my mamma and my Patrigno." - -"Your Patrigno," Artois said, merely to continue the conversation. -"Then your father is dead?" - -"Si, Signore, my Babbo is dead." - -They were on the plateau now, before the house. - -"If you will wait a moment, Ruffo, I will fetch the cigarettes," said -Hermione. - -"Let me go, Madre," said Vere, eagerly. - -"Very well, dear." - -The girl ran into the house. As she disappeared they heard a quick -step, and the Marchesino came hurrying up from the sea. He took off -his hat when he saw Hermione, and stopped. - -"I was looking for you, Emilio." - -He kept his hat in his hand. Evidently he had recovered completely -from his lesson. He looked gay and handsome. Artois realized how very -completely the young rascal's desires were being fulfilled. But of -course the introduction must be made. He made it quietly. - -"Marchese Isidoro Panacci--Mrs. Delarey." - -The Marchesino bent and kissed Hermione's hand. As he did so Vere came -out of the house, her hands full of Khali Targa cigarettes, her face -eager at the thought of giving pleasure to Ruffo. - -"This is my daughter, Vere," Hermione said. "Vere, this is the -Marchese Isidoro Panacci, a friend of Monsieur Emile's." - -The Marchesino went to kiss Vere's hand, but she said: - -"I'm very sorry--look!" - -She showed him that they were full of cigarettes, and so escaped from -the little ceremony. For those watching it was impossible to know -whether she wished to avoid the formal salutation of the young man's -lips or not. - -"Here, Ruffo!" she said. She went up to the boy. "Put your hands -together." - -Ruffo gladly obeyed. He curved his brown hands into a cup, and Vere -filled this cup with the big cigarettes, while Hermione, Artois, and -the Marchesino looked on; each one of them with a fixed attention -which--surely--the action scarcely merited. But there was something -about those two, Vere and the boy, which held the eyes and the mind. - -"Good-night, Ruffo. You must carry them to the boat. They'll be -crushed if you put them into your trousers-pocket." - -"Si, Signorina!" - -He waited a moment. He wanted to salute them, but did not know how to. -That was evident. His expressive eyes, his whole face told it to them. - -Artois suddenly set his lips together in his beard. For an instant it -seemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London, -in Caminiti's restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the -reverential expression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the -boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing -to do his devoir, to be polite, but not knowing how to. - -"Never mind, Ruffo," It was Vere's voice. "We understand! Or--shall -I?" A laughing look came into her face. She went up to the boy and, -with a delicious, childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the -action from impertinence, she took his cap off. "There!" She put it -gently back on his dark hair. "Now you've been polite to us. Buona -notte!" - -"Buona notte, Signorina." - -The boy ran off, half laughing, and carrying carefully the cigarettes -in his hands still held together like a cup. - -Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt something for Vere just -then that he could hardly have explained, master though he was of -explanation of the feelings of man. It seemed to him that all the -purity, and the beauty, and the whimsical unselfconsciousness, and the -touchingness of youth that is divine, appeared in that little, almost -comic action of the girl. He loved her for the action, because she was -able to perform it just like that. And something in him, suddenly -adored youth in a way that seemed new to his heart. - -"Well," said Hermione, when Ruffo had disappeared. "Will you come in? -I'm afraid all the servants are in bed, but--" - -"No, indeed it is too late," Artois said. - -Without being aware of it he spoke with an authority that was almost -stern. - -"We must be off to our fishing," he added. "Good-night. Good-night, -Vere." - -"Good-night, Signora." - -The Marchesino bowed, with his hat in his hand. He kissed Hermione's -hand again, but he did not try to take Vere's. - -"Good-night," Hermione said. - -A glance at Artois had told her much that he was thinking. - -"Good-night, Monsieur Emile," said Vere. "Good-night, Marchese. Buona -pesca!" - -She turned and followed her mother into the house. - -"Che simpatica!" - -It was the Marchesino's voice, breathing the words through a sigh: -"Che simpatica Signorina!" Then an idea seemed to occur to him, and he -looked at his friend reproachfully. "And you knew the girl with the -perfect little nose, Emilio--all the time you knew her!" - -"And all the time you knew I knew her!" retorted Artois. - -They looked at each other in the eyes and burst out laughing. - -"Emilio, you are the devil! I will never forgive you. You do not trust -me." - -"Caro amico, I do trust you--always to fall in love with every girl -you meet. But"--and his voice changed--"the Signorina is a child. -Remember that, Doro." - -They were going down the steps to the sea. Almost as Artois spoke they -reached the bottom, and saw their boat floating in the moonlight -nearly in the centre of the Pool. The Marchesino stood still. - -"My dear Emilio," he said, staring at Artois with his great round -eyes, "you make me wonder whether you know women." - -Artois felt amused. - -"Really?" he said. - -"Really! And yet you write books." - -"Writing books does not always prove that one knows much. But explain -to me." - -They began to stroll on the narrow space at the sea edge. Close by lay -the boat to which Ruffo belonged. The boy was already in it, and they -saw him strike a match and light one of the cigarettes. Then he lay -back at his ease, smoking, and staring up at the moon. - -"A girl of sixteen is not a child, and I am sure the Signorina is -sixteen. But that is not all. Emilio, you do not know the Signorina." - -Artois repressed a smile. The Marchesino was perfectly in earnest. - -"And you--do you know the Signorina?" Artois asked. - -"Certainly I know her," returned the Marchesino with gravity. - -They reached Ruffo's boat. As they did so, the Marchesino glanced at -it with a certain knowing impudence that was peculiarly Neapolitan. - -"When I came to the top of the islet the Signorina was with that boy," -the Marchesino continued. - -"Well?" said Artois. - -"Oh, you need not be angry, Emilio caro." - -"I am not angry," said Artois. - -Nor was he. It is useless to be angry with racial characteristics, -racial points of view. He knew that well. The Marchesino stared at -him. - -"No, I see you are not." - -"The Signorina was with that boy. She has talked to him before. He has -dived for her. He has sung for her! She has given him cigarettes, -taken from her mother's box, with her mother's consent. Everything the -Signorina does her mother knows and approves of. You saw the Signora -send the Signorina for more cigarettes to give the boy to-night. -Ebbene?" - -"Ebbene. They are English!" - -And he laughed. - -"Madre mia!" - -He laughed again, seized his mustaches, twisted them, and went on. - -"They are English, but for all that the Signorina is a woman. And as -to that boy--" - -"Perhaps he is a man." - -"Certainly he is. Dio mio, the boy at least is a Neapolitan." - -"No, he isn't." - -"He is not?" - -"He's a Sicilian." - -"How do you know?" - -"I was here the other day when he was diving for /frutti di mare/." - -"I have seen him at the Mergellina ever since he was a child." - -"He says he is a Sicilian." - -"Boys like that say anything if they can get something by it. Perhaps -he thought you liked the Sicilians better than the Neapolitans. But -anyhow--Sicilian or Neapolitan, it is all one! He is a Southerner, and -at fifteen a Southerner is already a man. I was." - -"I know it. But you were proving to me that the Signorina is a woman. -The fact that she, an English girl, is good friends with the fisher -boy does not prove it." - -"Ah, well!" - -The Marchesino hesitated. - -"I had seen the Signorina before I came to meet you at the house." - -"Had you?" - -"Didn't you know it?" - -"Yes, I did." - -"I knew she told you." - -"What?" - -"She told you! she told you! She is birbante. She is a woman, for she -pretended as only a woman can pretend." - -"What did she pretend?" - -"That she was not pleased at my coming, at my finding out where she -lived, and seeking her. Why, Emilio, even when I was in the sea, when -I was doing the seal, I could read the Signorina's character. She -showed me from the boat that she wanted me to come, that she wished to -know me. Ah, che simpatica! Che simpatica ragazza!" - -The Marchesino looked once more at Ruffo. - -"Come here a minute!" he said, in a low voice, not wishing to wake the -still sleeping fishermen. - -The boy jumped lightly out and came to them. When he stood still the -Marchesino said, in his broadest Neapolitan: - -"Now then, tell me the truth! I'm a Neapolitan, not a forestiere. -You've seen me for years at the Mergellina." - -"Si, Signore." - -"You're a Napolitano." - -"No, Signore. I am a Sicilian." - -There was a sound of pride in the boy's voice. - -"I am quite sure he speaks the truth," Artois said, in French. - -"Why do you come here?" asked the Marchesino. - -"Signore, I come to fish." - -"For cigarettes?" - -"No, Signore, for sarde. Buona notte, Signore." - -He turned away from them with decision, and went back to his boat. - -"He is a Sicilian," said Artois. "I would swear to it." - -"Why? Hark at his accent." - -"He is a Sicilian!" - -"But why are you so sure?" - -Artois only said: - -"Are you going to fish?" - -"Emilio, I cannot fish to-night. My soul is above such work as -fishing. It is indeed. Let us go back to Naples." - -"Va bene." - -Artois was secretly glad. He, too, had no mind--or was it no heart?-- -for fishing that night, after the episode of the islet. They hailed -the sailors, who were really asleep this time, and were soon far out -on the path of the moonlight setting their course towards Naples. - - - -CHAPTER X - -On the following morning Hermione and Vere went for an excursion to -Capri. They were absent from the island for three nights. When they -returned they found a card lying upon the table in the little hall-- -"Marchese Isidoro Panacci di Torno"--and Gaspare told them that it had -been left by a Signore, who had called on the day of their departure, -and had seemed very disappointed to hear that they were gone. - -"I do not know this Signore," Gaspare added, rather grimly. - -Vere laughed, and suddenly made her eyes look very round, and staring, -and impudent. - -"He's like that, Gaspare," she said. - -"Vere!" said her mother. - -Then she added to Gaspare: - -"The Marchese is a friend of Don Emilio's. Ah! and here is a letter -from Don Emilio." - -It was lying beside the Marchese's card with some other letters. -Hermione opened it first, and read that Artois had been unexpectedly -called away to Paris on business, but intended to return to Naples as -soon as possible, and to spend the whole summer on the Bay. - -"I feel specially that this summer I should like to be near you," he -wrote. "I hope you wish it." - -At the end of the letter there was an allusion to the Marchesino, -"that gay and admirably characteristic Neapolitan product, the Toledo -incarnate." - -There was not a word of Vere. - -Hermione read the letter aloud to Vere, who was standing beside her, -evidently hoping to hear it. When she had finished, Vere said: - -"I am glad Monsieur Emile will be here all the summer." - -"Yes." - -"But why specially this summer, Madre?" - -"I am not sure what he means by that," Hermione answered. - -But she remembered the conversation in the Grotto of Virgil, and -wondered if her friend thought she needed the comfort of his presence. - -"Well, Madre?" - -Vere's bright eyes were fixed upon her mother. - -"Well, Vere? What is it?" - -"Is there no message for me from Monsieur Emile?" - -"No, Vere." - -"How forgetful of him! But never mind!" She went upstairs, looking -disappointed. - -Hermione re-read the letter. She wondered, perhaps more than Vere, why -there was no message for the child. The child--she was still calling -Vere that in her mind, even after the night conversation with Gaspare. -Two or three times she re-read that sentence, "I feel specially that -this summer I should like to be near you," and considered it; but she -finally put the letter away with a strong feeling that most of its -meaning lay between the lines, and that she had not, perhaps, the -power to interpret it. - -Vere had said that Emile was forgetful. He might be many things, but -forgetful he was not. One of his most characteristic qualities was his -exceptionally sharp consciousness of himself and of others. Hermione -knew that he was incapable of writing to her and forgetting Vere while -he was doing so. - -She did not exactly know why, but the result upon her of this letter -was a certain sense of depression, a slight and vague foreboding. And -yet she was glad, she was even thankful, to know that her friend, was -going to spend the summer on the Bay. She blamed herself for her -melancholy, telling herself that there was nothing in the words of -Artois to make her feel sad. Yet she continued to feel sad, to feel as -if some grievous change were at hand, as if she had returned to the -island to confront some untoward fate. It was very absurd of her. She -told herself that. - -The excursion to Capri had been a cheerful one. She had enjoyed it. -But all the time she had been watching Vere, studying her, as she had -not watched and studied her before. Something had suddenly made her -feel unaccustomed to Vere. It might be the words of Gaspare, the -expression in the round eyes of the Marchesino, or something new, or -newly apparent, in Vere. She did not know. But she did know that now -the omission of Artois to mention Vere in his letter seemed to add to -the novelty of the child for her. - -That seemed strange, yet it was a fact. How absolutely mysterious are -many of the currents of our being, Hermione thought. They flow far off -in subterranean channels, unseen by us, and scarcely ever realized, -but governing, carrying our lives along upon their deeps towards the -appointed end. - -Gaspare saw that his Padrona was not quite as usual, and looked at her -with large-eyed inquiry, but did not at first say anything. After tea, -however, when Hermione was sitting alone in the little garden with a -book, he said to her bluntly: - -"Che ha Lei?" - -Hermione put the book down in her lap. - -"That is just what I don't know, Gaspare." - -"Perhaps you are not well." - -"But I believe I am, perfectly well. You know I am always well. I -never even have fever. And you have that sometimes." - -He continued to look at her searchingly. - -"You have something." - -He said it firmly, almost as if he were supplying her with information -which she needed and had lacked. - -Hermione made a sound that was like a little laugh, behind which there -was no mirth. - -"I don't know what it is." - -Then, after a pause, she added that phrase which is so often upon -Sicilian lips: - -"Ma forse e il destino." - -Gaspare moved his head once as if in acquiescence. - -"When we are young, Signora," he said, "we do what we want, but we -have to want it. And we think we are very free. And when we are old we -don't feel to want anything, but we have to do things just the same. -Signora, we are not free. It is all destiny." - -And again he moved his head solemnly, making his liquid brown eyes -look more enormous than usual. - -"It is all destiny," Hermione repeated, almost dreamily. - -Just then she felt that it was so--that each human being, and she most -of all, was in the grasp of an inflexible, of an almost fierce guide, -who chose the paths, and turned the feet of each traveller, reluctant -or not, into the path the will of the guide had selected. And now, -still dreamily, she wondered whether she would ever try to rebel if -the path selected for her were one that she hated or feared, one that -led into any horror of darkness, or any horror of too great light. For -light, too, can be terrible, a sudden great light that shines -pitilessly upon one's own soul. She was of those who possess force and -impulse, and she knew it. She knew, too, that these are often -rebellious. But to-day it seemed to her that she might believe so much -in destiny, be so entirely certain of the inflexible purpose and power -of the guide, that her intellect might forbid her to rebel, because of -rebellion's fore-ordained inutility. Nevertheless, she supposed that -if it was her instinct to rebel, she would do so at the psychological -moment, even against the dictates of her intellect. - -Gaspare remained beside her quietly. He often stood near her after -they had been talking together, and calmly shared the silence with -her. She liked that. It gave her an impression of his perfect -confidence in her, his perfect ease in her company. - -"Don't you ever think that you can put a knife into destiny, Gaspare," -she asked him presently, using an image he would be likely to -understand, "as you might put a knife into a man who tried to force -you to do something you didn't wish to do?" - -"Signora, what would be the use? The knife is no good against Destiny, -nor the revolver either. And I have the permesso to carry one," he -added, with a smile, as if he realized that he was being whimsical. - -"Well, then, we must just hope that Destiny will be very kind to us, -be a friend to us, a true comrade. I shall hope that and so must you." - -"Si, Signora." - -He realized that the conversation was finished, and went quietly away. - -Hermione kept the letter of Artois. When he came back to the Bay she -wanted to show it to him, to ask him to read for her the meaning -between its lines. She put it away in her writing-table drawer, and -then resolved to forget the peculiar and disagreeable effect it had -made upon her. - -A fortnight passed away before Artois' return. June came in upon the -Bay, bringing with it a more vivid life in the environs of Naples. As -the heat of the sun increased the vitality of the human motes that -danced in its beams seemed to increase also, to become more blatant, -more persistent. The wild oleander was in flower. The thorny cactus -put forth upon the rim of its grotesque leaves pale yellow blossoms to -rival the red geraniums that throng about it insolently in Italy. In -the streets of the city ragged boys ran by crying, "Fragole!" and -holding aloft the shallow baskets in which the rosy fruit made -splashes of happy color. The carters wore bright carnations above -their dusty ears. The children exposed their bare limbs to the sun, -and were proud when they were given morsels of ice wrapped up in vine -leaves to suck in the intervals of their endless dances and their -play. On the hill of Posilipo the Venetian blinds of the houses, in -the gardens clouded by the rounded dusk of the great stone pines, were -thrust back, the windows were thrown open, the glad sun-rays fell upon -the cool paved floors, over which few feet had trodden since the last -summer died. Loud was the call of "Aqua!" along the roads where there -were buildings, and all the lemons of Italy seemed to be set forth in -bowers to please the eyes with their sharp, yet soothing color, and -tempt the lips with their poignant juice. Already in the Galleria, an -"avviso" was prominently displayed, stating that Ferdinando Bucci, the -famous maker of Sicilian ice-creams, had arrived from Palermo for the -season. In the Piazza del Plebiscito, hundreds of chairs were ranged -before the bandstand, and before the kiosk where the women sing on the -nights of summer near the Caffe Turco. The "Margherita" was shutting -up. The "Eldorado" was opening. And all along the sea, from the -vegetable gardens protected by brushwood hedges on the outskirts of -the city towards Portici, to the balconies of the "Mascotte," under -the hill of Posilipo, the wooden bathing establishments were creeping -out into the shallow waters, and displaying proudly to the passers-by -above their names: "Stabilimento Elena," "Stabilimento Donn' Anna," -"Stabilimento delle Sirene," "Il piccolo Paradiso." - -And all along the sea by night there was music. - -From the Piazza before the Palace the band of the Caffe Gambrinus sent -forth its lusty valses. The posturing women of the wooden kiosk caught -up the chain of sound, and flung it on with their shrill voices down -the hill towards Santa Lucia, where, by the waterside and the crowding -white yachts, the itinerant musicians took it into the keeping of -their guitars, their mandolins, their squeaky fiddles, and their hot -and tremulous voices. The "Valse Bleu," "Santa Lucia," "Addio, mia -bella Napoli," "La Frangese," "Sole Mio," "Marechiaro," "Carolina," -"La Ciociara"; with the chain of lights the chain of songs was woven -round the bay; from the Eldorado, past the Hotel de Vesuve, the Hotel -Royal, the Victoria, to the tree-shaded alleys of the Villa Nazionale, -to the Mergellina, where the naked urchins of the fisherfolk took -their evening bath among the resting boats, to the "Scoglio di -Frisio," and upwards to the Ristorante della Stella, and downwards -again to the Ristorante del Mare, and so away to the point, to the -Antico Giuseppone. - -Long and brilliant was the chain of lamps, and long and ardent was the -chain of melodies melting one into the other, and stretching to the -wide darkness of the night and to the great stillness of the sea. The -night was alive with music, with the voices that beat like hearts -over-charged with sentimental longings. - -But at the point where stood the Antico Giuseppone the lights and the -songs died out. And beyond there was the mystery, the stillness of the -sea. - -And there, beyond the chain of lights, the chain of melodies, the -islet lay in its delicate isolation; nevertheless, it, too, was surely -not unaware of the coming of summer. For even here, Nature ran up her -flag to honor her new festival. High up above the rock on the mainland -opposite there was a golden glory of ginestra, the broom plant, an -expanse of gold so brilliant, so daring in these bare surroundings, -that Vere said, when she saw it: - -"There is something cruel even in beauty, Madre. Do you like -successful audacity?" - -"I think I used to when I was your age," said Hermione. "Anything -audacious was attractive to me then. But now I sometimes see through -it too easily, and want something quieter and a little more -mysterious." - -"The difference between the Marchesino and Monsieur Emile?" said the -girl, with a little laugh. - -Hermione laughed, too. - -"Do you think Monsieur Emile mysterious?" she asked. - -"Yes--certainly. Don't you?" - -"I have known him so intimately for so many years." - -"Well, but that does not change him. Does it?" - -"No. But it may make him appear very differently to me from the way in -which he shows himself to others." - -"I think if I knew Monsieur Emile for centuries I should always wonder -about him." - -"What is it in Emile that makes you wonder?" asked her mother, with a -real curiosity. - -"The same thing that makes me wonder when I look at a sleepy lion." - -"You call Emile sleepy!" said Hermione. - -"Oh, not his intellect, Madre! Of course that is horribly, horribly -wide awake." - -And Vere ran off to her room, or the garden, or the Saint's Pool--who -knew where?--leaving her mother to say to herself, as she had already -said to herself in these last days of the growing summer, "When I said -that to Emile, what a fool I was!" She was thinking of her statement -that there was nothing in her child that was hidden from her. As if in -answer to that statement, Vere was unconsciously showing to her day by -day the folly of it. Emile had said nothing. Hermione remembered that, -and realized that his silence had been caused by his disagreement. But -why had he not told her she was mistaken? Perhaps because she had just -been laying bare to him the pain that was in her heart. Her call had -been for sympathy, not merely for truth. She wondered whether she was -a coward. Since they had returned from Capri the season and Vere had -surely changed. Then, and always afterwards, Hermione thought of those -three days in Capri as a definite barrier, a dividing line between two -periods. Already, while in Capri, she had begun to watch her child in -a new way. But that was, perhaps, because of an uneasiness, partly -nervous, within herself. In Capri she might have been imagining. Now -she was not imagining, she was realizing. - -Over the sea came to the islet the intensity of summer. Their world -was changing. And in this changing world Vere was beginning to show -forth more clearly than before her movement onward--whither? - -As yet the girl herself was unconscious of her mother's new -watchfulness. She was happy in the coming of summer, and in her -happiness was quite at ease, like a kitten that stretches itself -luxuriously in the sun. To Vere the world never seemed quite awake -till the summer came. Only in the hot sunshine did there glow the -truthfulness and the fulness of life. She shared it with the ginestra. -She saw and felt a certain cruelty in the gold, but she did not fear -or condemn it, or wish it away. For she was very young, and though she -spoke of cruelty she did not really understand it. In it there was -force, and force already appealed to the girl as few things did. As, -long ago, her father had gloried in the coming of summer to the South, -she gloried in it now. She looked across the Pool of the Saint to the -flood of yellow that was like sunlight given a body upon the cliff -opposite, and her soul revelled within her, and her heart rose up and -danced, alone, and yet as if in a glad company of dancers, all of whom -were friends. Her brain, too, sprang to the alert. The sun increased -the feeling of intelligence within her. - -And then she thought of her room, of the hours she passed shut in -there, and she was torn by opposing impulses. - -But she told no one of them. Vere could keep her secrets although she -was a girl. - -How the sea welcomed the summer! To many this home on the island would -have seemed an arid, inhospitable place, desolate and lost amid a -cruel world of cliffs and waters. It was not so to Vere. For she -entered into the life of the sea. She knew all its phases, as one may -know all the moods of a person loved. She knew when she would find it -intensely calm, at early morning and when the evening approached. At a -certain hour, with a curious regularity, the breeze came, generally -from Ischia, and turned it to vivacity. A temper that was almost -frivolous then possessed it, and it broke into gayeties like a -child's. The waves were small, but they were impertinently lively. -They made a turmoil such as urchins make at play. Heedless of -reverence, but not consciously impious, they flung themselves at the -feet of San Francesco, casting up a tiny tribute of spray into the -sun. - -Then Vere thought that the Saint looked down with pleasure at them, as -a good old man looks at a crowd of laughing children who have run -against him in the street, remembering his own youth. For even the -Saints were young! And, after that, surely the waves were a little -less boisterous. She thought she noted a greater calm. But perhaps it -was only that the breeze was dying down as the afternoon wore on. - -She often sat and wondered which she loved best--the calm that lay -upon the sea at dawn, or the calm that was the prelude to the night. -Silvery were these dawns of the summer days. Here and there the waters -gleamed like the scales of some lovely fish. Mysterious lights, like -those in the breast of the opal, shone in the breast of the sea, -stirred, surely travelled as if endowed with life, then sank away to -the far-off kingdoms that man may never look on. Those dawns drew away -the girl's soul as if she were led by angels, or, like Peter, walked -upon the deep at some divine command. She felt that though her body -was on the islet the vital part of her, the real "I," was free to roam -across the great expanse that lay flat and still and delicately -mysterious to the limits of eternity. - -She had strange encounters there, the soul of her, as she went towards -the East. - -The evening calm was different. There was, Vere thought, less of -heaven about it, but perhaps more of the wonder of this world. And -this made her feel as if she had been nearer to heaven at her birth -than she would be at her death. She knew nothing of the defilements of -life. Her purity of mind was very perfect; but, taking a parable from -Nature, she applied it imaginatively to Man, and she saw him covered -with dust because of his journey through the world. Poor man! - -And then she pitied herself too. But that passed. For if the sea at -evening held most of the wonder of this world, it was worth the -holding. Barely would she substitute the heavenly mysteries for it. -The fishermen's boats were dreams upon a dream. Each sail was akin to -a miracle. A voice that called across the water from a distance -brought tears to Vere's eyes when the magic was at its fullest. For it -seemed to mean all things that were tender, all things that were -wistful, all things that trembled with hope--that trembled with love. - -With summer Vere could give herself up to the sea, and not only -imaginatively but by a bodily act. - -Every day, and sometimes twice a day, she put on her bathing-dress in -the Casa del Mare, threw a thin cloak over her, and ran down to the -edge of the sea, where Gaspare was waiting with the boat. Hermione did -not bathe. It did not suit her now. And Gaspare was Vere's invariable -companion. He had superintended her bathing when she was little. He -had taught her to swim. And with no one else would he ever trust his -Padroncina when she gave herself to the sea. Sometimes he would row -her out to a reef of rocks in the open water not too many yards from -the island, and she would dive from them. Sometimes, if it was very -hot, he would take her to the Grotto of Virgil. Sometimes they went -far out to sea, and then, like her father in the Ionian Sea before the -Casa delle Sirene, Vere would swim away and imagine that this was her -mode of travel, that she was journeying alone to some distant land, or -that she had been taken by the sea forever. - -But very soon she would be sure to hear the soft splash of oars -following her, and, looking back, would see the large, attentive eyes -of the faithful Gaspare cautiously watching her dark head. Then she -would lift up one hand, and call to him to go, and say she did not -want him, that she wished to be alone, smiling and yet imperious. He -only followed quietly and inflexibly. She would dive. She would swim -under water. She would swim her fastest, as if really anxious to -escape him. It was a game between them now. But always he was there, -intent upon her safety. - -Vere did not know the memories within Gaspare that made him such a -guardian to the child of the Padrone he had loved; but she loved him -secretly for his watchfulness, even though now and then she longed to -be quite alone with the sea. And this she never was when bathing, for -Hermione had exacted a promise from her not to go to bathe without -Gaspare. In former days Vere had once or twice begun to protest -against this prohibition, but something in her mother's eyes had -stopped her. And she had remembered: - -"Father was drowned in the sea." - -Then, understanding something of what was in her mother's heart, she -threw eager arms about her, and anxiously promised to be good. - -One afternoon of the summer, towards the middle of June, she prolonged -her bathe in the Grotto of Virgil until Gaspare used his authority, -and insisted on her coming out of the water. - -"One minute more, Gaspare! Only another minute!" - -"Ma Signorina!" - -She dived. She came up. - -"Ma veramente Signorina!" - -She dived again. - -Gaspare waited. He was standing up in the boat with the oars in his -hands, ready to make a dash at his Padroncina directly she reappeared, -but she was wily, and came up behind the boat with a shrill cry that -startled him. He looked round reproachfully over his shoulder. - -"Signorina," he said, turning the boat round, "you are like a wicked -baby to-day." - -"What is it, Gaspare?" she asked, this time letting him come towards -her. - -"I say that you are like a wicked baby. And only the other day I was -saying to the Signora--" - -"What were you saying?" - -She swam to the boat and got in. - -"What?" she repeated, sitting down on the gunwale, while he began to -row towards the islet. - -"I was saying that you are nearly a woman now." - -Vere seemed extraordinarily thin and young as she sat there in her -dripping bathing-dress, with her small, bare feet distilling drops -into the bottom of the boat, and her two hands, looking drowned, -holding lightly to the wood on each side of her. Even Gaspare, as he -spoke, was struck by this, and by the intensely youthful expression in -the eyes that now regarded him curiously. - -"Really, Gaspare?" - -Vere asked the question quite seriously. - -"Si, Signorina." - -"A woman!" - -She looked down, as if considering herself. Her wet face had become -thoughtful, and for a moment she said nothing. - -"And what did mother say?" she asked, looking up again. "But I know. I -am sure she laughed at you." - -Gaspare looked rather offended. His expressive face, which always -showed what he was feeling, became almost stern, and he began to row -faster than before. - -"Why should the Signora laugh? Am I an imbecile, Signorina?" - -"You?" - -She hastened to correct the impression she had made. - -"Why, Gaspare, you are our Providence!" - -"Va bene, but--" - -"I only meant that I am sure Madre wouldn't agree with you. She thinks -me quite a child. I know that." - -She spoke with conviction, nodding her head. - -"Perhaps the Signora does not see." - -Vere smiled. - -"Gaspare, I believe you are horribly sharp," she said. "I often think -you notice everything. You are birbante, I am half afraid of you." - -Gaspare smiled, too. He had quite recovered his good humor. It pleased -him mightily to fancy he had seen what the Padrona had not seen. - -"I am a man, Signorina," he observed, quietly. "And I do not speak -till I know. Why should I? And I was at your baptism. When we came -back to the house I put five lire on the bed to bring you luck, -although you were not a Catholic. But it is just the same. Your Saint -will take care of you." - -"Well, but if I am almost a woman--what then, Gaspare?" - -"Signorina?" - -"Mustn't I play about any more? Mustn't I do just what I feel inclined -to, as I did in the grotto just now?" - -"Three is no harm in that, Signorina. I was only joking then. But--" - -He hesitated, looking at her firmly with his unfaltering gaze. - -"But what? I believe you want to scold me about something. I am sure -you do." - -"No, Signorina, never! But women cannot talk to everybody, as children -can. Nobody thinks anything of what children say. People only laugh -and say 'Ecco, it's a baby talking.' But when we are older it is all -different. People pay attention to us. We are of more importance -then." - -He did not mention Ruffo. He was too delicate to do that, for -instinctively he understood how childish his Padroncina still was. -And, at that moment, Vere did not think of Ruffo. She wondered a -little what Gaspare was thinking. That there was some special thought -behind his words, prompting them, she knew. But she did not ask him -what it was, for already they were at the islet, and she must run in, -and put on her clothes. Gaspare put her cloak carefully over her -shoulders, and she hurried lightly up the steps and into her room. Her -mother was not in the house. She had gone to Naples that day to see -some poor people in whom she was interested. So Vere was alone. She -took off her bathing-dress, and began to put on her things rather -slowly. Her whole body was deliciously lulled by its long contact with -the sea. She felt gloriously calm and gloriously healthy just then, -but her mind was working vigorously though quietly. - -A woman! The word sounded a little solemn and heavy, and, somehow, -dreadfully respectable. And she thought of her recent behavior in the -Grotto, and laughed aloud. She was so very slim, too. The word woman -suggested to her some one more bulky than she was. But all that was -absurd, of course. She was thinking very frivolously to-day. - -She put on her dress and fastened it. At the age of sixteen she had -put up her hair, but now it was still wet, and she had left it -streaming over her shoulders. In a moment she was going out onto the -cliff to let the sun dry it thoroughly. The sun was so much better -than any towel. With her hair down she really looked like a child, -whatever Gaspare thought. She said that to herself, standing for a -moment before the glass. Vere was almost as divinely free from self- -consciousness as her father had been. But the conversation in the boat -had made her think of herself very seriously, and now she considered -herself, not without keen interest. - -"I am certainly not a wicked baby," she said to herself. "But I don't -think I look at all like a woman." - -Her dark eyes met the eyes in the glass and smiled. - -"And yet I shall be seventeen quite soon. What can have made Gaspare -talk like that to Madre? I wonder what he said exactly. And then that -about 'women cannot talk to everybody as children can.' Now what--?" - -Ruffo came into her mind. - -"Ah!" she said, aloud. - -The figure in the glass made a little gesture. It threw up its hand. - -"That's it! That's it! Gaspare thinks--" - -"Signorina! Signorina!" - -Gaspare's voice was speaking outside the door. And now there came a -firm knock. Vere turned round, rather startled. She had been very much -absorbed by her colloquy. - -"What is it, Gaspare?" - -"Signorina, there's a boat coming in from Naples with Don Emilio in -it." - -"Don Emilio! He's come back! Oh!" There was a pause. Then she cried -out, "Capital! Capital!" - -She ran to the door and opened it. - -"Just think of Don Emilio's being back already, Gaspare. But Madre! -She will be sorry." - -"Signorina?" - -"Why? What's the matter?" - -"Are you coming out like that?" - -"What?--Oh, you mean my hair?" - -"Si, Signorina." - -"Gaspare, you ought to have been a lady's maid! Go and bring in Don -Emilio to Madre's room. And--wait--you're not to tell him Madre is -away. Now mind!" - -"Va bene, Signorina." - -He went away. - -"Shall I put up my hair?" - -Vere went again to the glass, and stood considering herself. - -"For Monsieur Emile! No, it's too absurd! Gaspare really is . . . I -sha'n't!" - -And she ran out just as she was to meet Artois. - - - -CHAPTER XI - -When she reached her mother's sitting-room Artois was already there -speaking to Gaspare by a window. He turned rather quickly as Vere came -in, and exclaimed: - -"Vere! Why--" - -"Oh!" she cried, "Gaspare hasn't gone!" - -A look almost of dread, half pretence but with some reality in it, -too, came into her face. - -"Gaspare, forgive me! I was in such a hurry. And it is only Don -Emilio!" - -Her voice was coaxing. Gaspare looked at his Padroncina with an -attempt at reprobation; but his nose twitched, and though he tried to -compress his lips they began to stretch themselves in a smile. - -"Signorina! Signorina!" he exclaimed. "Madonna!" - -On that exclamation he went out, trying to make his back look -condemnatory. - -"Only Don Emilio!" Artois repeated. - -Vere went to him, and took and held his hand for a moment. - -"Yes--only! That's my little compliment. Madre would say of you. 'He's -such an old shoe!' Such compliments come from the heart, you know." - -She still held his hand. - -"I should have to put my hair up for anybody else. And Gaspare wanted -me to for you." - -Artois was looking rather grave and tired. She noticed that now, and -dropped his hand and moved towards a bell. - -"Tea!" she said, "all alone with me--for a treat!" - -"Isn't your mother in?" - -"No. She's gone to Naples. I'm very, very sorry. Make the best of it, -Monsieur Emile, for the sake of my /amour propre/. I said I was sorry ---but that was only for you, and Madre." - -Artois smiled. - -"Is an old shoe a worthy object of gross flattery?" he said. - -"No." - -"Then--" - -"Don't be cantankerous, and don't be subtle, because I've been -bathing." - -"I notice that." - -"And I feel so calm and delicious. Tea, please, Giulia." - -The plump, dark woman who had opened the door smiled and retreated. - -"So calm and so delicious, Monsieur Emile, and as if I were made of -friendliness from top to toe." - -"The all-the-world feeling. I know." - -He sat down, rather heavily. - -"You are tired. When did you come?" - -"I arrived this morning. It was hot travelling, and I shared my -compartment in the wagon-lit with a German gentleman very far advanced -in several unaesthetic ailments. Basta! Thank Heaven for this. Calm -and delicious!" - -His large, piercing eyes were fixed upon Vere. - -"And about twelve," he added, "or twelve-and-a-half." - -"I?" - -"Yes, you. I am not speaking of myself, though I believe I am calm -also." - -"I am a woman--practically." - -"Practically?" - -"Yes; isn't that the word people always put in when they mean 'that's -a lie'?" - -"You mean you aren't a woman! This afternoon I must agree with you." - -"It's the sea! But just now, when you were coming, I was looking at -myself in the glass and saying, 'You're a woman'--solemnly, you know, -as if it was a dreadful truth." - -Artois had sat down on a sofa. He leaned back now with his hands -behind his head. He still looked at Vere, and, as he did so, he heard -the faint whisper of the sea. - -"Child of nature," he said--"call yourself that. It covers any age, -and it's blessedly true." - -Giulia came in at this moment with tea. She smiled again broadly on -Artois, and received and returned his greeting with the comfortable -and unembarrassed friendliness of the Italian race. As she went out -she was still smiling. - -"Addio to the German gentleman with the unaesthetic ailments!" said -Artois. - -An almost boyish sensation of sheer happiness invaded him. It made him -feel splendidly, untalkative. And he felt for a moment, too, as if his -intellect lay down to sleep. - -"Cara Giulia!" he added, after a rapturous silence. - -"What?" - -"Carissima Giulia!" - -"Yes, Giulia is--" - -"They all are, and the island, and the house upon it, and this clear -yellow tea, and this brown toast, and this butter from Lombardy. They -all are." - -"I believe you are feeling good all over, Monsieur Emile." - -"San Gennaro knows I am." - -He drank some tea, and ate some toast, spreading the butter upon it -with voluptuous deliberation. - -"Then I'm sure he's pleased." - -"Paris, hateful Paris!" - -"Oh, but that's abusive. A person who feels good all over should not -say that." - -"You are right, Vere. But when are you not right? You ought always to -wear your hair down, mon enfant, and always to have just been -bathing." - -"And you ought always to have just been travelling." - -"It is true that a dreadful past can be a blessing as well as a curse. -It is profoundly true. Why have I never realized that before?" - -"If I am twelve and a half, I think you are about--about--" - -"For the love of the sea make it under twenty, Vere." - -"Nineteen, then." - -"Were you going to make it under twenty?" - -"Yes, I was." - -"I don't believe you. Yes, I do, I do! You are an artist. You realize -that truth is a question of feeling, not a question of fact. You -penetrate beneath the gray hairs as the prosaic never do. This butter -is delicious! And to think that there have been moments when I have -feared butter, when I have kept an eye upon a corpulent future. Give -me some more, plenty more." - -Vere stretched out her hand to the tea-table, but it shook. She drew -it back, and burst into a peal of laughter. - -"What are you laughing at?" said Artois, with burlesque majesty. - -"At you. What's the matter with you, Monsieur Emile? How can you be so -foolish?" - -She lay back in her chair, with her hair streaming about her, and her -thin body quivered, as if the sense of fun within her were striving to -break through its prison walls. - -"This," said Artois, "this is sheer impertinence. I venture to inquire -for butter, and--" - -"To inquire! One, two, three, four--five pats of butter right in front -of you! And you inquire--!" - -Artois suddenly sent out a loud roar to join her childish treble. - -The tea had swept away his previous sensation of fatigue, even the -happy stolidity that had succeeded it for an instant. He felt full of -life and gayety, and a challenging mental activity. A similar -challenging activity, he thought, shone in the eyes of the girl -opposite to him. - -"Thank God I can still be foolish!" he exclaimed. "And thank God that -there are people in the world devoid of humor. My German friend was -without humor. Only that fact enabled me to endure his prodigious -collection of ailments. But for the heat I might even have revelled in -them. He was asthmatic, without humor; dyspeptic, without humor. He -had a bad cold in the head, without humor, and got up into the top -berth with two rheumatic legs and a crick in the back, without humor. -Had he seen the fun of himself, the fun would have meant much less to -me." - -"You cruel person!" - -"There is often cruelty in humor--perhaps not in yours, though, yet." - -"Why do you say--yet, like that?" - -"The hair is such a kindly veil that I doubt the existence of cruelty -behind it." - -He spoke with a sort of almost tender and paternal gentleness. - -"I don't believe you could ever be really cruel, Monsieur Emile." - -"Why not?" - -"I think you are too intelligent." - -"Why should that prevent me?" - -"Isn't cruelty stupid, unimaginative?" - -"Often. But it can be brilliant, artful, intellectual, full of -imagination. It can be religious. It can be passionate. It can be -splendid. It can be almost everything." - -"Splendid!" - -"Like Napoleon's cruelty to France. But why should I educate you in -abominable knowledge?" - -"Oh," said the girl, thrusting forward her firm little chin, "I have -no faith in mere ignorance." - -"Yet it does a great deal for those who are not ignorant." - -"How?" - -"It shows them how pretty, how beautiful even, sometimes, was the -place from which they started for their journey through the world." - -Vere was silent for a moment. The sparkle of fun had died out of her -eyes, which had become dark with the steadier fires of imagination. -The strands of her thick hair, falling down on each side of her oval -face, gave to it a whimsically mediaeval look, suggestive of legend. -Her long-fingered, delicate, but strong little hands were clasped in -her lap, and did not move. It was evident that she was thinking -deeply. - -"I believe I know," she said, at last. "Yes, that was my thought, or -almost." - -"When?" - -She hesitated, looking at him, not altogether doubtfully, but with a -shadow of reserve, which might easily, he fancied, grow deeper, or -fade entirely away. He saw the resolve to speak come quietly into her -mind. - -"You know, Monsieur Emile, I love watching the sea," she said, rather -slowly and carefully. "Especially at dawn, and in the evening before -it is dark. And it always seems to me as if at dawn it is more -heavenly than it is after the day has happened, though it is so very -lovely then. And sometimes that has made me feel that our dawn is our -most beautiful time--as if we were nearest the truth then. And, of -course, that is when we are most ignorant, isn't it? So I suppose I -have been thinking a little bit like you. Haven't I?" - -She asked it earnestly. Artois had never heard her speak quite like -this before, with a curious deliberation that was nevertheless without -self-consciousness. Before he could answer she added, abruptly, as if -correcting, or even almost condemning herself: - -"I can put it much better than that. I have." - -Artois leaned forward. Something, he did not quite know what, made him -feel suddenly a deep interest in what Vere said--a strong curiosity -even. - -"You have put it much better?" he said. - -Vere suddenly looked conscious. A faint wave of red went over her face -and down to her small neck. Her hands moved and parted. She seemed -half ashamed of something for a minute. - -"Madre doesn't know," she murmured, as if she were giving him a reason -for something. "It isn't interesting," she added. "Except, of course, -to me." - -Artois was watching her. - -"I think you really want to tell me," he said now. - -"Oh yes, in a way I do. I have been half wanting to for a long time-- -but only half." - -"And now?" - -She looked at him, but almost instantly looked down again, with a sort -of shyness he had never seen in her before. And her eyes had been full -of a strange and beautiful sensitiveness. - -"Never mind, Vere," he said quickly, obedient to those eyes, and -responding to their delicate subtlety. "We all have our righteous -secrets, and should all respect the righteous secrets of others." - -"Yes, I think we should. And I know you would be the very last, at -least Madre and you, to--I think I'm being rather absurd, really." The -last words were said with a sudden change of tone to determination, as -if Vere were taking herself to task. "I'm making a lot of almost -nothing. You see, if I am a woman, as Gaspare is making out, I'm at -any rate a very young one, am I not?" - -"The youngest that exists." - -As he said that Artois thought, "Mon Dieu! If the Marchesino could -only see her now!" - -"If humor is cruel, Monsieur Emile," Vere continued, "you will laugh -at me. For I am sure, if I tell you--and I know now I'm going to--you -will think this fuss is as ridiculous as the German's cold in the -head, and poor legs, and all. I wrote that about the sea." - -She said the last sentence with a sort of childish defiance. - -"Wait," said Artois. "Now I begin to understand." - -"What?" - -"All those hours spent in your room. Your mother thought you were -reading." - -"No," she said, still rather defiantly; "I've been writing that, and -other things--about the sea." - -"How? In prose?" - -"No. That's the worst of it, I suppose." - -And again the faint wave of color went over her face to her neck. - -"Do you really feel so criminal? Then what ought I to feel?" - -"You? Now that is really cruel!" she cried, getting up quickly, almost -as if she meant to hurry away. - -But she only stood there in front of him, near the window. - -"Never mind!" she said. "Only you remember that Madre tried. She had -never said much about it to me. But now and then from just a word I -know that she feels bad, that she wishes very much she could do -something. Only the other day she said to me, 'We have the instinct, -men the vocabulary.' She was meaning that you had. She even told me to -ask you something that I had asked her, and she said, 'I feel all the -things that he can explain.' And there was something in her voice that -hurt me--for her. And Madre is so clever. Isn't she clever?" - -"Yes." - -"And if Madre can't do things, you can imagine that I feel rather -absurd now that I'm telling you." - -"Yes, being just as you are, Vere, I can quite imagine that you do. -But we can have sweet feelings of absurdity that only arise from -something moral within us, a moral delicacy. However, would you like -me to look at what you have been writing about the sea?" - -"Yes, if you can do it quite seriously." - -"I could not do it in any other way." - -"Then--thank you." - -She went out of the room, not without a sort of simple dignity that -was utterly removed from conceit or pretentiousness. - -What a strange end, this, to their laughter! - -Vere was away several minutes, during which at first Artois sat quite -still, leaning back, with his great frame stretched out, and his hands -once more behind his head. His intellect was certainly very much awake -now, and he was setting a guard upon it, to watch it carefully, lest -it should be ruthless, even with Vere. And was he not setting also -another guard to watch the softness of his nature, lest it should -betray him into foolish kindness? - -Yet, after a minute, he said to himself that he was wasting his time -in both these proceedings. For Vere's eyes were surely a touchstone to -discover honesty. There is something merciless in the purity of -untarnished youth. What can it not divine at moments? - -Artois poured out another cup of tea and drank it, considering the -little funny situation. Vere and he with a secret from Hermione shared -between them! Vere submitting verses to his judgment! He remembered -Hermione's half-concealed tragedy, which, of course, had been patent -to him in its uttermost nakedness. Even Vere had guessed something of -it. Do we ever really hide anything from every one? And yet each one -breathes mystery too. The assertive man is the last of fools. Of that -at least Artois just then felt certain. - -If Vere should really have talent! He did not expect it, although he -had said that there was intellectual force in the girl. There was -intellectual force in Hermione, but she could not create. And Vere! He -smiled as he thought of her rush into the room with her hair streaming -down, of her shrieks of laughter over his absurdity. But she was full -of changes. - -The door opened, and Vere came in holding some manuscript in her hand. -She had done up her hair while she had been away. When Artois saw that -he heaved himself up from the sofa. - -"I must smoke," he said. - -"Oh yes. I'll get the Khali Targas." - -"No. I must have a pipe. And you prefer that, I know." - -"Generally, but--you do look dreadfully as if you meant business when -you are smoking a pipe." - -"I do mean business now." - -He took his pipe from his pocket, filled it and lit it. - -"Now then, Vere!" he said. - -She came to sit down on the sofa. - -He sat down beside her. - - - -CHAPTER XII - -More than an hour had passed. To Vere it had seemed like five minutes. -Her cheeks were hotly flushed. Her eyes shone. With hands that were -slightly trembling she gathered together her manuscripts, and -carefully arranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of ribbon -round them, tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile Artois, standing up, -was knocking the shreds of tobacco out of his pipe against the -chimney-piece into his hand. He carried them over to the window, -dropped them out, then stood for a minute looking at the sea. - -"The evening calm is coming, Vere," he said, "bringing with it the -wonder of this world." - -"Yes." - -He heard a soft sigh behind him, and turned round. - -"Why was that? Has dejection set in, then?" - -"No, no." - -"You know the Latin saying: 'Festina lente'? If you want to understand -how slowly you must hasten, look at me." - -He had been going to add, "Look at these gray hairs," but he did not. -Just then he felt suddenly an invincible reluctance to call Vere's -attention to the signs of age apparent in him. - -"I spoke to you about the admirable incentive of ambition," he -continued, after a moment. "But you must understand that I meant the -ambition for perfection, not at all the ambition for celebrity. The -satisfaction of the former may be a deep and exquisite joy--the -partial satisfaction, for I suppose it can never be anything more than -that. But the satisfaction of the other will certainly be Dead-sea -fruit--fruit of the sea unlike that brought up by Ruffo, without -lasting savor, without any real value. One should never live for -that." - -The last words he spoke as if to himself, almost like a warning -addressed to himself. - -"I don't believe I ever should," Vere said quickly. "I never thought -of such a thing." - -"The thought will come, though, inevitably." - -"How dreadful it must be to know so much about human nature as you -do!" - -"And yet how little I really know!" - -There came up a distant cry from the sea. Vere started. - -"There is Madre! Of course, Monsieur Emile, I don't want--but you -understand!" - -She hurried out of the room, carrying the packet with her. - -Artois felt that the girl was strongly excited. She was revealing more -of herself to him, this little Vere whom he had known, and not known, -ever since she had been a baby. The gradual revelation interested him -intensely--so intensely that in him, too, there was excitement now. So -many truths go to make up the whole round truth of every human soul. -Hermione saw some of these truths of Vere, Gaspare others, perhaps; he -again others. And even Ruffo and the Marchesino--he put the Marchesino -most definitely last--even they saw still other truths of Vere, he -supposed. - -To whom did she reveal the most? The mother ought to know most, and -during the years of childhood had doubtless known most. But those -years were nearly over. Certainly Vere was approaching, or was on, the -threshold of the second period of her life. - -And she and he had a secret from Hermione. This secret was a very -innocent one. Still, of course, it had the two attributes that belong -to every secret: of drawing together those who share it, of setting -apart from them those who know it not. And there was another secret, -too, connected with it, and known only to Artois: the fact that the -child, Vere, possessed the very small but quite definite beginnings, -the seed, as it were, of something that had been denied to the mother, -Hermione. - -"Emile, you have come back! I am glad!" - -Hermione came into the room with her eager manner and rather slow -gait, holding out both her hands, her hot face and prominent eyes -showing forth with ardor the sincerity of her surprise and pleasure. - -"Gaspare told me. I nearly gave him a hug. You know his sly look when -he has something delightful up his sleeve for one! Bless you!" - -She shook both his hands. - -"And I had come back in such bad spirits! But now--" - -She took off her hat and put it on a table. - -"Why were you in bad spirits, my friend?" - -"I had been with Madame Alliani, seeing something of the intense misery -and wickedness of Naples. I have seen a girl--such a tragedy! What -devils men can be in these Southern places! What hideous things they -will do under the pretence of being driven by love! But--no, don't let -us spoil your arrival. Where is Vere? I thought she was entertaining -you." - -"We have been having tea together. She has this moment gone out of the -room." - -"Oh!" - -She seemed to expect some further explanation. As he gave none she sat -down. - -"Wasn't she very surprised to see you?" - -"I think she was. She had just been bathing, and came running in with -her hair all about her, looking like an Undine with a dash of Sicilian -blood in her. Here she is!" - -"Are you pleased, Madre? You poor, hot Madre!" - -Vere sat down by her mother and put one arm round her. Subtly she was -trying to make up to her mother for the little secret she was keeping -from her for a time. - -"Are you very, very pleased?" - -"Yes, I think I am." - -"Think! You mischievous Madre!" - -Hermione laughed. - -"But I feel almost jealous of you two sitting here in the cool, and -having a quiet tea and a lovely talk while-- Never mind. Here is my -tea. And there's another thing. Oh, Emile, I do wish I had known you -would arrive to-day!" - -"Why specially?" - -"I've committed an unusual crime. I've made--actually--an engagement -for this evening." - -Artois and Vere held up their hands in exaggerated surprise. - -"Are you mad, my dear Hermione?" asked Artois. - -"I believe I am. It's dangerous to go to Naples. I met a young man." - -"The Marchesino!" cried Vere. "The Marchesino! I see him in your eye, -Madre." - -"C'est cela!" said Artois, "and you mean to say--!" - -"That I accepted an invitation to dine with him to-night, at nine, at -the Scoglio di Frisio. There! Why did I? I have no idea. I was hot from -a horrible vicolo. He was cool from the sea. What chance had I against -him? And then he is through and through Neapolitan, and gives no -quarter to a woman, even when she is 'una vecchia.' " - -As she finished Hermione broke into a laugh, evidently at some -recollection. - -"Doro made his eyes very round. I can see that," said Artois. - -"Like this!" cried Vere. - -And suddenly there appeared in her face a reminiscence of the face of -the Marchesino. - -"Vere, you must not! Some day you will do it by accident when he is -here." - -"Is he coming here?" - -"In a launch to fetch me--us." - -"Am I invited?" said Vere. "What fun!" - -"I could not get out of it," Hermione said to Artois. "But now I insist -on your staying here till the Marchesino comes. Then he will ask you, -and we shall be a quartet." - -"I will stay," said Artois, with a sudden return of his authoritative -manner. - -"It seems that I am woefully ignorant of the Bay," continued Hermione. -"I have never dined at Frisio's. Everybody goes there at least once. -Everybody has been there. Emperors, kings, queens, writers, singers, -politicians, generals--they all eat fish at Frisio's." - -"It's true." - -"You have done it?" - -"Yes. The Padrone is worth knowing. He--but to-night you will know him. -Yes, Frisio's is characteristic. Vere will be amused." - -With a light tone he hid a faint chagrin. - -"What fun!" repeated Vere. "If I had diamonds I should put them on." - -She too was hiding something, one sentiment with another very -different. But her youth came to her aid, and very soon the second -excitement really took the place of the first, and she was joyously -alive to the prospect of a novel gayety. - -"I must not eat anything more," said Hermione. "I believe the -Marchesino is ordering something marvellous for us, all the treasures -of the sea. We must be up to the mark. He really is a good fellow." - -"Yes," said Artois. "He is. I have a genuine liking for him." - -He said it with obvious sincerity. - -"I am going," said Vere. "I must think about clothes. And I must undo -my hair again and get Maria to dry it thoroughly, or I shall look -frightening." - -She went out quickly, her eyes sparkling. - -"Vere is delighted," said Hermione. - -"Yes, indeed she is." - -"And you are not. Would you rather avoid the Marchesino to-night, -Emile, and not come with us? Perhaps I am selfish. I would so very much -rather have you with us." - -"If Doro asks me I shall certainly come. It's true that I wish you were -not engaged to-night--I should have enjoyed a quiet evening here. But -we shall have many quiet, happy evenings together this summer, I hope." - -"I wonder if we shall?" said Hermione, slowly. - -"You--why?" - -"I don't know. Oh, I am absurd, probably. One has such strange ideas, -houses based on sand, or on air, or perhaps on nothing at all." - -She got up, went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out of -it a letter. - -"Emile," she said, coming back to him with it in her hand, "would you -like to explain this to me?" - -"What is it?" - -"The letter I found from you when I came back from Capri." - -"But does it need explanation?" - -"It seemed to me as if it did. Read it and see." - -He took it from her, opened it and read it. - -"Well?" he said. - -"Isn't the real meaning between the lines?" - -"If it is, cannot you decipher it?" - -"I don't know. I don't think so. Somehow it depressed me. Perhaps it -was my mood just then. Was it?" - -"Perhaps it was merely mine." - -"But why--'I feel specially this summer I should like to be near you'? -What does that mean exactly?" - -"I did feel that." - -"Why?" - -"I don't think I can tell you now. I am not sure that I could even have -told you at the time I wrote that letter." - -She took it from him and put it away again in the drawer. - -"Perhaps we shall both know later on," she said, quietly. "I believe we -shall." - -He did not say anything. - -"I saw that boy, Ruffo, this afternoon," she said, after a moment of -silence. - -"Did you?" said Artois, with a change of tone, a greater animation. "I -forgot to ask Vere about him. I suppose he has been to the island again -while I have been away?" - -"Not once. Poor boy, I find he has been ill. He has had fever. He was -out to-day for the first time after it. We met him close to Mergellina. -He was in a boat, but he looked very thin and pulled down. He seemed so -delighted to see me. I was quite touched." - -"Hasn't Vere been wondering very much why he did not come again?" - -"She has never once mentioned him. Vere is a strange child sometimes." - -"But you--haven't you spoken of him to her?" - -"No, I don't think so." - -"Vere's silence made you silent?" - -"I suppose so. I must tell her. She likes the boy very much." - -"What is it that attracts her to this boy, do you think?" - -The question was ordinary enough, but there was a peculiar intonation -in Artois' voice as he asked it, an intonation that awakened surprise -in Hermione. - -"I don't know. He is an attractive boy." - -"You think so too?" - -"Why, yes. What do you mean, Emile?" - -"I was only wondering. The sea breeds a great many boys like Ruffo, you -know. But they don't all get Khali Targa cigarettes given to them, for -all that." - -"That's true. I have never seen Vere pay any particular attention to -the fishermen who come to the island. In a way she loves them all -because they belong to the sea, she loves them as a décor. But Ruffo is -different. I felt it myself." - -"Did you?" - -He looked at her, then looked out of the window and pulled his beard -slowly. - -"Yes. In my case, perhaps, the interest was roused partly by what Vere -told me. The boy is a Sicilian, you see, and just Vere's age." - -"Vere's interest perhaps comes from the same reason." - -"Very likely it does." - -Hermione spoke the last words without conviction. Perhaps they both -felt that they were not talking very frankly--were not expressing their -thoughts to each other with their accustomed sincerity. At any rate, -Artois suddenly introduced another topic of conversation, the reason of -his hurried visit to Paris, and for the next hour they discussed -literary affairs with a gradually increasing vivacity and open- -heartedness. The little difficulty between them--of which both had been -sensitive and fully conscious--passed away, and when at length Hermione -got up to go to her bedroom and change her dress for the evening, there -was no cloud about them. - -When Hermione had gone Artois took up a book, but he sat till the -evening was falling and Giulia came smiling to light the lamp, without -reading a word of it. Her entry roused him from his reverie, and he -took out his watch. It was already past eight. The Marchesino would -soon be coming. And then--the dinner at Frisio's! - -He got up and moved about the room, picking up a book here and there, -glancing at some pages, then putting it down. He felt restless and -uneasy. - -"I am tired from the journey," he thought. "Or--I wonder what the -weather is this evening. The heat seems to have become suffocating -since Hermione went away." - -He went to one of the windows and looked out. Twilight was stealing -over the sea, which was so calm that it resembled a huge sheet of -steel. The sky over the island was clear. He turned and went to the -opposite window. Above Ischia there was a great blackness like a pall. -He stood looking at it for some minutes. His erring thoughts, which -wandered like things fatigued that cannot rest, went to a mountain -village in Sicily, through which he had once ridden at night during a -terrific thunder-storm. In a sudden, fierce glare of lightning he had -seen upon the great door of a gaunt Palazzo, which looked abandoned, a -strip of black cloth. Above it were the words, "Lutto in famiglia." - -That was years ago. Yet now he saw again the palace door, the strip of -cloth soaked by the pouring rain, the dreary, almost sinister words -which he had read by lightning: - -"Lutto in famiglia." - -He repeated them as he gazed at the blackness above Ischia. - -"Monsieur Emile!" - -"Vere!" - -The girl came towards him, a white contrast to what he had been -watching. - -"I'm all ready. It seems so strange to be going out to a sort of party. -I've had such a bother with my hair." - -"You have conquered," he said. "Undine has disappeared." - -"What?" - -"Come quite close to the lamp." - -She came obediently. - -"Vere transformed!" he said. "I have seen three Veres to-day already. -How many more will greet me to-night?" - -She laughed gently, standing quite still. Her dress and her gloves were -white, but she had on a small black hat, very French, and at the back -of her hair there was a broad black ribbon tied in a big bow. This -ribbon marked her exact age clearly, he thought. - -"This is a new frock, and my very smartest," she said; "and you dared -to abuse Paris!" - -"Being a man. I must retract now. You are right, we cannot do without -it. But--have you an umbrella?" - -"An umbrella?" - -She moved and laughed again, much more gayly. - -"I am serious. Come here and look at Ischia." - -She went with him quickly to the window. - -"That blackness does look wicked. But it's a long way off." - -"I think it is coming this way." - -"Oh, but"--and she went to the opposite window--"the sky is perfectly -clear towards Naples. And look how still the sea is." - -"Too still. It is like steel." - -"Hush! Listen!" - -She held up her hand. They both heard a far-off sound of busy panting -on the sea. - -"That must be the launch!" she said. - -Her eyes were gay and expectant. It was evident that she was in high -spirits, that she was looking forward to this unusual gayety. - -"Yes." - -"Doesn't it sound in a hurry, as if the Marchesino was terribly afraid -of being late?" - -"Get your umbrella, Vere, and a waterproof. You will want them both." - -At that moment Hermione came in. - -"Madre, the launch is coming in a frightful hurry, and Monsieur Emile -says we must take umbrellas." - -"Surely it isn't going to rain?" - -"There is a thunder-storm coming up from Ischia, I believe," said -Artois. - -"Then we will take our cloaks in case. It is fearfully hot. I thought -so when I was dressing. No doubt the launch will have a cabin." - -A siren hooted. - -"That is the Marchesino saluting us!" cried Vere. "Come along, Madre! -Maria! Maria!" - -She ran out, calling for the cloaks. - -"Do you like Vere's frock, Emile?" said Hermione, as they followed. - -"Yes. She looks delicious--but quite like a little woman of the world." - -"Ah, you like her best as the Island child. So do I. Oh, Emile!" - -"What is it?" - -"I can't help it. I hate Vere's growing up." - -"Few things can remain unchanged for long. This sea will be -unrecognizable before we return." - -Gaspare met them on the landing with solemn eyes. - -"There is going to be a great storm, Signora," he said. "It is coming -from Ischia." - -"So Don Emilio thinks. But we will take wraps, and we are going in a -launch. It will be all right, Gaspare." - -"Shall I come with you, Signora?" - -"Well, Gaspare, you see it is the Marchese's launch--" - -"If you would like me to come, I will ask the Signore Marchese." - -"We'll see how much room there is." - -"Si, Signora." - -He went down to receive the launch. - -"Emile," Hermione said, as he disappeared, "can you understand what a -comfort to me Gaspare is? Ah, if people knew how women love those who -are ready to protect them! It's quite absurd, but just because Gaspare -said that, I'd fifty times rather have him with us than go without -him." - -"I understand. I love your watch-dog, too." - -She touched his arm. - -"No one could ever understand the merits of a watch-dog better than -you. That's right, Maria; we shall be safer with these." - -The Marchesino stood at the foot of the cliff, bare-headed, to receive -them. He was in evening dress, what he called "smoking," with a flower -in his button-hole, and a straw hat, and held a pair of white kid -gloves in his hand. He looked in rapturous spirits, but ceremonial. -When he caught sight of Artois on the steps behind Hermione and Vere, -however, he could not repress an exclamation of "Emilio!" - -He took Hermione's and Vere's hands, bowed over them and kissed them. -Then he turned to his friend. - -"Caro Emilio! You are back! You must come with us! You must dine at -Frisio's." - -"May I?" said Artois. - -"You must. This is delightful. See, Madame," he added to Hermione, -suddenly breaking into awful French, "we have the English flag! Your -Jack! Voila, the great, the only Jack! I salute him! Let me help you!" - -As Hermione stepped into the launch she said: - -"I see there is plenty of room. I wonder if you would mind my taking my -servant, Gaspare, to look after the cloaks and umbrellas. It seems -absurd, but he says a storm is coming, and--" - -"A storm!" cried the Marchesino. "Of course your Gaspare must come. -Which is he?" - -"There." - -The Marchesino spoke to Gaspare in Italian, telling him to join the two -sailors in the stern of the launch. A minute afterwards he went to him -and gave him some cigarettes. Then he brought from the cabin two -bouquets of flowers, and offered them to Hermione and Vere, who, with -Artois, were settling themselves in the bows. The siren sounded. They -were off, cutting swiftly through the oily sea. - -"A storm, Signora. Cloaks and umbrellas!" said the Marchesino, shooting -a glance of triumph at "Cara Emilio," whose presence to witness his -success completed his enjoyment of it. "But it is a perfect night. Look -at the sea. Signorina, let me put the cushion a little higher behind -you. It is not right. You are not perfectly comfortable. And everything -must be perfect for you to-night--everything." He arranged the cushion -tenderly. "The weather, too! Why, where is the storm?" - -"Over Ischia," said Artois. - -"It will stay there. Ischia! It is a volcano. Anything terrible may -happen there." - -"And Vesuvius?" said Hermione, laughing. - -The Marchesino threw up his chin. - -"We are not going to Vesuvius. I know Naples, Signora, and I promise -you fine weather. We shall take our coffee after dinner outside upon -the terrace at the one and only Frisio's." - -He chattered on gayly. His eyes were always on Vere, but he talked -chiefly to Hermione, with the obvious intention of fascinating the -mother in order that she might be favorably disposed towards him, and -later on smile indulgently upon his flirtation with the daughter. His -proceedings were carried on with a frankness that should have been -disarming, and that evidently did disarm Hermione and Vere, who seemed -to regard the Marchesino as a very lively boy. But Artois was almost -immediately conscious of a secret irritation that threatened to spoil -his evening. - -The Marchesino was triumphant. Emilio had wished to prevent him from -knowing these ladies. Why? Evidently because Emilio considered him -dangerous. Now he knew the ladies. He was actually their host. And he -meant to prove to Emilio how dangerous he could be. His eyes shot a -lively defiance at his friend, then melted as they turned to Hermione, -melted still more as they gazed with unwinking sentimentality into the -eyes of Vere. He had no inward shyness to contend against, and was -perfectly at his ease; and Artois perceived that his gayety and sheer -animal spirits were communicating themselves to his companions. Vere -said little, but she frequently laughed, and her face lit up with eager -animation. And she, too, was quite at her ease. The direct, and -desirous, glances of the Marchesino did not upset her innocent self- -possession at all, although they began to upset the self-possession of -Artois. As he sat, generally in silence, listening to the frivolous and -cheerful chatter that never stopped, while the launch cut its way -through the solemn, steel-like sea towards the lights of Posilipo. He -felt that he was apart because he was clever, as if his cleverness -caused loneliness. - -They travelled fast. Soon the prow of the launch was directed to a -darkness that lay below, and to the right of a line of brilliant lights -that shone close to the sea; and a boy dressed in white, holding a -swinging lantern, and standing, like a statue, in a small niche of rock -almost flush with the water, hailed them, caught the gunwale of the -launch with one hand, and brought it close in to the wall that towered -above them. - -"Do we get out here? But where do we go?" said Hermione. - -"There is a staircase. Let me--" - -The Marchesino was out in a moment and helped them all to land. He -called to the sailors that he would send down food and wine to them and -Gaspare. Then, piloted by the boy with the lantern, they walked up -carefully through dark passages and over crumbling stairs, turned to -the left, and came out upon a small terrace above the sea and facing -the curving lamps of Naples. Just beyond was a long restaurant, lined -with great windows on one side and with mirrors on the other, and -blazing with light. - -"Ecco!" cried the Marchesino. "Ecco lo Scoglio di Frisio! And here is -the Padrone!" he added, as a small, bright-eyed man, with a military -figure and fierce mustaches, came briskly forward to receive them. - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -The dinner, which was served at a table strewn with red carnations -close to an open window, was a gay one, despite Artois. It could -hardly have been otherwise with a host so complacent, so attentive, so -self-possessed, so hilarious as the Marchesino. And the Padrone of the -restaurant warmly seconded the efforts of the giver of the feast. He -hovered perpetually, but always discreetly, near, watchfully directing -the middle-aged waiters in their duties, smiling to show his teeth, -stained with tobacco juice, or drawing delicately close to relate -anecdotes connected with the menu. - -The soup, a "zuppa di pesce alla marinara" remarkable for its -beautiful red color, had been originally invented by the chef of -Frisio's for the ex-Queen Natalie of Servia, who had deigned to come, -heavily veiled, to lunch at the Scoglio, and had finally thrown off -her veil and her incognito, and written her name in the visitors' book -for all to see. The Macaroni a l'Imperatrice had been the favorite -/plat/ of the dead Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who used to visit -Frisio's day after day, and who always demanded two things--an -eruption of Vesuvius and "Funiculi, funicula!" William Ewart Gladstone -had deigned to praise the "oeufs a la Gladstone," called henceforth by -his name, when he walked over from the Villa Rendel to breakfast; and -the delicious punch served before the dolce, and immediately after the -"Pollo panato alla Frisio," had been lauded by the late Czar of all -the Russias, who was drinking a glass of it--according to the solemn -asseveration of the Padrone--when the telegram announcing the -assassination of his father was put into his hand. - -Names of very varied popular and great ones of the earth floated about -the table. Here, it appeared, Mario Costa and Paolo Tosti had composed -their most celebrated songs between one course and another. Here Zola -and Tolstoy had written. Here Sarah Bernhardt had ordered a dozen -bottles of famous old wine to be sent to the Avenue Pereire from the -cellars of Frisio, and had fallen in love with a cat from Greece. Here -Matilde Serao had penned a lasting testimony to the marital fidelity -of her husband. - -Everything--everything had happened here, just here, at Frisio's. - -Seeing the amused interest of his guests, the Marchesino encouraged -the Padrone to talk, called for his most noted wines, and demanded at -dessert a jug of Asti Spumante, with snow in it, and strawberries -floating on the top. - -"You approve of Frisio's, Signorina?" he said, bending towards Vere. -"You do not find your evening dull?" - -The girl shook her head. A certain excitement was noticeable in her -gayety--had been noticed by her mother all through the evening. It was -really due to the afternoon's incident with Artois, succeeded by this -unexpected festival, in which the lively homage of the Marchesino was -mingled with the long procession of celebrated names introduced by the -Padrone. Vere was secretly strung up, had been strung up even before -she stepped into the launch. She felt very happy, but in her happiness -there was something feverish, which was not customary to any mood of -hers. She never drank wine, and had taken none to-night, yet as the -evening wore on she was conscious of an effervescence, as if her brain -were full of winking bubbles such as rise to the surface of champagne. - -Her imagination was almost furiously alive, and as the Padrone talked, -waving his hands and striking postures like those of a military -dictator, she saw the dead Empress, with her fan before her face, -nodding her head to the jig of "Funiculi, funicula," while she watched -the red cloud from Vesuvius rising into the starry sky; she saw Sarah -Bernhardt taking the Greek cat upon her knee; the newly made Czar -reading the telegram with his glass of punch beside him; Tosti tracing -lines of music; Gladstone watching the sea; and finally the gaunt -figure and the long beard of Tolstoy bending over the book in which he -wrote clearly so many years ago, "Vedi Napoli e poi mori." - -"Monsieur Emile, you must write in the wonderful book of Frisio's," -she exclaimed. - -"We will all write, Signorina!" cried the Marchesino. "Bring the book, -Signor Masella!" - -The Padrone hastened away to fetch it, but Vere shook her head. - -"No, no, we must not write! We are nobodies. Monsieur Emile is a great -man. Only he is worthy of such a book. Isn't it so, Madre?" - -Artois felt the color rising to his face at this unexpected remark of -the girl. He had been distrait during the dinner, certainly neither -brilliant nor amusing, despite his efforts to seem talkative and -cheerful. A depression had weighed upon him, as it had weighed upon -him in the launch during the voyage from the island. He had felt as if -he were apart, even almost as if he were /de trop/. Had Vere noticed -it? Was that the reason of this sudden and charming demonstration in -his favor? - -He looked across at her, longing to know. But she was arguing gayly -with the Marchesino, who continued to insist that they must all write -their names as a souvenir of the occasion. - -"We are nobodies," she repeated. - -"You dare to say that you are a nobody!" exclaimed the young man, -looking at her with ardent eyes. "Ah, Signorina, you do wrong to drink -no wine. In wine there is truth, they say. But you--you drink water, -and then you say these dreadful things that are not--are not true. -Emilio"--he suddenly appealed to Artois--"would not the Signorina -honor any book by writing her name in it? I ask you if--" - -"Marchese, don't be ridiculous!" said Vere, with sudden petulance. -"Don't ask Monsieur Emile absurd questions!" - -"But he thinks as I do. Emilio, is it not so? Is it not an honor for -any book to have the Signorina's name?" - -He spoke emphatically and looked really in earnest. Artois felt as if -he were listening to a silly boy who understood nothing. - -"Let us all write our names," he said. "Here comes the book." - -The Padrone bore it proudly down between the mirrors and the windows. - -But Vere suddenly got up. - -"I won't write my name," she said, sticking out her chin with the -little determined air that was sometimes characteristic of her. "I am -going to see what Gaspare and the sailors are doing." - -And she walked quickly away towards the terrace. - -The Marchesino sprang up in despair. - -"Shall we all go, Madame?" he said. "I have ordered coffee. It will be -brought in a moment to the terrace." - -Hermione glanced at Artois. - -"I will stay here for a little. I want to look at the book," she said. -"We will come in a moment. I don't take coffee." - -"Then--we will be upon the terrace. A rivederci per un momento--pour -un moment, Madame." - -He bowed over Hermione's hand, and hurried away after Vere. - -The Padrone put his book very carefully down between Hermione and -Artois, and left them with a murmured apology that he had to look -after another party of guests which had just come into the restaurant. - -"I thought you would be glad to get rid of those young things for a -minute," said Hermione, in explanation of what she had done. - -Artois did not reply, but turned over the leaves of the book -mechanically. - -"Oh, here is Tolstoy's signature," he said, stopping. - -Hermione drew her chair nearer. - -"What a clear handwriting!" she said. - -"Yes, isn't it? 'Vedi Napoli e poi mori.' " - -"Where are you going to write?" - -He was looking towards the outer room of the restaurant which led onto -the terrace. - -He turned the leaves. - -"I?--oh--here is a space." - -He took up a pen the Padrone had brought, dipped it into the ink. - -"What's the good?" he said, making a movement as if to push the book -away. - -"No; do write." - -"Why should I?" - -"I agree with Vere. Your name will add something worth having to the -book." - -"Oh, well--" - -A rather bitter expression had come into his face. - -"Dead-sea fruit!" he muttered. - -But he bent, wrote something quickly, signed his name, blotted and -shut the book. Hermione had not been able to see the sentence he had -written. She did not ask what it was. - -There was a noise of rather shuffling footsteps on the paved floor of -the room. Three musicians had come in. They were shabbily dressed. One -was very short, stout, and quite blind, with a gaping mouth that had -an odd resemblance to an elephant's mouth when it lifts its trunk and -shows its rolling tongue. He smiled perpetually. The other two were -thin and dreary, middle-aged, and hopeless-looking. They stood not far -from the table and began to play on guitars, putting wrong harmonies -to a well-known Neapolitan tune, whose name Artois could not recall. - -"What a pity it is they never put the right bass!" said Hermione. - -"Yes. One would suppose they would hit it sometimes by mistake. But -they seldom do." - -Except for the thin and uncertain music the restaurant was almost -silent. The people who had just come in were sitting down far away at -the end of the long room. Hermione and Artois were the only other -visitors, now that Vere and the Marchesino were outside on the -terrace. - -"Famous though it is, Frisio's does not draw the crowd," said -Hermione. - -To-night she found it oddly difficult to talk to her friend, although -she had refused the Marchesino's invitation on purpose to do so. - -"Perhaps people were afraid of the storm." - -"Well, but it doesn't come." - -"It is close," he said. "Don't you feel it? I do." - -His voice was heavy with melancholy, and made her feel sad, even -apprehensive. - -"Where are the stars?" he added. - -She followed his example and leaned out of the great window. Not a -star was visible in all the sky. - -"You are right. It is coming. I feel it now. The sea is like lead, and -the sky, too. There is no sense of freedom to-night, no out-of-doors -feeling. And the water is horribly calm." - -As they both leaned out they heard, away to the left at some distance, -the voices of Vere and the Marchesino. - -"I stayed because I thought--I fancied all the chatter was getting a -little on your nerves, Emile," Hermione said now. "They are so -absurdly young, both of them. Wasn't it so?" - -"Am I so old that youth should get upon my nerves?" he returned, with -a creeping irritation, which, however, he tried to keep out of his -voice. - -"No. But of course we can hardly enjoy nonsense that might amuse them -immensely. Vere is such a baby, and your friend is a regular boy, in -spite of his self-assurance." - -"Women often fancy men to be young in ways in which they are not -young," said Artois. "Panacci is very much of a man, I can assure -you." - -"Panacci! I never heard you call him that before." - -Her eager brown eyes went to his face curiously for a moment. Artois -saw that, and said, rather hastily: - -"It's true that nearly every one calls him Doro." - -Once more they heard the chattering voices, and then a sound of -laughter in the darkness. It made Hermione smile, but Artois moved -uneasily. Just then there came to them from the sea, like a blow, a -sudden puff of wind. It hit their faces. - -"Do you want to avoid the storm?" Artois said. - -"Yes. Do you think--" - -"I am sure you can only avoid it by going at once. Look!" - -He pointed towards the sea. The blackness before them was cut at some -distance off by a long, level line of white. - -"What's that?" asked Hermione, peering out. - -"Foam." - -"Foam! But surely it can't be!" - -The wind struck them again. It was like a hot, almost like a sweating -hand, coarse and violent, and repugnant. - -Hermione drew in. - -"There is something disgusting in nature to-night," she said-- -"something that seems almost unnatural." - -The blind man began to sing behind them. His voice was soft and -throaty. The phrasing was sickly. Some notes trembled. As he sang he -threw back his head, stared with his sightless eyes at the ceiling, -and showed his tongue. The whole of his fat body swayed. His face -became scarlet. The two hopeless, middle-aged men on either side of -him stared into vacancy as, with dirty hands on which the veins stood -out, they played wrong basses to the melody on their guitars. - -Suddenly Hermione was seized with a sensation of fear. - -"Let us go. We had better go. Ah!" - -She cried out. The wind, returning, had caught the white table-cloth. -It flew up towards her, then sank down. - -"What a fool I am!" she said. "I thought--I didn't know--" - -She felt that really it was something in Artois which had upset her -nerves, but she did not say so. In that moment, when she was startled, -she had instinctively put out her hand towards him. But, as -instinctively, she drew it back without touching him. - -"Oh, here is Gaspare!" she said. - -An immense, a really ridiculous sense of relief came to her as she saw -Gaspare's sturdy legs marching decisively towards them, his great eyes -examining the row of mirrors, the tables, the musicians, then settling -comfortably upon his Padrona. Over his arms he carried the cloaks, and -his hands grasped the two umbrellas. At that moment, if she had -translated her impulse into an action, Hermione would have given -Gaspare a good hug--just for being himself; for being always the same: -honest, watchful, perfectly fearless, perfectly natural, and perfectly -determined to take care of his Padrona and his Padroncina. - -Afterwards she remembered that she had found in his presence relief -from something that had distressed her in her friend. - -"Signora, the storm is coming. Look at the sea!" said Gaspare. He -pointed to the white line which was advancing in the blackness. - -"I told the Signorina, and that Signore--" - -A fierce flash of lightning zigzagged across the window-space, and -suddenly the sound of the wind was loud upon the sea, and mingled with -the growing murmur of waves. - -"Ecco!" said Gaspare. "Signora, you ought to start at once. But the -Signor Marchese--" - -The thunder followed. Hermione had been waiting for it, and felt -almost relieved when it came crashing above the Scoglio di Frisio. - -"The Signor Marchese, Gaspare?" she asked, putting on the cloak he was -holding for her. - -"He only laughs, Signora," said Gaspare, rather contemptuously. "The -Signor Marchese thinks only of his pleasure." - -"Well, he must think of yours now," said Artois, decisively, to -Hermione. "You will have a rough voyage to the island, even as it is." - -They were walking towards the entrance. Hermione had noticed the -pronoun, and said quietly: - -"You will take a carriage to the hotel, or a tram?" - -"The tram, I think. It passes the door here." - -He glanced at her and added: - -"I noticed that the cabin of the launch is very small, and as Gaspare -is with you--" - -"Oh, of course!" she said quickly. "It would be ridiculous for you to -come all the way back with us. Besides, there is not room in the -cabin." - -She did not know why, but she felt guilty for a moment. Yet she had -done nothing. - -"There is the rain," said Artois. - -They were just entering the outer room from which the terrace opened. - -"Vere!" called Hermione. - -As she called the lightning flashed again, and showed her Vere and the -Marchesino running in from the darkness. Vere was laughing, and looked -more joyous than before. - -"Such a storm, Madre! The sea is a mass of foam. It's glorious! Hark -at the fishermen!" - -From the blackness below rose hoarse shouts and prolonged calls--some -near, some far. Faintly with them mingled the quavering and throaty -voice of the blind man, now raised in "Santa Lucia." - -"What are we going to do, Monsieur Emile?" - -"We must get home at once before it gets worse," said Hermione. -"Marchese, I am so sorry, but I am afraid we must ask for the launch." - -"But, madame, it is only a squall. By midnight it will be all over. I -promise you. I am a Neapolitan." - -"Ah, but you promised that there would be no storm at all." - -"Sa-a-nta-a Lu-u-ci-i-a! Santa Lu-cia!" - -The blind man sounded like one in agony. The thunder crashed again -just above him, as if it desired to beat down his sickly voice. - -Artois felt a sharp stab of neuralgia over his eyes. - -Behind, in the restaurant, the waiters were running over the pavement -to shut the great windows. The rush of the rain made a noise like -quantities of silk rustling. - -The Marchesino laughed, quite unabashed. His cheeks were slightly -flushed and his eyes shone. - -"Could I tell the truth, Signora? You might have refused to come. But -now I speak the solemn truth. By midnight--" - -"I'm afraid we really can't stay so late as that." - -"But there is a piano. I will play valses. I will sing." He looked -ardently at Vere, who was eagerly watching the sea from the window. - -"And we will dance, the Signorina and I." - -Artois made a brusque movement towards the terrace, muttering -something about the launch. A glare of lightning lit up the shore -immediately below the terrace, showing him the launch buffeted by the -waves that were now breaking over the sandy beach. There came a -summoning call from the sailors. - -"If you do stay," Artois said to the Marchesino, turning back to them, -"you must send the launch round to Mergellina. I don't believe it can -stop here." - -"Well, but there are rocks, Caro Emilio. It is protected!" - -"Not enough." - -"Signora," said Gaspare, "we had better go. It will only get worse. -The sea is not too bad yet." - -"Come along!" Hermione cried, with decision. "Come, Vere! I'm very -sorry, Marchese, but we must really get back at once. Good-night, -Emile! Gaspare give me your arm." - -And she set off at once, clinging to Gaspare, who held an open -umbrella over her. - -"Good-night, Vere!" said Artois. - -The girl was looking at him with surprised eyes. - -"You are going--" - -"I shall take the tram." - -"Oh--of course. That is your quickest way." - -"Signorina--the umbrella!" - -The Marchesino was offering his arm to conduct Vere to the launch. He -cast a challenging look of triumph at Artois. - -"I would come in the launch," Artois said hastily. "But-- Good-night!" - -He turned away. - -"A rivederci, Emilio!" called the Marchesino. - -"--derci!" - -The last syllables only came back to them through the wind and the -rain. - -"Take my arm, Signorina." - -"Grazie, it is all right like this." - -"Ma--" - -"I am quite covered, really, thank you." - -She hurried on, smiling, but not taking his arm. She knew how to be -obstinate. - -"Ma Signorina--mais Mademoiselle--" - -"Gaspare! Is Madre all safe in the launch?" - -Vere glided from under the Marchesino's umbrella and sought the shade -of Gaspare's. Behind, the Marchesino was murmuring to himself -Neapolitan street expressions. - -"Si, Signorina." - -Gaspare's face had suddenly lighted up. His Padroncina's little hand -was holding tightly to his strong arm. - -"Take care, Signorina. That is water!" - -"Oh, I was nearly in. I thought--" - -He almost lifted her into the launch, which was rising and falling on -the waves. - -"Madre! What a night!" - -Vere sank down on the narrow seat of the little cabin. The Marchesino -jumped aboard. The machine in the stern throbbed. They rushed forward -into the blackness of the impenetrable night, the white of the leaping -foam, the hissing of the rain, the roaring of the wind. In a blurred -and hasty vision the lights of Frisio's ran before them, fell back -into the storm like things defeated. Hermione fancied she discerned -for a second the blind man's scarlet face and open mouth, the Padrone -at a window waving a frantic adieu, having only just become aware of -their departure. But if it were so they were gone before she knew-- -gone into mystery, with Emile and the world. - -The Marchesino inserted himself reproachfully into the cabin. He had -turned up the collar of his "smoking," and drawn the silk lapels -forward over his soft shirt-front. His white gloves were saturated. He -came to sit down by Vere. - -"Madame!" he said reproachfully, "we should have waited. The sea is -too rough. Really, it is dangerous. And the Signorina and I--we could -have danced together." - -Hermione could not help laughing, though she did not feel gay. - -"I should not have danced," said Vere. "I could not. I should have had -to watch the storm." - -She was peering out of the cabin window at the wild foam that leaped -up round the little craft and disappeared in the darkness. There was -no sensation of fear in her heart, only a passion of interest and an -odd feeling of triumph. - -To dance with the Marchesino at the Scoglio di Frisio would have been -banal in comparison with this glorious progress through the night in -the teeth of opposing elements. She envied Gaspare, who was outside -with the sailors, and whose form she could dimly see, a blur against -the blackness. She longed to take off her smart little hat and her -French frock, and be outside too, in the wind and the rain. - -"It is ridiculous to be dressed like this!" she said, quickly, taking -off the glove she had put on her left hand. "You poor Marchese!" - -She looked at his damp "smoking," his soaking gloves and deplorable -expression, and could not repress a little rush of laughter. - -"Do forgive me! Madre, I know I'm behaving shamefully, but we are all -so hopelessly inappropriate. Your diamond broach, Madre! And your hat -is all on one side. Gaspare must have knocked it with the umbrella. I -am sure we all look like hens in a shower!" - -She leaned back against the swaying side of the cabin and laughed till -the tears were in her eyes. The sudden coming of the storm had -increased the excitement that had been already within her, created by -the incidents of the day. - -"Vere!" said her mother, but smiling through the protest. - -The Marchesino showed his big white teeth. Everything that Vere did -seemed to develop his admiration for her. He was delighted with this -mood, and forgot his disappointment. But there was a glint of wonder -in his eyes, and now he said: - -"But the Signorina is not afraid! She does not cry out! She does not -call upon the Madonna and the Saints! My mother, my sisters, if they -were here--" - -The prow of the launch struck a wave which burst over the bows, -scattering spray to the roof of the cabin. - -"But I like it, I love it!" said Vere. "Don't you?--don't you, Madre?" - -Before Hermione could reply the Marchesino exclaimed: - -"Signorina, in the breast of an angel you have the heart of a lion! -The sea will never harm you. How could it? It will treat you as it -treats the Saint of your pool, San Francesco. You know what the -sailors and the fishermen say? In the wildest storms, when the sea -crashes upon the rocks, never, never does it touch San Francesco. -Never does it put out the lamp that burns at San Francesco's feet." - -"Yes, I have heard them say that," Vere said. - -Suddenly her face had become serious. The romance in the belief of the -seamen had got hold of her, had touched her. The compliment to herself -she ignored. Indeed, she had already forgotten it. - -"Only the other night--" she began. - -But she stopped suddenly. - -"You know," she said, changing to something else, "that when the -fishermen pass under San Francesco's pedestal they bend down, and lift -a little water from the sea, and sprinkle it into the boat, and make -the sign of the cross. They call it 'acqua benedetta.' I love to see -them do that." - -Another big wave struck the launch and made it shiver. The Marchesino -crossed himself, but quite mechanically. He was intent on Vere. - -"I wonder," the girl said, "whether to-night San Francesco will not be -beaten by the waves, whether his light will be burning when we reach -the island." - -She paused, then she added, in a lower voice: - -"I do hope it will--don't you, Madre?" - -"Yes, Vere," said her mother. - -Something in her mother's voice made the girl look up at her swiftly, -then put a hand into hers, a hand that was all sympathy. She felt that -just then her mother's imagination was almost, or quite, one with -hers. The lights of Naples were gone, swallowed by the blackness of -the storm. And the tiny light at the feet of the Saint, of San -Francesco, who protected the men of the sea, and the boys--Ruffo, too! ---would it greet them, star of the sea to their pool, star of the sea -to their island, their Casa del Mare, when they had battled through -the storm to San Francesco's feet? - -"I do hope it will." - -Why did Hermione's heart echo Vere's words with such a strenuous and -sudden passion, such a deep desire? She scarcely knew then. But she -knew that she wanted a light to be shining for her when she neared -home--longed for it, needed it specially that night. If San -Francesco's lamp were burning quietly amid the fury of the sea in such -a blackness as this about them--well, it would seem like an omen. She -would take it as an omen of happiness. - -And if it were not burning? - -She, too, longed to be outside with Gaspare and the sailors, staring -into the darkness with eyes keen as those of a seaman, looking for the -light. Since Vere's last words and her reply they had sat in silence. -Even the Marchesino's vivacity was suddenly abated, either by the -increasing violence of the storm or by the change in Vere. It would -have been difficult to say by which. The lightning flashed. The -thunder at moments seemed to split the sky asunder as a charge of -gunpowder splits asunder a rock. The head wind rushed by, yet had -never passed them, but was forever coming furiously to meet them. On -the roof of the little cabin the rain made a noise that was no longer -like the rustle of silk, but was like the crackle of musketry. - -There was something oppressive, something even almost terrible, in -being closely confined, shut in by low roof and narrow walls from such -sweeping turbulence, such a clamor of wind and water and the sky. - -Hermione looked at her diamond brooch, then at her cloak. - -Slowly she lifted her hand and began to button it. - -Vere moved and began to button up hers. Hermione glanced at her, and -saw a watchful, shining, half-humorous, half-passionate look in her -eyes that could not be mistaken. - -She dropped her hands. - -"No, Vere!" - -"Yes, Madre! Yes, yes, yes!" - -The Marchesino stared. - -"No, I did not--" - -"You did! You did, Madre! It's no use! I understood directly." - -She began quickly to take off her hat. - -"Marchese, we are going out." - -"Vere, this is absurd." - -"We are going outside, Marchese. Madre wants air." - -The Marchesino, accustomed only to the habits and customs of -Neapolitan women, looked frankly as if he thought Hermione mad. - -"Poor Madre must have a breath of air." - -"I will open the window, Signora!" - -"And the rain all over her, and the thunder close above her, and the -sea in her face, the sea--the sea!" - -She clapped her hands. - -"Gaspare! Gaspare!" - -She put her face to the glass. Gaspare, who was standing up in the -stern, with his hands holding fast to the rail that edged the cabin -roof, bent down till his brown face was on a level with hers, and his -big eyes were staring inquiringly into her eyes. - -"We are coming out." - -On the other side of the glass Gaspare made violently negative -gestures. One word only came to those inside the cabin through the -uproar of the elements. - -"Impossible!" - -"Signorina," said the Marchesino, "you cannot mean it. But you will be -washed off. And the water--you will be drowned. It cannot be." - -"Marchese, look at Madre! If she stays inside another minute she will -be ill. She is stifling! Quickly! Quickly!" - -The Marchesino, whose sense of humor was not of a kind to comprehend -this freak of Vere's, was for once really taken aback. There were two -sliding doors to the cabin, one opening into the bows of the launch, -the other into the stern. He got up, looking very grave and rather -confused, and opened the former. The wind rushed in, carrying with it -spray from the sea. At the same moment there was a loud tapping on the -glass behind them. Vere looked round. Gaspare was crouching down with -his face against the pane. She put her ear to the glass by his mouth. - -"Signorina, you must not go into the bows," he called. "If you will -come out, come here, and I will take care of you." - -He knew Vere's love of the sea and understood her desire. - -"Go, Vere," said Hermione. - -The Marchesino shut the door and stood by it, bending and looking -doubtful. - -"I will stay here with the Marchese. I am really too old to face such -a tempest, and the Marchese has no coat. He simply can't go." - -"But, Signora, it does not matter! I am ready." - -"Impossible. Your clothes would be ruined. Go along, Vere! Turn up -your collar." - -She spoke almost as if to a boy, and like a gay boy Vere obeyed her -and slipped out to Gaspare. - -"You really won't come, Madre?" - -"No. But--tell me if you see the light." - -The girl nodded, and the door moved into its place, shutting out the -wind. - -Then the Marchesino sat down and looked at his damp patent-leather -boots. - -He really could not comprehend these English ladies. That Vere was -greatly attracted by him he thoroughly believed. How could it be -otherwise? Her liveliness he considered direct encouragement. And then -she had gone out to the terrace after dinner, leaving her mother. That -was to make him follow her, of course. She wanted to be alone with -him. In a Neapolitan girl such conduct would have been a declaration. -A Neapolitan mother would not have allowed them to sit together on the -terrace without a chaperon. But the English mother had deliberately -remained within and had kept Caro Emilio with her. What could such -conduct mean, if not that the Signorina was in love with him, the -Marchesino, and that the Signorina's mamma was perfectly willing for -him to make love to her child? - -And yet--and yet? - -There was something in Vere that puzzled him, that had kept him -strangely discreet upon the terrace, that made him silent and -thoughtful now. Had she been a typical English girl he might have -discerned something of the truth of her. But Vere was lively, daring, -passionate, and not without some traces of half-humorous and wholly -innocent coquetry. She was not at all what the Neapolitan calls "a -lump of snow to cool the wine." In her innocence there was fire. That -was what confused the Marchesino. - -He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone out, and his round -eyes became almost pathetic for a moment. Then it occurred to him that -perhaps this exit was a second ruse, like Vere's departure to the -terrace, and he made a movement as if to go out and brave the storm. -But Hermione stopped him decisively. - -"No, Marchese," she said, "really I cannot let you expose yourself to -the rain and the sea in that airy costume. I might be your mother." - -"Signora, but you--" - -"No, compliments apart, I really might be, and you must let me use a -mother's authority. Till we reach the island stay here and make the -best of me." - -Hermione had touched the right note. Metaphorically, the Marchesino -cast himself at her feet. With a gallant assumption of undivided -adoration he burst into conversation, and, though his eyes often -wandered to the blurred glass, against which pressed and swayed a -blackness that told of those outside, his sense of his duty as a host -gradually prevailed, and he and Hermione were soon talking quite -cheerfully together. - -Vere had forgotten him as utterly as she had forgotten Naples, -swallowed up by the night. Just then only the sea, the night, Gaspare, -and the two sailors who were managing the launch were real to her-- -besides herself. For a moment even her mother had ceased to exist in -her consciousness. As the sea swept the deck of the little craft it -swept her mind clear to make more room for itself. - -She stood by Gaspare, touching him, and clinging on, as he did, to the -rail. Impenetrably black was the night. Only here and there, at -distances she could not begin to judge of, shone vaguely lights that -seemed to dance and fade and reappear like marsh lights in a world of -mist. Were they on sea or land? She could not tell and did not ask. -The sailors doubtless knew, but she respected them and their duty too -much to speak to them, though she had given them a smile as she came -out to join them, and had received two admiring salutes in reply. -Gaspare, too, had smiled at her with a pleasure which swiftly -conquered the faint reproach in his eloquent eyes. He liked his -Padroncina's courage, liked the sailors of the Signor Marchese to see -it. He was soaked to the skin, but he, too, was enjoying the -adventure, a rare one on this summer sea, which had slept through so -many shining days and starry nights like a "bambino in dolce letargo." - -To-night it was awake, and woke up others, Vere's nature and his. - -"Where is the island, Gaspare?" cried Vere through the wind to him. - -"Chi lo sa, Signorina. - -He waved one hand to the blackness before them. - -"It must be there." - -She strained her eyes, then looked away towards where the land must -be. At a long distance across the leaping foam she saw one light. As -the boat rose and sank on the crests and into the hollows of the waves -the light shone and faded, shone and faded. She guessed it to be a -light at the Antico Giuseppone. Despite the head wind and the waves -that met them the launch travelled bravely, and soon the light was -gone. She told herself that it must have been at the Giuseppone, and -that now they had got beyond the point, and were opposite to the -harbor of the Villa Rosebery. But no lights greeted them from the -White Palazzo in the wood, or from the smaller white house low down -beside the sea. And again she looked straight forward. - -Now she was intent on San Francesco. She was thinking of him, of the -Pool, of the island. And she thrilled with joy at the thought of the -wonderful wildness of her home. As they drew on towards it the waves -were bigger, the wind was stronger. Even on calm nights there was -always a breeze when one had passed the Giuseppone going towards -Ischia, and beyond the island there was sometimes quite a lively sea. -What would it be to-night? Her heart cried out for a crescendo. Within -her, at that moment, was a desire like the motorist's for speed. More! -more! More wind! More sea! More uproar from the elements! - -And San Francesco all alone in this terrific blackness! Had he not -been dashed from his pedestal by the waves? Was the light at his feet -still burning? - -"Il Santo!" she said to Gaspare. - -He bent his head till it was close to her lips. - -"Il Santo! What has become of him, Gaspare?" - -"He will be there, Signorina." - -So Gaspare, too, held to the belief of the seamen of the Bay. He had -confidence in the obedience of the sea, this sea that roared around -them like a tyrant. Suddenly she had no doubt. It would be so. The -saint would be untouched. The light would still be burning. She looked -for it. And now she remembered her mother. She must tell her mother -directly she saw it. But all was blackness still. - -And the launch seemed weary, like a live thing whose strength is -ebbing, who strains and pants and struggles gallantly, not losing -heart but losing physical force. Surely it was going slower. She laid -one hand upon the cabin roof as if in encouragement. Her heart was -with the launch, as the seaman's is with his boat when it resists, -surely for his sake consciously, the assault of the great sea. - -"Coraggio!" - -She was murmuring the word. Gaspare looked at her. And the word was in -his eyes as it should be in all eyes that look at youth. And the -launch strove on. - -"Coraggio! Coraggio!" - -The spray was in her face. Her hair was wet with the rain. Her French -frock--that was probably ruined! But she knew that she had never felt -more happy. And now--it was like a miracle! Suddenly out of the -darkness a second darkness shaped itself, a darkness that she knew-- -the island. And almost simultaneously there shone out a little steady -light. - -"Ecco il Santo!" - -"Ecco! Ecco!" - -Vere called out: "Madre! Madre!" - -She bent down. - -"Madre! The light is burning." - -The sailors, too, bent down, right down to the water. They caught at -it with their hands, Gaspare, too. Vere understood, and, kneeling on -the gunwale, firmly in Gaspare's grasp, she joined in their action. - -She sprinkled the boat with the acqua benedetta and made the sign of -the cross. - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -When, the next day, Artois sat down at his table to work he found it -impossible to concentrate his mind. The irritation of the previous -evening had passed away. He attributed it to the physical effect made -upon him by the disturbed atmosphere. Now the sun shone, the sky was -clear, the sea calm. He had just come out of an ice-cold bath, had -taken his coffee, and smoked one cigarette. A quiet morning lay before -him. Quiet? - -He got up and went to the window. - -On the wooden roof of the bath establishment opposite rows of towels, -hung out to dry, were moving listlessly to and fro in the soft breeze. -Capri was almost hidden by haze in the distance. In the sea, just -below him, several heads of swimmers moved. One boy was "making -death." He floated on his back with his eyes closed and his arms -extended. His body, giving itself without resistance to every movement -of the water, looked corpselike and ghostly. - -A companion shouted to him. He threw up his arms suddenly and shouted -a reply in the broadest Neapolitan, then began to swim vigorously -towards the slimy rocks at the base of Castel dell' Ovo. Upon the -wooden terrace of the baths among green plants in pots stood three -women, probably friends of the proprietor. For though it was already -hot, the regular bathing season of Naples had not yet begun and the -baths were not completed. Only in July, after the festa of the Madonna -del Carmine, do the Neapolitans give themselves heart and soul to the -sea. Artois knew this, and wondered idly what the women were doing on -the terrace. One had a dog. It sat in the sun and began to cough. A -long wagon on two wheels went by, drawn by two mules and a thin horse -harnessed abreast. It was full of white stone. The driver had bought -some green stuff and flung it down upon the white. He wore a -handkerchief on his head. His chest was bare. As he passed beneath the -window he sang a loud song that sounded Eastern, such a song as the -Spanish wagoners sing in Algeria, as they set out by night on their -long journeys towards the desert. Upon a tiny platform of wood, -fastened to slanting stakes which met together beneath it in a tripod, -a stout man in shirt and trousers, with black whiskers, was sitting on -a chair fishing with a rod and line. A boy sat beside him dangling his -legs over the water. At a little distance a large fishing-smack, with -sails set to catch the breeze farther out in the Bay, was being -laboriously rowed towards the open sea by half-naked men, who shouted -as they toiled at the immense oars. - -Artois wondered where they were going. Their skins were a rich orange -color. From a distance in the sunlight they looked like men of gold. -Their cries and their fierce movements suggested some fantastic quest -to lands of mysterious tumult. - -Artois wished that Vere could see them. - -What were the inhabitants of the island doing? - -To-day his mind was beyond his governance, and roamed like a vagrant -on a long, white road. Everything that he saw below him in the calm -radiance of the morning pushed it from thought to thought. Yet none of -these thoughts were valuable. None seemed fully formed. They resembled -henids, things seen so far away that one cannot tell what they are, -but is only aware that they exist and can attract attention. - -He came out upon his balcony. As he did so he looked down into the -road, and saw a hired carriage drive up, with Hermione in it. - -She glanced up and saw him. - -"May I come in for a minute?" - -He nodded, smiling, and went out to meet her, glad of this -interruption. - -They met at the door of the lift. As Hermione stepped out she cast a -rather anxious glance at her friend, a glance that seemed to say that -she was not quite certain of her welcome. Artois' eyes reassured her. - -"I feel guilty," she said. - -"Why?" - -"Coming at such an hour. Are you working?" - -"No. I don't know why, but I am incapable of work. I feel both lazy -and restless, an unfruitful combination. Perhaps something in me -secretly knew that you were coming." - -"Then it is my fault." - -They came into his sitting-room. It had four windows, two facing the -sea, two looking on the road, and the terraces and garden of the Hotel -Hassler. The room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It -contained a light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over it, red- -and-gold chairs, mirrors, a white marble mantelpiece, a gray-and-pink -sofa with a pink cushion. Only the large writing-table, covered with -manuscripts, letters, and photographs in frames, said something -individual to the visitor. Hermione and Vere were among the -photographs. - -Hermione sat down on the sofa. - -"I have come to consult you about something, Emile." - -"What is it?" - -"I really meant to ask you last night, but somehow I couldn't" - -"Why?" - -"I don't know. We--I--there seemed to be a sort of barrier between us ---didn't there?" - -"I was in a bad humor. I was tired after the journey, and perhaps the -weather upset me." - -"It's all right--one can't be always-- Well, this is what I wanted to -say. I alluded to it yesterday when I told you about my visit to -Naples with Madame Alliani. Do you remember?" - -"You hinted you had seen, or heard of, some tragedy." - -"Yes. I believe it is a quite ordinary one in Naples. We went to visit -a consumptive woman in one of those narrow streets going uphill to the -left of the Via Roma, and while there by chance I heard of it. In the -same house as the sick woman there is a girl. Not many days ago she -was beautiful!" - -"Yes? What has happened to her?" - -"I'll tell you. Her name is Peppina. She is only nineteen, but she has -been one of those who are not given a chance. She was left an orphan -very young and went to live with an aunt. This aunt is a horrible old -woman. I believe--they say she goes to the Galleria--" - -Hermione paused. - -"I understand," said Artois. - -"She is greedy, wicked, merciless. We had the story from the woman we -were visiting, a neighbor. This aunt forced Peppina into sin. Her -beauty, which must have been extraordinary, naturally attracted -attention and turned people's heads. It seems to have driven one man -nearly mad. He is a fisherman, not young, and a married man. It seems -that he is notoriously violent and jealous, and thoroughly -unscrupulous. He is a member of the Camorra, too. He pestered Peppina -with his attentions, coming day after day from Mergellina, where he -lives with his wife. One night he entered the house and made a scene. -Peppina refused finally to receive his advances, and told him she -hated him before all the neighbors. He took out a razor and--" - -Hermione stopped. - -"I understand," said Artois. "He disfigured her." - -"Dreadfully." - -"It is often done here. Sometimes a youth does it simply to show that -a girl is his property. But what is it you wish to do for Peppina? I -see you have a plan in your head." - -"I want to have her on the island." - -"In what capacity?" - -"As a servant. She can work. She is not a bad girl. She has only-- -well, Emile, the aunt only succeeded in forcing one lover on her. That -is the truth. He was rich and bribed the aunt. But of course the -neighbors all know, and--the population here has its virtues, but it -is not exactly a delicate population." - -"Per Bacco!" - -"And now that the poor girl is disfigured the aunt is going to turn -her out-of-doors. She says Peppina must go and earn money for herself. -Of course nobody will take her. I want to. I have seen her, talked to -her. She would be so thankful. She is in despair. Think of it! -Nineteen, and all her beauty gone! Isn't it devilish?" - -"And the man?" - -"Oh, they say he'll get scarcely anything, if anything. Two or three -months, perhaps. He is 'protected.' It makes my blood boil." - -Artois was silent, waiting for her to say more, to ask questions. - -"The only thing is--Vere, Emile," she said. - -"Vere?" - -"Yes. You know how friendly she is with the servants. I like her to -be. But of course till now they have been all right--so far as I -know." - -"You do well to add that proviso." - -"Peppina would not wait on us. She would be in the kitchen. Am I -justified in taking her? Of course I could help her with money. If I -had not seen her, talked to her, that is what I should have done, no -doubt. But she wants--she wants everything, peace, a decent home, pure -air. I feel she wants the island." - -"And the other servants?" - -"They need only know she was attacked. They need not know her past -history. But all that does not matter. It is only the question of Vere -that troubles me." - -"You mean that you are not decided whether you ought to bring into the -house with Vere a girl who is not as Vere is?" - -"Yes." - -"And you want me to advise you?" - -"Yes." - -"I can't do that, Hermione." - -She looked at him almost as if she were startled. - -"Why not? I always rely--" - -"No, no. This is not a man's business, my business." - -He spoke with an odd brusqueness, and there were traces of agitation -in his face. Hermione did not at all understand what feeling was -prompting him, but again, as on the previous evening, she felt as if -there were a barrier between them--very slight, perhaps, very shadowy, -but definite nevertheless. There was no longer complete frankness in -their relations. At moments her friend seemed to be subtly dominated -by some secret irritation, or anxiety, which she did not comprehend. -She had been aware of it yesterday. She was aware of it now. After his -last exclamation she said nothing. - -"You are going to this girl now?" he asked. - -"I mean to. Yes, I shall go." - -She sat still for a minute, looking down at the pink-and-yellow -carpet. - -"And what will you do?" - -She looked up at him. - -"I think I shall take her to the island. I am almost sure I shall. -Emile, I don't believe in cowardice, and I sometimes think I am -inclined to be a coward about Vere. She is growing up. She will be -seventeen this year, very soon. There are girls who marry at sixteen, -even English girls." - -"That is true." - -She could gather nothing from his tone; and now his face was perfectly -calm. - -"My instinct is to keep Vere just as she is, to preserve the -loveliness of childhood in her as long as possible, to keep away from -her all knowledge of sin, sorrow, the things that distract and torture -the world. But I mustn't be selfish about Vere. I mustn't keep her -wrapped in cotton wool. That is unwholesome. And, after all, Vere must -have her life apart from me. Last night I realized that strongly." - -"Last night?" - -"Yes, from the way in which she treated the Marchese, and later from -something else. Last night Vere showed two sides of a woman's nature-- -the capacity to hold her own, what is vulgarly called 'to keep her -distance,' and the capacity to be motherly." - -"Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked Artois, not without -irony. - -"No--to Ruffo." - -"That boy? But where was he last night?" - -"When we got back to the island, and the launch had gone off, Vere and -I stood for a minute at the foot of the steps to listen to the roaring -of the sea. Vere loves the sea." - -"I know that." - -As he spoke he thought of something that Hermione did not know. - -"The pool was protected, and under the lee of the island it was -comparatively calm. But the rain was falling in torrents. There was -one fishing-boat in the pool, close to where we were, and as we were -standing and listening, Vere said, suddenly, 'Madre, that's Ruffo's -boat!' I asked her how she knew--because he has changed into another -boat lately--she had told me that. 'I saw his head,' she answered. -'He's there and he's not asleep. Poor boy, in all this rain!' Ruffo -has been ill with fever, as I told you, and when Vere said that I -remembered it at once." - -"Had you told Vere yet?" interposed Artois. - -"No. But I did then. Emile, she showed an agitation that--well, it was -almost strange, I think. She begged me to make him come into the house -and spend the night there, safe from the wind and the rain." - -"And you did, of course?" - -"Yes. He was looking very pale and shaky. The men let him come. They -were nice and sympathetic. I think they are fond of the boy." - -"Ruffo seems to know how to attract people to him." - -"Yes." - -"And so Vere played the mother to Ruffo?" - -"Yes. I never saw that side of her before. She was a woman then. -Eventually Ruffo slept with Gaspare." - -"And how did Gaspare accept the situation?" - -"Better than I should have expected. I think he likes Ruffo -personally, though he is inclined to be suspicious and jealous of any -strangers who come into our lives. But I haven't had time to talk to -him this morning." - -"Is Ruffo still in the house?" - -"Oh no. He went off in the boat. They came for him about eight." - -"Ah!" - -Artois went to the window and looked out. But now he saw nothing, -although the three women were still talking and gesticulating on the -terrace of the bath-house, more fishing-boats were being towed or -rowed out into the Bay, carts were passing by, and people were -strolling in the sun. - -"You say that Vere showed agitation last night?" he said, turning -round after a moment. - -"About Ruffo's illness? It really almost amounted to that. But Vere -was certainly excited. Didn't you notice it?" - -"I think she was." - -"Emile," Hermione said, after an instant of hesitation, "you remember -my saying to you the other day that Vere was not a stranger to me?" - -"Yes, quite well." - -"You said nothing--I don't think you agreed. Well, since that day-- -only since then--I have sometimes felt that there is much in Vere that -I do not understand, much that is hidden from me. Has she changed -lately?" - -"She is at an age when development seems sudden, and is often -striking, even startling." - -"I don't know why, but--but I dread something," Hermione said. "I feel -as if--no, I don't know what I feel. But if Vere should ever drift -away from me I don't know how I could bear it. A boy--one expects him -to go out into the world. But a girl! I want to keep Vere. I must keep -Vere. If anything else were to be taken from me I don't think I could -bear it." - -"Vere loves you. Be sure of that." - -"Yes." - -Hermione got up. - -"Well, you won't give me your advice?" - -"No, Hermione." - -He looked at her steadily. - -"You must treat Vere as you think best, order her life as you think -right. In some things you do wisely to consult me. But in this you -must rely on yourself. Let your heart teach you. Do not ask questions -of my head." - -"Your head!" she exclaimed. - -There was a trace of disappointment, even of surprise, in her voice. -She looked at him as if she were going to say more, but again she was -disconcerted by something in his look, his attitude. - -"Well, good-bye, Emile." - -"I will come with you to the lift." - -He went with her and touched the electric bell. As they waited for a -moment he added: - -"I should like to have an evening quietly on the island." - -"Come to-night, or whenever you like. Don't fix a time. Come when the -inclination whispers--'I want to be with friends.' " - -He pressed her hand. - -"Shall I see Peppina?" - -"Chi lo sa?" - -"And Ruffo?" - -She laughed. - -"The Marchesino, too, perhaps." - -"No," said Artois, emphatically. "Disfigured girls and fisher-boys--as -many as you like, but not the alta aristocrazia Napoletana." - -"But I thought--" - -"I like Doro, but--I like him in his place." - -"And his place?" - -"Is not the island--when I wish to be quiet there." - -The lift descended. Artois went out once more onto the balcony, and -watched her get into the carriage and drive away towards Naples. She -did not look up again. - -"She has gone to fetch that girl Peppina," Artois said to himself, -"and I might have prevented it." - -He knew very well the reason why he had not interfered. He had not -interfered because he had wished too much to interfere. The desire had -been strong enough to startle him, to warn him. - -An islet! That suggests isolation. Like Hermione, he wished to isolate -Vere, to preserve her as she was in character. He did not know when -the wish had first been consciously in his mind, but he knew that -since he had been consulted by Vere, since she had broken through her -reserve and submitted to him her poems, unveiling for him alone what -was really to her a holy of holies, the wish had enormously increased. -He told himself that Vere was unique, and that he longed to keep her -unique, so that the talent he discerned in her might remain -unaffected. How great her talent was he did not know. He would not -know, perhaps, for a very long time. But it was definite, it was -intimate. It was Vere's talent, no one else's. - -He had made up his mind very soon about Hermione's incapacity to -produce work of value. Although Vere was such a child, so -inexperienced, so innocent, so cloistered, he knew at once that he -dared not dash her hopes. It was possible that she might eventually -become what her mother certainly could never be. - -But she must not be interfered with. Her connection with the sea must -not be severed. And people were coming into her life--Ruffo, the -Marchesino, and now this wounded girl Peppina. - -Artois felt uneasy. He wished Hermione were less generous-hearted, -less impulsive. She looked on him as a guide, a check. He knew that. -But this time he would not exercise his prerogative. Ruffo he did not -mind--at least he thought he did not. The boy was a sea creature. He -might even be an inspiring force to Vere. Something Artois had read -had taught him that. And Ruffo interested him, attracted him too. - -But he hated Vere's acquaintance with the Marchesino. He knew that the -Marchesino would make love to her. And the knowledge was odious to -him. Let Vere be loved by the sea, but by no man as yet. - -And this girl, Peppina? - -He thought of the horrors of Naples, of the things that happen "behind -the shutter," of the lives led by some men and women, some boys and -girls of the great city beneath the watching volcano. He thought of -evenings he had spent in the Galleria. He saw before him an old woman -about whom he had often wondered. Always at night, and often in the -afternoon, she walked in the Galleria. She was invariably alone. The -first time he had seen her he had noticed her because she had a -slightly humped back. Her hair was snow white, and was drawn away from -her long, pale face and carefully arranged under a modest bonnet. She -carried a small umbrella and a tiny bag. Glancing at her casually, he -had supposed her to be a respectable widow of the borghese class. But -then he had seen her again and again, and by degrees he had come to -believe that she was something very different. And then one night in -late spring he had seen her in a new light dress with white thread -gloves. And she had noticed him watching her, and had cast upon him a -look that was unmistakable, a look from the world "behind the -shutter"; and he had understood. Then she had followed him -persistently. When he sat before the "Gran caffe" sipping his coffee -and listening to the orchestra of women that plays on the platform -outside the caffe, she had passed and repassed, always casting upon -him that glance of sinister understanding, of invitation, of dreary -wickedness that sought for, and believed that it had found, an -answering wickedness in him. - -Terrible old woman! Peppina's aunt might well be like that. And -Peppina would sleep, perhaps to-night, in the Casa del Mare, under the -same roof as Vere. - -He resolved to go that evening to the island, to see Peppina, to see -Vere. He wished, too, to have a little talk with Gaspare about Ruffo. - -The watch-dog instinct, which dwelt also in Gaspare, was alive in him. - -But to-day it was alive to do service for Vere, not for Hermione. He -knew that, and said to himself that it was natural. For Hermione was a -woman, with experience of life; but Vere was only upon the threshold -of the world. She needed protection more than Hermione. - -Some time ago, when he was returning to Naples from the island on an -evening of scirocco, Artois had in thought transferred certain hopes -of his from Hermione to Vere. He had said to himself that he must -henceforth hope for Hermione in Vere. - -Now was he not transferring something else from the mother to the -child? - - - -CHAPTER XV - -Artois had intended to go that evening to the island. But he did not -fulfil his intention. When the sun began to sink he threw a light coat -over his arm and walked down to the harbor of Santa Lucia. A boatman -whom he knew met him and said: - -"Shall I take you to the island, Signore?" - -Artois was there to take a boat. He meant to say yes. Yet when the man -spoke he answered no. The fellow turned away and found another -customer. Two or three minutes later Artois saw his boat drawing out -to sea in the direction of Posilipo. It was a still evening, and very -clear after the storm of the preceding night. Artois longed to be in -that travelling boat, longed to see the night come from the summit of -the island with Hermione and Vere. But he resisted the sea, its wide -peace, its subtle summons, called a carriage and drove to the -Galleria. Arrived there, he took his seat at a little table outside -the "Gran Caffe," ordered a small dinner, and, while he was eating it, -watched the people strolling up and down, seeking among them for a -figure that he knew. - -As the hour drew near for the music to begin, and the girls dressed in -white came out one by one to the platform that, surrounded by a white -railing edged with red velvet, is built out beyond the caffe to face -the crowd, the number of promenaders increased, and many stood still -waiting for the first note, and debating the looks of the players. -Others thronged around Artois, taking possession of the many little -tables, and calling for ices, lemon-water, syrups, and liqueurs. -Priests, soldiers, sailors, students, actors--who assemble in the -Galleria to seek engagements--newsboys, and youths whose faces -suggested that they were "ruffiani," mingled with foreigners who had -come from the hotels and from the ships in the harbor, and whose -demeanor was partly curious and partly suspicious, as of one who longs -to probe the psychology of a thief while safely guarding his pockets. -The buzz of voices, the tramp of feet, gained a peculiar and vivid -sonorousness from the high and vaulted roof; and in the warm air, -under the large and winking electric lights, the perpetually moving -figures looked strangely capricious, hungry, determined, furtive, -ardent, and intent. On their little stands the electric fans whirred -as they slowly revolved, casting an artificial breeze upon pallid -faces, and around the central dome the angels with gilded wings lifted -their right arms as if pointing the unconscious multitude the -difficult way to heaven. - -A priest sat down with two companions at the table next to Artois. He -had a red cord round his shaggy black hat. His face was like a -parroquet's, with small, beady eyes full of an unintellectual -sharpness. His plump body suggested this world, and his whole -demeanor, the movements of his dimpled, dirty hands, and of his -protruding lips, the attitude of his extended legs, the pose of his -coarse shoulders, seemed hostile to things mystical. He munched an -ice, and swallowed hasty draughts of iced water, talking the while -with a sort of gluttonous vivacity. Artois looked at him and heard, -with his imagination, the sound of the bell at the Elevation, and saw -the bowed heads of the crouching worshippers. The irony of life, that -is the deepest mystery of life, came upon him like the wave of some -Polar sea. He looked up at the gilded angels, then dropped his eyes -and saw what he had come to see. - -Slowly threading her way through the increasing throng, came the old -woman whom he had watched so often and by whom he had been watched. -To-night she had on her summer dress, a respectable, rather shiny gown -of grayish mauve, a bonnet edged with white ribbon, a pair of white -thread gloves. She carried her little bag and a small Japanese fan. -Walking in a strange, flat-footed way that was peculiar to her, and -glancing narrowly about her, yet keeping her hand almost still, she -advanced towards the band-stand. As she came opposite to Artois the -orchestra of women struck up the "Valse Noir," and the old woman stood -still, impeded by the now dense crowd of listeners. While the demurely -sinister music ran its course, she remained absolutely immobile. -Artois watched her with a keen interest. - -It had come into his mind that she was the aunt of Peppina, the -disfigured girl, who perhaps to-night was sleeping in the Casa del -Mare with Vere. - -Presently, attracted, no doubt, by his gaze, the old woman looked -across at Artois and met his eyes. Instantly a sour and malignant -expression came into her long, pale face, and she drew up a corner of -her upper lip, as a dog sometimes does, showing a tooth that was like -a menace. - -She was secretly cursing Artois. - -He knew why. Encouraged by his former observation of her, she had -scented a client in him and had been deceived, and this deception had -bred within her an acrid hatred of him. To-night he would chase away -that hatred. For he meant to speak to her. The old woman looked away -from him, holding her head down as if in cold disdain. Artois read -easily what was passing in her mind. She believed him wicked, but -nervous in his wickedness, desirous of her services but afraid to -invite them. And she held him in the uttermost contempt. Well, -to-night he would undeceive her on one point at least. He kept his -eyes upon her so firmly that she looked at him again. This time he -made a sign of recognition, of understanding. She stared as if in -suspicious amazement. He glanced towards the dome, then at her once -more. At this moment the waiter came up. Artois paid his bill slowly -and ostentatiously. As he counted out the money upon the little tray -he looked up once, and saw the eyes in the long, pale face of the -venerable temptress glitter while they watched. The music ceased, the -crowd before the platform broke up, and began quickly to melt away. -Only the woman waited, holding her little bag and her cheap Japanese -fan. - -Artois drew out a cigar, lit it slowly, then got up, and began to move -out among the tables. - -The priest looked after him, spoke rapidly to his companions, and -burst into a throaty laugh which was loudly echoed. - -"Maria Fortunata is in luck to-night!" said some one. - -Then the band began again, the waiter came with more ices, and the -tall, long-bearded forestiere was forgotten. - -Without glancing at the woman, Artois strolled slowly on. Many people -looked at him, but none spoke to him, for he was known now, as each -stranger who stays long in Naples is known, summed up, labelled, and -either ignored or pestered. The touts and the ruffiani were aware that -it was no use to pester the Frenchman, and even the decrepit and -indescribably seedy old men who hover before the huge plate-glass -windows of the photograph shops, or linger near the entrance to the -cinematograph, never peeped at him out of the corners of their -bloodshot eyes or whispered a word of the white slaves in his ear. - -When he was beneath the dome, and could see the light gleaming upon -the wings of the pointing angels, Artois seemed to be aware of an -individual step among the many feet behind him, a step soft, furtive, -and obstinate, that followed him like a fate's. He glanced up at the -angels. A melancholy and half-bitter smile came to his lips. Then he -turned to the right and made his way still slowly towards the Via -Roma, always crowded from the early afternoon until late into the -night. As he went, as he pushed through the mob of standing men at the -entrance of the Galleria, and crossed the street to the far side, from -which innumerable narrow and evil-looking alleys stretch away into the -darkness up the hill, the influence of the following old woman -increased upon him, casting upon him like a mist her hateful -eagerness. He desired to be rid of it, and, quickening his walk, he -turned into the first alley he came to, walked a little way up it, -until he was in comparative solitude and obscurity, then stopped and -abruptly turned. - -The shiny, grayish mauve gown and the white-trimmed bonnet were close -to him. Between them he faintly perceived a widely smiling face, and -from this face broke at once a sickly torrent of speech, half -Neapolitan dialect, half bastard French. - -"Silenzio!" Artois said, sternly. - -The old harridan stopped in surprise, showing her tooth. - -"What has become of Peppina?" - -"Maria Santissima!" she ejaculated, moving back a step in the -darkness. - -She paused. Then she said: - -"You know Peppina!" - -She came forward again, quite up to him, and peered into his face, -seeking there for an ugly truth which till now had been hidden from -her. - -"What had you to do with Peppina?" - -"Nothing. Tell me about her, and--" - -He put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat, and showed her the -edge of a little case containing paper notes. The woman misunderstood -him. He knew that by her face, which for the moment was as a battle- -field on which lust fought with a desperate anger of disappointment. -Then cunning came to stop the battle. - -"You have heard of Peppina, Signore? You have never seen her?" - -Artois played with her for a moment. - -"Never." - -Her smile widened. She put up her thin hands to her hair, her bonnet, -coquettishly. - -"There is not a girl in Naples as beautiful as Peppina. Mother of--" - -But the game was too loathsome with such a player. - -"Beautiful! Macche!" - -He laughed, made a gesture of pulling out a knife and smashing his -face with it. - -"Beautiful! Per Dio!" - -The coquetry, the cunning, dropped out of the long, pale face. - -"The Signore knows?" - -"Ma si! All Naples knows." - -The old woman's face became terrible. Her two hands shot up, dropped, -shot up again, imprecating, cursing the world, the sky, the whole -scheme of the universe, it seemed. She chattered like an ape. Artois -soothed her with a ten-lire note. - -That night, when he went back to the hotel, he had heard the aunt's -version of Peppina, and knew--that which really he had known before-- -that Hermione had taken her to live on the island. - -Hermione! What was she? An original, clever and blind, great-hearted -and unwise. An enthusiast, one created to be carried away. - -Never would she grow really old, never surely would the primal fires -within her die down into the gray ashes that litter so many of the -hearths by which age sits, a bleak, uncomely shadow. - -And Peppina was on the island, a girl from the stews of Naples; not -wicked, perhaps, rather wronged, injured by life--nevertheless, the -niece of that horror of the Galleria. - -He thought of Vere and shuddered. - -Next day towards four o'clock the Marchesino strolled into Artois' -room, with a peculiarly impudent look of knowledge upon his face. - -"Buon giorno, Caro Emilio," he said. "Are you busy?" - -"Not specially." - -"Will you come with me for a stroll in the Villa? Will you come to see -the gathering together of the geese?" - -"Che Diavolo! What's that?" - -"This summer the Marchesa Pontini has organized a sort of club, which -meets in the Villa every day except Sundays. Three days the meeting is -in the morning, three days in the afternoon. The silliest people of -the aristocracy belong to this club, and the Marchesa is the mother -goose. Ecco! Will you come, or--or have you some appointment?" He -smiled in his friend's face. - -Artois wondered, but could not divine, what was at the back of his -mind. - -"No, I had thought of going on the sea." - -"Or to the Toledo, perhaps?" - -The Marchesino laughed happily. - -"The Toledo? Why should I go there?" - -"Non lo so. Put on your chapeau and come. Il fait tres beau cet apres- -midi." - -Doro was very proud of his French, which made Artois secretly shiver, -and generally spoke it when he was in specially good spirits, or was -feeling unusually mischievous. As they walked along the sea-front a -moment later, he continued in Italian: - -"You were not at the island yesterday, Emilio?" - -"No. Were you?" - -"I naturally called to know how the ladies were after that terrible -storm. What else could I do?" - -"And how were they?" - -"The Signora was in Naples, and of course the Signorina could not have -received me alone. But the saints were with me, Emilio. I met her on -the sea; quite by herself, on the sea of the Saint's pool. She was -lying back in a little boat, with no hat on, her hands behind her head ---so, and her eyes--her beautiful eyes, Emilio, were full of dreams, -of dreams of the sea." - -"How do you know that?" said Artois, rather sharply. - -"Cosa?" - -"How do you know the Signorina was dreaming of the sea? Did she--did -she tell you?" - -"No, but I am sure. We walked together from the boats. I told her she -was an enchantress of the sea, the spirit of the wave--I told her!" - -He spread out his hands, rejoicing in the remembrance of his graceful -compliments. - -"The Signorina was delighted, but she could not stay long. She had a -slight headache and was a little tired after the storm. But she would -have liked to ask me to the house. She was longing to. I could see -that." - -He seized his mustache. - -"She turned her head away, trying to conceal from me her desire, -but--" - -He laughed. - -"Le donne! Le donne!" he happily exclaimed. - -Artois found himself wondering why, until Doro had made the -acquaintance of the dwellers on the island, he had never wished to -smack his smooth, complacent cheeks. - -They turned from the sea into the broad walk of the Villa, and walked -towards the kiosk. Near it, on the small, green chairs, were some -ladies swathed in gigantic floating-veils, talking to two or three -very smart young men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned forward -eying them steadily with a determined yet rather vacuous boldness that -did not disconcert them. One of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white -check, was immensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, which -was carried on with extreme vivacity in very loud and not melodious -voices. - -"Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Marchesino, touching -Artois on the arm. "And that"--he pointed to the stout lady, who at -this moment tossed her head till her veil swung loose like a sail -suddenly deserted by the wind--"is the goose-mother. Buona sera, -Marchesa! Buona sera--molto piacere. Carlo, buona sera--a rivederci, -Contessa! A questa sera." - -He showed his splendid teeth in a fixed but winning smile, and, hat in -hand, went by, walking from his hips. Then, replacing his hat on his -head, he added to his friend: - -"The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa d'Aosta will come one -day, if only for a moment, to smile upon the geese. But--well, the -Duchessa prefers to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has -a heart. Let us sit here, Emilio." - -They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino looked at his -pointed boots for a moment in silence, pushing forward his under lip -until his blond mustache touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he -began to laugh, still looking before him. - -"Emilio! Emilio!" - -He shook his head repeatedly. - -"Emilio mio! And that you should be asking me to show you Naples! It -is too good! C'est parfait!" - -The Marchesino turned towards Artois. - -"And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, the white-haired -protectress of the strangers! Emilio--you might have come to me! But -you do not trust me. Ecco! You do not--" - -Artois understood. - -"You saw me last night?" - -"Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know that the Galleria is full ---but full--of eyes?" - -"Va bene! But you don't understand." - -"Emilio!" - -He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eyebrows. His whole -being seemed as if it were about to mount ironically towards heaven. - -"You don't understand. I repeat it." - -Artois spoke quietly, but there was a sound in his voice which caused -his frivolous companion to stare at him with an inquiry that was, for -a moment, almost sulky. - -"You forget, Doro, how old I am." - -"What has that to do with it?" - -"You forget--" - -Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point out the -improbability of a man so mental, so known, so travelled as he was, -falling like a school-boy publicly into a sordid adventure. But he -stopped, realizing the uselessness of such an explanation. And he -could not tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy in a -by-street with the old creature from behind the shutter. - -"You have made a mistake about me," he said. "But it is of no -consequence. Look! There is another goose coming." - -He pointed with his cane in the direction of the chatterers near the -kiosk. - -"It is papa! It is papa!" - -"Pardon! I did not recognize--" - -The Marchesino got up. - -"Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa--it is better than the -Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present you." - -But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothingness. - -"Not now," he said. "I have--" - -The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent comprehension at him, -and touched his left hand in token of farewell. - -"I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May the -writer's saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!" - -There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat and -strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared -after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and -leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at -this little episode--unreasonably vexed. In his friend Doro he now -discerned a possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily -forgive if he is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a -dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro -was essentially good-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by -an exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him, -and as it was impossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid -infamies. He knew, of course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in -masculine virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro's -laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to -forbidden pleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted? - -Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him the answer -to his questionings. And he knew that his vexation arose from the -secret apprehension of a future in which he would desire to stand -between her and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro certain -truths which are universal, not national. Such truths would come ill -from one whom the lectured held unclean. - -As he walked home to the hotel his vexation grew. - -When he was once more in his room he remembered his remark to -Hermione, "We shall have many quiet, happy evenings together this -summer, I hope," and her strange and doubtful reply. And because he -felt himself invaded by her doubts he resolved to set out for the -island. If he took a boat at once he could be there between six and -seven o'clock. - -And perhaps he would see the new occupant of the Casa del Mare. -Perhaps he would see Peppina. - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -"I have come, you see," said Artois that evening, as he entered -Hermione's room, "to have the first of our quiet, happy evenings, -about which you were so doubtful." - -"Was I?" - -She smiled at him from her seat between the big windows. - -Outside the door he had, almost with a sudden passion, dismissed the -vague doubts and apprehensions that beset him. He came with a definite -brightness, a strong intimacy, holding out his hands, intent really on -forcing Fate to weave her web in accordance with his will. - -"We women are full of little fears, even the bravest of us. Chase mine -away, Emile." - -He sat down. - -"What are they?" - -She shook her head. - -"Formless--or almost. But perhaps that adds to the uneasiness they -inspire. To put them into words would be impossible." - -"Away with them!" - -"Willingly." - -Her eyes seemed to be asking him questions, to be not quite satisfied, -not quite sure of something. - -"What is it?" he asked. - -"I wonder if you have it in you to be angry with me." - -"Make your confession." - -"I have Peppina here." - -"Of course." - -"You knew--?" - -"I have known you as an impulsive for--how many years? Why should you -change?" - -He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he continued: - -"Sometimes you remind me--in spots, as it were--of George Sand." - -She laughed, not quite without bitterness. - -"In spots, indeed!" - -"She described herself once in a book as having 'a great facility' for -illusions, a blind benevolence of judgment, a tenderness of heart that -was inexhaustible--" - -"Oh!" - -"Wait! From these qualities, she said, came hurry, mistakes -innumerable, heroic devotion to objects that were worthless, much -weakness, tremendous disappointments." - -Hermione said nothing, but sat still looking grave. - -"Well? Don't you recognize something of yourself in the catalogue, my -friend?" - -"Have I a great facility for illusions? Am I capable of heroic -devotion to worthless objects?" - -Suddenly Artois remembered all he knew and she did not know. - -"At least you act hastily often," he said evasively. "And I think you -are often so concentrated upon the person who stands, perhaps -suffering, immediately before you, that you forget who is on the -right, who is on the left." - -"Emile, I asked your advice yesterday, and you would not give it me." - -"A fair hit!" he said. "And so Peppina is here. How did the servants -receive her?" - -"I think they were rather surprised. Of course they don't know the -truth." - -"They will within--shall we say twenty-four hours, or less?" - -"How can they? Peppina won't tell them." - -"You are sure? And when Gaspare goes into Naples to 'fare la spesa'?" - -"I told Gaspare last night." - -"That was wisdom. You understand your watch-dog's character." - -"You grant that Gaspare is not an instance of a worthless object made -the recipient of my heroic devotion?" - -"Give him all you like," said Artois, with warmth. "You will never -repent of that. Was he angry when you told him?" - -"I think he was." - -"Why?" - -"I heard him saying 'Testa della Madonna!' as he was leaving me. - -Artois could not help smiling. - -"And Vere?" he said, looking directly at her. - -"I have not told Vere anything about Peppina's past," Hermione said, -rather hastily. "I do not intend to. I explained that Peppina had had -a sad life and had been attacked by a man who had fallen in love with -her, and for whom she didn't care." - -"And Vere was all sympathy and pity?" said Artois, gently. - -"She didn't seem much interested, I thought. She scarcely seemed to be -listening. I don't believe she has seen Peppina yet. When we arrived -she was shut up in her room." - -As she spoke she was looking at him, and she saw a slight change come -over his face. - -"Do you think--" she began, and paused. "I wonder if she was reading," -she added, slowly, after a moment. - -"Even the children have their secrets," he answered. As he spoke he -turned his head and looked out of the window towards Ischia. "How -clear it is to-night! There will be no storm." - -"No. We can dine outside. I have told them." Her voice sounded -slightly constrained. "I will go and call Vere," she added. - -"She is in the house?" - -"I think so." - -She went out, shutting the door behind her. - -So Vere was working. Artois felt sure that her conversation with him -had given to her mind, perhaps to her heart, too, an impulse that had -caused an outburst of young energy. Ah! the blessed ardors of youth! -How beautiful they are, and, even in their occasional absurdity, how -sacred. What Hermione had said had made him realize acutely the -influence which his celebrity and its cause--the self that had made it ---must have upon a girl who was striving as Vere was. He felt a thrill -of pleasure, even of triumph, that startled him, so seldom now, -jealous and careful as he was of his literary reputation, did he draw -any definite joy from it. Would Vere ever do something really good? He -found himself longing that she might, as the proud godparent longs for -his godchild to gain prizes. He remembered the line at the close of -Maeterlinck's "Pelleas and Melisande," a line that had gone like a -silver shaft into this soul when he first heard it--"Maintenant c'est -au tour de la pauvre petite" (Now it's the child's turn.) - -"Now it's the child's turn," he said it to himself, forming the words -with his lips. At that moment he was freed entirely from the -selfishness of age, and warm with a generous and noble sympathy with -youth, its aspirations, its strivings, its winged hopes. He got up -from his chair. He had a longing to go to Vere and tell her all he was -feeling, a longing to pour into her--as just then he could have poured -it--inspiration molten in a long-tried furnace. He had no need of any -one but Vere. - -The doors opened and Hermione came back. - -"Vere is coming, Emile," she said. - -"You told her I was here?" - -She looked at him swiftly, as if the ringing sound in his voice had -startled her. - -"Yes. She is glad, I know. Dear little Vere!" - -Her voice was dull, and she spoke--or he fancied so--rather -mechanically. He remembered all she did not know and was conscious of -her false position. In their intercourse she had so often, so -generally, been the enthusiastic sympathizer. More than she knew she -had inspired him. - -"Dear Hermione! How good it is to be here with you!" he said, turning -towards her the current of his sympathy. "As one grows old one clings -to the known, the proved. That passion at least increases while so -many others fade away, the passion for all that is faithful in a -shifting world, for all that is real, that does not suffer corruption, -disintegration! How adorable is Time where Time is powerless!" - -"Is Time ever powerless?" she said. "Ah, here is Vere!" - -They dined outside upon the terrace facing Vesuvius. Artois sat -between mother and child. Vere was very quiet. Her excitement, her -almost feverish gayety of the evening of the storm had vanished. -To-night dreams hung in her eyes. And the sea was quiet as she was, -repentant surely of its former furies. There seemed something humble, -something pleading in its murmur, as if it asked forgiveness and -promised amendment. - -The talk was chiefly between Hermione and Artois. It was not very -animated. Perhaps the wide peace of the evening influenced their -minds. When coffee was carried out Artois lit his pipe, and fell into -complete silence, watching the sea. Giulia brought to Hermione a bit -of embroidery on which she was working, cleared away the dessert and -quietly disappeared. From the house now and then came a sound of -voices, of laughter. It died away, and the calm of the coming night, -the calm of the silent trio that faced it, seemed to deepen as if in -delicate protest against the interference. The stillness of Nature -to-night was very natural. But was the human stillness natural? -Presently Artois, suddenly roused, he knew not why, to self- -consciousness, found himself wondering. Vere lay back in her wicker -chair like one at ease. Hermione was leaning forward over her work -with her eyes bent steadily upon it. Far off across the sea the smoke -from the summit of Vesuvius was dyed at regular intervals by the red -fire that issued from the entrails of the mountain. Silently it rose -from its hidden world, glowed angrily, menacingly, faded, then glowed -again. And the life that is in fire, and that seems to some the most -intense of all the forces of life, stirred Artois from his peace. The -pulse of the mountain, whose regular beating was surely indicated by -the regularly recurring glow of the rising flame, seemed for a moment -to be sounding in his ears, and, with it, all the pulses that were -beating through the world. And he thought of the calm of their bodies, -of Hermione's, of Vere's, of his own, as he had thought of the calm of -the steely sky, the steely sea, that had preceded the bursting of the -storm that came from Ischia. He thought of it as something unnatural, -something almost menacing, a sort of combined lie that strove to -conceal, to deny, the leaping fires of the soul. - -Suddenly Vere got up and went quietly away. While she had been with -them silence had been easy. Directly she was gone Artois felt that it -was difficult, in another moment that it was no longer possible. - -"Am I to see Peppina to-night?" he asked. - -"Do you wish to?" - -Hermione's hands moved a little faster about their work when he spoke. - -"I feel a certain interest in her, as I should in any new inhabitant -of the island. A very confined space seems always to heighten the -influence of human personality, I think. On your rock everybody must -mean a good deal, perhaps more than you realize, Hermione." - -"I am beginning to realize that," she answered, quietly. "Perhaps they -mean too much. I wonder if it is wise to live as we do?" - -"In such comparative isolation, you mean?" - -"Yes." - -She laid her work down in her lap. - -"I'm afraid that by nature I am a monopolist," she said. "And as I -could never descend into the arena of life to struggle to keep what I -have, if others desired to take it from me, I am inclined jealously to -guard it." - -She took up her work again. - -"I've been thinking that I am rather like the dog that buries his -bone," she added, bending once more over the embroidery. - -"Are you thinking of--of your husband?" - -"Yes, and of Vere. I isolated myself with Maurice. Now I am isolating -myself with Vere. Perhaps it is unwise, weak, this instinct to keep -out the world." - -"Are you thinking of changing your mode of life, then?" he asked. - -In his voice there was a sound of anxiety which she noticed. - -"Perhaps. I don't know." - -She glanced at him and away, and he thought that there was something -strange in her eyes. After a pause, she said: - -"What would you advise?" - -"Surely you are happy here. And--and Vere is happy." - -"Vere is happy--yes." - -He realized the thoughtlessness of his first sentence. - -"But I must think of Vere's development. Lately, in these last days, I -have been realizing that Vere is moving, is beginning to move very -fast. Perhaps it is time to bring her into contact with more people. -Perhaps--" - -"You once asked my advice," he interrupted. "I give it now. Leave Vere -alone. What she needs she will obtain. Have no fear of that." - -"You are sure?" - -"Quite sure. Sometimes, often, the children know instinctively more -than their elders know by experience." - -Hermione's lips trembled. - -"Sometimes," she said, in a low voice, "I think Vere knows far more -than I do. But--but I often feel that I am very blind, very stupid. -You called me an impulsive--I suppose I am one. But if I don't follow -my impulses, what am I to follow? One must have a guide." - -"Yes, and reason is often such a dull one, like a verger throwing one -over a cathedral and destroying its mystery and its beauty with every -word he speaks. When one is young one does not feel that one needs a -guide at all." - -"Sometimes--often--I feel very helpless now," she said. - -He was acutely conscious of the passionate longing for sympathy that -was alive within her, and more faintly aware of a peculiar depression -that companioned her to-night. Yet, for some reason unknown to him, he -could not issue from a certain reserve that checked him, could not -speak to her as he had spoken not long ago in the cave. Indeed, as she -came in her last words a little towards him, as one with hands -tremblingly and a little doubtfully held out, he felt that he drew -back. - -"I think we all feel helpless often when we have passed our first -youth," he answered. - -He got up and stretched himself, towering above her. - -"Shall we stroll about a little?" he added. "I feel quite cramped with -sitting." - -"You go. I'll finish this flower." - -"I'll take a turn and come back." - -As he went she dropped her embroidery and sat staring straight before -her at the sea. - -Artois heard voices in the house, and listened for a new one, the -voice of Peppina. But he could not distinguish it. He went down into -the tiny garden. No one was there, and he returned, and passing -through the house came out on its farther side. Here he met Gaspare -coming up from the sea. - -"Good-evening, Gaspare," he said. - -"Good-evening, Signore." - -"I hear there's a new-comer in the house." - -"Signore?" - -"A new servant." - -Gaspare lifted his large eyes towards heaven. - -"Testa della Madonna?" said Artois. - -"Signore?" - -"Have a cigar, Gaspare?" - -"Grazie, Signore." - -"Is she a good sort of girl, do you think?" - -"Who, Signore?" - -"This Peppina." - -"She is in the kitchen, Signore. I have nothing to do with her." - -"I see." - -Evidently Gaspare did not mean to talk. Artois decided to change the -subject. - -"I hear you had that boy, Ruffo, sleeping in the house the other -night," he said. - -"Si, Signore; the Signorina wished it." - -Gaspare's voice sounded rather more promising. - -"He seems popular on the island." - -"He had been ill, Signore, and it was raining hard. Poveretto! He had -had the fever. It was bad for him to be out in the boat." - -"So Ruffo's getting hold of you too!" thought Artois. - -He pulled at his cigar once or twice. Then he said: - -"Do you think he looks like a Sicilian?" - -Gaspare's eyes met his steadily. - -"A Sicilian, Signore?" - -"Yes." - -"Signore, he is a Sicilian. How should he not look like one?" - -Gaspare's voice sounded rebellious. - -"Va bene, Gaspare, va bene. Have you seen the Signorina?" - -"I think she is at the wooden seat, Signore. The Signorina likes to -look at the sea from there." - -"I will go and see if I can find her." - -"Va bene, Signore. And I will go to speak with the Signora." - -He took off his hat and went into the house. Artois stood for a moment -looking after him and pulling at his beard. There was something very -forcible in Gaspare's personality. Artois felt it the more because of -his knowledge of Gaspare's power of prolonged, perhaps of eternal -silence. The Sicilian was both blunt and subtle, therefore not always -easily read. To-night he puzzled Artois because he impressed him -strongly, yet vaguely. He seemed to be quietly concealing something -that was not small. What it was Artois could not divine. Only he felt -positive that there was something. In Gaspare's eyes that evening he -had seen an expression such as had been in them long ago in Sicily, -when Artois rode up after Maurice's death to see Hermione, and Gaspare -turned from him and looked over the wall of the ravine: an expression -of dogged and impenetrable reserve, that was like a door closing upon -unseen, just not seen, vistas. - -"Che Diavolo!" muttered Artois. - -Then he went up to look for Vere. - -A little wind met him on the crest of the cliff, the definite caress -of the night, which had now fallen ever so softly. The troop of the -stars was posted in the immeasurable deeps of the firmament. There -was, there would be, no moon, yet it was not black darkness, but -rather a dimly purple twilight which lifted into its breast the -wayward songs of the sea. And the songs and the stars seemed twin -children of the wedded wave and night. Divinely soft was the wind, -divinely dreamy the hour, and bearing something of youth as a galley -from the East bears odors. Over the spirit of Artois a magical essence -seemed scattered. And the youngness that lives forever, however deeply -buried, in the man who is an artist, stirred, lifted itself up, stood -erect to salute the night. As he came towards Vere he forgot. The -poppy draught was at his lips. The extreme consciousness, which was -both his strength and his curse, sank down for a moment and profoundly -slept. - -"Vere!" he said. "Vere, do I disturb you?" - -The girl turned softly on the bench and looked at him. - -"No. I often come here. I like to be here at nightfall. Madre knows -that. Did she tell you?" - -"No." - -"You guessed?" - -"I met Gaspare." - -He stood near her. - -"Where is Madre?" - -"On the terrace. She preferred to stay quietly there. And so you have -been working very hard?" - -He spoke gently, half smilingly, but not at all derisively. - -"Yes. But how did you know?" - -"I gathered it from something your mother said. Do you know, Vere, I -think soon she will begin to wonder what you do when you are shut up -for so long in your room." - -The girl's face looked troubled for a moment. - -"She doesn't--she has no idea." - -"Oh no." - -Vere was silent for a while. - -"I wonder if I ought to tell her, Monsieur Emile," she said at length. - -"Tell her!" Artois said, hastily. "But I thought--" - -He checked himself, suddenly surprised at the keenness of his own -desire to keep their little secret. - -"I know. You mean what I said the other day. But--if Madre should be -hurt. I don't think I have ever had a secret from her before, a real -secret. But--it's like this. If Madre knows I shall feel horribly -self-conscious, because of what I told you--her having tried and given -it up. I shall feel guilty. Is it absurd?" - -"No." - -"And--and--I don't believe I shall be able to go on. Of course some -day, if it turns out that I ever can do anything, I must tell. But -that would be different. If it's certain that you can do a thing well -it seems to me that you have a right to do it. But--till then--I'm a -little coward, really." - -She ended with a laugh that was almost deprecating. - -"Don't tell your mother yet, Vere," said Artois, decisively. "It is as -you say: if you told her before you have thoroughly tried your wings -you might be paralyzed. When, if ever, you can show her something -really good she will be the first to encourage you. But--till then--I -think with you that her influence in that direction would probably be -discouraging. Indeed, I feel sure of it." - -"But if she should really begin to wonder! Perhaps she will ask. It's -absurd, but I can't help feeling as if we, you and I, were -conspirators, Monsieur Emile." - -He laughed happily. - -"What a blessed place this is!" he said. "One is made free of the -ocean here. What is that far-away light?" - -He pointed. - -"Low down? Oh, that must be the light of a fisherman, one of those who -seek in the rocks for shell-fish." - -"How mysterious it looks, moving to and fro! One feels life there, the -doings of unknown men in the darkness." - -"I wonder if--would you hate to go out a little way in the boat? The -men look so strange when one is near them, almost like fire-people." - -"Hate! Let us go." - -"And we'll get Madre to come too." - -"Oh yes." - -Vere got up and they went into the house. As they came out upon the -terrace Hermione took up her embroidery, and Gaspare, who was standing -beside her, picked up the tray with the coffee-cups and went off with -it towards the kitchen. - -"Well, Vere?" - -"Madre, we are going out a little way in the boat, and we want you to -come with us." - -"Where are you going?" - -"To see the fishermen, just beyond the grotto of Virgilio. You will -come?" - -"Do come, my friend," added Artois. - -But Hermione sat still. - -"I'm a little tired to-night," she answered. "I think I would rather -stay quietly here. You won't be long, will you?" - -"Oh no, Madre. Only a few minutes. But, really, won't you?" Vere laid -her hand on her mother's. "It's so lovely on the sea to-night." - -"I know. But honestly, I'm lazy to-night." - -Vere looked disappointed. She took away her hand gently. - -"Then we'll stay with you, won't we, Monsieur Emile?" - -"No, Vere," said her mother quickly, before he could answer. "You two -go. I sha'n't be dull. You won't be very long?" - -"No, of course. But--" - -"Go, dearest, go. Are you going to row, Emile?" - -"I could. Or shall we take Gaspare?" - -"It's Gaspare's supper-time," said Vere. - -"Hush, then!" said Artois, putting his finger to his lips. "Let us -creep down softly, or he will think it his duty to come with us, -starving, and that would spoil everything. Au revoir, Hermione," he -whispered. - -"Good-bye, Madre," whispered Vere. - -They glided away, the big man and the light-footed child, going on -tiptoe with elaborate precaution. - -As Hermione looked after them, she said to herself: - -"How young Emile is to-night!" - -At that moment she felt as if she were much older than he was. - -They slipped down to the sea without attracting the attention of -Gaspare, got into the little boat, and rowed gently out towards -Nisida. - -"I feel like a contrabandista," said Artois, as they stole under the -lee of the island towards the open sea--"as if Gaspare would fire upon -us if he heard the sound of oars." - -"Quick! Quick! Let us get away. Pull harder, Monsieur Emile! How slow -you are!" - -Laughingly Artois bent to the oars. - -"Vere, you are a baby!" he said. - -"And what are you, then, I should like to know?" she answered, with -dignity. - -"I! I am an old fellow playing the fool." - -Suddenly his gayety had evaporated, and he was conscious of his years. -He let the boat drift for a moment. - -"Check me another time, Vere, if you see me inclined to be buffo," he -said. - -"Indeed I won't. Why should I? I like you best when you are quite -natural." - -"Do you?" - -"Yes. Look! There are the lights! Oh, how strange they are. Go a -little nearer, but not too near." - -"Tell me, then. Remember, I can't see." - -"Yes. One, two, three--" - -She counted. Each time she said a number he pulled. And she, like a -little coxswain, bent towards him with each word, giving him a bodily -signal for the stroke. Presently she stretched out her hand. - -"Stop!" - -He stopped at once. For a minute the boat glided on. Then the impetus -he had given died away from it, and it floated quietly without -perceptible movement upon the bosom of the sea. - -"Now, Monsieur Emile, you must come and sit by me." - -Treading softly he obeyed her, and sat down near her, facing the -shadowy coast. - -"Now watch!" - -They sat in silence, while the boat drifted on the smooth and oily -water almost in the shadow of the cliffs. At some distance beyond them -the cliffs sank, and the shore curved sharply in the direction of the -island with its fort. There was the enigmatic dimness, though not -dense darkness, of the night. Nearer at hand the walls of rock made -the night seem more mysterious, more profound, and at their base -flickered the flames which had attracted Artois' attention. Fitfully -now these flames, rising from some invisible brazier, or from some -torch fed by it, fell upon half-naked forms of creatures mysteriously -busy about some hidden task. Men they were, yet hardly men they -seemed, but rather unknown denizens of rock, or wave, or underworld; -now red-bodied against the gleam, now ethereally black as are shadows, -and whimsical and shifty, yet always full of meaning that could not be -divined. They bent, they crouched. They seemed to die down like a wave -that is, then is not. Then rising they towered, lifting brawny arms -towards the stars. Silence seemed to flow from them, to exude from -their labors. And in the swiftness of their movements there was -something that was sad. Or was it, perhaps, only pathetic, wistful -with the wistfulness of the sea and of all nocturnal things? Artois -did not ask, but his attention, the attention of mind and soul, was -held by these distant voiceless beings as by a magic. And Vere was -still as he was, tense as he was. All the poetry that lay beneath his -realism, all the credulity that slept below his scepticism, all the -ignorance that his knowledge strove to dominate, had its wild moment -of liberty under the smiling stars. The lights moved and swayed. Now -the seamed rock, with its cold veins and slimy crevices was gilded, -its nudity clothed with fire. Now on the water a trail of glory fell, -and travelled and died. Now the red men were utterly revealed, one -watching with an ardor that was surely not of this world, some secret -in the blackness, another turning as if to strike in defence of his -companion. Then both fell back and were taken by the night. And out of -the night came a strong voice across the water. - -"Madre di Dio, che splendore!" - -Artois got up, turned the boat, and began to row gently away, keeping -near the base of the cliffs. He meant to take Vere back at once to the -island, leaving the impression made upon her by the men of the fire -vivid, and undisturbed by speech. But when they came to the huge mouth -of the Grotto of Virgil, Vere said: - -"Go in for a moment, please, Monsieur Emile." - -He obeyed, thinking that the mother's love for this dark place was -echoed by the child. Since his conversation with Hermione on the day -of scirocco he had not been here, and as the boat glided under the -hollow blackness of the vault, and there lay still, he remembered -their conversation, the unloosing of her passion, the strength and -tenacity of the nature she had shown to him, gripping the past with -hands almost as unyielding as the tragic hands of death. - -And he waited in silence, and with a deep expectation, for the -revelation of the child. It seemed to him that Vere had her purpose in -coming here, as Hermione had had hers. And once more the words of the -old man in "Pelleas and Melisande" haunted him. Once more he heard -them in his heart. - -"Now it's the child's turn." - -Vere dropped her right hand over the gunwale till it touched the sea, -making a tiny splash. - -"Monsieur Emile!" she said. - -"Yes, Vere." - -"Do you believe in the evil eye?" - -Artois did not know what he had expected Vere to say, but her question -seemed to strike his mind like a soft blow, it was so unforeseen. - -"No," he answered. - -She was silent. It was too dark for him to see her face at all -clearly. He had only a vague general impression of her, of her -slightness, vitality, youth, and half-dreamy excitement. - -"Why do you ask me?" - -"Giulia said to me this evening that she was sure the new servant had -the evil eye." - -"Peppina?" - -"Yes, that is her name." - -"Have you seen her?" - -"No, not yet. It's odd, but I feel as if I would rather not." - -"Have you any reason for such a feeling?" - -"I don't think so. Poor thing! I know she has a dreadful scar. But I -don't believe it's that. It's just a feeling I have." - -"I dare say it will have gone by the time we get back to the island." - -"Perhaps. It's nice and dark here." - -"Do you like darkness, Vere?" - -"Sometimes. I do now." - -"Why?" - -"Because I can talk better and be less afraid of you." - -"Vere! What nonsense! You are incapable of fear." - -She laughed, but the laugh sounded serious, he thought. - -"Real fear--perhaps. But you don't know"--she paused--"you don't know -how I respect you." - -There was a slight pressure on the last words. - -"For all you've done, what you are. I never felt it as I have just -lately, since--since--you know." - -Artois was conscious of a movement of his blood. - -"I should be a liar if I said I am not pleased. Tell me about the -work, Vere--now we are in the dark." - -And then he heard the revelation of the child, there under the weary -rock, as he had heard the revelation of the mother. How different it -was! Yet in it, too, there was the beating of the pulse of life. But -there was no regret, no looking back into the past, no sombre -exhibition of force seeking--as a thing groping, desperately in a gulf ---an object on which to exercise itself. Instead there was aspiration, -there was expectation, there was the wonder of bright eyes lifted to -the sun. And there was a reverence that for a moment recalled to -Artois the reverence of the dead man from whose loins this child had -sprung. But Vere's was the reverence of understanding, not of a dim -amazement--more beautiful than Maurice's. When he had been with -Hermione under the brooding rock Artois had been impregnated with the -passionate despair of humanity, and had seen for a moment the world -with out-stretched hands, seeking, surely, for the nonexistent, -striving to hold fast the mirage. Now he was impregnated with -humanity's passionate hope. He saw life light-footed in a sweet chase -for things ideal. And all the blackness of the rock and of the silent -sea was irradiated with the light that streamed from a growing soul. - -A voice--an inquiring, searching voice, surely, rose quivering from -some distance on the sea, startling Vere and Artois. It was untrained -but unshy, and the singer forced it with resolute hardihood that was -indifferent to the future. Artois had never heard the Marchesino sing -before, but he knew at once that it was he. Some one at the island -must surely have told the determined youth that Vere was voyaging, and -he was now in quest of her, sending her an amorous summons couched in -the dialect of Naples. - -Vere moved impatiently. - -"Really!" she began. - -But she did not continue. The quivering voice began another verse. -Artois had said nothing, but, as he sat listening to this fervid -protestation, a message illuminated as it were by the vibrato, he -began to hate the terrible frankness of the Italian nature which, till -now, he had thought he loved. The beauty of reticence appealed to him -in a new way. There was savagery in a bellowed passion. The voice was -travelling. They heard it moving onward towards Nisida. Artois -wondered if Vere knew who was the singer. She did not leave him long -in doubt. - -"Now's our chance, Monsieur Emile!" she said, suddenly, leaning -towards him. "Row to the island for your life, or the Marchesino will -catch us!" - -Without a word he bent to the oars. - -"How absurd the Marchesino is!" - -Vere spoke aloud, released from fear. - -"Absurd? He is Neapolitan." - -"Very well, then! The Neapolitans are absurd!" said Vere, with -decision. "And what a voice! Ruffo doesn't sing like that. That -shaking sounds--sounds so artificial." - -"And yet I dare say he is very much in earnest." - -Artois was almost pleading a cause against his will. - -"Oh!" - -The girl gave almost a little puff that suggested a rather childish -indignation. - -"I like the people best," she added. "They say what they feel simply, -and it means ever so much more. Am I a democrat?" - -He could not help laughing. - -"Chi lo sa? An Anarchist perhaps." - -She laughed too. - -"Bella tu si--Bella tu si! It's too absurd! One would think--" - -"What, Vere?" - -"Never mind. Don't be inquisitive, Monsieur Emile." - -He rowed on meekly. - -"There is San Francesco's light," she said, in a moment. "I wonder if -it is late. Have we been away long? I have no idea." - -"No more have I." - -Nor had he. - -When they reached land he made the boat fast and turned to walk up to -the house with her. He found her standing very still just behind him -at the edge of the sea, with a startled look on her face. - -"What is it, Vere?" he asked. - -"Hush!" - -She held up her hand and bent her head a little to one side, as one -listening intently. - -"I thought I heard--I did hear--something--" - -"Something?" - -"Yes--so strange--I can't hear it now." - -"What was it like?" - -She looked fixedly at him. - -"Like some one crying--horribly." - -"Where? Near us?" - -"Not far. Listen again." - -He obeyed, holding his breath. But he heard nothing except the very -faint lapping of the sea at their feet. - -"Perhaps I imagined it," she said at length. - -"Let us go up to the house," he said. "Come, Vere." - -He had a sudden wish to take her into the house. But she remained -where she was. - -"Could it have been fancy, Monsieur Emile?" - -"No doubt." - -Her eyes were intensely grave, almost frightened. - -"But--just look, will you? Perhaps there really is somebody." - -"Where? It's so dark." - -Artois hesitated; but Vere's face was full of resolution, and he -turned reluctantly to obey her. As he did so there came to them both -through the dark the sound of a woman crying and sobbing convulsively. - -"What is it? Oh, who can it be?" Vere cried out. - -She went swiftly towards the sound. - -Artois followed, and found her bending down over the figure of a girl -who was crouching against the cliff, and touching her shoulder. - -"What is it? What is the matter? Tell me." - -The girl looked up, startled, and showed a passionate face that was -horribly disfigured. Upon the right cheek, extending from the temple -almost to the line of the jaw, a razor had cut a sign, a brutal sign -of the cross. As Vere saw it, showing redly through the darkness, she -recoiled. The girl read the meaning of her movement, and shrank -backward, putting up her hand to cover the wound. But Vere recovered -instantly, and bent down once more, intent only on trying to comfort -this sorrow, whose violence seemed to open to her a door into a new -and frightful world. - -"Vere!" said Artois. "Vere, you had better--" - -The girl turned round to him. - -"It must be Peppina!" she said. - -"Yes. But--" - -"Please go up to the house, Monsieur Emile. I will come in a moment." - -"But I can't leave you--" - -"Please go. Just tell Madre I'm soon coming." - -There was something inexorable in her voice. She turned away from him -and began to speak softly to Peppina. - -Artois obeyed and left her. - -He knew that just then she would not acknowledge his authority. As he -went slowly up the steps he wondered--he feared. Peppina had cried -with the fury of despair, and the Neapolitan who is desperate knows no -reticence. - -Was the red sign of passion to be scored already upon Vere's white -life? Was she to pass even now, in this night, from her beautiful -ignorance to knowledge? - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -That night the Marchesino failed in his search for Vere, and he -returned to Naples not merely disappointed but incensed. He had -learned from a fisherman in the Saint's Pool that she was out upon the -sea "with a Signore," and he had little difficulty in guessing who -this Signore was. Of course it was "Caro Emilio," the patron of Maria -Fortunata. He began to consider his friend unfavorably. He remembered -how frankly he had always told Emilio of his little escapades, with -what enthusiasm, in what copious detail. Always he had trusted Emilio. -And now Emilio was trying to play him false--worse, was making -apparently a complete success of the attempt. For Emilio and Vere must -have heard his beautiful singing, must have guessed from whom that -vibrant voice proceeded, must have deliberately concealed themselves -from its possessor. Where had they lain in hiding? His shrewd -suspicion fell upon the very place. Virgilio's Grotto had surely been -their refuge. - -"Ladro! Vigiliacco!" Words of no uncertain meaning flowed from his -overcharged heart. His whole hot nature was aroused. His spirit was up -in arms. And now, almost for the first time, he drew a comparison -between his age and Emilio's. Emilio was an old man. He realized it. -Why had he never realized it before? Was he, full of youth, beauty, -chivalrous energy and devotion, to be interfered with, set aside, for -a man with gray hairs thick upon his head, for a man who spent half -his hours bent over a writing-table? Emilio had never wished him to -know the ladies of the island. He knew the reason now, and glowed with -a fiery lust of battle. Vere had attracted him from the first. But -this opposition drove on attraction into something stronger, more -determined. He said to himself that he was madly in love. Never yet -had he been worsted in an amour by any man. The blood surged to his -head at the mere thought of being conquered in the only battle of life -worth fighting--the battle for a woman, and by a man of more than -twice his age, a man who ought long ago to have been married and have -had children as old as the Signorina Vere. - -Well, he had been a good friend to Emilio. Now Emilio should see that -the good friend could be the good enemy. Late that night, as he sat -alone in front of the Caffe Turco smoking innumerable cigarettes, he -resolved to show these foreigners the stuff a Neapolitan was made of. -They did not know. Poor, ignorant beings from cold England, drowned -forever in perpetual yellow fogs, and from France, country of -volatility but not of passion, they did not know what the men of the -South, of a volcanic soil, were capable of, once they were roused, -once their blood spoke and their whole nature responded! It was time -they learned. And he would undertake to teach them. As he drove -towards dawn up the dusty hill to Capodimonte he was in a fever of -excitement. - -There was excitement, too, in the house on the island, but it did not -centre round the Marchesino. - -That night, for the first time in her young life, Vere did not sleep. -She heard the fisherman call, but the enchantment of sea doings did -not stir her. She was aware for the first time of the teeming horrors -of life. There, in the darkness beneath the cliff, Peppina had sobbed -out her story, and Vere, while she listened, had stepped from girlhood -into womanhood. - -She had come into the house quietly, and found Artois waiting for her -alone. Hermione had gone to bed, leaving word that she had a headache. -And Vere was glad that night not to see her mother. She wished to see -no one, and she bade Artois good-bye at once, telling him nothing, and -not meeting his eyes when he touched her hand in adieu. And he had -asked nothing. Why should he, when he read the truth in the grave, -almost stern face of the child? - -Vere knew. - -The veils that hung before the happy eyes of childhood had been torn -away, and those eyes had looked for the first time into the deeps of -an unhappy human heart. - -And he had thought it possible to preserve, perhaps for a long while, -Vere's beautiful ignorance untouched. He had thought of the island as -a safe retreat in which her delicate, and as yet childish talent, -might gradually mature under his influence and the influence of the -sea. She had been like some charming and unusual plant of the sea, -shot with sea colors, wet with sea winds, fresh with the freshness of -the smooth-backed waves. And now in a moment she was dropped into the -filthy dust of city horrors. What would be the result upon her and -upon her dawning gift? - -The double question was in his mind, and quite honestly. For his -interest of the literary man in Vere was very vivid. Never yet had he -had a pupil or dreamed of having one. There are writers who found a -school, whose fame is carried forward like a banner by young and eager -hands. Artois had always stood alone, ardently admired, ardently -condemned, but not imitated. And he had been proud of his solitude. -But--lately--had not underthoughts come into his mind, thoughts of -leaving an impress on a vivid young intellect, a soul that was full of -life, and the beginnings of energy? Had not he dreamed, however -vaguely, of forming, like some sculptor of genius, an exquisite -statuette--poetry, in the slim form of a girl-child singing to the -world? - -And now Peppina had rushed into Vere's life, with sobs and a tumult of -cries to the Madonna and the saints, and, no doubt, with imprecations -upon the wickedness of men. And where were the dreams of the sea? And -his dreams, where were they? - -That night the irony that was in him woke up and smiled bitterly, and -he asked himself how he, with his burden of years and of knowledge of -life, could have been such a fool as to think it possible to guard any -one against the assaults of the facts of life. Hermione, perhaps, had -been wiser than he, and yet he could not help feeling something that -was almost like anger against her for what he called her quixotism. -The woman of passionate impulses--how dangerous she is, even when her -impulses are generous, are noble! Action without thought, though the -prompting heart behind it be a heart of gold--how fatal may it be! - -And then he remembered a passionate impulse that had driven a happy -woman across a sea to Africa, and he was ashamed. - -Yet again the feeling that was almost like hostility returned. He said -to himself that Hermione should have learned caution in the passing of -so many years, that she ought to have grown older than she had. But -there was something unconquerably young, unconquerably naïve, in her-- -something that, it seemed, would never die. Her cleverness went hand -in hand with a short-sightedness that was like a rather beautiful, yet -sometimes irritating stupidity. And this latter quality might -innocently make victims, might even make a victim of her own child. - -And then a strange desire rose up in Artois, a desire to protect Vere -against her own mother. - -But how could that be done? - -Vere, guarded by the beautiful unconsciousness of youth, was unaware -of the subtleties that were brought into activity by her. That the -Marchesino was, or thought himself, in love with her she realized. But -she could not connect any root-sincerity with his feeling. She was -accustomed vaguely to think of all young Southern Italians as -perpetually sighing for some one's dark eyes. The air of the South was -full of love songs that rose and fell without much more meaning than a -twitter of birds, that could not be stilled because it was so natural. -And the Marchesino was a young aristocrat who did absolutely nothing -of any importance to the world. The Northern blood in Vere demanded -other things of a man than imitations of a seal, the clever driving of -a four-in-hand, light-footed dancing, and songs to the guitar. In -Gaspare she saw more reality than she saw as yet in the Marchesino. -The dawning intellect of her began to grasp already the nobility of -work. Gaspare had his work to do, and did it with loyal efficiency. -Ruffo, too, had his profession of the sea. He drew out of the deep his -livelihood. Even with the fever almost upon him he had been out by -night in the storm. That which she liked and respected in Gaspare, his -perfect and natural acceptance of work as a condition of his life, she -liked and respected in Ruffo. - -On the morning after the incident with Peppina, Vere came down looking -strangely grave and tired. Her mother, too, was rather heavy-eyed, and -the breakfast passed almost severely. When it was over Hermione, who -still conducted Vere's education, but with a much relaxed vigor in the -summer months, suggested that they should read French together. - -"Let us read one of Monsieur Emile's books, Madre," said Vere, with an -awakening of animation. "You know I have never read one, only two or -three baby stories, and articles that don't count." - -"Yes, but Emile's books are not quite suitable for you yet, Vere." - -"Why, Madre?" - -"They are very fine, but they dive deep into life, and life contains -many sad and many cruel things." - -"Oughtn't we to prepare ourselves for them, then?" - -"Not too soon, I think. I am nearly sure that if you were to read -Emile's books just yet you would regret it." - -Vere said nothing. - -"Don't you think you can trust me to judge for you in this matter, -figlia mia? I--I am almost certain that Emile himself would think as I -do." - -It was not without an effort, a strong effort, that Hermione was able -to speak the last sentence. Vere came nearer to her mother, and stood -before her, as if she were going to say something that was decisive or -important. But she hesitated. - -"What is it, Vere?" Hermione asked, gently. - -"I might learn from life itself what Monsieur Emile's books might -teach me." - -"Some day. And when that time comes neither I nor he would wish to -keep them out of your hands." - -"I see. Well, Madre dear, let us read whatever you like." - -Vere had been on the verge of telling her mother about the previous -night and Peppina. But, somehow, at the last moment she could not. - -And thus, for the moment at least, Artois and she shared another -secret of which Hermione was unaware. - -But very soon Hermione noticed that Vere was specially kind always to -Peppina. They did not meet, perhaps, very often, but when by chance -they did Vere spoke to the disfigured girl with a gentleness, almost a -tenderness, that were striking. - -"You like Peppina, Vere?" asked her mother one day. - -"Yes, because I pity her so much." - -There was a sound that was almost like passion in the girl's voice; -and, looking up, Hermione saw that her eyes were full of light, as if -the spirit had set two lamps in them. - -"It is strange," Vere continued, in a quieter tone; "but sometimes I -feel as if on the night of the storm I had had a sort of consciousness -of her coming--as if, when I saw the Saint's light shining, and bent -down to the water and made the sign of the Cross, I already knew -something of Peppina's wound, as if I made the sign to protect our -Casa del Mare, to ward off something evil." - -"That was coming to us with Peppina, do you mean?" - -"I don't know, Madre." - -"Are you thinking of Giulia's foolish words about the evil eye?" - -"No. It's all vague, Madre. But Peppina's cross sometimes seems to me -to be a sign, a warning come into the house. When I see it it seems to -say there is a cross to be borne by some one here, by one of us." - -"How imaginative you are, Vere!" - -"So are you, Madre! But you try to hide it from me." - -Hermione was startled. She took Vere's hand, and held it for a moment -in silence, pressing it with a force that was nervous. And her -luminous, expressive eyes, immensely sensitive, beautiful in their -sensitiveness, showed that she was moved. At last she said: - -"Perhaps that is true. Yes, I suppose it is." - -"Why do you try to hide it?" - -"I suppose--I think because--because it has brought to me a great deal -of pain. And what we hide from others we sometimes seem almost to be -destroying by that very act, though of course we are not." - -"No. But I think I should like to encourage my imagination." - -"Do you encourage it?" the mother asked, looking at her closely. - -Again, as Vere had been on the edge of telling her mother all she knew -about Peppina, she was on the edge of telling her about the poems of -the sea. And again, moved by some sudden, obstinate reluctance, come -she knew not why, she withheld the words that were almost on her lips. - -And each time the mother was aware of something avoided, of an impulse -stifled, and therefore of a secret deliberately kept. The first time -Hermione had not allowed her knowledge to appear. But on this second -occasion for a moment she lost control of herself, and when, after a -perceptible pause, Vere said, "I know I love it," and was silent, she -exclaimed: - -"Keep your secrets, Vere. Every one has a right to their freedom." - -"But, Madre--" Vere began, startled by her mother's abrupt vehemence. - -"No, Vere, no! My child, my dearest one, never tell me anything but of -your own accord, out of your own heart and desire. Such a confidence -is beautiful. But anything else--anything else, I could not bear from -you." - -And she got up and left the room, walking with a strange slowness, as -if she put upon herself an embargo not to hasten. - -The words and--specially that--the way in which they were spoken made -Vere suddenly and completely aware of something that perhaps she had -already latently known--that the relation between her mother and -herself had, of late, not been quite what once it was. At moments she -had felt almost shy of her mother, only at moments. Formerly she had -always told her mother everything, and had spoken--as her mother had -just said--out of her own heart and desire, with eagerness, -inevitably. Now--well, now she could not always do that. Was it -because she was growing older? Children are immensely frank. She had -been a child. But now--she thought of the Marchesino, of Peppina, of -her conversation with Monsieur Emile in the Grotto of Virgilio, and -realized the blooming of her girlhood, was aware that she was -changing. And she felt half frightened, then eager, ardently eager. An -impulse filled her, the impulse towards a fulness of life that, till -now, she had not known. And for a moment she loved those little, -innocent secrets that she kept. - -But then she thought again of her mother, the most beloved of all her -world. There had been in her mother's voice a sound of tragedy. - -Vere stood for a long while by the window thinking. - -The day was very hot. She longed to bathe, to wash away certain -perplexities that troubled her in the sea. But Gaspare was not on the -island. He had gone she knew not where. She looked at the sea with -longing. When would Gaspare be back? Well, at least she could go out -in the small boat. Then she would be near to the water. She ran down -the steps and embarked. At first she only rowed a little way out into -the Saint's Pool, and then leaned back against the white cushions, and -looked up at the blue sky, and let her hand trail in the water. But -she was restless to-day. The Pool did not suffice her, and she began -to paddle out along the coast towards Naples. She passed a ruined, -windowless house named by the fisherfolk "The Palace of the Spirits," -and then a tiny hamlet climbing up from a minute harbor to an antique -church. Children called to her. A fisherman shouted: "Buon viaggio, -Signorina!" She waved her hand to them apathetically and rowed slowly -on. Now she had a bourne. A little farther on there was a small inlet -of the sea containing two caves, not gloomy and imposing like the -Grotto of Virgilio, but cosy, shady, and serene. Into the first of -them she ran the boat until its prow touched the sandy bottom. Then -she lay down at full length, with her hands behind her head on the -cushions, and thought--and thought. - -Figures passed through her mind, a caravan of figures travelling as -all are travelling: her mother, Gaspare, Giulia, with her plump and -swarthy face; Monsieur Emile, to whom she had drawn so pleasantly, -interestingly near in these last days; the Marchesino (strutting from -the hips and making his bold eyes round), Peppina, Ruffo. They went by -and returned, gathered about her, separated, melted away as people do -in our musings. Her eyes were fixed on the low roof of the cave. The -lilt of the water seemed to rock her soul in a cradle. "Madre--Ruffo! -Madre--Ruffo!" The words were in her mind like a refrain. And then the -oddity, the promiscuity of life struck her. How many differences there -were in this small group of people by whom she was surrounded! What -would their fates be, and hers? Would her life be happy? She did not -feel afraid. Youth ran in her veins. But--would it be? She saw the red -cross on Peppina's cheek. Why was one singled out for misery, another -for joy? Which would be her fate? Ruffo seemed to be standing near -her. She had seen him several times in these last days, but only at -evening, fugitively, when he came in the boat with the fishermen. He -was stronger now. He had saluted her eagerly. She had spoken to him -from the shore. But he had not landed again on the island. She felt as -if she saw his bright and beaming eyes. And Ruffo--would he be happy? -She hoped so. She wanted him to be happy. He was such a dear, active -boy--such a real boy. What must it be like to have a brother? Gaspare -approved of Ruffo now, she thought; and Gaspare did not like -everybody, and was fearfully blunt in expressing his opinion. She -loved his bluntness. How delightfully his nose twitched when he was -pleased! Dear old Gaspare! She could never feel afraid of anything or -anybody when he was near. Monsieur Emile--the poems--the Marchesino -singing. She closed her eyes to think the better. - -"Signorina! Signorina!" - -Vere woke and sat up. - -"Signorina!" - -Gaspare was looking at her from his boat. - -"Gaspare!" - -She began to realize things. - -"I was--I was thinking." - -"Si, Signorina. I always think like that when I am in bed." - -She laughed. She was wide awake now. - -"How did you find me?" - -"I met one of the fishermen. He had seen you row into the cave." - -"Oh!" - -She looked at him more steadily. His brown face was hot. Perspiration -stood on his forehead just under the thick and waving hair. - -"Where have you been, Gaspare? Not to Naples in all this heat?" - -"I have been to Mergellina, Signorina." - -"Mergellina! Did you see Ruffo?" - -"Si, Signorina." - -There was something very odd about Gaspare to-day, Vere thought. Or -was she still not thoroughly awake? His eyes looked excited, surely, -as if something unusual had been happening. And they were fixed upon -her face with a scrutiny that was strange, almost as if he saw her now -for the first time. - -"What is it, Gaspare? Why do you look at me like that?" - -Gaspare turned his eyes away. - -"Like what, Signorina? Why should I not look at you?" - -"What have you been doing at Mergellina?" - -She spoke rather imperiously. - -"Nothing particular, Signorina." - -"Oh!" - -She paused, but he did not speak. - -"Where did you see Ruffo?" - -"At the harbor, Signorina." - -"Tell me, Gaspare, do you like him?" - -"Ruffo?" - -"Yes." - -"I do not dislike him, Signorina. He has never done me any harm." - -"Of course not. Why should he?" - -"I say--he has not." - -"I like Ruffo." - -"Lo so." - -Again he looked at her with that curious expression in his eyes. Then -he said: - -"Come, Signorina! It is getting late. We must go to the island." - -And they pulled out round the point to the open sea. - -During the hot weather the dwellers in the Casa del Mare made the -siesta after the mid-day meal. The awnings and blinds were drawn. -Silence reigned, and the house was still as the Palace of the Sleeping -Beauty. At the foot of the cliffs the sea slept in the sunshine, and -it was almost an empty sea, for few boats passed by in those hot, -still hours. - -To-day the servants were quiet in their quarters. Only Gaspare was -outside. And he, in shirt and trousers, with a white linen hat -covering his brown face, was stretched under the dwarf trees of the -little garden, in the shadow of the wall, resting profoundly after the -labors of the morning. In their respective rooms Hermione and Vere -were secluded behind shut doors. Hermione was lying down, but not -sleeping. Vere was not lying down. Generally she slept at this time -for an hour. But to-day, perhaps because of her nap in the cave, she -had no desire for sleep. - -She was thinking about her mother. And Hermione was thinking of her. -Each mind was working in the midst of its desert space, its solitude -eternal. - -What was growing up between them, and why was it growing? - -Hermione was beset by a strange sensation of impotence. She felt as if -her child were drifting from her. Was it her fault, or was it no -one's, and inevitable? Had Vere been able to divine certain feelings -in her, the mother, obscure pains of the soul that had travelled to -mind and heart? She did not think it possible. Nor had it been -possible for her to kill those pains, although she had made her effort ---to conceal them. Long ago, before she was married to Maurice, Emile -had spoken to them of jealousy. At the time she had not understood it. -She remembered thinking, even saying, that she could not be jealous. - -But then she had not had a child. - -Lately she had realized that there were forces in her of which she had -not been aware. She had realized her passion for her child. Was it -strange that she had not always known how deep and strong it was? Her -mutilated life was more vehemently centred upon Vere than she had -understood. Of Vere she could be jealous. If Vere put any one before -her, trusted any one more than her, confided anything to another -rather than to her, she could be frightfully jealous. - -Recently she had suspected--she had imagined-- - -Restlessly she moved on her bed. A mosquito-curtain protected it. She -was glad of that, as if it kept out prying eyes. For sometimes she was -ashamed of the vehemence within her. - -She thought of her friend Emile, whom she had dragged back from death. - -He, too, had he not drifted a little from her in these last days? It -seemed to her that it was so. She knew that it was so. Women are so -sure of certain things, more almost than men are ever sure of -anything. And why should Vere have drifted, Emile have drifted, if -there were not some link between them--some link between the child and -the middle-aged man which they would not have her know of? - -Vere had told to Emile something that she had kept, that she still -kept from her mother. When Vere had been shut up in her room she had -not been reading. Emile knew what it was that she did during those -long hours when she was alone. Emile knew that, and perhaps other -things of Vere that she, Hermione, did not know, was not allowed to -know. - -Hermione, in their long intimacy, had learned to read Artois more -clearly, more certainly than he realized. Although often impulsive, -and seemingly unconscious of the thoughts of others, she could be both -sharply observant and subtle, especially with those she loved. She had -noticed the difference between his manner when first they spoke of -Vere's hidden occupation and his manner when last they spoke of it. In -the interval he had found out what it was, and that it was not -reading. Of that she was positive. She was positive also that he did -not wish her to suspect this. Vere must have told him what it was. - -It was characteristic of Hermione that at this moment she was free -from any common curiosity as to what it was that Vere did during those -many hours when she was shut up in her room. The thing that hurt her, -that seemed to humiliate her, was the Emile should know what it was -and not she, that Vere should have told Emile and not told her. - -As she lay there she cowered under the blow a mutual silence can give, -and something woke up in her, something fiery, something surely that -could act with violence. It startled her, almost as a stranger rushing -into her room would have startled her. - -For a moment she thought of her child and her loved friend with a -bitterness that was cruel. - -How long had they shared their secret? She wondered, and began to -consider the recent days, searching their hours for those tiny -incidents, those small reticences, avoidances, that to women are -revelations. When had she first noticed a slight change in Emile's -manner to her? When had Vere and he first seemed a little more -intimate, a little more confidential than before? When had she, -Hermione, first felt a little "out of it," not perfectly at ease with -these two dear denizens of her life? - -Her mind fastened at once upon the day of the storm. On the night of -the storm, when she and Emile had been left alone in the restaurant, -she had felt almost afraid of him. But before then, in the afternoon -on the island, there had been something. They had not been always at -ease. She had been conscious of trying to tide over moments that were -almost awkward--once or twice, only once or twice. But that was the -day. Her woman's instinct told her so. That was the day on which Vere -had told Emile the secret she had kept from her mother. How excited -Vere had been, almost feverishly excited! And Emile had been very -strange. When the Marchesino and Vere went out upon the terrace, how -restless, how irritable he-- - -Suddenly Hermione sat up in her bed. The heat, the stillness, the -white cage of the mosquito net, the silence had become intolerable to -her. She pulled aside the net. Yes, that was better. She felt more -free. She would lie down outside the net. But the pillow was hot. She -turned it, but its pressure against her cheek almost maddened her, and -she got up, went across the room to the wash-stand and bathed her face -with cold water. Then she put some /eau de Cologne/ on her forehead, -opened a drawer and drew out a fan, went over to an arm-chair near the -window and sat down in it. - -What had Emile written in the visitors' book at the Scoglio di Frisio? -With a strange abruptness, with a flight that was instinctive as that -of a homing pigeon, Hermione's mind went to that book as to a book of -revelation. Just before he wrote he had been feeling acutely-- -something. She had been aware of that at the time. He had not wanted -to write. And then suddenly, almost violently, he had written and had -closed the book. - -She longed to open that book now, at once, to read what he had -written. She felt as if it would tell her very much. There was no -reason why she should not read it. The book was one that all might -see, was kept to be looked over by any chance visitor. She would go -one day, one evening, to the restaurant and see what Emile had -written. He would not mind. If she had asked him that night of course -he would have shown her the words. But she had not asked him. She had -been almost afraid of things that night. She remembered how the wind -had blown up the white table-cloth, her cold, momentary shiver of -fear, her relief when she had seen Gaspare walking sturdily into the -room. - -And now, at once, this thought of Gaspare brought to her a sense of -relief again, of relief so great, so sharp--piercing down into the -very deep of her nature--that by it she was able to measure something, -her inward desolation at this moment. Yes, she clung to Gaspare, -because he was loyal, because he loved her, because he had loved -Maurice--but also because she was terribly alone. - -Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a time, really a time, -when she had possessed one who belonged utterly to her, who lived only -in and for her? Was that possible? To-day, with the fierceness of one -starving, she fastened upon this memory, her memory, hers only, shared -by no one, never shared by living or dead. That at least she had, and -that could never be taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped -from her, if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped from -her, the memory of her Sicilian was forever hers, the memory of his -love, his joy in their mutual life, his last kiss. Long ago she had -taken that kiss as a gift made to two--to her and to Vere unborn. -To-day, almost savagely, she took it to herself, alone, herself-- -alone. Hers it was, hers only, no part of it Vere's. - -That she had--her memory, and Gaspare's loyal, open-hearted devotion. -He knew what she had suffered. He loved her as he had loved his dead -Padrone. He would always protect her, put her first without -hesitation, conceal nothing from her that it was her right--for surely -even the humblest, the least selfish, the least grasping, surely all -who love have their rights--that it was her right to know. - -Her cheeks were burning. She felt like one who had been making some -physical exertion. - -Deeply silent was the house. Her room was full of shadows, yet full of -the hidden presence of the sun. There was a glory outside, against -which she was protected. But outside, and against assaults that were -inglorious, what protection had she? Her own personality must protect -her, her own will, the determination, the strength, the courage that -belong to all who are worth anything in the world. And she called upon -herself. And it seemed to her that there was no voice that answered. - -There was a hideous moment of drama. - -She sat there quietly in her chair in the pretty room. And she called -again, and she listened--and again there was silence. - -Then she was afraid. She had a strange and horrible feeling that she -was deserted by herself, by that which, at least, had been herself and -on which she had been accustomed to rely. And what was left was surely -utterly incapable, full of the flabby wickedness that seems to dwell -in weakness. It seemed to her that if any one who knew her well, if -Vere, Emile, or even Gaspare, had come into the room just then, the -intruder would have paused on the threshold amazed to see a stranger -there. She felt afraid to be seen and yet afraid to remain alone. -Should she do something definite, something defiant, to prove to -herself that she had will and could exercise it? - -She got up, resolved to go to Vere. When she was there, with her -child, she did not know what she was going to do. She had said to -Vere, "Keep your secrets." What if she went now and humbled herself, -explained to the child quite simply and frankly a mother's jealousy, a -widow's loneliness, made her realize what she was in a life from which -the greatest thing had been ruthlessly withdrawn? Vere would -understand surely, and all would be well. This shadow between them -would pass away. Hermione had her hand on the door. But she did not -open it. An imperious reserve, autocrat, tyrant, rose up suddenly -within her. She could never make such a confession to Vere. She could -never plead for her child's confidence--a confidence already given to -Emile, to a man. And now for the first time the common curiosity to -which she had not yet fallen a victim came upon her, flooded her. What -was Vere's secret? That it was innocent, probably even childish, -Hermione did not question even for a moment. But what was it? - -She heard a light step outside and drew back from the door. The step -passed on and died away down the paved staircase. Vere had gone out to -the terrace, the garden, or the sea. - -Hermione again moved forward, then stopped abruptly. Her face was -suddenly flooded with red as she realized what she had been going to -do, she who had exclaimed that every one has a right to their freedom. - -For an instant she had meant to go to Vere's room, to try to find out -surreptitiously what Emile knew. - -A moment later Vere, coming back swiftly for a pencil she had -forgotten, heard the sharp grating of a key in the lock of her -mother's door. - -She ran on lightly, wondering why her mother was locking herself in, -and against whom. - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -During the last days Artois had not been to the island, nor had he -seen the Marchesino. A sudden passion for work had seized him. Since -the night of Vere's meeting with Peppina his brain had been in flood -with thoughts. Life often acts subtly upon the creative artist, -repressing or encouraging his instinct to bring forth, depressing or -exciting him when, perhaps, he expects it least. The passing incidents -of life frequently have their hidden, their unsuspected part in -determining his activities. So it was now with Artois. He had given an -impetus to Vere. That was natural, to be expected, considering his -knowledge and his fame, his great experience and his understanding of -men. But now Vere had given an impetus to him--and that was surely -stranger. Since the conversation among the shadows of the cave, after -the vision of the moving men of darkness and of fire, since the sound -of Peppina sobbing in the night, and the sight of her passionate face -lifted to show its gashed cross to Vere, Artois' brain and head had -been alive with a fury of energy that forcibly summoned him to work, -that held him working. He even felt within him something that was like -a renewal of some part of his vanished youth, and remembered old days -of student life, nights in the Quartier Latin, his debut as a writer -for the papers, the sensation of joy with which he saw his first -article in the /Figaro/, his dreams of fame, his hopes of love, his -baptism of sentiment. How he had worked in those days and nights! How -he had hunted experience in the streets and the by-ways of the great -city! How passionate and yet how ruthless he had been, as artists -often are, governed not only by their quick emotions, but also by the -something watchful and dogged underneath, that will not be swept away, -that is like a detective hidden by a house door to spy out all the -comers in the night. Something, some breath from the former days, -swept over him again. In his ears there sounded surely the cries of -Paris, urging him to the assault to the barricades of Fame. And he sat -down, and he worked with the vehement energy, with the pulsating -eagerness of one of "les jeunes." Hour after hour he worked. He took -coffee, and wrote through the night. He slept when the dawn came, got -up, and toiled again. - -He shut out the real world and he forgot it--until the fit was past. -And then he pushed away his paper, he laid down his pen, he stretched -himself, and he knew that his great effort had tired him tremendously ---tremendously. - -He looked at his right hand. It was cramped. As he held it up he saw -that it was shaking. He had drunk a great deal of black coffee during -those days, had drunk it recklessly as in the days of youth, when he -cared nothing about health because he felt made of iron. - -"Pf-f-f!" - -And so there was Naples outside, the waters of the Bay dancing in the -sunshine of the bright summer afternoon, people bathing and shouting -to one another from the diving platforms and the cabins; people -galloping by in the little carriages to eat oysters at Posilipo. Lazy, -heedless, pleasure-loving wretches! He thought of Doro as he looked at -them. - -He had given strict orders that he was not to be disturbed while he -was at work, unless Hermione came. And he had not once been disturbed. -Now he rang the bell. An Italian waiter, with crooked eyes and a fair -beard, stepped softly in. - -"Has any one been to see me? Has any one asked for me lately?" he -said. "Just go down, will you, and inquire of the concierge." - -The waiter departed, and returned to say that no one had been for the -Signore. - -"Not the Marchese Isidoro Panacci? - -"The concierge says that no one has been, Signore." - -"Va bene." - -The man went out. - -So Doro had not come even once! Perhaps he was seriously offended. At -their last parting in the Villa he had shown a certain irony that had -in it a hint of bitterness. Artois did not know of the fisherman's -information, that Doro had guessed who was Vere's companion that night -upon the sea. He supposed that his friend was angry because he -believed himself distrusted. Well, that could soon be put right. He -thought of the Marchesino now with lightness, as the worker who has -just made a great and prolonged effort is inclined to think of the -habitual idler. Doro was like a feather on the warm wind of the South. -He, Artois, was not in the mood just then to bother about a feather. -Still less was he inclined for companionship. He wanted some hours of -complete rest out in the air, with gay and frivolous scenes before his -eyes. - -He wanted to look on, but not to join in, the merry life that was -about him, and that for so long a time he had almost violently -ignored. - -He resolved to take a carriage, drive slowly to Posilipo, and eat his -dinner there in some eyrie above the sea; watching the pageant that -unfolds itself on the evenings of summer about the ristoranti and the -osterie, round the stalls of the vendors of Fruitti di Mare, and the -piano-organs, to the accompaniment of which impudent men sing love -songs to the saucy, dark-eyed beauties posed upon balconies, or -gathered in knots upon the little terraces that dominate the bathing -establishments, and the distant traffic of the Bay. His brain longed -for rest, but it longed also for the hum and the stir of men. His -heart lusted for the sight of pleasure, and must be appeased. - -Catching up his hat, almost with the hasty eagerness of a boy, he went -down-stairs. On the opposite side of the road was a smart little -carriage in which the coachman was asleep, with his legs cocked up on -the driver's seat, displaying a pair of startling orange-and-black -socks. By the socks Artois knew his man. - -"Pasqualino! Pasqualino!" he cried. - -The coachman sprang up, showing a round, rosy face, and a pair of -shrewd, rather small dark eyes. - -"Take me to Posilipo." - -"Si, Signore." - -Pasqualino cracked his whip vigorously. - -"Ah--ah! Ah--ah!" he cried to his gayly bedizened little horse, who -wore a long feather on his head, flanked by bunches of artificial -roses. - -"Not too fast, Pasqualino. I am in no hurry. Keep along by the sea." - -The coachman let the reins go loose, and instantly the little horse -went slowly, as if all his spirit and agility had suddenly been -withdrawn from him. - -"I have not seen you for several days, Signore. Have you been ill?" - -Pasqualino had turned quite round on his box, and was facing his -client. - -"No, I've been working." - -"Si?" - -Pasqualino made a grimace, as he nearly always did when he heard a -rich Signore speak of working. - -"And you? You have been spending money as usual. All your clothes are -new." - -Pasqualino smiled, showing rows of splendid teeth under his little -twisted-up mustache. - -"Si, Signore, all! And I have also new underclothing." - -"Per Bacco!" - -"Ecco, Signore!" - -He pulled his trousers up to his knees, showing a pair of pale-blue -drawers. - -"The suspenders--they are new, Signore!" He drew attention to the -scarlet elastics that kept the orange-and-black socks in place. "My -boots!" He put his feet up on the box that Artois might see his lemon- -colored boots, then unbuttoned and threw open his waistcoat. "My shirt -is new! My cravat is new! Look at the pin!" He flourished his plump, -brown, and carefully washed hands. "I have a new ring." He bent his -head. "My hat is new." - -Artois broke into a roar of laughter that seemed to do him good after -his days of work. - -"You young dandy! And where do you get the money?" - -Pasqualino looked doleful and hung his head. - -"Signore, I am in debt. But I say to myself, 'Thank the Madonna, I -have a rich and generous Padrone who wishes his coachman to be chic. -When he sees my clothes he will be contented, and who knows what he -will do?' " - -"Per Bacco! And who is this rich and generous Signore?" - -"Ma!" Pasqualino passionately flung out the ringed hand that was not -holding the reins--"Ma!--you, Signore." - -"You young rascal! Turn round and attend to your driving!" - -But Artois laughed again. The impudent boyishness of Pasqualino, and -his childish passion for finery, were refreshing, and seemed to belong -to a young and thoughtless world. The sea-breeze was soft as silk, the -afternoon sunshine was delicately brilliant. The Bay looked as it -often does in summer--like radiant liberty held in happy arms, -alluring, full of promises. And a physical well-being invaded Artois -such as he had not known since the day when he had tea with Vere upon -the island. - -He had been shut in. Now the gates were thrown open, and to what a -brilliant world! He issued forth into it with almost joyous -expectation. - -They went slowly, and presently drew near to the Rotonda. Artois -leaned a little forward and saw that the fishermen were at work. They -stood in lines upon the pavement pulling at the immense nets which -were still a long way out to sea. When the carriage reached them -Artois told Pasqualino to draw up, and sat watching the work and the -fierce energy of the workers. Half naked, with arms and legs and -chests that gleamed in the sun like copper, they toiled, slanting -backward, one towards another, laughing, shouting, swearing with a -sort of almost angry joy. In their eyes there was a carelessness that -was wild, in their gestures a lack of self-consciousness that was -savage. But they looked like creatures who must live forever. And to -Artois, sedentary for so long, the sight of them brought a feeling -almost of triumph, but also a sensation of envy. Their vigor made him -pine for movement. - -"Drive on slowly, Pasqualino," he said. "I will follow you on foot, -and join you at the hill." - -"Si Signore." - -He got out, stood for a moment, then strolled on towards the -Mergellina. As he approached this part of the town, with its harbor -and its population of fisherfolk, the thought of Ruffo came into his -mind. He remembered that Ruffo lived here. Perhaps he might see the -boy this afternoon. - -On the mole that serves as a slight barrier between the open sea and -the snug little harbor several boys were fishing. Others were bathing, -leaping into the water with shouts from the rocks. Beyond, upon the -slope of dingy sand among the drawn-up boats, children were playing, -the girls generally separated from the boys. Fishermen, in woolen -shirts and white linen trousers, sat smoking in the shadow of their -craft, or leaned muscular arms upon them, standing at ease, staring -into vacancy or calling to each other. On the still water there was a -perpetual movement of boats; and from the distance came a dull but -continuous uproar, the yells and the laughter of hundreds of bathers -at the Stabilimento di Bagni beyond the opposite limit of the harbor. - -Artois enjoyed the open-air gayety, the freedom of the scene; and once -again, as often before, found himself thinking that the out-door life, -the life loosed from formal restrictions, was the only one really and -fully worth living. There was a carelessness, a camaraderie among -these people that was of the essence of humanity. Despite their -frequent quarrels, their intrigues, their betrayals, their vendettas, -they hung together. There was a true and vital companionship among -them. - -He passed on with deliberation, observing closely, yet half-lazily-- -for his brain was slack and needed rest--the different types about -him, musing on the possibilities of their lives, smiling at the -gambols of the intent girls, and the impudent frolics of the little -boys who seemed the very spawn of sand and sea and sun, till he had -nearly passed the harbor, and was opposite to the pathway that leads -down to the jetty, to the left of which lie the steam-yachts. - -At the entrance to this pathway there is always a knot of people -gathered about the shanty where the seamen eat maccaroni and strange -messes, and the stands where shell-fish are exposed for sale. On the -far side of the tramway, beneath the tall houses which are let out in -rooms and apartments for families, there is an open space, and here in -summer are set out quantities of strong tables, at which from noon -till late into the evening the people of Mergellina, and visitors of -the humbler classes from Naples, sit in merry throngs, eating, -smoking, drinking coffee, syrups, and red and white wine. - -Artois stood still for a minute to watch them, to partake from a -distance, and unknown to them, in their boisterous gayety. He had lit -a big cigar, and puffed at it as his eyes roved from group to group, -resting now on a family party, now on a quartet of lovers, now on two -stout men obviously trying to drive a bargain with vigorous rhetoric -and emphatic gestures, now on an elderly woman in a shawl spending an -hour with her soldier son in placid silence, now on some sailors from -a ship in the distant port by the arsenal bent over a game of cards, -or a party of workmen talking wages or politics in their shirt-sleeves -with flowers above their ears. - -What a row they made, these people! Their animation was almost like -the animation of a nightmare. Some were ugly, some looked wicked; -others mischievous, sympathetic, coarse, artful, seductive, boldly -defiant or boisterously excited. But however much they differed, in -one quality they were nearly all alike. They nearly all looked vivid. -If they lacked anything, at least it was not life. Even their sorrows -should be energetic. - -As this thought came into his mind Artois' eyes chanced to rest on two -people sitting a little apart at a table on which stood a coffee-cup, -a thick glass half full of red wine, and a couple of tumblers of -water. One was a woman, the other--yes, the other was Ruffo. - -When Artois realized this he kept his eyes upon them. He forgot his -interest in the crowd. - -At first he could only see Ruffo's side-face. But the woman was -exactly opposite to him. - -She was neatly dressed in some dark stuff, and wore a thin shawl, -purple in color, over her shoulders. She looked middle-aged. Had she -been an Englishwoman Artois would have guessed her to be near fifty. -But as she was evidently a Southerner it was possible that she was -very much younger. Her figure was broad and matronly. Her face, once -probably quite pretty was lined, and had the battered and almost -corrugated look that the faces of Italian women of the lower classes -often reveal when the years begin to increase upon them. The cheek- -bones showed harshly in it, by the long and dark eyes, which were -surrounded by little puckers of yellow flesh. But Artois' attention -was held not by this woman's quite ordinary appearance, but by her -manner. Like the people about her she was vivacious, but her vivacity -was tragic--she had not come here to be gay. Evidently she was in the -excitement of some great grief or passion. She was speaking vehemently -to Ruffo, gesticulating with her dark hands, on which there were two -or three cheap rings, catching at her shawl, swaying her body, nodding -her head, on which the still black hair was piled in heavy masses. And -her face was distorted by an emotion that seemed of sorrow and anger -mingled. In her ears, pretty and almost delicate in contrast to the -ruggedness of her face, were large gold rings, such as Sicilian women -often wear. They swayed in response to her perpetual movements. Artois -watched her lips as they opened and shut, were compressed or thrust -forward, watched her white teeth gleaming. She lifted her two hands, -doubled into fists, till they were on a level with her shoulders, -shook them vehemently, then dashed them down on the table. The coffee- -cup was overturned. She took no notice of it. She was heedless of -everything but the subject which evidently obsessed her. - -The boy, Ruffo, sat quite still listening to her. His attitude was -calm. Now and then he sipped his wine, and presently he took from his -pocket a cigarette, lighted it carefully, and began to smoke. There -was something very boyish and happy-go-lucky in his attitude and -manner. Evidently, Artois thought, he was very much at home with this -middle-aged woman. Probably her vehemence was to him an every-day -affair. She laid one hand on his arm and bent forward. He slightly -shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. She kept her hand on his -arm, went on talking passionately, and suddenly began to weep. Tears -rushed out of her eyes. Then the boy took her hand gently, stroked it, -and began to speak to her, always keeping her hand in his. The woman, -with a despairing movement, laid her face down on the table, with her -forehead touching the wood. Then she lifted it up. The paroxysm seemed -to have passed. She took out a handkerchief from inside the bodice of -her dress and dried her eyes. Ruffo struck the table with his glass. -An attendant came. He paid the bill, and the woman and he got up to -go. As they did so Ruffo presented for a moment his full face to -Artois, and Artois swiftly compared it with the face of the woman, and -felt sure that they were mother and son. - -Artois moved on towards the hill of Posilipo, but after taking a few -steps turned to look back. The woman and Ruffo had come into the road -by the tram-line. They stood there for a moment, talking. Then Ruffo -crossed over to the path, and the woman went away slowly towards the -Rotonda. Seeing Ruffo alone Artois turned to go back, thinking to have -a word with the boy. But before he could reach him he saw a man step -out from behind the wooden shanty of the fishermen and join him. - -This man was Gaspare. - -Ruffo and Gaspare strolled slowly away towards the jetty where the -yachts lie, and presently disappeared. - -Artois found Pasqualino waiting for him rather impatiently not far -from the entrance to the Scoglio di Frisio. - -"I thought you were dead, Signore," he remarked, as Artois came up. - -"I was watching the people." - -He got into the carriage. - -"They are canaglia," said Pasqualino, with the profound contempt of -the Neapolitan coachman for those who get their living by the sea. He -lived at Fuorigrotta, and thought Mergellina a place of outer -darkness. - -"I like them," returned Artois. - -"You don't know them, Signore. I say--they are canaglia. Where shall I -drive you?" - -Artois hesitated, passing in mental review the various ristoranti on -the hill. - -"Take me to the Ristorante della Stella," he said, at length. - -Pasqualino cracked his whip, and drove once more merrily onward. - -When Artois came to the ristorante, which was perched high up on the -side of the road farthest from the sea, he had almost all the tables -to choose from, as it was still early in the evening, and in the -summer the Neapolitans who frequent the more expensive restaurants -usually dine late. He sat down at a table in the open air close to the -railing, from which he could see a grand view of the Bay, as well as -all that was passing on the road beneath, and ordered a dinner to be -ready in half an hour. He was in no hurry, and wanted to finish his -cigar. - -There was a constant traffic below. The tram-bell sounded its -reiterated signal to the crowds of dusty pedestrians to clear the way. -Donkeys toiled upward, drawing carts loaded with vegetables and fruit. -Animated young men, wearing tiny straw hats cocked impertinently to -one side, drove frantically by in light gigs that looked like the -skeletons of carriages, holding a rein in each hand, pulling violently -at their horses' mouths, and shouting "Ah--ah!" as if possessed of the -devil. Smart women made the evening "Passeggiata" in landaus and low -victorias, wearing flamboyant hats, and gazing into the eyes of the -watching men ranged along the low wall on the sea-side with a cool -steadiness that was almost Oriental. Some of them were talking. But by -far the greater number leaned back almost immobile against their -cushions; and their pale faces showed nothing but the languid -consciousness of being observed and, perhaps, desired. Stout -Neapolitan fathers, with bulging eyes, immense brown cheeks, and -peppery mustaches, were promenading with their children and little -dogs, looking lavishly contented with themselves. Young girls went -primly past, holding their narrow, well-dressed heads with a certain -virginal stiffness that was yet not devoid of grace, and casting down -eyes that were supposed not yet to be enlightened. Their governesses -and duennas accompanied them. Barefooted brown children darted in and -out, dodging pedestrians and horses. Priests and black-robed students -chattered vivaciously. School-boys with peaked caps hastened homeward. -The orphans from Queen Margherita's Home, higher up the hill, marched -sturdily through the dust to the sound of a boyish but desperately -martial music. It was a wonderfully vivid world, but the eyes of -Artois wandered away from it, over the terraces, the houses, and the -tree-tops. Their gaze dropped down to the sea. Far off, Capri rose out -of the light mist produced by the heat. And beyond was Sicily. - -Why had that woman, Ruffo's mother, wept just now? What was her -tragedy? he wondered. Accurately he recalled her face, broad now, and -seamed with the wrinkles brought by trouble and the years. - -He recalled, too, Ruffo's attitude as the boy listened to her -vehement, her almost violent harangue. How boyish, how careless it had -been--yet not unkind or even disrespectful, only wonderfully natural -and wonderfully young. - -"He was the deathless boy." - -Suddenly those words started into Artois' mind. Had he read them -somewhere? For a moment he wondered. Or had he heard them? They seemed -to suggest speech, a voice whose intonations he knew. His mind was -still fatigued by work, and would not be commanded by his will. -Keeping his eyes fixed on the ethereal outline of Capri, he strove to -remember, to find the book which had contained these words and given -them to his eyes, or the voice that had spoken them and given them to -his ears. - -"He was the deathless boy." - -A piano-organ struck up below him, a little way up the hill to the -right, and above its hard accompaniment there rose a powerful tenor -voice singing. The song must have been struck forcibly upon some part -of his brain that was sleeping, must have summoned it to activity. For -instantly, ere the voice had sung the first verse, he saw -imaginatively a mountain top in Sicily, evening light--such as was -then shining over and transfiguring Capri--and a woman, Hermione. And -he heard her voice, very soft, with a strange depth and stillness in -it, saying those words: "He was the deathless boy." - -Of course! How could he have forgotten? They had been said of Maurice -Delarey. And now idly, strangely, he had recalled them as he thought -of Ruffo's young and careless attitude by the table of the ristorante -that afternoon. - -The waiter, coming presently to bring the French Signore the plate of -oysters from Fusaro, which he had ordered as the prelude to his -dinner, was surprised by the deep gravity of his face, and said: - -"Don't you like 'A Mergellina,' Signore? We are all mad about it. And -it won the first prize at last year's festa of Piedigrotta." - -"Comment donc?" exclaimed Artois, as if startled. "What?--no--yes. I -like it. It's a capital song. Lemon? That's right--and red pepper. Va -bene!" - -And he bent over his plate rather hurriedly and began to eat. - -The piano-organ and the singing voice died away down the hill, going -towards Mergellina. - -But the effect, curious and surely unreasonable, of the song remained. -Often, while he ate, Artois turned his eyes towards the mountain of -Capri, and each time that he did so he saw, beyond it and its circling -sea, Sicily, Monte Amato, the dying lights on Etna, the evening star -above its plume of smoke, the figure of a woman set in the shadow of -her sorrow, yet almost terribly serene; and then another woman, -sitting at a table, vehemently talking, then bowing down her head -passionately as if in angry grief. - -When he had finished his dinner the sun had set, and night had dropped -down softly over the Bay. Capri had disappeared. The long serpent of -lights had uncoiled itself along the sea. Down below, very far down, -there was the twang and the thin, acute whine of guitars and -mandolines, the throbbing cry of Southern voices. The stars were out -in a deep sky of bloomy purple. There was no chill in the air, but a -voluptuous, brooding warmth, that shed over the city and the waters a -luxurious benediction, giving absolution, surely, to all the sins, to -all the riotous follies of the South. - -Artois rested his arms on the balustrade. - -The ristorante was nearly full now, gay with lights and with a tempest -of talk. The waiter came to ask if the Signore would take coffee. - -Artois hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He realized that his -nerves had been tried enough in these last days and nights. He must -let them rest for a while. - -The waiter went away, and he turned once more towards the sea. -To-night he felt the wonder of Italy, of this part of the land and of -its people, as he had not felt it before, in a new and, as it seemed -to him, a mysterious way. A very modern man and, in his art, a -realist, to-night there was surely something very young alert within -him, something of vague sentimentality that was like an echo from -Byronic days. He felt over-shadowed, but not unpleasantly, by a dim -and exquisite melancholy, in which he thought of nature and of human -nature pathetically, linking them together; those singing voices with -the stars, the women who leaned on balconies to listen with the sea -that was murmuring below them, the fishermen upon that sea with the -deep and marvellous sky that watched their labors. - -In a beautiful and almost magical sadness he too was one with the -night, this night in Italy. It held him softly in its arms. A golden -sadness streamed from the stars. The voices below expressed it. The -fishermen's torches in the Bay, those travelling lights that are as -the eyes of the South searching for charmed things in secret places, -lifted the sorrows of earth towards the stars, and they were golden -too. There was a joy even in the tears wept on such a night as this. - -He loved detail. It was, perhaps, his fault to love it too much. But -now he realized that the magician, Night, knew better than he what -were the qualities of perfection. She had changed Naples into a diaper -of jewels sparkling softly in the void. He knew that behind that -lacework of jewels there were hotels, gaunt and discolored houses full -of poverty, shame, and wickedness, galleries in which men hunted the -things that gratify their lusts, alleys infected with disease and -filth indescribable. He knew it, but he no longer felt it. The glamour -of the magician was upon him. Perhaps behind the stars there were -terrors, too. But who, looking upon them, could believe it? Detail -might create a picture; its withdrawal let in upon the soul the spirit -light of the true magic. - -It was a mistake to search too much, to draw too near, to seek always -to see clearly. - -The Night taught that in Italy, and many things not to be clothed with -words. - -Reluctantly at last he lifted his arms from the balcony rail and got -up to leave the restaurant. He dreaded the bustle of the street. As he -came out into it he heard the sharp "Ting! Ting!" of a tram-bell -higher up the hill, and stepped aside to let the tram go by. Idly he -looked at it as it approached. He was still in the vague, the almost -sentimental mood that had come upon him with the night. The tram came -up level with him and slipped slowly by. There was a number of people -in it, but on the last seat one woman sat alone. He saw her clearly as -she passed, and recognized Hermione. - -She did not see him. She was looking straight before her. - -"Ah-ah! Ah-ah!" - -A shower of objurgations in the Neapolitan dialect fell upon Artois -from the box of a carriage coming up the hill. He jumped back and -gained the path. There again he stood still. The sweet and half- -melancholy vagueness had quite left him now. The sight of his friend -had swept it away. Why was she going to Mergellina at that hour? And -why did she look like that? - -And he thought of the expression he had seen on her face as the tram -slipped by, an expression surely of excitement; but also a furtive -expression. - -Artois had seen Hermione in all her moods, and hers was a very -changeful face. But never before had he seen her look furtive. Nor -could he have conceived it possible that she could look so. - -Perhaps the lights had deceived him. And he had only seen her for an -instant. - -But why was she going to Mergellina? - -Then suddenly it occurred to him that she might be going to Naples, -not to Mergellina at all. He knew no reason why her destination should -be Mergellina. He began to walk down the hill rather quickly. Some -hundreds of yards below the Ristorante della Stella there is a narrow -flight of steps between high walls and houses, which leads eventually -down to the sea at a point where there are usually two or three boats -waiting for hire. Artois, when he started, had no intention of going -to sea that night, but when he reached the steps he paused, and -finally turned from the path and began to descend them. - -He had realized that he was really in pursuit, and abruptly -relinquished his purpose. Why should he wish to interfere with an -intention of Hermione's that night? - -He would return to Naples by sea. - -As he came in sight of the water there rose up to him in a light tenor -voice a melodious cry: - -"Barca! Barca!" - -He answered the call. - -"Barca!" - -The sailor who was below came gayly to meet him. - -"It is a lovely night for the Signore. I could take the Signore to -Sorrento or to Capri to-night." - -He held Artois by the right arm, gently assisting him into the broad- -bottomed boat. - -"I only want to go to Naples." - -"To which landing, Signore?" - -"The Vittoria. But go quietly and keep near the shore. Go round as -near as you can to the Mergellina." - -"Va bene, Signore." - -They slipped out, with a delicious, liquid sound, upon the moving -silence of the sea. - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -Hermione was not going to Mergellina, but to the Scoglio di Frisio. -She had only come out of her room late in the afternoon. During her -seclusion there she had once been disturbed by Gaspare, who had come -to ask her if she wanted him for anything, and, if not, whether he -might go over to Mergellina for the rest of the afternoon to see some -friends he had made there. She told him he was free till night, and he -went away quickly, after one searching, wide-eyed glance at the face -of his Padrona. - -When he had gone Hermione told herself that she was glad he was away. -If he had been on the island she might have been tempted to take one -of the boats, to ask him to row her to the Scoglio that evening. But -now, of course, she would not go. It was true that she could easily -get a boatman from the village on the mainland near by, but without -Gaspare's companionship she would not care to go. So that was settled. -She would think no more about it. She had tea with Vere, and strove -with all her might to be natural, to show no traces in face or manner -of the storm that had swept over her that day. She hoped, she believed -that she was successful. But what a hateful, what an unnatural effort -that was! - -A woman who is not at her ease in her own home with her own girl-- -where can she be at ease? - -It was really the reaction from that effort that sent Hermione from -the island that evening. She felt as if she could not face another -meal with Vere just then. She felt transparent, as if Vere's eyes -would be able to see all that she must hide if they were together in -the evening. And she resolved to go away. She made some excuse--that -she wished for a little change, that she was fidgety and felt the -confinement of the island. - -"I think I'll go over to the village," she said; "and walk up to the -road and take the tram." - -"Will you, Madre?" - -Hermione saw in Vere's eyes that the girl was waiting for something. - -"I'll go by myself, Vere," she said. "I should be bad company to-day. -The black dog is at my heels." - -She laughed, and added: - -"If I am late in coming back, have dinner without me." - -"Very well, Madre." - -Vere waited a moment; then as if desiring to break forcibly through -the restraint that bound them put out her hand to her mother's and -said: - -"Why don't you go to Naples and have dinner with Monsieur Emile? He -would cheer you up, and it is ages since we have seen him." - -"Only two or three days. No, I won't disturb Emile. He may be -working." - -Vere felt that somehow her eager suggestion had deepened the -constraint. She said no more, and Hermione presently crossed over to -the mainland and began her walk to the road that leads from Naples to -Bagnoli. - -Where was she going? What was she really about to do? - -Certainly she would not adopt the suggestion of Vere. Emile was the -last person whom she wished to see--by whom she wished to be seen-- -just then. - -The narrow path turned away from the sea into the shadow of high -banks. She walked very slowly, like one out for a desultory stroll; a -lizard slipped across the warm earth in front of her, almost touching -her foot, climbed the bank swiftly, and vanished among the dry leaves -with a faint rustle. - -She felt quite alone to-day in Italy, and far off, as if she had no -duties, no ties, as if she were one of those solitary, drifting, -middle-aged women who vaguely haunt the beaten tracks of foreign -lands. It was sultry in this path away from the sea. She was sharply -conscious of the change of climate, the inland sensation, the falling -away of the freedom from her, the freedom that seems to exhale from -wave and wind of the wave. - -She walked on, meeting no one and still undecided what to do. The -thought of the Scoglio di Frisio returned to her mind, was dismissed, -returned again. She might go and dine there quietly alone. Was she -deceiving herself, and had she really made up her mind to go to the -Scoglio before she left the island? No, she had come away mainly -because she felt the need of solitude, the difficulty of being with -Vere just for this one night. To-morrow it would be different. It -should be different to-morrow. - -She saw a row of houses in the distance, houses of poor people, and -knew that she was nearing the road. Clothes were hanging to dry. -Children were playing at the edge of a vineyard. Women were washing -linen, men sitting on the doorsteps mending /nasse/. As she went by -she nodded to them, and bade them "Buona sera." They answered -courteously, some with smiling faces, others with grave and searching -looks--or so she thought. - -The tunnel that runs beneath the road at the point where this path -joins it came in sight. And still Hermione did not know what she was -going to do. As she entered the tunnel she heard above her head the -rumble of a tram going towards Naples. This decided her. She hurried -on, turned to the right, and came out on the highway before the little -lonely ristorante that is set here to command the view of vineyards -and of sea. - -The tram was already gliding away at some distance down the road. - -A solitary waiter came forward in his unsuitable black into the dust -to sympathize with the Signora, and to suggest that she should take a -seat and drink some lemon water, or gazzosa, while waiting for the -next tram. Or would not the Signora dine in the upper room and watch -the /tramontare del sole/. It would be splendid this evening. And he -could promise her an excellent risotto, sardines with pomidoro, and a -bifteck such as certainly she could not get in the restaurants of -Naples. - -"Very well," Hermione answered, quickly, "I will dine here, but not -directly--in half an hour or three-quarters." - -What Artois was doing at the Ristorante della Stella she was doing at -the Trattoria del Giardinetto. - -She would dine quietly here, and then walk back to the sea in the cool -of the evening. - -That was her decision. Yet when evening fell, and her bill was paid, -she took the tram that was going down to Naples, and passed presently -before the eyes of Artois. The coming of darkness had revived within -her much of the mood of the afternoon. She felt that she could not go -home without doing something definite, and she resolved to go to the -Scoglio di Frisio, have a cup of coffee there, look through the -visitors' book, and then take a boat and return by night to the -island. The sea wind would cool her, would do her good. - -Nothing told her when the eyes of her friend were for an instant fixed -upon her, when the mind of her friend for a moment wondered at the -strange, new look in her face. She left the tram presently at the -doorway above which is Frisio's name, descended to the little terrace -from which Vere had run in laughing with the Marchesino, and stood -there for a moment hesitating. - -The long restaurant was lit up, and from it came the sound of music-- -guitars, and a voice singing. She recognized the throaty tenor of the -blind man raised in a spurious and sickly rapture: - - "Sa-anta-a Lu-u-ci-ia! Santa Luci--a!" - -It recalled her sharply to the night of the storm. For a moment she -felt again the strange, the unreasonable sense of fear, indefinable -but harsh, which had come upon her then, as fear comes suddenly -sometimes upon a child. - -Then she stepped into the restaurant. - -As on the other night, there were but few people dining there, and -they were away at the far end of the big room. Near them stood the -musicians under a light--seedy, depressed; except the blind man, who -lifted his big head, rolled his tongue, and swelled and grew scarlet -in an effort to be impressive. - -Hermione sat down at the first table. - -For a moment no one saw her. She heard men's voices talking loudly and -gayly, the clatter of plates, the clink of knives and forks. She -looked round for the visitors' book. If it were lying near she thought -she would open it, search for what Emile had written, and then slip -away at once unobserved. - -There was a furtive spirit within her to-night. - -But she could not see the book; so she sat still, listening to the -blind man and gazing at the calm sea just below her. A boat was -waiting there. She could see the cushions, which were white and looked -ghastly in the darkness, the dim form of the rower standing up to -search for clients. - -"Barca! Barca!" - -He had seen her. - -She drew back a little. As she did so her chair made a grating noise, -and instantly the sharp ears of the Padrone caught a sound betokening -the presence of a new-comer in his restaurant. It might be a queen, an -empress! Who could tell? - -With his stiff yet alert military gait, he at once came marching down -towards her, staring hard with his big, bright eyes. When he saw who -it was he threw up his brown hands. - -"The Signora of the storm!" he exclaimed. He moved as if about to turn -around. "I must tell--" - -But Hermione stopped him with a quick, decisive gesture. - -"One moment, Signore." - -The Padrone approached aristocratically. - -"The Marchese Isidoro Panacci is here dining with friends, the Duca -di--" - -"Yes, yes. But I am only here for a moment, so it is not worth while -to tell the Marchese." - -"You are not going to dine, Signora! The food of Frisio does not -please you!" - -He cast up his eyes in deep distress. - -"Indeed it does. But I have dined. What I want is a cup of coffee, and ---and a liqueur--une fine. And may I look over your wonderful -visitors' book? To tell the truth, that is what I have come for, to -see the marvellous book. I hadn't enough time the other night. May I?" - -The Padrone was appeased. He smiled graciously and turned upon his -heels. - -"At once, Signora." - -"And--not a word to the Marchese! He is with friends. I would rather -not disturb him." - -The Padrone threw up his chin and clicked his tongue against his -teeth. A shrewd, though not at all impudent, expression had come into -his face. A Signora alone, at night, in a restaurant! He was a man of -the great world. He understood. What a mercy it was to be "educato"! - -He came back again almost directly, bearing the book as a sacristan -might bear a black-letter Bible. - -"Ecco, Signora." - -With a superb gesture he placed it before her. - -"The coffee, the fine. Attendez, Signora, pour un petit momento." - -He stood to see the effect of his French upon her. She forced into her -face a look of pious admiration, and he at once departed. Hermione -opened the book rather furtively. She had the unpleasant sensation of -doing a surreptitious action, and she was an almost abnormally -straightforward woman by nature. The book was large, and contained an -immense number of inscriptions and signatures in handwritings that -varied as strangely as do the characters of men. She turned the leaves -hastily. Where had Emile written? Not at the end of the book. She -remembered that his signature had been followed by others, although -she had not seen, or tried to see, what he had written. Perhaps his -name was near Tolstoy's. They had read together Tolstoy's /Vedi Napoli -e poi Mori/. - -But where was Tolstoy's name? - -A waiter came with the coffee and the brandy. She thanked him quickly, -sipped the coffee without tasting it, and continued the search. - -The voice of the blind man died away. The guitars ceased. - -She started. She was afraid the musicians would come down and gather -round her. Why had she not told the Padrone she wished to be quite -alone? She heard the shuffle of feet. They were coming. Feverishly she -turned the pages. Ah! here is was! She bent down over the page. - - "La conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons - en nous. EMILE ARTOIS. - - "Nuit d'orage. Juin." - -The guitars began a prelude. The blind man shifted from one fat leg to -another, cast up his sightless eyes, protruded and drew in his tongue, -coughed, spat-- - -"Cameriere!" - -Hermione struck upon the table sharply. She had forgotten all about -the Marchesino. She was full of the desire to escape, to get away and -be out on the sea. - -"Cameriere!" - -She called more loudly. - -A middle-aged waiter came shuffling over the floor. - -"The bill, please." - -As she spoke she drank the brandy. - -"Si, Signora." - -He stood beside her. - -"One coffee?" - -"Si." - -"One cognac!" - -"Si, si." - -The blind man burst into song. - -"One fifty, Signora." - -Hermione gave him a two-lire piece and got up to go. - -"Signora--buona sera! What a pleasure!" - -The Marchesino stood before her, smiling, bowing. He took her hand, -bent over it, and kissed it. - -"What a pleasure!" he repeated, glancing round. "And you are alone! -The Signorina is not here?" - -He stared suspiciously towards the terrace. - -"And our dear friend Emilio?" - -"No, no. I am quite alone." - -The blind man bawled, as if he wished to drown the sound of speech. - -"Please--could you stop him, Marchese?" said Hermione. "I--really-- -give him this for me." - -She gave the Marchese a lira. - -"Signora, it isn't necessary. Silenzio! Silenzio! P-sh-sh-sh!" - -He hissed sharply, almost furiously. The musicians abruptly stopped, -and the blind man made a gurgling sound, as if he were swallowing the -unfinished portion of his song. - -"No; please pay them." - -"It's too much." - -"Never mind." - -The Marchese gave the lire to the blind man, and the musicians went -drearily out. - -Then Hermione held out her hand at once. - -"I must go now. It is late." - -"You are going by sea, Signora?" - -"Yes." - -"I will accompany you." - -"No, indeed. I couldn't think of it. You have friends." - -"They will understand. Have you your own boat?" - -"No." - -"Then of course I shall come with you." - -But Hermione was firm. She knew that to-night the company of this -young man would be absolutely unbearable. - -"Marchese, indeed I cannot--I cannot allow it. We Englishwomen are -very independent, you know. But you may call me a boat and take me -down to it, as you are so kind." - -"With pleasure, Signora." - -He went to the open window. At once the boatman's cry rose up. - -"Barca! Barca!" - -"That is Andrea's voice," said the Marchesino. "I know him. Barca-- -si!" - -The boat began to glide in towards the land. - -As they went out the Marchesino said: - -"And how is the Signorina?" - -"Very well." - -"I have had a touch of fever, Signora, or I should have come over to -the island again. I stayed too long in the sea the other day, or--" He -shrugged his shoulders. - -"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "You are very pale to-night." - -For the first time she looked at him closely, and saw that his face -was white, and that his big and boyish eyes held a tired and yet -excited expression. - -"It is nothing. It has passed. And our friend--Emilio? How is he?" - -A hardness had come into his voice. Hermione noticed it. - -"We have not seen him lately. I suppose he has been busy." - -"Probably. Emilio has much to do in Naples," said the Marchesino, with -an unmistakable sneer. "Do allow me to escort you to the island, -Signora." - -They had reached the boat. Hermione shook her head and stepped in at -once. - -"Then when may I come?" - -"Whenever you like." - -"To-morrow?" - -"Certainly." - -"At what time?" - -Hermione suddenly remembered his hospitality and felt that she ought -to return it. - -"Come to lunch--half-past twelve. We shall be quite alone." - -"Signora, for loneliness with you and the Signorina I would give up -every friend I have ever had. I would give up--" - -"Half-past twelve, then, Marchese. Addio!" - -"A rivederci, Signora! A demain! Andrea, take care of the Signora. -Treat her as you would treat the Madonna. Do you hear?" - -The boatman grinned and took off his cap, and the boat glided away -across the path of yellow light that was shed from the window of -Frisio's. - -Hermione leaned back against the white cushions. She was thankful to -escape. She felt tired and confused. That dreadful music had -distracted her, that--and something else, her tricked expectation. She -knew now that she had been very foolish, perhaps even very fantastic. -She had felt so sure that Emile had written in that book--what? - -As the boat went softly on she asked herself exactly what she had -expected to find written there, and she realized that her imagination -had, as so often before, been galloping like a frightened horse with -the reins upon its neck. And then she began to consider what he had -written. - -"La conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons en -nous." - -She did not know the words. Were they his own or another's? And had he -written them simply because they had chanced to come into his mind at -the moment, or because they expressed some underthought or feeling -that had surged up in him just then? She wished she knew. - -It was a fine saying, she thought, but for the moment she was less -interested in it than in Emile's mood, his mind, when he had written -it. She realized now, on this calm of the sea, how absurd had been the -thought that a man so subtle as Emile would flagrantly reveal a -passing phase of his nature, a secret irritability, a jealousy, -perhaps, or a sudden hatred in a sentence written for any eyes that -chose to see. But he might covertly reveal himself to one who -understood him well. - -She sat still, trying to match her subtlety against his. - -From the shore came sounds of changing music, low down or falling to -them from the illuminated heights where people were making merry in -the night. Now and then a boat passed them. In one, young men were -singing, and interrupting their song to shout with laughter. Here and -there a fisherman's torch glided like a great fire-fly above the oily -darkness of the sea. The distant trees of the gardens climbing up the -hill made an ebony blackness beneath the stars, a blackness that -suggested impenetrable beauty that lay deep down with hidden face. And -the lights dispersed among them, gaining significance by their -solitude, seemed to summon adventurous or romantic spirits to come to -them by secret paths and learn their revelation. Over the sea lay a -delicate warmth, not tropical, not enervating, but softly inspiring. -And beyond the circling lamps of Naples Vesuvius lit up the firmament -with a torrent of rose-colored fire that glowed and died, and glowed -again, constantly as beats a heart. - -And to Hermione came a melancholy devoid of all violence, soft almost -as the warmth upon this sea, quite as the resignation of the -fatalistic East. She felt herself for a moment such a tiny, dark thing -caught in the meshes of the great net of the Universe, this Universe -that she could never understand. What could she do? She must just sink -down upon the breast of this mystery, let it take her, hold her, do -with her what it would. - -Her subtlety against Emile's! She smiled to herself in the dark. What -a combat of midgets! She seemed to see two marionettes battling in the -desert. - -And yet--and yet! She remembered a saying of Flaubert's, that man is -like a nomad journeying on a camel through the desert; and he is the -nomad, and the camel--and the desert. - -How true that was, for even now, as she felt herself to be nothing, -she felt herself to be tremendous. - -She heard the sound of oars from the darkness before them, and saw the -dim outline of a boat, then the eyes of Emile looking straight into -hers. - -"Emile!" - -"Hermione!" - -His face was gone. But yielding to her impulse she made Andrea stop, -and, turning round, saw that the other boat had also stopped a little -way from hers. It began to back, and in a moment was level with them. - -"Emile! How strange to meet you! Have--you haven't been to the -island?" - -"No. I was tired. I have been working very hard. I dined quietly at -Posilipo." - -He did not ask her where she had been. - -"Yes. I think you look tired," she said. He did not speak, and she -added: "I felt restless, so I took the tram from the Trattoria del -Giardinetto as far as the Scoglio di Frisio, and am going back, as you -see, by boat." - -"It is exquisite on the sea to-night," he said. - -"Yes, exquisite, it makes one sad." - -She remembered all she had been through that day, as she looked at his -powerful face. - -"Yes," he answered. "It makes one sad." - -For a moment she felt that they were in perfect sympathy, as they used -to be. Their sadness, born of the dreaming hour, united them. - -"Come soon to the island, dear Emile," she said, suddenly and with the -impulsiveness that was part of her, forgetting all her jealousy and -all her shadowy fears. "I have missed you." - -He noticed that she ruled out Vere in that sentence; but the warmth of -her voice stirred warmth in him, and he answered: - -"Let me come to-morrow." - -"Do--do!" - -"In the morning, to lunch, and to spend a long day." - -Suddenly she remembered the Marchesino and the sound of his voice when -he had spoken of his friend. - -"Lunch?" she said. - -Instantly he caught her hesitation, her dubiety. - -"It isn't convenient, perhaps?" - -"Perfectly, only--only the Marchesino is coming." - -"To-morrow--To lunch?" - -The hardness of the Marchesino's voice was echoed now in the voice of -Artois. There was antagonism between these men. Hermione realized it. - -"Yes. I invited him this evening." - -There was a slight pause. Then Artois said: - -"I'll come some other day, Hermione. Well, my friend, au revoir, and -bon voyage to the island." - -His voice had suddenly become cold, and he signed to his boatman. - -"Avanti!" - -The boat slipped away and was lost in the darkness. - -Hermione had said nothing. Once again--why, she did not know--her -friend had made her feel guilty. - -Andrea, the boatman, still paused. Now she saw him staring into her -face, and she felt like a woman publicly deserted, almost humiliated. - -"Avanti, Andrea!" she said. - -Her voice trembled as she spoke. - -He bent to his oars and rowed on. - -And man is the nomad, and the camel--and the desert. - -Yes, she carried the desert within her, and she was wandering in it -alone. She saw herself, a poor, starved, shrinking figure, travelling -through a vast, a burning, a waterless expanse, with an iron sky above -her, a brazen land beneath. She was in rags, barefoot, like the -poorest nomad of them all. - -But even the poorest nomad carries something. - -Against her breast, to her heart, she clasped--a memory--the sacred -memory of him who had loved her, who had taken her to be his, who had -given her himself. - - - -CHAPTER XX - -That night when Hermione drew near to the island she saw the Saint's -light shining, and remembered how, in the storm, she had longed for it ---how, when she had seen it above the roaring sea, she had felt that -it was a good omen. To-night it meant nothing to her. It was just a -lamp lit, as a lamp might be lit in a street, to give illumination in -darkness to any one who passed. She wondered why she had thought of it -so strangely. - -Gaspare met her at the landing. She noticed at once a suppressed -excitement in his manner. He looked at Andrea keenly and suspiciously. - -"How late you are, Signora!" - -He put out his strong arm to help her to the land. - -"Am I, Gaspare? Yes, I suppose I am--you ought all to be in bed." - -"I should not go to bed while you were out, Signora." - -Again she linked Gaspare with her memory, saw the nomad not quite -alone on the journey. - -"I know." - -"Have you been to Naples, Signora?" - -"No--only to--" - -"To Mergellina?" - -He interrupted her almost sharply. - -"No, to the Scoglio di Frisio. Pay the boatman this, Gaspare. Good- -night, Andrea." - -"Good-night, Signora." - -Gaspare handed the man his money, and at once the boat set out on its -return to Posilipo. - -Hermione stood at the water's edge watching its departure. It passed -below the Saint, and the gleam of his light fell upon it for a moment. -In the gleam the black figure of Andrea was visible stooping to the -water. He was making the fishermen's sign of the Cross. The cross on -Peppina's face--was it an enemy of the Cross that carried with it San -Francesco's blessing? Vere's imagination! She turned to go up to the -house. - -"Is the Signorina in bed yet, Gaspare?" - -"No, Signora." - -"Where is she? Still out?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"Did she think I was lost?" - -"Signora, the Signorina is on the cliff with Ruffo." - -"With Ruffo?" - -They were going up the steps. - -"Si, Signora. We have all been together." - -Hermione guessed that Gaspare had been playing chaperone, and loved -him for it. - -"And you heard the boat coming from the cliff?" - -"I saw it pass under the Saint's light, Signora. I did not hear it." - -"Well, but it might have been a fisherman's boat." - -"Si, Signora. And it might have been your boat." - -The logic of this faithful watcher was unanswerable. They came up to -the house. - -"I think I'll go and see Ruffo," said Hermione. - -She was close to the door of the house, Gaspare stood immediately -before her. He did not move now, but he said: - -"I can go and tell the Signorina you are here, Signora. She will come -at once." - -Again Hermione noticed a curious, almost dogged, excitement in his -manner. It recalled to her a night of years ago when he had stood on a -terrace beside her in the darkness and had said: "I will go down to -the sea. Signora, let me go down to the sea!" - -"There's nothing the matter, is there, Gaspare?" she said, quickly. -"Nothing wrong?" - -"Signora, of course not! What should there be?" - -"I don't know." - -"I will fetch the Signorina." - -On that night, years ago, she had battled with Gaspare. He had been -forced to yield to her. Now she yielded to him. - -"Very well," she answered. "Go and tell the Signorina I am here." - -She turned and went into the house and up to the sitting-room. Vere -did not come immediately. To her mother it seemed as if she was a very -long time coming; but at last her light step fell on the stairs, and -she entered quickly. - -"Madre! How late you are! Where have you been?" - -"Am I late? I dined at the little restaurant at the top of the hill -where the tram passes." - -"There? But you haven't been there all this time?" - -"No. Afterwards I took the tram to Posilipo and came home by boat. And -what have you been doing?" - -"Oh, all sorts of things--what I always do. Just now I've been with -Ruffo." - -"Gaspare told me he was here." - -"Yes. We've been having a talk." - -Hermione waited for Vere to say something more, but she was silent. -She stood near the window looking out, and the expression on her face -had become rather vague, as if her mind had gone on a journey. - -"Well," said the mother at last, "and what does Ruffo say for himself, -Vere?" - -"Ruffo? Oh, I don't know." - -She paused, then added: - -"I think he has rather a hard time, do you know, Madre?" - -Hermione had taken off her hat. She laid it on a table and sat down. -She was feeling tired. - -"But generally he looks so gay, so strong. Don't you remember that -first day you saw him?" - -"Ah--then!" - -"Of course, when he had fever--" - -"No, it wasn't that. Any one might be ill. I think he has things at -home to make him unhappy sometimes." - -"Has he been telling you so?" - -"Oh, he doesn't complain," Vere said, quickly, and almost with a touch -of heat. "A boy like that couldn't whine, you know, Madre. But one can -understand things without hearing them said. There is some trouble. I -don't know what it is exactly. But I think his step-father--his -Patrigno, as he calls him--must have got into some bother, or done -something horrible. Ruffo seemed to want to tell me, and yet not to -want to tell me. And, of course, I couldn't ask. I think he'll tell me -to-morrow, perhaps." - -"Is he coming here to-morrow?" - -"Oh, in summer I think he comes nearly every night." - -"But you haven't said anything about him just lately." - -"No. Because he hasn't landed till to-night since the night of the -storm." - -"I wonder why?" said Hermione. - -She was interested; but she still felt tired, and the fatigue crept -into her voice. - -"So do I," Vere said. "He had a reason, I'm sure. You're tired Madre, -so I'll go to bed. Good-night." - -She came to her mother and kissed her. Moved by a sudden overwhelming -impulse of tenderness, Hermione put her arms round the child's slim -body. But even as she did so she remembered Vere's secret, shared with -Emile and not with her. She could not abruptly loose her arms without -surprising her child. But they seemed to her to stiffen, against her -will, and her embrace was surely mechanical. She wondered if Vere -noticed this, but she did not look into her eyes to see. - -"Good-night, Vere." - -"Good-night." - -Vere was at the door when Hermione remembered her two meetings of that -evening. - -"By-the-way," she said, "I met the Marchesino to-night. He was at the -Scoglio di Frisio." - -"Was he?" - -"And afterwards on the sea I met Emile." - -"Monsieur Emile! Then he isn't quite dead!" - -There was a sound almost of irritation in Vere's voice. - -"He has been working very hard." - -"Oh, I see." - -Her voice had softened. - -"The Marchesino is coming here to lunch to-morrow." - -"Oh, Madre!" - -"Does he bore you? I had to ask him to something after accepting his -dinner, Vere." - -"Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right." - -She stood by the door with her bright, expressive eyes fixed on her -mother. Her dark hair had been a little roughened by the breeze from -Ischia, and stuck up just above the forehead, giving to her face an -odd, almost a boyish look. - -"What is it, Vere?" - -"And when is Monsieur Emile coming? Didn't he say?" - -"No. He suggested to-morrow, but when I told him the Marchese was -coming he said he wouldn't." - -As Hermione said this she looked very steadily at her child. Vere's -eyes did not fall, but met hers simply, fearlessly, yet not quite -childishly. - -"I don't wonder," she said. "To tell the truth, Madre, I can't see how -a man like the Marchesino could interest a man like Monsieur Emile--at -any rate, for long. Well--" She gave a little sigh, throwing up her -pretty chin. "A letto si va!" - -And she vanished. - -When she had gone Hermione thought she too would go to bed. She was -very tired. She ought to go. Yet now she suddenly felt reluctant to -go, and as if the doings of the day for her were not yet over. And, -besides, she was not going to sleep well. That was certain. The dry, -the almost sandy sensation of insomnia was upon her. What was the -matter with Gaspare to-night? Perhaps he had had a quarrel with some -one at Mergellina. He had a strong temper as well as a loyal heart. - -Hermione went to a window. The breeze from Ischia touched her. She -opened her lips, shut her eyes, drank it in. It would be delicious to -spend the whole night upon the sea, like Ruffo. Had he gone yet? Or -was he in the boat asleep, perhaps in the Saint's Pool? How interested -Vere was in all the doings of that boy--how innocently, charmingly -interested! - -Hermione stood by the window for two or three minutes, then went out -of the room, down the stairs, to the front door of the house. It was -already locked. Yet Gaspare had not come up to say good-night to her. -And he always did that before he went to bed. She unlocked the door, -went out, shut it behind her, and stood still. - -How strangely beautiful and touching the faint noise of the sea round -the island was at night, and how full of meaning not quite to be -divined! It came upon her heart like the whisper of a world trying to -tell its secret to the darkness. What depths, what subtleties, what -unfailing revelations of beauty, and surely, too, of love, there were -in Nature! And yet in Nature what terrible indifference there was: a -powerful, an almost terrific inattention, like that of the sphinx that -gazes at what men cannot see. Hermione moved away from the house. She -walked to the brow of the island and sat down on the seat that Vere -was fond of. Presently she would go to the bridge and look over into -the Pool and listen for the voices of the fishermen. She sat there for -some time gaining a certain peace, losing something of her feeling of -weary excitement and desolation under the stars. At last she thought -that sleep might come if she went to bed. But before doing so she made -her way to the bridge and leaned on the rail, looking down into the -Pool. - -It was very dark, but she saw the shadowy shape of a fishing-boat -lying close to the rock. She stood and watched it, and presently she -lost herself in a thicket of night thoughts, and forgot where she was -and why she had come there. She was recalled by hearing a very faint -voice singing, scarcely more than humming, beneath her. - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate - Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: - Mi destan le dolcissime serate - Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -It was the same song that Artois had heard that day as he leaned on -the balcony of the Ristorante della Stella. But this singer of it sang -the Italian words, and not the dialetto. The song that wins the prize -at the Piedigrotta Festival is on the lips of every one in Naples. In -houses, in streets, in the harbor, in every piazza, and upon the sea -it is heard incessantly. - -And now Ruffo was singing it softly and rather proudly in the Italian, -to attract the attention of the dark figure he saw above him. He was -not certain who it was, but he thought it was the mother of the -Signorina, and--he did not exactly know why--he wished her to find out -that he was there, squatting on the dry rock with his back against the -cliff wall. The ladies of the Casa del Mare had been very kind to him, -and to-night he was not very happy, and vaguely he longed for -sympathy. - -Hermione listened to the pretty, tripping words, the happy, youthful -words. And Ruffo sang them again, still very softly. - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate--" - -And the poor nomad wandering in the desert? But she had known the -rapture of youth, the sweet white moons of summer in the South. She -had known them long ago for a little while, and therefore she knew -them while she lived. A woman's heart is tenacious, and wide as the -world, when it contains that world which is the memory of something -perfect that gave it satisfaction. - - "Mi destan le dolcissime serate - Gli occhi do Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -Dear happy, lovable youth that can sing to itself like that in the -deep night! Like that once Maurice, her sacred possession of youth, -sang. She felt a rush of tenderness for Ruffo, just because he was so -young, and sang--and brought back to her the piercing truth of the -everlasting renewal that goes hand in hand with the everlasting -passing away. - -"Ruffo--Ruffo!" - -Almost as Vere had once called "Pescator!" she called. And as Ruffo -had once come running up to Vere he came now to Vere's mother. - -"Good-evening, Ruffo." - -"Good-evening, Signora." - -She was looking at the boy as at a mystery which yet she could -understand. And he looked at her simply, with a sort of fearless -gentleness, and readiness to receive the kindness which he knew dwealt -in her for him to take. - -"Are you better?" - -"Si, Signora, much better. The fever has gone. I am strong, you know." - -"You are so young." - -She could not help saying it, and her eyes were tender just then. - -"Si, Signora, I am very young." - -His simple voice almost made her laugh, stirred in her that sweet -humor which has its dwelling at the core of the heart. - -"Young and happy," she said. - -And as she said it she remembered Vere's words that evening; "I think -he has rather a hard time." - -"At least, I hope you are happy, Ruffo," she added. - -"Si, Signora." - -He looked at her. She was not sure which he meant, whether his assent -was to her hope or to the fact of his happiness. She wondered which it -was. - -"Young people ought to be happy," she said. - -"Ought they, Signora?" - -"You like your life, don't you? You like the sea?" - -"Si, Signora. I could not live away from the sea. If I could not see -the sea every day I don't know what I should do." - -"I love it, too." - -"The Signorina loves the sea." - -He had ignored her love for it and seized on Vere's. She thought that -this was very characteristic of his youth. - -"Yes. She loves being here. You talked to her to-night, didn't you?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"And to Gaspare?" - -"Si, Signora. And this afternoon, too. Gaspare was at Mergellina this -afternoon." - -"And you met there, did you?" - -"Si, Signora. I had been with my mamma, and when I left my mamma-- -poveretta--I met Gaspare." - -"I hope your mother is well." - -"Signora, she is not very well just now. She is a little sad just -now." - -Hermione felt that the boy had some trouble which, perhaps, he would -like to tell her. Perhaps some instinct made him know that she felt -tender towards him, very tender that night. - -"I am sorry for that," she said--"very sorry." - -"Si, Signora. There is trouble in our house." - -"What is it, Ruffo?" - -The boy hesitated to answer. He moved his bare feet on the bridge and -looked down towards the boat. Hermione did not press him, said -nothing. - -"Signora," Ruffo said, at last, coming to a decision, "my Patrigno is -not a good man. He makes my mamma jealous. He goes after others." - -It was the old story of the South, then! Hermione knew something of -the persistent infidelities of Neapolitan men. Poor women who had to -suffer them! - -"I am sorry for your mother," she said, gently. "That must be very -hard." - -"Si, Signora, it is hard. My mamma was very unhappy to-day. She put -her head on the table, and she cried. But that was because my Patrigno -is put in prison." - -"In prison! What has he done?" - -Ruffo looked at her, and she saw that the simple expression had gone -out of his eyes. - -"Signora, I thought perhaps you knew." - -"I? But I have never seen your step-father." - -"No, Signora. But--but you have that girl here in your house." - -"What girl?" - -Suddenly, almost while she was speaking, Hermione understood. - -"Peppina!" she said. "It was your Patrigno who wounded Peppina?" - -"Si, Signora." - -There was a silence between them. Then Hermione said, gently: - -"I am very sorry for your poor mother, Ruffo--very sorry. Tell me, can -she manage? About money, I mean?" - -"It is not so much the money she was crying about, Signora. But, of -course, while Patrigno is in prison he cannot earn money for her. I -shall give her my money. But my mamma does not like all the neighbors -knowing about that girl. It is a shame for her." - -"Yes, of course it is. It is very hard." - -She thought a moment. Then she said: - -"It must be horrible--horrible!" - -She spoke with all the vehemence of her nature. Again, as long ago, -when she knelt before a mountain shrine in the night, she had put -herself imaginatively in the place of a woman, this time in the place -of Ruffo's mother. She realized how she would have felt if her -husband, her "man," had ever been faithless to her. - -Ruffo looked at her almost in surprise. - -"I wish I could see your poor mother, Ruffo," she said. "I would go to -see her, only--well, you see, I have Peppina here, and--" - -She broke off. Perhaps the boy would not understand what she -considered the awkwardness of the situation. She did not quite know -how these people regarded certain things. - -"Wait here a moment, Ruffo," she said. "I am going to give you -something for your mother. I won't be a moment." - -"Grazie, Signora." - -Hermione went away to the house. The perfect naturalness and -simplicity of the boy appealed to her. She was pleased, too, that he -had not told all this to Vere. It showed a true feeling of delicacy. -And she was sure he was a good son. She went up to her room, got two -ten lira notes, and went quickly back to Ruffo, who was standing upon -the bridge. - -"There, Ruffo," she said, giving them to him. "These are for your -mother." - -The boy's brown face flushed, and into his eyes there came an -expression of almost melting gentleness. - -"Oh, Signora!" he said. - -And there was a note of protest in his voice. - -"Take them to her, Ruffo. And--and I want you to promise me something. -Will you?" - -"Si, Signora. I will do anything--anything for you." - -Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. - -"Be very, very kind to your poor mother, Ruffo." - -"Signora, I always am good for my poor mamma." - -He spoke with warm eagerness. - -"I am sure you are. But just now, when she is sad, be very good to -her." - -"Si, Signora." - -She took her hand from the boy's shoulder. He bent to kiss her hand, -and again, as he was lifting up his head, she saw the melting look in -his eyes. This time it was unmingled with amazement, and it startled -her. - -"Oh, Ruffo!" she said, and stopped, staring at him in the darkness. - -"Signora! What is it? What have you?" - -"Nothing. Good-night, Ruffo." - -"Good-night, Signora." - -He took off his cap and ran down to the boat. Hermione leaned over the -railing, bending down to see the boy reappear below. When he came he -looked like a shadow. From this shadow there rose a voice singing very -softly. - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate--" - -The shadow went over to the boat, and the voice died away. - - "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -Hermione still was bending down. And she formed the last words with -lips that trembled a little. - - "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -Then she said: "Maurice--Maurice!" - -And then she stood trembling. - -Yes, it was Maurice whom she had seen again for an instant in the -melting look of Ruffo's face. She felt frightened in the dark. Maurice ---when he kissed her for the last time, had looked at her like that. -It could not be fancy. It was not. - -Was this the very first time she had noticed in Ruffo a likeness to -her dead husband? She asked herself if it was. Yes. She had never--or -had there been something? Not in the face, perhaps. But--the voice? -Ruffo's singing? His attitude as he stood up in the boat? Had there -not been something? She remembered her conversation with Artois in the -cave. She had said to him that--she did not know why--the boy, Ruffo, -had made her feel, had stirred up within her slumbering desires, -slumbering yearnings. - -"I have heard a hundred boys sing on the Bay--and just this one -touches some chord, and all the strings of my soul quiver." - -She had said that. - -Then there was something in the boy, something not merely fleeting -like that look of gentleness--something permanent, subtle, that -resembled Maurice. - -Now she no longer felt frightened, but she had a passionate wish to go -down to the boat, to see Ruffo again, to be with him again, now that -she was awake to this strange, and perhaps only faint, imitation by -another of the one whom she had lost. No--not imitation; this -fragmentary reproduction of some characteristic, some-- - -She lifted herself up from the railing. And now she knew that her eyes -were wet. She wiped them with her handkerchief, drew a deep breath, -and went back to the house. She felt for the handle of the door, and, -when she found it, opened the door, went in, and shut it rather -heavily, then locked it. As she bent down to push home the bolt at the -bottom a voice called out: - -"Who's there?" - -She was startled and turned quickly. - -"Gaspare!" - -He stood before her half dressed, with his hair over his eyes, and a -revolver in his hand. - -"Signora! It is you!" - -"Si. What did you think? That it was a robber?" - -Gaspare looked at her almost sternly, went to the door, bent down and -bolted it, then he said: - -"Signora, I heard a noise in the house a few minutes ago. I listened, -but I heard nothing more. Still, I thought it best to get up. I had -just put on my clothes when again I heard a noise at the door. I -myself had locked it for the night. What should I think?" - -"I was outside. I came back for something. That was what you heard. -Then I went out again." - -"Si." - -He stood there staring at her in a way that seemed, she fancied, to -rebuke her. She knew that he wished to know why she had gone out so -late, returned to the house, then gone out once more. - -"Come up-stairs for a minute, Gaspare," she said. "I want to speak to -you." - -He looked less stern, but still unlike himself. - -"Si, Signora. Shall I put on my jacket?" - -"No, no, never mind. Come like that." - -She went up-stairs, treading softly, lest she might disturb Vere. He -followed. When they were in her sitting-room she said: - -"Gaspare, why did you go to bed without coming to say good-night to -me?" - -He looked rather confused. - -"Did I forget, Signora? I was tired. Forgive me." - -"I don't know whether you forgot. But you never came." - -As Hermione spoke, suddenly she felt as if Gaspare, too, were going, -perhaps, to drift from her. She looked at him with an almost sharp -intensity which hardened her whole face. Was he, too, being insincere -with her, he whom she trusted implicitly? - -"Did you forget, Gaspare?" she said. - -"Signora," he repeated, with a certain, almost ugly doggedness, "I was -tired. Forgive me." - -She felt sure that he had chosen deliberately not to come to her for -the evening salutation. It was a trifle, yet to-night it hurt her. For -a moment she was silent, and he was silent, looking down at the floor. -Then she opened her lips to dismiss him. She intended to say a curt -"Good-night"; but--no--she could not let Gaspare retreat from her -behind impenetrable walls of obstinate reserve. And she did know his -nature through and through. If he was odd to-night, unlike himself, -there was some reason for it; and it could not be a reason that, known -to her, would make her think badly of him. She was certain of that. - -"Never mind, Gaspare," she said gently. "But I like you to come and -say good-night to me. I am accustomed to that, and I miss it if you -don't come." - -"Si, Signora," he said, in a very low voice. - -He turned a little away from her, and made a small noise with his nose -as if he had a cold. - -"Gaspare," she said, with an impulse to be frank, "I saw Ruffo -to-night." - -He turned round quickly. She saw moisture in his eyes, but they were -shining almost fiercely. - -"He told me something about his Patrigno. Did you know it?" - -"His Patrigno and Peppina?" - -Hermione nodded. - -"Si Signora; Ruffo told me." - -"I gave the boy something for his mother." - -"His mother--why?" - -There was quick suspicion in Gaspare's voice. - -"Poor woman! Because of all this trouble. Her husband is in prison." - -"Lo so. But he will soon be out again. He is 'protected.' " - -"Who protects him?" - -But Gaspare evaded the answer, and substituted something that was -almost a rebuke. - -"Signora," he said, bluntly, if I were you I would not have anything -to do with these people. Ruffo's Patrigno is a bad man. Better leave -them alone." - -"But, Ruffo?" - -"Signora?" - -"You like him, don't you?" - -"Si, Signora. There is no harm in him." - -"And the poor mother?" - -"I am not friends with his mother, Signora. I do not want to be." - -Hermione was surprised by his harshness. - -"But why not?" - -"There are people at Mergellina who are bad people," he said. "We are -not Neapolitan. We had better keep to ourselves. You have too much -heart, Signora, a great deal too much heart, and you do not always -know what people are." - -"Do you think I ought not to have given Ruffo that money for his -mother?" Hermione asked, almost meekly. - -"Si, Signora. It is not for you to give his mother money. It is not -for you." - -"Well, Gaspare, it's done now." - -"Si, it's done now." - -"You don't think Ruffo bad, do you?" - -After a pause, Gaspare answered: - -"No, Signora. Ruffo is not bad." - -Hermione hesitated. She wanted to ask Gaspare something, but she was -not sure that the opportunity was a good one. He was odd to-night. His -temper had surely been upset. Perhaps it would be better to wait. She -decided not to speak of what was in her mind. - -"Well, Gaspare, good-night," she said. - -"Good-night, Signora." - -She smiled at him. - -"You see, after all, you have had to say good-night to me!" - -"Signora," he answered, earnestly, "even if I do not come to say good- -night to you always, I shall stay with you till death." - -Again he made the little noise with his nose, as he turned away and -went out of the room. - -That night, as she got into bed, Hermione called down on that faithful -watch-dog's dark head a blessing, the best that heaven contained for -him. Then she put out the light, and lay awake so long that when a -boat came round the cliff from the Saint's Pool to the open sea, in -the hour before the dawn, she heard the soft splash of the oars in the -water and the sound of a boy's voice singing. - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate - Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: - Mi destan le dolcissime serate - Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -She lifted herself up on her pillow and listened--listened until -across the sea, going towards the dawn, the song was lost. - - "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -When the voice was near, had not Maurice seemed near to her? And when -it died away, did not he fade with it--fade until the Ionian waters -took him? - -She sat up in the darkness until long after the song was hushed. But -she heard it still in the whisper of the sea. - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -The Marchesino had really been unwell, as he had told Hermione. The -Panacci disposition, of which he had once spoken to Artois, was -certainly not a calm one, and Isidoro, was, perhaps, the most -excitable member of an abundantly excitable family. Although -changeable, he was vehement. He knew not the meaning of the word -patience, and had always been accustomed to get what he wanted exactly -when he wanted it. Delay in the gratification of his desires, -opposition to his demands, rendered him as indignant as if he were a -spoiled child unable to understand the fixed position and function of -the moon. And since the night of his vain singing along the shore to -the Nisida he had been ill with fever, brought on by jealousy and -disappointment, brought on partly also by the busy workings of a -heated imagination which painted his friend Emilio in colors of inky -black. - -The Marchesino had not the faintest doubt that Artois was in love with -Vere. He believed this not from any evidence of his eyes, for, even -now, in not very lucid moments, he could not recall any occasion on -which he had seen Emilio paying court to the pretty English girl. But, -then, he had only seen them together twice--on the night of his first -visit to the island and on the night of the storm. It was the general -conduct of his friend that convinced him, conduct in connection not -with Vere, but with himself--apart from that one occasion when Emilio -must have lain hidden with Vere among the shadows of the grotto of -Virgil. He had been deceived by Emilio. He had thought of him as an -intellectual, who was also a bon vivant and interested in Neapolitan -life. But he had not thought of him as a libertine. Yet that was what -he certainly was. The interview with Maria Fortunata in the alley -beyond the Via Roma had quite convinced the Marchesino. He had no -objection whatever to loose conduct, but he had a contempt for -hypocrisy which was strong and genuine. He had trusted Emilio. Now he -distrusted him, and was ready to see subtlety, deceit, and guile in -all his undertakings. - -Emilio had been trying to play with him. Emilio looked upon him as a -boy who knew nothing of the world. The difference in their respective -ages, so long ignored by him, now glared perpetually upon the -Marchesino, even roused within him a certain condemnatory something -that was almost akin to moral sense, a rare enough bird in Naples. He -said to himself that Emilio was a wicked old man, "un vecchio -briccone." The delights of sin were the prerogative of youth. Abruptly -this illuminating fact swam, like a new comet, within the ken of the -Marchesino. He towered towards the heights of virtuous indignation. As -he lay upon his fevered pillow, drinking a tisane prepared by his -anxious mamma, he understood the inner beauty of settling down--for -the old, and white-haired age, still intent upon having its fling, -appeared to him so truly pitiable and disgusting that he could almost -have wept for Emilio had he not feared to make himself more feverish -by such an act of enlightened friendship. - -And the sense and appreciation of the true morality, ravishing in its -utter novelty for the young barbarian, was cherished by the Marchesino -until he began almost to swell with virtue, and to start on stilts to -heaven, big with the message that wickedness was for the young and -must not be meddled with by any one over thirty--the age at which, -till now, he had always proposed to himself to marry some rich girl -and settle down to the rigid asceticism of Neapolitan wedded life. - -And as the Marchesino had lain in bed tingling with morality, so did -he get up and issue forth to the world, and even set sail upon the -following day for the island. Morality was thick upon him, as upon -that "briccone" Emilio, something else was thick. About mediaeval -chivalry he knew precisely nothing. Yet, as the white wings of his -pretty yacht caught the light breeze of morning, he felt like a most -virtuous knight /sans peur et sans reproche/. He even felt like a -steady-going person with a mission. - -But he wished he thoroughly understood the English nation. Towards the -English he felt friendly, as do most Italians; but he knew little of -them, except that they were very rich, lived in a perpetual fog, and -were "un poco pazzi." But the question was how mad--in other words, -how different from Neapolitans--they were! He wished he knew. It would -make things easier for him in his campaign against Emilio. - -Till he met the ladies of the island he had never said a hundred words -to any English person. The Neapolitan aristocracy is a very -conservative body, and by no means disposed to cosmopolitanism. To the -Panacci Villa at Capodimonte came only Italians, except Emilio. The -Marchesino had inquired of Emilio if his mother should call upon the -Signora Delarey, but Artois, knowing Hermione's hatred of social -formalities, had hastened to say that it was not necessary, that it -would even be a surprising departure from the English fashion of life, -which ordained some knowledge of each other by the ladies of two -families, or at least some formal introduction by a mutual woman -friend, before an acquaintance could be properly cemented. Hitherto -the Marchesino had felt quite at ease with his new friends. But -hitherto he had been, as it were, merely at play with them. The -interlude of fever had changed his views and enlarged his -consciousness. And Emilio was no longer at hand to be explanatory if -desired. - -The Marchesino wished very much that he thoroughly understood the -inner workings of the minds of English ladies. - -How mad were the English? How mad exactly, for instance, was the -Signora Delarey? And how mad exactly was the Signorina? It would be -very valuable to know. He realized that his accurate knowledge of -Neapolitan women, hitherto considered by him as amply sufficient to -conduct him without a false step through all the intricacies of the -world feminine, might not serve him perfectly with the ladies of the -island. His fever had, it seemed, struck a little blow on his self- -confidence, and rendered him so feeble as to be almost thoughtful. - -And then, what exactly did he want? To discomfit Emilio utterly? That, -of course, did not need saying, even to himself. And afterwards? There -were two perpendicular lines above his eyebrows as the boat drew near -to the island. - -But when he came into the little drawing-room, where Hermione was -waiting to receive him, he looked young and debonair, though still -pale from his recent touch of illness. - -Vere was secretly irritated by his coming. Her interview with Peppina -had opened her eyes to many things, among others to a good deal that -was latent in the Marchesino. She could never again meet him, or any -man of his type, with the complete and masterful simplicity of -ignorant childhood that can innocently coquet by instinct, that can -manage by heredity from Eve, but that does not understand thoroughly, -either, what it is doing or why it is doing it. - -Vere was not in the mood for the Marchesino. - -She had been working, and she had been dreaming, and she wanted to -have another talk with Monsieur Emile. Pretty, delicate, yet strong- -fibred ambitions were stirring within her, and the curious passion to -use life as a material, but not all of life that presented itself to -her. With the desire to use that might be greedy arose the fastidious -prerogative of rejection. - -And that very morning, mentally, Vere had rejected the Marchesino as -something not interesting in life, something that was only lively, -like the very shallow stream. What a bore it would be having to -entertain him, to listen to his compliments, to avoid his glances, to -pretend to be at ease with him. - -"But Madre can have him for a little first," she said to herself, as -she looked into the glass to see that her hair was presentable. "Madre -asked him to come. I didn't. I shall have nothing to say to him." - -She had quite forgotten her eagerness on the night of the storm, when -she heard the cry of the siren that betokened his approach. Again she -looked in the glass and gave a pat to her hair. And just as she was -doing it she thought of that day after the bathe, when Gaspare had -come to tell her that Monsieur Emile was waiting for her. She had run -down, then, just as she was, and now-- - -"Mamma mia! Am I getting vain!" she said to herself. - -And she turned from the glass, and reluctantly went to meet their -guest. - -She had said to herself that it was a bore having the Marchesino to -lunch, that he was uninteresting, frivolous, empty-headed. But -directly she set eyes upon him, as he stood in the drawing-room by her -mother, she felt a change in him. What had happened to him? She could -not tell. But she was conscious that he seemed much more definite, -much more of a personage, than he had seemed to her before. Even his -face looked different, though paler, stronger. She was aware of -surprise. - -The Marchesino, too, though much less instinctively observant than -Vere, noted a change in her. She looked more developed, more grown up. -And he said to himself: - -"When I told Emile she was a woman I was right." - -Their meeting was rather grave and formal, even a little stiff. The -Marchesino paid Vere two or three compliments, and she inquired -perfunctorily after his health, and expressed regret for his slight -illness. - -"It was only a chill, Signorina. It was nothing." - -"Perhaps you caught it that night," Vere said. - -"What night, Signorina?" - -Vere had been thinking of the night when he sang for her in vain. -Suddenly remembering how she and Monsieur Emile had lain in hiding and -slipped surreptitiously home under cover of the darkness, she flushed -and said: - -"The night of the storm--you got wet, didn't you?" - -"But that was long ago, Signorina," he answered, looking steadily at -her, with an expression that was searching and almost hard. - -Had he guessed her inadvertence? She feared so, and felt rather -guilty, and glad when Giulia came in to announce that lunch was ready. - -Hermione, when they sat down, feeling a certain constraint, but not -knowing what it sprang from, came to the rescue with an effort. She -was really disinclined for talk, and was perpetually remembering that -the presence of the Marchesino had prevented Emile from coming to -spend a long day. But she remembered also her guest's hospitality at -Frisio's, and her social instinct defied her natural reluctance to be -lively. She said to herself that she was rapidly developing into a -fogey, and must rigorously combat the grievous tendency. By a sheer -exertion of will-power she drove herself into a different, and -conversational, mood. The Marchesino politely responded. He was -perfectly self-possessed, but he was not light-hearted. The unusual -effort of being thoughtful had, perhaps, distressed or even outraged -his brain. And the worst of it was that he was still thinking--for him -quite profoundly. - -However, they talked about risotto, they talked about Vesuvius, they -spoke of the delights of summer in the South and of the advantages of -living on an island. - -"Does it not bore you, Signora, having the sea all round?" asked the -Marchesino. "Do you not feel in a prison and that you cannot escape?" - -"We don't want to escape, do we, Madre?" said Vere, quickly, before -Hermione could answer. - -"I am very fond of the island, certainly," said Hermione. "Still, of -course, we are rather isolated here." - -She was thinking of what she had said to Artois--that perhaps her -instinct to shut out the world was morbid, was bad for Vere. The girl -at once caught the sound of hesitation in her mother's voice. - -"Madre!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say that you are tired of -our island life?" - -"I do not say that. And you, Vere?" - -"I love being here. I dread the thought of the autumn." - -"In what month do you go away, Signora?" asked the Marchesino. - -"By the end of October we shall have made our flitting, I suppose." - -"You will come in to Naples for the winter?" - -Hermione hesitated. Then she said: - -"I almost think I shall take my daughter to Rome. What do you say, -Vere?" - -The girls face had become grave, even almost troubled. - -"I can't look forward in this weather," she said. "I think it's almost -wicked to. Oh, let us live in the moment, Madre, and pretend it will -be always summer, and that we shall always be living in our Casa del -Mare!" - -There was a sound of eager youth in her voice as she spoke, and her -eyes suddenly shone. The Marchesino looked at her with an admiration -he did not try to conceal. - -"You love the sea, Signorina?" he asked. - -But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that he -might destroy its completeness by trying to share it. - -"Oh yes," she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gaspare, Monsieur Emile-- -everybody." - -It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among them -that day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his large -white teeth. - -"I have not seen Signor Emilio for some days," he said. - -"Nor have we," said Vere, with a touch of childish discontent. - -He looked at her closely. - -Emilio--he knew all about Emilio. But the Signorina? What were her -feelings towards the "vecchio briccone"? He did not understand the -situation, because he did not understand precisely the nature of -madness of the English. Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio an -Italian, he would have felt on sure ground. But in England, so he had -heard, there is a fantastic, cold, sexless something called friendship -that can exist between unrelated man and woman. - -"Don Emilio writes much," he said, with less than his usual alacrity. -"When one goes to see him he has always a pen in his hand." - -He tried to speak of Emilio with complete detachment, but could not -resist adding: - -"When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot be forever -running to and fro. One gets tired, I suppose." - -There was marked satire in the accent with which he said the last -words. And the shrug of his shoulders was an almost audible "What can -I know of that?" - -"Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, not because he -has a tired body," said Vere, with sudden warmth. - -Her mother was looking at her earnestly. - -"Oh, Signorina, I do not mean-- But for a man to be always shut up," -began the Marchesino, "it is not life." - -"You don't understand, Marchese. One can live in a little room with -the door shut as one can never live--" - -Abruptly she stopped. A flush ran over her face and down to her neck. -Hermione turned away her eyes. But they had read Vere's secret. She -knew what her child was doing in those hours of seclusion. And she -remembered her own passionate attempts to stave off despair by work. -She remembered her own failure. - -"Poor little Vere!" That was her first thought. "But what is Emile -doing?" That was the second. He had discouraged her. He had told her -the truth. What was he telling Vere? A flood of bitter curiosity -seemed to rise in her, drowning many things. - -"What I like is life, Signorina," said the Marchesino. "Driving, -riding, swimming, sport, fencing, being with beautiful ladies--that is -life." - -"Yes, of course, that is life," she said. - -What was the good of trying to explain to him the inner life? He had -no imagination. - -Her youth made her very drastic, very sweeping, in her secret mental -assertions. - -She labelled the Marchesino "Philistine," and popped him into his -drawer. - -Lunch was over, and they got up. - -"Are you afraid of the heat out-of-doors, Marchese?" Hermione asked, -"or shall we have coffee in the garden? There is a trellis, and we -shall be out of the sun." - -"Signora, I am delighted to go out." - -He got his straw hat, and they went into the tiny garden and sat down -on basket-work chairs under a trellis, set in the shadow of some fig- -trees. Giulia brought them coffee, and the Marchesino lighted a -cigarette. - -He said to himself that he had never been in love before. - -Vere wore a white dress. She had no hat on, but held rather carelessly -over her small, dark head a red parasol. It was evident that she was -not afraid even of the midday sun. That new look in her face, soft -womanhood at the windows gazing at a world more fully, if more sadly, -understood, fascinated him, sent the blood up to his head. There was a -great change in her. To-day she knew what before she had not known. - -As he stared at Vere with adoring eyes suddenly there came into his -mind the question: "Who has taught her?" - -And then he thought of the night when all in vain he had sung upon the -sea, while the Signorina and "un Signore" were hidden somewhere near -him. - -The blood sang in his head, and something seemed to expand in his -brain, to press violently against his temples, as if striving to force -its way out. He put down his coffee cup, and the two perpendicular -lines appeared above his eyebrows, giving him an odd look, cruel and -rather catlike. - -"If Emilio--" - -At that moment he longed to put a knife into his friend. - -But he was not sure. He only suspected. - -Hermione's role in this summer existence puzzled him exceedingly. The -natural supposition in a Neapolitan would, of course, have been that -Artois was her lover. But when the Marchesino looked at Hermione's -eyes he could not tell. - -What did it all mean? He felt furious at being puzzled, as if he were -deliberately duped. - -"Your cigarette has gone out, Marchese," said Hermione. "Have -another." - -The young man started. - -"It's nothing." - -"Vere, run in and get the Marchese a Khali Targa." - -The girl got up quickly. - -"No, no! I cannot permit--I have another here." - -He opened his case. It was empty. - -Vere laughed. - -"You see!" - -She went off before he could say another word, and the Marchesino was -alone for a moment with Hermione. - -"You are fortunate, Signora, in having such a daughter," he said, with -a sigh that was boyish. - -"Yes," Hermione said. - -That bitter curiosity was still with her, and her voice sounded -listless, almost cold. The Marchesino looked up. Ah! Was there -something here that he could understand? Something really feminine? A -creeping jealousy? He was on the /qui vive/ at once. - -"And such a good friend as Don Emilio," he added. "You have known -Emilio for a long time, Signora?" - -"Oh yes, for a very long time." - -"He is a strange man," said the Marchesino, with rather elaborate -carelessness. - -"Do you think so? In what way?" - -"He likes to know, but he does not like to be known." - -There was a great deal of truth in the remark. Its acuteness surprised -Hermione, who thought the Marchesino quick witted but very -superficial. - -"As he is a writer, I suppose he has to study people a good deal," she -said, quietly. - -"I do not think I can understand these great people. I think they are -too grand for me." - -"Oh, but Emile likes you very much. He told me so." - -"It is very good of him," said the Marchesino, pulling at his -mustaches. - -He was longing to warn Hermione against Emilio--to hint that Emilio -was not to be trusted. He believed that Hermione must be very blind, -very unfitted to look after a lovely daughter. But when he glanced at -her face he did not quite know how to hint what was in his mind. And -just then Vere came back and the opportunity was gone. She held out a -box to the Marchesino. As he thanked her and took a cigarette he tried -to look into her eyes. But she would not let him. And when he struck -his match she returned once more to the house, carrying the box with -her. Her movement was so swift and unexpected that Hermione had not -time to speak before she was gone. - -"But--" - -"I should not smoke another, Signora," said the Marchesino, quickly. - -"You are sure?" - -"Quite." - -"Still, Vere might have left the box. She is inhospitable to-day." - -Hermione spoke lightly. - -"Oh, it is bad for cigarettes to lie in the sun. It ruins them." - -"But you should have filled your case. You must do so before you go." - -"Thank you." - -His head was buzzing again. The touch of fever had really weakened -him. He knew it now. Never gifted with much self-control, he felt -to-day that, with a very slight incentive, he might lose his head. The -new atmosphere which Vere diffused around her excited him strangely. -He was certain that she was able to understand something of what he -was feeling, that on the night of the storm she would not have been -able to understand. Again he thought of Emilio, and moved restlessly -in his chair, looking sideways at Hermione, then dropping his eyes. -Vere did not come back. - -Hermione exerted herself to talk, but the task became really a -difficult one, for the Marchesino looked perpetually towards the -house, and so far forgot himself as to show scarcely even a wavering -interest in anything his hostess said. As the minutes ran by a hot -sensation of anger began to overcome him. A spot of red appeared on -each cheek. - -Suddenly he got up. - -"Signora, you will want to make the siesta. I must not keep you -longer." - -"No, really; I love sitting out in the garden, and you will find the -glare of the sun intolerable if you go so early." - -"On the sea there is always a breeze. Indeed, I must not detain you. -All our ladies sleep after the colazione until the bathing hour. Do -not you?" - -"Yes, we lie down. But to-day--" - -"You must not break the habit. It is a necessity. My boat will be -ready, and I must thank you for a delightful entertainment." - -His round eyes were fierce, but he commanded his voice. - -"A rive--" - -"I will come with you to the house if you really will not stay a -little longer." - -"Perhaps I may come again?" he said, quickly, with a sudden hardness, -a fighting sound in his voice. "One evening in the cool. Or do I bore -you?" - -"No; do come." - -Hermione felt rather guilty, as if they had been inhospitable, she and -Vere; though, indeed, only Vere was in fault. - -"Come and dine one night, and I shall ask Don Emilio." - -As she spoke she looked steadily at her guest. - -"He was good enough to introduce us to each other, wasn't he?" she -added. "We must all have an evening together, as we did at Frisio's." - -The Marchesino bowed. - -"With pleasure, Signora." - -They came into the house. - -As they did so Peppina came down the stairs. When she saw them she -murmured a respectful salutation and passed quickly by, averting her -wounded cheek. Almost immediately behind her was Vere. The Marchesino -looked openly amazed for a moment, then even confused. He stared first -at Hermione, then at Vere. - -"I am sorry, Madre; I was kept for a moment," the girl said. "Are you -coming up-stairs?" - -"The Marchese says he must go, Vere. He is determined not to deprive -us of our siesta." - -"One needs to sleep at this hour in the hot weather," said the -Marchesino. - -The expression of wonder and confusion was still upon his face, and he -spoke slowly. - -"Good-bye, Marchese," Vere said, holding out her hand. - -He took it and bowed over it and let it go. The girl turned and ran -lightly up-stairs. - -Directly she was gone the Marchesino said to Hermione: - -"Pardon me, Signora, I--I--" - -He hesitated. His self-possession seemed to have deserted him for the -moment. He looked at Hermione swiftly, searchingly, then dropped his -eyes. - -"What is it, Marchese?" she asked, wondering what was the matter with -him. - -He still hesitated. Evidently he was much disturbed. At last he said -again: - -"Pardon me, Signora. I--as you know, I am Neapolitan. I have always -lived in Naples." - -"Yes, I know." - -"I know Naples like my pocket--" - -He broke off. - -Hermione waited for him to go on. She had no idea what was coming. - -"Yes?" she said, at length to help him. - -"Excuse me, Signora! But that girl--that girl who passed by just -now--" - -"My servant, Peppina." - -He stared at her. - -"Your servant, Signora?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you know what she is, where she comes from? But no, it is -impossible." - -"I know all about Peppina, Marchese," Hermione replied, quietly. - -"Truly? Ah!" - -His large round eyes were still fixedly staring at her. - -"Good-bye, Signora!" he said. "Thank you for a very charming -colazione. And I shall look forward with all my heart to the evening -you have kindly suggested." - -"I shall write directly I have arranged with Don Emilio." - -"Thank you! Thank you! A rivederci, Signora." - -He cast upon her one more gravely staring look, and was gone. - -When he was outside and alone, he threw up his hands and talked to -himself for a moment, uttering many exclamations. In truth, he was -utterly amazed. Maria Fortunata had spread abroad diligently the fame -of her niece's beauty, and the Marchesino, like the rest of the gay -young men of Naples, had known of and had misjudged her. He had read -in the papers of the violence done to her, and had at once dismissed -her from his mind with a muttered "Povera Ragazza!" - -She was no longer beautiful. - -And now he discovered her living as a servant with the ladies of the -island. Who could have put her there? He thought of Emilio's colloquy -with Maria Fortunata. But the Signora? A mother? What did it all mean? -Even the madness of the English could scarcely be so pronounced as to -make such a proceeding as this quite a commonplace manifestation of -the national life and eccentricity. He could not believe that. - -He stepped into his boat. As the sailors rowed it out from the Pool-- -the wind had gone down and the sails were useless--he looked earnestly -up to the windows of the Casa del Mare, longing to pierce its secrets. - -What was Emilio in that house? A lover, a friend, a bad genius? And -the Signora? What was she? - -The Marchesino was no believer in the virtue of women. But the lack of -beauty in Hermione, and her age, rendered him very doubtful as to her -role in the life on the island. Vere's gay simplicity had jumped to -the eyes. But now she, too, was becoming something of a mystery. - -He traced it all to Emilio, and was hot with a curiosity that was -linked closely with his passion. - -Should he go to see Emilio? He considered the question and resolved -not to do so. He would try to be patient until the night of the dinner -on the island. He would be birbante, would play the fox, as Emilio -surely had done. The Panacci temper should find out that one member of -the family could control it, when such control served his purpose. - -He was on fire with a lust for action as he made his resolutions. -Vere's coolness to him, even avoidance of him, had struck hammer-like -blows upon his /amour propre/. He saw her now--yes, he saw her--coming -down the stairs behind Peppina. Had they been together? Did they talk -together, the cold, the prudish Signorina Inglese--so he called Vere -now in his anger--and the former decoy of Maria Fortunata? - -And then a horrible conception of Emilio's role in all this darted -into his mind, and for a moment he thought of Hermione as a blind -innocent, like his subservient mother, of Vere as a preordained -victim. Then the blood coursed through his veins like fire, and he -felt as if he could no longer sit still in the boat. - -"Avanti! avanti!" he cried to the sailors. "Dio mio! There is enough -breeze to sail. Run up the sail! Madonna Santissima! We shall not be -to Naples till it is night. Avanti! avanti!" - -Then he lay back, crossed his arms behind his head, and, with an -effort, closed his eyes. - -He was determined to be calm, not to let himself go. He put his -fingers on his pulse. - -"That cursed fever! I believe it is coming back," he said to himself. - -He wondered how soon the Signora would arrange that dinner on the -island. He did not feel as if he could wait long without seeing Vere -again. But would it ever be possible to see her alone? Emilio saw her -alone. His white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her out -upon the sea. - -The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. Surely it was -fluttering very strangely. Like many young Italians he was a mixture -of fearlessness and weakness, of boldness and childishness. - -"I must go to mamma! I must have medicine--the doctor," he thought, -anxiously. "There is something wrong with me. Perhaps I have been -looked on by the evil eye." - -And down he went to the bottom of a gulf of depression. - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -Hermione was very thankful that the Marchesino had gone. She felt that -the lunch had been a failure, and was sorry. But she had done her -best. Vere and the young man himself had frustrated her, she thought. -It was a bore having to entertain any one in the hot weather. As she -went up-stairs she said to herself that her guest's addio had been the -final fiasco of an unfortunate morning. Evidently he knew something of -Peppina, and had been shocked to find the girl in the house. Emile had -told her--Hermione--that she was an impulsive. Had she acted foolishly -in taking Peppina? She had been governed in the matter by her heart, -in which dwelt pity and a passion for justice. Surely the sense of -compassion, the love of fair dealing could not lead one far astray. -And yet, since Peppina had been on the island the peace of the life -there had been lessened. Emile had become a little different, Vere -too. And even Gaspare--was there not some change in him? - -She thought of Giulia's assertion that the disfigured girl had the -evil eye. - -She had laughed at the idea, and had spoken very seriously to Giulia, -telling her that she was not to communicate her foolish suspicion to -the other servants. But certainly the joy of their life in this House -of the Sea was not what it had been. And even Vere had had forebodings -with which Peppina had been connected. Perhaps the air of Italy, this -clear, this radiant atmosphere which seemed created to be the -environment of happiness, contained some subtle poison that was -working in them all, turning them from cool reason. - -She thought of Emile, calling up before her his big frame his powerful -face with the steady eyes. And a wave of depression went over her, as -she understood how very much she had relied on him since the death of -Maurice. Without him she would indeed have been a derelict. - -Again that bitter flood of curiosity welled up in her. She wondered -where Vere was, but she did not go to the girl's room. Instead, she -went to her own sitting-room. Yesterday she had been restless. She had -felt driven. To-day she felt even worse. But to-day she knew what -yesterday she had not known--Vere's solitary occupation. Why had not -Vere told her, confided in her? It was a very simple matter. The only -reason why it now assumed an importance to her was because it had been -so carefully concealed. Why had not Vere told her all about it, as she -told her other little matters of their island life, freely, without -even a thought of hesitation? - -She sought the reason of this departure which was paining her. But at -first she did not find it. - -Perhaps Vere wanted to give her a surprise. For a moment her heart -grew lighter. Vere might be preparing something to please or astonish -her mother, and Emile might be in the secret, might be assisting in -some way. But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been followed too -long. And then Emile had not always known what it was. He had only -known lately. - -Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she lay in the little -boat in the shadow cast by the cliffs over the Saint's Pool--they were -the prelude to work; imaginative, creative perhaps. - -And Vere was not seventeen. - -Hermione smiled to herself rather bitterly, thinking of the ignorance, -of the inevitable folly of youth. The child, no doubt, had dreams of -fame. What clever, what imaginative and energetic child has not such -dreams at some period or other? How absurd we all are, thinking to -climb to the stars almost as soon as we can see them! - -And then the smile died away from Hermione's lips as the great -tenderness of the mother within her was moved by the thought of the -disappointments that come with a greater knowledge of life. Vere would -suffer when she learned the truth, when she knew the meaning of -failure. - -Quite simply and naturally Hermione was including her child inevitably -within the circle of her own disaster. - -If Emile knew, why did he not tell Vere what he had told her mother? - -But Emile had surely shown much greater interest in Vere just lately -than ever before? - -Was Emile helping Vere in what she was doing? But if he was, then he -must believe in Vere's capacity to do something that was worth doing. - -Hermione knew the almost terrible sincerity of Artois in the things of -the intellect, his clear, unwavering judgment, his ruthless -truthfulness. Nothing would ever turn him from that. Nothing, unless -he-- - -Her face became suddenly scarlet, then pale. A monstrous idea had -sprung up in her mind; an idea so monstrous that she strove to thrust -it away violently, without even contemplating it. Why had Vere not -told her? There must be some good and sufficient reason. Vehemently-- -to escape from that monstrous idea--she sought it. Why had everything -else in her child been revealed to her, only this one thing been -hidden from her? - -She searched the past, Vere and herself in that past. And now, despite -her emotion, her full intelligence was roused up and at work. And -presently she remembered that Emile and Vere shared the knowledge of -her own desire to create, and her utter failure to succeed in -creation. Emile knew the whole naked truth of that. Vere did not. But -Vere knew something. Could that mutual knowledge be the reason of this -mutual secrecy? As women often do, Hermione had leaped into the very -core of the heart of the truth, had leaped out of the void, guided by -some strange instinct never alive in man. But, as women very seldom -do, she shrank away from the place she had gained. Instead of -triumphing, she was afraid. She remembered how often her imagination -had betrayed her, how it had created phantoms, had ruined for her the -lagging hours. Again and again she had said to herself, "I will beware -of it." Now she accused it of playing her false once more, of running -wild. Sharply she pulled herself up. She was assuming things. That was -her great fault, to assume that things were that which perhaps they -were not. - -How often Emile had told her not to trust her imagination! She would -heed him now. She knew nothing. She did not even know for certain that -Vere's flush, Vere's abrupt hesitation at lunch, were a betrayal of -the child's secret. - -But that she would find out. - -Again the fierce curiosity besieged and took possession of her. After -all, she was a mother. A mother had rights. Surely she had a right to -know what another knew of her child. - -"I will ask Vere," she said to herself. - -Once before she had said to herself that she would do that, and she -had not done it. She had felt that to do it would be a humiliation. -But now she was resolved to do it, for she knew more of her own -condition and was more afraid of herself. She began to feel like one -who has undergone a prolonged strain of work, who believes that it has -not been too great and has been capably supported, and who suddenly is -aware of a yielding, of a downward and outward movement, like a wide -and spreading disintegration, in which brain, nerves, the whole body -are involved. - -Yet what had been the strain that she had been supporting, that now -suddenly she began to feel too much? The strain of a loss. Time should -have eased it. But had Time eased it, or only lengthened the period -during which she had been forced to carry her load? People ought to -get accustomed to things. She knew that it is supposed by many that -the human body, the human mind, the human heart can get accustomed--by -which is apparently meant can cease passionately and instinctively to -strive to repel--can get accustomed to anything. Well she could not. -Never could she get accustomed to the loss of love, of man's love. The -whole world might proclaim its proverbs. For her they had no truth. -For her--and for how many other silent women! - -And now suddenly she felt that for years she had been struggling, and -that the struggle had told upon her far more than she had ever -suspected. Nothing must be added to her burden or she would sink down. -The dust would cover her. She would be as nothing--or she would be as -something terrible, nameless. - -She must ask Vere, do what she had said to herself that she would not -do. Unless she had the complete confidence of her child she could not -continue to do without the cherishing love she had lost. She saw -herself a cripple, something maimed. Hitherto she had been supported -by blessed human crutches: by Vere, Emile, Gaspare. How heavily she -had leaned upon them! She knew that now. How heavily she must still -lean if she were to continue on her way. And a fierce, an almost -savage something, desperate and therefore arbitrary, said within her: - -"I will keep the little that I have: I will--I will." - -"The little!" Had she said that? It was wicked of her to say that. But -she had had the wonderful thing. She had held for a brief time the -magic of the world within the hollow of her hands, within the shadow -of her heart. And the others? Children slip from their parents' lives -into the arms of another whose call means more to them than the voices -of those who made them love. Friends drift away, scarcely knowing why, -divided from each other by the innumerable channels that branch from -the main stream of existence. Even a faithful servant cannot be more -than a friend. - -There is one thing that is great, whose greatness makes the smallness -of all the other things. And so Hermione said, "the little that I -have," and there was truth in it. And there was as vital a truth in -the fact of her whole nature recognizing that little's enormous value -to her. Not for a moment did she underrate her possession. Indeed, she -had to fight against the tendency to exaggeration. Her intellect said -to her that, in being so deeply moved by such a thing as the -concealment from her by Vere of something innocent of which Emile -knew, she was making a water drop into an ocean. Her intellect said -that. But her heart said no. - -And the voice of her intellect sank away like the frailest echo that -ever raised its spectral imitation of a reality. And the voice of her -heart rang out till it filled her world. - -And so the argument was over. - -She thought she heard a step below, and looked out of the window into -the sunshine. - -Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and he was smoking a -cigarette. He was dressed in white linen, without a coat, and had a -white linen hat on his head. He stood near the house, apparently -looking out to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione watched him. -The sight of him reminded her of another question she wished to ask. - -Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white trousers. With the -other he held the cigarette. Hermione saw the wreaths of pale smoke -curling up and evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemed -full of joyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand forgot to do its -work. The cigarette, only half smoked, went out, and he stood there as -if plunged in profound thought. Hermione wondered what he was thinking -about. - -"Gaspare!" - -She said it softly. Evidently he did not hear. - -"Gaspare! Gaspare!" - -Each time she spoke a little louder, but still he took no notice. - -She leaned farther out and called: - -"Gaspare!" - -This time he heard and started violently, dropped the cigarette, then, -without looking up, bent down slowly, recovered it, and turned round. - -"Signora?" - -The sun shone full on his upturned face, showing to Hermione the -dogged look which sometimes came to it when anything startled him. - -"I made you jump." - -"No, Signora." - -"But I did. What were you thinking about?" - -"Nothing, Signora. Why are you not asleep?" - -He spoke almost as if she injured him by being awake. - -"I couldn't sleep to-day. What are you going to do this afternoon?" - -"I don't know, Signora. Do you wish me to do anything for you?" - -"Well--" - -She had a wish to clear things up, to force her life, the lives of -those few she cared for, out of mystery into a clear light. She had a -desire to chastise thought by strong, bracing action. - -"I rather want to send a note to Don Emilio." - -"Si, Signora." - -His voice did not sound pleased. - -"It is too hot to row all the way to Naples. Couldn't you go to the -village and take the tram to the hotel--if I write the note?" - -"If you like, Signora." - -"Or would it be less bother to row as far as Mergellina, and take a -tram or carriage from there? - -"I can do that, Signora." - -He sounded a little more cheerful. - -"I think I'll write the note, Gaspare, then. And you might take it -some time--whenever you like. You might come and fetch it in five -minutes." - -"Very well, Signora." - -He moved away and she went to her writing-table. She sat down, and -slowly, with a good deal of hesitation and thought, she wrote part of -a letter asking Emile to come to dine whenever he liked at the island. -And now came the difficulty. She knew Emile did not want to meet the -Marchesino there. Yet she was going to ask them to meet each other. -She had told the Marchesino so. Should she tell Emile? Perhaps, if she -did, he would refuse to come. But she could never lay even the -smallest trap for a friend. So she wrote on, asking Emile to let her -know the night he would come as she had promised to invite the -Marchesino to meet him. - -"Be a good friend and do this for me," she ended, "even if it bores -you. The Marchese lunched here alone with us to-day, and it was a -fiasco. I think we were very inhospitable, and I want to wipe away the -recollection of our dulness from his mind. Gaspare will bring me your -answer." - -At the bottom she wrote "Hermione." But just as she was going to seal -the letter in its envelope she took it out, and added, "Delarey" to -her Christian name. - -"Hermione Delarey." She looked at the words for a long time before she -rang the bell for Gaspare. - -When she gave him the letter, "Are you going by Mergellina?" she asked -him. - -"Si, Signora." - -He stood beside her for a moment; then, as she said nothing more, -turned to go out. - -"Gaspare, wait one minute," she said, quickly. - -"Si, Signora." - -"I meant to ask you last night, but--well, we spoke of other things, -and it was so late. Have you ever noticed anything about that boy, -Ruffo, anything at all, that surprised you?" - -"Surprised me, Signora?" - -"Surprised you, or reminded you of anything?" - -"I don't know what you mean, Signora." - -Gaspare's voice was hard and cold. He looked steadily at Hermione, as -a man of strong character sometimes looks when he wishes to turn his -eyes away from the glance of another, but will not, because of his -manhood. - -Hermione hesitated to go on, but something drove her to be more -explicit. - -"Have you never noticed in Ruffo a likeness to--to your Padrone?" she -said, slowly. - -"My Padrone!" - -Gaspare's great eyes dropped before hers, and he stood looking on the -floor. She saw a deep flush cover his brown skin. - -"I am sure you have noticed it, Gaspare," she said. "I can see you -have. Why did you not tell me?" - -At that moment she felt angry with herself and almost angry with him. -Had he noticed this strange, this subtle resemblance between the -fisher-boy and the dead man at once, long before she had? Had he been -swifter to see such a thing than she? - -"What do you mean, Signora? What are you talking about?" - -He looked ugly. - -"How can a fisher-boy, a nothing from Mergellina, look like my -Padrone?" - -Now he lifted his eyes, and they were fierce--or so she thought. - -"Signora, how can you say such a thing?" - -"Gaspare?" she exclaimed, astonished at his sudden vehemence. - -"Signora--scusi! But--but there will never be another like my -Padrone." - -He opened the door and went quickly out of the room, and when the door -shut it was as if an iron door shut upon a furnace. - -Hermione stood looking at this door. She drew a long breath. - -"But he has seen it!" she said, aloud. "He has seen it." - -And Emile? - -Had she been a blind woman, she who had so loved the beauty that was -dust? She thought of Vere and Ruffo standing together, so youthful, so -happy in their simple, casual intercourse. - -It was as if Vere had been mysteriously drawn to this boy because of -his resemblance to the father she had never seen. - -Vere! Little Vere! - -Again the mother's tenderness welled up in Hermione's heart, this time -sweeping away the reluctance to be humble. - -"I will go to Vere now." - -She went to the door, as she had gone to it the previous day. But this -time she did not hesitate to open it. A strong impulse swept her -along, and she came to her child's room eagerly. - -"Vere!" - -She knocked at the door. - -"Vere! May I come in?" - -She knocked again. There was no answer. - -Then she opened the door and went in. Possibly Vere was sleeping. The -mosquito-net was drawn round the bed, but Hermione saw that her child -was not behind it. Vere had gone out somewhere. - -The mother went to the big window which looked out upon the sea. The -green Venetian blind was drawn. She pushed up one of its flaps and -bent to look through. Below, a little way out on the calm water, she -saw Vere's boat rocking softly in obedience to the small movement that -is never absent from the sea. The white awning was stretched above the -stern-seats, and under it lay Vere in her white linen dress, her small -head, not protected by a hat, supported by a cushion. She lay quite -still, one arm on the gunwale of the boat, the other against her side. -Hermione could not see whether her eyes were shut or open. - -The mother watched her for a long time through the blind. - -How much of power was enclosed in that young figure that lay so still, -so perfectly at ease, cradled on the great sea, warmed and cherished -by the tempered fires of the sun! How much of power to lift up and to -cast down, to be secret, to create sorrow, to be merciful! Wonderful, -terrible human power! - -The watching mother felt just then that she was in the hands of the -child. - -"Now it's the child's turn." - -Surely Vere must be asleep. Such absolute stillness must mean -temporary withdrawal of consciousness. - -Just as Hermione was thinking this, Vere's left hand moved. The girl -lifted it up to her face, and gently and repeatedly rubbed her -eyebrow. - -Hermione dropped the flap of the blind. The little, oddly natural -movement had suddenly made her feel that it was not right to be -watching Vere when the child must suppose herself to be unobserved and -quite alone with the sea. - -As she came away from the window she glanced quickly round the room, -and upon a small writing-table at the foot of the bed she saw a number -of sheets of paper lying loose, with a piece of ribbon beside them. -They had evidently been taken out of the writing-table drawer, which -was partially open, and which, as Hermione could see, contained other -sheets of a similar kind. Hermione looked, and then looked away. She -passed the table and reached the door. When she was there she glanced -again at the sheets of paper. They were covered with writing. They -drew, they fascinated her eyes, and she stood still, with her hand -resting on the door-handle. As a rule it would have seemed perfectly -natural to her to read anything that Vere had left lying about, either -in her own room or anywhere else. Until just lately her child had -never had, or dreamed of having any secret from her. Never had Vere -received a letter that her mother had not seen. Secrets simply did not -exist between them--secrets, that is, of the child from the mother. - -But it was not so now. And that was why those sheets of paper drew and -held the mother's eyes. - -She had, of course, a perfect right to read them. Or had she--she who -had said to Vere, "Keep your secrets"? In those words had she not -deliberately relinquished such a right? She stood there thinking, -recalling those words, debating within herself this question--and -surely with much less than her usual great honesty. - -Emile, she was sure, had read the writing upon those sheets of paper. - -She did not know exactly why she was certain of this--but she was -certain, absolutely certain. She remembered the long-ago days, when -she had submitted to him similar sheets. What Emile had read surely -she might read. Again that intense and bitter curiosity mingled with -something else, a strange, new jealousy in which it was rooted. She -felt as if Vere, this child whom she had loved and cared for, had done -her a cruel wrong, had barred her out from the life in which she had -always been till now the best loved, the most absolutely trusted -dweller. Why should she not take that which she ought to have been -given? - -Again she was conscious of that painful, that piteous sensation of one -who is yielding under a strain that has been too prolonged. Something -surely collapsed within her, something of the part of her being that -was moral. She was no longer a free woman in that moment. She was -governed. Or so she felt, perhaps deceiving herself. - -She went swiftly and softly over to the table and bent over the -sheets. - -At first she stood. Then she sat down. She took up the paper, handled -it, held it close to her eyes. - -Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every one begins by being -a poet. Hermione smiled, almost laughed aloud. Poor little Vere with -her poor little secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother, -that sense of wrong. But she read on and on. And presently she started -and her hand shook. - -She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's handwriting, and -on the margin was written, "Monsieur Emile's idea." - -So there had been a conference, and Emile was advising Vere. - -Hermione's hand shook so violently that she could not go on reading -for a moment, and she laid the paper down. She felt like one who has -suddenly unmasked a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for her -intellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaimed it. - -Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in vain for her to -waste her time in creative work, that she had not the necessary gift -for it. And now he was secretly assisting her own child--a child of -sixteen--to do what he had told her, the mother, not to do. Why was he -doing this? - -Again the monstrous idea that she had forcibly dismissed from her mind -that day returned to Hermione. There is one thing that sometimes -blinds the most clear-sighted men, so that they cannot perceive truth. - -But--Hermione again bent over the sheets of paper, this time seeking -for a weapon against the idea which assailed her. On several pages she -found emendations, excisions, on one a whole verse completely changed. -And on the margins were pencilled "Monsieur Emile's suggestion"; -"Monsieur E.'s advice"; and once, "These two lines invented by -Monsieur Emile." - -When had Vere and Emile had the opportunity for this long and secret -discussion? On the day of the storm they had been together alone. They -had had tea together alone. And on the night Emile dined on the island -they had been out in the boat together for a long time. All this must -have been talked over then. - -Yes. - -She read on. Had Vere talent? Did her child possess what she had -longed for, and had been denied? She strove to read critically, but -she was too excited, too moved to do so. All necessary calm was gone. -She was painfully upset. The words moved before her eyes, running -upward in irregular lines that resembled creeping things, and she saw -rings of light, yellow in the middle and edged with pale blue. - -She pushed away the sheets of paper, got up and went again to the -window. She must look at Vere once more, look at her with this new -knowledge, look at her critically, with a piercing scrutiny. And she -bent down as before, and moved a section of the blind, pushing it up. - -There was no boat beneath her on the sea. - -She dropped the blind sharply, and all the blood in her body seemed to -make a simultaneous movement away from the region of the heart. - -Vere was perhaps already in the house, running lightly up to the room. -She would come in and find her mother there. She would guess what her -mother had been doing. - -Hermione did not hesitate. She crossed the room swiftly, opened the -door, and went out. She reached her own room without meeting Vere. But -she had not been in it for more than a minute and a half when she -heard Vere come up-stairs, the sound of her door open and shut. - -Hermione cleared her throat. She felt the need of doing something -physical. Then she pulled up her blinds and let the hot sun stream in -upon her. - -She felt dark just then--black. - -In a moment she found that she was perspiring. The sun was fierce-- -that, of course, must be the reason. But she would not shut the sun -out. She must have light around her, although there was none within -her. - -She was thankful she had escaped in time. If she had not, if Vere had -run into the room and found her there, she was sure she would have -frightened her child by some strange outburst. She would have said or -done something--she did not at all know what--that would perhaps have -altered their relations irrevocably. For, in that moment, the sense of -self-control, of being herself--so she put it--had been withdrawn from -her. - -She would regain it, no doubt. She was even now regaining it. Already -she was able to say to herself that she was not seeing things in their -true proportions, that some sudden crisis of the nerves, due perhaps -to some purely physical cause, had plunged her into a folly of feeling -from which she would soon escape entirely. She was by nature emotional -and unguarded: therefore specially likely to be the victim in mind of -any bodily ill. - -And then she was not accustomed to be unwell. Her strength of body was -remarkable. Very seldom had she felt weak. - -She remembered one night, long ago in Sicily, when an awful bodily -weakness had overtaken her. But that had been caused by dread. The -mind had reacted upon the body. Now, she was sure of it, body had -reacted on mind. - -Yet she had not been ill. - -She felt unequal to the battle of pros and cons that was raging within -her. - -"I'll be quiet," she thought. "I'll read." - -And she took up a book. - -She read steadily for an hour, understanding thoroughly all she read, -and wondering how she had ever fancied she cared about reading. Then -she laid the book down and looked at the clock. It was nearly four. -Tea would perhaps refresh her. And after tea? She had loved the -island, but to-day she felt almost as if it were a prison. What was -there to be done? She found herself wondering for the first time how -she had managed to "get through" week after week there. And in a -moment her wonder made her realize the inward change in her, the -distance that now divided her from Vere, the gulf that lay between -them. - -A day with a stranger may seem long, but a month with a friend how -short! To live with Vere had been like living with a part of herself. -But now what would it be like? And when Emile came, and they three -were together? - -When Hermione contemplated that reunion, she felt that it would be to -her intolerable. And yet she desired it. For she wanted to know -something, and she was certain that if she, Vere, and Emile could be -together, without any fourth person, she would know it. - -A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing action, she had -resolved to ask Emile to meet the Marchesino. She had felt as if that -meeting would clear the air, would drive out the faint mystery which -seemed to be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly friends, -were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted to restore things to -their former footing, or to make the enmity come out into the open, to -understand it thoroughly, and to know if she and Vere had any part in -it. Her desire had been to throw open windows and let in light. - -But now things were changed. She understood, she knew more. And she -wanted to be alone with Emile and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she would -understand everything. - -She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was changed. The fire -had died down in her, and she felt almost sluggish, although still -restless. The monstrous idea had come to her again. She did not -vehemently repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. But now -she meant to be a watcher. Before she took up her book and began to -read she had been, perhaps, almost hysterical, had been plunged in a -welter of emotion in which reason was drowned, had not been herself. - -But now she felt that she was herself. - -There was something that she wished to know, something that the -knowledge she had gained in her child's room that day suggested as a -possibility. - -She regretted her note to Emile. Why had not she asked him to come -alone, to-morrow, or even to-night--yes, to-night? - -If she could only be with him and Vere for a few minutes to-night! - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -When Artois received Hermione's letter he asked who had brought it, -and obtained from the waiter a fairly accurate description of Gaspare. - -"Please ask him to come up," he said. "I want to speak to him." - -Two or three minutes later there was a knock at the door and Gaspare -walked in, with a large-eyed inquiring look. - -"Good-day, Gaspare. You've never seen my quarters before, I think," -said Artois, cordially. - -"No, Signore. What a beautiful room!" - -"Then smoke a cigar, and I'll write an answer to this letter." - -"Thank you, Signore." - -Artois gave him a cigar, and sat down to answer the letter, while -Gaspare went out on to the balcony and stood looking at the bathers -who were diving from the high wooden platform of the bath -establishment over the way. When Artois had finished writing he joined -Gaspare. He had a great wish that day to break down a reserve he had -respected for many years, but he knew Gaspare's determined character, -his power of obstinate, of dogged silence. Gaspare's will had been -strong when he was a boy. The passing of the years had certainly not -weakened it. Nevertheless, Artois was moved to make the attempt which -he foresaw would probably end in failure. - -He gave Gaspare the letter, and said: - -"Don't go for a moment. I want to have a little talk with you." - -"Si, Signore." - -Gaspare put the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket, and stood -looking at Artois, holding the cigar in his left hand. In all these -years Artois had never found out whether Gaspare liked him or not. He -wished now that he knew. - -"Gaspare," he said, "I think you know that I have a great regard for -your Padrona." - -"Si, Signore. I know it." - -The words sounded rather cold. - -"She has had a great deal of sorrow to bear." - -"Si, Signore." - -"One does not wish that she should be disturbed in any way--that any -fresh trouble should come into her life." - -Gaspare's eyes were always fixed steadily upon Artois, who, as he -spoke the last words, fancied he saw come into them an expression that -was almost severely ironical. It vanished at once as Gaspare said: - -"No, Signore." - -Artois felt the iron of this faithful servant's impenetrable reserve, -but he continued very quietly and composedly: - -"You have always stood between the Padrona and trouble whenever you -could. You always will--I am sure of that." - -"Si, Signore." - -"Do you think there is any danger to the Signora's happiness here?" - -"Here, Signore?" - -Gaspare's emphasis seemed to imply where they were just then standing. -Artois was surprised, then for a moment almost relieved. Apparently -Gaspare had no thought in common with the strange, the perhaps -fantastic thought that had been in his own mind. - -"Here--no!" he said, with a smile. "Only you and I are here, and we -shall not make the Signora unhappy." - -"Chi lo sa?" returned Gaspare. - -And again that ironical expression was in his eyes. - -"By here I meant here in Naples, where we all are--or on the island, -for instance." - -"Signore, in this life there is trouble for all." - -"But some troubles, some disasters can be avoided." - -"It's possible." - -"Gaspare"--Artois looked at him steadily, searchingly even, and spoke -very gravely--"I respect you for your discretion of many years. But if -you know of any trouble, any danger that is near to the Signora, and -against which I could help you to protect her, I hope you will trust -me and tell me. I think you ought to do that." - -"I don't know what you mean, Signore." - -"Are you quite sure, Gaspare? Are you quite sure that no one comes to -the island who might make the Signora very unhappy?" - -Gaspare had dropped his eyes. Now he lifted them, and looked Artois -straight in the face. - -"No, Signore, I am not sure of that," he said. - -There was nothing rude in his voice, but there was something stern. -Artois felt as if a strong, determined man stood in his path and -blocked the way. But why? Surely they were at cross purposes. The -working of Gaspare's mind was not clear to him. - -After a moment of silence, he said: - -"What I mean is this. Do you think it would be a good thing if the -Signora left the island?" - -"Left the island, Signore?" - -"Yes, and went away from Naples altogether." - -"The Signorina would never let the Padrona go. The Signorina loves the -island and my Padrona loves the Signorina." - -"But the Signorina would not be selfish. If it was best for her mother -to go--" - -"The Signorina would not think it was best; she would never think it -was best to leave the island." - -"But what I want to know, Gaspare, is whether you think it would be -best for them to leave the island. That's what I want to know--and you -haven't told me." - -"I am a servant, Signore. I cannot tell such things." - -"You are a servant--yes. But you are also a friend. And I think nobody -could tell better than you." - -"I am sure the Signora will not leave the island till October, -Signore. She says we are all to stay until the end of October." - -"And now it's July." - -"Si, Signore. Now it's July." - -In saying the last words Gaspare's voice sounded fatalistic, and -Artois believed that he caught an echo of a deep-down thought of his -own. With all his virtues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit of -the East that dwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, brooding -over a nature however fine, prevents action, a spirit that says to a -man, "This is ordained. This is destiny. This is to be." - -"Gaspare," Artois said, strong in this conviction, "I have heard you -say, 'e il destino.' But you know we can often get away from things if -we are quick-witted." - -"Some things, Signore." - -"Most things, perhaps. Don't you trust me?" - -"Signore!" - -"Don't you think, after all these years, you can trust me?" - -"Signore, I respect you as I respect my father." - -"Well, Gaspare, remember this. The Signora has had trouble enough in -her life. We must keep out any more." - -"Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare my Padrona. Thank you -for the cigar, Signore. I ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellina -for the boat." - -"To Mergellina?" - -Again Artois looked at him searchingly. - -"Si, Signore; I left the boat at Mergellina. It is very hot to row all -the way here." - -"Yes. A rivederci, Gaspare. Perhaps I shall sail round to the island -to-night after dinner. But I'm not sure. So you need not say I am -coming." - -"A rivederci, Signore." - -When Gaspare had gone, Artois said to himself, "He does not trust me." - -Artois was surprised to realize how hurt he felt at Gaspare's attitude -towards him that day. Till now their mutual reserve had surely linked -them together. Then silence had been a bond. But there was a change, -and the bond seemed suddenly loosened. - -"Damn the difference between the nations!" Artois thought. "How can we -grasp the different points of view? How can even the cleverest of us -read clearly in others of a different race from our own?" - -He felt frustrated, as he had sometimes felt frustrated by Orientals. -And he knew an anger of the brain as well as an anger of the heart. -But this anger roused him, and he resolved to do something from which -till now he had instinctively shrunk, strong-willed man though he was. -If Gaspare would not help him he would act for himself. Possibly the -suspicion, the fear that beset him was groundless. He had put it away -from him more than once, had said that it was absurd, that his -profession of an imaginative writer rendered him, perhaps, more liable -to strange fancies than were other men, that it encouraged him to seek -instinctively for drama, and that what a man instinctively and -perpetually seeks he will often imagine that he has found. Now he -would try to prove what was the truth. - -He had written to Hermione saying that he would be glad to dine with -her on any evening that suited the Marchesino, that he had no -engagements. Why she wished him to meet the Marchesino he did not -know. No doubt she had some woman's reason. The one she gave was -hardly enough, and he divined another beneath it. Certainly he did not -love Doro on the island, but perhaps it was as well that they should -meet there once, and get over their little antagonism, an antagonism -that Artois thought of as almost childish. Life was not long enough -for quarrels with boys like Doro. Artois had refused Hermione's -invitation on the sea abruptly. He had felt irritated for the moment, -because he had for the moment been unusually expansive, and her -announcement that Doro was to be there had fallen upon him like a cold -douche. And then he had been nervous, highly strung from overwork. Now -he was calm, and could look at things as they were. And if he noticed -anything leading him to suppose that the Marchesino was likely to try -to abuse Hermione's hospitality he meant to have it out with him. He -would speak plainly and explain the English point of view. Doro would -no doubt attack him on the ground of his interview with Maria -Fortunata. He did not care. Somehow his present preoccupation with -Hermione's fate, increased by the visit of Gaspare, rendered his -irritation against the Marchesino less keen than it had been. But he -thought he would probably visit the island to-night--after another -visit which he intended to pay. He could not start at once. He must -give Gaspare time to take the boat and row off. For his first visit -was to Mergellina. - -After waiting an hour he started on foot, keeping along by the sea, as -he did not wish to meet acquaintances, and was likely to meet them in -the Villa. As he drew near to Mergellina he felt a great and growing -reluctance to do what he had come to do, to make inquiries into a -certain matter; and he believed that this reluctance, awake within him -although perhaps he had scarcely been aware of it, had kept him -inactive during many days. Yet he was not sure of this. He was not -sure when a faint suspicion had first been born in his mind. Even now -he said to himself that what he meant to do, if explained to the -ordinary man, would probably seem to him ridiculous, that the ordinary -man would say, "What a wild idea! Your imagination runs riot." But he -thought of certain subtle things which had seemed like indications, -like shadowy pointing fingers; of a look in Gaspare's eyes when they -had met his--a hard, defiant look that seemed shutting him out from -something; of a look in another face one night under the moon; of some -words spoken in a cave with a passion that had reached his heart; of -two children strangely at ease in each other's society. And again the -thought pricked him, "Is not everything possible--even that?" All -through his life he had sought truth with persistence, sometimes -almost with cruelty, yet now he was conscious of timidity, almost of -cowardice--as if he feared to seek it. - -Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in Sicily. Then he had -been afraid, not for himself but for another. To-day again the -protective instinct was alive in him. It was that instinct which made -him afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to his first -intention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. No safety can be in -ignorance for a strong man. He must know. Then he can act. - -When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for Ruffo, but he could -not see the boy. He had never inquired Ruffo's second name. He might -make a guess at it. Should he? He looked at a group of fishermen who -were talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. One of them -had a handsome face bronzed by the sun, frank hazel eyes, a mouth -oddly sensitive for one of his class. His woolen shirt, wide open, -showed a medal resting on his broad chest, one of those amulets that -are said to protect the fishermen from the dangers of the sea. Artois -resolved to ask this man the question he wished, yet feared to put to -some one. Afterwards he wondered why he had picked out this man. -Perhaps it was because he looked happy. - -Artois caught the man's eye. - -"You want a boat, Signore?" - -With a quick movement the fellow was beside him on the other side of -the wall. - -"I'll take your boat--perhaps this evening." - -"At what hour, Signore?" - -"We'll see. But first perhaps you can tell me something." - -"What is it?" - -"You live here at Mergellina?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"Do you know any one called--called Buonavista?" - -The eyes of Artois were fixed on the man's face. - -"Buonavista--si, Signore." - -"You do?" - -"Ma si, Signore," said the man, looking at Artois with a sudden flash -of surprise. "The family Buonavista, I have known it all my life." - -"The family? Oh, then there are many of them?" - -The man laughed. - -"Enrico Buonavista has made many children, and is proud of it, I can -tell you. He has ten--his father before him--" - -"Then they are Neapolitans?" - -"Neapolitans! No, Signore. They are from Mergellina." - -Artois smiled. The tension which had surprised the sailor left his -face. - -"I understand. But there is no Sicilian here called Buonavista?" - -"A Sicilian, Signore? I never heard of one. Are there Buonavistas in -Sicily?" - -"I have met with the name there once. But perhaps you can tell me of a -boy, one of the fishermen, called Ruffo?" - -"Ruffo Scarla? You mean Ruffo Scarla, who fishes with Giuseppe-- -Mandano Giuseppe, Signore?" - -"It may be. A young fellow, a Sicilian by birth, I believe." - -"Il Siciliano! Si, Signore. We call him that, but he has never been in -Sicily, and was born in America." - -"That's the boy." - -"Do you want him, Signore? But he is not here to-day. He is at sea -to-day." - -"I did want to speak to him." - -"But he is not a boatman, Signore. He does not go with the travellers. -He is a fisherman." - -"Yes. Do you know his mother?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"What is her name?" - -"Bernari, Signore. She is married to Antonio Bernari, who is in -prison." - -"In prison? What's he been doing?" - -"He is always after the girls, Signore. And now he has put a knife -into one." - -The man shrugged his shoulders. - -"Diavolo! He is jealous. He has not been tried yet, perhaps he never -will be. His wife has gone into Naples to-day to see him." - -"Oh, she's away?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"And her name, her Christian name? It's Maria, isn't it?" - -"No, Signore, Maddalena--Maddalena Bernari." - -Artois said nothing for a minute. Then he added: - -"I suppose there are plenty of Maddalenas here in Mergellina?" - -The man laughed. - -"Si Signore. Marias and Maddalenas--you find them everywhere. Why, my -own mamma is Maddalena, and my wife is Maria, and so is my sister." - -"Exactly. And your name? I want it, so that when next I take a boat -here I can ask for yours." - -"Fabiano, Signore, Lari Fabiano, and my boat is the /Stella del -Mare/." - -"Thank you, Fabiano." - -Artois put a lira into his hand. - -"I shall take the /Star of the Sea/ very soon." - -"This evening, Signore; it will be fine for sailing this evening." - -"If not this evening, another day. A rivederci, Fabiano." - -"A rivederci, Signore. Buon passeggio." - -The man went back to his companions, and, as Artois walked on began -talking eagerly to them, and pointing after the stranger. - -Artois did not know what he would do later on in the evening, but he -had decided on the immediate future. He would walk up the hill to the -village of Posilipo, then turn down to the left, past the entrance to -the Villa Rosebery, and go to the Antico Giuseppone, where he could -dine by the waterside. It was quiet there, he knew; and he could have -a cutlet and a zampaglione, a cup of coffee and a cigar, and sit and -watch the night fall. And when it had fallen? Well, he would not be -far from the island, nor very far from Naples, and he could decide -then what to do. - -He followed out this plan, and arrived at the Giuseppone at evening. As -he came down the road between the big buildings near the waterside he -saw in the distance a small group of boys and men lounging by the three -or four boats that lie at the quay, and feared to find, perhaps, a -bustle and noise of people round the corner at the ristorante. But when -he turned the corner and came to the little tables that were set out in -the open air, he was glad to see only two men who were bending over -their plates of fish soup. He glanced at them, almost without noticing -them, so preoccupied was he with his thoughts, sat down at an adjoining -table and ordered his simple meal. While it was being got ready he -looked out over the sea. - -The two men near him conversed occasionally in low voices. He paid no -heed to them. Only when he had dined slowly and was sipping his black -coffee did they attract his attention. He heard one of them say to the -other in French: - -"What am I to do? It would be terrible for me! How am I to prevent it -from happening?" - -His companion replied: - -"I thought you had been wandering all the winter in the desert." - -"I have. What has that to do with it?" - -"Have you learned its lesson?" - -"What lesson?" - -"The lesson of resignation, of obedience to the thing that must be." - -Artois looked towards the last speaker and saw that he was an -Oriental, and that he was very old. His companion was a young -Frenchman. - -"What do those do who have not learned?" continued the Oriental. "They -seek, do they not? They rebel, they fight, they try to avoid things, -they try to bring things about. They lift up their hands to disperse -the grains of the sand-storm. They lift up their voices to be heard by -the wind from the South. They stretch forth their hands to gather the -mirage into their bosom. They follow the drum that is beaten among the -dunes. They are afraid of life because they know it has two kinds of -gifts, and one they snatch at, and one they would refuse. And they are -afraid still more of the door that all must enter, Sultan and Nomad-- -he who has washed himself and made the threefold pilgrimage, and he -who is a leper and is eaten by flies. So it is. And nevertheless all -that is to come must come, and all that is to go must go at the time -appointed; just as the cloud falls and lifts at the time appointed, -and the wind blows and fails, and Ramadan is here and is over." - -As he ceased from speaking he got up from his chair, and, followed by -the young Frenchman, he passed in front of Artois, went down to the -waterside, stepped into a boat, and was rowed away into the gathering -shadows of night. - -Artois sat very still for a time. Then he, too, got into a boat and -was rowed away across the calm water to the island. - -He found Hermione sitting alone, without a lamp, on the terrace, -meditating, perhaps, beneath the stars. When she saw him she got up -quickly, and a strained look of excitement came into her face. - -"You have come!" - -"Yes. You--are you surprised? Did you wish to be alone?" - -"No. Will you have some coffee?" - -He shook his head. - -"I dined at the Giuseppone. I had it there." - -He glanced round. - -"Are you looking for Vere? She is out on the cliff, I suppose. Shall -we go to her?" - -He was struck by her nervous uneasiness. And he thought of the words -of the old Oriental, which had made upon him a profound impression, -perhaps because they had seemed spoken, not to the young Frenchman, -but in answer to unuttered thoughts of his own. - -"Let us sit here for a minute," he said. - -Hermione sat down again in silence. They talked for a little while -about trifling things. And then Artois was moved to tell her of the -conversation he had that evening overheard, to repeat to her, almost -word for word, what the old Oriental had said. When he had finished -Hermione was silent for a minute. Then she moved her chair and said, -in an unsteady voice: - -"I don't think I should ever learn the lesson of the desert. Perhaps -only those who belong to it can learn from it." - -"If it is so it is sad--for the others." - -"Let us go and find Vere," she said. - -"Are you sure she is on the cliff?" he asked, as they passed out by -the front door. - -"I think so. I am almost certain she is." - -They went forward, and almost immediately heard a murmur of voices. - -"Vere is with some one," said Artois. - -"It must be Ruffo. It is Ruffo." - -She stood still. Artois stood still beside her. The night was -windless. Voices travelled through the dreaming silence. - -"Don't be afraid. Sing it to me." - -Vere's voice was speaking. Then a boy's voice rang out in the song of -Mergellina. The obedient voice was soft and very young, though manly. -And it sounded as if it sang only for one person, who was very near. -Yet it was impersonal. It asked nothing from, it told nothing to, that -person. Simply, and very naturally, it just gave to the night a very -simple and a very natural song. - -As Artois listened he felt as if he learned what he had not been able -to learn that day at Mergellina. Strange as this thing was--if indeed -it was--he felt that it must be, that it was ordained to be, it and -all that might follow from it. He even felt almost that Hermione must -already know it, have divined it, as if, therefore, any effort to hide -it from her must be fruitless, or even contemptible, as if indeed all -effort to conceal truth of whatever kind was contemptible. - -The words of the Oriental had sunk deep into his soul. - -When the song was over he turned resolutely away. He felt that those -children should not be disturbed. Hermione hesitated for a moment. -Then she fell in with his caprice. At the house door he bade her good- -bye. She scarcely answered. And he left her standing there alone in -the still night. - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -Her unrest was greater than ever, and the desire that consumed her -remained ungratified, although Emile had come to the island as if in -obedience to her fierce mental summons. But she had not seen him even -for a moment with Vere. Why had she let him go? When would he come -again? She might ask him to come for a long day, or she might get Vere -to ask him. - -Vere must surely be longing to have a talk with her secret mentor, -with her admirer and inspirer. And then Hermione remembered how often -she had encouraged Emile, how they had discussed his work together, -how he had claimed her sympathy in difficult moments, how by her -enthusiasm she had even inspired him--so at least he had told her. And -now he was fulfilling in her child's life an office akin to hers in -his life. - -The knowledge made her feel desolate, driven out. Yes, she felt as if -this secret shared by child and friend had expelled her from their -lives. Was that unreasonable? She wished to be reasonable, to be calm. - -Calm? She thought of the old Oriental, and of his theory of -resignation. Surely it was not for her, that theory. She was of -different blood. She did not issue from the loins of the immutable -East. And yet how much better it was to be resigned, to sit enthroned -above the chances of life, to have conquered fate by absolute -submission to its decrees! - -Why was her heart so youthful in her middle-aged body? Why did it -still instinctively clamor for sympathy, like a child's? Why could she -be so easily and so cruelly wounded? It was weak. It was contemptible. -She hated herself. But she could only be the thing she at that moment -hated. - -Her surreptitious act of the afternoon seemed to have altered her -irrevocably, to have twisted her out of shape--yet she could not wish -it undone, the knowledge gained by it withheld. She had needed to know -what Emile knew, and chance had led her to learn it, as she had -learned it, with her eyes instead of from the lips of her child. - -She wondered what Vere would have said if she had been asked to reveal -the secret. She would never know that now. But there were other things -that she felt she must know: why Vere had never told her--and -something else. - -Her act of that day had twisted her out of shape. She was awry, and -she felt that she must continue to be as she was, that her fearless -honesty was no longer needed by her, could no longer rightly serve her -in the new circumstances that others had created for her. They had -been secret. She could not be open. She was constrained to watch, to -conceal--to be awry, in fact. - -Yet she felt guilty even while she said this to herself, guilty and -ashamed, and then doubtful. She doubted her new capacity to be -furtive. She could watch, but she did not know whether she could watch -without showing what she was doing. And Emile was terribly observant. - -This thought, of his subtlety and her desire to conceal, made her -suddenly realize their altered relations with a vividness that -frightened her. Where was the beautiful friendship that had been the -comfort, the prop of her bereaved life? It seemed already to have sunk -away into the past. She wondered what was in store for her, if there -were new sorrows being forged for her in the cruel smithy of the great -Ruler, sorrows that would hang like chains about her till she could go -no farther. The Egyptian had said: "What is to come will come, and -what is to go will go, at the time appointed." And Vere had said she -felt as if perhaps there was a cross that must be borne by some one on -the island, by "one of us." Was she, Hermione, picked out to bear that -cross? Surely God mistook the measure of her strength. If He had He -would soon know how feeble she was. When Maurice had died, somehow she -had endured it. She had staggered under the weight laid upon her, but -she had upheld it. But now she was much older, and she felt as if -suffering, instead of strengthening, had weakened her character, as if -she had not much "fight" left in her. - -"I don't believe I could endure another great sorrow," she said to -herself. "I'm sure I couldn't." - -Just then Vere came in to bid her good-night. - -"Good-night, Vere," Hermione said. - -She kissed the girl gently on the forehead, and the touch of the cool -skin suddenly made her long to sob, and to say many things. She took -her lips away. - -"Emile has been here," she said. - -"Monsieur Emile!" - -Vere looked round. - -"But--" - -"He has gone." - -"Gone! But I haven't seen him!" - -Her voice seemed thoroughly surprised. - -"He only stayed five minutes or so." - -"Oh, Madre, I wish I had known!" - -There was a touch of reproach in Vere's tone, and there was something -so transparently natural, so transparently innocent and girlish in her -disappointment, that it told her mother something she was glad to -know. Not that she had doubted it--but she was glad to know. - -"We came to look for you." - -"Well, but I was only on the cliff, where I always go. I was there -having a little talk with Ruffo." - -"I know." - -"And you never called me, Madre!" Vere looked openly hurt. "Why didn't -you?" - -In truth, Hermione hardly knew. Surely it had been Emile who had led -them away from the singing voice of Ruffo. - -"Ruffo was singing." - -"A song about Mergellina. Did you hear it? I do like it and the way he -sings it." - -The annoyance had gone from her face at the thought of the song. - -"And when he sings he looks so careless and gay. Did you listen?" - -"Yes, for a moment, and then we went away. I think it was Emile who -made us go. He didn't want to disturb you, I think." - -"I understand." - -Vere's face softened. Again Hermione felt a creeping jealousy at her -heart. Vere had surely been annoyed with her, but now she knew that it -was Emile who had not wished to disturb the /tete-a-tete/ on the cliff -she did not mind. She even looked as if she were almost touched. Could -the mother be wrong where the mere friend was right? She felt, when -Vere spoke and her expression changed, the secret understanding from -which she was excluded. - -"What is the matter, Madre?" - -"The matter! Nothing. Why?" - -"You looked so odd for a minute. I thought--" - -But she did not express what she had thought, for Hermione interrupted -her by saying: - -"We must get Emile to come for a long day. I wish you would write him -a note to-morrow morning, Vere. Write for me and ask him to come on -Thursday. I have a lot to do in the morning. Will you save me the -trouble?" She tried to speak, carelessly. "I've a long letter to send -to Evelyn Townley," she added. - -"Of course, Madre. And I'll tell Monsieur Emile all I think of him for -neglecting us as he has. Ah! But I remember; he's been working." - -"Yes, he's been working; and one must forgive everything to the -worker, mustn't one?" - -"To such a worker as Monsieur Emile is, yes. I do wish you'd let me -read his books, Madre." - -For a moment Hermione hesitated, looking at her child. - -"Why are you so anxious to read them all of a sudden?" she asked. - -"Well, I'm growing up and--and I understand things I used not to -understand." - -Her eyes fell for a moment before her mother's, and there was a -silence, in which the mother felt some truth withheld. Vere looked up -again. - -"And I want to appreciate Monsieur Emile properly--as you do, Madre. -It seems almost ridiculous to know him so well, and not to know him -really at all." - -"But you do know him really." - -"I'm sure he puts most of his real self into his work." - -Hermione remembered her conception of Emile Artois long ago, when she -only knew him through two books; that she had believed him to be -cruel, that she had thought her nature must be in opposition to his. -Vere did not know that side of "Monsieur Emile." - -"Vere, it is true you are growing up," she said, speaking rather -slowly, as if to give herself time for something. "Perhaps I was wrong -the other day in what I said. You may read Emile's books if you like." - -"Madre!" - -Vere's face flushed with eager pleasure. - -"Thank you, Madre!" - -She went up to bed radiant. - -When she had gone Hermione stood where she was. She had just done a -thing that was mean, or at least she had done a thing from a mean, a -despicable motive. She knew it as the door shut behind her child, and -she was frightened of herself. Never before had she been governed by -so contemptible a feeling as that which had just prompted her. If -Emile ever knew, or even suspected what it was, she felt that she -could never look into his face again with clear, unfaltering eyes. -What madness was upon her? What change was working within her? -Repulsion came, and with it the desire to combat at once, strongly, -the new, the hateful self which had frightened her. - -She hastened after Vere, and in a moment was knocking at the child's -door. - -"Who's there? Who is it?" - -"Vere!" called the mother. - -As she called she tried the door, and found it locked. - -"Madre! It's you!" - -"Yes. May I come in?" - -"One tiny moment." - -The voice within sounded surely a little startled and uneven, -certainly not welcoming. There was a pause. Hermione heard the -rustling of paper, then a drawer shut sharply. - -Vere was hiding away her poems! - -When Hermione understood that she felt the strong, good impulse -suddenly shrivel within her, and a bitter jealousy take its place. -Vere came to the door and opened it. - -"Oh, come in, Madre! What is it?" she asked. - -In her bright eyes there was the look of one unexpectedly disturbed. -Hermione glanced quickly at the writing-table. - -"You--you weren't writing my note to Monsieur Emile?" she said. - -She stepped into the room. She wished she could force Vere to tell her -about the poems, but without asking. She felt as if she could not -continue in her present condition, excluded from Vere's confidence. -Yet she knew now that she could never plead for it. - -"No, Madre. I can do it to-morrow." - -Vere looked and sounded surprised, and the mother felt more than ever -like an intruder. Yet something dogged kept her there. - -"Are you tired, Vere?" she asked. - -"Not a bit." - -"Then let us have a little talk." - -"Of course." - -Vere shut the door. Hermione knew by the way she shut it that she -wanted to be alone, to go on with her secret occupation. She came back -slowly to her mother, who was sitting on a chair by the bedside. -Hermione took her hand, and Vere pushed up the edge of the mosquito- -curtain and sat down on the bed. - -"About those books of Emile's--" Hermione began. - -"Oh, Madre, you're not going to-- But you've promised!" - -"Yes." - -"Then I may?" - -"Why should you wish to read such books? They will probably make you -sad, and--and they may even make you afraid of Emile." - -"Afraid! Why?" - -"I remember long ago, before I knew him, I had a very wrong conception -of him, gained from his books." - -"Oh, but I know him beforehand. That makes all the difference." - -"A man like Emile has many sides." - -"I think we all have, Madre. Don't you?" - -Vere looked straight at her mother. Hermione felt that a moment had -come in which, perhaps, she could force the telling of that truth -which already she knew. - -"I suppose so, Vere; but we need not surely keep any side hidden from -those we love, those who are nearest to us." - -Vere looked a little doubtful--even, for a moment, slightly confused. - -"N--o?" she said. - -She seemed to consider something. Then she added: - -"But I think it depends. If something in us might give pain to any one -we love, I think we ought to try to hide that. I am sure we ought." - -Hermione felt that each of them was thinking of the same thing, even -speaking of it without mentioning it. But whereas she knew that Vere -was doing so, Vere could not know that she was. So Vere was at a -disadvantage. Vere's last words had opened the mother's eyes. What she -had guessed was true. This secret of the poems was kept from her -because of her own attempt to create and its failure. Abruptly she -wondered if Vere and Emile had ever talked that failure over. At the -mere thought of such a conversation her whole body tingled. She got up -from her chair. - -"Well, good-night, Vere," she said. - -And she left the room, leaving her child amazed. - -Vere did not understand why her mother had come, nor why, having come, -she abruptly went away. There was something the matter with her -mother. She had felt that for some time. She was more conscious than -ever of it now. Around her mother there was an atmosphere of -uneasiness in which she felt herself involved. And she was vaguely -conscious of the new distance between them, a distance daily growing -wider. Now and then, lately, she had felt almost uncomfortable with -her mother, in the sitting-room when she was saying good-night, and -just now when she sat on the bed. Youth is terribly quick to feel -hostility, however subtle. The thought that her mother could be -hostile to her had never entered Vere's head. Nevertheless, the -mother's faint and creeping hostility--for at times Hermione's feeling -was really that, thought she would doubtless have denied it even to -herself--disagreeably affected the child. - -"What can be the matter with Madre?" she thought. - -She went over to the writing-table, where she had hastily shut up her -poems on hearing the knock at the door, but she did not take them out -again. Instead she sat down and wrote the note to Monsieur Emile. As -she wrote the sense of mystery, of uneasiness, departed from her, -chased away, perhaps, by the memory of Monsieur Emile's kindness to -her and warm encouragement, by the thought of having a long talk with -him again, of showing him certain corrections and developments carried -out by her since she had seen him. The sympathy of the big man meant a -great deal to her, more even than he was aware of. It lifted up her -eager young heart. It sent the blood coursing through her veins with a -new and ardent strength. Hermione's enthusiasm had been inherited by -Vere, and with it something else that gave it a peculiar vitality, a -power of lasting--the secret consciousness of talent. - -Now, as she wrote her letter, she forgot all her uneasiness, and her -pen flew. - -At last she sighed her name--"Vere." - -She was just going to put the letter into its envelope when something -struck her, and she paused. The she added: - -"P.S.--Just now Madre gave me leave to read your books." - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -The words of the old Oriental lingered in the mind of Artois. He was -by nature more fatalistic than Hermione, and moreover he knew what she -did not. Long ago he had striven against a fate. With the help of -Gaspare he had conquered it--or so he had believed till now. But now -he asked himself whether he had not only delayed its coming. If his -suspicion were well founded,--and since his last visit to the island -he felt as if it must be,--then surely all he had done with Gaspare -would be in vain at the last. - -If his suspicion were well founded, then certain things are ordained. -They have to happen for some reason, known only to the hidden -Intelligence that fashions each man's character, that develops it in -joy or grief, that makes it glad with feasting, or forces it to feed -upon the bread of tears. - -Did Gaspare know? If the truth were what Artois suspected, and Gaspare -did know it, what would Gaspare do? - -That was a problem which interested Artois intensely. - -The Sicilian often said of a thing "E il Destino." Yet Artois believed -that for his beloved Padrona he would fight to the death. He, Artois, -would leave this fight against destiny to the Sicilian. For him the -Oriental's philosophy; for him resignation to the inevitable, whatever -it might be. - -He said to himself that to do more than he had already done to ward -off the assaults of truth would be impious. Perhaps he ought never to -have done anything. Perhaps it would have been far better to have let -the wave sweep over Hermione long ago. Perhaps even in that fight of -his there had been secret selfishness, the desire that she should not -know how by his cry from Africa her happy life had been destroyed. And -perhaps he was to be punished some day for that. - -He did not know. But he felt, after all these years, that if to that -hermitage of the sea Fate had really found the way he must let things -take their course. And it seemed to him as if the old Oriental had -been mysteriously appointed to come near him just at that moment, to -make him feel that this was so. The Oriental had been like a messenger -sent to him out of that East which he loved, which he had studied, but -from which, perhaps, he had not learned enough. - -Vere's letter came. He read it with eagerness and pleasure till he -came to the postscript. But that startled him. He knew that Vere had -never read his books. He thought her far too young to read them. Till -lately he had almost a contempt for those who write with one eye on -"la jeune fille." Now he could conceive writing with a new pleasure -something that Vere might read. But those books of his! Why had -Hermione suddenly given that permission? He remembered Peppina. Vere -must have told her mother of the scene with Peppina, and how her eyes -had been opened to certain truths of life, how she had passed from -girlhood to womanhood through that gate of knowledge. And Hermione -must have thought that it was useless to strive to keep Vere back. - -But did he wish Vere to read all that he had written? - -On Thursday he went over to the island with mingled eagerness and -reluctance. That little home in the sea, washed by blue waters, rooted -by blue skies, sun-kissed and star-kissed by day and night, drew and -repelled him. There was the graciousness of youth there, of youth and -promise; but there was tragedy there, too, in the heart of Hermione, -and in Peppina, typified by the cross upon her cheek. And does not -like draw like? - -For a moment he saw the little island with a great cloud above it. But -when he landed and met Vere he felt the summer, and knew that the sky -was clear. - -Hermione was not on the island, Vere told him. She had left many -apologies, and would be home for lunch. She had had to go in to Naples -to see the dentist. A tooth had troubled her in the night. She had -gone by tram. As Vere explained Artois had a moment of surprise, a -moment of suspicion--even of vexation. But it passed when Vere said: - -"I'm afraid poor Madre suffered a great deal. She looked dreadful this -morning, as if she hadn't slept all night." - -"Poveretta!" said Artois. - -He looked earnestly at Vere. This was the first time they had met -since the revelation of Peppina. What the Marchesino had seen Artois -saw more plainly, felt more strongly than the young Neapolitan had -felt. But he looked at Vere, too, in search of something else, -thinking of Ruffo, trying to probe into the depth of human mysteries, -to find the secret spring that carried child to child. - -"What do you want, Monsieur Emile?" - -"I want to know how the work goes," he answered, smiling. - -She flushed a little. - -"And I want to tell you something," he added. "My talk with you roused -me up. Vere, you set me working as I have not worked for a long -while." - -A lively pleasure showed in her face. - -"Is that really true? But then I must be careful, or you will never -come to see us any more. You will always be shut up in the hotel -writing." - -They mounted the cliff together and, without question or reply, as by -a mutual instinct, turned towards the seat that faced Ischia, clear -to-day, yet romantic with the mystery of heat. When they had sat down -Vere added: - -"And besides, of course, I know that it is Madre who encourages you -when you are depressed about your work. I have heard you say so -often." - -"Your mother has done a great deal for me," said Artois, seriously-- -"far more than she will ever know." - -There was a sound of deep, surely of eternal feeling in his voice, -which suddenly touched the girl to the quick. - -"I like to hear you say that--like that," she said, softly. "I think -Madre does a great deal for us all." - -If Hermione could have heard them her torn heart might perhaps have -ceased to bleed. It had been difficult for her to do what she had done ---to leave the island that morning. She had done it to discipline her -nature, as Passionists scourge themselves by night before the altar. -She had left Emile alone with Vere simply because she hated to do it. - -The rising up of jealousy in her heart had frightened her. All night -she had lain awake feeling this new and terrible emanation from her -soul, conscious of this monster that lifted up its head and thrust it -forth out of the darkness. - -But one merit she had. She was frank with herself. She named the -monster before she strove to fight it, to beat it back into the -darkness from which it was emerging. - -She was jealous, doubly jealous. The monopolizing instinct of strong- -natured and deeply affectionate women was fiercely alive in her. -Always, no doubt, she had had it. Long ago, when first she was in -Sicily alone, she had dreamed of a love in the South--far away from -the world. When she married she had carried her Mercury to the -exquisite isolation of Monte Amato. And when that love was taken from -her, and her child came and was at the age of blossom, she had brought -her child to this isle, this hermitage of the sea. Emile, too, her one -great friend, she had never wished to share him. She had never cared -much to meet him in society. Her instinct was to have him to herself, -to be with him alone in unfrequented places. She was greedy or she was -timid. Which was it? Perhaps she lacked self-confidence, belief in her -own attractive power. Life in the world is a fight. Woman fight for -their lovers, fight for their friends, with other women: those many -women who are born thieves, who are never happy unless they are taking -from their sisters the possessions those sisters care for most. -Hermione could never have fought with other women for the love or the -friendship of a man. Her instinct, perhaps, was to carry her treasure -out of all danger into the wilderness. - -Two treasures she had--Vere her child, Emile her friend. And now she -was jealous of each with the other. And the enormous difference in -their ages made her jealousy seem the more degrading. Nevertheless, -she could not feel that it was unnatural. By a mutual act they had -excluded her from their lives, had withdrawn from her their confidence -while giving it to each other. And their reason for doing this--she -was sure of it now--was her own failure to do something in the world -of art. - -She was jealous of Vere because of that confidence given to Emile, and -of Emile because of his secret advice and help to Vere--advice and -help which he had not given to the mother, because he had plainly seen -that to do so would be useless. - -And when she remembered this Hermione was jealous, too, of the talent -Vere must have, a talent she had longed for, but which had been denied -to her. For even if Emile . . . and then again came the most hateful -suspicion of all--but Emile could not lie about the things of art. - -Had they spoken together of her failure? Again and again she asked -herself the question. They must have spoken. They had spoken. She -could almost hear their words--words of regret or of pity. "We must -not hurt her. We must keep it from her. We must temper the wind to the -shorn lamb." The elderly man and the child had read together the -tragedy of her failure. To the extremes of life, youth and age, she -had appeared an object of pity. - -And then she thought of her dead husband's reverence of her intellect, -boyish admiration of her mental gifts; and an agony of longing for his -love swept over her again, and she felt that he was the only person -who had been able to love her really, and that now he was gone there -was no one. - -At that moment she forgot Gaspare. Her sense of being abandoned, and -of being humiliated, swept out many things from her memory. Only -Maurice had loved her really. Only he had set her on high, where even -the humblest woman longs to be set by some one. Only he had thought -her better, braver, more worshipful, more loveable, than any other -woman. Such love, without bringing conceit to the creature loved, -gives power, creates much of what it believes in. The lack of any such -love seems to withdraw the little power that there is. - -Hermione, feeling in this humiliation of the imagination that she was -less than nothing, clung desperately to the memory of him who had -thought her much. The dividing years were gone. With a strange, a -beautiful and terrible freshness, the days of her love came back. She -saw Maurice's eyes looking at her with that simple, almost reverent -admiration which she had smiled at and adored. - -And she gripped her memory. She clung to it feverishly as she had -never clung to it before. She told herself that she would live in it -as in a house of shelter. For there was the desolate wind outside. - -And she thought much of Ruffo, and with a strange desire--to be with -him, to search for the look she loved in him. For a moment with him -she had seemed to see her Mercury in the flesh. She must watch for his -return. - -When the morning came she began her fight. She made her excuse, and -left the morning free for Emile to be with Vere. - -Two dreary hours she spent in Naples. The buzzing city affected her -like a nightmare. Coming back through Mergellina, she eagerly looked -for Ruffo. But she did not see him. Nor had she seen him in the early -morning, when she passed by the harbor where the yachts were lying in -the sun. - -Gaspare came with the boat to take her over from the nearest village -to the island. - -"Don Emilio has come?" she asked him, as she stepped into the boat. - -"Si, Signora. He has been on the island a long time." - -Gaspare sat down facing his Padrona and took the oars. As he rowed the -boat out past the ruined "Palace of the Spirits" he looked at -Hermione, and it seemed to her that his eyes pitied her. - -Could Gaspare see what she was feeling, her humiliation, her secret -jealousy? She felt as if she were made of glass. But she returned his -gaze almost sternly, and said: - -"What's the matter, Gaspare? Why do you look at me like that?" - -"Signora!" - -He seemed startled, and slightly reddened, then looked hurt and almost -sulky. - -"May I not look at you, Signora?" he asked, rather defiantly. "Have I -the evil eye?" - -"No--no, Gaspare! Only--only you looked at me as if something were the -matter. Do I look ill?" - -She asked the question with a forced lightness, with a smile. He -answered, bluntly: - -"Si, Signora. You look very ill." - -She put up her hand to her face instinctively, as if to feel whether -his words were true. - -"But I'm perfectly well," she said. - -"You look very ill, Signora," he returned. - -"I'm a little bit tired, perhaps." - -He said no more, and rowed steadily on for a while. But presently she -found him looking gravely at her again. - -"Signora," he began, "the Signorina loves the island." - -"Yes, Gaspare." - -"Do you love it?" - -The question startled her. Had he read her thoughts in the last days? - -"Don't you think I love it?" she asked. - -"You go away from it very often, Signora." - -"But I must occasionally go in to Naples!" she protested. - -"Si, Signora." - -"Well, but mustn't I?" - -"Non lo so, Signora. Perhaps we have been here long enough. Perhaps we -had better go away from here." - -He spoke slowly, and with something less than his usual firmness, as -if in his mind there was uncertainty, some indecision or some conflict -of desires. - -"Do you want to go away?" she said. - -"It is not for me to want, Signora." - -"I don't think the Signorina would like to go, Gaspare. She hates the -idea of leaving the island." - -"The Signorina is not every one," he returned. - -Habitually blunt as Gaspare was, Hermione had never before heard him -speak of Vere like this, not with the least impertinence, but with a -certain roughness. To-day it did not hurt her. Nor, indeed, could it -ever have hurt her, coming from some one so proven as Gaspare. But -to-day it even warmed her, for it made her feel that some one was -thinking exclusively of her--was putting her first. She longed for -some expression of affection from some one. She felt that she was -starving for it. And this feeling made her say: - -"How do you mean, Gaspare?" - -"Signora, it is for you to say whether we shall go away or stay here." - -"You--you put me first, Gaspare?" - -She was ashamed of herself for saying it. But she had to say it. - -"First, Signora? Of course you are first." - -He looked genuinely surprised. - -"Are you not the Padrona?" he added. "It is for you to command." - -"Yes. But I don't quite mean that." - -She stopped. But she had to go on: - -"I mean, would you rather do what I wanted than what any one else -wanted?" - -"Si, Signora--much rather." - -There was more in his voice than in his words. - -"Thank you, Gaspare," she said. - -"Signora," he said, "if you think we had better leave the island, let -us leave it. Let us go away." - -"Well, but I have never said I wished to go. I am--" she paused. "I -have been very contented to be here." - -"Va bene, Signora." - -When they reached the island Hermione felt nervous--almost as if she -were to meet strangers who were critical, who would appraise her and -be ready to despise her. She told herself that she was mad to feel -like that; but when she thought of Emile and Vere talking of her -failure--of their secret combined action to keep from her the -knowledge of the effort of the child--that seemed just then to her a -successful rivalry concealed--she could not dismiss the feeling. - -She dreaded to meet Emile and Vere. - -"I wonder where they are," she said, as she got out. "Perhaps they are -on the cliff, or out in the little boat. I'll go into the house." - -"Signora, I will go to the seat and see if they are there." - -"Oh, don't bother--" she began. - -But he ran off, springing up the steps with a strong agility, like -that of a boy. - -She hurried after him and went into the house. After what he had said -in the boat she wished to look at herself in the glass, to see if -there was anything strange or painful, anything that might rouse -surprise, in her appearance. She gained her bedroom, and went at once -to the mirror. - -Hermione was not by nature at all a self-conscious woman. She knew -that she was plain, and had sometimes, very simply, regretted it. But -she did not generally think about her appearance, and very seldom now -wondered what others were thinking of it. When Maurice had been with -her she had often indeed secretly compared her ugliness with his -beauty. But a great love breeds many regrets as well as many joys. And -that was long ago. It was years since she had looked at herself in the -glass with any keen feminine anxiety, any tremor of fear, or any cruel -self-criticism. But now she stood for a long time before the glass, -quite still, looking at her reflection with wide, almost with staring, -eyes. - -It was true what Gaspare said. She saw that she was looking ill, very -different from her usual strong self. There was not a thread of white -in her thick hair, and this fact, combined with the eagerness of her -expression, the strong vivacity and intelligence that normally shone -in her eyes, deceived many people as to her age. But to-day her face -was strained, haggard, and feverish. Under the brown tint that the -sunrays had given to her complexion there seemed to lurk a sickly -white, which was most markedly suggested at the corner of the mouth. -The cheek-bones seemed unusually prominent. And the eyes held surely a -depth of uneasiness, of-- - -Hermione approached her face to the mirror till it almost touched the -glass. The reflected eyes drew hers. She gazed into them with a -scrutiny into which she seemed to be pouring her whole force, both of -soul and body. She was trying to look at her nature, to see its shape, -its color, its expression, so that she might judge of what it was -capable--whether for good or evil. The eyes into which she looked both -helped her and frustrated her. They told her much--too much. And yet -they baffled her. When she would know all, they seemed to substitute -themselves for that which she saw through them, and she found herself -noticing their size, their prominence, the exact shade of their brown -hue. And the quick human creature behind them was hidden from her. - -But Gaspare was right. She did look ill. Emile would notice it -directly. - -She washed her face with cold water, then dried it almost cruelly with -a rough towel. Having done this, she did not look again into the -glass, but went at once down-stairs. As she came into the drawing-room -she heard voices in the garden. She stood still and listened. They -were the voices of Vere and Emile talking tirelessly. She could not -hear what they said. Had she been able to hear it she would not have -listened. She could only hear the sound made by their voices, that -noise by which human beings strive to explain, or to conceal, what -they really are. They were talking seriously. She heard no sounds of -laughter. Vere was saying most. It seemed to Hermione that Vere never -talked so much and so eagerly to her, with such a ceaseless vivacity. -And there was surely an intimate sound in her voice, a sound of being -warmly at ease, as if she spoke in an atmosphere of ardent sympathy. - -Again the jealousy came in Hermione, acute, fierce, and travelling-- -like a needle being moved steadily, point downwards, through a network -of quivering nerves. - -"Vere!" she called out. "Vere! Emile!" - -Was her voice odd, startling? - -They did not hear her. Emile was speaking now. She heard the deep, -booming sound of his powerful voice, that seemed expressive of -strength and will. - -"Vere! Emile!" - -As she called again she went towards the window. She felt passionately -excited. The excitement had come suddenly to her when they had not -heard her first call. - -"Emile! Emile!" she repeated. "Emile!" - -"Madre!" - -"Hermione!" - -Both voices sounded startled. - -"What's the matter?" - -Vere appeared at the window, looking frightened. - -"Hermione, what is it?" - -Emile was there beside her. And he, too, looked anxious, almost -alarmed. - -"I only wanted to let you know I had come back," said Hermione, -crushing down her excitement and forcing herself to smile. - -"But why did you call like that?" - -Vere spoke. - -"Like what? What do you mean, figlia mia?" - -"It sounded--" - -She stopped and looked at Artois. - -"It frightened me. And you, Monsieur Emile?" - -"I, too, was afraid for a moment that something unpleasant had -happened." - -"You nervous people! Isn't it lunch-time?" - -As they looked at her she felt they had been talking about her, about -her failure. And she felt, too, as if they must be able to see in her -eyes that she knew the secret Vere had wished to keep from her and -thought she did not know. Emile had given her a glance of intense -scrutiny, and the eyes of her child still questioned her with a sort -of bright and searching eagerness. - -"You make me feel as if I were with detectives," she said, laughing, -but uneasily. "There's really nothing the matter." - -"And your tooth, Madre? Is it better?" - -"Yes, quite well. I am perfectly well. Let us go in." - -Hermione had said to herself that if she could see Emile and Vere -together, without any third person, she would know something that she -felt she must know. When she was with them she meant to be a watcher. -And now her whole being was strung to attention. But it seemed to her -that for some reason they, too, were on the alert, and so were not -quite natural. And she could not be sure of certain things unless the -atmosphere was normal. So she said to herself now, though before she -had had the inimitable confidence of woman in certain detective -instincts claimed by the whole sex. At one moment the thing she feared ---and her whole being recoiled from the thought of it with a shaking -disgust--the thing she feared seemed to her fact. Then something -occurred to make her distrust herself. And she felt that betraying -imagination of hers at work, obscuring all issues, tricking her, -punishing her. - -And when the meal was over she did not know at all. And she felt as if -she had perhaps been deliberately baffled--not, of course, by Vere, of -whose attitude she was not, and never had been, doubtful, but by -Emile. - -When they got up from the table Vere said: - -"I'm going to take the siesta." - -"You look remarkably wide awake, Vere," Artois said, smiling. - -"But I'm going to, because I've had you all to myself the whole -morning. Now it's Madre's turn. Isn't it, Madre?" - -The girl's remark showed her sense of their complete triple intimacy, -but it emphasized to Hermione her own cruel sense of being in the -wilderness. And she even felt vexed that it should be supposed she -wanted Emile's company. Nevertheless, she restrained herself from -making any disclaimer. Vere went up-stairs, and she and Artois went -out and sat down under the trellis. But with the removal of Vere a -protection and safety-valve seemed to be removed, and neither Hermione -nor Emile could for a moment continue the conversation. Again a sense -of humiliation, of being mindless, nothing in the eyes of Artois came -to Hermione, diminishing all her powers. She was never a conceited, -but she had often been a self-reliant woman. Now she felt a humbleness -such as she knew no one should ever feel--a humbleness that was -contemptible, that felt itself incapable, unworthy of notice. She -tried to resist it, but when she thought of this man, her friend, -talking over her failure with her child, in whom he must surely -believe, she could not. She felt "Vere can talk to Emile better than I -can. She interests him more than I." And then her years seemed to -gather round her and whip her. She shrank beneath the thongs of age, -which had not even brought to her those gifts of the mind with which -it often partially replaces the bodily gifts and graces it is so eager -to remove. - -"Hermione." - -"Yes, Emile." - -She turned slowly in her chair, forcing herself to face him. - -"Are you sure you are not feeling ill?" - -"Quite sure. Did you have a pleasant morning with Vere?" - -"Yes. Oh"--he sat forward in his chair--"she told me something that -rather surprised me--that you had told her she might read my books." - -"Well?" - -Hermione's voice was rather hard. - -"Well, I never meant them for 'la jeune fille.' " - -"You consider Vere--" - -"Is she not?" - -She felt he was condemning her secretly for her permission to Vere. -What would he think if he knew her under-reason for giving it? - -"You don't wish Vere to read your books, then?" - -"No. And I ventured to tell her so." - -Hermione felt hot. - -"What did she say?" - -"She said she would not read them." - -"Oh." - -She looked up and met his eyes, and was sure she read condemnation in -them. - -"After I had told Vere--" she began. - -She was about to defend herself, to tell him how she had gone to -Vere's room intending to withdraw the permission given; but suddenly -she realized clearly that she, a mother, was being secretly taken to -task by a man for her conduct to her child. - -That was intolerable. - -And Vere had yielded to Emile's prohibition, though she had eagerly -resisted her mother's attempt to retreat from the promise made. That -was more intolerable. - -She sat without saying anything. Her knees were trembling under her -thin summer gown. Artois felt something of her agitation, perhaps, for -he said, with a kind of hesitating diffidence, very rare in him: - -"Of course, my friend, I would not interfere between you and Vere, -only, as I was concerned, as they were my own writings that were in -question--" He broke off. "You won't misunderstand my motives?" he -concluded. - -"Oh no." - -He was more conscious that she was feeling something acutely. - -"I feel that I perfectly understand why you gave the permission at -this particular moment," he continued, anxious to excuse her to -herself and to himself. - -"Why?" Hermione said, sharply. - -"Wasn't it because of Peppina?" - -"Peppina?" - -"Yes; didn't you--" - -He looked into her face and saw at once that he had made a false step, -that Vere had not told her mother of Peppina's outburst. - -"Didn't I--what?" - -He still looked at her. - -"What?" she repeated. "What has Peppina to do with it?" - -"Nothing. Only--don't you remember what you said to me about not -keeping Vere in cotton-wool?" - -She knew that he was deceiving her. A hopeless, desperate feeling of -being in the dark rushed over her. What was friendship without -sincerity? Nothing--less than nothing. She felt as if her whole body -stiffened with a proud reserve to meet the reserve with which he -treated her. And she felt as if her friend of years, the friend whose -life she had perhaps saved in Africa, had turned in that moment into a -stranger, or--even into an enemy. For this furtive withdrawal from -their beautiful and open intimacy was like an act of hostility. She -was almost dazed for an instant. Then her brain worked with feverish -activity. What had Emile meant? Her permission to Vere was connected -in his mind with Peppina. He must know something about Vere and -Peppina that she did not know. She looked at him, and her face, -usually so sensitive, so receptive, so warmly benign when it was -turned to his, was hard and cold. - -"Emile," she said, "what was it you meant about Peppina? I think I -have a right to know. I brought her into the house. Why should Peppina -have anything to do with my giving Vere permission to read your -books?" - -Artois' instinct was not to tell what Vere had not told, and therefore -had not wished to be known. Yet he hated to shuffle with Hermione. He -chose a middle course. - -"My friend," he said quietly, but with determination, "I made a -mistake. I was following foolishly a wrong track. Let us say no more -about it. But do not be angry with me about the books. I think my -motive in speaking as I did to Vere was partly a selfish one. It is -not only that I wish Vere to be as she is for as long a time as -possible, but that I--well, don't think me a great coward if I say -that I almost dread her discovery of all the cruel knowledge that is -mine, and that I have, perhaps wrongly, brought to the attention of -the world." - -Hermione was amazed. - -"You regret having written your books!" she said. - -"I don't know--I don't know. But I think the happy confidence, the -sweet respect of youth, makes one regret a thousand things. Don't you, -Hermione? Don't you think youth is often the most terrible tutor age -can have?" - -She thought of Ruffo singing, "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate"-- -and suddenly she felt that she could not stay any longer with Artois -just then. She got up. - -"I don't feel very well," she said. - -Artois sprang up and came towards her with a face full of concern. But -she drew back. - -"I didn't sleep last night--and then going into Naples-- I'll go to my -room and lie down. I'll keep quiet. Vere will look after you. I'll be -down at tea." - -She went away before he could say or do anything. For some time he was -alone. Then Vere came. Hermione had not told her of the episode, and -she had only come because she thought the pretended siesta had lasted -long enough. When Artois told her about her mother, she wanted to run -away at once, and see what was the matter--see if she could do -something. But Artois stopped her. - -"I should leave her to rest," he said. "I--I feel sure she wishes to -be alone." - -Vere was looking at him while he spoke, and her face caught the -gravity of his, reflected it for a moment, then showed an uneasiness -that deepened into fear. She laid her hand on his arm. - -"Monsieur Emile, what is the matter with Madre?" - -"Only a headache, I fancy. She did not sleep last night, and--" - -"No, no, the real matter, Monsieur Emile." - -"What do you mean, Vere?" - -The girl looked excited. Her own words had revealed to her a feeling -of which till then she had only been vaguely aware. - -"Madre has seemed different lately," she said--"been different. I am -sure she has. What is it?" - -As the girl spoke, and looked keenly at him with her bright, searching -eyes, a thought came, like a flash, upon Artois--a thought that almost -frightened him. He could not tell it to Vere, and almost immediately -he thrust it away from his mind. But Vere had seen that something had -come to him. - -"You know what it is!" she said. - -"I don't know." - -"Monsieur Emile!" - -Her voice was full of reproach. - -"Vere, I am telling you the truth," he said, earnestly. "If there is -anything seriously troubling your mother I do not know what it is. She -has sorrows, of course. You know that." - -"This is something fresh," the girl said. She thrust forward her -little chin decisively. "This is something new." - -"It cannot be that," Artois said to himself. "It cannot be that." - -To Vere he said: "Sleeplessness is terribly distressing." - -"Well--but only one night." - -"Perhaps there have been others." - -In reply Vere said: - -"Monsieur Emile, you remember this morning, when we were in the -garden, and mother called?" - -"Yes." - -"Do you know, the way she called made me feel frightened?" - -"We were so busy talking that the sudden sound startled us." - -"No, it wasn't that." - -"But when we came your mother was smiling--she was perfectly well. You -let your imagination--" - -"No, Monsieur Emile, indeed I don't." - -He did not try any more to remove her impression. He saw that to do so -would be quite useless. - -"I should like to speak to Gaspare," Vere said, after a moment's -thought. - -"Gaspare! Why?" - -"Perhaps you will laugh at me! But I often think Gaspare understands -Madre better than any of us, Monsieur Emile." - -"Gaspare has been with your mother a very long time." - -"Yes, and in his way he is very clever. Haven't you noticed it?" - -Artois did not answer this. But he said: - -"Follow your instincts, Vere. I don't think they will often lead you -wrong." - -At tea-time Hermione came from her bedroom looking calm and smiling. -There was something deliberate about her serenity, and her eyes were -tired, but she said the little rest had done her good. Vere -instinctively felt that her mother did not wish to be observed, or to -have any fuss made about her condition, and Artois took Vere's cue. -When tea was over, Artois said: - -"Well, I suppose I ought to be going." - -"Oh no," Hermione said. "We asked you for a long day. That means -dinner." - -The cordiality in her voice sounded determined, and therefore formal. -Artois felt chilled. For a moment he looked at her doubtfully. - -"Well, but, Hermione, you aren't feeling very well." - -"I am much better now. Do stay. I shall rest, and Vere will take care -of you." - -It struck him for the first time that she was becoming very ready to -substitute Vere for herself as his companion. He wondered if he had -really offended or hurt her in any way. He even wondered for a moment -whether she was not pleased at his spending the summer in Naples-- -whether, for some reason, she had wished, and still wished, to be -alone with Vere. - -"Perhaps Vere will get sick of looking after an--an old man," he said. - -"You are not an old man, Monsieur Emile. Don't tout!" - -"Tout?" - -"Yes, for compliments about your youth. You meant me, you meant us -both, to say how young you are." - -She spoke gayly, laughingly, but he felt she was cleverly and secretly -trying to smooth things out, to cover up the difficulty that had -intruded itself into their generally natural and simple relations. - -"And your mother says nothing," said Artois, trying to fall in with -her desire, and to restore their wonted liveliness. "Don't you look -upon me as almost a boy, Hermione?" - -"I think sometimes you seem wonderfully young," she said. - -Her voice suggested that she wished to please him, but also that she -meant what she said. Yet Artois had never felt his age more acutely -than when she finished speaking. - -"I am a poor companion for Vere," he said, almost bitterly. "She ought -to be with friends of her own age." - -"You mean that I am a poor companion for you, Monsieur Emile. I often -feel how good you are to put up with me in the way you do." - -The gayety had gone from her now, and she spoke with an earnestness -that seemed to him wonderfully gracious. He looked at her, and his -eyes thanked her gently. - -"Take Emile out in the boat, Vere," Hermione said, "while I read a -book till dinner time." - -At that moment she longed for them to be gone. Vere looked at her -mother, then said: - -"Come along, Monsieur Emile. I'm sorry for you, but Madre wants rest." - -She led the way out of the room. - -Hermione was on the sofa. Before he followed Vere, Artois went up to -her and said: - -"You are sure you won't come out with us, my friend? Perhaps the air -on the sea would do you good." - -"No, thank you, Emile; I really think I had better stay quietly here." - -"Very well." - -He hesitated for a moment, then he went out and left her. But she had -seen a question in his eyes. - -When he had gone, Hermione took up a book, and read for a little -while, always listening for the sound of oars. She was not sure Vere -and Emile would go out in the boat, but she thought they would. If -they came out to the open sea beyond the island it was possible that -she might hear them. Presently, as she did not hear them, she got up. -She wanted to satisfy herself that they were at sea. Going to the -window she looked out. But she saw no boat, only the great plain of -the radiant waters. They made her feel alone--why, she did not know -then. But it was really something of the same feeling which had come -to her long ago during her first visit to Sicily. In the contemplation -of beauty she knew the need of love, knew it with an intimacy that was -cruel. - -She came away from the window and went to the terrace. From there she -could not see the boat. Finally she went to the small pavilion that -overlooked the Saint's Pool. Leaning over the parapet, she perceived -the little white boat just starting around the cliff towards the -Grotto of Virgil. Vere was rowing. Hermione saw her thin figure, so -impregnated with the narrow charm of youth, bending backward and -forward to the oars, Emile's big form leaning against the cushions as -if at ease. From the dripping oars came twinkling lines of light, that -rayed out and spread like the opened sticks of a fan upon the sea. -Hugging the shore, the boat slipped out of sight. - -"Suppose they had gone forever--gone out of my life!" - -Hermione said that to herself. She fancied she still could see the -faint commotion in the water that told where the boat had passed. Now -it was turning into the Grotto of Virgil. She felt sure of that. It -was entering the shadows where she had shown to Emile not long ago the -very depths of her heart. - -How could she have done that? She grew hot as she thought of it. In -her new and bitter reserve she hated to think of his possession that -could never be taken from him, the knowledge of her hidden despair, -her hidden need of love. And by that sensation of hatred of his -knowledge she measured the gulf between them. When had come the very -first narrow fissure she scarcely knew. But she knew how to-day the -gulf had widened. - -The permission of hers to Vere to read Emile's books! And Emile's -authority governing her child, substituted surely for hers! The gulf -had been made wider by her learning that episode; and the fact that -secretly she felt her permission ought never to have been given caused -her the more bitterness. Vere had yielded to Emile because he had been -in the right. Instinctively her child had known which of the two with -whom she had to deal was swayed by an evil mood, and which was -thinking rightly, only for her. - -Could Vere see into her mother's heart? - -Hermione had a moment of panic. Then she laughed at her folly. - -And she thought of Peppina, of that other secret which certainly -existed, but which she had never suspected till that day. - -The boat was gone, and she knew where. She went back into the house -and rang the bell. Giulia came. - -"Oh, Giulia," Hermione said, "will you please ask Peppina to come to -my sitting-room. I want to speak to her for a moment." - -"Si, Signora." - -Giulia looked at her Padrona, then added: - -"Signora, I am sure I was right. I am sure that girl has the evil -eye." - -"Giulia, what nonsense! I have told you often that such ideas are -silly. Peppina has no power to do us harm. Poor girl, we ought to pity -her." - -Giulia's fat face was very grave and quite unconvinced. - -"Signora, since she is here the island is not the same. The Signorina -is not the same, you are not the same, the French Signore is not the -same. Even Gaspare is different. One cannot speak with him now. -Trouble is with us all, Signora." - -Hermione shook her head impatiently. But when Giulia was gone she -thought of her words about Gaspare. Words, even the simplest, spoken -just before some great moment of a life, some high triumph, or deep -catastrophe, stick with resolution in the memory. Lucrezia had once -said of Gaspare on the terrace before the Casa del Prete: "One cannot -speak with him to-day." That was on the evening of the night on which -Maurice's dead body was found. Often since then Hermione had thought -that Gaspare had seemed to have a prevision of the disaster that was -approaching. - -And now Giulia said of him: "One cannot speak with him now." - -The same words. Was Gaspare a stormy petrel? - -There came a knock at the door of the sitting-room, to which Hermione -had gone to wait for the coming of Peppina. - -"Come in." - -The door opened and the disfigured girl entered, looking anxious. - -"Come in, Peppina. It's all right. I only want to speak to you for a -moment." - -Hermione spoke kindly, but Peppina still looked nervous. - -"Si, Signora," she murmured. - -And she remained standing near the door, looking down. - -"Peppina," Hermione said, "I'm going to ask you something, and I want -you to tell me the truth without being afraid." - -"Si, Signora." - -"You remember, when I took you, I told you not to say anything to my -daughter, the Signorina, about your past life, your aunt, and--and all -you had gone through. Have you said anything?" - -Peppina looked more frightened. - -"Signora," she began. "Madonna! It was not my fault, it was not my -fault!" - -She raised her voice, and began to gesticulate. - -"Hush, Peppina. Now don't be afraid of me." - -"You are my preserver, Signora! My saint has forgotten me, but you--" - -"I will not leave you to the streets. You must trust me. And now tell -me--quietly--what have you told the Signorina?" - -And presently Peppina was induced to be truthful, and Hermione knew of -the outburst in the night, and that "the foreign Signore" had known of -it from the moment of its happening. - -"The Signorina was so kind, Signora, that I forgot. I told her all!--I -told her all--I told her--" - -Once Peppina had begun to be truthful she could not stop. She recalled ---or seemed to--the very words she had spoken to Vere, all the details -of her narration. - -"And the foreign Signore? Was he there, too?" Hermione asked, at the -end. - -"No, Signora. He went away. The Signorina told him to go away and -leave us." - -Hermione dismissed Peppina quietly. - -"Please don't say anything about this conversation, Peppina," she -said, as the agitated girl prepared to go. "Try to obey me this time, -will you?" - -She spoke very kindly but very firmly. - -"May the Madonna take out my tongue if I speak, Signora!" Peppina -raised her hand. - -As she was going out Hermione stared at the cross upon her cheek. - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -Artois stayed to dine. The falling of night deepened Hermione's -impression of the gulf which was now between them, and which she was -sure he knew of. When darkness comes to intimacy it seems to make that -intimacy more perfect. Now surely it caused reserve, restraint, to be -more complete. The two secrets which Hermione now knew, but which were -still cherished as secrets by Vere and Artois, stood up between the -mother and her child and friend, inexorably dividing them. - -Hermione was strung up to a sort of nervous strength that was full of -determination. She had herself in hand, like a woman of the world who -faces society with the resolution to deceive it. While Vere and Artois -had been out in the boat she had schooled herself. She felt more -competent to be the watcher of events. She even felt calmer, for -knowledge increased almost always brings an undercurrent of increased -tranquility, because of the sense of greater power that it produces in -the mind. She looked better. She talked more easily. - -When dinner was over they went as usual to the garden, and when they -were there Hermione referred to the projected meeting with the -Marchesino. - -"I made a promise," she said. "I must keep it." - -"Of course," said Artois. "But it seems to me that I am always being -entertained, and that I am inhospitable--I do nothing in return. I -have a proposal to make. Monday will be the sixteenth of July, the -festa of the Madonna del Carmine--Santa Maria del Carmine. It is one -of the prettiest of the year, they tell me. Why should not you and -Vere come to dine at the Hotel, or in the Galleria, with me? I will -ask Panacci to join us, and we will all go on afterwards to see the -illuminations, and the fireworks, and the sending up of the fire- -balloons. What do you say?" - -"Would you like it, Vere?" - -"Immensely, Madre." - -She spoke quietly, but she looked pleased at the idea. - -"Won't the crowd be very bad, though?" asked Hermione. - -"I'll get tickets for the enclosure in the Piazza. We shall have seats -there. And you can bring Gaspare, if you like. Then you will have -three cavaliers." - -"Yes, I should like Gaspare to come," said Hermione. - -There was a sound of warmth in her hitherto rather cold voice when she -said that. - -"How you rely on Gaspare!" Artois said, almost as if with a momentary -touch of vexation. - -"Indeed I do," Hermione answered. - -Their eyes met, surely almost with hostility. - -"Madre knows how Gaspare adores her," said Vere, gently. "If there -were any danger he'd never hesitate. He'd save Madre if he left every -other human being in the world to perish miserably--including me." - -"Vere!" - -"You know quite well he would, Madre." - -They talked a little more. Presently Vere seemed to be feeling -restless. Artois noticed it, and watched her. Once or twice she got -up, without apparent reason. She pulled at the branches of the fig- -trees. She gathered a flower. She moved away, and leaned upon the -wall. Finally, when her mother and Artois had fallen into conversation -about some new book, she slipped very quietly away. - -Hermione and Artois continued their conversation, though without much -animation. At length, however, some remark of Hermione led Artois to -speak of the book he was writing. Very often and very openly in the -days gone by she had discussed with him his work. Now, feeling the -barrier between them, he fancied that perhaps it might be removed more -easily by such another discussion. And this notion of his was not any -proof of want of subtlety on his part. Without knowing why, Hermione -felt a lack of self-confidence, a distressing, an almost unnatural -humbleness to-day. He partially divined the feeling. Possibly it -sprang from their difference of opinion on the propriety of Vere's -reading his books. He thought it might be so. And he wanted to oust -Hermione gently from her low stool and to show her himself seated -there. Filled with this idea, he began to ask her advice about the -task upon which he was engaged. He explained the progress he had made -during the days when he was absent from the island and shut -perpetually in his room. She listened in perfect silence. - -They were sitting near each other, but not close together, for Vere -had been between them. It was dark under the fig-trees. They could see -each other's faces, but not quite clearly. There was a small breeze -which made the trees move, and the leaves rustled faintly now and -then, making a tiny noise which joined the furtive noise of the sea, -not far below them. - -Artois talked on. As his thoughts became more concentrated upon the -book he grew warmer. Having always had Hermione's eager, even -enthusiastic sympathy and encouragement in his work, he believed -himself to have them now. And in his manner, in his tone, even -sometimes in his choice of words, he plainly showed that he assumed -them. But presently, glancing across at Hermione, he was surprised by -the expression on her face. It seemed to him as if a face of stone had -suddenly looked bitterly satirical. He was so astonished that the -words stopped upon his lips. - -"Go on, Emile," she said, "I am listening." - -The expression which had startled him was gone. Had it ever been? -Perhaps he had been deceived by the darkness. Perhaps the moving -leaves had thrown their little shadows across her features. He said to -himself that it must be so--that his friend, Hermione, could never -have looked like that. Yet he was chilled. And he remembered her -passing by in the tram at Posilipo, and how he had stood for a moment -and watched her, and seen upon her face a furtive look that he had -never seen there before, and that had seemed to contradict her whole -nature as he knew it. - -Did he know it? - -Never before had he asked himself this question. He asked it now. Was -there living in Hermione some one whom he did not know, with whom he -had had no dealings, had exchanged no thoughts, had spoken no words? - -"Go on, Emile," she said again. - -But he did not. For once his brain was clouded, and he felt confused. -He had completely lost the thread of his thoughts. - -"I can't," he said, abruptly. - -"Why not?" - -"I've forgotten. I've not thoroughly worked the thing out. Another -time. Besides--besides, I'm sure I bore you with my eternal talk about -my work. You've been such a kind, such a sympathetic friend and -encourager that--" - -He broke off, thinking of that face. Was it possible that through all -these years Hermione had been playing a part with him, had been -pretending to admire his talent, to care for what he was doing, when -really she had been bored by it? Had the whole thing been a weariness -to her, endured perhaps because she liked him as a man? The thought -cut him to the very quick, seared his self-respect, struck a blow at -his pride which made it quiver, and struck surely also a blow at -something else. - -His life during all these years--what would it have been without -Hermione's friendship? Was he to learn that now? - -He looked at her. Now her face was almost as usual, only less animated -than he had seen it. - -"Your work could never bore me. You know it," she said. - -The real Hermione sounded in her voice when she said that, for the -eternal woman deep down in her had heard the sound almost of -helplessness in his voice, had felt the leaning of his nature, strong -though it was, on her, and had responded instantly, inevitably, almost -passionately. But then came the thought of his secret intercourse with -Vere. She saw in the dark words: "Monsieur Emile's idea." "Monsieur -Emile's suggestion." She remembered how Artois had told her that she -could never be an artist. And again the intensely bitter feeling of -satire, that had set in her face the expression which had startled -him, returned, twisting, warping her whole nature. - -"I am to encourage you--you who have told me that I can do nothing!" - -That was what she had been feeling. And, as by a search-light, she had -seen surely for a moment the whole great and undying selfishness of -man, exactly as it was. And she had seen surely, also, the ministering -world of women gathered round about it, feeding it, lest it should -fail and be no more. And she had seen herself among them! - -"Where can Vere have gone to?" he said. - -There had been a pause. Neither knew how long it had lasted. - -"I should not wonder if she is on the cliff," said Hermione. "She -often goes there at this hour. She goes to meet Ruffo." - -The name switched the mind of Artois on to a new and profoundly -interesting train of thought. - -"Ruffo," he began slowly. "And you think it wise--?" - -He stopped. To-night he no longer dared frankly to speak his mind to -Hermione. - -"I was at Mergellina the other day," he said. "And I saw Ruffo with -his mother." - -"Did you. What is she like?" - -"Oh, like many middle-aged women of the South, rather broad and -battered-looking, and probably much older in appearance than in -years." - -"Poor woman! She has been through a great deal." - -Her voice was quite genuine now. And Artois said to himself that the -faint suspicion he had had was ill-founded. - -"Do you know anything about her?" - -"Oh yes. I had a talk with Ruffo the other night. And he told me -several things." - -Each time Hermione mentioned Ruffo's name it seemed to Artois that her -voice softened, almost that she gave the word a caress. He longed to -ask her something, but he was afraid to. - -He would try not to interfere with Fate. But he would not hasten its -coming--if it were coming. And he knew nothing. Perhaps the anxious -suspicion which had taken up its abode in his mind, and which, without -definite reason, seemed gradually changing into conviction was -erroneous. Perhaps some day he would laugh at himself, and say to -himself, "I was mad to dream of such a thing." - -"Those women often have a bad time," he said. - -"Few women do not, I sometimes think." - -He said nothing, and she went on rather hastily, as if wishing to -cover her last words. - -"Ruffo told me something that I did not know about Peppina. His step- -father was the man who cut that cross on Peppina's face." - -"Perdio!" said Artois. - -He used the Italian exclamation at that moment quite naturally. -Suddenly he wished more than ever before that Hermione had not taken -Peppina to live on the island. - -"Hermione," he said, "I wish you had not Peppina here." - -"Still because of Vere?" she said. - -And now she was looking at him steadily. - -"I feel that she comes from another world, that she had better keep -away from yours. I feel as if misfortune attended her." - -"It is odd. Even the servants say she has the evil eye. But, if she -has, it is too late now. Peppina has looked upon us all." - -"Perhaps that old Eastern was right." Artois could not help saying it. -"Perhaps all that is to be is ordained long beforehand. Do you think -that, Hermione?" - -"I have sometimes thought it, when I have been depressed. I have -sometimes said to myself, 'E il destino!' " - -She remembered at that moment her feeling on the day when she returned -from the expedition with Vere to Capri--that perhaps she had returned -to the island to confront some grievous fate. Had Artois such a -thought, such a prevision? Suddenly she felt frightened, like a child -when, at night, it passes the open door of a room that is dark. - -She moved and got up from her chair. Like the child, when it rushes on -and away, she felt in her panic the necessity of physical activity. - -Artois followed her example. He was glad to move. - -"Shall we go and see what Vere is doing?" he said. - -"If you like. I feel sure she is with Ruffo." - -They went towards the house. Artois felt a deep curiosity, which -filled his whole being, to know what Hermione's exact feeling towards -Ruffo was. - -"Don't you think," he said, "that perhaps it is a little dangerous to -allow Vere to be so much with a boy from Mergellina?" - -"Oh no." - -In her tone there was the calm of absolute certainty. - -"Well, but we don't know so very much about him." - -"Do you think two instincts could be at fault?" - -"Two instincts?" - -"Vere's and mine?" - -"Perhaps not. Then your instinct--" - -He waited. He was passionately interested. - -"Ruffo is all right," Hermione answered. - -It seemed to him as if she had deliberately used that bluff expression -to punish his almost mystical curiosity. Was she warding him off -consciously? - -They passed through the house and came out on its further side, but -they did not go immediately to the cliff top. Both of them felt -certain the two children must be there, and both of them, perhaps, -were held back for a moment by a mutual desire not to disturb their -innocent confidences. They stood upon the bridge, therefore, looking -down into the dimness of the Pool. From the water silence seemed to -float up to them, almost visibly, like a lovely, delicate mist-- -silence, and the tenderness of night, embracing their distresses. - -The satire died out of Hermione's poor, tormented heart. And Artois -for a moment forgot the terrible face half seen in the darkness of the -trees. - -"There is the boat. He is here." - -Hermione spoke in a low voice, pointing to the shadowy form of a boat -upon the Pool. - -"Yes." - -Artois gazed at the boat. Was it indeed a Fate that came by night to -the island softly across the sea, ferried by the ignorant hands of -men? He longed to know. And Hermione longed to know something, too: -whether Artois had ever seen the strange likeness she had seen, -whether Maurice had ever seemed to gaze for a moment at him out of the -eyes of Ruffo. But to-night she could not ask him that. They were too -far away from each other. And because of the gulf between them her -memory had suddenly become far more sacred, far more necessary to her -even, than it had been before. - -It had been a solace, a beautiful solace. But now it was much more -than that--now it was surely her salvation. - -As she felt that, a deep longing filled her heart to look again on -Ruffo's face, to search again for the expression that sent back the -years. But she wished to do that without witnesses, to be alone with -the boy, as she had been alone with him that night upon the bridge. -And suddenly she was impatient of Vere's intercourse with him. Vere -could not know what the tender look meant, if it came. For she had -never seen her father's face. - -"Let us go to the cliff," Hermione said, moved by this new feeling of -impatience. - -She meant to interrupt the children, to get rid of Vere and Emile, and -have Ruffo to herself for a moment. Just then she felt as if he were -nearer, far nearer, to her than they were: they who kept things from -her, who spoke of her secretly, pitying her. - -And again that evening she came into acute antagonism with her friend. -For the instinct was still alive in him not to interrupt the children. -The strange suspicion that had been born and had lived within him, -gathered strength, caused him to feel almost as if they might be upon -holy ground, those two so full of youth, who talked together in the -night; as if they knew mysteriously things that were hidden from their -elders, from those wiser, yet far less full of the wisdom that is -eternal, the wisdom in instinct, than themselves. There is always -something sacred about children. And he had never lost the sense of it -amid the dust of his worldly knowledge. But about these children, -about them or within them, there floated, perhaps, something that was -mystic, something that was awful and must not be disturbed. Hermione -did not feel it. How could she? He himself had withheld from her for -many years the only knowledge that could have made her share his -present feeling. He could tell her nothing. Yet he could not conceal -his intense reluctance to go to that seat upon the cliff. - -"But it's delicious here. I love the Pool at night, don't you? Look at -the Saint's light, how quietly it shines!" - -She took her hands from the rail. His attempt at detention irritated -her whole being. She looked at the light. On the night of the storm -she had felt as if it shone exclusively for her. That feeling was -dead. San Francesco watched, perhaps, over the fishermen. He did not -watch over her. - -And yet that night she, too, had made the sign of the cross when she -knew that the light was shining. - -She did not answer Artois' remark, and he continued, always for the -children's sake, and for the sake of what he seemed to divine secretly -at work in them: - -"This Pool is a place apart, I think. The Saint has given his -benediction to it." - -He was speaking at random to keep Hermione there. And yet his words -seemed chosen by some one for him to say. - -"Surely good must come to the island over that waterway." - -"You think so?" - -Her stress upon the pronoun made him reply: - -"Hermione, you do not think me the typical Frenchman of this century, -who furiously denies over a glass of absinthe the existence of the -Creator of the world?" - -"No. But I scarcely thought you believed in the efficacy of a plaster -Saint." - -"Not of the plaster--no. But don't you think it possible that truth, -emanating from certain regions and affecting the souls of men, might -move them unconsciously to embody it in symbol? What if this Pool were -blessed, and men, feeling that it was blessed, put San Francesco here -with his visible benediction?" - -He said to himself that he was playing with his imagination, as -sometimes he played with words, half-sensuously and half- -aesthetically; yet he felt to-night as if within him there was -something that might believe far more than he had ever suspected it -would be possible for him to believe. - -And that, too, seemed to have come to him from the hidden children who -were so near. - -"I don't feel at all as if the Pool were blessed," said Hermione. She -sighed. - -"Let us go to the cliff," she said, again, this time with a strong -impatience. - -He could not, of course, resist her desire, so they moved away, and -mounted to the summit of the island. - -The children were there. They could just see them in the darkness, -Vere seated upon the wooden bench, Ruffo standing beside her. Their -forms looked like shadows, but from the shadows voices came. - -When he saw them, Artois stood still. Hermione was going on. He put -his hand upon her arm to stop her. She sent an almost sharp inquiry to -him with her eyes. - -"Don't you think," he said--"don't you think it is a pity to disturb -them?" - -"Why?" - -"They seem so happy together." - -He glanced at her for sympathy, but she gave him none. - -"Am I to have nothing?" she thought. And a passion of secret anger -woke up in her. "Am I to have nothing at all? May I not even speak to -this boy, in whom I have seen Maurice for a moment--because if I do I -may disturb some childish gossip?" - -Her eyes gave to Artois a fierce rebuke. - -"I beg your pardon, Hermione," he said, hastily. "Of course if you -really want to talk to Ruffo--" - -"I don't think Vere will mind," she said. - -Her lips were actually trembling, but her voice was calm. - -They walked forward. - -When they were close to the children they both saw there was a third -figure on the cliff. Gaspare was at a little distance. Hermione could -see the red point of his cigarette gleaming. - -"Gaspare's there, too," she said. - -"Yes." - -"Why is he there?" Artois thought. - -And again there woke up in him an intense curiosity about Gaspare. - -Ruffo had seen them, and now he took off his cap. And Vere turned her -head and got up from the seat. - -Neither the girl nor the boy gave any explanation of their being -together. Evidently they did not think it necessary to do so. Hermione -was the first to speak. - -"Good-evening, Ruffo," she said. - -Artois noticed a peculiar kindness and gentleness in her voice when -she spoke to the boy, a sound apart, that surely did not come into her -voice even when it spoke to Vere. - -"Good-evening, Signora." He stood with his cap in his hand. "I have -been telling the Signorina what you have done for my poor mamma, -Signora. I did not tell her before because I thought she knew. But she -did not know." - -Vere was looking at her mother with a shining of affection in her -eyes. - -At this moment Gaspare came up slowly, with a careless walk. - -Artois watched him. - -"About the little money, you mean?" said Hermione, rather hastily. - -"Si, Signora. When I gave it to my poor mamma she cried again. But -that was because you were so kind. And she said to me, 'Ruffo, why -should a strange lady be so kind to me? Why should a strange lady -think about me?' she said. 'Ruffino,' she said, 'it must be Santa -Maddalena who has sent her here to be good to me.' My poor mamma!" - -"The Signora does not want to be bothered with all this!" It was -Gaspare who had spoken, roughly, and who now pushed in between Ruffo -and those who were listening to his simple narrative. - -Ruffo looked surprised, but submissive. Evidently he respected -Gaspare, and the two understood each other. And though Gaspare's words -were harsh, his eyes, as they looked at Ruffo, seemed to contradict -them. Nevertheless, there was excitement, a strung-up look in his -face. - -"Gaspare!" said Vere. - -Her eyes shot fire. - -"Signorina?" - -"Madre does like to hear what Ruffo has to say. Don't you, Madre?" - -Gaspare looked unmoved. His whole face was full of a dogged obstinacy. -Yet he did not forget himself. There was nothing rude in his manner as -he said, before Hermione could reply: - -"Signorina, the Signora does not know Ruffo's mother, so such things -cannot interest her. Is it not so, Signora?" - -Hermione was still governed by the desire to be alone for a little -while with Ruffo, and the sensation of intense reserve--a reserve that -seemed even partially physical--that she felt towards Artois made her -dislike Ruffo's public exhibition of a gratitude that, expressed in -private, would have been sweet to her. Instead, therefore, of agreeing -with Vere, she said, in rather an off-hand way: - -"It's all right, Ruffo. Thank you very much. But we must not keep Don -Emilio listening to my supposed good deeds forever. So that's enough." - -Vere reddened. Evidently she felt snubbed. She said nothing, but she -shot a glance of eager sympathy at Ruffo, who stood very simply -looking at Hermione with a sort of manly deference, as if all that she -said, or wished, must certainly be right. Then she moved quietly away, -pressing her lips rather firmly together, and went slowly towards the -house. After a moment's hesitation, Artois followed her. Hermione -remained by Ruffo, and Gaspare stayed doggedly with his Padrona. - -Hermione wished he would go. She could not understand his exact -feeling about the fisher-boy's odd little intimacy with them. Her -instinct told her that secretly he was fond of Ruffo. Yet sometimes he -seemed to be hostile to him, to be suspicious of him, as of some one -who might do them harm. Or, perhaps, he felt it his duty to be on -guard against all strangers who approached them. She knew well his -fixed belief that she and Vere depended entirely on him, felt always -perfectly safe when he was near. And she liked to have him near--but -not just at this moment. Yet she did not feel that she could ask him -to go. - -"Thank you very much for your gratitude, Ruffo," she said. "You -mustn't think--" - -She glanced at Gaspare. - -"I didn't want to stop you," she continued, trying to steer an even -course. "But it's a very little thing. I hope your mother is getting -on pretty well. She must have courage." - -As she said the last sentence she thought it came that night oddly -from her lips. - -Gaspare moved as if he felt impatient, and suddenly Hermione knew an -anger akin to Vere's, an anger she had scarcely ever felt against -Gaspare. - -She did not show it at first, but went on with a sort of forced -calmness and deliberation, a touch even perhaps of obstinacy that was -meant for Gaspare. - -"I am interested in your mother, you know, although I have not seen -her. Tell me how she is." - -Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but something held him silent; and -as he listened to Ruffo's carefully detailed reply, delivered with the -perfect naturalness of one sure of the genuine interest taken in his -concerns by his auditors, his large eyes travelled from the face of -the boy to the face of his Padrona with a deep and restless curiosity. -He seemed to inquire something of Ruffo, something of Hermione, and -then, at the last, surely something of himself. But when Ruffo had -finished, he said, brusquely: - -"Signora, it is getting very late. Will not Don Emilio be going? He -will want to say good-night, and I must help him with the boat." - -"Run and see if Don Emilio is in a hurry, Gaspare. If he is I'll -come." - -Gaspare looked at her, hesitating. - -"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, her secret irritation suddenly -getting the upper hand in her nature. "Are you afraid that Ruffo will -hurt me?" - -"No, Signora." - -As Vere had reddened, he reddened, and he looked with deep reproach at -his Padrona. That look went to Hermione's heart; she thought, "Am I -going to quarrel with the one true and absolutely loyal friend I -have?" She remembered Vere's words in the garden about Gaspare's -devotion to her, a devotion which she felt like a warmth round about -her life. - -"I'll come with you, Gaspare," she said, with a revulsion of feeling. -"Good-night, Ruffo." - -"Good-night, Signora." - -"Perhaps we shall see you to-morrow." - -She was just going to turn away when Ruffo bent down to kiss her hand. -Since she had given charity to his mother it was evident that his -feeling for her had changed. The Sicilian in him rose up to honor her -like a Padrona. - -"Signora," he said, letting go her hand. "Benedicite e buon riposo." - -He was being a little whimsical, was showing to her and to Gaspare -that he knew how to be a Sicilian. And now he looked from one to the -other to see how they took his salutation; looked gently, -confidentially, with a smile dawning in his eyes under the deference -and the boyish affection and gratitude. - -And again it seemed to Hermione for a moment that Maurice stood there -before her in the night. Her impulse was to catch Gaspare's arm, to -say to him, "Look! Don't you see your Padrone?" - -She did not do this, but she did turn impulsively to Gaspare. And as -she turned she saw tears start into his eyes. The blood rushed to his -temples, his forehead. He put up his hand to his face. - -"Signora," he said, "are you not coming?" - -He cleared his throat violently. "I have taken a cold," he muttered. - -He caught hold of his throat with his left hand, and again cleared his -throat. - -"Madre di Dio!" - -He spoke very roughly. - -But his roughness did not hurt Hermione; for suddenly she felt far -less lonely and deserted. Gaspare had seen what she had seen--she knew -it. - -As they went back to the house it seemed to her that she and Gaspare -talked together. - -And yet they spoke no words. - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -Neither Artois nor the Marchesino visited the island during the days -that elapsed before the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine. But Artois -wrote to tell Hermione that the Marchesino had accepted his -invitation, and that he hoped she and Vere would be at the Hotel des -Etrangers punctually by eight o'clock on the night of the sixteenth. -He wrote cordially, but a little formally, and did not add any gossip -or any remarks about his work to the few sentences connected with the -projected expedition. And Hermione replied as briefly to his note. -Usually, when she wrote to Artois, her pen flew, and eager thoughts, -born of the thought of him, floated into her mind. But this time it -was not so. The energies of her mind in connection with his mind were -surely failing. As she put the note into its envelope, she had the -feeling of one who had been trying to "make" conversation with an -acquaintance, and who had not been successful, and she found herself -almost dreading to talk with Emile. - -Yet for years her talks with him had been her greatest pleasure, -outside of her intercourse with Vere and her relations with Gaspare. - -The change that had come over their friendship, like a mist over the -sea, was subtle, yet startling in its completeness. She wondered if he -saw and felt this mist as definitely as she did, if he regretted the -fair prospect it had blotted out, if he marvelled at its coming. - -He was so acute that he must be aware of the drooping of their -intimacy. To what could he attribute it? And would he care to fight -against the change? - -She remembered the days when she had nursed him in Kairouan. She felt -again the hot dry atmosphere. She heard the ceaseless buzzing of the -flies. How pale his face had been, how weak his body! He had returned -to the weakness of a child. He had depended upon her. That fact, that -he had for a time utterly depended upon her, had forged a new link in -their friendship, the strongest link of all. At least she had felt it -to be so. For she was very much of a woman, and full of a secret -motherliness. - -But perhaps he had forgotten all that. - -In these days she often felt as if she did not understand men at all, -as if their natures were hidden from her, and perhaps, of necessity, -from all women. - -"We can't understand each other." - -She often said that to herself, and partly to comfort herself a -little. She did not want to be only one of a class of women from whom -men's natures were hidden. - -And yet it was not true. - -For Maurice, at least, she had understood. She had not feared his -gayeties, his boyish love of pleasure, his passion for the sun, his -joy in the peasant life, his almost fierce happiness in the life of -the body. She had feared nothing in him, because she had felt that she -understood him thoroughly. She had read the gay innocence of his -temperament rightly, and so she had never tried to hold him back from -his pleasures, to keep him always with her, as many women would have -done. - -And she clung to the memory of her understanding of Maurice as she -faced the mist that had swept up softly and silently over that sea and -sky which had been clear. He had been simple. There was nothing to -dread in cleverness, in complexity. One got lost in a nature that was -full of winding paths. Just then, and for the time, she forgot her -love of, even her passion for, mental things. The beauty of the -straight white road appealed to her. She saw it leading one onward to -the glory of the sun. - -Vere and she did not see very much of each other during these days. -They met, of course, at meals, and often for a few minutes at other -times. But it seemed as if each tacitly, and almost instinctively, -sought to avoid any prolonged intercourse with the other. Hermione was -a great deal in her sitting-room, reading, or pretending to read. And -Vere made several long expeditions upon the sea in the sailing-boat -with Gaspare and a boy from the nearest village, who was hired as an -extra hand. - -Hermione had a strange feeling of desertion sometimes, when the white -sail of the boat faded on the blue and she saw the empty sea. She -would watch the boat go out, standing at the window and looking -through the blinds. The sailor-boy pulled at the oars. Vere was at the -helm, Gaspare busy with the ropes. They passed quite close beneath -her. She saw Vere's bright and eager face looking the way they were -going, anticipating the voyage; Gaspare's brown hands moving swiftly -and deftly. She saw the sail run up, the boat bend over. The oars were -laid in their places now. The boat went faster through the water. The -forms in it dwindled. Was that Vere's head, or Gaspare's? Who was that -standing up? The fisher-boy? What were they now, they and the boat -that held them? Only a white sail on the blue, going towards the sun. - -And how deep was the silence that fell about the house, how deep and -hollow! She saw her life then like a cavern that was empty. No waters -flowed into it. No lights played in its recesses. No sounds echoed -through it. - -She looked up into the blue, and remembered her thought, that Maurice -had been taken by the blue. Hark! Was there not in the air the thin -sound of a reed flute playing a tarantella? She shut her eyes, and saw -the gray rocks of Sicily. But the blue was too vast. Maurice was lost -in it, lost to her forever. And she gazed up into it again, with the -effort to travel through it, to go on and on and on. And it seemed as -if her soul ached from that journey. - -The sail had dipped down below the horizon. She let fall the blind. -She sat down in the silence. - -Vere was greatly perplexed about her mother. One day in the boat she -followed her instinct and spoke to Gaspare about her. Hermione and she -between them had taught Gaspare some English. He understood it fairly -well, and could speak it, though not correctly, and he was very proud -of his knowledge. Because of the fisher-boy, Vere said what she had to -say slowly in English. Gaspare listened with the grave look of -learning that betokened his secret sensation of being glorified by his -capacities. But when he grasped the exact meaning of his Padroncina's -words, his expression changed. He shook his head vigorously. - -"Not true!" he said. "Not true! No matter--there is no matter with my -Padrona." - -"But Gaspare--" - -Vere protested, explained, strong in her conviction of the change in -her mother. - -But Gaspare would not have it. With energetic gestures he affirmed -that his Padrona was just as usual. But Vere surprised a look in his -eyes which told her he was watching her to see if he had deceived her. -Then she realized that for some reason of his own Gaspare did not wish -her to know that he had seen the change, wished also to detach her -observation from her mother. - -She wondered why this was. - -Her busy mind could not arrive at any conclusion in the matter, but -she knew her mother was secretly sad. And she knew that she and her -mother were no longer at ease with each other. This pained her, and -the pain was beginning to increase. Sometimes she felt as if her -mother disliked something in her, and did not choose to say so, and -was irritated by the silence that she kept. But what could it be? She -searched among her doings carefully. Had she failed in anything? -Certainly she had not been lacking in love. And her knowledge of that -seemed simply to exclude any possibility of serious shortcomings. And -her mother? - -Vere remembered how her mother had once longed to have a son, how she -had felt certain she was going to have a son. Could it be that? Could -her mother be dogged by that disappointment? She felt chilled to the -heart at that idea. Her warm nature protested against it. The love she -gave to her mother was so complete that it had always assumed the -completeness of that which it was given in return. But it might be so, -Vere supposed. It was possible. She pondered over this deeply, and -when she was with her mother watched for signs that might confirm or -dispel her fears. And thus she opposed to the mother's new -watchfulness the watchfulness of the child. And Hermione noticed it, -and wondered whether Vere had any suspicion of the surreptitious -reading of her poems. - -But that was scarcely possible. - -Hermione had not said a word to Vere of her discovery that Peppina had -done what she had been told not to do--related the story of her fate. -Almost all delicate-minded mothers and daughters find certain subjects -difficult, if not impossible of discussion, even when an apparent -necessity of their discussion arrives in the course of life. The -present reserve between Hermione and Vere rendered even the idea of -any plain speaking about the revelation of Peppina quite insupportable -to the mother. She could only pretend to ignore that it had ever been -made. And this she did. But now that she knew of it she felt very -acutely the difference it had made in Vere. That difference was owing -to her own impulsive action. And Emile knew the whole truth. She -understood now what he had been going to say about Peppina and Vere -when they had talked about the books. - -He did condemn her in his heart. He thought she was not a neglectful, -but a mistaken mother. He thought her so impulsive as to be dangerous, -perhaps, even to those she loved best. Almost she divined that curious -desire of his to protect Vere against her. And yet without her -impulsive nature he himself might long ago have died. - -She could not help at this time dwelling secretly on one or two -actions of hers, could not help saying to herself now and then: "I -have been some good in the world. I am capable of unselfishness -sometimes. I did leave my happiness for Emile's sake, because I had a -great deal of friendship and was determined to live up to it. My -impulses are not always crazy and ridiculous." - -She did this, she was obliged to do it, to prevent the feeling of -impotence from overwhelming her. She had to do it to give herself -strength to get up out of the dust. The human creature dares not say -to itself, "You are nothing." And now Hermione, feeling the withdrawal -from her of her friend, believing in the withdrawal from her of her -child, spoke to herself, pleading her own cause to her own soul -against invisible detractors. - -One visitor the island had at this time. Each evening, when the -darkness fell, the boat of Ruffo's employer glided into the Pool of -San Francesco. And the boy always came ashore while his companions -slept. Since Hermione had been charitable to his mother, and since he -had explained to her about his Patrigno and Peppina, he evidently had -something of the ready feeling that springs up in Sicilians in whom -real interest has been shown--the feeling of partly belonging to his -benefactor. There is something dog-like in this feeling. And it is -touching and attractive because of the animalism of its frankness and -simplicity. And as the dog who has been kindly, tenderly treated has -no hesitation in claiming attention with a paw, or in laying its -muzzle upon the knee of its benefactor, so Ruffo had no hesitation in -relating to Hermione all the little intimate incidents of his daily -life, in crediting her with an active interest in his concerns. There -was no conceit in this, only a very complete boyish simplicity. - -Hermione found in this new attitude of Ruffo's a curious solace for -the sudden loneliness of soul that had come upon her. Originally -Ruffo's chief friendship had obviously been for Vere, but now Vere, -seeing her mother's new and deep interest in the boy, gave way a -little to it, yet without doing anything ostentatious, or showing any -pique. Simply she would stay in the garden, or on the terrace, later -than usual, till after Ruffo was sure to be at the island, and let her -mother stroll to the cliff top. Or, if she were there with him first, -she would soon make an excuse to go away, and casually tell her mother -that he was there alone or with Gaspare. And all this was done so -naturally that Hermione did not know it was deliberate, but merely -fancied that perhaps Vere's first enthusiasm for the fisher-boy was -wearing off, that it had been a child's sudden fancy, and that it was -lightly passing away. - -Vere rather wondered at her mother's liking for Ruffo, although she -herself had found him so attractive, and had drawn her mother's -attention to his handsome face and bold, yet simple bearing. She -wondered, because she felt in it something peculiar, a sort of heat -and anxiety, a restlessness, a watchfulness; attributes which sprang -from the observation of that resemblance to the dead man which drew -her mother to Ruffo, but of which her mother had never spoken to her. - -Nor did Hermione speak of it again to Gaspare. He had almost angrily -denied it, but since the night of Artois' visit she knew that he had -seen it, been startled, moved by it, almost as she had been. - -She knew that quite well. Yet Gaspare puzzled her. He had become -moody, nervous, and full of changes. She seemed to discern sometimes a -latent excitement in him. His temper was uneven. Giulia had said that -one could not speak with him. Since that day she had grumbled about -him again, but discreetly, with a certain vagueness. For all the -servants thoroughly appreciated his special position in the household -as the "cameriere di confidenza" of the Padrona. One thing which drew -Hermione's special attention was his extraordinary watchfulness of -her. When they were together she frequently surprised him looking at -her with a sort of penetrating and almost severe scrutiny which -startled her. Once or twice, indeed, she showed that she was startled. - -"What's the matter, Gaspare?" she said, one day. "Do I look ill -again?" - -For she had remembered his looking at her in the boat. - -"No, Signora," he answered, this time, quickly. "You are not looking -ill to-day." - -And he moved off, as if anxious to avoid further questioning. - -Another time she thought that there was something wrong with her -dress, or her hair, and said so. - -"Is there anything wrong with me?" she exclaimed. "What is it?" And -she instinctively glanced down at her gown, and put up her hands to -her head. - -And this time he had turned it off with a laugh, and had said: - -"Signora, you are like the Signorina! Once she told me I was--I was"-- -he shook his head--"I forget the word. But I am sure it was something -that a man could never be. Per dio!" - -And then he had gone off into a rambling conversation that had led -Hermione's attention far away from the starting-point of their talk. - -Vere, too, noticed the variations of his demeanor. - -"Gaspare was very 'jumpy' to-day in the boat," she said, one evening, -after returning from a sail; "I wonder what's the matter with him. Do -you think he can be in love, Madre?" - -"I don't know. But he is /fidanzato/, Vere, with a girl in Marechiaro, -you remember?" - -"Yes, but that lasts forever. When I speak of it he always says: -'There is plenty of time, Signorina. If one marries in a hurry, one -makes two faces ugly!' I should think the girl must be sick of -waiting." - -Hermione was sure that there was some very definite reason for -Gaspare's curious behavior, but she could not imagine what it was. -That it was not anything to do with his health she had speedily -ascertained. Any small discipline of Providence in the guise of a cold -in the head, or a pain in the stomach, despatched him promptly to the -depths. But he had told her that he was perfectly well and "made of -iron," when she had questioned him on the subject. - -She supposed time would elucidate the mystery, and meanwhile she knew -it was no use troubling about it. Years had taught her that when -Gaspare chose to be silent not heaven nor earth could make him speak. - -Although Vere could not know why Ruffo attracted her mother, Hermione -knew that Gaspare must understand, at any rate partially, why she -cared so much to be with him. During the days between the last visit -of Artois and the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine her acquaintance -with the boy had progressed so rapidly that sometimes she found -herself wondering what the days had been like before she knew him, the -evenings before his boat slipped into the Saint's Pool, and his light -feet ran up from the water's edge to the cliff top. Possibly, had -Ruffo come into her life when she was comparatively happy and at ease, -she would never have drawn so closely to him, despite the resemblance -that stirred her to the heart. But he came when she was feeling -specially lonely and sad; and when he, too, was in trouble. Both -wanted sympathy. Hermione gave Ruffo hers in full measure. She could -not ask for his. But giving had always been her pleasure. It was her -pleasure now. And she drew happiness from the obvious and growing -affection of the boy. Perfectly natural at all times, he kept back -little from the kind lady of the island. He told her the smallest -details of his daily life, his simple hopes and fears, his friendships -and quarrels, his relations with the other fishermen of Mergellina, -his intentions in the present, his ambitions for the future. Some day -he hoped to be the Padrone of a boat of his own. That seemed to be the -ultimate aim of his life. Hermione smiled as she heard it, and saw his -eyes shining with the excitement of anticipation. When he spoke the -word "Padrone," his little form seemed to expand with authority and -conscious pride. He squared his shoulders. He looked almost a man. The -pleasures of command dressed all his person, as flags dress a ship on -a festival day. He stood before Hermione a boy exuberant. - -And she thought of Maurice bounding down the mountain-side to the -fishing, and rousing the night with his "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao, Morettina -bella--Ciao!" - -But Ruffo was sometimes reserved. Hermione could not make him speak of -his father. All she knew of him was that he was dead. Sometimes she -gave Ruffo good advice. She divined the dangers of Naples for a lad -with the blood bounding in his veins, and she dwelt upon the pride of -man's strength, and how he should be careful to preserve it, and not -dissipate it before it came to maturity. She did not speak very -plainly, but Ruffo understood, and answered her with the unconscious -frankness that is characteristic of the people of the South. And at -the end of his remarks he added: - -"Don Gaspare has talked to me about that. Don Gaspare knows much, -Signora." - -He spoke with deep respect. Hermione was surprised by this little -revelation. Was Gaspare secretly watching over the boy? Did he concern -himself seriously with Ruffo's fate? She longed to question Gaspare. -But she knew that to do so would be useless. Even with her Gaspare -would only speak freely of things when he chose. At other times he was -calmly mute. He wrapped himself in a cloud. She wondered whether he -had ever given Ruffo any hints or instructions as to suitable conduct -when with her. - -Although Ruffo was so frank and garrulous about most things, she -noticed that if she began to speak of his mother or his Patrigno, his -manner changed, and he became uncommunicative. Was this owing to -Gaspare's rather rough rebuke upon the cliff before Artois and Vere? -Or had Gaspare emphasized that by further directions when alone with -Ruffo? She tried deftly to find out, but the boy baffled her. But -perhaps he was delicate about money, unlike Neapolitans, and feared -that if he talked too much of his mother the lady of the island would -think he was "making misery," was hoping for another twenty francs. As -to his Patrigno, the fact that Peppina was living on the island made -that subject rather a difficult one. Nevertheless, Hermione could not -help suspecting that Gaspare had told the boy not to bother her with -any family troubles. - -She had not offered him money again. The giving of the twenty francs -had been a sudden impulse to help a suffering woman, less because she -was probably in poverty than because she was undoubtedly made unhappy -by her husband. Since she had suffered at the hands of death, Hermione -felt very pitiful for women. She would gladly have gone to see Ruffo's -mother, have striven to help her more, both materially and morally. -But as to a visit--Peppina seemed to bar the way. And as to more money -help--she remembered Gaspare's warning. Perhaps he knew something of -the mother that she did not know. Perhaps the mother was an -objectionable, or even a wicked woman. - -But when she looked at Ruffo she could not believe that. And then -several times he had spoken with great affection of his mother. - -She left things as they were, taking her cue from the boy in despite -of her desire. And here, as in some other directions, she was secretly -governed by Gaspare. - -Only sometimes did she see in Ruffo's face the look that had drawn her -to him. The resemblance to Maurice was startling, but it was nearly -always fleeting. She could not tell when it was coming, nor retain it -when it came. But she noticed that it was generally when Ruffo was -moved by affection, by a sudden sympathy, by a warm and deferent -impulse that the look came in him. And again she thought of the -beautiful obedience that springs directly from love, of Mercury poised -for flight to the gods, his mission happily accomplished. - -She wondered if Artois had ever thought of it when he was with Ruffo. -But she felt now that she could never ask him. - -And, indeed, she cherished her knowledge, her recognition, as -something almost sacred, silently shared with Gaspare. - -To no one could that look mean what it meant to her. To no other heart -could it make the same appeal. - -And so in those few days between Hermione and the fisher-boy a firm -friendship was established. - -And to Hermione this friendship came like a small ray of brightly -golden light, falling gently in a place that was very dark. - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -When the Marchesino received the invitation of Artois to dine with him -and the ladies from the island on the night of the Festa of the -Madonna del Carmine he was again ill in bed with fever. But -nevertheless he returned an immediate acceptance. Then he called in -the family doctor, and violently demanded to be made well, "perfectly -well," by the evening of the sixteenth. The doctor, who guessed at -once that some amorous adventure was on foot, promised to do his best, -and so ingeniously plied his patient with drugs and potions that on -the sixteenth Doro was out of bed, and busily doing gymnastics to test -his strength for the coming campaign. - -Artois' invitation had surprised him. He had lost all faith in his -friend, and at first almost suspected an ambush. Emilio had not -invited him out of love--that was certain. But perhaps the ladies of -the island had desired his presence, his escort. He was a Neapolitan. -He knew the ways of the city. That was probably the truth. They wanted -him, and Emilio had been obliged to ask him. - -He saw his opportunity. His fever, coming at such a time, had almost -maddened him, and during the days of forced inaction the Panacci -temper had been vigorously displayed in the home circle. As he lay in -bed his imagination ran riot. The day and the night were filled with -thoughts and dreams of Vere. And always Emilio was near her, presiding -over her doings with a false imitation of the paternal manner. - -But now at the last the Marchesino saw his opportunity to strike a -blow at Emilio. Every year of his life since he was a child he had -been to the festa in honor of the Madonna del Carmine. He knew the -crowd that assembled under the prison walls and beneath Nuvolo's tall -belfry, the crowds that overflowed into the gaunt Square of the -Mercato and streamed down the avenues of fire into the narrow side -streets. In those crowds it would be easy to get lost. Emilio, when he -heard his friend's voice singing, had hidden with the Signorina in the -darkness of a cave. He might be alone with the Signorina when he -would. The English ladies trusted his white hairs. Or the English -ladies did not care for the /convenances/. Since he had found Peppina -in the Casa del Mare, the Marchesino did not know what to think of its -Padrona. And now he was too reckless to care. He only knew that he was -in love, and that circumstances so far had fought against him. He only -knew that he had been tricked, and that he meant to trick Emilio in -return. His anxiety to revenge himself on Emilio was quite as keen as -his desire to be alone with Vere. The natural devilry of his -temperament, a boy's devilry, not really wicked, but compounded of -sensuality, vanity, the passion for conquest, and the determination to -hold his own against other males and to shine in his world's esteem, -was augmented by the abstinence from his usual life. The few days in -the house seemed to him a lifetime already wasted. He meant to make up -for it, and he did not care at whose expense, so long as some of the -debt was paid by Emilio. - -On the sixteenth he issued forth into life again in a mood that was -dangerous. The fever that had abandoned his body was raging in his -mind. He was in the temper which had governed his papa on the day of -the slapping of Signora Merani's face in the Chiaia. - -The Marchesino always thought a great deal about his personal -appearance, but his toilet on the night of the sixteenth was unusually -prolonged. On several matters connected with it he was undecided. -Should he wear a waistcoat of white pique or one of black silk? Should -he put on a white tie, or a black? And what about rings? - -He loved jewelry, as do most Neapolitans, both male and female, and -had quantities of gaudy rings, studs, sleeve links, and waistcoat -buttons. In his present mood he was inclined to adorn himself with as -many of them as possible. But he was not sure whether the English -liked diamonds and rubies on a man. He hesitated long, made many -changes, and looked many times in the glass. At last he decided on a -black tie, a white waistcoat with pearl buttons, a pearl shirt-stud -surrounded with diamonds, pearl and diamond sleeve-links, and only -three rings--a gold snake, a seal ring, and a ring set with -turquoises. This was a modest toilet, suited, surely to the taste to -the English, which he remembered to have heard of as sober. - -He stood long before the mirror when he was ready, and had poured over -his handkerchief a libation of "Rose d'amour." - -Certainly he was a fine-looking fellow--his natural sincerity obliged -him to acknowledge it. Possibly his nose stuck out too much to balance -perfectly the low forehead and the rather square chin. Possibly his -cheek-bones were too prominent. But what of that? Women always looked -at a man's figure, his eyes, his teeth, his mustaches. And he had a -splendid figure, enormous gray eyes, large and perfectly even white -teeth between lips that were very full and very red, and blond -mustaches whose turned-up points were like a cry of victory. - -He drew himself up from the hips, enlarged his eyes by opening them -exaggeratedly, stretched his lips till his teeth were well exposed, -and vehemently twisted the ends of his mustaches. - -Yes, he was a very handsome fellow, and boyish-looking, too--but not -too boyish. - -It really was absurd of Emilio to think of cutting him out with a girl ---Emilio, an old man, all beard and brains! As if any living woman -really cared for brains! Impertinence, gayety, agility, muscle--that -was what women loved in men. And he had all they wanted. - -He filled his case with cigarettes, slipped on a very smart fawn- -colored coat, cocked a small-brimmed black bowler hat over his left -ear, picked up a pair of white gloves and a cane surmounted by a bunch -of golden grapes, and hurried down-stairs, humming "Lili Kangy," the -"canzonetta birichina" that was then the rage in Naples. - -The dinner was to be at the Hotel des Etrangers. On consideration, -Artois had decided against the Galleria. He had thought of those who -wander there, of Peppina's aunt, of certain others. And then he had -thought of Vere. And his decision was quickly taken. When the -Marchesino arrived, Artois was alone in his sitting-room. The two men -looked into each other's eyes as they met, and Artois saw at once that -Doro was in a state of suppressed excitement and not in a gentle mood. -Although Doro generally seemed full of good-humor, and readiness to -please and to be pleased, he could look very cruel. And when, in rare -moments, he did so, his face seemed almost to change its shape: the -cheek-bones to become more salient, the nose sharper, the eyes -catlike, the large but well-shaped mouth venomous instead of -passionate. He looked older and also commoner directly his insouciance -departed from him, and one could divine a great deal of primitive -savagery beneath his lively grace and boyish charm. - -But to-night, directly he spoke to Artois, his natural humor seemed to -return. He explained his illness, which accounted for his not having -come as usual to see his friend, and drew a humorous picture of a -Panacci in a bed surrounded by terror-stricken nurses. - -"And you, Emilio, what have you been doing?" he concluded. - -"Working," said Artois. - -He pointed to the writing-table, on which lay a pile of manuscript. - -The Marchesino glanced at it carelessly, but the two vertical lines -suddenly appeared in his forehead just above the inside corners of his -eyes. - -"Work! work!" he said. "You make me feel quite guilty, amico mio. I -live for happiness, for love, but you--you live for duty." - -He put his arm through his friend's with a laugh, and drew him towards -the balcony. - -"Nevertheless," he added, "even you have your moments of pleasure, -haven't you?" - -He pressed Artois' arm gently, but in the touch of his fingers there -was something that seemed to hint a longing to close them violently -and cause a shudder of pain. - -"Even you have moments when the brain goes to sleep and--and the body -wakes up. Eh, Emilio? Isn't it true?" - -"My dear Doro, when have I claimed to be unlike other men?" - -"No, no! But you workers inspire reverence, you know. We, who do not -work, we see your pale faces, your earnest eyes, and we think--mon -Dieu, Emilio!--we think you are saints. And then, if, by chance, one -evening we go to the Galleria, and find it is not so, that you are -like ourselves, we are glad." - -He began to laugh. - -"We are glad; we feel no longer at a disadvantage." - -Again he pressed Artois' arm gently. - -"But, amico mio, you are deceptive, you workers," he said. "You take -us all in. We are children beside you, we who say all we feel, who -show when we hate and when we love. We are babies. If I ever want to -become really birbante, I shall become a worker." - -He spoke always lightly, laughingly; but Artois understood the malice -at his heart, and hesitated for a moment whether to challenge it -quietly and firmly, or whether laughingly, to accept the sly -imputations of secrecy, of hypocrisy, in a "not-worth-while" temper. -If things developed--and Artois felt that they must with such a -protagonist as the Marchesino--a situation might arise in which Doro's -enmity must come out into the open and be dealt with drastically. Till -then was it not best to ignore it, to fall in with his apparent -frivolity? Before Artois could decide--for his natural temper and an -under-sense of prudence and contempt pulled different ways--the -Marchesino suddenly released his arm, leaned over the balcony rail, -and looked eagerly down the road. A carriage had just rattled up from -the harbor of Santa Lucia only a few yards away. - -"Ecco!" he exclaimed. "Ecco! But--but who is with them?" - -"Only Gaspare," replied Artois. - -"Gaspare! That servant who came to the Guiseppone? Oh, no doubt he has -rowed the ladies over and will return to the boat?" - -"No, I think not. I think the Signora will bring him to the Carmine." - -"Why?" said the Marchesino, sharply. - -"Why not? He is a strong fellow, and might be useful in a crowd." - -"Are we not strong? Are we not useful?" - -"My dear Doro, what's the matter?" - -"Niente--niente!" - -He tugged at his mustaches. - -"Only I think the Signora might trust to us." - -"Tell her so, if you like. Here she is." - -At this moment the door opened and Hermione came in, followed by Vere. - -As Artois went to welcome them he was aware of a strange mixture of -sensations, which made these two dear and close friends, these -intimates of his life, seem almost new. He was acutely conscious of -the mist of which Hermione had thought. He wondered about her, as she -about him. He saw again that face in the night under the trellis. He -heard the voice that had called to him and Vere in the garden. And he -knew that enmity, mysterious yet definite, might arise even between -Hermione and him; that even they two--inexorably under the law that -has made all human beings separate entities, and incapable of perfect -fusion--might be victims of misunderstanding, of ignorance of the -absolute truth of personality. Even now he was companioned by the -sudden and horrible doubt which had attacked him in the garden: that -perhaps she had been always playing a part when she had seemed to be -deeply interested in his work, that perhaps there was within her some -one whom he did not know, had never even caught a glimpse of until -lately, once when she was in the tram going to the Scoglio di Frisio, -and once the last time they had met. And yet this was the woman who -had nursed him in Africa--and this was the woman against whose -impulsive actions he had had the instinct to protect Vere--the -Hermione Delarey whom he had known for so many years. - -Never before had he looked at Hermione quite as he looked at her -to-night. His sense of her strangeness woke up in him something that -was ill at ease, doubtful, almost even suspicious, but also something -that was quivering with interest. - -For years this woman had been to him "dear Hermione," "ma pauvre -amie," comrade, sympathizer, nurse, mother of Vere. - -Now--what else was she? A human creature with a heart and brain -capable of mystery; a soul with room in it for secret things; a temple -whose outside he had seen, but whose god, perhaps, he had never seen. - -And Vere was involved in her mother's strangeness, and had her own -strangeness too. Of that he had been conscious before to-night. For -Vere was being formed. The plastic fingers were at work about her, -moulding her into what she must be as a woman. - -But Hermione! She had been a woman so long. - -Perhaps, too, she was standing on the brink of a precipice. That -suspicion, that fear, not to be banished by action, added to the -curiosity, as about an unknown land, that she aroused. - -And the new and vital sense of Hermione's strangeness which was alive -in Artois was met by a feeling in her that was akin to it, only of the -feminine sex. - -Their eyes encountered like eyes that say, "What are you?" - -After swift greeting they went down-stairs to dine in the public room. -As there were but few people in the house, the large dining-room was -not in use, and their table was laid in the small restaurant that -looks out on the Marina, and was placed close to the window. - -"At last we are repeating our /partie carree/ of the Guiseppone," said -Artois, as they sat down. - -He felt that as host he must release himself from subtleties and -under-feelings, must stamp down his consciousness of secret inquiries -and of desires or hatreds half-concealed. He spoke cheerfully, even -conventionally. - -"Yes, but without the storm," said Hermione, in the same tone. "There -is no feeling of electricity in the air to-night." - -Even while she spoke she felt as if she were telling a lie which was -obvious to them all. And she could not help glancing hastily round. -She met the large round eyes of the Marchesino, eyes without subtlety -though often expressive. - -"No, Signora," he said, smiling at her, rather obviously to captivate -her by the sudden vision of his superb teeth--"La Bruna is safe -to-night." - -"La Bruna?" - -"The Madonna del Carmine." - -They talked of the coming festa. - -Vere was rather quiet, much less vehement in appearance and lively in -manner than she had been at the Marchesino's dinner. Artois thought -she looked definitely older than she had then, though even then she -had played quite well the part of a little woman of the world. There -was something subdued in her eyes to-night which touched him, because -it made him imagine Vere sad. He wondered if she were still troubled -about her mother, if she had fulfilled her intention and asked Gaspare -what he thought. And he longed to ask her, to know what Gaspare had -said. The remembrance of Gaspare made him say to Hermione: - -"I gave orders that Gaspare was to have a meal here. Did they tell -you?" - -"Yes. He has gone to the servants' room." - -The Marchesino's face changed. - -"Your Gaspare seems indispensable, Signora," he said to Hermione in -his lightest, most boyish manner--a manner that the determination in -his eyes contradicted rather crudely. "Do you take him everywhere, -like a little dog?" - -"I often take him,--but not like a little dog, Marchese," Hermione -said, quietly. - -"Signora, I did not mean-- Here in Naples, we use that expression for -anything, or any one, we like to have always with us." - -"I see. Well, call Gaspare a watch-dog if you like," she answered, -with a smile; "he watches over me carefully." - -"A watch-dog, Signora! But do you like to be watched? Is it not -unpleasant?" - -He was speaking now to get rid of the impression his first remark had -evidently made upon her. - -"I think it depends how," she replied. "If Gaspare watches me it is -only to protect me--I am sure of that." - -"But, Signora, do you not trust Don Emilio, do you not trust me, to be -your watch-dogs to-night at the festa?" - -There was a little pressure in his voice, but he still preserved his -light and boyish manner. And now he turned to Vere. - -"Speak for us, Signorina! Tell the Signora that we will take care of -her to-night, that there is no need of the faithful Gaspare." - -Vere looked at him gravely. She had wondered a little why her mother -had brought Gaspare, why, at least, she had not left him free till -they returned to the boat at Santa Lucia. But her mother wanted him to -come with them, and that was enough for her. She opened her lips, and -Artois thought she was going to snub her companion. But perhaps she -suddenly changed her mind, for she only said: - -"Who would trust you, Marchese?" - -She met his eyes with a sort of child's impertinence. She had abruptly -become the Vere of the Scoglio di Frisio. - -"Who would take you for a watch-dog?" - -"Ma--Signorina!" - -"As a seal--yes, you are all very well! But--" - -The young man was immediately in the seventh Heaven. The Signorina -remembered his feats in the water. All his self-confidence returned, -all his former certainty that the Signorina was secretly devoted to -him. His days of doubt and fury were forgotten. His jealousy of Emilio -vanished in a cloud of happy contempt for the disabilities of age, and -he began to talk to Vere with a vivacity that was truly Neapolitan. -When the Marchesino was joyous he had charm, the charm that emanates -from the bounding life that flows in the veins of youth. Even the -Puritan feels, and fears, the grace that is Pagan. The Marchesino had -a Pagan grace. And now it returned to him and fell about him like a -garment, clothing body and soul. And Vere seemed to respond to it. She -began to chatter, too. She talked lightly, flicking him with little -whips of sarcasm that did not hurt, but only urged him on. The humor -of a festa might begin to flow from these two. - -And again, instead of infecting Artois, it seemed to set him apart, to -rebuke silently his gifts, his fame--to tell him that they were -useless, that they could do nothing for him. - -The Marchesino was not troubled with an intellect. Yet with what ease -he found words to play with the words of Vere! His Latin vivacity -seemed a perfect substitute for thought, for imagination, for every -subtlety. He bubbled like champagne. And when champagne winks and -foams at the edge of the shining glass, do the young think of, or care -for, the sober gravity, the lingering bouquet of claret, even if it be -Chateau Margaux? - -As Artois half listened to the young people, while he talked quietly -with Hermione, playing the host with discretion, he felt the peculiar -cruelty which ordains that the weapons of youth, even if taken up and -used by age with vigor and competence, shall be only reeds in those -hands whose lines tell of the life behind. - -Yet how Vere and he had laughed together on the day of his return from -Paris! One gust of such mutual laughter is worth how many days of -earnest talk! - -Vere was gleaming with fun to-night. - -The waiters, as they went softly about the table, looked at her with -kind eyes. Secretly they were enjoying her gayety because it was so -pretty. Her merriment was as airy as the flight of a bird. - -The Marchesino was entranced. Did she care for that? - -Artois wondered secretly, and was not sure. He had a theory that all -women like to feel their power over men. Few men have not this theory. -But there was in Vere something immensely independent, that seemed -without sex, and that hinted at a reserve not vestal, but very pure-- -too pure, perhaps, to desire an empire which is founded certainly upon -desire. - -And the Marchesino was essentially and completely the young animal; -not the heavy, sleek, and self-contented young animal that the -northern countries breed, but the frolicsome, playful, fiery young -animal that has been many times warmed by the sun. - -Hermione felt that Artois' mood to-night echoed his mood at Frisio's, -and suddenly she thought once more of the visitors' book and of what -he had written there, surely in a moment of almost heated impulse. And -as she thought of it she was moved to speak of her thought. She had so -many secret reserves from Emile now that this one she could dispense -with. - -"You remember that night when I met you on the sea?" she said to him. - -He looked away from Vere and answered: - -"Yes. What about it?" - -"When I was at the Scoglio di Frisio I looked again over that -wonderful visitors' book." - -"Did you?" - -"Yes. And I saw what you had written." - -Their eyes met. She wondered if by the expression in hers he divined -why she had made that expedition, moved by what expectation, by what -curiosity. She could tell nothing by his face, which was calm and -inscrutable. - -After an instant's pause he said: - -"Do you know from whom those words come?" - -"No. Are they your own?" - -"Victor Hugo's. Do you like them?" - -But her eyes were asking him a question, and he saw it. - -"What is it?" he said. - -"Why did you write them?" she said. - -"I had to write something. You made me." - -"Vere suggested it first." - -He looked again at Vere, but only for a moment. She was laughing at -something the Marchesino was saying. - -"Did she?--Oh! Take some of that salade a la Russe. I gave the chef -the recipe for it.--Did she?" - -"Don't you remember?" - -"Those words were in my head. I put them down." - -"Are you fond of them?" - -Her restless curiosity was still quite unsatisfied. - -"I don't know. But one has puzzled about conscience. Hasn't one?" - -He glanced at the Marchesino, who was bending forward to Vere, and -illustrating something he was telling her by curious undulating -gestures with both hands that suggested a flight. - -"At least some of us have," he continued. "And some never have, and -never will." - -Hermione understood the comment on their fellow-guest. - -"Do you think that saying explains it satisfactorily?" she said. - -"I believe sometimes we know a great deal more than we know we know," -he answered. "That sounds like some nonsense game with words, but it's -the best way to put it. Conscience seems to speak out of the silence. -But there may be some one in the prompter's box--our secret -knowledge." - -"But is it knowledge of ourselves, or of others?" - -"Which do you think?" - -"Of ourselves, I suppose. I think we generally know far less of others -than we believe ourselves to know." - -She expressed his thought of her earlier in the evening. - -"Probably. And nevertheless we may know things of them that we are not -aware we know--till after we have instinctively acted on our -knowledge." - -Their eyes met again. Hermione felt in that moment as if he knew why -she had given Vere the permission to read his books. - -But still she did not know whether he had written that sentence in the -book at Frisio's carelessly, or prompted by some violent impulse to -express a secret thought or feeling of the moment. - -"Things good or evil?" she said, slowly. - -"Perhaps both." - -The Marchesino burst into a laugh. He leaned back in his chair, -shaking his head, and holding the table with his two hands. His white -teeth gleamed. - -"What is the joke?" asked Artois. - -Vere turned her head. - -"Oh, nothing. It's too silly. I can't imagine why the Marchesino is so -much amused by it." - -Artois felt shut out. But when Vere and he had laughed over the tea- -table in a blessed community of happy foolishness, who could have -understood their mirth? He remembered how he had pitied the imagined -outsider. - -He turned again to Hermione, but such conversation as theirs, and -indeed all serious conversation, now seemed to him heavy, portentous, -almost ludicrous. The young alone knew how to deal with life, chasing -it as a child chases a colored air-ball, and when it would sink, and -fall and be inert, sending it with a gay blow soaring once more -towards the blue. - -Perhaps Hermione had a similar thought, or perhaps she knew of it in -him. At any rate, for a moment she had nothing to say. Nor had he. And -so, tacitly excluded, as it seemed, from the merriment of the young -ones, the two elders remained looking towards each other in silence, -sunk in a joint exile. - -Presently Artois began to fidget with his bread. He pulled out some of -the crumb from his roll, and pressed it softly between his large -fingers, and scattered the tiny fragments mechanically over the table- -cloth near his plate. Hermione watched his moving hand. The Marchesino -was talking now. He was telling Vere about a paper-chase at -Capodimonte, which had started from the Royal Palace. His vivacity, -his excitement made a paper-chase seem one of the most brilliant and -remarkable events in a brilliant and remarkable world. He had been the -hare. And such a hare! Since hares were first created and placed in -the Garden of Eden there had been none like unto him. He told of his -cunning exploits. - -The fingers of Artois moved faster. Hermione glanced at his face. Its -massiveness looked heavy. The large eyes were fixed upon the table- -cloth. His hand just then was more expressive. And as she glanced at -it again something very pitiful awoke in her, something pitiful for -him and for herself. She felt that very often lately she had -misunderstood him--she had been confused about him. But now, in this -moment, she understood him perfectly. - -He pulled some more crumb out of his roll. - -She was fascinated by his hand. Much as it had written, it had never -written more clearly on paper than it was writing now. - -But suddenly she felt as if she could not look at it any more, as if -it was intolerable to look at it. And she turned towards the open -window. - -"What is it?" Artois asked her. "Is there too much air for you?" - -"Oh no. It isn't that. I was only thinking what a quantity of people -pass by, and wondering where they were all going, and what they were -all thinking and hoping. I don't know why they should have come into -my head just then. I suppose it will soon be time for us to start for -the festa." - -"Yes. We'll have coffee in my sitting-room--when they are ready." He -looked again at Vere and the Marchesino. - -"Have we all finished? I thought we would go and have coffee up- -stairs. What do you say, Vere?" - -He spoke cheerfully. - -"Yes; do let us." - -They all got up. As Hermione and Vere moved towards the door Artois -leaned out of the window for a moment. - -"You needn't be afraid. There will be no storm to-night, Emilio!" said -the Marchesino, gayly--almost satirically. - -"No--it's quite fine." - -Artois drew in. "We ought to have a perfect evening," he added, -quietly. - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -"How are we going to drive to the Carmine?" said Artois to Hermione, -when she had taken her cloak and was ready to go down. - -"We must have two carriages." - -"Yes." - -"Vere and I will go in one, with Gaspare on the box, and you and the -Marchese can follow in the other." - -"Signora," said the Marchesino, drawing on his white gloves, "you -still do not trust us? You are still determined to take the watch-dog? -It is cruel of you. It shows a great want of faith in Emilio and in -me." - -"Gaspare must come." - -The Marchesino said no more, only shrugged his shoulders with an air -of humorous resignation which hid a real chagrin. He knew how watchful -a Sicilian can be, how unyielding in attention to his mistresses, if -he thinks they need protection. - -But perhaps this Gaspare was to be bribed. - -Instinctively the Marchesino put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, -and began to feel the money there. - -Yes, there was a gold piece. - -"Come, Panacci!" - -Emilio's hand touched his shoulder, and he followed the ladies out of -the room. - -Emilio had called him "Panacci." That sounded almost like a -declaration of war. Well, he was ready. At dinner his had been the -triumph, and Emilio knew it. He meant his triumph to be a greater one -before the evening was over. The reappearance of the gay child in -Vere, grafted upon the comprehending woman whom he had seen looking -out of her eyes on the day of his last visit to the island, had put -the finishing touch to the amorous madness of the Marchesino. He -dreamed Vere an accomplished coquette. He believed that her cruelty on -the night of his serenade, that her coldness and avoidance of him on -the day of the lunch, were means devised to increase his ardor. She -had been using Emilio merely as an instrument. He had been a weapon in -her girlish hands. That was the suitable fate of the old--usefulness. - -The Marchesino was in a fever of anticipation. Possibly Vere would -play into his hands when they got to the festa. If not, he must manage -things for himself. The Signora, of course, would make Emilio her -escort. Vere would naturally fall to him, the Marchesino. - -But there was the fifth--this Gaspare. - -When they came out to the pavement the Marchesino cast a searching -glance at the Sicilian, who was taking the cloaks, while the two -carriages which had been summoned by the hotel porter were rattling up -from the opposite side of the way. Gaspare had saluted him, but did -not look at him again. When Hermione and Vere were in the first -carriage, Gaspare sprang on to the box as a matter of course. The -Marchesino went to tell the coachman which way to drive to the -Carmine. When he had finished he looked at Gaspare and said: - -"There will be a big crowd. Take care the Signora does not get hurt in -it." - -He laid a slight emphasis on the word "Signora," and put his hand -significantly into his waistcoat-pocket. - -Gaspare regarded him calmly. - -"Va bene, Signor Marchese," he replied. "I will take care of the -Signora and the Signorina." - -The Marchesino turned away and jumped into the second carriage with -Emilio, realizing angrily that his gold piece would avail him nothing. - -As they drove off Artois drew out some small square bits of paper. - -"Here's your ticket for the enclosure," he said, giving one to the -Marchesino. - -"Grazie. But we must walk about. We must show the ladies the fun in -the Mercato. It is very dull to stay all the evening in the -enclosure." - -"We will do whatever they like, of course." - -"Keep close to the other carriage! Do you hear?" roared the Marchesino -to the coachman. - -The man jerked his head, cracked his whip, pulled at his horse's -mouth. They shot forward at a tremendous pace, keeping close by the -sea at first, then turning to the left up the hill towards the Piazza -del Plebiscito. The Marchesino crossed his legs, folded his arms, and -instinctively assumed the devil-may-care look characteristic of the -young Neapolitan when driving through his city. - -"Emilio," he said, after a moment, looking at Artois out of the -corners of his eyes without moving his head, "when I was at the island -the other day, do you know whom I saw in the house?" - -"No." - -"A girl of the town. A bad girl. You understand?" - -"Do you mean a girl with a wounded cheek?" - -"Yes. How can the Signora have her there?" - -"The Signora knows all about her," said Artois, dryly. - -"She thinks so!" - -"What do you mean?" - -"If the Signora really knew, could she take such a girl to live with -the Signorina?" - -The conversation was rapidly becoming insupportable to Artois. - -"This is not our affair," he said. - -"I do not say it is. But still, as I am a Neapolitan, I think it a -pity that some one does not explain to the Signora how impossible--" - -"Caro mio!" Artois exclaimed, unable to endure his companion's obvious -inclination to pose as a protector of Vere's innocence. "English -ladies do not care to be governed. They are not like your charming -women. They are independent and do as they choose. You had much better -not bother your head about what happens on the island. Very soon the -Signora may be leaving it and going away from Naples." - -"Davvero?" - -The Marchesino turned right round in the little carriage, forgetting -his pose. - -"Davvero? No. I don't believe it. You play with me. You wish to -frighten me." - -"To frighten you! I don't understand what you mean. What can it matter -to you? You scarcely know these ladies." - -The Marchesino pursed his lips together. But he only said, "Si, si." -He did not mean to quarrel with Emilio yet. To do so might complicate -matters with the ladies. - -As they entered the Via del Popolo, and drew near to the Piazza di -Masaniello, his excitement increased, stirred by the sight of the -crowds of people, who were all streaming in the same direction past -the iron rails of the port, beyond which, above the long and ghostly -sheds that skirt the sea, rose the tapering masts of vessels lying at -anchor. Plans buzzed in his head. He called upon all his shrewdness, -all his trickiness of the South. He had little doubt of his capacity -to out-manoeuvre Emilio and the Signora. And if the Signorina were -favorable to him, he believed that he might even get the better of -Gaspare, in whom he divined a watchful hostility. But would the -Signorina help him? He could not tell. How can one ever tell what a -girl will do at a given moment? - -With a jerk the carriage drew up beneath the walls of the prison that -frowns upon the Piazza di Masaniello, and the Marchesino roused -himself to the battle and sprang out. The hum of the great crowd -already assembled, the brilliance of the illuminations that lit up the -houses, Nuvolo's tower, the façade of the Church of the Carmine, and -the adjoining monastery, the loud music of the band that was stationed -in the Kiosk before the enclosure, stirred his young blood. As he went -quickly to help Hermione and Vere, he shot a glance almost of contempt -at the gray hairs of Emilio, who was getting out of the carriage -slowly. Artois saw the glance and understood it. For a moment he stood -still. Then he paid the coachman and moved on, encompassed by the -masses of people who were struggling gayly towards the centre of the -square, intent upon seeing the big doll that was enthroned there -dressed as Masaniello. - -"We had better go into the enclosure. Don't you think so?" he said to -Hermione. - -"If you like. I am ready for anything." - -"We can walk about afterwards. Perhaps the crush will be less when the -fire-balloon has gone up." - -The Marchesino said nothing, and they gained the enclosure, where rows -of little chairs stood on the short grass that edges the side of the -prison that looks upon the Piazza. Gaspare, who on such occasions was -full of energy and singularly adroit, found them good places in a -moment. - -"Ecco, Signora! Ecco, Signorina!" - -"Madre, may I stand on my chair?" - -"Of course, Signorina. Look! Others are standing!" - -Gaspare helped his Padroncina up, then took his place beside her, and -stood like a sentinel. Artois had never liked him better than at that -moment. Hermione, who looked rather tired, sat down on her chair. The -loud music of the band, the lines of fire that brought the discolored -houses into sharp relief, and that showed her with a distinctness that -was fanciful and lurid the moving faces of hundreds of strangers, the -dull roar of voices, and the heat that flowed from the human bodies, -seemed to mingle, to become concrete, to lie upon her spirit like a -weight. Artois stood by her, leaning on his stick and watching the -crowd with his steady eyes. The Marchesino was looking up at Vere, -standing in a position that seemed to indicate a longing that she -should rest her hand upon his shoulder. - -"You will fall, Signorina!" he said. "Be careful. Let me--" - -"I am quite safe." - -But she dropped one hand to the shoulder of Gaspare. - -The Marchesino moved, almost as if he were about to go away. Then he -lit a cigarette and spoke to Hermione. - -"You look tired, Signora. You feel the heat. It is much fresher -outside, when one is walking. Here, under the prison walls, it is -always like a furnace in summer. It is unwholesome. It puts one into a -fever." - -Hermione looked at him, and saw a red spot burning on each side of his -face near his cheek-bones. - -"Perhaps it would be better to walk," she said, doubtfully. - -Her inclination was for movement, for her fatigue was combined with a -sensation of great restlessness. - -"What do you say, Vere?" she added. - -"Oh, I should love to go among the people and see everything," she -answered, eagerly. - -The Marchesino's brow cleared. - -"Let us go, Emilio! You hear what the Signorina says." - -"Very well," said Artois. - -His voice was reluctant, even cold. Vere glanced at him quickly. - -"Would you rather stay here, Monsieur Emile?" she said. - -"No, Vere, no. Let us go and see the fun." - -He smiled at her. - -"We must keep close together," he added, looking at the Marchesino. -"The crowd is tremendous." - -"But they are all in good humor," he answered, carelessly. "We -Neapolitans, we are very gay, that is true, but we do not forget our -manners when we have a festa. There is nothing to fear. This is the -best way out. We must cross the Mercato. The illuminations of the -streets beyond are always magnificent. The Signorina shall walk down -paths of fire, but she shall not be burned." - -He led the way with Vere, going in front to disarm the suspicion which -he saw plainly lurking in Emilio's eyes. Artois followed with -Hermione, and Gaspare came last. The exit from the enclosure was -difficult, as many people were pouring in through the narrow opening, -and others, massed together outside the wooden barrier, were gazing at -the seated women within; but at length they reached the end of the -Piazza, and caught a glimpse of the Masaniello doll, which faced a -portrait of the Madonna del Carmine framed in fire. Beyond, to the -right, above the heads of the excited multitude, rose the pale-pink -globe of the fire-balloon, and as for a moment they stood still to -look at it the band struck up a sonorous march, the balloon moved -sideways, swayed, heeled over slightly like a sailing-yacht catching -the breeze beyond the harbor bar, recovered itself, and lifted the -blazing car above the gesticulating arms of the people. A long murmur -followed it as it glided gently away, skirting the prodigious belfry -with the apparent precaution of a living thing that longed for, and -sought, the dim freedom of the sky. The children instinctively -stretched out their arms to it. All faces were lifted towards the -stars, as if a common aspiration at that moment infected the throng, a -universal, though passing desire to be free of the earth, to mount, to -travel, to be lost in the great spaces that encircle terrestrial -things. At the doors of the trattorie the people, who had forsaken -their snails, stood to gaze, many of them holding glasses of white -wine in their hands. The spighe arrosto, the watermelons, were for a -moment forgotten on the stalls of their vendors, who ceased from -shouting to the passers-by. There was a silence in which was almost -audible the human wish for wings. Presently the balloon, caught by -some vagrant current of air, began to travel abruptly, and more -swiftly, sideways, passing over the city towards its centre. At once -the crowd moved in the same direction. Aspiration was gone. A violence -of children took its place, and the instinct to follow where the -blazing toy led. The silence was broken. People called and -gesticulated, laughed and chattered. Then the balloon caught fire from -the brazier beneath it. A mass of flames shot up. A roar broke from -the crowd and it pressed more fiercely onward, each unit of it longing -to see where the wreck would fall. Already the flames were sinking -towards the city. - -"Where are Vere and the Marchesino?" - -Hermione had spoken. Artois, whose imagination had been fascinated by -the instincts of the crowd, and whose intellect had been chained to -watchfulness during its strange excitement, looked sharply round. - -"Vere--isn't she here?" - -He saw at once that she was gone. But he saw, too, that Gaspare was no -longer with them. The watch-dog had been more faithful than he. - -"They must be close by," he added. "The sudden movement separated us, -no doubt." - -"Yes. Gaspare has vanished too!" - -"With them," Artois said. - -He spoke with an emphasis that was almost violent. - -"But--you didn't see--" began Hermione. - -"Don't you know Gaspare yet?" he asked. - -Their eyes met. She was startled by the expression in his. - -"You don't think--" she began. - -She broke off. - -"I think Gaspare knows his Southerner," Artois replied. "We must look -for them. They are certain to have gone with the crowd." - -They followed the people into the Mercato. The burning balloon dropped -down and disappeared. - -"It has fallen into the Rettifilo!" cried a young man close to them. - -"Macche!" exclaimed his companion. - -"I will bet you five lire--" - -He gesticulated furiously. - -"We shall never find them," Hermione said. - -"We will try to find them." - -His voice startled her now, as his eyes had startled her. A man in the -crowd pressed against her roughly. Instinctively she caught hold of -Artois' arm. - -"Yes, you had better take it," he said. - -"Oh, it was only--" - -"No, take it." - -And he drew her hand under his arm. - -The number of people in the Mercato was immense, but it was possible -to walk on steadily, though slowly. Now that the balloon had vanished -the crowd had forgotten it, and was devoting itself eagerly to the -pleasures of the bar. In the tall and barrack-like houses candles -gleamed in honor of Masaniello. The streets that led away towards the -city's heart were decorated with arches of little lamps, with columns -and chains of lights, and the pedestrians passing through them looked -strangely black in this great frame of fire. From the Piazza before -the Carmine the first rocket rose, and, exploding, showered its golden -rain upon the picture of the Virgin. - -"Perhaps they have gone back into the Piazza." - -Hermione spoke after a long silence, during which they had searched in -vain. Artois stood still and looked down at her. His face was very -stern. - -"We sha'n't find them," he said. - -"In this crowd, of course, it is difficult, but--" - -"We sha'n't find them." - -"At any rate, Gaspare is with them." - -"How do you know that?" - -The expression in his face frightened her. - -"But you said you were sure--" - -"Panacci was too clever for us; he may have been too clever for -Gaspare." - -Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she said: - -"You surely don't think the Marchese is wicked?" - -"He is young, he is Neapolitan, and to-night he is mad. Vere has made -him mad." - -"But Vere was only gay at dinner as any child--" - -"Don't think I am blaming Vere. If she has fascination, she cannot -help it." - -"What shall we do?" - -"Will you let me put you into a cab? Will you wait in my room at the -hotel until I come back with Vere? I can search for her better alone. -I will find her--if she is here." - -Their eyes met steadily as he finished speaking, and he saw, or -thought he saw, in hers a creeping menace, as if she had the intention -to attack or to defy him. - -"I am Vere's mother," she said. - -"Let me take you to a cab, Hermione." - -He spoke coldly, inexorably. This moment of enforced inactivity was a -very difficult one for him. And the violence that was blazing within -him made him fear that if Hermione did not yield to his wish he might -lose his self-control. - -"You can do nothing," he added. - -Her eyes left his, her lips quivered. Then she said: - -"Take me, then." - -She did not look at him again until she was in a cab and Artois had -told the driver to go to the Hotel Royal. Then she glanced at him with -a strange expression of acute self-consciousness which he had never -before seen on her face. - -"You don't believe that--that there is any danger to Vere?" she said, -in a low voice. "You cannot believe that." - -"I don't know." - -She leaned forward, and her face changed. - -"Go and bring her back to me." - -The cabman drove off, and Artois was lost in the crowd. - -He never knew how long his search lasted, how long he heard the swish -and the bang of rockets, the vehement music of the band, the cries and -laughter of the people, the sound of footsteps as if a world were -starting on some pilgrimage; how long he saw the dazzling avenues of -fire stretching away into the city's heart; how long he looked at the -faces of strangers, seeking Vere's face. He was excessively conscious -of almost everything except of time. It might have been two hours -later, or much less, when he felt a hand upon his arm, turned round, -and saw Gaspare beside him. - -"Where is the Signora?" - -"Gone to the hotel? And the Signorina?" - -Gaspare looked at Artois with a sort of heavy gloom, then looked down -to the ground. - -"You have lost her?" - -"Si." - -There was a dulness of fatalism in his voice. - -Artois did not reproach him. - -"Did you lose them when the balloon went up?" he asked. - -"Macche! It was not the balloon!" Gaspare said, fiercely. - -"What was it?" - -Artois felt suddenly that Gaspare had some perfect excuse for his -inattention. - -"Some one spoke to me. When I--when I had finished the Signorina and -that Signore were gone." - -"Some one spoke to you. Who was it?" - -"It was Ruffo." - -Artois stared at Gaspare. - -"Ruffo! Was he alone?" - -"No, Signore." - -"Who was with him?" - -"His mother was with him." - -"His mother. Did you speak to her?" - -"Si, Signore." - -There was a silence between them. It was broken by a sound of bells. - -"Signore, it is midnight." - -Artois drew out his watch quickly. The hands pointed to twelve -o'clock. The crowd was growing thinner, was surely melting away. - -"We had better go to the hotel," Artois said. "Perhaps they are there. -If they are not there--" - -He did not finish the sentence. They found a cab and drove swiftly -towards the Marina. All the time the little carriage rattled over the -stony streets Artois expected Gaspare to speak to him, to tell him -more, to tell him something tremendous. He felt as if the Sicilian -were beset by an imperious need to break a long reserve. But, if it -were so, this reserve was too strong for its enemy. Gaspare's lips -were closed. He did not say a word till the cabman drew up before the -hotel. - -As Artois got out he knew that he was terribly excited. The hall was -almost dark, and the night concierge came from his little room on the -right of the door to turn on the light and accompany Artois to the -lift. - -"There is a lady waiting in your room, Signore," he said. - -Artois, who was walking quickly towards the lift, stopped. He looked -at Gaspare. - -"A lady!" he said. - -"Shall I go back to the Piazza, Signore?" - -He half turned towards the swing door. - -"Wait a minute. Come up-stairs first and see the Signora." - -The lift ascended. As Artois opened the door of his sitting-room he -heard a woman's dress rustle, and Hermione stood before them. - -"Vere?" she said. - -She laid her hand on his arm. - -"Gaspare!" - -There was a sound of reproach in her voice. She took her hand away -from Artois. - -"Gaspare?" she repeated, interrogatively. - -"Signora!" he answered, doggedly. - -He did not lift his eyes to hers. - -"You have lost the Signorina?" - -"Si, Signora." - -He attempted no excuse, he expressed no regret. - -"Gaspare!" Hermione said. - -Suddenly Artois put his hand on Gaspare's shoulder. He said nothing, -but his touch told the Sicilian much--told him how he was understood, -how he was respected, by this man who had shared his silence. - -"We thought they might be here," Artois said. - -"They are not here." - -Her voice was almost hard, almost rebuking. She was still standing in -the door-space. - -"I will go back and look again, Signora." - -"Si," she said. - -She turned back into the room. Artois held out his hand to Gaspare: - -"Signore?" - -Gaspare looked surprised, hesitating, then moved. He took the out- -stretched hand, grasped it violently, and went away. - -Artois shut the sitting-room door and went towards Hermione. - -"You are staying?" she said. - -By her intonation he could not tell whether she was glad or almost -angrily astonished. - -"They may come here immediately," he said. "I wish to see Panacci-- -when he comes." - -She looked at him quickly. - -"It must be an accident," she said. "I can't--I won't believe that--no -one could hurt Vere." - -He said nothing. - -"No one could hurt Vere," she repeated. - -He went out on to the balcony and stood there for two or three -minutes, looking down at the sea and at the empty road. She did not -follow him, but sat down upon the sofa near the writing-table. -Presently he turned round. - -"Gaspare has gone." - -"It would have been better if he had never come!" - -"Hermione," he said, "has it come to this, that I must defend Gaspare -to you?" - -"I think Gaspare might have kept with Vere, ought to have kept with -Vere." - -Artois felt a burning desire to make Hermione understand the Sicilian, -but he only said, gently: - -"Some day, perhaps, you will know Gaspare's character better, you will -understand all this." - -"I can't understand it now. But--oh, if Vere-- No, that's impossible, -impossible!" - -She spoke with intense vehemence. - -"Some things cannot happen," she exclaimed, with a force that seemed -to be commanding destiny. - -Artois said nothing. And his apparent calm seemed to punish her, -almost as if he struck her with a whip. - -"Why don't you speak?" she said. - -She felt almost confused by his silence. - -He went out again to the balcony, leaned on the railing and looked -over. She felt that he was listening with his whole nature for the -sound of wheels. She felt that she heard him listening, that she heard -him demanding the sound. And as she looked at his dark figure, beyond -which she saw the vagueness of night and some stars, she was conscious -of the life in him as she had never been conscious of it before, she -was conscious of all his manhood terribly awake. - -That was for Vere. - -A quarter of an hour went by. Artois remained always on the balcony, -and scarcely moved. Hermione watched him, and tried to learn a lesson; -tried to realize without bitterness and horror that in the heart of -man everything has been planted, and that therefore nothing which -grows there should cause too great amazement, too great condemnation, -or the absolute withdrawal of pity; tried to face something which must -completely change her life, sweeping away more than mere illusions, -sweeping away a long reverence which had been well founded, and which -she had kept very secret in her heart, replacing its vital substance -with a pale shadow of compassion. - -She watched him, and she listened for the sound of wheels, until at -last she could bear it no longer. - -"Emile, what are we to do? What can we do?" she said, desperately. - -"Hush!" he said. - -He held up his hand. They both listened and heard far off the noise of -a carriage rapidly approaching. He looked over the road. The carriage -rattled up. She heard it stop, and saw him bend down. Then suddenly he -drew himself up, turned, and came into the room. - -"They have come," he said. - -He went to the door and opened it, and stood by it. - -And his face was terrible. - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -Two minutes later there was the sound of steps coming quickly down the -uncarpeted corridor, and Vere entered, followed, but not closely, by -the Marchesino. Vere went up at once to her mother, without even -glancing at Artois. - -"I am so sorry, Madre," she said, quietly. "But--but it was not my -fault." - -The Marchesino had paused near the door, as if doubtful of Vere's -intentions. Now he approached Hermione, pulling off his white gloves. - -"Signora," he said, in a hard and steady voice, but smiling boyishly, -"I fear I am the guilty one. When the balloon went up we were -separated from you by the crowd, and could not find you immediately. -The Signorina wished to go back to the enclosure. Unfortunately I had -lost the tickets, so that we should not have been readmitted. Under -these circumstances I thought the best thing was to show the Signorina -the illuminations, and then to come straight back to the hotel. I hope -you have not been distressed. The Signorina was of course perfectly -safe with me." - -"Thank you, Marchese," said Hermione, coldly. "Emile, what are we to -do about Gaspare?" - -"Gaspare?" asked Vere. - -"He has gone back to the Piazza to search for you again." - -"Oh!" - -She flushed, turned away, and went up to the window. Then she -hesitated, and finally stepped out on to the balcony. - -"You had better spend the night in the hotel," said Artois. - -"But we have nothing!" - -"The housemaid can find you what is necessary in the morning." - -"As to our clothes--that doesn't matter. Perhaps it will be the best -plan." - -Artois rang the bell. They waited in silence till the night porter -came. - -"Can you give these two ladies rooms for the night?" said Artois. "It -is too late for them to go home by boat, and their servant has not -come back yet." - -"Yes, sir. The ladies can have two very good rooms." - -"Good-night, Emile," said Hermione. "Good-night, Marchese. Vere!" - -Vere came in from the balcony. - -"We are going to sleep here, Vere. Come!" - -She went out. - -"Good-night, Monsieur Emile," Vere said to Artois, without looking at -him. - -She followed her mother without saying another word. - -Artois looked after them as they went down the corridor, watched -Vere's thin and girlish figure until she turned the corner near the -staircase, walking slowly and, he thought, as if she were tired and -depressed. During this moment he was trying to get hold of his own -violence, to make sure of his self-control. When the sound of the -footsteps had died completely away he drew back into the room and shut -the door. - -The Marchesino was standing near the window. When he saw the face of -Artois he sat down in an arm-chair and put his hat on the floor. - -"You don't mind if I stay for a few minutes, Emilio?" he said. "Have -you anything to drink? I am thirsty after all this walking in the -crowd." - -Artois brought him some Nocera and lemons. - -"Do you want brandy, whiskey?" - -"No, no. Grazie." - -He poured out the Nocera gently, and began carefully to squeeze some -lemon-juice into it, holding the fruit lightly in his strong fingers, -and watching the drops fall with a quiet attention. - -"Where have you been to-night?" - -The Marchesino looked up. - -"In the Piazza di Masaniello." - -"Where have you been?" - -"I tell you--the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two streets to see -the illuminations. What's the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because -we lost you in the crowd?" - -"You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotel -to-night." - -"Not at all, amico mio. Not at all." - -His voice hardened again, the furrows appeared on his forehead. - -"Now you are lying," said Artois. - -The Marchesino got up and stood in front of Artois. The ugly, cat-like -look had come into his face, changing it from its usual boyish -impudence to a hardness that suggested age. At that moment he looked -much older than he was. - -"Be careful, Emilio!" he said. "I am Neapolitan, and I do not allow -myself to be insulted." - -His gray eyes contracted. - -"You did not mean to get lost with the Signorina?" said Artois. - -"One leaves such things to destiny." - -"Destiny! Well, to-night it is your destiny to go out of the -Signorina's life forever." - -"How dare you command me? How dare you speak for these ladies?" - -Suddenly Artois went quite white, and laid his hand on the -Marchesino's arm. - -"Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?" he -said. - -Questions blazed in his eyes. His hand closed more firmly on the -Marchesino. - -"Where did you take that child? What did you say to her? What did you -dare to say?" - -"I! And you?" said the Marchesino, sharply. - -He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. "And you--you!" he -repeated. - -"I?" - -"Yes--you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I at -least am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate. -I know what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I--I -am ready to go naked into the sun before the whole world, and say, -'There! There! This is Isidoro Panacci; and he is this--and this--and -this! Like it or hate it--that does not matter! It is not his fault. -He is like that. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that, -and he is that--he is that!' Do you hear? That is what I am ready to -do. But you--you--! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!" - -He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shook -his head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently -and repeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look -came into his mobile face. - -"The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above the -follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl, -and who is proud of loving her, and who knows that he loves her, that -he wants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!"--he suddenly -hissed out the words. "The man with the white hairs who might have had -many children of his own, but who prefers to play papa--caro papa, -Babbo bello!--to the child of another on a certain little island. Ah, -buon Dio! The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; by whose -side the little Isidoro seems only a small boy from college, about -whom nobody need bother! How he is loved, and how he is trusted on the -island! Nobody must come there but he and those whom he wishes. He is -to order, to arrange all. The little Isidoro--he must not come there. -He must not know the ladies. He is nothing; but he is wicked. He loves -pleasure. He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidoro! Keep him -out! Keep him away! But the great writer--with the white hairs-- -everything is allowed to him because he is Caro Papa. He may teach the -Signorina. He may be alone with her. He may take her out at night in -the boat."--His cheeks were stained with red and his eyes glittered.-- -"And when the voice of that wicked little Isidoro is heard-- Quick! -Quick! To the cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it is dark, and -he will never find us! Let us make him think we are at Nisida! Hush! -the boat is passing. He is deceived! He will search all night till he -is tired! Ah--ah--ah! That is good! And now back to the island--quick! ---before he finds out!"--He thrust out his arm towards Artois.--"And -that is my friend!" he exclaimed. "He who calls himself the friend of -the little wicked Isidoro. P--!"--He turned his head and spat on to -the balcony.--"Gran Dio! And this white-haired Babbo! He steals into -the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He puts a girl of the -town to live with the Signorina upon the island, to teach her--" - -"Stop!" said Artois. - -"I will not stop!" said the Marchesino, furiously. "To teach the -Signorina all the--" - -Artois lifted his hand. - -"Do you want me to strike you on the mouth?" he said. - -"Strike me!" - -Artois looked at him with a steadiness that seemed to pierce. - -"Then--take care, Panacci. You are losing your head." - -"And you have lost yours!" cried the Marchesino. "You, with your white -hairs, you are mad. You are mad about the 'child.' You play papa, and -all the time you are mad, and you think nobody sees it. But every one -sees it, every one knows it. Every one knows that you are madly in -love with the Signorina." - -Artois had stepped back. - -"I--in love!" he said. - -His voice was contemptuous, but his face had become flushed, and his -hands suddenly clinched themselves. - -"What! you play the hypocrite even with yourself! Ah, we Neapolitans, -we may be shocking; but at least we are sincere! You do not know!-- -then I will tell you. You love the Signorina madly, and you hate me -because you are jealous of me--because I am young and you are old. I -know it; the Signora knows it; that Sicilian--Gaspare--he knows it! -And now you--you know it!" - -He suddenly flung himself down on the sofa that was behind him. -Perspiration was running down his face, and even his hands were wet -with it. - -Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking at the -Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something more which must -inevitably come. The Marchesino took out his handkerchief, passed it -several times quickly over his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and -shut it up in his left hand. - -"I am young and you are old," he said. "And that is all the matter. -You hate me, not because you think I am wicked and might do the -Signorina harm, but because I am young. You try to keep the Signorina -from me because I am young. You do not dare to let her know what youth -is, really, really to know, really, really to feel. Because, if once -she did know, if once she did feel, if she touched the fire"--he -struck his hand down on his breast--"she would be carried away, she -would be gone from you forever. You think, 'Now she looks up to me! -She reverences me! She admires me! She worships me as a great man!' -And if once, only once she touched the fire--ah!"--he flung out both -his arms with a wide gesture, opened his mouth, then shut it, showing -his teeth like an animal.--"Away would go everything--everything. She -would forget your talent, she would forget your fame, she would forget -your thoughts, your books, she would forget you, do you hear?--all, -all of you. She would remember only that you are old and she is young, -and that, because of that, she is not for you. And then"--his voice -dropped, became cold and serious and deadly, like the voice of one -proclaiming a stark truth--"and then, if she understood you, what you -feel, and what you wish, and how you think of her--she would hate you! -How she would hate you!" - -He stopped abruptly, staring at Artois, who said nothing. - -"Is it not true?" he said. - -He got up, taking his hat and stick from the floor. - -"You do not know! Well--think! And you will know that it is true. A -rivederci, Emilio!" - -His manner had suddenly become almost calm. He turned away and went -towards the door. When he reached it he added: - -"To-morrow I shall ask the Signora to allow me to marry the -Signorina." - -Then he went out. - -The gilt clock on the marble table beneath the mirror struck the half- -hour after one. Artois looked at it and at his watch, comparing them. -The action was mechanical, and unaccompanied by any thought connected -with it. When he put his watch back into his pocket he did not know -whether its hands pointed to half-past one or not. He carried a light -chair on to the balcony, and sat down there, crossing his legs, and -leaning one arm on the rail. - -"If she touched the fire." Those words of the Marchesino remained in -the mind of Artois--why, he did not know. He saw before him a vision -of a girl and of a flame. The flame aspired towards the girl, but the -girl hesitated, drew back--then waited. - -What had happened during the hours of the Festa? Artois did not know. -The Marchesino had told him nothing, except that he--Artois--was madly -in love with Vere. Monstrous absurdity! What trivial nonsense men -talked in moments of anger, when they desired to wound! - -And to-morrow the Marchesino would ask Vere to marry him. Of course -Vere would refuse. She had no feeling for him. She would tell him so. -He would be obliged to understand that for once he could not have his -own way. He would go out of Vere's life, abruptly, as he had come into -it. - -He would go. That was certain. But others would come into Vere's life. -Fire would spring up round about her, the fire of love of men for a -girl who has fire within her, the fire of the love of youth for youth. - -Youth! Artois was not by nature a sentimentalist--and he was not a -fool. He knew how to accept the inevitable things life cruelly brings -to men, without futile struggling, without contemptible pretence. -Quite calmly, quite serenely, he had accepted the snows of middle age. -He had not secretly groaned or cursed, railed against destiny, striven -to defy it by travesty, as do many men. He had thought himself to be -"above" all that--until lately. But now, as he thought of the fire, he -was conscious of an immense sadness that had in it something of -passion, or a regret that was, for a moment, desperate, bitter, that -seared, that tortured, that was scarcely to be endured. It is terrible -to realize that one is at a permanent disadvantage, which time can -only increase. And just then Artois felt that there was nothing, that -there could never be anything, to compensate any human being for the -loss of youth. - -He began to wonder about the people of the island. The Marchesino had -spoken with a strange assurance. He had dared to say: - -"You love the Signorina. I know it; the Signora knows it; Gaspare--he -knows it. And now you--you know it." - -Was it possible that his deep interest in Vere, his paternal delight -in her talent, in her growing charm, in her grace and sweetness, could -have been mistaken for something else, for the desire of man for -woman? Vere had certainly never for a moment misunderstood him. That -he knew as surely as he knew that he was alive. But Gaspare and -Hermione? He fell into deep thought, and presently he was shaken by an -emotion that was partly disgust and partly anxiety. He got up from his -chair and looked out into the night. The weather was exquisitely -still, the sky absolutely clear. The sea was like the calm that dwells -surely in the breast of God. Naples was sleeping in the silence. But -he was terribly awake, and it began to seem to him as if he had, -perhaps, slept lately, slept too long. He was a lover of truth, and -believed himself to be a discerner of it. The Marchesino was but a -thoughtless, passionate boy, headstrong, Pagan, careless of intellect, -and immensely physical. Yet it was possible that he had been enabled -to see a truth which Artois had neither seen nor suspected. Artois -began to believe it possible, as he remembered many details of the -conduct of Hermione and of Gaspare in these last summer days. There -had been something of condemnation sometimes in the Sicilian's eyes as -they looked into his. He had wondered what it meant. Had it meant-- -that? And that night in the garden with Hermione-- - -With all the force and fixity of purpose he fastened his mind upon -Hermione, letting Gaspare go. - -If what the Marchesino had asserted were true--not that--but if -Hermione had believed it to be true, much in her conduct that had -puzzled Artois was made plain. Could she have thought that? Had she -thought it? And if she had--? Always he was looking out to the stars, -and to the ineffable calm of the sea. But now their piercing -brightness, and its large repose, only threw into a sort of blatant -relief in his mind its consciousness of the tumult of humanity. He saw -Hermione involved in that tumult, and he saw himself. And Vere? - -Was it possible that in certain circumstances Vere might hate him? It -was strange that to-night Artois found himself for the first time -considering the Marchesino seriously, not as a boy, but as a man who -perhaps knew something of the world and of character better than he -did. The Marchesino had said: - -"If she understood you--how she would hate you." - -But surely Vere and he understood each other very well. - -He looked out over the sea steadily, as he wished, as he meant, to -look now at himself, into his own heart and nature, into his own life. -Upon the sea, to the right and far off, a light was moving near the -blackness of the breakwater. It was the torch of a fisherman--one of -those eyes of the South of which Artois had thought. His eyes became -fascinated by it, and he watched it with intensity. Sometimes it was -still. Then it travelled gently onward, coming towards him. Then it -stopped again. Fire--the fire of youth. He thought of the torch as -that; as youth with its hot strength, its beautiful eagerness, its -intense desires, its spark-like hopes, moving without fear amid the -dark mysteries of the world and of life; seeking treasure in the -blackness, the treasure of an answering soul, of a completing nature, -of the desired and desirous heart, seeking its complement of love--the -other fire. - -He looked far over the sea. But there was no other fire upon it. - -And still the light came on. - -And now he thought of it as Vere. - -She was almost a child, but already her fire was being sought, longed -for. And she knew it, and must be searching, too, perhaps without -definite consciousness of what she was doing, instinctively. She was -searching there in the blackness, and in her quest she was approaching -him. But where he stood it was all dark. There was no flame lifting -itself up that could draw her flame to it. The fire that was -approaching would pass before him, would go on, exploring the night, -would vanish away from his eyes. Elsewhere it would seek the fire it -needed, the fire it would surely find at last. - -And so it was. The torch came on, passed softly by, slipped from his -sight beneath the bridge of Castel dell' Uovo. - -When it had gone Artois felt strangely deserted and alone, strangely -unreconciled with life. And he remembered his conversation with -Hermione in Virgil's Grotto; how he had spoken like one who scarcely -needed love, having ambition and having work to do, and being no -longer young. - -To-night he felt that every one needs love first--that all the other -human needs come after that great necessity. He had thought himself a -man full of self-knowledge, full of knowledge of others. But he had -not known himself. Perhaps even now the real man was hiding somewhere, -far down, shrinking away for fear of being known, for fear of being -dragged up into the light. - -He sought for this man, almost with violence. - -A weariness lay beneath his violence to-night, a physical fatigue such -as he sometimes felt after work. It had been produced, no doubt, by -the secret anger he had so long controlled, the secret but intense -curiosity which was not yet satisfied, and which still haunted him and -tortured him. This curiosity he now strove to expel from his mind, -telling himself that he had no right to it. He had wished to preserve -Vere just as she was, to keep her from all outside influences. And now -he asked the real man why he had wished it? Had it been merely the -desire of the literary godfather to cherish a pretty and promising -talent? Or had something of the jealous spirit so brutally proclaimed -to him that night by the Marchesino really entered into the desire? -This torturing curiosity to know what had happened at the Festa surely -betrayed the existence of some such spirit. - -He must get rid of it. - -He began to walk slowly up and down the little balcony, turning every -instant like a beast in a cage. It seemed to him that the real man had -indeed lain in hiding, but that he was coming forth reluctantly into -the light. - -Possibly he had been drifting without knowing it towards some nameless -folly. He was not sure. To-night he felt uncertain of himself and of -everything, almost like an ignorant child facing the world. And he -felt almost afraid of himself. Was it possible that he, holding within -him so much of the knowledge, so much of pride, could ever draw near -to a crazy absurdity, a thing that the whole world would laugh at and -despise? Had he drawn near to it. Was he near it now? - -He thought of all his recent intercourse with Vere, going back -mentally to the day in spring when he arrived in Naples. He followed -the record day by day until he reached that afternoon when he had -returned from Paris, when he came to the island to find Vere alone, -when she read to him her poems. Very pitilessly, despite the -excitement still raging within him, he examined that day, that night, -recalling every incident, recalling every feeling the incidents of -those hours had elicited from his heart. He remembered how vexed he -had been when Hermione told him of the engagement for the evening. He -remembered the moments after the dinner, his sensation of loneliness -when he listened to the gay conversation of Vere and the Marchesino, -his almost irritable anxiety when she had left the restaurant and gone -out to the terrace in the darkness. He had felt angry with Panacci -then. Had he not always felt angry with Panacci for intruding into the -island life? - -He followed the record of his intercourse with Vere until he reached -the Festa of that night, until he reached the moment in which he was -pacing the tiny balcony while the night wore on towards dawn. - -That was the record of himself with Vere. - -He began to think of Hermione. How had all this that he had just been -telling over in his mind affected her? What had she been thinking of -it--feeling about it? And Gaspare? - -Even now Artois did not understand himself, did not know whither his -steps might have tended had not the brutality of the Marchesino roused -him abruptly to this self-examination, this self-consideration. He did -not fully understand himself, and he wondered very much how Hermione -and the Sicilian had understood him--judged him. - -Artois had a firm belief in the right instincts of sensitive but -untutored natures, especially when linked with strong hearts capable -of deep love and long fidelity. He did not think that Gaspare would -easily misread the character or the desires of one whom he knew well. -Hermione might. She was tremendously emotional and impulsive, and -might be carried away into error. But there was a steadiness in -Gaspare which was impressive, which could not be ignored. - -Artois wondered very much what Gaspare had thought. - -There was a tap at the door, and Gaspare came in, holding his soft hat -in his hand, and looking tragic and very hot and tired. - -"Oh, Gaspare!" said Artois, coming in from the balcony, "they have -come back." - -"Lo so, Signore." - -"And they are sleeping here for the night." - -"Si, Signore." - -Gaspare looked at him as if inquiring something of him. - -"Sit down a minute," said Artois, "and have something to drink. You -must spend the night here, too. The porter will give you a bed." - -"Grazie, Signore." - -Gaspare sat down by the table, and Artois gave him some Nocera and -lemon-juice. He would not have brandy or whiskey, though he would not -have refused wine had it been offered to him. - -"Where have you been?" Artois asked him. - -"Signore, I have been all over the Piazza di Masaniello and the -Mercato. I have been through all the streets near by. I have been down -by the harbor. And the Signorina?" - -He stared at Artois searchingly above his glass. His face was covered -with perspiration. - -"I only saw her for a moment. She went to bed almost immediately." - -"And that Signore?" - -"He has gone home." - -Gaspare was silent for a minute. Then he said: - -"If I had met that Signore--" He lifted his right hand, which was -lying on the table, and moved it towards his belt. - -He sighed, and again looked hard at Artois. - -"It is better that I did not meet him," he said, with naïve -conviction. "It is much better. The Signorina is not for him." - -Artois was sitting opposite to him, with the table between them. - -"The Signorina is not for him," repeated Gaspare, with a dogged -emphasis. - -His large eyes were full of a sort of cloudy rebuke and watchfulness. -And as he met them Artois felt that he knew what Gaspare had thought. -He longed to say, "You are wrong. It is not so. It was never so." But -he only said: - -"The Signore Marchese will know that to-morrow." - -And as he spoke the words he was conscious of an immense sensation of -relief which startled him. He was too glad when he thought of the -final dismissal of the Marchesino. - -Gaspare nodded his head and put his glass to his lips. When he set it -down again it was empty. He moved to get up, but Artois detained him. - -"And so you met Ruffo to-night?" he said. - -Gaspare's expression completely changed. Instead of the almost cruel -watcher, he became the one who felt that he was watched. - -"Si, Signore." - -"Just when the balloon went up?" - -"Si, Signore. They were beside me in the crowd." - -"Was he alone with his mother?" - -"Si, Signore. Quite alone." - -"Gaspare, I have seen Ruffo's mother." - -Gaspare looked startled. - -"Truly, Signore?" - -"Yes. I saw her with him one day at the Mergellina. She was crying." - -"Perhaps she is unhappy. Her husband is in prison." - -"Because of Peppina." - -"Si." - -"And to-night you spoke to her for the first time?" - -Artois laid a strong emphasis on the final words. - -"Signore, I have never met her with Ruffo before." - -The two men looked steadily at each other. A question that could not -be evaded, a question that would break like a hammer upon a mutual -silence of years, was almost upon Artois' lips. Perhaps Gaspare saw -it, for he got up with determination. - -"I am going to bed now, Signore. I am tired. Buona notte, Signore." - -He took up his hat and went out. - -Artois had not asked his question. But he felt that it was answered. - -Gaspare knew. And he knew. - -And Hermione--did Fate intend that she should know? - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - -It was nearly dawn when Artois fell asleep. He did not wake till past -ten o'clock. The servant who brought his breakfast handed him a note, -and told him that the ladies of the island had just left the hotel -with Gaspare. As Artois took the note he was conscious of a mingled -feeling of relief and disappointment. This swift, almost hurried -departure left him lonely, yet he could not have met Hermione and Vere -happily in the light of morning. To-day he felt a self-consciousness -that was unusual in him, and that the keen eyes of women could not -surely fail to observe. He wanted a little time. He wanted to think -quietly, calmly, to reach a decision that he had not reached at night. - -Hermione and Vere had a very silent voyage. Gaspare's tragic humor -cast a cloud about his mistresses. He had met them in the morning with -a look of heavy, almost sullen scrutiny in his great eyes, which -seemed to develop into a definite demand for information. But he asked -nothing. He made no allusion to the night before. To Vere his manner -was almost cold. When they were getting into the boat at Santa Lucia -she said, with none of her usual simplicity and self-possession, but -like one making an effort which was repugnant: - -"I'm very sorry about last night, Gaspare." - -"It doesn't matter, Signorina." - -"Did you get back very late?" - -"I don't know, Signora. I did not look at the hour." - -She looked away from him and out to sea. - -"I am very sorry," she repeated. - -And he again said: - -"It doesn't matter, Signorina." - -It was nearly noon when they drew near to the island. The weather was -heavily hot, languidly hot even upon the water. There was a haze -hanging over the world in which distant objects appeared like -unsubstantial clouds, or dream things impregnated with a mystery that -was mournful. The voice of a fisherman singing not far off came to -them like the voice of Fate, issuing from the ocean to tell them of -the sadness that was the doom of men. Behind them Naples sank away -into the vaporous distance. Vesuvius was almost blotted out, Capri an -ethereal silhouette. And their little island, even when they -approached it, did not look like the solid land on which they had made -a home, but like the vague shell of some substance that had been -destroyed, leaving its former abiding-place untenanted. - -As they passed San Francesco Vere glanced at him, and Hermione saw a -faint flush of red go over her face. Directly the boat touched the -rock she stepped ashore, and without waiting for her mother ran up the -steps and disappeared towards the house. Gaspare looked after her, -then stared at his Padrona. - -"Is the Signorina ill?" he asked. - -"No, Gaspare. But I think she is tired to-day and a little upset. We -had better take no notice of it." - -"Va bene, Signora." - -He busied himself in making fast the boat, while Hermione followed -Vere. - -In the afternoon about five, when Hermione was sitting alone in her -room writing some letters, Gaspare appeared with an angry and -suspicious face. - -"Signora," he said, "that Signore is here." - -"What Signore? The Marchese!" - -"Si, Signora." - -Gaspare was watching his Padrona's face, and suddenly his own face -changed, lightened, as he saw the look that had come into her eyes. - -"I did not know whether you wished to see him--" - -"Yes, Gaspare, I will see him. You can let him in. Wait a moment. -Where is the Signorina?" - -"Up in her room, Signora." - -"You can tell her who is here, and ask her whether she wishes to have -tea in her room or not." - -"Si, Signora." - -Gaspare went out almost cheerfully. He felt that now he understood -what his Padrona was feeling and what she meant to do. She meant to do -in her way what he wanted to do in his. He ran down the steps to the -water with vivacity, and his eyes were shining as he came to the -Marchesino, who was standing at the edge of the sea looking almost -feverishly excited, but determined. - -"The Signora will see you, Signor Marchese." - -The words hit the Marchesino like a blow. He stared at Gaspare for a -moment almost stupidly, and hesitated. He felt as if this servant had -told him something else. - -"The Signora will see you," repeated Gaspare. - -"Va bene," said the Marchesino. - -He followed Gaspare slowly up the steps and into the drawing-room. It -was empty. Gaspare placed a chair for the Marchesino. And again the -latter felt as if he had received a blow. He glanced round him and sat -down, while Gaspare went away. For about five minutes he waited. - -When he had arrived at the island he had been greatly excited. He had -felt full of an energy that was feverish. Now, in this silence, in -this pause during which patience was forced upon him, his excitement -grew, became fierce, dominant. He knew from Gaspare's way of speaking, -from his action, from his whole manner, that his fate had been -secretly determined in that house, and that it was being rejoiced -over. At first he sat looking at the floor. Then he got up, went to -the window, came back, stood in the middle of the room and glanced -about it. How pretty it was, with a prettiness that he was quite -unaccustomed to. In his father's villa at Capodimonte there was little -real comfort. And he knew nothing of the cosiness of English houses. -As he looked at this room he felt, or thought he felt, Vere in it. He -even made an effort scarcely natural to him, and tried to imagine a -home with Vere as its mistress. - -Then he began to listen. Perhaps Emilio was in the house. Perhaps -Emilio was talking now to the Signora, was telling her what to do. - -But he heard no sound of voices speaking. - -No doubt Emilio had seen the Signora that morning in the hotel. No -doubt there had been a consultation. And probably at this consultation -his--the Marchesino's--fate had been decided. - -By Emilio? - -At that moment the Marchesino actively, even furiously, hated his -former friend. - -There was a little noise at the door; the Marchesino turned swiftly, -and saw Hermione coming in. He looked eagerly behind her. But the door -shut. She was alone. She did not give her hand to him. He bowed, -trying to look calm. - -"Good-afternoon, Signora." - -Hermione sat down. He followed her example. - -"I don't know why you wish to see me, after yesterday, Marchese," she -said, quietly, looking at him with steady eyes. - -"Signora, pardon me, but I should have thought that you would know." - -"What is it?" - -"Signora, I am here to ask the great honor of your daughter the -Signorina's hand in marriage. My father, to whom--" - -But Hermione interrupted him. - -"You will never marry my daughter, Marchese," she said. - -A sudden red burned in her cheeks, and she leaned forward slightly, -but very quickly, almost as if an impulse had come to her to push the -Marchesino away from her. - -"But, Signora, I assure you that my family--" - -"It is quite useless to talk about it." - -"But why, Signora?" - -"My child is not for a man like you," Hermione said, emphasizing the -first word. - -A dogged expression came into the Marchesino's face, a fighting look -that was ugly and brutal, but that showed a certain force. - -"I do not understand, Signora. I am like other men. What is the matter -with me?" - -He turned a little in his chair so that he faced her more fully. - -"What is the matter with me, Signora?" he repeated, slightly raising -his voice. - -"I don't think you would be able to understand if I tried to tell -you." - -"Why not? You think me stupid, then?" - -An angry fire shone in his eyes. - -"Oh no, you are not stupid." - -"Then I shall understand." - -Hermione hesitated. There was within her a hot impulse towards speech, -towards the telling to this self-satisfied young Pagan her exact -opinion of him. Yet was it worth while? He was going out of their -lives. They would see no more of him. - -"I don't think it is necessary for me to tell you," she said. - -"Perhaps there is nothing to tell because there is nothing the matter -with me." - -His tone stung her. - -"I beg your pardon, Marchese. I think there is a good deal to tell." - -"All I say is, Signora, that I am like other men." - -He thrust forward his strong under jaw, showing his big, white teeth. - -"There I don't agree with you. I am thankful to say I know many men -who would not behave as you behaved last night." - -"But I have come to ask for the Signorina's hand!" he exclaimed. - -"And you think--you dare to think that excuses your conduct!" - -She spoke with a sudden and intense heat. - -"Understand this, please, Marchese. If I gave my consent to your -request, and sent for my daughter--" - -"Si! Si!" he said, eagerly, leaning forward in his chair. - -"Do you suppose she would come near you?" - -"Certainly." - -"You think she would come near a man she will not even speak of?" - -"What!" - -"She won't speak of you. She has told me nothing about last night. -That is why I know so much." - -"She has not--the Signorina has--not--?" - -He stopped. A smile went over his face. It was sufficiently obvious -that he understood Vere's silence as merely a form of deceit, a -coquettish girl's cold secret from her mother. - -"Signora, give me permission to speak to your daughter, and you will -see whether it is you--or I--who understands her best." - -"Very well, Marchese." - -Hermione rang the bell. It was answered by Gaspare. - -"Gaspare," said Hermione, "please go to the Signorina, tell her the -Signor Marchese is here, and wishes very much to see her before he -goes." - -Gaspare's face grew dark, and he hesitated by the door. - -"Go, Gaspare, please." - -He looked into his Padrona's face, and went out as if reassured. -Hermione and the Marchese sat in silence waiting for him to return. In -a moment the door was reopened. - -"Signora, I have told the Signorina." - -"What did she say?" - -Gaspare looked at the Marchese as he answered. - -"Signora, the Signorina said to me, 'Please tell Madre that I cannot -come to see the Signor Marchese.' " - -"You can go, Gaspare." - -He looked at the angry flush on the Marchesino's cheeks, and went out. - -"Good-bye, Marchese." - -Hermione got up. The Marchesino followed her example. But he did not -go. He stood still for a moment in silence. Then he lifted his head up -with a jerk. - -"Signora," he said, in a hard, uneven voice that betrayed the -intensity of his excitement, "I see how it is. I understand perfectly -what is happening here. You think me bad. Well, I am like other men, -and I am not ashamed of it--not a bit. I am natural. I live according -to my nature, and I do not come from your north, but from Naples--from -Naples." He threw out his arm, pointing at a window that looked -towards the city. "If it is bad to have the blood hot in one's veins -and the fire hot in one's head and in one's heart--very well! I am -bad. And I do not care. I do not care a bit! But you think me a stupid -boy. And I am not that. And I will show you." He drew his fingers -together, and bent towards her, slightly lowering his voice. "From the -first, from the very first moment, I have seen, I have understood all -that is happening here. From the first I have understood all that was -against me--" - -"Marchese--!" - -"Signora, pardon me! You have spoken, the Signorina has spoken, and -now it is for me to speak. It is my right. I come here with an -honorable proposal, and therefore I say I have a right--" - -He put his fingers inside his shirt collar and pulled it fiercely out -from his throat. - -"E il vecchio!" he exclaimed, with sudden passion. "E il maledetto -vecchio!" - -Hermione's face changed. There had been in it a firm look, a calmness -of strength. But now, at his last words, the strength seemed to -shrink. It dwindled, it faded out of her, leaving her not collapsed, -but cowering, like a woman who crouches down in a corner to avoid a -blow. - -"It is he! It is he! He will not allow it, and he is master here." - -"Marchese--" - -"I say he is master--he is master--he has always been master here!" - -He came a step towards Hermione, moving as a man sometimes moves -instinctively when he is determined to make something absolutely clear -to one who does not wish to understand. - -"And you know it, and every one knows it--every one. When I was in the -sea, when I saw the Signorina for the first time, I did not know who -she was, where she lived; I did not know anything about her. I went to -tell my friend about her--my friend, you understand, whom I trusted, -to whom I told everything!--I went to him. I described the Signora, -the Signorina, the boat to him. He knew who the ladies were; he knew -directly. I saw it in his face, in his manner. But what did he say? -That he did not know, that he knew nothing. I was not to come to the -island. No one was to come to the island but he. So he meant. But I--I -was sharper than he, I who am so stupid! I took him to fish by night. -I brought him to the island. I made him introduce me to you, to the -Signorina. That night I made him. You remember? Well, then--ever since -that night all is changed between us. Ever since that night he is my -enemy. Ever since that night he suspects me, he watches me, he hides -from me, he hates me. Oh, he tries to conceal it. He is a hypocrite. -But I, stupid as I am, I see it all. I see what he is, what he wants, -I see all--all that is in his mind and heart. For this noble old man, -so respected, with the white hairs and the great brain, what is he, -what does he do? He goes at night to the Galleria. He consults with -Maria Fortunata, she who is known to all Naples, she who is the aunt -of that girl--that girl of the town and of the bad life, whom you have -taken to be your servant here. You have taken her because he--he has -told you to take her. He has put her here--" - -"Marchese!" - -"I say he has put her here that the Signorina--" - -"Marchese, I forbid you to say that! It is not true." - -"It is true! It is true! Perhaps you are blind, perhaps you see -nothing. I do not know. But I know that I am not blind. I love, and I -see. I see, I have always seen that he--Emilio--loves the Signorina, -that he loves her madly, that he wishes, that he means to keep her for -himself. Did he not hide with her in the cave, in the Grotto of -Virgil, that night when I came to serenade her on the sea? Yes, he -took her, and he hid her, because he loves her. He loves her, he an -old man! And he thinks--and he means--" - -"Marchese--" - -"He loves her; I say he loves her!" - -"Marchese, I must ask you to go!" - -"I say--" - -"Marchese, I insist upon your going." - -She opened the door. She was very pale, but she looked calm. The -crouching woman had vanished. She was mistress of herself. - -"Gaspare!" she called, in a loud, sharp voice that betrayed the inner -excitement her appearance did not show. - -"Signora," vociferated the Marchesino, "I say and I repeat--" - -"Gaspare! Come here!" - -"Signora!" cried a voice from below. - -Gaspare came running. - -"The Signore Marchese is going, Gaspare. Go down with him to the boat, -please." - -The Marchesino grew scarlet. The hot blood rushed over his face, up to -his forehead, to his hair. Even his hands became red in that moment. - -"Good-bye, Marchese." - -She went out, and left him standing with Gaspare. - -"Signore Marchese, shall I take you to the boat?" - -Gaspare's voice was quite respectful. The Marchesino made no answer, -but stepped out into the passage and looked up to the staircase that -led to the top floor of the house. He listened. He heard nothing. - -"Is the French Signore here?" he said to Gaspare. "Do you hear me? Is -he in this house?" - -"No, Signore!" - -The Marchesino again looked towards the staircase and hesitated. Then -he turned and saw Gaspare standing in a watchful attitude, almost like -one about to spring. - -"Stay here!" he said, loudly, making a violent threatening gesture -with his arm. - -Gaspare stood where he was with a smile upon his face. - -A moment later he heard the splash of oars in the sea, and knew that -the Marchesino's boat was leaving the island. - -He drew his lips together like one about to whistle. - -The sound of the oars died away. - -Then he began to whistle softly "La Ciocciara." - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - -The ghostly day sank into a ghostly night that laid pale hands upon -the island, holding it closely, softly, in a hypnotic grasp, bidding -it surely rest, it and those who dwelled there with all the dreaming -hours. A mist hung over the sea, and the heat did not go with day, but -stayed to greet the darkness and the strange, enormous silence that -lay upon the waters. In the Casa del Mare the atmosphere was almost -suffocating, although every window was wide open. The servants went -about their duties leaden-footed, drooping, their Latin vivacity -quenched as by a spell. Vere was mute. It seemed, since the episode of -the Carmine, as if her normal spirit had been withdrawn, as if a dumb, -evasive personality replaced it. The impression made upon Hermione was -that the real Vere had sunk far down in her child, out of sight and -hearing, out of reach, beyond pursuit, to a depth where none could -follow, where the soul enjoyed the safety of utter isolation. - -Hermione did not wish to pursue this anchorite. She did not wish to -draw near to Vere that evening. To do so would have been impossible to -her, even had Vere been willing to come to her. Since the brutal -outburst of the Marchesino, she, too, had felt the desire, the -necessity, of a desert place, where she could sit alone and realize -the bareness of her world. - -In that outburst of passion the Marchesino had gathered together and -hurled at her beliefs that had surely been her own, but that she had -striven to avoid, that she had beaten back as spectres and unreal, -that she had even denied, tricking, or trying to trick, her terrible -sense of truth. His brutality had made the delicacy in her crouch and -sicken. It had been almost intolerable to her, to see her friend, -Emile, thus driven out into the open, like one naked, to be laughed -at, condemned, held up, that the wild folly, the almost insane -absurdity of his secret self might be seen and understood even by the -blind, the determined in stupidity. - -She had always had a great reverence for her friend, which had been -mingled with her love for him, giving it its character. Was this -reverence to be torn utterly away? Had it already been cast to the -winds? - -Poor Emile! - -In the first moments after the departure of the Marchesino she pitied -Emile intensely with all her heart of woman. If this thing were true, -how he must have suffered, how he must still be suffering--not only in -his heart, but in his mind! His sense of pride, his self-respect, his -passion for complete independence, his meticulous consciousness of the -fitness of things, of what could be and what was impossible--all must -by lying in the dust. She could almost have wept for him then. - -But another feeling succeeded this sense of pity, a sensation of -outrage that grew within her and became almost ungovernable. She had -her independence too, her pride, her self-respect. And now she saw -them in dust that Emile had surely heaped about them. A storm of -almost hard anger shook her. She tasted an acrid bitterness that -seemed to impregnate her, to turn the mainspring of her life to gall. -She heard the violent voice of the young Neapolitan saying: "He is -master, he is master, he has always been master here!" And she tried -to look back over her life, and to see how things had been. And, -shaken still by this storm of anger, she felt as if it were true, as -if she had allowed Artois to take her life in his hands and to shape -it according to his will, as if he had been governing her although she -had not known it. He had been the dominant personality in their mutual -friendship. His had been the calling voice, hers the obedient voice -that answered. Only once had she risen to a strong act, an act that -brought great change with it, and that he had been hostile to. That -was when she had married Maurice. - -And she had left Maurice for Artois. From Africa had come the calling, -dominant voice. And even in her Garden of Paradise she had heard it. -And even from her Garden of Paradise she had obeyed it. For the first -time she saw that act of renunciation as the average man or woman -would probably see it; as an extraordinary, quixotic act, to be -wondered at blankly, or, perhaps, to be almost angrily condemned. She -stood away from her own impulsive, enthusiastic nature, and stared at -it critically--as even her friends had often stared--and realized that -it was unusual, perhaps extravagant, perhaps sometimes preposterous. -This readiness to sacrifice--was it not rather slavish than regally -loyal? This forgetfulness of personal joy, this burnt-offering of -personality--was it not contemptible? Could such actions bring into -being the respect of others, the respect of any man? Had Emile -respected her for rushing to Africa? Or had he, perhaps, then and -through all these years, simply wondered how she could have done such -a thing? - -And Maurice--Maurice? Oh, what had he thought? How had he looked upon -that action? - -Often and often in lonely hours she had longed to go down into the -grave, or to go up into the blue, to drag the body, the soul, the -heart she loved back to her. She had been rent by a desire that had -made her limbs shudder, or that had flushed her whole body with red, -and set her temples beating. The longing of heart and flesh had been -so vehement that it had seemed to her as if they must compel, or cease -to be. Now, again, she desired to compel Maurice to come to her from -his far, distant place, but in order that she might make him -understand what he had perhaps died misunderstanding; why she had left -him to go to Artois, exactly how she had felt, how desperately sad to -abandon the Garden of Paradise, how torn by fear lest the perfect days -were forever at an end, how intensely desirous to take him with her. -Perhaps he had felt cruelly jealous! Perhaps that was why he had not -offered to go with her at once. Yes, she believed that now. She saw -her action, she saw her preceding decision as others had seen it, as -no doubt Maurice had seen it, as perhaps even Artois had seen it. Why -had she instinctively felt that because her nature was as it was, and -because she was bravely following it, every one must understand her? -Oh, to be completely understood! If she could call Maurice back for -one moment, and just make him see her as she had been then; loyal to -her friend, and through and through passionately loyal to him! If she -could! If she could! - -She had left Maurice, the one being who had utterly belonged to her, -to go to Artois. She had lost the few remaining days in which she -could have been supremely happy. She had come back to have a few short -hours devoid of calm, chilled sometimes by the strangeness that had -intruded itself between her and Maurice, to have one kiss in which -surely at last misunderstanding was lost and perfect love was found. -And then--that "something" in the water! And then--the gulf. - -In that gulf she had not been quite alone. The friend whom she had -carried away from Africa and death had been with her. He had been -closely in her life ever since. And now-- - -She heard the Marchesino's voice: "I see what he is, what he wants, I -see it all--all that is in his mind and heart. I see, I have always -seen, that he loves the Signorina, that he loves her madly." - -Vere! - -Hermione sickened. Emile and Vere in that relation! - -The storm of anger was not spent yet. Would it ever be spent? -Something within her, the something, perhaps, that felt rejected, -strove to reject in its turn, did surely reject. Pride burned in her -like a fire that cruelly illumines night, shining upon the destruction -it is compassing. - -The terrible sense of outrage that gripped her soul and body--her body -because Vere was bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh--seemed to be -forcibly changing her nature, as cruel hands, prompted by murder in a -heart, change form, change beauty in the effort to destroy. - -That evening Hermione felt herself being literally defaced by this -sensation of outrage within her, a sensation which she was powerless -to expel. - -She found herself praying to God that Artois might not come to the -island that night. And yet, while she prayed, she felt that he was -coming. - -She dined with Vere, in almost complete silence--trying to love this -dear child as she had always loved her, even in certain evil moments -of an irresistible jealousy. But she felt immensely far from Vere, -distant from her as one who does not love from one who loves; yet -hideously near, too, like one caught in the tangle of an enforced -intimacy rooted in a past which the present denies and rejects. -Directly dinner was over they parted, driven by the mutual desire to -be alone. - -And then Hermione waited for that against which she had prayed. - -Artois would come to the island that night. Useless to pray! He was -coming. She felt that he was on the sea, environed by this strange -mist that hung to-night over the waters. She felt that he was coming -to Vere. She had gone to Africa to save him--in order that he might -fall in love with her then unborn child. - -Monstrosities, the monstrosities that are in life, deny them, beat -them back, close our eyes to them as we will, rose up around her in -the hot stillness. She felt haunted, terrified. She was forcibly -changed, and now all the world was changing about her. - -She must have relief. She could not sit there among spectres waiting -for the sound of oars that would tell her Vere's lover had come to the -island. How could she detach herself for a moment from this horror? - -She thought of Ruffo. - -As the thought came to her she got up and went out of the house. - -Only when she was out-of-doors did she fully realize the strangeness -of the night. The heat of it was flaccid. The island seemed to swim in -a fatigued and breathless atmosphere. The mist that hung about it was -like the mist in a vapor-bath. - -Below the vague sea lay a thing exhausted, motionless, perhaps -fainting in the dark. And in this heat and stillness there was no -presage, no thrill, however subtle, of a coming change, of storm. -Rather there was the deadness of eternity, as if this swoon would last -forever, neither developing into life, nor deepening into death. - -Hermione had left the house feverishly, yearning to escape from her -company of spectres, yearning to escape from the sensation of ruthless -hands defacing her. As she passed the door-sill it was only with -difficulty that she suppressed a cry of "Ruffo!" a cry for help. But -when the night took her she no longer had any wish to disturb it by a -sound. She was penetrated at once by an atmosphere of fatality. Her -pace changed. She moved on slowly, almost furtively. She felt inclined -to creep. - -Would Ruffo be at the island to-night? Would Artois really come? It -seemed unlikely, almost impossible. But if Ruffo were there, if Artois -came, it would be fatality. That she was there was fatality. - -She walked always slowly, always furtively, to the crest of the cliff. - -She stood there. She listened. - -Silence. - -She felt as if she were quite alone on the island. She could scarcely -believe that Vere, that Gaspare, that the servants were there--among -them Peppina with her cross. - -They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she perhaps cast a spell -to-night? - -Hermione did not smile at such an imagination as she dismissed it. - -She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did not feel as if -Ruffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, a -boy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of the -song of Mergellina. - -And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, she -accepted his presence as a thing inevitable. - -It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should stand -together that night, speak together as now they were about to speak. - -"Signora, buona sera." - -"Buona sera, Ruffo." - -"The Signorina is not here to-night?" - -"I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to-night." - -"The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora." - -"You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?" - -"Ma si, Signora." - -"Did we tell you we were going? I had forgotten." - -"It was not that, Signora. But I saw the Signorina at the Festa. Did -not Don Gaspare tell you?" - -"Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?" - -She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her under the influence -of the night. But already she felt a slight yet decided sense of -relief, almost of peace. She drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very -close to him, she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in -it the expression that she loved. - -"Did he see you, Ruffo?" - -"Ma si, Signora. I was with my poor mamma." - -"Your mother! I wish I had met her!" - -"Si, Signora. I was with my mamma in the Piazza of Masaniello. We had -been eating snails, Signora, and afterwards watermelon, and we had -each had a glass of white wine. And I was feeling very happy, because -my poor mamma had heard good news." - -"What was that?" - -"To-morrow my Patrigno is to be let out of prison." - -"So soon! But I thought he had not been tried." - -"No, Signora. But he is to be let out now. Perhaps he will be put back -again. But now he is let out because"--he hesitated--"because--well, -Signora, he has such friends, he has friends who are powerful for him. -And so he is let out just now." - -"I understand." - -"Well, Signora, and after the white wine we were feeling happy, and we -were going to see everything: the Madonna, and Masaniello, and the -fireworks, and the fire-balloon. Did you see the fire-balloon, -Signora?" - -"Yes, Ruffo. It was very pretty." - -His simple talk soothed her. He was so young, so happy, so free from -the hideous complexities of life; no child of tragedy, but the son -surely of a love that had been gay and utterly contented. - -"Si, Signora! Per dio, Signora, it was wonderful! It was just before -the fire-balloon went up, Signora, that I saw the Signorina with the -Neapolitan Signorino. And close behind them was Don Gaspare. I said to -my mamma, 'Mamma, ecco the beautiful Signorina of the island!' My -mamma was excited, Signora. She held on to my arm, and she said: -'Ruffino,' she said, 'show her to me. Where is she?' my mamma said, -Signora. 'And is the Signora Madre with her?' Just then, Signora, the -people moved, and all of a sudden there we were, my mamma and I, right -in front of Don Gaspare." - -Ruffo stopped, and Hermione saw a change, a gravity, come into his -bright face. - -"Well, Ruffo?" she said, wondering what was coming. - -"I said to my mamma, Signora, 'Mamma, this is Don Gaspare of the -island.' Signora, my mamma looked at Don Gaspare for a minute. Her -face was quite funny. She looked white, Signora, my mamma looked -white, almost like the man at the circus who comes in with the dog to -make us laugh. And Don Gaspare, too, he looked"--Ruffo paused, then -used a word beloved of Sicilians who wish to be impressive--"he looked -mysterious, Signora. Don Gaspare looked mysterious." - -"Mysterious? Gaspare?" - -"Si, Signora, he did. And he looked almost white, too, but not like my -mamma. And then my mamma said, 'Gaspare!' just like that, Signora, and -put out her hand--so. And Don Gaspare's face got red and hot. And then -for a minute they spoke together, Signora, and I could not hear what -they said. For Don Gaspare stood with his back so that I should not -hear. And then the balloon went sideways and the people ran, and I did -not see Don Gaspare any more. And after that, Signora, my mamma was -crying all the time. And she would not tell me anything. I only heard -her say: 'To think of its being Gaspare! To think of its being Gaspare -on the island!' And when we got home she said to me, 'Ruffo,' she -said, 'has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?' What is it, -Signora?" - -"Nothing, Ruffo. Go on." - -"But--" - -"Go on, Ruffo." - -" 'Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?' my mamma said." - -"And you--what did you say?" - -"I said, 'No,' Signora. And that is true. Don Gaspare has never said I -was like somebody." - -The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. He stood quietly by -Hermione, waiting for her to speak in her turn. For a moment she said -nothing. Then she put her hand on Ruffo's arm. - -"Whom do you think your mother meant when she said 'somebody,' Ruffo?" - -"Signora, I do not know." - -"But surely--didn't you ask whom she meant?" - -"No, Signora. I told my mamma Don Gaspare had never said that. She was -crying. And so I did not say anything more." - -Hermione still held his arm for a moment. Then her hand dropped down. - -Ruffo was looking at her steadily with his bright and searching eyes. - -"Signora, do you know what she meant?" - -"I! How can I tell, Ruffo? I have never seen your mother. How can I -know what she meant?" - -"No, Signora." - -Again there was a silence. Then Hermione said: - -"I should like to see your mother, Ruffo." - -"Si, Signora." - -"I must see her." - -Hermione said the last words in a low and withdrawn voice, like one -speaking to herself. As she spoke she was gazing at the boy beside -her, and in her eyes there was a mystery almost like that of the -night. - -"Ruffo," she added, in a moment, "I want you to promise me something." - -"Si, Signora." - -"Don't speak to any one about the little talk we have had to-night. -Don't say anything, even to Gaspare." - -"No, Signora." - -For a short time they remained together talking of other things. -Hermione spoke only enough to encourage Ruffo. And always she was -watching him. But to-night she did not see the look she longed for, -the look that made Maurice stand before her. Only she discerned, or -believed she discerned, a definite physical resemblance in the boy to -the dead man, a certain resemblance of outline, a likeness surely in -the poise of the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in a -trait that suggested ardor about the full yet delicate lips. Why had -she never noticed these things before? Had she been quite blind? Or -was she now imaginative? Was she deceiving herself? - -"Good-night, Ruffo," she said, at last. - -He took off his cap and stood bareheaded. - -"Good-night, Signora." - -He put the cap on his dark hair with a free and graceful gesture. - -Was not that, too, Maurice? - -"A rivederci, Signora." - -He was gone. - -Hermione stood alone in the fatal night. She had forgotten Vere. She -had forgotten Artois. The words of Ruffo had led her on another step -in the journey it was ordained that she should make. She felt the -under-things. It seemed to her that she heard in the night the dull -murmuring of the undercurrents that carry through wayward, or -terrible, channels the wind-driven bark of life. What could it mean, -this encounter just described to her: this pain, this emotion of a -woman, her strange question to her son? And Gaspare's agitation, his -pallor, his "mysterious" face, the colloquy that Ruffo was not allowed -to hear! - -What did it mean? That woman's question--that question! - -"What is it? What am I near?" Ruffo's mother knew Gaspare, must have -known him intimately in the past. When? Surely long ago in Sicily; for -Ruffo was sixteen, and Hermione felt sure--knew, in fact--that till -they came to the island Gaspare had never seen Ruffo. - -That woman's question! - -Hermione went slowly to the bench and sat down by the edge of the -cliff. - -What could it possibly mean? - -Could it mean that this woman, Ruffo's mother, had once known Maurice, -known him well enough to see in her son the resemblance to him? - -But then-- - -Hermione, as sometimes happened, having reached truth instinctively -and with a sure swiftness, turned to retreat from it. She had lost -confidence in herself. She feared her own impulses. Now, abruptly, she -told herself that this idea was wholly extravagant. Ruffo probably -resembled some one else whom his mother and Gaspare knew. That was far -more likely. That must be the truth. - -But again she seemed to hear in the night the dull murmurings of those -undercurrents. And many, many times she recurred mentally to that -weeping woman's question to her son--that question about Gaspare. - -Gaspare--he had been strange, disturbed lately. Hermione had noticed -it; so had the servants. There had been in the Casa del Mare an -oppressive atmosphere created by the mentality of some of its -inhabitants. - -Even she, on that day when she had returned from Capri, had felt a -sensation of returning to meet some grievous tale. - -She remembered Artois now, recalling his letter which she had found -that day. - -Gaspare and Artois--did they both suspect, or both know, something -which they had been concealing from her? - -Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Yet she did not form in her -mind any definite conception of what such a mutual secret might be. -She simply began to feel frightened, almost like a child. - -She said to herself that this brooding night, with its dumbness, its -heat, its vaporous mystery, was affecting her spirit. And she got up -from the bench, and began to walk very slowly towards the house. - -When she did this she suddenly felt sure that while she had been on the -crest of the cliff Artois had arrived at the island, that he was now -with Vere in the house. She knew that it was so. - -And again there rushed upon her that sensation of outrage, of being -defaced, and of approaching a dwelling in which things monstrous had -taken up their abode. - -She came to the bridge and paused by the rail. She felt a sort of -horror of the Casa del Mare in which Artois was surely sitting--alone -or with Vere? With Vere. For otherwise he would have come up to the -cliff. - -She leaned over the rail. She looked into the Pool. One boat was there -just below her, the boat to which Ruffo belonged. Was there another? -She glanced to the right. Yes; there lay by the rock a pleasure-boat -from Naples. - -Artois had come in that. - -She looked again at the other boat, searching the shadowy blackness -for the form of Ruffo. She longed that he might be awake. She longed -that he might sing, in his happy voice, of the happy summer nights, of -the sweet white moons that light the Southern summer nights, of the -bright eyes of Rosa, of the sea of Mergellina. But from the boat there -rose no voice, and the mist hung heavily over the silent Pool. - -Then Hermione lifted her eyes and looked across the Pool, seeking the -little light of San Francesco. Only the darkness and the mist -confronted her. She saw no light--and she trembled like one to whom -the omens are hostile. - -She trembled and hid her face for a moment. Then she turned and went -up into the house. - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - -When Hermione reached the door of the Casa del Mare she did not go in -immediately, but waited on the step. The door was open. There was a -dim lamp burning in the little hall, which was scarcely more than a -passage. She looked up and saw a light shining from the window of her -sitting-room. She listened; there was no sound of voices. - -They were not in there. - -She was trying to crush down her sense of outrage, to feel calm before -she entered the house. - -Perhaps they had gone into the garden. The night was terribly hot. -They would prefer to be out-of-doors. Vere loved the garden. Or they -might be on the terrace. - -She stepped into the hall and went to the servants' staircase. Now she -herd voices, a laugh. - -"Giulia!" she called. - -The voices stopped talking, but it was Gaspare who came in answer to -her call. She looked down to him. - -"Don't come up, Gaspare. Where is the Signorina?" - -"The Signorina is on the terrace, Signora--with Don Emilio." - -He looked up at her very seriously in the gloom. She thought of the -meeting at the Festa, and longed to wring from Gaspare his secret. - -"Don Emilio is here?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"How long ago did he come?" - -"About half an hour, I think, Signora." - -"Why didn't you tell me?" - -"Don Emilio told me not to bother you, Signora--that he would just sit -and wait." - -"I see. And the Signorina?" - -"I did not tell her, either. She was in the garden alone, but I have -heard her talking on the terrace with the Signore. Are you ill, -Signora?" - -"No. All right, Gaspare!" - -She moved away. His large, staring eyes followed her till she -disappeared in the passage. The passage was not long, but it seemed to -Hermione as if a multitude of impressions, of thoughts, of fears, of -determinations rushed through her heart and brain while she walked -down it and into the room that opened to the terrace. This room was -dark. - -As she entered it she expected to hear the voices from outside. But -she heard nothing. - -They were not on the terrace, then! - -She again stood still. Her heart was beating violently, and she felt -violent all over, thrilling with violence like one on the edge of some -outburst. - -She looked towards the French window. Through its high space she saw -the wan night outside, a sort of thin paleness resting against the -blackness in which she was hidden. And as her eyes became accustomed -to their environment she perceived that the pallor without was -impinged upon by two shadowy darknesses. Very faint they were, -scarcely relieved against the night, very still and dumb--two shadowy -darknesses, Emile and Vere sitting together in silence. - -When Hermione understood this she remained where she was, trying to -subdue even her breathing. Why were they not talking? What did this -mutual silence, this mutual immobility mean? She was only a few feet -from them. Yet she could not hear a human sound, even the slightest. -There was something unnatural, but also tremendously impressive to her -in their silence. She felt as if it signified something unusual, -something of high vitality. She felt as if it had succeeded some -speech that was exceptional, and that had laid its spell, of joy or -sorrow, upon both their spirits. - -And she felt much more afraid, and also much more alone, than she -would have felt had she found them talking. - -Presently, as the silence continued, she moved softly back into the -passage. She went down it a little way, then returned, walking briskly -and loudly. In this action her secret violence was at play. When she -came to the room she grasped the door-handle with a force that hurt -her hand. She went in, shut the door sharply behind her, and without -any pause came out upon the terrace. - -"Emile!" - -"Yes," he said, getting up from his garden-chair quickly. - -"Gaspare told me you were here." - -"I have been here about half an hour." - -She had not given him her hand. She did not give it. - -"I didn't hear you talking to Vere, so I wondered--I almost thought--" - -"That I had gone without seeing you? Oh no. It isn't very late. You -don't want to get rid of me at once?" - -"Of course not." - -His manner--or so it seemed to her--was strangely uneasy and formal, -and she thought his face looked drawn, almost tortured. But the light -was very dim. She could not be sure of that. - -Vere had said nothing, had not moved from her seat. - -There was a third chair. As Hermione took it and drew it slightly -forward, she looked towards Vere, and thought that she was sitting in -a very strange position. In the darkness it seemed to the mother as if -her child's body were almost crouching in its chair, as if the head -were drooping, as if-- - -"Vere! Is anything the matter with you?" - -Suddenly, as if struck sharply, Vere sprang up and passed into the -darkness of the house, leaving a sound that was like a mingled -exclamation and a sob behind her. - -"Emile!" - -***** - - -"Emile!" - -"Hermione?" - -"What is the matter with Vere? What have you been doing to Vere?" - -"I!" - -"Yes, you! No one else is here." - -Hermione's violent, almost furious agitation was audible in her voice. - -"I should never wish to hurt Vere--you know that." - -His voice sounded as if he were deeply moved. - -"I must-- Vere! Vere!" - -She moved towards the house. But Artois stepped forward swiftly, laid -a hand on her arm, and stopped her. - -"No, leave Vere alone to-night." - -"Why?" - -"She wishes to be alone to-night." - -"But I find her here with you." - -There was a harsh bitterness of suspicion, of doubt, in her tone that -he ought surely to have resented. But he did not resent it. - -"I was sitting on the terrace," he said, gently. "Vere came in from -the garden. Naturally she stayed to entertain me till you were here." - -"And directly I come she rushes away into the house!" - -"Perhaps there was--something may have occurred to upset her." - -"What was it?" - -Her voice was imperious. - -"You must tell me what it was!" she said, as he was silent. - -"Hermione, my friend, let us sit down. Let us at any rate be with each -other as we always have been--till now." - -He was almost pleading with her, but she did not feel her hardness -melting. Nevertheless she sat down. - -"Now tell me what it was." - -"I don't think I can do that, Hermione." - -"I am her mother. I have a right to know. I have a right to know -everything about my child's life." - -In those words, and in the way they were spoken, Hermione's bitter -jealousy about the two secrets kept from her, but shared by Artois, -rushed out into the light. - -"I am sure there is nothing in Vere's life that might not be told to -the whole world without shame; and yet there may be many things that -an innocent girl would not care to tell to any one." - -"But if things are told they should be told to the mother. The mother -comes first." - -He said nothing. - -"The mother comes first!" she repeated, almost fiercely. "And you -ought to know it. You do know it!" - -"You do come first with Vere." - -"If I did, Vere would confide in me rather than in any one else." - -As Hermione said this, all the long-contained bitterness caused by -Vere's exclusion of her from the knowledge that had been freely given -to Artois brimmed up suddenly in her heart, overflowed boundaries, -seemed to inundate her whole being. - -"I do not come first," she said. - -Her voice trembled, almost broke. - -"You know that I do not come first. You have just told me a lie." - -"Hermione!" - -His voice was startled. - -"You know it perfectly well. You have known it for a long time." - -Hot tears were in her eyes, were about to fall. With a crude gesture, -almost like that of a man, she put up her hands to brush them away. - -"You have known it, you have known it, but you try to keep me in the -dark." - -Suddenly she was horribly conscious of the darkness of the night in -which they were together, of the darkness of the world. - -"You love to keep me in the dark, in prison. It is cruel, it is wicked -of you." - -"But Hermione--" - -"Take care, Emile, take care--or I shall hate you for keeping me in -the dark." - -Her passionate words applied only to the later events in which Vere -was concerned. But his mind rushed back to Sicily, and suddenly there -came to his memory some words he had once read, he did not know when, -or where: - -"The spirit that resteth upon a lie is a spirit in prison." - -As he remembered them he felt guilty, guilty before Hermione. He saw -her as a spirit confined for years in a prison to which his action had -condemned her. Yes, she was in the dark. She was in an airless place. -She was deprived of the true liberty, that great freedom which is the -accurate knowledge of the essential truths of our own individual -lives. From his mind in that moment the cause of Hermione's outburst, -Vere and her childish secrets, were driven out by a greater thing that -came upon it like a strong and mighty wind--the memory of that lie, in -which he had enclosed his friend's life for years, that lie on which -her spirit had rested, on which it was resting still. And his sense of -truth did not permit him to try to refute her accusation. Indeed, he -was filled with a desire that nearly conquered him--there and then, -brutally, clearly, nakedly, to pour forth to his friend all the truth, -to say to her: - -"You have a strong, a fiery spirit, a spirit that hates the dark, that -hates imprisonment, a spirit that can surely endure, like the eagle, -to gaze steadfastly into the terrible glory of the sun. Then come out -of the darkness, come out of your prison. I put you there--let me -bring you forth. This is the truth--listen! hear it!--it is this--it -is this--and--this!" - -This desire nearly conquered him. Perhaps it would have conquered him -but for an occurrence that, simple though it was, changed the -atmosphere in which their souls were immersed, brought in upon them -another world with the feeling of other lives than their own. - -The boat to which Ruffo belonged, going out of the Pool to the -fishing, passed at this moment slowly upon the sea beneath the -terrace, and from the misty darkness his happy voice came up to them -in the song of Mergellina which he loved: - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate - Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: - Mi destan le dolcissime serate - Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -Dark was the night, moonless, shrouded in the mist. But his boy's -heart defied it, laughed at the sorrowful truths of life, set the -sweet white moon in the sky, covered the sea with her silver. Artois -turned towards the song and stood still. But Hermione, as if -physically compelled towards it, moved away down the terrace, -following in the direction in which the boat was going. - -As she passed Artois saw tears running down her cheeks. And he said to -himself: - -"No, I cannot tell her; I can never tell her. If she is to be told, -let Ruffo tell her. Let Ruffo make her understand. Let Ruffo lift her -up from the lie on which I have made her rest, and lead her out of -prison." - -As this thought came to him a deep tenderness towards Hermione flooded -his heart. He stood where he was. Far off he still heard Ruffo's voice -drifting away in the mist out to the great sea. And he saw the vague -form of Hermione leaning down over the terrace wall, towards the sea, -the song, and Ruffo. - -How intensely strange, how mysterious, how subtle was the influence -housed within the body of that singing boy, that fisher-boy, which, -like an issuing fluid, or escaping vapor, or perfume, had stirred and -attracted the childish heart of Vere, had summoned and now held fast -the deep heart of Hermione. - -Just then Artois felt as if in the night he was walking with the -Eternities, as if that song, now fading away across the sea, came even -from them. We do not die. For in that song to which Hermione bent down ---the dead man lived when that boy's voice sang it. In that boat, now -vanishing upon the sea, the dead man held an oar. In that warm young -heart of Ruffo the dead man moved, and spoke--spoke to his child, -Vere, whom he had never seen, spoke to his wife, Hermione, whom he had -deceived, yet whom he had loved. - -Then let him--let the dead man himself--speak out of that temple which -he had created in a moment of lawless passion, out of that son whom he -had made to live by the action which had brought upon him death. - -Ruffo--all was in the hands of Ruffo, to whom Hermione, weeping, bent -for consolation. - -The song died away. Yet Hermione did not move, but still leaned over -the sea. She scarcely knew where she was. The soul of her, the -suffering soul, was voyaging through the mist with Ruffo, was voyaging -through the mist and through the night with--her Sicilian and all the -perfect past. It seemed to her at that moment that she had lost Vere -in the dark, that she had lost Emile in the dark, that even Gaspare -was drifting from her in a mist of secrecy which he did not intend -that she should penetrate. - -There was only Ruffo left. - -He had no secrets. He threw no darkness round him and those who loved -him. In his happy, innocent song was his happy, innocent soul. - -She listened, she leaned down, almost she stretched out her arms -towards the sea. And in that moment she knew in her mind and she felt -in her heart that Ruffo was very near to her, that he meant very much -to her, even that she loved him. - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - -Artois left the island that night without speaking to Hermione. He -waited a long time. But she did not move to come to him. And he did -not dare to go to her. He did not dare! In all their long friendship -never before had his spirit bent before, or retreated as if in fear -from Hermione's. To-night he was conscious that in her fierce anger, -and afterwards in her tears, she had emancipated herself from him. He -was conscious of her force as he had never been conscious of it -before. Something within him almost abdicated to her intensity. And at -last he turned and went softly away from the terrace. He descended to -the sea. He left the island. - -Were they no longer friends? - -As the boat gave itself to the mist he wondered. It had come to this, -then--that he did not know whether Hermione and he were any longer -friends. Almost imperceptibly, with movement so minute that it had -seemed like immobility, they had been drifting apart through these -days and nights of the summer. And now abruptly the gulf appeared -between them. - -He felt just then that they could never more be friends, that their -old happy camaraderie could never be reestablished. - -That they could ever be enemies was unthinkable. Even in Hermione's -bitterness and anger Artois felt her deep affection. In her cry, "Take -care, Emile, or I shall hate you for keeping me in the dark!" he heard -only the hatred that is the other side of love. - -But could they ever be comrades again? And if they could not, what -could they be? - -As the boat slipped on, under the Saint's light, which was burning -although the mist had hidden it from Hermione's searching eyes, and -out to the open sea, Artois heard again her fierce exclamation. It -blended with Vere's sob. He looked up and saw the faint lights of the -Casa del Mare fading from him in the night. And an immense sadness, -mingled with an immense, but chaotic, longing invaded him. He felt -horribly lonely, and he felt a strange, new desire for the nearness to -him of life. He yearned to feel life close to him, pulsing with a -rhythm to which the rhythm of his being answered. He yearned for that -strange and exquisite satisfaction, compounded of mystery and wonder, -and thrilling with something akin to pain, that is called forth in the -human being who feels another human being centring all its highest -faculties, its strongest powers, its deepest hopes in him. He desired -intensely, as he had never desired before, true communion with -another, that mingling of bodies, hearts, and spirits, that is the -greatest proof of God to man. - -The lights of the Casa del Mare were lost to his eyes in the night. He -looked for them still. He strained his eyes to see them. But the -powerful night would not yield up its prey. - -And now, in the darkness and with Hermione's last words ringing in his -ears, he felt almost overwhelmed by the solitariness of his life in -the world of lives. - -That day, before he came to the island, he had met himself face to -face like a man meeting his double. He had stripped himself bare. He -had searched himself for the truth. Remembering all the Marchesino had -said, he had demanded of his heart the truth, uncertain whether it -would save or slay him. It had not slain him. When the colloquy was -over he was still upright. - -But he had realized as never before the delicate poise of human -nature, set, without wings, on a peak with gulfs about it. Had he not -looked in time, and with clear, steadfast eyes, might he not have -fallen? - -His affection for Vere was perfectly pure, was the love of a man -without desire for a gracious and charming child. It still was that. -He knew it for that by the wave of disgust that went over him when his -imagination, prompted by the Marchesino's brutality, set pictures -before him of himself in other relations with Vere. The real man in -him recoiled so swiftly, so uncontrollably, that he was reassured as -to his own condition. And yet he found much to condemn, something to -be contemptuous of, something almost to weep over--that desire to -establish a monopoly--that almost sickly regret for his vanished -youth, that bitterness against the community to which all young things -instinctively belong, whatever their differences of intellect, -temperament, and feeling. - -Could he have fallen? - -Even now he did not absolutely know whether such a decadence might -have been possible to him or not. But that now it would not be -possible he felt that he did know. - -Age could never complete youth, and Vere must be complete. He had -desired to make her gift for song complete. He could never desire to -mutilate her life. Had he not said to himself one day, as his boat -glided past the sloping gardens of Posilipo, "Vere must be happy." - -Yet that evening he had made her unhappy. - -He had come to the island from his self-examination strong in the -determination to be really himself, no longer half self-deceived and -so deceiving. He had gone out upon the terrace, and waited there. But -when Vere had come to join him, he had not been able to be natural. In -his desire to rehabilitate himself thoroughly and swiftly in his own -opinion he must have been almost harsh to the child. She had -approached him a little doubtfully. She had needed specially just then -to be met with even more than the usual friendship. Artois had seen in -her face, in her expressive eyes, a plea not for forgiveness--there -was no need for that, but for compassion, an appeal to him to ignore -and yet to sympathise, that was exquisitely young and winning. But, -because of his self-examination, and because he was feeling acutely, -he had been abrupt, cold, changed in his manner. They had sat down -together in the dark, and after some uneasy conversation, Vere, -perhaps eager to make things easier between herself and "Monsieur -Emile," had brought up the subject of her poems with a sort of anxious -simplicity, and a touch of timidity that yet was confidential. And -Artois, still recoiling secretly from that which might possibly have -become a folly but could never have been anything more, had told Vere -plainly and almost sternly that she must go to her literary path -unaided, unadvised by him. - -"I was glad to advise you at the beginning, Vere," he had said, -finally; "but now I must leave you to yourself to work out your own -salvation. You have talent. Trust it. Trust yourself. Do no lean on -any one, least of all on me." - -"No, Monsieur Emile," she had answered. - -Those were the last words exchanged between them before Hermione came -and questioned Vere. And only when Vere slipped into the house, -leaving that sound of pain behind her, did Artois realize how cruel he -must have seemed in his desire quickly to set things right. - -He realized that; but, subtle though he was, he did not understand the -inmost and root-cause of Vere's loss of self-control. - -Vere was feeling bitterly ashamed, had been bending under this sense -of undeserved shame, ever since the Marchesino's stratagem on the -preceding night. Although she was gay and fearless, she was -exquisitely sensitive. Peppina's confession had roused her maidenhood -to a theoretical knowledge of certain things in life, of certain cruel -phases of man's selfishness and lust which, till then, she had never -envisaged. The Marchesino's madness had carried her one step further. -She had not actually looked into the abyss. But she had felt herself -near to something that she hated even more than she feared it. And she -had returned to the hotel full of a shrinking delicacy, not to be -explained, intense as snow, which had made the meeting with her mother -and Artois a torture to her, which had sealed her lips to silence that -night, which had made her half apology to Gaspare in the morning a -secret agony, which had even set a flush on her face when she looked -at San Francesco. The abrupt change in Monsieur Emile's demeanor -towards her made her feel as if she were despised by him because she -had been the victim of the Marchesino's trick. Or perhaps Monsieur -Emile completely misunderstood her; perhaps he thought--perhaps he -dared to think, that she had helped the Marchesino in his manoeuvre. - -Vere felt almost crucified, but was too proud to speak of the pain and -bitterness within her. Only when her mother came out upon the terrace -did she suddenly feel that she could bear no more. - -That night, directly she was in her room, she locked her door. She was -afraid that her mother might follow her, to ask what was the matter. - -But Hermione did not come. She, too, wished to be alone that night. -She, too, felt that she could not be looked at by searching eyes that -night. - -She did not know when Artois left the terrace. Long after Ruffo's song -had died away she still leaned over the sea, following his boat with -her desirous heart. Artois, too, was on the sea. She did not know it. -She was, almost desperately, seeking a refuge in the past. The present -failed her. That was her feeling. Then she would cling to the past. -And in that song, prompted now by her always eager imagination, she -seemed to hear it. For she was almost fiercely, feverishly, beginning -to find resemblances in Ruffo to Maurice. At first she had noticed -none, although she had been strangely attracted by the boy. Then she -had seen that look, fleeting but vivid, that seemed for a moment to -bring Maurice before her. Then, on the cliff, she had discerned a -likeness of line, a definite similarity of features. - -And now--was not that voice like Maurice's? Had it not his wonderful -thrill of youth in it, that sound of the love of life which wakes all -the pulses of the body and stirs all the depths of the heart? - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate----" - -The voice upon the sea was singing always the song of Mergellina. But -to Hermione it began to seem that the song was changing to another -song, and that the voice that was dying away across the shrouded water -was sinking into the shadows of a ravine upon a mountainside. - - "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao, - Morettina bella, ciao----" - -Maurice was going to the fishing under the sweet white moon of Sicily. -And she--she was no longer leaning down from the terrace of the Casa -del Mare, but from the terrace of the House of the Priest. - - "Prima di partire - Un bacio ti voglio da!" - -That kiss, which he had given her before he had gone away from her -forever! She seemed to feel it on her lips again, and she shut her -eyes, giving herself up to a passion of the imagination. - -When she opened them again she felt exhausted and terribly alone. -Maurice had gone down into the ravine. He was never coming back. Ruffo -was taken by the mists and by the night. She lifted herself up from -the balustrade and looked round, remembering suddenly that she had -left Artois upon the terrace. He had disappeared silently, without a -word of good-bye. - -And now, seeing the deserted terrace, she recollected her fierce -attack upon Artois, she remembered how she had stood in the black room -watching the two darknesses outside, listening to their silence. And -she remembered her conversation with Ruffo. - -Actualities rushed back upon her memory. She felt as if she heard them -coming like an army to the assault. Her brain was crowded with -jostling thoughts, her heart with jostling feelings and fears. She was -like one trying to find a safe path through a black troop of -threatening secrets. What had happened that night between Vere and -Emile? Why had Vere fled? Why had she wept? And the previous night -with the Marchesino--Vere had not spoken of it to her mother. Hermione -had found it impossible to ask her child for any details. There was a -secret too. And there were the two secrets, which now she knew, but -which Vere and Artois thought were unknown to her still. And then-- -that mystery of which Ruffo had innocently spoken that night. - -As Hermione, moving in imagination through the black and threatening -troop, came to that last secret, she was again assailed by a curious, -and horrible, sensation of apprehension. She again felt very little -and very helpless, like a child. - -She moved away from the balustrade and turned towards the house. -Above, in her sitting-room, the light still shone. The other windows -on this side of the Casa del Mare were dark. She felt that she must go -to that light quickly, and she hastened in, went cautiously--though -now almost panic-stricken--through the black room with the French -windows, and came into the dimly lighted passage that led to the front -door. - -Gaspare was there locking up. She came to him. - -"Good-night, Gaspare," she said, stopping. - -"Good-night, Signora," he answered, slightly turning his head, but not -looking into her face. - -Hermione turned to go up-stairs. She went up two or three steps. She -heard a bolt shot into its place below her, and she stopped again. -To-night she felt for the first time almost afraid of Gaspare. She -trusted him as she had always trusted him--completely. Yet that trust -was mingled with this new and dreadful sensation of fear bred of her -conviction that he held some secret from her in his breast. Indeed, it -was her trust in Gaspare which made her fear so keen. As she stood on -the staircase she knew that. If Gaspare kept things, kept anything -from her that at all concerned her life, it must be because he was -faithfully trying to save her from some pain or misery. - -But perhaps she was led astray by her depression of to-night. Perhaps -this mystery was her own creation, and he would be quite willing to -explain, to clear it away with a word. - -"Gaspare," she said, "have you finished locking up?" - -"Not quite, Signora. I have the front of the house to do." - -"Of course. Well, when you have finished come up to my room for a -minute, will you?" - -"Va bene, Signora." - -Was there reluctance in his voice? She thought there was. She went up- -stairs and waited in her sitting-room. It seemed to her that Gaspare -was a very long time locking up. She leaned out of the window that -overlooked the terrace to hear if he was shutting the French windows. -When she did so she saw him faintly below, standing by the balustrade. -She watched him, wondering what he was doing, till at last she could -not be patient any longer. - -"Gaspare!" she called out. - -He started violently. - -"I am coming, Signora." - -"I am waiting for you." - -"A moment, Signora!" - -Yes, his voice was reluctant; but he went at once towards the house -and disappeared. Directly afterwards she heard the windows being shut -and barred, then a step coming rather slowly up the staircase. - -"Che vuole, Signora?" - -How many times she had heard that phrase from Gaspare's lips? How many -times in reply she had expressed some simple desire! To-night she -found a difficulty in answering that blunt question. There was so much -that she wished, wanted--wide and terrible want filled her heart. - -"Che vuole?" he repeated. - -As she heard it a second time, suddenly Hermione knew that for the -moment she was entirely dominated by Ruffo and that, which concerned, -which was connected with him. The fisher-boy had assumed an abrupt and -vast importance in her life. - -"Gaspare," she said, "you know me pretty well by this time, don't -you?" - -"Know you, Signora! Of course I know you!" He gazed at her, then -added, "Who should know you, Signora, if I do not?" - -"That is just what I mean, Gaspare. I wonder--I wonder--" She broke -off. "Do you understand, Gaspare, how important you are to me, how -necessary you are to me?" - -An expressive look that was full of gentleness dawned in his big eyes. - -"Si, Signora, I understand." - -"And I think you ought to understand my character by this time." She -looked at him earnestly. "But I sometimes wonder--I mean lately--I -sometimes wonder whether you do quite understand me." - -"Why, Signora?" - -"Do you know what I like best from the people who are near me, who -live with me?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"What?" - -"Affection, Signora. You like to be cared for, Signora." - -She felt tears rising again in her eyes. - -"Yes, I love affection. But--there's something else, too. I love to be -trusted. I'm not curious. I hate to pry into people's affairs. But I -love to feel that I am trusted, that those I trust and care for would -never keep me in the dark--" - -She thought again of Emile and of the night and her outburst. - -"The dark, Signora?" - -"Don't you understand what I mean? When you are in the dark you can't -see anything. You can't see the things you ought to see." - -"You are not in the dark, Signora." - -He spoke rather stupidly, and looked towards the lamp, as if he -misunderstood her explanation. But she knew his quickness of mind too -well to be deceived. - -"Gaspare," she said, "I don't know whether you are going to be frank -with me, but I am going to be frank with you. Sit down for a minute, -and--please shut the door first." - -He looked at her, looked down, hesitated, then went slowly to the -door, and shut it softly. Hermione was sitting on the sofa when he -turned. He came back and stood beside her. - -"Si, Signora?" - -"I'd rather you sat too, Gaspare." - -He took a seat on a hard chair. His face had changed. Generally it was -what is called "an open face." Now it looked the opposite to that. -When she glanced at him, almost furtively, Hermione was once more -assailed by fear. She began to speak quickly, with determination, to -combat her fear. - -"Gaspare, I may be wrong, but for some time I have felt now and then -as if you and I were not quite as we used to be together, as if--well, -now and then it seems to me as if there was a wall, and I was on one -side of the wall and you were on the other. I don't like that feeling, -after having you with me so long. I don't like it, and I want to get -rid of it." - -She paused. - -"Si, Signora," he said, in a low voice. - -He was now looking at the floor. His arms were resting on his knees, -and his hands hung down touching each other. - -"It seems to me that--I never noticed the thing between us until-- -until Ruffo came to the island." - -"Ruffo?" - -"Yes, Gaspare, Ruffo." - -She spoke with increasing energy and determination, still combating -her still formless fear. And because of this interior combat her -manner and voice were not quite natural, though she strove to keep -them so, knowing well how swiftly a Sicilian will catch the infection -of a strange mood, will be puzzled by it, be made obstinate, even -dogged by it. - -"I am sure that all this--I mean that this has something to do with -Ruffo." - -Gaspare said nothing. - -"I know you like Ruffo, Gaspare. I believe you like him very much. -Don't you?" - -"Signora, Ruffo has never done me any harm." - -"Ruffo is very fond of you." - -She saw Gaspare redden. - -"He respects and admires you more than other people. I have noticed -that." - -Gaspare cleared his throat but did not look up or make any remark. - -"Both the Signorina and I like Ruffo, too. We feel--at least I feel--I -feel as if he had become one of the family." - -Gaspare looked up quickly and his eyes were surely fierce. - -"One of the family!" he exclaimed. - -Hermione wondered if he were jealous. - -"I don't mean that I put him with you, Gaspare. No--but he seems to me -quite a friend. Tell me--do you know anything against Ruffo?" - -"Non, Signora." - -It came very slowly from his lips. - -"Absolutely nothing?" - -"Signora, I don't know anything bad of Ruffo." - -"I felt sure not. Don't you like his coming to the island?" - -Gaspare's face was still flushed. - -"Signora, it is nothing to do with me." - -A sort of dull anger seemed to be creeping into his voice, an accent -of defiance that he was trying to control. Hermione noticed it, and it -brought her to a resolve that, till now, she had avoided. Her secret -fear had prompted her to delay, to a gradual method of arriving at the -truth. Now she sat forward, clasping her hands together hard, and -speaking quickly: - -"Gaspare, I feel sure that you noticed long ago something very strange -in Ruffo. Perhaps you noticed it almost at once. I believe you did. It -is this. Ruffo has an extraordinary look in his face sometimes, a look -of--of your dead Padrone. I didn't see it for some time, but I think -you saw it directly. Did you? Did you, Gaspare?" - -There was no answer. Gaspare only cleared his throat again more -violently. Hermione waited for a minute. Then, understanding that he -was not going to answer, she went on: - -"You have seen it--we have both noticed it. Now I want to tell you -something--something that happened to-night." - -Gaspare started, looked up quickly, darted at his Padrona a searching -glance of inquiry. - -"What is it?" she said. - -"Niente!" - -He kept his eyes on her, staring with a tremendous directness that was -essentially southern. And she returned his gaze. - -"I was with Ruffo this evening. We talked, and he told me that he met -you at the Festa last night. He told me, too, that he was with his -mother." - -She waited to give him a chance of speaking, of forestalling any -question. But he only stared at her with dilated eyes. - -"He told me that you knew his mother, and that his mother knew you." - -"Why not?" - -"Of course, there is no reason. What surprised me rather"--she was -speaking more slowly now, and more unevenly--"was this--" - -"Si?" - -Gaspare's voice was loud. He lifted up his hands and laid them heavily -on his knees. - -"Si?" he repeated. - -"After you had spoken with her, she cried, Ruffo's mother cried, -Gaspare. And she said, 'To think of its being Gaspare on the island!'" - -"Is that all?" - -"No." - -A look that was surely a look of fear came into his face, rendering it -new to Hermione. Never before had she seen such an expression--or had -she once--long ago--one night in Sicily? - -"That isn't all. Ruffo took his mother home, and when they got home -she said to him this, 'Has Gaspare ever said you were like -somebody?' " - -Gaspare said nothing. - -"Did you hear, Gaspare?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"Gaspare, it seems to me"--Hermione was speaking now very slowly, like -one shaping a thought in her mind while she spoke--"it seems to me -strange that you and Ruffo's mother should have known each other so -well long before Ruffo was born, and that she should cry because she -met you at the Festa, and that--afterwards--she should ask Ruffo -that." - -"Strange?" - -The fear that had been formless was increasing now in Hermione, and -surely it was beginning at last to take a form, but as yet only a form -that was vague and shadowy. - -"Yes. I think it very strange. Did you"--an intense curiosity was -alive in her now--"did you know Ruffo's mother in Sicily?" - -"Signora, it does not matter where I knew her." - -"Why should she say that?" - -"What?" - -"Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?" - -"I have never said Ruffo was like anybody!" Gaspare exclaimed, with -sudden and intense violence. "May the Madonna let me die--may I die"-- -he held up his arms--"may I die to-morrow if I have ever said Ruffo -was like anybody!" - -He got up from his chair. His face was red in patches, like the face -of a man stricken with fever. - -"Gaspare, I know that, but what could this woman have meant?" - -"Madonna! How should I know? Signora, how can I tell what a woman like -that means? Such women have no sense, they talk, they gossip--ah, ah, -ah, ah!"--he imitated the voice of a woman of the people--"they are -always on the door-step, their tongues are always going. Dio mio! Who -is to say what they mean, or what nonsense goes through their heads?" - -Hermione got up and laid her hand heavily on his arm. - -"I believe you know of whom Ruffo's mother spoke, Gaspare. Tell me -this--did Ruffo's mother ever know your Padrone?" - -She looked straight into his eyes. It seemed to her as if, for the -first time, there came from them to her a look that had something in -it of dislike. This look struck her to a terrible melancholy, yet she -met it firmly, almost fiercely, with a glance that fought it, that -strove to beat it back. And with a steady voice she repeated the -question he had not answered. - -"Did Ruffo's mother ever know your Padrone?" - -Gaspare moved his lips, passing his tongue over them. His eyes fell. -He moved his arm, trying to shift it from his Padrona's hand. Her -fingers closed on it more tenaciously. - -"Gaspare, I order you to tell me." - -"Signora," he said, "such things are not in my service. I am here to -work, not to answer questions." - -He spoke quietly now, heavily, and moved his feet on the carpet. - -"You disobey me?" - -"Signora, I shall always obey all your orders as a servant." - -"And as a friend, Gaspare, as a friend! You are my friend, aren't -you?" - -Her voice had suddenly changed, and in answer to it his face changed. -He looked into her face, and his eyes were full of a lustrous softness -that was like a gentle and warm caress. - -"Signora, you know what I am for you. Then leave me alone, Signora." -He spoke solemnly. "You ought to trust me, Signora, you ought to trust -me." - -"I do trust you. But you--do you trust me?" - -"Si, Signora." - -"In everything?" - -"Signora, I trust you; I have always trusted you." - -"And my courage--do you trust that?" - -He did not answer. - -"I don't think you do, Gaspare." - -Suddenly she felt that he was right not to trust it. Again she felt -beset by fear, and as if she had nothing within her that was strong -enough to stand up in further combat against the assaults of the world -and of destiny. The desire to know all, to probe this mystery, -abruptly left her, was replaced by an almost frantic wish to be always -ignorant, if only that ignorance saved her from any fresh sorrow or -terror. - -"Never mind," she said. "You needn't answer. I don't want-- What does -it all matter? It's--it's all so long ago." - -Having got hold of that phrase, she clung to it as if for comfort. - -"It's all so long ago," she repeated. "Years and years ago. We've -forgotten it. We've forgotten Sicily, Gaspare. Why should we think of -it or trouble about it any more? Good-night, Gaspare." - -She smiled at him, but her face was drawn and looked old. - -"Buona notte, Signora." - -He did not smile, but gazed at her with earnest gentleness, and still -with that lustrous look in his eyes, full of tenderness and -protection. - -"Buon riposo, Signora." - -He went away, surely relieved to go. At the door he said again: - -"Buon riposo." - -The door was shut. - -"Buon riposo!" - -Hermione repeated the words to herself. - -"Riposo!" - -The very thought of repose was like the most bitter irony. She walked -up and down the room. To-night there was no stability in her. She was -shaken, lacerated mentally, by sharply changing moods that rushed -through her, one chasing another. Scarcely had Gaspare gone before she -longed to call him back, to force him to speak, to explain everything -to her. The fear that cringed was suddenly replaced by the fear that -rushes forward blindly, intent only on getting rid of uncertainty even -at the cost of death. Soldiers know that fear. It has given men to -bayonet points. - -Now it increased rapidly within Hermione. She was devoured by a terror -that was acutely nervous, that gnawed her body as well as her soul. - -Gaspare had known Ruffo's mother in Sicily. And Maurice--he had known -Ruffo's mother. He must have known her. But when? How had he got to -know her? - -Hermione stood still. - -"It must have been when I was in Africa!" - -A hundred details of her husband's conduct, from the moment of his -return from the fair till the last kiss he had given her before he -went away down the side of Monte Amato, flashed through her mind. And -each one seemed to burn her mind as a spark, touching flesh, burns the -flesh. - -"It was when I was in Africa!" - -She went to the window and leaned out into the night over the misty -sea. Her lips moved. She was repeating to herself again and again: - -"To-morrow I'll go to Mergellina! To-morrow I'll go to Mergellina!" - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - -Hermione did not sleep at all that night. When the dawn came she got -up and looked out over the sea. The mist had vanished with the -darkness. The vaporous heat was replaced by a delicate freshness that -embraced the South as dew embraces a rose. On the as yet pale waters, -full of varying shades of gray, slate color, ethereal mauve, very -faint pink and white, were dotted many fishing-boats. Hermione looked -at them with her tired eyes. Ruffo's boat was no doubt among them. -There was one only a few hundred yards beyond the rocks from which -Vere sometimes bathed. Perhaps that was his. - -Ruffo's boat! Ruffo! - -She put her elbows on the sill of the window and rested her face in -her hands. - -Her eyes felt very dry, like sand she thought, and her mind felt dry -too, as if insomnia was withering it up. She opened her lips to -breathe in the salt freshness of the morning. - -Upon Anacapri a woolly white cloud lay lightly. The distant coast, -where dreams Sorrento, was becoming clearer every moment. - -Often and often in the summer-time had Hermione been invaded by the -radiant cheerfulness of the Bay of Naples. She knew no sea that had -its special gift of magical gayety and stirring hopefulness, its -laughing Pagan appeal to all the light things of the soul. It woke -even the weary heart to holiday when, in the summer, it glittered and -danced in the sun, whispering or calling with a tender or bold -vivacity along its lovely coast. - -Out of this morning beauty, refined and exquisitely gentle, would rise -presently that livelier Pagan spirit. It was not hers. She was no -Pagan. But she had loved it, and she had, or thought she had, been -able to understand it. - -All that was long ago. - -Now, as she leaned out, her soul felt old and haggard, and the contact -with the youth and freshness of the morning emphasized its inability -to be influenced any more by youthful wonders, by the graciousness and -inspiration that are the gifts of dawn. - -Was that Ruffo's boat? - -Her mind was dwelling on Ruffo, but mechanically, heavily, like a -thing with feet of lead, unable to lift itself once it had dropped -down upon a surface. - -All the night her brain had been busy. Now it did not slumber, but it -brooded, like the mist that had so lately left the sea. It brooded -upon the thought of Ruffo. - -The light grew. Over the mountains the sky spread scarlet banners. The -sea took, with a quiet readiness that was happily submissive, its -burnished gift of gold. The gray was lost in gold. - -And Hermione watched, and drank in the delicate air, but caught -nothing of the delicate spirit of the dawn. - -Presently the boat that lay not far beyond the rocks moved. A little -black figure stood up in it, swayed to and fro, plying tiny oars. The -boat diminished. It was leaving the fishing-ground. It was going -towards Mergellina. - -"To-day I am going to Mergellina." - -Hermione said that to herself as she watched the boat till it -disappeared in the shining gold that was making a rapture of the sea. -She said it, but the words seemed to have little meaning, the fact -which they conveyed to be unimportant to her. - -And she leaned out of the window, with a weary and inexpressive face, -while the gold spread ever more widely over the sea, and the Pagan -spirit surely stirred from its brief repose to greet the brilliant -day. - -Presently she became aware of a boat approaching the island from the -direction of Mergellina. She saw it first when it was a long distance -off, and watched it idly as it drew near. It looked black against the -gold, till it was off the Villa Pantano. But then, or soon after, she -saw that it was white. It was making straight for the island, -propelled by vigorous arms. - -Now she thought it looked like one of the island boats. Could Vere -have got up and gone out so early with Gaspare? - -She drew back, lifted her face from her hands, and stood straight up -against the curtain of the window. In a moment she heard the sound of -oars in the water, and saw that the boat was from the island, and that -Gaspare was in it alone. He looked up, saw her, and raised his cap, -but with a rather reluctant gesture that scarcely indicated -satisfaction or a happy readiness to greet her. She hesitated, then -called out to him. - -"Good-morning, Gaspare." - -"Good-morning, Signora." - -"How early you are up!" - -"And you, too, Signora." - -"Couldn't you sleep?" - -"Signora, I never want much sleep." - -"Where have you been?" - -"I have been for a row, Signora." - -He lifted his cap again and began to row in. The boat disappeared into -the Saint's Pool. - -"He has been to Mergellina." - -The mind of Hermione was awake again. The sight of Gaspare had lifted -those feet of lead. Once more she was in flight. - -Arabs can often read the thoughts of those whom they know. In many -Sicilians there is some Arab blood, and sometimes Hermione had felt -that Gaspare knew well intentions of hers which she had never hinted -to him. Now she was sure that in the night he had divined her -determination to go to Mergellina, to see the mother of Ruffo, to ask -her for the truth which Gaspare had refused to tell. He had divined -this, and he had gone to Mergellina before her. Why? - -She was fully roused now. She felt like one in a conflict. Was there, -then, to be a battle between herself and Gaspare, a battle over this -hidden truth? - -Now she felt that it was vital to her to know this truth. Yet when her -mind, or her tormented heart, was surely on the verge of its -statement, was--or seemed to be--about to say to her, "Perhaps it is-- -that!" or "It is--that!" something within her, housed deep down in -her, refused to listen, refused to hear, revolted from--what it did -not acknowledge the existence of. - -Paradox alone could hint the condition of her mind just then. She was -in the thrall of fear, but, had she been questioned, would not have -allowed that she was afraid. - -Afterwards she never rightly knew what was the truth of her during -this period of her life. - -There was to be a conflict between her and Gaspare. - -She came from the window, took a bath, and dressed. When she had -finished she looked in the glass. Her face was calm, but set and grim. -She had not known she could look like that. She hated her face, her -expression, and she came away from the glass feeling almost afraid of -herself. - -At breakfast she and Vere always met. The table was laid out-of-doors -in the little garden or on the terrace if the weather was fine, in the -dining-room if it was bad. This morning Hermione saw the glimmer of -the white cloth near the fig-tree. She wondered if Vere was there, and -longed to plead a headache and to have her coffee in her bedroom. -Nevertheless, she went down resolved to govern herself. - -In the garden she found Giulia smiling and putting down the silver -coffee-pot in quite a bower of roses. Vere was not visible. - -Hermione exchanged a good-morning with Giulia and sat down. The -servant's smiling face brought her a mingled feeling of relief and -wonder. The pungent smell of coffee, conquering the soft scent of the -many roses, pinned her mind abruptly down to the simple realities and -animal pleasures and necessities of life. She made a strong effort to -be quite normal, to think of the moment, to live for it. The morning -was fresh and lively; the warmth of the sun, the tonic vivacity of the -air from the sea, caressed and quickened her blood. - -The minute garden was secluded. A world that seemed at peace, a world -of rocks and waters far from the roar of traffic, the uneasy hum of -men, lay around her. - -Surely the moment was sweet, was peaceful. She would live in it. - -Vere came slowly from the house, and at once Hermione's newly made and -not yet carried out resolution crumbled into dust. She forgot the sun, -the sea, the peaceful situation and all material things. She was -confronted by the painful drama of the island life! Vere with her -secrets, Emile with his, Gaspare fighting to keep her, his Padrona, -still in mystery. And she was confronted by her own passions, those -hosts of armed men that have their dwelling in every powerful nature. - -Vere came up listlessly. - -"Good-morning, Madre," she said. - -She kissed her mother's cheek with cold lips. - -"What lovely roses!" - -She smelled them and sat down in her place facing the sea-wall. - -"Yes, aren't they?" - -"And such a heavenly morning after the mist! What are we going to do -to-day?" - -Hermione gave her her coffee, and the little dry tap of a spoon on an -egg-shell was heard in the stillness of the garden. - -"Well, I--I am going across to take the tram." - -"Are you?" - -"Yes." - -"Naples again? I'm tired of Naples." - -There was in her voice a sound that suggested rather hatred than -lassitude. - -"I don't know that I shall go as far as Naples. I am going to -Mergellina." - -"Oh!" - -Vere did not ask her what she was going to do there. She showed no -special interest, no curiosity. - -"What will you do, Vere?" - -"I don't know." - -She glanced round. Hermione saw that her usually bright eyes were dull -and lack-lustre. - -"I don't know what I shall do." - -She sighed and began to eat her egg slowly, as if she had no appetite. - -"Did you sleep well, Vere?" - -"Not very well, Madre." - -"Are you tired of the island?" - -Vere looked up as if startled. - -"Oh no! at least"--she paused--"No, I don't believe I could ever be -really that. I love the island." - -"What is it, then?" - -"Sometimes--some days one doesn't know exactly what to do." - -"Well, but you always seem occupied." Hermione spoke with slow -meaning, not unkindly, but with a significance she hardly meant to put -into her voice, yet could not keep out of it. "You always manage to -find something to do." - -Suddenly Vere's eyes filled with tears. She bent down her head and -went on eating. Again she heard Monsieur Emile's harsh words. They -seemed to have changed her world. She felt despised. At that moment -she hated the Marchesino with a fiery hatred. - -Hermione was not able to put her arm round her child quickly, to ask -her what was the matter, to kiss her tears away, or to bid them flow -quietly, openly, while Vere rested against her, secure that the sorrow -was understood, was shared. She could only pretend not to see, while -she thought of the two shadows in the garden last night. - -What could have happened between Emile and Vere? What had been said, -done, to cause that cry of pain, those tears? Was it possible that -Emile had let Vere see plainly his--his--? But here Hermione stopped. -Not even in her own mind, for herself alone, could she summon up -certain spectres. - -She went on eating her breakfast, and pretending not to notice that -Vere was troubled. Presently Vere spoke again. - -"Would you like me to come with you to Mergellina, Madre?" she said. - -Her voice was rather uneven, almost trembling. - -"Oh no, Vere!" - -Hermione spoke hastily, abruptly, strongly conscious of the -impossibility of taking Vere with her. Directly she had said the words -she realized that they must have fallen on Vere like a blow. She -realized this still more when she looked quickly up and saw that -Vere's face was scarlet. - -"I don't mean that I shouldn't like to have you with me, Vere," she -added, hurriedly. "But--" - -"It's all right, Madre. Well, I've finished. I think I shall go out a -little in my boat." - -She went away, half humming, half singing the tune of the Mergellina -song. - -Hermione put down her cup. She had not finished her coffee, but she -knew she could not finish it. Life seemed at that moment utterly -intolerable to her. She felt desperate, as a nature does that is -forced back upon itself by circumstances, that is forced to be, or to -appear to be, traitor to itself. And in her desperation action -presented itself to her as imperatively necessary--necessary as air is -to one suffocating. - -She got up. She would start at once for Mergellina. As she went up- -stairs she remembered that she did not know where Ruffo's mother -lived, what she was like, even what her name was. The boy had always -spoken of her as "Mia Mamma." They dwelt at Mergellina. That was all -she knew. - -She did not choose to ask Gaspare anything. She would go alone, and -find out somehow for herself where Ruffo lived. She would ask the -fishermen. Or perhaps she would come across Ruffo. Probably he had -gone home by this time from the fishing. - -Quickly, energetically she got ready. - -Just before she left her room she saw Vere pass slowly by upon the -sea, rowing a little way out alone, as she often did in the calm -summer weather. Vere had a book, and almost directly she laid the oars -in their places side by side, went into the stern, sat down under the -awning, and began--apparently--to read. Hermione watched her for two -or three minutes. She looked very lonely; and moved by an impulse to -try to erase the impression made on her by the abrupt exclamation at -the breakfast-table, the mother leaned out and hailed the child. - -"Good-bye, Vere! I am just starting!" she cried out, trying to make -her voice sound cheerful and ordinary. - -Vere looked up for a second. - -"Good-bye!" - -She bent her head and returned to her book. - -Hermione felt chilled. - -She went down and met Giulia in the passage. - -"Giulia, is Gaspare anywhere about? I want to cross to the mainland. I -am going to take the tram." - -"Signora, are you going to Naples? Maria says--" - -"I can't do any commissions, because I shall probably not go beyond -Mergellina. Find Gaspare, will you?" - -Giulia went away and Hermione descended to the Saint's Pool. She -waited there two or three minutes. Then Gaspare appeared above. - -"You want the boat, Signora?" - -"Yes, Gaspare." - -He leaped down the steps and stood beside her. - -"Where do you want to go?" - -She hesitated. Then she looked him straight in the face and said: - -"To Mergellina." - -He met her eyes without flinching. His face was quite calm. - -"Shall I row you there, Signora?" - -"I meant to go to the village, and walk up and take the tram." - -"As you like, Signora. But I can easily row you there." - -"Aren't you tired after being out so early this morning?" - -"No, Signora." - -"Did you go far?" - -"Not so very far, Signora." - -Hermione hesitated. She knew Gaspare had been to Mergellina. She knew -he had been to see Ruffo's mother. If that were so her journey would -probably be in vain. In their conflict Gaspare had struck the first -blow. Could anything be gained by her going? - -Gaspare saw, and perhaps read accurately, her hesitation. - -"It will get very hot to-day, Signora," he said, carelessly. - -His words decided Hermione. If obstacles were to be put in her way she -would overleap them. At all costs she would emerge from the darkness -in which she was walking. A heat of anger rushed over her. She felt as -if Gaspare, and perhaps Artois, were treating her like a child. - -"I must go to Mergellina, Gaspare," she said. "And I shall go by tram. -Please row me to the village." - -"Va bene, Signora," he answered. - -He went to pull in the boat. - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - -When Hermione got out of the boat in the little harbor of the village -on the mainland Gaspare said again: - -"I could easily row you to Mergellina, Signore. I am not a bit tired." - -She looked at him as he stood with his hand on the prow of the boat. -His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, showing his strong arms. There was -something brave, something "safe"--so she called it to herself--in his -whole appearance which had always appealed to her nature. How she -longed at that moment to be quite at ease with him! Why would he not -trust her completely? Perhaps in her glance just then she showed her -thought, her desire. Gaspare's eyes fell before her. - -"I think I'll take the tram," she said, "unless--" - -She was still looking at him, longing for him to speak. But he said -nothing. At that moment a fisherman ran down the steps from the -village, and came over the sand to greet them. - -"Good-bye, Gaspare," she said. "Don't wait, of course. Giovanni can -row me back." - -The fisherman smiled, but Gaspare said: - -"I can come for you, Signora. You will not be very long, will you? You -will be back for colazione?" - -"Oh yes, I suppose so." - -"I will come for you, Signora." - -Again she looked at him, and felt his deep loyalty to her, his strong -and almost doglike affection. And, feeling them, she was seized once -more by fear. The thing Gaspare hid from her must be something -terrible. - -"Thank you, Gaspare." - -"A rivederci, Signora." - -Was there not a sound of pleading in his voice, a longing to retain -her? She would not heed it. But she gave him a very gentle look as she -turned to walk up the hill. - -At the top, by the Trattoria del Giardinetto, she had to wait for -several minutes before the tram came. She remembered her solitary -dinner there on the evening when she had gone to the Scoglio di Frisio -to look at the visitor's book. She had felt lonely then in the soft -light of the fading day. She felt far more lonely now in the brilliant -sunshine of morning. And for an instant she saw herself travelling -steadily along a straight road, from which she could not diverge. She -passed milestone after milestone. And now, not far off, she saw in the -distance a great darkness in which the road ended. And the darkness -was the ultimate loneliness which can encompass on earth the human -spirit. - -The tram-bell sounded. She lifted her head mechanically. A moment -later she was rushing down towards Naples. Before the tram reached the -harbor of Mergellina, on the hill opposite the Donn' Anna, Hermione -got out. Something in her desired delay; there was plenty of time. She -would walk a little way among the lively people who were streaming to -the Stabilimenti to have their morning dip. - -In the tram she had scarcely thought at all. She had given herself to -the air, to speed, to vision. Now, at once, with physical action came -an anxiety, a restlessness, that seemed to her very physical too. Her -body felt ill, she thought; though she knew there was nothing the -matter with her. All through her life her health had been robust. -Never yet had she completely "broken down." She told herself that her -body was perfectly well. - -But she was afraid. That was the truth. And to feel fear was specially -hateful to her, because she abhorred cowardice, and was inclined to -despise all timidity as springing from weakness of character. - -She dreaded reaching Mergellina. She dreaded seeing this woman, -Ruffo's mother. And Ruffo? Did she dread seeing him? - -She fought against her fear. Whatever might befall her she would -remain herself, essentially separate from all other beings and from -events, secure of the tremendous solitude that is the property of -every human being on earth. - -"Pain, misery, horror, come from within, not from without." She said -that to herself steadily. "I am free so long as I choose, so long as I -have the courage to choose, to be free." - -And saying that, and never once allowing her mind to state frankly any -fear, she came down to the harbor of Mergellina. - -The harbor and its environs looked immensely gay in the brilliant -sunshine. Life was at play here, even at its busiest. The very workers -sang as if their work were play. Boats went in and out on the water. -Children paddled in the shallow sea, pushing hand-nets along the sand. -From the rocks boys were bathing. Their shouts travelled to the road -where the fishermen were talking with intensity, as they leaned -against the wall hot with the splendid sun. - -Hermione looked for Ruffo's face among all these sun-browned faces, -for his bright eyes among all the sparkling eyes of these children of -the sea. - -But she could not see him. She walked along the wall slowly. - -"Ruffo--Ruffo--Ruffo!" - -She was summoning him with her mind. - -Perhaps he was among those bathing boys. She looked across the harbor -to the rocks, and saw the brown body of one shoot through the shining -air and disappear with a splash into the sea. - -Perhaps that boy was he--how far away from her loneliness, her -sadness, and her dread! - -She began to despair of finding him. - -"Barca! Barca!" - -She had reached the steps now near the Savoy Hotel. A happy-looking -boatman, with hazel eyes and a sensitive mouth, hailed her from the -water. It was Fabiano Lari, to whom Artois had once spoken, waiting -for custom in his boat the /Stella del Mare/. - -Hermione was attracted to the man, as Artois had been, and she -resolved to find out from him, if possible, where Ruffo's mother -lived. She went down the steps. The man immediately brought his boat -right in. - -"No," she said, "I don't want the boat." - -Fabiano looked a little disappointed. - -"I am looking for some one who lives here, a Sicilian boy called -Ruffo." - -"Ruffo Scarla, Signora? The Sicilian?" - -"That must be he. Do you know him?" - -"Si, Signora, I know Ruffo very well. He was here this morning. But I -don't know where he is now." He looked round. "He may have gone home, -Signora." - -"Do you know where he lives?" - -"Si, Signora. It is near where I live. It's near the Grotto." - -"Could you possibly leave your boat and take me there?" - -"Si, Signora! A moment, Signora." - -Quickly he signed to a boy who was standing close by watching them. -The boy ran down to the boat. Fabiano spoke to him in dialect. He got -into the boat, while Fabiano jumped ashore. - -"Signora, I am ready. We go this way." - -They walked along together. - -Fabiano was as frank and simple as a child, and began at once to talk. -Hermione was glad of that, still more glad that he talked of himself, -his family, the life and affairs of a boatman. She listened -sympathetically, occasionally putting in a word, till suddenly Fabiano -said: - -"Antonio Bernari will be out to-day. I suppose you know that, -Signora?" - -"Antonio Bernari! Who is he? I never heard of him." - -Fabiano looked surprised. - -"But he is Ruffo's Patrigno. He is the husband of Maddalena." - -Hermione stood still on the pavement. She did not know why for a -moment. Her mind seemed to need a motionless body in which to work. It -was surely groping after something, eagerly, feverishly, yet blindly. - -Fabiano paused beside her. - -"Signora," he said, staring at her in surprise, "are you tired? Are -you not well?" - -"I'm quite well. But wait a minute. Yes, I do want to rest for a -minute." - -She dared not move lest she should interfere with that mental search. -Fabiano's words had sent her mind sharply to Sicily. - -Maddalena! - -She was sure she had known, or heard of, some girl in Sicily called -Maddalena, some girl or some woman. She thought of the servants in the -Casa del Prete, Lucrezia. Had she any sister, any relation called -Maddalena? Or had Gaspare--? - -Suddenly Hermione seemed to be on the little terrace above the ravine -with Maurice and Artois. She seemed to feel the heat of noon in -summer. Gaspare was there, too. She saw his sullen face. She saw him -looking ugly. She heard him say: - -"Salvatore and Maddalena, Signora." - -Why had he said that? In answer to what question? - -And then, in a flash, she remembered everything. It was she who had -spoken first. She had asked him who lived in the House of the Sirens. - -"Salvatore and Maddalena." - -And afterwards--Maurice had said something. Her mind went in search, -seized its prey. - -"They're quite friends of ours. We saw them at the fair only -yesterday." - -Maurice had said that. She could hear his voice saying it. - -"I'm rested now." - -She was speaking to Fabiano. They were walking on again among the -chattering people. They had come to the wooden station where the tram- -lines converge. - -"Is it this way?" - -"Si, Signora, quite near the Grotto. Take care, Signora." - -"It's all right. Thank you." - -They had crossed now and were walking up the street that leads -directly to the tunnel, whose mouth confronted them in the distance. -Hermione felt as if they were going to enter it, were going to walk -down it to the great darkness which seemed to wait for her, to beckon -her. But presently Fabiano turned to the right, and they came into a -street leading up the hill, and stopped almost immediately before a -tall house. - -"Antonio and Maddalena live here, Signora." - -"And Ruffo," she said, as if correcting him. - -"Ruffo! Si, Signora, of course." - -Hermione looked at the house. It was evidently let out in rooms to -people who were comparatively poor; not very poor, not in any -destitution, but who made a modest livelihood, and could pay their -fourteen or fifteen lire a month for lodging. She divined by its -aspect that every room was occupied. For the building teemed with -life, and echoed with the sound of calling, or screaming, voices. The -inhabitants were surely all of them in a flurry of furious activity. -Children were playing before and upon the door-step, which was flanked -by an open shop, whose interior revealed with a blatant sincerity a -rummage of mysterious edibles--fruit, vegetables, strings of strange -objects that looked poisonous, fungi, and other delights. Above, from -several windows, women leaned out, talking violently to one another. -Two were holding babies, who testified their new-born sense of life by -screaming shrilly. Across other window-spaces heads passed to and fro, -denoting the continuous movement of those within. People in the street -called to people in the house, and the latter shouted in answer, with -that absolute lack of self-consciousness and disregard of the opinions -of others which is the hall-mark of the true Neapolitan. From the -corner came the rumble and the bell notes of the trams going to and -coming from the tunnel that leads to Fuorigrotta. And from every -direction rose the vehement street calls of ambulant venders of the -necessaries of Neapolitan life. - -"Ruffo lives here!" said Hermione. - -She could hardly believe it. So unsuitable seemed such a dwelling to -that bright-eyed child of the sea, whom she had always seen surrounded -by the wide airs and the waters. - -"Si, Signora. They are on the third floor. Shall I take you up?" - -Hermione hesitated. Should she go up alone? - -"Please show me the way," she said, deciding. - -Fabiano preceded her up a dirty stone staircase, dark and full of -noises, till they came to the third floor. - -"It is here, Signora!" - -He knocked loudly on a door. It was opened very quickly, as if by some -one who was on the watch, expectant of an arrival. - -"Chi e?" cried a female voice. - -And, almost simultaneously, a woman appeared with eyes that stared in -inquiry. - -By these eyes, their shape, and the long, level brows above them, -Hermione knew that this woman must be Ruffo's mother. - -"Good-morning, Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano, heartily. - -"Good-morning," said the woman, directing her eyes with a strange and -pertinacious scrutiny to Hermione, who stood behind him. "I thought -perhaps it was--" - -She stopped. Behind, in the doorway, appeared the head of a young -woman, covered with blue-black hair, then the questioning face of an -old woman with a skin like yellow parchment. - -"Don Antonio?" - -She nodded, keeping her long, Arab eyes on Hermione. - -"No. Are you expecting him so early?" - -"He may come at any time. Chi lo sa?" - -She shrugged her broad, graceless shoulders. - -"It isn't he! It isn't Antonio!" bleated a pale and disappointed -voice, with a peculiarly irritating timbre. - -It was the voice of the old woman, who now darted over Maddalena -Bernari's shoulder a hostile glance at Hermione. - -"Madonna Santissima!" baaed the woman with the blue-black hair. -"Perhaps he will not be let out to-day!" - -The old woman began to cry feebly, yet angrily. - -"Courage, Madre Teresa!" said Fabiano. "Antonio will be here to-day -for a certainty. Every one knows it. His friends"--he raised a big -brown hand significantly--"his friends have managed well for him." - -"Si! si! It is true!" said the black-haired woman, nodding her large -head, and gesticulating towards Madre Teresa. "He will be here to-day. -Antonio will be here." - -They all stared at Hermione, suddenly forgetting their personal and -private affairs. - -"Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano, "here is a signora who knows Ruffo. I -met her at the Mergellina, and she asked me to show her the way here." - -"Ruffo is out," said Maddalena, always keeping her eyes on Hermione. - -"May I come in and speak to you?" asked Hermione. - -Maddalena looked doubtful, yet curious. - -"My son is in the sea, Signora. He is bathing at the Marina." - -Hermione thought of the brown body she had seen falling through the -shining air, of the gay splash as it entered the water. - -"I know your son so well that I should like to know his mother," she -said. - -Fabiano by this time had moved aside, and the two women were -confronting each other in the doorway. Behind Maddalena the two other -women stared and listened with all their might, giving their whole -attention to this unexpected scene. - -"Are you the Signora of the island?" asked Maddalena. - -"Yes, I am." - -"Let the Signora in, Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano. "She is tired and -wants to rest." - -Without saying anything Maddalena moved her broad body from the -doorway, leaving enough space for Hermione to enter. - -"Thank you," said Hermione to Fabiano, giving him a couple of lire. - -"Grazie, Signora. I will wait down-stairs to take you back." - -He went off before she had time to tell him that was not necessary. - -Hermione walked into Ruffo's home. - -There were two rooms, one opening into the other. The latter was a -kitchen, the former the sleeping-room. Hermione looked quietly round -it, and her eyes fell at once upon a large green parrot, which was -sitting at the end of the board on which, supported by trestles of -iron, the huge bed of Maddalena and her husband was laid. At present -this bed was rolled up, and in consequence towered to a considerable -height. The parrot looked at Hermione coldly, with round, observant -eyes whose pupils kept contracting and expanding with a monotonous -regularity. She felt as if it had a soul that was frigidly ironic. Its -pertinacious glance chilled and repelled her, and she fancied it was -reflected in the faces of the women round her. - -"Can I speak to you alone for a few minutes?" she asked Maddalena. - -Maddalena turned to the two women and spoke to them loudly in dialect. -They replied. The old woman spoke at great length. She seemed always -angry and always upon the verge of tears. Over her shoulders she wore -a black shawl, and as she talked she kept fidgeting with it, pulling -it first to one side, then to the other, or dragging at it with her -thin and crooked yellow fingers. The parrot watched her steadily. Her -hideous voice played upon Hermione's nerves till they felt raw. At -length, looking back, as she walked, with bloodshot eyes, she went -into the kitchen, followed by the young woman. They began talking -together in sibilant whispers, like people conspiring. - -After a moment of apparent hesitation Maddalena gave her visitor a -chair. - -"Thank you," Hermione said, taking it. - -She looked round the room again. It was clean and well kept, but -humbly furnished. Ruffo's bed was rolled up in a corner. On the walls -were some shields of postcards and photographs, such as the poor -Italians love, deftly enough arranged and fastened together by some -mysterious not apparent means. Many of the postcards were American. -Near two small flags, American and Italian, fastened crosswise above -the head of the big bed, was a portrait of Maria Addolorata, under -which burned a tiny light. A palm, blessed, and fashioned like a -dagger with a cross for the hilt, was nailed above it, with a coral -charm to protect the household against the evil eye. And a little to -the right of it was a small object which Hermione saw and wondered at -without understanding why it should be there, or what was its use--a -/Fattura della morte/ (death-charm), in the form of a green lemon -pierced with many nails. This hung by a bit of string to a nail -projecting from the wall. - -From the death-charm Hermione turned her eyes to Maddalena. - -She saw a woman who was surely not very much younger than herself, -with a broad and spreading figure, wide hips, plump though small-boned -arms, heavy shoulders. The face--that, perhaps--yes, that, certainly-- -must have been once pretty. Very pretty? Hermione looked searchingly -at it until she saw Maddalena's eyes drop before hers suddenly, as if -embarrassed. She must say something. But now that she was here she -felt a difficulty in opening a conversation, an intense reluctance to -speak to this woman into whose house she had almost forced her way. -With the son she was strangely intimate. From the mother she felt -separated by a gulf. - -And that fear of hers? - -She looked again round the room. Had that fear increased or -diminished? Her eyes fell on Maria Addolorata, then on the /Fattura -della morte/. She did not know why, but she was moved to speak about -it. - -"You have nice rooms here," she said. - -"Si, Signora." - -Maddalena had rather a harsh voice. She spoke politely, but -inexpressively. - -"What a curious thing that is on the wall!" - -"Signora?" - -"It's a lemon, isn't it? With nails stuck through it?" - -Maddalena's broad face grew a dusky red. - -"That is nothing, Signora!" she said, hastily. - -She looked greatly disturbed, suddenly went over to the bed, unhooked -the string from the nail, and put the death-charm into her pocket. As -she came back she looked at Hermione with defiance in her eyes. - -The gulf between them had widened. - -From the kitchen came the persistent sound of whispering voices. The -green parrot turned sideways on the board beyond the pile of rolled-up -mattresses, and looked, with one round eye, steadfastly at Hermione. - -An almost intolerable sensation of desertion swept over her. She felt -as if every one hated her. - -"Would you mind shutting that door?" she said to Maddalena, pointing -towards the kitchen. - -The sound of whispers ceased. The women within were listening. - -"Signora, we always keep it open." - -"But I have something to say to you that I wish to say in private." - -"Si!" - -The exclamation was suspicious. The voice sounded harsher than before. -In the kitchen the silence seemed to increase, to thrill with anxious -curiosity. - -"Please shut that door." - -It was like an order. Maddalena obeyed it, despite a cataract of words -from the old woman that voiced indignant protest. - -"And do sit down, won't you? I don't like to sit while you are -standing." - -"Signora, I--" - -"Please do sit down." - -Hermione's voice began to show her acute nervous agitation. Maddalena -stared, then took another chair from its place against the wall, and -sat down at some distance from Hermione. She folded her plump hands in -her lap. Seated, she looked bigger, more graceless, than before. But -Hermione saw that she was not really middle-aged. Hard life and -trouble doubtless had combined to destroy her youth and beauty early, -to coarsen the outlines, to plant the many wrinkles that spread from -the corners of her eyes and lips to her temples and her heavy, dusky -cheeks. She was now a typical woman of the people. Hermione tried to -see her as a girl, long ago--years and years ago. - -"I know your son Ruffo very well," she said. - -Maddalena's face softened. - -"Si, Signora. He has told me of you." - -Suddenly she seemed to recollect something. - -"I have never-- Signora, thank you for the money," she said. - -The harshness was withdrawn from her voice as she spoke now, and in -her abrupt gentleness she looked much younger than before. Hermione -divined in that moment her vanished beauty. It seemed suddenly to be -unveiled by her tenderness. - -"I heard you were in trouble." - -"Si, Signora--great trouble." - -Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth worked. As if moved by an -uncontrollable impulse, she thrust one hand into her dress, drew out -the death-charm, and contemplated it, at the same time muttering some -words that Hermione did not understand. Her face became full of -hatred. Holding up the charm, and lifting her head, she exclaimed: - -"Those who bring trouble shall have trouble!" - -While she spoke she looked straight before her, and her voice became -harsh again, seemed to proclaim to the world unalterable destiny. - -"Yes," said Hermione, in a low voice. - -Maddalena hid the death-charm once more with a movement that was -surreptitious. - -"Yes," Hermione said again, gazing into Maddalena's still beautiful -eyes. "And you have trouble!" - -Maddalena looked afraid, like an ignorant person whose tragic -superstition is proved true by an assailing fact. - -"Signora!" - -"You have trouble in your house. Have you ever brought trouble to any -one? Have you?" - -Maddalena stared at her with dilated eyes, but made no answer. - -"Tell me something." Hermione leaned forward. "You know my servant, -Gaspare?" - -Maddalena was silent. - -"You know Gaspare. Did you know him in Sicily?" - -"Sicily?" Her face and her voice had become stupid. "Sicily?" she -repeated. - -The parrot shifted on the board, lifted its left claw, and craned its -head forward in the direction of the two women. The tram-bell sounded -its reiterated appeal. - -"Yes, in Sicily. You are a Sicilian?" - -"Who says so?" - -"Your son is a Sicilian. At the port they call him 'Il Siciliano.' " - -"Do they?" - -Her intellect seemed to be collapsing. She looked almost bovine. - -Hermione's excitement began to be complicated by a feeling of hot -anger. - -"But don't you know it? You must know it!" - -The parrot shuffled slowly along the board, coming nearer to them, and -bowing its head obsequiously. Hermione could not help watching its -movements with a strained attention. Its presence distracted her. She -had a longing to take it up and wring its neck. Yet she loved birds. - -"You must know it!" she repeated, no longer looking at Maddalena. - -"Si!" - -All ignorance and all stupidity were surely enshrined in that word -thus said. - -"Where did you know Gaspare?" - -"Who says I know Gaspare?" - -The way in which she pronounced his name revealed to Hermione a former -intimacy between them. - -"Ruffo says so." - -The parrot was quite at the edge of the board now, listening -apparently with cold intensity to every word that was being said. And -Hermione felt that behind the kitchen door the two women were -straining their ears to catch the conversation. Was the whole world -listening? Was the whole world coldly, cruelly intent upon her painful -effort to come out of darkness into--perhaps a greater darkness? - -"Ruffo says so. Ruffo told me so." - -"Boys say anything." - -"Do you mean it is not true?" - -Maddalena's face was now almost devoid of expression. She had set her -knees wide apart and planted her hands on them. - -"Do you mean that?" repeated Hermione. - -"Boys--" - -"I know it is true. You knew Gaspare in Sicily. You come from -Marechiaro." - -At the mention of the last word light broke into Maddalena's face. - -"You are from Marechiaro. Have you ever seen me before? Do you -remember me?" - -Maddalena shook her head. - -"And I--I don't remember you. But you are from Marechiaro. You must -be." - -Maddalena shook her head again. - -"You are not?" - -Hermione looked into the long Arab eyes, searching for a lie. She met -a gaze that was steady but dull, almost like that of a sulky child, -and for a moment she felt as if this woman was only a great child, -heavy, ignorant, but solemnly determined, a child that had learned its -lesson and was bent on repeating it word for word. - -"Did Gaspare come here early this morning to see you?" she asked, with -sudden vehemence. - -Maddalena was obviously startled. Her face flushed. - -"Why should he come?" she said, almost angrily. - -"That is what I want you to tell me." - -Maddalena was silent. She shifted uneasily in her chair, which creaked -under her weight, and twisted her full lips sideways. Her whole body -looked half-sleepily apprehensive. The parrot watched her with supreme -attention. Suddenly Hermione felt that she could no longer bear this -struggle, that she could no longer continue in darkness, that she must -have full light. The contemplation of this stolid ignorance--that yet -knew how much?--confronting her like a featureless wall almost -maddened her. - -"Who are you?" she said. "What have you had to do with my lie?" - -Maddalena looked at her and looked away, bending her head sideways -till her plump neck was like a thing deformed. - -"What have you had to do with my life? What have you to do with it -now? I want to know!" She stood up. "I must know. You must tell me! Do -you hear?" She bent down. She was standing almost over Maddalena. "You -must tell me!" - -There was again a silence through which presently the tram-bell -sounded. Maddalena's face had become heavily expressionless, almost -like a face of stone. And Hermione, looking down at this face, felt a -moment of impotent despair that was succeeded by a fierce, energetic -impulse. - -"Then," she said--"then--I'll tell you!" - -Maddalena looked up. - -"Yes, I'll tell you." - -Hermione paused. She had begun to tremble. She put one hand down to -the back of the chair, grasping it tightly as if to steady herself. - -"I'll tell you." - -What? What was she going to tell? - -That first evening in Sicily--just before they went in to bed--Maurice -had looked down over the terrace wall to the sea. He had seen a light ---far down by the sea. - -It was the light in the House of the Sirens. - -"You once lived in Sicily. You once lived in the Casa delle Sirene, -beyond the old wall, beyond the inlet. You were there when we were in -Sicily, when Gaspare was with us as our servant." - -Maddalena's lips parted. Her mouth began to gape. It was obvious that -she was afraid. - -"You--you knew Gaspare. You knew--you knew my husband, the Signore of -the Casa del Prete on Monte Amato. You knew him. Do you remember?" - -Maddalena only stared up at her with a sort of heavy apprehension, -sitting widely in her chair, with her feet apart and her hands always -resting on her knees. - -"It was in the summer-time--" She was again in Sicily. She was tracing -out a story. It was almost as if she saw words and read them from a -book. "There were no forestieri in Sicily. They had all gone. Only we -were there--" An expression so faint that it was like a fleeting -shadow passed over Maddalena's face, the fleeting shadow of something -that denied. "Ah, yes! Till I went away, you mean! I went to Africa. -Did you know it then? But before I went--before--" She was thinking, -she was burrowing deep down into the past, stirring the heap of -memories that lay like drifted leaves. "They used to go--at least they -went once--down to the sea. One night they went to the fishing. And -they slept out all night. They slept in the caves. Ah, you know that? -You remember that night!" - -The trembling that shook her body was reflected in her voice, which -became tremulous. She heard the tram-bell ringing. She saw the green -parrot listening on its board. And yet she was in Sicily, and saw the -line of the coast between Messina and Cattaro, the Isle of the Sirens, -the lakelike sea of the inlet between it and the shore. - -"I see that you remember it. You saw them there. They--they didn't -tell me!" - -As she said the last words she felt that she was entering the great -darkness. Maurice and Gaspare--she had trusted them with all her -nature. And they--had they failed her? Was that possible? - -"They didn't tell me," she repeated, piteously, speaking now only for -herself and to her own soul. "They didn't tell me!" - -Maddalena shook her head like one in sympathy or agreement. But -Hermione did not see the movement. She no longer saw Maddalena. She -saw only herself, and those two, whom she had trusted so completely, -and--who had not told her. - -What had they not told her? - -And then she was in Africa, beside the bed of Artois, ministering to -him in the torrid heat, driving away the flies from his white face. - -What had been done in the Garden of Paradise while she had been in -exile? - -She turned suddenly sick. Her body felt ashamed, defiled. A shutter -seemed to be sharply drawn across her eyes, blotting out life. Her -head was full of sealike noises. - -Presently, from among these noises, one detached itself, pushed -itself, as it were, forward to attract forcibly her attention--the -sound of a boy's voice. - -"Signora! Signora!" - - - -"Signora!" - -A hand touched her, gripped her. - -"Signora!" - -The shutter was sharply drawn back from her eyes, and she saw Ruffo. -He stood before her, gazing at her. His hair, wet from the sea, was -plastered down upon his brown forehead--as /his/ hair had been when, -in the night, they drew him from the sea. - -She saw Ruffo in that moment as if for the first time. - -And she knew. Ruffo had told her. - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - -Hermione was outside in the street, hearing the cries of ambulant -sellers, the calls of women and children, the tinkling bells and the -rumble of the trams, and the voice of Fabiano Lari speaking--was it to -her? - -"Signora, did you see him?" - -"Yes." - -"He is glad to be out of prison. He is gay, but he looks wicked." - -She did not understand what he meant. She walked on and came into the -road that leads to the tunnel. She turned mechanically towards the -tunnel, drawn by the darkness. - -"But, Signora, this is not the way! This is the way to Fuorigrotta!" - -"Oh!" - -She went towards the sea. She was thinking of the green parrot -expanding and contracting the pupils of its round, ironic eyes. - -"Was Maddalena pleased to see him? Was Donna Teresa pleased?" - -Hermione stood still. - -"What are you talking about?" - -"Signora! About Antonio Bernari, who has just come home from prison! -Didn't you see him? But you were there--in the house!" - -"Oh--yes, I saw him. A rivederci!" - -"Ma--" - -"A rivederci!" - -She felt in her purse, found a coin, and gave it to him. Then she -walked on. She did not see him any more. She did not know what became -of him. - -Of course she had seen the return of Antonio Bernari. She remembered -now. As Ruffo stood before her with the wet hair on his forehead there -had come a shrill cry from the old woman in the kitchen: a cry that -was hideous and yet almost beautiful, so full it was of joy. Then from -the kitchen the two women had rushed in, gesticulating, ejaculating, -their faces convulsed with excitement. They had seized Maddalena, -Ruffo. One of them--the old woman, she thought--had even clutched at -Hermione's arm. The room had been full of cries. - -"Ecco! Antonio!" - -"Antonio is coming!" - -"I have seen Antonio!" - -"He is pale! He is white like death!" - -"Mamma mia! But he is thin!" - -"Ecco! Ecco! He comes! Here he is! Here is Antonio!" - -And then the door had been opened, and on the sill a big, broad- -shouldered man had appeared, followed by several other evil-looking -though smiling men. And all the women had hurried to them. There had -been shrill cries, a babel of voices, a noise of kisses. - -And Ruffo! Where had he been? What had he done? - -Hermione only knew that she had head a rough voice saying: - -"Sangue del Diavolo! Let me alone! Give me a glass of wine! Basta! -Basta!" - -And then she went out in the street, thinking of the green parrot and -hearing the cries of the sellers, the tram-bells, and Fabiano's -questioning voice. - -Now she continued her walk towards the harbor of Mergellina alone. The -thought of the green parrot obsessed her mind. - -She saw it before her on its board, with the rolled-up bed towering -behind it. Now it was motionless--only the pupils of its eyes moved. -Now it lifted its claw, bowed its head, shuffled along the board to -hear their conversation better. - -She saw it with extreme distinctness, and now she also saw on the wall -of the room near it the "Fattura della Morte"--the green lemon with -the nails stuck through it, like nails driven into a cross. - -Vaguely the word "crucifixion" went through her mind. Many people, -many women, had surely been crucified since the greatest tragedy the -world had ever known. What had they felt, they who were only human, -they who could not see the face of the Father, who could--some of -them, perhaps--only hope that there was a Father? What had they felt? -Perhaps scarcely anything. Perhaps merely a sensation of numbness, as -if their whole bodies, and their minds, too, were under the influence -of a great injection of cocaine. Her thoughts again returned to the -parrot. She wondered where it had been bought, whether it had come -with Antonio from America. - -Presently she reached the tramway station and stood still. She had to -go back to the "Trattoria del Giardinetto." She must take the tram -here, one of those on which was written in big letters, "Capo di -Posilipo." No, not that! That did not go far enough. The other one-- -what was written upon it? Something--"Sette Settembre." She looked for -the words "Sette Settembre." - -Tram after tram came up, paused, passed on. But she did not see those -words on any of them. She began to think of the sea, of the brown body -of the bathing boy which she had seen shoot through the air and -disappear into the shining water before she had gone to that house -where the green parrot was. She would go down to the sea, to the -harbor. - -She threaded her way across the broad space, going in and out among -the trams and the waiting people. Then she went down a road not far -from the Grand Hotel and came to the Marina. - -There were boys bathing still from the breakwater of the rocks. And -still they were shouting. She stood by the wall and watched them, -resting her hands on the stone. - -How hot the stone was! Gaspare had been right. It was going to be a -glorious day, one of the tremendous days of summer. - -The nails driven through the green lemon like nails driven through a -cross--Peppina--the cross cut on Peppina's cheek. - -That broad-shouldered man who had come in at the door had cut that -cross on Peppina's cheek. - -Was it true that Peppina had the evil eye? Had it been a fatal day for -the Casa del Mare when she had been allowed to cross its threshold? -Vere had said something--what was it?--about Peppina and her cross. Oh -yes! That Peppina's cross seemed like a sign, a warning come into the -house on the island, that it seemed to say, "There is a cross to be -borne by some one here, by one of us!" - -And the fishermen's sign of the cross under the light of San -Francesco? - -Surely there had been many warnings in her life. They had been given -to her, but she had not heeded them. - -She saw a brown body shoot through the air from the rocks and -disappear into the shining sea. Was it Ruffo? With an effort she -remembered that she had left Ruffo in the tall house, in the room -where the green parrot was. - -She walked on slowly till she came to the place where Artois had seen -Ruffo with his mother. A number of tables were set out, but there were -few people sitting at them. She felt tired. She crossed the road, went -to a table, and sat down. A waiter came up and asked her what she -would have. - -"Acqua fresca," she said. - -He looked surprised. - -"Oh--then wine, vermouth--anything!" - -He looked more surprised. - -"Will you have vermouth, Signora?" - -"Yes, yes--vermouth." - -He brought her vermouth and iced water. She mixed them together and -drank. But she was not conscious of tasting anything. For a -considerable time she sat there. People passed her. The trams rushed -by. On several of them were printed the words she had looked for in -vain at the station. But she did not notice them. - -During this time she did not feel unhappy. Seldom had she felt calmer, -more at rest, more able to be still. She had no desire to do anything. -It seemed to her that she would be quite satisfied to sit where she -was in the sun forever. - -While she sat there she was always thinking, but vaguely, slowly, -lethargically. And her thoughts reiterated themselves, were like -recurring fragments of dreams, and were curiously linked together. The -green parrot she always connected with the death-charm, because the -latter had once been green. Whenever the one presented itself to her -mind it was immediately followed by the other. The shawl at which the -old woman's yellow fingers had perpetually pulled led her mind to the -thought of the tunnel, because she imagined that the latter must -eventually end in blackness, and the shawl was black. She knew, of -course, really that the tunnel was lit from end to end by electricity. -But her mind arbitrarily put aside this knowledge. It did not belong -to her strange mood, the mood of one drawing near to the verge either -of some abominable collapse or of some terrible activity. -Occasionally, she thought of Ruffo; but always as one of the brown -boys bathing from the rocks beyond the harbor, shouting, laughing, -triumphant in his glorious youth. And when the link was, as it were, -just beginning to form itself from the thought-shape of youth to -another thought-shape, her mind stopped short in that progress, -recoiled, like a creature recoiling from a precipice it has not seen -but has divined in the dark. She sipped the vermouth and the iced -water, and stared at the drops chasing each other down the clouded -glass. And for a time she was not conscious where she was, and heard -none of the noises round about her. - -It was the song of Mergellina, sung at some distance off in dialect, -by a tenor voice to the accompaniment of a piano-organ. Hermione -ceased from gazing at the drops on the glass, looked up, listened. - -The song came nearer. The tenor voice was hard, strident, sang lustily -but inexpressively in the glaring sunshine. And the dialect made the -song seem different, almost new. Its charm seemed to have evaporated. -Yet she remembered vaguely that it had charmed her. She sought for the -charm, striving feebly to recapture it. - -The piano-organ hurt her, the hard voice hurt her. It sounded cruel -and greedy. But the song--once it had appealed to her. Once she had -leaned down to hear it, she had leaned down over the misty sea, her -soul had followed it out over the sea. - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate - Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la Marina: - Mi destan le dolcissime serate - Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -Those were the real words. And what voice had sung them? - -And then, suddenly, her brain worked once more with its natural -swiftness and vivacity, her imagination and her heart awaked. She was -again alive. She saw the people. She heard the sounds about her. She -felt the scorching heat of the sun. But in it she was conscious also -of the opposite of day, of the opposite of heat. At that moment she -had a double consciousness. For she felt the salt coolness of the -night around the lonely island. And she heard not only the street -singer, but Ruffo in his boat. - -Ruffo--in his boat. - -Suddenly she could not see anything. Her sight was drowned by tears. -She got up at once. She felt for her purse, found it, opened it, felt -for money, found some coins, laid them down on the table, and began to -walk. She was driven by fear, the fear of falling down in the sun in -the sight of all men, and crying, sobbing, with her face against the -ground. She heard a shout. Some one gave her a violent push, thrusting -her forward. She stumbled, recovered herself. A passer-by had saved -her from a tram. She did not know it. She did not look at him or thank -him. He went away, swearing at the English. Where was she going? - -She must go home. She must go to the island. She must go to Vere, to -Gaspare, to Emile--to her life. - -Her body and soul revolted from the thought, her outraged body and her -outraged soul, which were just beginning to feel their courage, as -flesh and nerves begin to feel pain after an operation when the effect -of the anaesthetic gradually fades away. - -She was walking up the hill and still crying. - -She met a boy of the people, swarthy, with impudent black eyes, -tangled hair, and a big, pouting mouth, above which a premature -mustache showed like a smudge. He looked into her face and began to -laugh. She saw his white teeth, and her tears rushed back to their -sources. At once her eyes were dry. And, almost at once, she thought, -her heart became hard as stone, and she felt self-control like iron -within her. - -That boy of the people should be the last human being to laugh at her. - -She saw a tram stop. It went to the "Trattoria del Giardinetto." She -got in, and sat down next to two thin English ladies, who held guide- -books in their hands, and whose pointed features looked piteously -inquiring. - -"Excuse me, but do you know this neighborhood?" - -She was being addressed. - -"Yes." - -"That is fortunate--we do not. Perhaps you will kindly tell us -something about it. Is it far to Bagnoli?" - -"Not very far." - -"And when you get there?" - -"I beg your pardon!" - -"When you get there, is there much to see?" - -"Not so very much." - -"Can one lunch there?" - -"No doubt." - -"Yes. But I mean, what sort of lunch? Can one get anything clean and -wholesome, such as you get in England?" - -"It would be Italian food." - -"Oh, dear. Fanny, this lady says we can only get Italian food at -Bagnoli!" - -"Tcha! Tcha!" - -"But perhaps--excuse me, but do you think we could get a good cup of -tea there? We might manage with that--tea and some boiled eggs. Don't -you think so, Fanny? Could we get a cup of--" - -The tram stopped. Hermione had pulled the cord that made the bell -sound. She paid and got down. The tram carried away the English -ladies, their pointed features red with surprise and indignation. - -Hermione again began to walk, but almost directly she saw a wandering -carriage and hailed the driver. - -"Carrozza!" - -She got in. - -"Put me down at the 'Trattoria del Giardinetto.' " - -"Si, Signora--but how much are you going to give me? I can't take you -for less than--" - -"Anything--five lire--drive on at once." - -The man drove on, grinning. - -Presently Hermione was walking through the short tunnel that leads to -the path descending between vineyards to the sea. She must take a boat -to the island. She must go back to the island. Where else could she -go? If Vere had not been there she might--but Vere was there. It was -inevitable. She must return to the island. - -She stood still in the path, between the high banks. - -Her body was demanding not to be forced by the will to go to the -island. - -"I must go back to the island." - -She walked on very slowly till she could see the shining water over -the sloping, vine-covered land. The sight of the water reminded her -that Gaspare would be waiting for her on the sand below the village. -When she remembered that she stopped again. Then she turned round, and -began to walk back towards the highroad. - -Gaspare was waiting. If she went down to the sand she would have to -meet his great intent eyes, those watching eyes full of questions. He -would read her. He would see in a moment that--she knew. And he would -see more than that! He would see that she was hating him. The hatred -was only dawning, struggling up in her tangled heart. But it existed-- -it was there. And he would see that it was there. - -She walked back till she reached the tunnel under the highroad. But -she did not pass through it. She could not face the highroad with its -traffic. Perhaps the English ladies would be coming back. Perhaps-- -She turned again and presently sat down on a bank, and looked at the -dry and wrinkled ground. Nobody went by. The lizards ran about near -her feet. She sat there over an hour, scarcely moving, with the sun -beating upon her head. - -Then she got up and walked fast, and with a firm step, towards the -village and the sea. - -The village is only a tiny hamlet, ending in a small trattoria with a -rough terrace above the sea, overlooking a strip of sand where a few -boats lie. As Hermione came to the steps that lead down to the terrace -she stood still and looked over the wall on her left. The boat from -the island was at anchor there, floating motionless on the still -water. Gaspare was not in it, but was lying stretched on his back on -the sand, with his white linen hat over his face. - -He lay like one dead. - -She stood and watched him, as she might have watched a corpse of some -one she had cared for but who was gone from her forever. - -Perhaps he was not asleep, for almost directly he became aware of her -observation, sat up, and uncovered his face, turning towards her and -looking up. Already, and from this distance, she would see a fierce -inquiry in his eyes. - -She made a determined effort and waved her hand. - -Gaspare sprang to his feet, took out his watch, looked at it, then -went and fetched the boat. - -His action--the taking out of the watch--reminded Hermione of the -time. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. On the island -they lunched at half-past twelve. Gaspare must have been waiting for -hours. What did it matter? - -She made another determined effort and went down the remaining steps -to the beach. - -Gaspare should not know that she knew. She was resolved upon that, -concentrated upon that. Continually she saw in front of her the -pouting mouth, the white teeth of the boy who had laughed at her in -the street. There should be no more crying, no more visible despair. -No one should see any difference in her. All the time that she had -been sitting still in the sun upon the bank she had been fiercely -schooling herself in an act new to her--the act of deception. She had -not faced the truth that to-day she knew. She had not faced the ruin -that its knowledge had made of all that had been sacred and lovely in -her life. She had fastened her whole force fanatically upon that one -idea, that one decision and the effort that was the corollary of it. - -"There shall be no difference in me. No one is to know that anything -has happened." - -At that moment she was a fanatic. And she looked like one as she came -down upon the sand. - -"I'm afraid I'm rather late--Gaspare." - -It was difficult to her to say his name. But she said it firmly. - -"Signora, it is nearly three o'clock." - -"Half-past two. No, I can get in all right." - -He had put out his arm to help her into the boat. But she could not -touch him. She knew that. She felt that she would rather die at the -moment than touch or be touched by him. - -"You might take away your arm." - -He dropped his arm at once. - -Had she already betrayed herself? - -She got into the boat and he pushed off. - -Usually he sat, when he was rowing, so that he might keep his face -towards her. But to-day he stood up to row, turning his back to her. -And this change of conduct made her say to herself again: - -"Have I betrayed myself already?" - -Fiercely she resolved to be and to do the impossible. It was the only -chance. For Gaspare was difficult to deceive. - -"Gaspare!" she said. - -"Si, Signora," he replied, without turning his head. - -"Can't you row sitting down?" - -"If you like, Signora." - -"We can talk better then." - -"Va bene, Signora." - -He turned round and sat down. - -The boat was at this moment just off the "Palace of the Spirits." -Hermione saw its shattered walls cruelly lit up by the blazing sun, -its gaping window-spaces like eye-sockets, sightless, staring, -horribly suggestive of ruin and despair. - -She was like that. Gaspare was looking at her. Gaspare must know that -she was like that. - -But she was a fanatic just then, and she smiled at him with a -resolution that had in it something almost brutal, something the -opposite of what she was, of the sum of her. - -"I forgot the time. It is so lovely to-day. It was so gay at -Mergellina." - -"Si?" - -"I sat for a long time watching the boats, and the boys bathing, and -listening to the music. They sang 'A Mergellina.' " - -"Si?" - -She smiled again. - -"And I went to visit Ruffo's mother." - -Gaspare made no response. He looked down now as he plied his oars. - -"She seems a nice woman. I--I dare say she was quite pretty once." - -The voice that was speaking now was the voice of a fanatic. - -"I am sure she must have been pretty." - -"Chi lo sa?" - -"If one looks carefully one can see the traces. But, of course, now--" - -She stopped abruptly. It was impossible to her to go on. She was -passionately trying to imagine what that spreading, graceless woman, -with her fat hands resting on her knees set wide apart, was like once ---was like nearly seventeen years ago. Was she ever pretty, beautiful? -Never could she have been intelligent--never, never. Then she must -have been beautiful. For otherwise-- Hermione's drawn face was flooded -with scarlet. - -"If--if it's easier to you to row standing up, Gaspare," she almost -stammered, "never mind about sitting down." - -"I think it is easier, Signora." - -He got up, and once more turned his back upon her. - -They did not speak again until they reached the island. - -Hermione watched his strong body swinging to and fro with every -stroke, and wondered if he felt the terrible change in her feeling for -him--a change that a few hours ago she would have thought utterly -impossible. - -She wondered if Gaspare knew that she was hating him. - -He was alive and, therefore, to be hated. For surely we cannot hate -the dust! - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -Gaspare did not offer to help Hermione out of the boat when they -reached the island. He glanced at her face, met her eyes, looked away -again immediately, and stood holding the boat while she got out. Even -when she stumbled slightly he made no movement; but he turned and -gazed after her as she went up the steps towards the house, and as he -gazed his face worked, his lips muttered words, and his eyes, become -almost ferocious in their tragic gloom, were clouded with moisture. -Angrily he fastened the boat, angrily he laid by the oars. In -everything he did there was violence. He put up his hands to his eyes -to rub the moisture that clouded them away. But it came again. And he -swore under his breath. He looked once more towards the Casa del Mare. -The figure of his Padrona had disappeared, but he remembered just how -it had gone up the steps--leaning forward, moving very slowly. It had -made him think of an early morning long ago, when he and his Padrona -had followed a coffin down the narrow street of Marechiaro, and over -the mountain-path to the Campo Santo above the Ionian Sea. He shook -his head, murmuring to himself. He was not swearing now. He shook his -head again and again. Then he went away, and sat down under the shadow -of the cliff, and let his hands drop down between his knees. - -The look he had seen in his Padrona's eyes had made him feel terrible. -His violent, faithful heart was tormented. He did not analyze--he only -knew, he only felt. And he suffered horribly. How had his Padrona been -able to look at him like that? - -The moisture came thickly to his eyes now, and he no longer attempted -to rub it away. He no longer thought of it. - -Never had he imagined that his Padrona could look at him like that. -Strong man though he was, he felt as a child might who is suddenly -abandoned by its mother. He began to think now. He thought over all he -had done to be faithful to his dead Padrone and to be faithful to the -Padrona. During many, many years he had done all he could to be -faithful to these two, the dead and the living. And at the end of this -long service he received as a reward this glance of hatred. - -Tears rolled down his sunburnt cheeks. - -The injustice of it was like a barbed and poisoned arrow in his heart. -He was not able to understand what his Padrona was feeling, how, by -what emotional pilgrimage, she had reached that look of hatred which -she had cast upon him. If she had not returned, if she had done some -deed of violence in the house of Maddalena, he could perhaps have -comprehended it. But that she should come back, that she should smile, -make him sit facing her, talk about Maddalena as she had talked, and -then--then look at him like that! - -His /amour-propre/, his long fidelity, his deep affection--all were -outraged. - -Vere came down the steps and found him there. - -"Gaspare!" - -He got up instantly when he heard her voice, rubbed his eyes, and -yawned. - -"I was asleep, Signorina." - -She looked at him intently, and he saw tears in her eyes. - -"Gaspare, what is the matter with Madre?" - -"Signorina?" - -"Oh, what is the matter?" She came a step nearer to him. "Gaspare, I'm -frightened! I'm frightened!" - -She laid her hand on his arm. - -"Why, Signorina? Have you seen the Padrona?" - -"No. But--but--I've heard-- What is it? What has happened? Where has -Madre been all this time? Has she been in Naples?" - -"Signorina, I don't think so." - -"Where has she been?" - -"I believe the Signora has been to Mergellina." - -Vere began to tremble. - -"What can have happened there? What can have happened?" - -She trembled in every limb. Her face had become white. - -"Signorina, Signorina! Are you ill?" - -"No--I don't know what to do--what I ought to do. I'm afraid to speak -to the servants--they are making the siesta. Gaspare, come with me, -and tell me what we ought to do. But--never say to any one--never say ---if you hear!" - -"Signorina!" - -He had caught her terror. His huge eyes looked awestruck. - -"Come with me, Gaspare!" - -Making an obvious and great effort, she controlled her body, turned -and went before him to the house. She walked softly, and he imitated -her. They almost crept up-stairs till they reached the landing outside -Hermione's bedroom door. There they stood for two or three minutes, -listening. - -"Come away, Gaspare!" - -Vere had whispered with lips that scarcely moved. - -When they were in Hermione's sitting-room she caught hold of both his -hands. She was a mere child now, a child craving for help. - -"Oh, Gaspare, what are we to do? Oh--I'm--I'm frightened! I can't bear -it!" - -The door of the room was open. - -"Shut it!" she said. "Shut it, then we sha'n't--" - -He shut it. - -"What can it be? What can it be?" - -She looked at him, followed his eyes. He had stared towards the -writing-table, then at the floor near it. On the table lay a quantity -of fragments of broken glass, and a silver photograph-frame bent, -almost broken. On the floor was scattered a litter of card-board. - -"She came in here! Madre was in here--" - -She bent down to the carpet, picked up some of the bits of card-board, -turned them over, looked at them. Then she began to tremble again. - -"It's father's photograph!" - -She was now utterly terrified. - -"Oh, Gaspare! Oh, Gaspare!" - -She began to sob. - -"Hush, Signorina! Hush!" - -He spoke almost sternly, bent down, collected the fragments of card- -board from the floor, and put them into his pocket. - -"Father's photograph! She was in here--she came in here to do that! -And she loves that photograph. She loves it!" - -"Hush, Signorina! Don't, Signorina--don't!" - -"We must do something! We must--" - -He made her sit down. He stood by her. - -"What shall we do, Gaspare? What shall we do?" - -She looked up at him, demanding counsel. She put out her hands again -and touched his arm. His Padroncina--she at least still loved, still -trusted him. - -"Signorina," he said, "we can't do anything." - -His voice was fatalistic. - -"But--what is it? Is--is--" - -A frightful question was trembling on her lips. She looked again at -the fragments of card-board in her hand, at the broken frame on the -table. - -"Can Madre be--" - -She stopped. Her terror was increasing. She remembered many small -mysteries in the recent conduct of her mother, many moments when she -had been surprised, or made vaguely uneasy, by words or acts of her -mother. Monsieur Emile, too, he had wondered, and more than once. She -knew that. And Gaspare--she was sure that he, also, had seen that -change which now, abruptly, had thus terribly culminated. Once in the -boat she had asked him what was the matter with her mother, and he -had, almost angrily, denied that anything was the matter. But she had -seen in his eyes that he was acting a part--that he wished to detach -her observation from her mother. - -Her trembling ceased. Her little fingers closed more tightly on his -arm. Her eyes became imperious. - -"Gaspare, you are to tell me. I can bear it. You know something about -Madre." - -"Signorina--" - -"Do you think I'm a coward? I was frightened--I am frightened, but I'm -not really a coward, Gaspare. I can bear it. What is it you know?" - -"Signorina, we can't do anything." - -"Is it-- Does Monsieur Emile know what it is?" - -He did not answer. - -Suddenly she got up, went to the door, opened it, and listened. The -horror came into her face again. - -"I can't bear it," she said. "I--I shall have to go into the room." - -"No, Signorina. You are not to go in." - -"If the door isn't locked I must--" - -"It is locked." - -"You don't know. You can't know." - -"I know it is locked, Signorina." - -Vere put her hands to her eyes. - -"It's too dreadful! I didn't know any one--I have never heard--" - -Gaspare went to her and shut the door resolutely. - -"You are not to listen, Signorina. You are not to listen." - -He spoke no longer like a servant, but like a master. - -Vere's hands had dropped. - -"I am going to send for Monsieur Emile," she said. - -"Va bene, Signorina." - -She went quickly to the writing-table, sat down, hesitated. Her eyes -were riveted upon the photograph-frame. - -"How could she? How could she?" she said, in a choked voice. - -Gaspare took the frame away reverently, and put it against his breast, -inside his shirt. - -"I can't go to Don Emilio, Signorina. I cannot leave you." - -"No, Gaspare. Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" - -She was the terrified child again. - -"Perhaps we can find a fisherman, Signorina." - -"Yes, but don't-- Wait for me, Gaspare!" - -"I am not going, Signorina." - -With feverish haste she took a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote: - - "DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island /at once/. - Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. But - Madre is-- No, I can't put it. Oh, /do come/--please--please come! - - VERE - - "Come the /quickest/ way." - - -When the paper was shut in an envelope and addressed she got up. -Gaspare held out his hand. - -"I will go and look for a fisherman, Signorina." - -"But I must come with you. I must keep with you." - -She held on to his arm. - -"I'm not a coward. But I can't--I can't--" - -"Si, Signorina! Si, Signorina!" - -He took her hand and held it. They went to the door. When he put out -his other hand to open it Vere shivered. - -"If we can't do anything, let us go down quickly, Gaspare!" - -"Si, Signorina. We will go quickly." - -He opened the door and they went out. - -In the Pool of the Saint there was no boat. They went to the crest of -the island and looked out over the sea. Not far off, between the -island and Nisida, there was a boat. Gaspare put his hands to his -mouth and hailed her with all his might. The two men in her heard, and -came towards the shore. - -A few minutes later, with money in their pockets, and set but cheerful -faces, they were rowing with all their strength in the direction of -Naples. - -That afternoon Artois, wishing to distract his thoughts and quite -unable to work, went up the hill to the Monastery of San Martino. He -returned to the hotel towards sunset feeling weary and depressed, -companionless, too, in this gay summer world. Although he had never -been deeply attached to the Marchesino he had liked him, been amused -by him, grown accustomed to him. He missed the "Toledo incarnate." And -as he walked along the Marina he felt for a moment almost inclined to -go away from Naples. But the people of the island! Could he leave them -just now? Could he leave Hermione so near to the hands of Fate, those -hands which were surely stretched out towards her, which might grasp -her at any moment, even to-night, and alter her life forever? No, he -knew he could not. - -"There is a note for Monsieur!" - -He took it from the hall porter. - -"No, I'll walk up-stairs." - -He had seen the lift was not below, and did not wish to wait for its -descent. Vere's writing was on the envelope he held; but Vere's -writing distorted, frantic, tragic. He knew before he opened the -envelope that it must contain some dreadful statement or some wild -appeal; and he hurried to his room, almost feeling the pain and fear -of the writer burn through the paper to his hand. - - "DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island /at once/. - Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. But - Madre is-- No, I can't put it. Oh, /do come/--please--please come! - - VERE - - "Come the /quickest/ way." - - -"Something terrible has happened." He knew at once what it was. The -walls of the cell in which he had enclosed his friend had crumbled -away. The spirit which for so long had rested upon a lie had been torn -from its repose, had been scourged to its feet to face the fierce -light of truth. How would it face the truth? - -"But Madre is-- No, I can't put it." - -That phrase struck a chill almost of horror to his soul. He stared at -it for a moment trying to imagine--things. Then he tore the note up. - -The quickest way to the island! - -"I shall not be in to dinner to-night." - -He was speaking to the waiter at the door of the Egyptian Room. A -minute later he was in the Via Chiatamone at the back of the hotel -waiting for the tram. He must go by Posilipo to the Trattoria del -Giardinetto, walk down to the village below, and take a boat from -there to the island. That was the quickest way. The tram-bell sounded. -Was he glad? As he watched the tram gliding towards him he was -conscious of an almost terrible reluctance--a reluctance surely of -fear--to go that night to the island. - -But he must go. - -The sun was setting when he got down before the Trattoria del -Giardinetto. Three soldiers were sitting at a table outside on the -dusty road, clinking their glasses of marsala together, and singing, -"Piange Rosina! La Mamma ci domanda." Their brown faces looked vivid -with the careless happiness of youth. As Artois went down from the -road into the tunnel their lusty voices died away. - -Because his instinct was to walk slowly, to linger on the way, he -walked very fast. The slanting light fell gently, delicately, over the -opulent vineyards, where peasants were working in huge straw hats, -over the still shining but now reposeful sea. In the sky there was a -mystery of color, very pure, very fragile, like the mystery of color -in a curving shell of the sea. The pomp and magnificence of sunset -were in abeyance to-night, were laid aside. And the sun, like some -spirit modestly radiant, slipped from this world of vineyards and of -waters almost surreptitiously, yet shedding exquisite influences in -his going. - -And in the vineyards, as upon the dusty highroad, the people of the -South were singing. - -The sound of their warm voices, rising in the golden air towards the -tender beauty of the virginal evening sky, moved Artois to a sudden -longing for a universal brotherhood of happiness, for happy men on a -happy earth, men knowing the truth and safe in their knowledge. And he -longed, too, just then to give happiness. A strongly generous emotion -stirred him, and went from him, like one of the slanting rays of light -from the sun, towards the island, towards his friend, Hermione. His -reluctance, his sense of fear, were lessened, nearly died away. His -quickness of movement was no longer a fight against, but a fulfilment -of desire. - -Once she had helped him. Once she had even, perhaps, saved him from -death. She had put aside her own happiness. She had shown the divine -self-sacrifice of woman. - -And now, after long years, life brought to him an hour which would -prove him, prove him and show how far he was worthy of the friendship -which had been shed, generously as the sunshine over these vineyards -of the South, upon him and his life. - -He came down to the sea and met the fisherman, Giovanni, upon the -sand. - -"Row me quickly to the island, Giovanni!" he said. - -"Si, Signore." - -He ran to get the boat. - -The light began to fall over the sea. They cleared the tiny harbor and -set out on their voyage. - -"The Signora has been here to-day, Signore," said Giovanni. - -"Si! When did she come?" - -"This morning, with Gaspare, to take the tram to Mergellina." - -"She went to Mergellina?" - -"Si, Signore. And she was gone a very long time. Gaspare came back for -her at half-past eleven, and she did not come till nearly three. -Gaspare was in a state, I can tell you. I have known him--for years I -have known him--and never have I seen him as he was to-day." - -"And the Signora? When she came, did she look tired?" - -"Signore, the Signora's face was like the face of one who has been -looked on by the evil eye." - -"Row quickly, Giovanni!" - -"Si, Signore." - -The men talked no more. - -When they came in sight of the island the last rays of the sun were -striking upon the windows of the Casa del Mare. - -The boat, urged by Giovanni's powerful arms, drew rapidly near to the -land, and Artois, leaning forward with an instinct to help the rower, -fixed his eyes upon these windows which, like swift jewels, focussed -and gave back the light. While he watched them the sun sank. Its -radiance was withdrawn. He saw no longer jewels, casements of magic, -but only the windows of the familiar house; and then, presently, only -the window of one room, Hermione's. His eyes were fixed on that as the -boat drew nearer and nearer--were almost hypnotized by that. Where was -Hermione? What was she doing? How was she? How could she be, now that ---she knew? A terrible but immensely tender, immensely pitiful -curiosity took possession of him, held him fast, body and soul. She -knew, and she was in that house! - -The boat was close in now, but had not yet turned into the Pool of San -Francesco. Artois kept his eyes upon the window for still a moment -longer. He felt now, he knew, that Hermione was in the room beyond -that window. As he gazed up from the sea he saw that the window was -open. He saw behind the frame of it a white curtain stirring in the -breeze. And then he saw something that chilled his blood, that seemed -to drive it in an icy stream back to his heart, leaving his body for a -moment numb. - -He saw a figure come, with a wild, falling movement to the window--a -white, distorted face utterly strange to him looked out--a hand lifted -in a frantic gesture. - -The gesture was followed by a crash. - -The green Venetian blind had fallen, hiding the window, hiding the -stranger's face. - -"Who was that at the window, Signore?" asked Giovanni, staring at -Artois with round and startled eyes. - -And Artois answered: "It is difficult to see, Giovanni, now that the -sun has gone down. It is getting dark so quickly." - -"Si, Signore, it is getting dark." - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - -There was no one at the foot of the cliff. Artois got out of the boat -and stood for a moment, hesitating whether to keep Giovanni or to -dismiss him. - -"I can stay, Signore," said the man. "You will want some one to row -you back." - -"No, Giovanni. I can get Gaspare to put me ashore. You had better be -off." - -"Va bene, Signore," he replied, looking disappointed. - -The Signora of the Casa del Mare was always very hospitable to such -fishermen as she knew. Giovanni wanted to seek out Gaspare, to have a -cigarette. But he obediently jumped into the boat and rowed off into -the darkness, while Artois went up the steps towards the house. - -A cold feeling of dread encompassed him. He still saw, imaginatively, -that stranger at the window, that falling movement, that frantic -gesture, the descending blind that brought to Hermione's bedroom a -great obscurity. And he remembered Hermione's face in the garden, half -seen by him once in shadows, with surely a strange and terrible smile -upon it--a smile that had made him wonder if he had ever really known -her. - -He came out on the plateau before the front door. The door was shut, -but as he went to open it it was opened from within, and Gaspare stood -before him in the twilight, with the dark passage for background. - -Gaspare looked at Artois in silence. - -"Gaspare," Artois said, "I came home from San Martino. I found a note -from the Signorina, begging me to come here at once." - -"Lo so, Signore." - -"I have come. What has--what is it? Where is the Signorina?" - -Gaspare stood in the middle of the narrow doorway. - -"The Signorina is in the garden." - -"Waiting for me?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"Very well." - -He moved to enter the house; but Gaspare stood still where he was. - -"Signore," he said. - -Artois stopped at the door-sill. - -"What is it?" - -"What are you going to do here?" - -At last Gaspare was frankly the watch-dog guarding the sacred house. -His Padrona had cast upon him a look of hatred. Yet he was guarding -the sacred house and her within it. Deep in the blood of him was the -sense that, even hating him, she belonged to him and he to her. - -And his Padroncina had trusted him, had clung to him that day. - -"What are you going to do here?" - -"If there is trouble here, I want to help." - -"How can you help, Signore?" - -"First tell me,--there is great trouble?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"And you know what it is? You know what caused it?" - -"No one has told me." - -"But you know what it is." - -"Si, Signore." - -"Does--the Signorina doesn't know?" - -"No, Signore." - -He paused, then added: - -"The Signorina is not to know what it is." - -"You do not think I shall tell her?" - -"Signore, how can I tell what you will do here? How can I tell what -you are here?" - -For a moment Artois felt deeply wounded--wounded to the quick. He had -not supposed it was possible for any one to hurt him so much with a -few quiet words. Anger rose in him, an anger such as the furious -attack of the Marchesino had never brought to the birth. - -"You can say that!" he exclaimed. "You can say that, after Sicily!" - -Gaspare's face changed, softened for an instant, then grew stern -again. - -"That was long ago, Signore. It was all different in Sicily!" - -His eyes filled with tears, yet his face remained stern. But Artois -was seized again, as when he walked in the golden air between the -vineyards and heard the peasants singing, by an intense desire to -bring happiness to the unhappy, especially and above all to one -unhappy woman. To-night his intellect was subordinate to his heart, -his pride of intellect was lost in feeling, in an emotion that the -simplest might have understood and shared: the longing to be of use, -to comfort, to pour balm into the terrible wound of one who had been -his friend--such a friend as only a certain type of woman can be to a -certain type of man. - -"Gaspare," he said, "you and I--we helped the Signora once, we helped -her in Sicily." - -Gaspare looked away from him, and did not answer. - -"Perhaps we can help her now. Perhaps only we can help her. Let me -into the house, Gaspare. I shall do nothing here to make your Padrona -sad." - -Gaspare looked at him again, looked into his eyes, then moved aside, -giving room for him to enter. As soon as he was in the passage Gaspare -shut the door. - -"I am sorry, Signore; the lamp is not lighted." - -Artois felt at once an unusual atmosphere in the house, an atmosphere -not of confusion but of mystery, of secret curiosity, of brooding -apprehension. At the foot of the servants' staircase he heard a remote -sound of whispering, which emphasized the otherwise complete silence -of this familiar dwelling, suddenly become unfamiliar to him-- -unfamiliar and almost dreadful. - -"I had better go into the garden." - -"Si, Signore." - -Gaspare looked down the servants' staircase and hissed sharply: - -"Sh! S-s-sh!" - -"The Signora--?" asked Artois, as Gaspare came to him softly. - -"The Signora is always in her room. She is shut up in her room." - -"I saw the Signora just now, at the window," Artois said, in an -undervoice. - -"You saw the Signora?" - -Gaspare looked at him with sudden eagerness mingled with a flaming -anxiety. - -"From the boat. She came to the window and let down the blind." - -Gaspare did not ask anything. They went to the terrace above the sea. - -"I will tell the Signorina you have come, Signore." - -"Sha'n't I go down?" - -"I had better go and tell her." - -He spoke with conviction. Artois did not dispute his judgment. He went -away, always softly. Artois stood still on the terrace. The twilight -was spreading itself over the sea, like a veil dropping over a face. -The house was dark behind him. In that darkness Hermione was hidden, -the Hermione who was a stranger to him, the Hermione into whose heart -and soul he was no longer allowed to look. Upon Monte Amato at evening -she had, very simply, showed him the truth of her great sorrow. - -Now--he saw the face at the window, the falling blind. Between then -and now--what a gulf fixed! - -Vere came from the garden followed by Gaspare. Her eyes were wide with -terror. The eyelids were red. She had been weeping. She almost ran to -Artois, as a child runs to refuge. Never before had he felt so acutely -the childishness that still lingered in this little Vere of the island ---lingered unaffected, untouched by recent events. Thank God for that! -In that moment the Marchesino was forgiven; and Artois--did he not -perhaps also in that moment forgive himself? - -"Oh Monsieur Emile--I thought you wouldn't come!" - -There was the open reproach of a child in her voice. She seized his -hand. - -"Has Gaspare told you?" She turned her head towards Gaspare. -"Something terrible has happened to Madre. Monsieur Emile, do you know -what it is?" - -She was looking at him with an intense scrutiny. - -"Gaspare is hiding something from me--" - -Gaspare stood there and said nothing. - -"--something that perhaps you know." - -Gaspare looked at Artois, and Artois felt now that the watch-dog -trusted him. He returned the Sicilian's glance, and Gaspare moved -away, went to the rail of the terrace, and looked down over the sea. - -"Do you know? Do you know anything--anything dreadful about Madre that -you have never told me?" - -"Vere, don't be frightened." - -"Ah, but you haven't been here! You weren't here when--" - -"What is it?" - -Her terror infected him. - -"Madre came back. She had been to Mergellina all alone. She was away -such a long time. When she came back I was in my room. I didn't know. -I didn't hear the boat. But my door was open, and presently I heard -some one come up-stairs and go into the boudoir. It was Madre. I know -her step. I know it was Madre!" - -She reiterated her assertion, as if she anticipated that he was going -to dispute it. - -"She stayed in the boudoir only a very little while--only a few -minutes. Oh, Monsieur Emile, but--" - -"Vere. What do you mean? Did--what happened there--in the boudoir?" - -He was reading from her face. - -"She went--Madre went in there to--" - -She stopped and swallowed. - -"Madre took father's photograph--the one on the writing-table--and -tore it to pieces. And the frame--that was all bent and nearly broken. -Father's photograph, that she loves so much!" - -Artois said nothing. At that moment it was as if he entered suddenly -into Hermione's heart, and knew every feeling there. - -"Monsieur Emile--is she--is Madre--ill?" - -She began to tremble once more, as she had trembled when she came to -fetch Gaspare from the nook of the cliff beside the Saint's Pool. - -"Not as you mean, Vere." - -"You are sure? You are certain?" - -"Not in that way." - -"But then I heard Madre come out and go to her bedroom. I didn't hear -whether she locked the door. I only heard it shut. But Gaspare says he -knows it is locked. Two or three minutes after the door was shut I -heard--I heard--" - -"Don't be afraid. Tell me--if I ought to know." - -Those words voiced a deep and delicate reluctance which was beginning -to invade him. Yet he wished to help Vere, to release this child from -the thrall of a terror which could only be conquered if it were -expressed. - -"Tell me," he added, slowly. - -"I heard Madre--Monsieur Emile, it was hardly crying!" - -"Don't. You needn't tell me any more." - -"Gaspare heard it too. It went on for a long, long time. We--Gaspare -made the servants keep downstairs ever since. And I--I have been -waiting for you to come, because Madre cares for you." - -Artois put his hand down quickly upon Vere's right hand. - -"I am glad that you sent for me, Vere. I am glad you think that. Come -and sit down on the bench." - -He drew her down beside him. He felt that he was with a child whom he -must comfort. Gaspare stood always looking down over the rail of the -terrace to the sea. - -"Vere!" - -"Yes, Monsieur Emile." - -"You mother is not ill as you thought--feared. But--to-day--she has -had, she must have had, a great shock." - -"But at Mergellina?" - -"Only that could account for what you have just told me." - -"But I don't understand. She only went to Mergellina." - -"Did you see her before she went there?" - -"Yes." - -"Was she as usual?" - -"I don't think she was. I think Madre has been changing nearly all -this summer. That is why I am so afraid. You know she has been -changing." - -He was silent. The difficulty of the situation was great. He did not -know how to resolve it. - -"You have seen the change, Monsieur Emile!" - -He did not deny it. He did not know what to do or say. For of that -change, although perhaps now he partly understood it, he could never -speak to Vere or to any one. - -"It has made me so unhappy," Vere said, with a break in her voice. - -And he had said to himself: "Vere must be happy!" At that moment he -and his intellect seemed to him less than a handful of dust. - -"But this change of to-day is different," he said, slowly. "Your -mother has had a dreadful shock." - -"At Mergellina?" - -"It must have been there." - -"But what could it be? We scarcely ever go there. We don't know any -one there--oh, except Ruffo." - -Her eyes, keen and bright with youth, even though they had been -crying, were fixed upon his face while she was speaking, and she saw a -sudden conscious look in his eyes, a movement of his lips--he drew -them sharply together, as if seized by a spasm. - -"Ruffo!" she repeated. "Has it something to do with Ruffo?" - -There was a profound perplexity in her face, but the fear in it was -less. - -"Something to do with Ruffo?" she repeated. - -Suddenly she moved, she got up. And all the fear had come back to her -face, with something added to it, something intensely personal. - -"Do you mean--is Ruffo dead?" she whispered. - -A voice rose up from the sea singing a sad little song. Vere turned -towards the sea. All her body relaxed. The voice passed on. The sad -little song passed under the cliff, to the Saint's Pool and the lee of -the island. - -"Ah, Monsieur Emile," she said, "why don't you tell me?" - -She swayed. He put his arm quickly behind her. - -"No, no! It's all right. That was Ruffo!" - -And she smiled. - -At that moment Artois longed to tell her the truth. To do so would -surely be to do something that was beautiful. But he dared not--he had -no right. - -A bell rang in the house, loudly, persistently, tearing its silence. -Gaspare turned angrily from the rail, with an expression of -apprehension on his face. - -Giulia was summoning the household to dinner. - -"Perhaps--perhaps Madre will come down," Vere whispered. - -Gaspare passed them and went into the house quickly. They knew he had -gone to see if his Padrona was coming. Moved by a mutual instinct, -they stayed where they were till he should come to them again. - -For a long time they waited. He did not return. - -"We had better go in, Vere. You must eat." - -"I can't--unless she comes." - -"You must try to eat." - -He spoke to her as to a child. - -"And perhaps--Gaspare may be with her, may be speaking with her. Let -us go in." - -They passed into the house, and went to the dining-room. The table was -laid. The lamp was lit. Giulia stood by the sideboard looking anxious -and subdued. She did not even smile when she saw Artois, who was her -favorite. - -"Where is Gaspare, Giulia?" said Artois. - -"Up-stairs, Signore. He came in and ran up-stairs, and he has not come -down. Ah!"--she raised her hands--"the evil eye has looked upon this -house! When that girl Peppina--" - -"Be quiet!" Artois said, sharply. - -Giulia's round, black eyes filled with tears, and her mouth opened in -surprise. - -He put his hand kindly on her arm. - -"Never mind, Giulia mia! But it is foolish to talk like that. There is -no reason why evil should come upon the Casa del Mare. Here is -Gaspare!" - -At that moment he entered, looking tragic. - -"Go away, Giulia!" he said to her, roughly. - -"Ma--" - -"Go away!" - -He put her out of the room without ceremony, and shut the door. - -"Signore!" he said to Artois, "I have been up to the Padrona's room. I -have knocked on the door. I have spoken--" - -"What did you say?" - -"I did not say that you were here, Signore." - -"Did you ask the Signora to come down?" - -"I asked if she was coming down to dinner. I said the Signorina was -waiting for her." - -"Yes?" - -"The Signora did not answer. There was no noise, and in the room there -is no light!" - -"Let me go!" Vere said, breathlessly. - -She was moving towards the door when Artois stopped her -authoritatively. - -"No, Vere--wait!" - -"But some one must--I'm afraid--" - -"Wait, Vere!" - -He turned once more to Gaspare. - -"Did you try the door, Gaspare?" - -"Signore, I did. After I had spoken several times and waited a long -time, I tried the door softly. It is locked." - -"You see!" - -It was Vere speaking, still breathlessly. - -"Let me go, Monsieur Emile. We can't let Madre stay like that, all -alone in the dark. She must have food. We can't stay down here and -leave her." - -Artois hesitated. He thought of the stranger at the window, and he -felt afraid. But he concealed his fear. - -"Perhaps you had better go, Vere," he said, at length. "But if she -does not answer, don't try the door. Don't knock. Just speak. You will -find the best words." - -"Yes. I'll try--I'll try." - -Gaspare opened the door. Giulia was sobbing outside. Her pride and -dignity were lacerated by Gaspare's action. - -"Giulia, never mind! Don't cry! Gaspare didn't mean--" - -Before she had finished speaking the servant passionately seized her -hand and kissed it. Vere released her hand very gently and went slowly -up the stairs. - -The instinct of Artois was to follow her. He longed to follow her, but -he denied himself, and sat down by the dinner-table, on which the -zuppa di pesce was smoking under the lamp. Giulia, trying to stifle -her sobs, went away down the kitchen stairs, and Gaspare stood near -the door. He touched his face with his hands, opened and shut his -lips, then thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared first at -Artois then at the floor. His cheeks and his forehead looked hot, as -if he had just finished some difficult physical act. Artois did not -glance at him. In that moment both men, in their different ways, felt -dreadfully, almost unbearably, self-conscious. - -Presently Vere's step was heard again on the stairs, descending softly -and slowly. She came in and went at once to Artois. - -"Madre doesn't answer." - -Artois got up. - -"What ought we to do?" - -Vere was whispering. - -"Did you hear anything?" - -"No." - -Gaspare moved, took his hands violently out of his pockets, then -thrust them in again. - -Artois stood in silence. His face, generally so strong, so -authoritative, showed his irresolution, and Vere, looking to him like -a frightened child for guidance, felt her terror increase. - -"Shall I go up again. I didn't knock. You told me not to. Shall I go -and knock? Or shall Gaspare go again?" - -She did not suggest that Artois should go himself. He noticed that, -even in this moment of the confusion of his will. - -"I think we had better leave her for a time," he said, at last. - -As he spoke he made an effort, and recovered himself. - -"We had better do nothing more. What can we do?" - -He was looking at Gaspare. - -Gaspare went out into the passage and called down the stairs. - -"Giulia! Come up! The Signorina is going to dinner." - -His defiant voice sounded startling in the silent house. - -"We are to eat!" - -"Yes, Vere. I shall stay. Presently our mother may come down. She -feels that she must be alone. We have no right to try to force -ourselves upon her." - -"Do you think it is that? Are you telling me the truth? Are you?" - -"If she does not come down presently I will go up. Don't be afraid. I -will not leave you till she comes down." - -Giulia returned, wiping her eyes. When he saw her Gaspare disappeared. -They knew he had gone to wait outside his Padrona's door. - -The dinner passed almost in silence. Artois ate, and made Vere eat. -Vere sat in her mother's place, with her back to the door. Artois was -facing her. Often his eyes travelled to the door. Often, too, Vere -turned her head. And in the silence both were listening for a step -that did not come: Vere with a feverish eagerness, Artois with a -mingling of longing and of dread. For he knew he dreaded to see -Hermione that night. He knew that it would be terrible to him to meet -her eyes, to speak to her, to touch her hand. And yet he longed for -her to come. For he was companioned by a great and growing fear, which -he must hide. And that act of secrecy, undertaken for Vere's sake, -seemed to increase the thing he hid, till the shadow it had been began -to take form, to grow in stature, to become dominating, imperious. - -Giulia put some fruit on the table. The meal was over, and there had -been no sound outside upon the stairs. - -"Monsieur Emile, what are you going to do?" - -"Go to the drawing-room, Vere. I will go out and see whether there is -any light in your mother's window." - -She obeyed him silently and went away. Then he took his hat and went -out upon the terrace. - -Gaspare had said that Hermione's room was dark. Perhaps he had been -mistaken. The key might have been so placed in the lock that he had -been deceived. As Artois walked to a point from which he could see one -of the windows of Hermione's bedroom, he knew that he longed to see a -light there. If the window was dark the form of his fear would be more -distinct. He reached the point and looked up. There was no light. - -He stood there for some time gazing at that darkness. He thought of -the bent photograph frame, of the photograph that had been so loved -torn into fragments, of the sound that was--hardly crying, and of the -face he had seen for an instant as he drew near to the island. He -ought to come to some decision, to take some action. Vere was -depending upon him. But he felt as if he could do nothing. In answer -to Vere's appeal he had hastened to the island. And now he was -paralyzed, he was utterly useless. - -He felt as if he dared not do anything. Hermione in her grief, had -suddenly passed from him into a darkness that was sacred. What right -had he to try to share it? - -And yet--if that great shape of fear were not the body of a lie, but -of the truth? - -Never had he felt so impotent, so utterly unworthy of his manhood. - -He moved away, turned, came back and stood once more beneath the -window. Ought he to go up to Hermione's door, to knock, to speak, to -insist on admittance? And if there was no reply?--what ought he to do -then? Break down the door? - -He went into the house. Vere was sitting in the drawing-room looking -at the door. She sprang up. - -"Is there a light in Madre's room?" - -"No." - -He saw, as he answered, that she caught his fear, that hers now had -the same shape as his. - -"Monsieur Emile, you--you don't think--?" - -Her voice faltered, her bright eyes became changed, dim, seemed to -sink into her head. - -"You must go to her room. Go to Madre, Monsieur Emile, Go! Speak to -her! Make her answer! Make her! make her!" - -She put her hands on him. She pushed him frantically. - -He took her hands and held them tightly. - -"I am going, Vere. Don't be frightened!" - -"But you are frightened! You are frightened!" - -"I will speak to your mother. I will beg her to answer." - -"And if she doesn't answer?" - -"I will get into the room." - -He let go her hands and went towards the door. Just as he reached it -there came from below in the house a loud, shrill cry. It was followed -by an instant of silence, then by another cry, louder, nearer than -before. And this time they could hear the words: - -"/La fattura della morte/! /La fattura della morte/!" - -Running, stumbling feet sounded outside, and Peppina appeared at the -door, her disfigured face convulsed with terror, her hand out- -stretched. - -"Look!" she cried shrilly. "Look, Signorina! Look, Signore! /La -fattura della morte/! /La fattura della morte/! It has been brought to -the house to-night! It has been put in my room to-night!" - -In her hand lay a green lemon pierced by many nails. - - - -CHAPTER XL - -"Monsieur Emile, what is it?" exclaimed Vere. - -The frightened servants were gone, half coaxed and half scolded into -silence by Artois. He had taken the lemon from Peppina, and it lay now -in his hand. - -"It is what the people of Naples call a death-charm." - -"A death-charm?" - -In her eyes superstition dawned. - -"Why do they call it that?" - -"Because it is supposed to bring death to any one--any enemy--near -whom it is placed." - -"Who can have put it in the house to-night?" Vere said. Her voice was -low and trembling. "Who can have wished to bring death here to-night?" - -"I don't know, Vere." - -"And such a thing--could it bring death?" - -"Vere! You can ask me!" - -He spoke with an attempt at smiling irony, but his eyes held something -of the awe, the cloudy apprehension that had gathered in hers. - -"Where is your mind?" he added. - -She answered: "Are you going to Madre's room, Monsieur Emile?" - -He put the death-charm down quickly, as if it had burned his hand. - -"I am going now. Gaspare!" - -At this moment Gaspare came into the room with a face that was almost -livid. - -"Who is it that has brought a /fattura della morte/ here?" he -exclaimed. - -His usually courageous eyes were full of superstitious fear. - -"Signore, do you--" - -He stopped. He had seen the death-charm lying on the little table -covered with silver trifles. He approached it, made a sign of the -cross, bent down his head and examined it closely, but did not touch -it. - -Artois and Vere watched him closely. He lifted up his head at last. - -"I know who brought the /fattura della morte/ here," he said, -solemnly. "I know." - -"Who?" said Vere. - -"It was Ruffo." - -"Ruffo!" - -Vere reddened. "Ruffo! He loves our house, and he loves us!" - -"It is Ruffo, Signorina. It is Ruffo. He brought it, and it is he that -must take it away. Do not touch it, Signorina. Do not touch it, -Signore. Leave it where it is till Ruffo comes, till Ruffo takes it -away." - -He again made the sign of the cross, and drew back from the death- -charm with a sort of mysterious caution. - -"Signore," he said to Artois, "I will go down to the Saint's Pool. I -will find Ruffo. I will bring him here. I will make him come here." - -He was going out when Artois put a hand on his shoulder. - -"And the Padrona?" - -"Signore, she is always there, in her room, in the dark." - -"And you have heard nothing?" - -"Signore, I have heard the Padrona moving." - -The hand of Artois dropped down. He was invaded by a sense of relief -that was almost overwhelming. - -"You are certain?" - -"Si, Signore. The Padrona is walking up and down the room. When -Peppina screamed out I heard the Padrona move. And then I heard her -walking up and down the room." - -He looked again at the death-charm and went out. Vere stood for a -moment. Then she, too, went suddenly away, and Artois heard her light -footstep retreating from him towards the terrace. - -He understood her silent and abrupt departure. His fear had been hers. -His relief was hers, too, and she was moved to hide it. He was left -alone with the death-charm. - -He sat down by the table on which it lay among the bright toys of -silver. Released from his great fear, released from his undertaking to -force his way into the darkness of that room which had been silent, he -seemed suddenly to regain his identity, to be put once more into -possession of his normal character. He had gone out from it. He -returned to it. The cloud of superstition, in which even he had been -for a moment involved with Vere and with the servants, evaporated, and -he was able to smile secretly at them and at himself. Yet while he -smiled thus secretly, and while he looked at the lemon with its -perforating nails, he realized his own smallness, helplessness, the -smallness and the helplessness of every man, as he had never realized -them before. And he realized also something, much, of what it would -have meant to him, had the body of his fear been the body of a truth, -not of a lie. - -If death had really come into the Casa del Mare that night with the -death-charm! - -He stretched out his hand to the table, lifted the death-charm from -among the silver ornaments, held it, kept it in his hand, which he -laid upon his knee. - -If Ruffo had carried death in his boy's hand over the sea to the -island, had carried death to Hermione! - -Artois tried to imagine that house without Hermione, his life without -Hermione. - -For a long time he sat, always holding the death-charm in his hand, -always with his eyes fixed upon it, until at last in it, as in a magic -mirror, among the scars of its burning, and among the nails that -pierced it, as the woman who had fashioned it, and fired it, and -muttered witch's words over it, longed to pierce the heart of her -enemy, he saw scenes of the past, and shadowy, moving figures. He saw -among the scars and among the nails Hermione and himself! - -They were in Paris, at a table strewn with flowers. That was the first -scene in the magic mirror of the /fattura della morte/, the scene in -which they met for the first time. Hermione regarded him almost with -timidity. And he looked at her doubtfully, because she had no beauty. - -Then they were in another part of Paris, in his "Morocco slipper of a -room," crammed with books, and dim with Oriental incense and tobacco -smoke, his room red and yellow, tinted with the brilliant colors of -the East. And he turned to her for sympathy, and he received it in -full measure, pressed down and running over. He told her his thought, -and he told her his feelings, his schemes, his struggles, his moments -of exaltation, his depressions. Something, much indeed of him was -hers, the egotistic part of a man that does really give, but that -keeps back much, and that seeks much more than it gives. And what he -sought she eagerly, generously gave, with both hands, never counting -any cost. Always she was giving and always he was taking. - -Then they were in London, in another room full of books. He stood by a -fire, and she was seated with a bundle of letters in her lap. And his -heart was full of something that was like anger, and of a dull and -smouldering jealousy. And hers was full of a new and wonderful beauty, -a piercing joy. - -He sighed deeply. He stirred. He looked up for a moment and listened. - -But all the house was silent. And again he bent over the death-charm. - -He stood by a door. Outside was the hum of traffic, inside a narrow -room. And now in the magic mirror a third figure showed itself, a -figure of youth incarnate, brave, passionate, thrilling with the joy -of life. He watched it, how coldly, although he felt its charm, the -rays of fire that came from it, as sunbeams come from the sun! And -apprehension stirred within him. And presently in the night, by ebony -waters, and by strange and wandering lights, and under unquiet stars, -he told Hermione something of his fear. - -Africa--and the hovering flies, and the dreadful feeling that death's -hands were creeping about his body and trying to lay hold of it! A -very lonely creature lay there in the mirror, with the faint shadow of -a palm-leaf shifting and swaying upon the ghastly whiteness of its -face--himself, in the most desolate hour of his life. As he gazed he -was transported to the City of the Mosques. The years rolled back. He -felt again all, or nearly all, that he had felt then of helplessness, -abandonment, despair. It was frightful to go out thus alone, to be -extinguished in the burning heat of Africa, and laid in that arid -soil, where the vipers slid through the hot crevices of the earth, and -the scorpions bred in the long days of the summer. Now it was evening. -He heard the call to prayer, that wailing, wonderful cry which saluted -the sinking sun. - -He remembered exactly how it had come into his ears through the half- -opened window, the sensation of remoteness, of utter solitude, which -it had conveyed to him. An Arab had passed under the window, singing -in a withdrawn and drowsy voice a plaintive song of the East which had -mingled with the call to prayer. And then, he, Artois being quite -alone, had given way in his great pain and weakness. He remembered -feeling the tears slipping over his cheeks, one following another, -quickly, quickly. It had seemed as if they would never stop, as if -there would always be tears to flow from those sources deep within his -stricken body, his stricken soul. - -He looked into the mirror. The door of the room was opened. A woman -stood upon the threshold. The sick man turned upon his pillow. He -gazed towards the woman. And his tears ceased. He was no longer alone. -His friend had come from her garden of Paradise to draw him back to -life. - -In the magic mirror of the /fattura della morte/ other scenes formed -themselves, were clearly visible for a moment, then dispersed, -dissolved--till scenes of the island came, till the last scene in the -mirror dawned faintly before his eyes. - -He saw a dark room, and a woman more desolate than he had been when he -lay alone with the shadow of the palm-tree shifting on his face, and -heard the call to prayer. He saw Hermione in her room in the Casa del -Mare that night, after she knew. - -Suddenly he put his hand to his eyes. - -Those were the first tears his eyes had known since that evening in -Africa years and years ago. - -He laid the death-charm down once more among the silver toys. But he -still looked at it as he sat back now in his chair, waiting for -Gaspare's return. - -He gazed at the symbol of death. And he began to think how strangely -appropriate was its presence that night in the Casa del Mare, how -almost more than strange had been its bringing there by Ruffo--if -indeed Ruffo had brought it, as Gaspare declared. And Ruffo, all -ignorantly and unconsciously, had pierced the heart of Hermione. - -Artois knew nothing of what had happened that day at Mergellina, but -he divined that it was Ruffo who, without words, had told Hermione the -truth. It must have been Ruffo, in whom the dead man lived again. And, -going beyond the innocent boy, deep into the shadows where lies so -much of truth, Artois saw the murdered man stirring from his sleep, -unable to rest because of the lie that had been coiled around his -memory, making it what it should not be. Perhaps only the dead know -the true, the sacred passion for justice. Perhaps only they are -indifferent to everything save truth, they who know the greatest truth -of all. - -And Artois saw Maurice Delarey, the gay, the full-blooded youth, grown -stern in the halls of death, unable to be at peace until she who had -most loved him knew him at last as he had been in life. - -As no one else would tell Hermione the truth, the dead man himself, -speaking through his son, the fruit of his sin, had told her the truth -that day. He, too, had been perhaps a spirit in prison, through all -these years since his death. - -Artois saw him in freedom. - -And at that moment Artois felt that in the world there was only one -thing that was perfectly beautiful, and that thing was absolute truth. -Its knowledge must make Hermione greater. - -But now she was hanging on her cross. - -If he could only comfort her! - -As she had come to him in Africa, he longed now to go to her. She had -saved him from the death of the body. If only he could save her from -another and more terrible death--the death of the spirit that believes -and trusts in life! - -He had been absorbed in thought and unconscious of time. Now he looked -up, he was aware of things. He listened. Surely Gaspare had been away -a long while. And Vere--where was she? - -He had a strange desire to see Ruffo now. Something new and mystic had -been born, or had for the first time made itself apparent, within him -to-night. And he knew that to-night he would look at Ruffo as he had -never looked at him before. - -He got up and, leaving the death-charm lying on the table, went to the -door. There he hesitated. Should he go to the terrace, to Vere? Or -should he go up-stairs to that dark room and try to speak to his -friend? Or should he go out to the cliff, to seek Gaspare and Ruffo? - -Ruffo drew him. He had to go to the cliff. - -He went out by the front door. At first he thought of descending at -once by the steps to the Pool of San Francesco. But he changed his -mind and went instead to the bridge. - -He looked over into the Pool. - -It was a very clear night. San Francesco's light was burning brightly. -Very sincerely it was burning beneath the blessing hands of the Saint. -A ray of gold that came from it lay upon the darkness of the Pool, -stealing through the night a little way, as if in an effort to touch -the Casa del Mare. - -In the Pool there was one boat. Artois saw no one by the sea's edge, -heard no voices there, and he turned towards the crest of the island, -to the seat where Vere so often went at night, and where Hermione, -too, had often sought out Ruffo. - -Gaspare and Ruffo were near it. Almost directly he saw their forms, -relieved against the dimness but not deep darkness of the night, and -heard their voices talking. As he went towards them Gaspare was -speaking vehemently. He threw up one arm in a strong, even, and -excited gesture, and was silent. Then Artois heard Ruffo say, in a -voice that, though respectful and almost deprecatory, was yet firm -like a man's: - -"I cannot take it away, Gaspare. When I go home my mamma will ask me -if I have put it in the house." - -"Dio mio!" cried Gaspare. "But you have put it in the house! Is it not -there--is it not there now to bring death upon the Signora, upon the -Signorina, upon us all?" - -"It was made for Peppina. My mamma made it only against Peppina, -because she has brought evil into our house. It will hurt only -Peppina! It will kill only Peppina!" - -He spoke now with a vehemence and passion almost equal to Gaspare's. -Artois stood still. They did not see him. They were absorbed in their -conversation. - -"It will not hurt the Signora or the Signorina. The /fattura della -morte/--it is to harm Peppina. Has she not done us injury? Has she not -taken my Patrigno from my mamma? Has she not made him mad? Is it not -for her that he has been in prison, and that he has left my mamma -without a soldo in the house? The Signora--she has been good to me and -my mamma. It is she who sent my mamma money--twenty lire! I respect -the Signora as I respect my mamma. Only to-day, only this very day she -came to Mergellina, she came to see my mama. And when she knew that my -Patrigno was let out of prison, when I cried out at the door that he -was coming, the Signora was so glad for us that she looked--she looked ---Madre di Dio! She was all white, she was shaking--she was worse than -my poor mamma. And when I came to her, and when I called out, -'Signora! Signora!' you should have seen! She opened her eyes! She -gave me such a look! And then my Patrigno came in at the door, and the -Signora--she went away. I was going to follow her, but she put out her -hand--so, to make me stay--she wanted me to stay with my mamma. And -she went down the stairs all trembling because my Patrigno was let out -of prison. Per dio! She has a good heart. She is an angel. For the -Signora I would die. For the Signora I would do anything! I--you say I -would kill the Signora! Would I kill my mamma? Would I kill the -Madonna? La Bruna--would I kill her? To me the Signora is as my mamma! -I respect the Signora as I respect my mamma. Ecco!" - -"The /fattura della morte/ will bring evil on the house, it will bring -death into the house." - -Gaspare spoke again, and his voice was dogged with superstition, but -it was less vehement than before. - -"Already--who knows what it has brought? Who knows what evil it has -done? All the house is sad to-night, all the house is terrible -to-night." - -"It is Peppina who has looked on the house with the evil eye," said -Ruffo. "It is Peppina who has brought trouble to the house." - -There was silence. Then Gaspare said: - -"No, it is not Peppina." - -As he spoke Artois saw him stretch out his hand, but gently, towards -Ruffo. - -"Who is it, then?" said Ruffo. - -Moved by an irresistible impulse to interpose, Artois called out: - -"Gaspare!" - -He saw the two figures start. - -"Gaspare!" he repeated, coming up to them. - -"Signore! What is it? Has the Signora--" - -"I have not heard her. I have not seen her." - -"Then what is it, Signore?" - -"Good-evening, Ruffo," Artois said, looking at the boy. - -"Good-evening, Signore." - -Ruffo took off his cap. He was going to put it back on his dark hair, -when Artois held his arm. - -"Wait a minute, Ruffo!" - -The boy looked surprised, but met fearlessly the eyes that were gazing -into his. - -"Va bene, Ruffo." - -Artois released his arm, and Ruffo put on his cap. - -"I heard you talking of the /fattura della morte/," Artois said. - -Ruffo reddened slightly. - -"Si, Signore." - -"Your mother made it?" - -Ruffo did not answer. Gaspare stood by, watching and listening with -deep, half-suspicious attention. - -"I heard you say so." - -"Si, Signore. My mamma made it." - -"And told you to bring it to the island and put it in the house -to-night?" - -"Si, Signore." - -"Are you sure it was Peppina your mother wished to do evil?" - -"Si, Signore, quite sure. Peppina is a bad girl. She made my Patrigno -mad. She brought trouble to our house." - -"You love the Signora, don't you, Ruffo?" - -His face changed and grew happier at once. - -"Si, Signore. I love the Signora and the Signorina." - -He would not leave out Vere. Artois's heart warmed to him for that. - -"Ruffo--" - -While he had been on the crest of the island an idea had come to him. -At first he had put it from him. Now, suddenly, he caressed it, he -resolved to act on its prompting. - -"Ruffo, the Signora is in the house." - -"Si, Signore." - -"I don't think she is very well. I don't think she will leave the -house to-night. Wouldn't you like to see her?" - -"Signore, I always like to see the Signora." - -"And I think she likes to see you. I know she does." - -"Si, Signore. The Signora is always glad when I come." - -He spoke without conceit or vanity, with utterly sincere simplicity. - -"Go to the house and ask to see her now--Gaspare will take you." - -As he spoke he looked at Gaspare, and Gaspare understood. - -"Come on, Ruffo!" - -Gaspare's voice was rough, arbitrary, but the eyes that he turned on -Ruffo were full of the almost melting gentleness that Hermione had -seen in them sometimes and that she had always loved. - -"Come on, Ruffino!" - -He walked away quickly, almost sternly, towards the house. And Ruffo -followed him. - - - -CHAPTER XLI - -Artois did not go with them. Once again he was governed by an -imperious feeling that held him inactive, the feeling that it was not -for him to approach Hermione--that others might draw near to her, but -that he dared not. The sensation distressed and almost humiliated him. -it came upon him like a punishment for sin, and as a man accepts a -punishment which he is conscious of deserving Artois accepted it. - -So now he waited alone on the crest of the island, looking towards the -Casa del Mare. - -What would be the result of this strange and daring embassy? - -He was not long to be in doubt. - -"Signore! Signore!" - -Gaspare's voice was calling him from somewhere in the darkness. - -"Signore." - -"I am coming." - -There had been a thrill of emotion in the appeal sent out to him. He -hurried towards the house. He crossed the bridge. When he was on it he -heard the splash of oars below him in the Pool, but he took no heed of -it. What were the fishermen to him to-night? Before the house door he -met Gaspare and Ruffo. - -"What is it?" - -"The Signora is not in her room, Signore." - -"Not--? How do you know? Is the door open?" - -"Si, Signore. The Signora has gone! And the /fattura della morte/ has -gone." - -"The /fattura della morte/ has gone!" repeated Ruffo. - -The repetition of the words struck a chill to the heart of Artois. -Again he was beset by superstition. He caught it from these children -of the South, who stared at him now with their grave and cloudy eyes. - -"Perhaps one of the servants--" he began. - -"No, Signore. I have asked them. And they would not dare to touch it." - -"The Signorina?" - -He shook his head. - -"She is in the garden. She has been there all the time. She does not -know"--he lowered his voice almost to a whisper--"she does not know -about the Signora and the /fattura della morte/." - -"We must not let her know--" - -He stopped. Suddenly his ears seemed full of the sound of splashing -oars in water. Yet he heard nothing. - -"Gaspare," he said quickly, "have you looked everywhere for the -Signora?" - -"I have looked in the house, Signore. I have been on the terrace and -to the Signorina in the garden. Then I came to tell you. I thought you -should know about the Signora and the /fattura della morte/." - -Artois felt that it was this fact of the disappearance of the death- -charm which for the moment paralyzed Gaspare's activities. What -stirring of ancient superstition was in the Sicilian's heart he did -not know, but he knew that now his own time of action was come. No -longer could he delegate to others the necessary deed. And with this -knowledge his nature seemed to change. An ardor that was almost -vehement with youth, and that was hard-fibred with manly strength and -resolution, woke up in him. - -Again his ears were full of the sound of oars in water. - -"Ruffo," he said, "will you obey me?" - -He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. - -"Si, Signore." - -"Go into the garden. Stay with the Signorina till I come." - -"Si, Signore." - -"If it is a long time, if the Signorina is afraid, if she wants to do -anything, you are to say that Don Emilio said she was not to be -afraid, and that she was to wait." - -"Si, Signore." - -The boy paused, looking steadily at Artois, then, seeing that he had -finished, turned away and went softly into the house. - -"Gaspare, come with me." - -Gaspare said nothing, but followed him down to the foot of the cliff. -One of the island boats was gone. When Gaspare saw that he ran to pull -in the other. He held out his arm to help Artois into the boat, then -took the oars, standing up and looking before him into the night. - -"Row towards the village, Gaspare." - -"Si, Signore." - -At that moment Gaspare understood much of what was in Artois's mind. -He relied upon Artois. He trusted him--and this fact, of Gaspare's -trust and reliance upon him, added now to that feeling of ardor that -had risen up in Artois, gave him courage, helped to banish completely -that punishing sensation which had condemned him to keep away from -Hermione as one unworthy to approach her, to touch even the hem of her -grief. - -No need to tell Gaspare to row quickly. With all his strength he -forced the boat along through the calm sea. - -"Keep near the shore, Gaspare!" - -"Si, Signore." - -Only the first quarter of the young moon was visible in the sky. It -cast but a thin and distant glint of silver upon the waters. By the -near shore the dimness of this hour was unbroken by any light, -unstirred by any sound except the withdrawn and surreptitious murmur -of the sea. The humped shapes of the low yellow rocks showed -themselves faintly like shapes of beasts asleep. In the distance, -lifted above the sea, two or three flames shone faintly. They were -shed by lamps or candles set in the windows of the fishermen's -cottages in the village. - -Had Hermione gone to the village? - -She might have left the island with some definite purpose, or moved by -a blind impulse to get away, and be alone. Artois could not tell. But -she had taken the /fattura della morte/. - -He wondered whether she knew its meaning, with what sinister intention -it had been made. Something in the little worthless thing must have -attracted her, have fascinated her, or she would not have taken it. In -her distress of mind, in her desire for solitude, she would have -hastened away and left it lying where it was. - -Perhaps she had a purpose in leaving the island with the /fattura -della morte/. - -Her taking of it began to seem to Artois, as it had evidently seemed -to Gaspare, a fact of profound significance. His imagination, working -with an almost diseased rapidity and excitement, brought before him a -series of scenes in which the death-charm figured as symbol. In one of -these there were two women--Hermione and Maddalena. - -Hermione might have set out on some wild quest to Mergellina. He -remembered the face at the window, and knew that to-night everything -was possible. - -"Row quickly, Gaspare!" - -Gaspare bent almost furiously to the oars. Then sharply he turned his -head. - -"What is it?" - -"I can see the boat! I can see the Signora!" - -The words struggled out on a long breath that made his broad chest -heave. Instinctively Artois put his hands on the gunwale of the boat -on either side of him, moving as if to stand up. - -"Take care, Signore!" - -"I'd forgotten--" He leaned forward, searching the night. "Where is -the Signora?" - -"There--in front! She is rowing to the village. No, she has turned." - -He stopped rowing. - -"The Signora has seen, or she has heard, and she is going in to -shore." - -"But there are only the rocks." - -"The Signora is going in to the Palazzo of the Spirits." - -"The Palazzo of the Spirits?" Artois repeated. - -"Si, Signore." - -Gaspare turned and looked again into the darkness. - -"I cannot see the Signora any more." - -"Follow the Signora, Gaspare. If she has gone to the Palazzo of the -Spirits row in there." - -"Si, Signore." - -He drew the oars again strongly through the water. - -Artois remembered a blinding storm that had crashed over a mountain -village in Sicily long ago, a flash of lightning which had revealed to -him the gaunt portal of a palace that seemed abandoned, a strip of -black cloth, the words "/Lutto in famiglia/." They had seemed to him -prophetic words. - -And now--? - -In the darkness he saw another darkness, the strange and broken -outline of the ruined palace by the sea, once perhaps, the summer home -of some wealthy Roman, now a mere shell visited in the lonely hours by -the insatiate waves. Were Hermione and he to meet here? To-day he had -thought of his friend as a spirit that had been long in prison. Now he -came to the Palace of the Spirits to face her truth with his. The -Palace of the Spirits! The name suggested the very nakedness of truth. -Well, let it be so, let the truth stand there naked. Again, mingling -with a certain awe, there rose up in him a strong ardor, a courage -that was vehement, that longed at last to act. And it seemed to him -suddenly that for many years, through all the years that divided -Hermione and him from the Sicilian life, they had been held in leash, -waiting for the moment of this encounter. Now the leash slackened. -They were being freed. And for what? - -Gaspare plunged his right oar into the sea alone. The boat swung round -obediently, heading for the shore. - -One of the faint lights that gleamed in the village was extinguished. - -"Signore, the Signora has left the boat!" - -"Si?" - -"Madonna! She has let it go! She has left it to the sea!" - -He backed water. A moment later the little boat in which Vere loved to -go out alone grated against theirs. - -"Madonna! To leave the boat like that!" exclaimed Gaspare, bending to -catch the tow-rope. "The Signora is not safe to-night. The Signora's -saint will not look on her to-night." - -"Put me ashore, Gaspare." - -"Si, Signore." - -The boat passed before the façade of the palace. - -Artois knew the palace well by day. This was the first time he had -come to it by night. In daylight it was a small and picturesque ruin -washed by the laughing sea, lonely but scarcely sad. Leaping from its -dark and crumbling walls the fisher-boys often plunged into the depths -below; or they lay upon the broad sills of the gaping window-spaces to -dry themselves in the sun. Men came with rods and lines to fish from -its deserted apartments, through which, when rough weather was at -hand, the screaming sea-birds flew. The waves played frivolously -enough in its recesses. And their voices were heard against the slimy -and defiant stones calling to teach other merrily, as perhaps once the -voices of revellers long dead called in the happy hours of a vanished -villeggiatura. - -But the night wrought on it, in it, and about it change. Its solitude -then became desolation, the darkness of its stones a blackness that -was tragic, its ruin more than a suggestion, the decisive picture of -despair. - -At its base was a line of half-discovered window-spaces, the lower -parts of which had become long since the prey of the waves. Above it -were more window-spaces, fully visible, and flanking a high doorway, -once, no doubt, connected with a staircase, but now giving upon mid- -air. Formerly there had been another floor, but this had fallen into -decay and disappeared, with the exception of one small and narrow -chamber situated immediately over the doorway. Isolated, for there was -no means of approach to it, this chamber had something of the aspect -of a low and sombre tower sluggishly lifting itself towards the sky. -The palace was set upon rock and flanked by rocks. Round about it -grass grew to the base of a high cliff at perhaps two hundred yards -distance from it. And here and there grass and tufts of rank herbage -pushed in its crevices, proclaiming the triumph of time to exulting -winds and waters. - -As Gaspare rowed in cautiously and gently to this deserted place, to -which from the land no road, no footpath led, he stared at the -darkness of the palace with superstitious awe, then at the small, -familiar boat, which followed in their wake because he held the tow- -rope. - -"Signore," he said, "I am afraid!" - -"You--Gaspare!" - -"I am afraid for the Signora. Why should she come here all alone with -the /fattura della morte/? I am afraid for the Signora." - -The boat touched the edge of the rock to the right of the palace. - -"And where has the Signora gone, Signore? I cannot see her, and I -cannot hear her." - -He lifted up his hand. They listened. But they heard only the sucking -murmur of the sea against the rocks perforated with little holes, and -in distant, abandoned chambers of the palace. - -"Where has the Signora gone?" Gaspare repeated, in a whisper. - -"I will find the Signora," said Artois. - -He got up. Gaspare held his arm to assist him to the shore. - -"Thank you." - -He was on the rocks. - -"Gaspare," he said, "wait here. Lie off the shore close by till I come -back." - -"Si, Signore." - -Artois hesitated, looking at Gaspare. - -"I will persuade the Signora to come back with us," he said. - -"Si, Signore. You must persuade the poor Signora. The poor Signora is -mad to-night. She gave me a look--" His eyes clouded with moisture. -"If the poor Signora had not been mad she could not have looked at me -like that--at another, perhaps, but not at me." - -It seemed as if at last his long reserve was breaking down. He put up -his hand to his eyes. - -"I did not think that my Padrona--" - -He stopped. Artois remembered the face at the window. He grasped -Gaspare's hand. - -"The Signora does not understand," he said. "I will make the Signora -understand." - -"Si, Signore, you must make the poor Signora understand." - -Gaspare's hand held on to the hand of Artois, and in that clasp the -immense reserve, that for so many years had divided, and united, these -two men, seemed to melt like gold in a crucible of fire. - -"I will make the Signora understand." - -"And I will wait, Signore." - -He pushed the boat off from the rocks. It floated away, with its -sister boat, on the calm sea that kissed the palace walls. He gave his -Padrona's fate into the hands of Artois. It was a tribute which had -upon Artois a startling effect. - -It was like a great resignation which conferred a great -responsibility. - -Always Gaspare had been very jealous, very proud of his position of -authority as the confidential servant and protector of Hermione. And -now, suddenly, and very simply, he seemed to acknowledge his -helplessness with Hermione--to rely implicitly upon the power of -Artois. - -Vere, too, in her way had performed a kindred action. She had summoned -"Monsieur Emile" in her great trouble. She had put herself in his -hands. And he--he had striven to delegate to others the burden he was -meant to bear. He had sent Vere to Hermione. He had sent Gaspare to -her. He had even sent Ruffo to her. Now he must go himself. Vere, -Gaspare, Ruffo--they were all looking to him. But Gaspare's eyes were -most expressive, held more of demand for him than the eyes of the girl -and boy. For the past was gathered in Gaspare, spoke to him in -Gaspare's voice, looked at him from Gaspare's eyes, and in Gaspare's -soul waited surely to know how it would be redeemed. - -He turned from the sea and looked towards the cliff. Now he had the -palace on his left hand. On his right, not far off, was a high bluff -going almost sheer into the sea. Nevertheless, access to the village -was possible by the strip of rocks beneath it. Had Hermione gone to -the village by the rocks? If she had, Gaspare's keen eyes would surely -have seen her. Artois looked at the blank wall of the palace. This -extended a little way, then turned at right angles. Just beyond the -angle, in its shadow, there was a low and narrow doorway. Artois moved -along the wall, reached this doorway, stood without it, and listened. - -The grass here grew right up to the stones of the ruin. He had come -almost without noise. Before him he saw blackness, the blackness of a -passage extending from the orifice of the doorway to an interior -chamber of the palace. He heard the peculiar sound of moving water -that is beset and covered in by barriers of stone, a hollow and -pugnacious murmur, as of something so determined that it would be -capable of striving through eternity, yet of something that was -wistful and even sad. - -For an instant he yielded his spirit to this sound of eternal -striving. Then he said: - -"Hermione!" - -No one answered. - -"Hermione!" - -He raised his voice. He almost called the name. - -Still there was no answer. Yet the silence seemed to tell him that she -was near. - -He did not call again. He waited a moment, then he stepped into the -passage. - -The room to which it led was the central room, or hall, of the palace ---a vaulted chamber, high and narrow, opening to the sea at one end by -the great doorway already mentioned, to the land beneath the cliff by -a smaller doorway at the other. The faint light from without, -penetrating through these facing doorways, showed to Artois a sort of -lesser darkness, towards which he walked slowly, feeling his way along -the wall. When he reached the hall he again stood still, trying to get -accustomed to the strange and eerie obscurity, to pierce it with his -eyes. - -Now to his left, evidently within the building, and not far from where -he stood, he heard almost loudly the striving of the sea. He heard the -entering wave push through some narrow opening, search round the walls -for egress, lift itself in a vain effort to emerge, fall back baffled, -retreat, murmuring discontent, only to be succeeded by another eager -wave. And this startling living noise of water filled him with a -sensation of acute anxiety, almost of active fear. - -"Hermione!" he said once more. - -It seemed to him that the voice of the water drowned his voice, that -it was growing louder, was filling the palace with an uproar that was -angry. - -"Hermione! Hermione!" - -He strove to dominate that uproar. - -Now, far off, through the seaward opening, he saw a streak of silver -lying like a thread upon the darkness of the sea. And as he saw it, -the voice of the waves within the palace seemed to sink suddenly away -almost to silence. He did not know why, but the vision of that very -distant radiance of the young and already setting moon seemed to -restore to him abruptly the accuracy of his sense of hearing. - -He again went forward a few steps, descending in the chamber towards -the doorway by the worn remains of an almost effaced staircase. -Reaching the bottom he stood still once more. On either side of him he -could faintly discern openings leading into other rooms. Perhaps -Hermione, hearing him call, had retreated from him through one of -them. A sort of horror of the situation came upon him, as he began -thoroughly to realize the hatred, hatred of brain, of nerves, of -heart, that was surely quivering in Hermione in this moment, that was -driving her away into the darkness from sound and touch of life. Like -a wounded animal she was creeping away from it and hating it. He -remembered Gaspare's words about the look she had cast upon perhaps -the most truly faithful of all her friends. - -But--she did not know. And he, Artois, must tell her. He must make her -see the exact truth of the years. He must win her back to reason. - -Reason! As the word went through his mind it chilled him, like the -passing of a thing coated with ice. He had been surely a reasonable -man, and his reasonableness had led him to this hour. Suddenly he saw -himself, as he had seen that palace door by lightning. He saw himself -for an instant lit by a glare of fire. He looked, he stared upon -himself. - -And he shivered, as if he had drawn close to, as if he had stood by, a -thing coated with ice. - -And he dared to come here, to pursue such a woman as Hermione! He -dared to think that he could have any power over her, that his ice -could have any power over her fire! He dared to think that! For a -moment all, and far more than all, his former feelings of -unworthiness, of helplessness, of cowardice, rushed back upon him. -Then, abruptly, there came upon him this thought--"Vere believes I -have power over Hermione." And then followed the thought--"Gaspare -believes that I have power over her." And the ice seemed to crack. He -saw fissures in it. He saw it melting. He saw the "thing" it had -covered appearing, being gradually revealed as--man. - -"Vere believes in my power. Gaspare believes in my power. They are the -nearest to Hermione. They know her best. Their instincts about her -must be the strongest, the truest. Why do they believe in it? Why do -they--why do they know--for they must, they do know, that I have this -power, that I am the one to succeed where any one else would fail? Why -have they left Hermione in my hands to-night?" - -The ice was gone. The lightning flash lit up a man warm with the -breath of life. From the gaunt door of the abandoned palace the strip -of black cloth, the tragic words above it, dropped down and -disappeared. - -Suddenly Artois knew why Vere believed in his power, and why Gaspare -believed in it--knew how their instincts had guided them, knew to what -secret knowledge--perhaps not even consciously now their knowledge-- -they had travelled. And he remembered the words he had written in the -book at Frisio's on the night of the storm: - -"La Conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons en -nous." - -He had written those words hurriedly, irritably, merely because he had -to write something, and they chanced--he knew not why--to come into -his mind as he took hold of the pen. And it was on that night, surely, -that his conscience--his innate knowledge--began to betray him. Or--no ---it was on that night that he began to defy it, to deny it, to -endeavor to cast it out. - -For surely he must have known, he had known, what Vere and Gaspare -innately knew. Surely his conscience had not slept while theirs had -been awake. - -He did not know. It seemed to him as if he had not time to decide this -now. Very rapidly his mind had worked, rushing surely through -corridors of knowledge to gain an inner room. He had only stood at the -foot of the crumbling staircase two or three minutes before he moved -again decisively, called again, decisively: - -"Hermione! Hermione! I know you are here. I have come for you!" - -He went to the right. On the left was the chamber which had been taken -possession of by the sea. She could not have gone that way, unless--he -thought of the /fattura della morte/, and for a moment the -superstitious horror returned upon him. But he banished it. That could -not be. His heart was flooded by conviction that cruelty has an end, -that the most relentless fate fails at last in its pursuing, that the -/fattura della morte/, if it brought death with it, brought a death -that was not of the body, brought, perhaps, a beautiful death of -something that had lived too long. - -He banished fear, and he entered the chamber on the right. It was lit -only by an opening looking to the sea. As he came into it he saw a -tall thing--like a tall shadow--pass close to him and disappear. He -saw that, and he heard the faint sound of material in movement. - -There was then still another chamber on this side, and Hermione had -passed into it. He followed her in silence, came to the doorway of it, -looked, saw black darkness. There was no other opening either to sea -or land. In it Hermione had found what she sought--absolute blackness. - -But he had found her. Here she could not escape him. - -He stood in the doorway. He remembered Vere's trust in him. He -remembered Gaspare's trust. He remembered that Gaspare was waiting in -the boat for him--for them. He remembered the words of Gaspare: - -"You must make the poor Signora understand!" - -That was what he had to do: to make Hermione understand. And that -surely he could do. Surely he had the power to do it now. - -For he himself understood. - - - -CHAPTER XLII - -"Hermione!" - -Artois spoke to the void. - -"Hermione, because I have followed you, because I have come here, -don't you think that I am claiming any right. Don't think that I -imagine, because I am your--because I am--I mean that it has not been -easy to me to come. It has not been--it is not a simple thing to me to -break in upon--upon--" - -He had begun to speak with determination. He had said the very first -words with energy, almost with a warm eagerness, as of one hurrying on -to vital speech. But suddenly the energy faltered, the eagerness -failed, the ring of naturalness died out of the voice. It was as if a -gust of cold air had blown out a flame. He paused. Then he said, in a -low voice: - -"You hate me for coming." - -He stopped again. He stared at the void, at the blackness. - -"You hate me for being here." - -As he said the last words the blackness before him surely gathered -itself together, took a form, the form of a wave, towered up as a -gigantic wave towers, rolled upon him to overwhelm him. So acute was -his sensation of being attacked, of being in peril, that his body was -governed by it and instinctively shrank, trying to make itself small -that it might oppose as little resistance as possible to the oncoming -foe. - -For it seemed to him that the wave of blackness was the wave of -Hermione's present hatred, that it came upon him, that it struck him, -that it stunned and almost blinded him, then divided, rushing onwards -he knew not where, unspent and unsatisfied. - -He stood like a man startled and confused, striving to regain lost -footing, to recover his normal condition. - -"You hate me." - -Had he spoken the words or merely thought them? He did not know. He -was not conscious of speaking them, yet he seemed to hear them. He -looked at the blackness. And again it surely moved. Again he surely -saw it gathering itself together, and towering up as a wave towers. - -His sensation was absolutely one of nightmare. And exactly as in a -nightmare a man feels that he is no longer fully himself, has no -longer the power to do any manly or effective thing, so Artois felt -now. - -It seemed to him that he was nothing, and yet that he was hated. He -turned and looked behind him, moved by a fierce desire for relief. He -had not the courage to persist in confronting that blackness which -took a form, which came upon him, which would surely overwhelm him. - -In the distance he saw a pallor, where the face of the night looked -into the palace from the sea. And he heard the distant water. Still -the little waves were entering the deserted chambers, only to seek an -exit which they could never find. Their ceaseless determination was -horrible to him, because it suggested to him the ceaseless -determination of those other waves of black hatred, one following -another, from some hidden centre of energy that was inexhaustible. As -he listened the sound of the sea stole into his ears till his brain -was full of it, till he felt as if into his brain, as into those -deserted chambers, the waves were penetrating, the waves of the sea -and those dark waves which gathered themselves together and flowed -upon him from the void. - -For a moment they possessed him. For a moment he was the prey of these -two oceans. - -Then he made a violent effort, released himself, and turned again to -the chamber in which Hermione was hidden. He faced the blackness. He -was able to do that now. But he was not able to go on speaking to the -woman who remained invisible, but whose influence he was so painfully -conscious of. He was not able to speak to her because she was surely -speaking to him, was communicating to him not only her feeling towards -him, but also its reason, its basis, in that wordless language which -is only used and comprehended by human beings in moments of crisis and -intense emotion. That was what he felt, seemed to know. - -He stood there, facing the blackness and listening, while she seemed -to be telling him her woman's reasons for her present hatred of the -man who had been for so long a time her closest friend. - -And these reasons were not only the reasons born of a day's events, of -the discovery of the lie on which her spirit had been resting. She did -not say--her heart did not say only: "I hate you because you let me -believe in that which never existed except in my imagination--my -husband's complete love of me, complete faithfulness to me. I hate you -because you enclosed me in the prison of a lie. I hate you because -during all these years you have been a witness of my devotion to an -idol, a graven image whose wooden grimace I mistook for the smile of -the god's happy messenger, because you have been a witness of my cult -for the memory of one who betrayed my trust in him, who thought -nothing of my gift to him, who put another in the sanctuary that -should have been sacred to me, and who has poisoned the sources of the -holy streams that flow into and feed the soul of a good woman." - -If Hermione had silently told Artois reasons such as these for hating -him she would have roused him to battle with her, to defend himself -with some real hope of holding his own, even of eventual conquest. But -other reasons, too, did they not come from her, creeping out of her -brain and heart and soul into his, reasons against which he had no -weapons, against which he could make no defence? - -He had claimed to understand the psychology of women. He had believed -he comprehended women well. Hermione best of all women. But these -reasons, creeping out of her into him, set a ring of illuminating fire -about his misconception. They told him that though perhaps he had -known one Hermione in his friend, there were other Hermiones in her -whom he had never really known. Once in the garden of the island by -night he had seen, or fancied he had seen, a strange smile upon her -face that betokened a secret bitterness; and for a moment he had been -confused, and had faltered in his speech, and had felt as if he were -sitting with a stranger who was hostile to him, or, if not actually -hostile, was almost cruelly critical of him. Now that stranger -silently spoke to him, silently told him many things. - -She told him--that which few men ever know--something of what women -specially want, specially need in life. And the catalogue of these -needs seemed to him to be also the catalogue of her reasons for hating -him at this moment. - -"Women need--I needed," she seemed to say, "not only a large and ample -friendship, noble condescending, a friendship like an announcement to -citizens affixed to the wall of a market-place, and covering boldly -all the principal circumstances and likely happenings of ordinary -feminine life, but a friendship, an affection, very individual, very -full of subtlety, not such as would suit, would fit comfortably women, -but such as would suit, would fit comfortably, would fit beautifully -one individual woman--me." - -Ah, the "women need" was flung away, like a stone thrown into the sea! -It was the "I needed" that was held fast, that was shown to Artois -now. And the "I" stood to Hermione for herself. But might it not have -stood to the world for many a woman? - -"I needed some one to whom I could be kind, for whom I could think, -plan, hope, weave a fabric of ambitious dreams, look forward along the -path that leads to glory. I needed some one for whom I could be -unselfish, to whom I could often offer those small burnt sacrifices -whose smoke women love to see ascending towards God, burnt sacrifices -of small personal desire, small personal plans and intentions. I -needed some one to need my encouragement, my admiration--frequently -expressed--my perpetual sympathy hovering about him like a warm cloud -of fragrant incense, my gentle criticism, leading him to efforts which -would win from the world, and from me, more admiration of and wonder -at his energy and genius. I needed some one to stir within me woman's -soft passion for forgiveness, woman's delight in petting the child who -has been naughty, but who puts the naughtiness aside and runs home to -be good again. I needed some one to set upon a pedestal. - -"These needs you fully satisfied. - -"You gave me generously opportunities for kindness, for -thoughtfulness, for impersonal ambition, for looking forward on your -behalf, for unselfishness, for the sacrifice of my little personal -desires, plans, and intentions, for encouragement of you, for -admiration of your abilities, for sympathy--even for gentle criticism -leading you to efforts which won from me eventually a greater respect -for your powers and for secret forgiveness which ended in open -petting. When I prepared the pedestal you were quite ready to mount -it, and to remain upon it without any demonstration of fatigue. - -"And so many needs of mine you satisfied. - -"But I had more needs, and far other needs, than these. - -"I needed not only to make many gifts, to satisfy my passion for -generosity, but to have many gifts, and gifts of a special nature, -made in return to me. I needed to feel another often, if not -perpetually and exclusively, intent on me. I needed to feel -tenderness--watchful, quick, eager tenderness, not tenderness slow- -footed and in blinkers--round about me. - -"I needed a little blindness in my friend. That is true. But the -blindness that I needed was not blindness to my little sacrifices, but -blindness to my little faults. - -"To a woman there is such a world of difference between the two! I -longed for my friend to see the smoke ascending from my small burnt- -offerings of self made for his sake. But I longed, too, for him not -always to see with calm, clear eyes my petty failings, my minute -vanities, my inconsistencies, my incongruities, my frequent lack of -reasoning power and logical sequence, my gusts of occasional injustice ---ending nearly always in a rain of undue benefits--my surely -forgivable follies of sentiment, my irritabilities--how often due to -physical causes which no man could ever understand!--my blunders of -the head--of the heart I made but few, or none--my weak depressions, -struggled against but not always conquered, my perhaps childish -anxieties and apprehensions, my forebodings, not invariably well -founded, my fleeting absurdities of temper, of temperament, of manner, -or of word. - -"But as definitely as my friend did not see my little sacrifices he -saw my little faults, and he made me see that he saw them. Men are so -free from the tender deceits that women are compact of. - -"And as I needed blindness in some directions, in others I needed -clear sight. - -"I needed some one to see that my woman's heart was not only the heart -of a happy mother, to whom God had given an almost perfect child, but -also the heart of a lover--not of a /grande amoureuse/, perhaps, but -of a lover who had been deprived of the love that is the complement of -woman's, and who suffered perpetually in woman's peculiar and terrible -way because of that deprivation. - -"I needed an understanding of my sacred hunger, a comprehension of my -desolation, a realization that my efforts to fill my time with work -were as the efforts of a traveller in a forest to escape from the -wolves whose voices he hears behind him. I needed the recognition of a -simple truth--that the thing one is passionately eager to give is -nearly always the thing one is passionately eager to receive, and that -when I poured forth sympathy upon others I was longing to have it -poured forth upon me. I gave because secretly I realized the hunger I -was sharing. And often, having satisfied your hunger, I was left to -starve, no longer in company, but entirely alone. - -"I needed great things, perhaps, but I needed them expressed in little -ways; and I needed little cares, little attentions, little -thoughtfulnesses, little preventions, little, little, absurd -kindnesses, tendernesses, recognitions, forgivenesses. Perhaps, -indeed, even more than anything magnificent or great, I needed the so- -called little things. It is not enough for a woman to know that a man -would do for her something important, something even superb, if the -occasion for it arose. Such an occasion probably never would arise-- -and she cannot wait. She wants to be shown at every moment that some -one is thinking kindly of her, is making little, kind plots and plans -for her, is wishing to ward off from her the chill winds, to keep from -pricking her the thorns of the roses, to shut out from her the shadows -of life and let in the sunbeams to her pathway. - -"I needed the tender, passing touch to show me my secret grief was -understood, and my inconsistency was pardoned. I needed the generous -smile to prove to me that my greed for kindness, even when perhaps -inopportune, was met in an ungrudging spirit. I needed now and then--I -needed this sometimes terribly, more, perhaps, than any other thing--a -sacrifice of some very small, very personal desire of yours, because -it was not mine or because it was opposite to mine. Never, never, did -my heart and my nature demand of yours any great sacrifice of self, -such as mine could have made--such as mine once did make--for you. But -it did demand, often--often it demanded some small sacrifice: the -giving up of some trifle, the resignation of some advantage, perhaps, -that your man's intellect gave you over my woman's intellect, the -abandoning of some argumentative position, or the not taking of it, -the sweet pretence--scarcely a sin against the Holy Ghost of truth!-- -that I was a tiny bit more persuasive, or more clear-sighted, or more -happy in some contention, or more just in some decision, than perhaps -I really was. I needed to be shown your affection for me, as I was -ever ready, ever anxious, to show mine for you, in all the little ways -that are the language of the heart and that fill a woman's life with -music. - -"All this I needed. My nature cried out for it as instinctively as the -nature of man cries out for God. But all this I needed generally in -vain. You were not always a niggard. You were ready sometimes to give -in your way. But were you ever ready to give in mine when you saw--and -sometimes you must have seen, sometimes you did see--what mine was? I -longed always to give you all you wanted in the way you wanted it. But -you gave when you wished and as you chose to give. I was often -grateful. I was too often grateful. I was unduly grateful. Because I -was giving, I was always giving far more than I received. - -"But all that time I had something. All that time I had a memory that -I counted sacred. All that time, like an idiot child, I was clasping -in my hand a farthing, which I believed, which I stated, to be a -shining piece of gold. - -"You knew what it was. You knew it was a farthing! You knew--you knew! - -"And now that the hour has come when I know, too, can't you understand -that I realize not only that that farthing is a farthing, but that all -farthings are farthings? Can't you understand that I hate those who -have given me farthings when my hands were stretched out for gold--my -hands that were giving gold? - -"Can't you understand? Can't you? Then I'll make you understand! I'll -make you! I'll make you!" - -Again the blackness gathered itself together, took a form, the form of -a wave, towered up as a gigantic wave towers, rolled upon Artois to -overwhelm him. He stood firm and received the shock. For he was -beginning to understand. He was no longer confronting waves of hatred -which were also waves of mystery. - -He had thought that Hermione hated him, hated every one just then, -because of what Ruffo had silently told her that day at Mergellina. -But as he stood there in the dark at the door of that black chamber, -hearing the distant murmur of the sea about the palace walls, there -were borne in upon him, as if in words she told him, all the reasons -for present hatred of him which preceded the great reason of that day; -reasons for hatred which sprang, perhaps, which surely must spring, -from other reasons of love. - -His mind was exaggerating, as minds do when the heart is intensely -moved, yet it discerned much truth. And it was very strange, but his -now acute consciousness of a personal hatred coming to him from out of -the darkness of this almost secret chamber, and of its complex causes, -causes which nevertheless would surely never have produced the effect -he felt but for the startling crisis of that day, this acute -consciousness of a personal and fierce hatred bred suddenly in Artois -a new sensation of something that was not hatred, that was the reverse -of hatred. Vere had once compared him to a sleepy lion. The lion was -now awake. - -"Hermione," he said--and now his voice was strong and unfaltering--"I -seem to have been listening to you all this time that I have been -standing here. Surely I have been listening to you, hearing your -thoughts. Don't you know it? Haven't you felt it? When I left the -island, when I followed you, I thought I understood. I thought I -understood what you were feeling, almost all that you were feeling. I -know now how little I understood. I didn't realize how much there was -to understand. You've been telling me. Haven't you, Hermione? Haven't -you?" - -He paused. But there was no answer. - -"I am sure you have been telling me. We must get down to the truth at -last. I thought--till now I have thought that I was more able to read -the truth than most men. You must often have laughed--how you must -have laughed--secretly at my pretensions. Only once--one night in the -garden on the island--I think I saw you laughing. And even then I -didn't understand. Mon Dieu!" - -He was becoming fiercely concentrated now on what he was saying. He -was losing all self-consciousness. He was even losing consciousness of -the strange fact that he was addressing a void. It was as if he saw -Hermione, so strongly did he feel her. - -"Mon Dieu! It is as if I'd been blind all the time I have known you, -blind to the truth of you and blinder still to my own truth. Perhaps I -am blind now. I don't know. But, Hermione, I can see something. I do -know something of you and of myself. I do know that even now there is -a link between us. You want to deny it. You wouldn't acknowledge it. -But it is there. We are not quite apart from each other. We can't be -that. for there is something--there has always been something, since -that night we met in Paris, at Madame Enthoven's"--he paused again, so -vividly flashed the scene of that dinner in Paris upon his memory-- -"something to draw us together, something to hold us together, -something strong. Don't deny it even now. Don't deny it. Can't I be of -some help, even now? Don't say I am utterly useless because I have -been so useless to you, so damnably useless in the past. I see all -that, my wretched uselessness to you through all these years. I am -seeing it now while I am speaking. All the time I'm seeing it. What -you have deserved and what you have had!" - -He stopped, then he said again: - -"What you have deserved and what you have had from me! And from--it -was so--it was the same long ago, not here. But till to-day you didn't -know that. I was wrong. I must have been wrong, hideously wrong, but I -didn't want you ever to know that. It isn't that I don't love truth. -You know I do. But I thought that he was right. And it is only lately, -this summer, that I have had any doubts. But I was wrong. I must have -been wrong. It was intended that you should know. God, perhaps, -intended it." - -He thought he heard a movement. But he was not quite sure. For there -was always the noise of the sea in the deserted chambers of the -palace. - -"It seems to me now as if I had always been deceived, mistaken, blind -with you, about you. I thought you need never know. I was mad enough -to think that. But I was madder still, for I thought--I must have -thought--that you could not bear to know, that you weren't strong -enough to endure the knowledge. But"--he was digging deep now, -searching for absolute truth: in this moment his natural passion for -truth, in one direction repressed for many years deliberately and -consciously, in other directions, perhaps almost unconsciously -frustrated, took entire possession of his being--"but nothing should -ever be allowed to stand in the way of truth. I believe that. I know -it. I must, I will always act upon the knowledge from this moment. -Never mind if it is bitter, cruel. Perhaps it is sometimes put into -the world because of that. I've been a horrible /faineant/, the last -of /faineants/. I protected you from the truth. With Gaspare I managed -to do it. We never spoke of it--never. But I think each of us -understood. And we acted together for you in that. And I--it has often -seemed to me that it was a fine thing to do, and that my motives in -doing it were fine. But sometimes I have wondered whether they weren't -selfish--whether, instead of protecting you, I wasn't only protecting -myself. For it was all my fault. It all came about through me, through -my weakness, my cursed weakness, my cursed weakness and whining for -help." He grew scarlet in the dark, realizing how his pride in his -strength, his quiet assumption with Hermione that he was the stronger, -must often have made her marvel, or almost weep. "I called you away. I -called you to Africa. And if I hadn't it would all have been -different." - -"No, it would all have been the same." - -Artois started. Out of the darkness a voice, a low, cold, inexorable -voice had spoken--had spoken absolute truth, correcting his lie: - -"It would all have been the same!" - -The woman's unerring instinct had penetrated much further than the -man's. He had been feeling the shell; she plucked out the kernel. He -had been speaking of the outward facts, of the actions of the body; -she spoke of the inward facts, of the actions of the soul. Her -husband's sin against her was not his unfaithfulness, the -unfaithfulness at the Fair, but the fact that all the time he had been -with her, all the time she had been giving her whole self to him, all -the time that she had been surrounding him with her love, he had -retained in his soul the power to will to commit it. That he had been -given an opportunity to sin was immaterial. What was material was that -he had been capable of sinning. - -Artois saw his lie. And he stood there silent, rebuked, waiting for -the voice to speak again. But it did not speak. And he felt as if -Hermione were silently demanding that he should sound the deeper -depths of truth, he who had always proclaimed to her his love of -truth. - -"Perhaps--yes, it would have been the same," he said. "But--but--" His -intention was to say, "But we should not have known it." He checked -himself. Even as they formed themselves in his mind the words seemed -bending like some wretched, flabby reed. - -"It would have been the same. But that makes no difference in my -conduct. I was weak and called to you. You were strong and came to me. -How strong you were! How strong it was of you to come!" - -As if for the first time--and indeed it was for the first time--he -really and thoroughly comprehended her self-sacrifice, the almost -bizarre generosity of her implacably unselfish nature. He measured the -force of her love and the greatness of her sacrifice, by the depth of -her disillusion; and he began to wonder, almost as a child wonders at -things, how he had been able during all these years quite simply, with -indeed the almost incredible simplicity of man, never to be shared by -any woman, to assume and to feel, when with Hermione, that he was the -dominant spirit of the two, that she was, very rightly and properly, -and very happily for her, leaning comfortably upon his strength. And -in his wonder he knew that the real dominance strikes its roots in the -heart, not in the head. - -"You were strong, then, and you were strong, you were wonderfully -strong, when--afterwards. On Monte Amato--that evening--you were -strong." - -His mind went to that mountain summit. The eyes of his mind saw the -evening calm on Etna, and then--something else, a small, fluttering -fragment of white paper at his feet among the stones. And, as if her -mind read his, she spoke again, still in that low, cold, and -inexorable voice. - -"That piece of paper you found--what was it?" - -"Hermione--Hermione--it was part of a letter of yours written in -Africa, telling him that we were coming to Sicily, the day we were -coming." - -"It was that!" - -The voice had suddenly changed. It struggled with a sob. It sank away -in a sob. The sin--that she could speak of with a sound of calm. But -all the woman in her was stricken by the thought of her happy letter -treated like that, hated, denied, destroyed, and thrown to the winds. - -"My letter! My letter!" - -"Hermione!" - -His heart spoke in his voice, and he made a step forward in the -darkness. - -"Don't!" - -The voice had changed again, had become sharp, almost cutting. Like -the lash of a whip it fell upon him. And he stopped at once. It seemed -to him as if she had cried out, "If you dare to give me your pity I -shall kill you!" - -And he felt as if just then, for such a reason, she would be capable -of such an action. - -"I will not--" He almost faltered. "I am not--coming." - -Never before had he been so completely dominated by any person, or by -any fate, or by anything at all. - -There was again a silence. Then he said: - -"You are strong. I know you will be strong now. You can't go against -your nature. I ought to have realized that as I have not realized it. -I ought to have trusted to your strength long ago." - -If he had known how weak she felt while she listened to him, how her -whole being was secretly entreating to be supported, to be taken hold -of tenderly, and guarded and cared for like a child! But he was a man. -And at one moment he understood her and at another he did not. - -"Gaspare and I--we wished to spare you. And perhaps I wished to spare -myself. I think I did. I am sure I did. I am sure that was partly my -reason. I was secretly ashamed of my cowardice, my weakness in Africa; -and when I knew--no, when I guessed, for it was only that--what my -appeal to you had caused--all it had caused--" - -He paused. He was thinking of Maurice's death, which must have been a -murder, which he was certain had been a murder. - -"I hadn't--" - -But the compelling voice from the darkness interrupted him. - -"All?" it said. - -He hesitated. Had she read his mind again? - -"All?" - -"The misery," he answered, slowly. "The sorrow that has lain upon your -life ever since." - -"Did you mean that? Did you only mean that?" - -"No." - -"What did you mean?" - -"I was thinking of his death," he replied. - -He spoke very quietly. He was resolved to have no more subterfuges, -whatever the coward or the tender friend, or--the something else that -was more than the tender friend within him might prompt him to try to -hide. - -"I was thinking of his death." - -"His death!" - -Artois felt cold with apprehension, but he was determined to be -sincere. - -"I don't understand." - -"Don’t ask me any more, Hermione. I know nothing more." - -"He was coming from the island. He slipped and fell into the sea." - -"He fell into the sea." - -There was a long silence between them, filled by the perpetual -striving of the restless waves within the chambers of the palace. Then -she said: - -"Her father was on the island that night?" - -"I think he was." - -"Was it that? Was it that? Did Maurice make that atonement?" - -Artois shuddered. Her voice was so strange, or sounded so strange in -the dark. Did she wish to think, wish to be sure that her husband had -been murdered? He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved. -Was she coming nearer? He heard her breathing, or thought he heard it. -He longed to be certain. He longed to still the perpetual cry of the -baffled sea. - -"Then he was brave--at the last. I think he knew--I am sure he knew-- -when he went down to the sea. I am sure he knew--when he said good- -bye." - -Her voice was nearer to him. And again it had changed, utterly -changed. And in the different sounds of her voice Artois seemed to see -the different women who dwelt within her, to understand and to know -them as he had never understood and known them before. This woman was -pleading, as women will plead for a man they have once loved, so long -as they have voices, so long as they have hearts. - -"Then that last time he didn't--no, he didn't go to--her." - -The voice was almost a whisper, and Artois knew that she was speaking -for herself--that she was telling herself that her husband's last -action had been--not to creep to the woman, but to stand up and face -the man. - -"Was it her father?" - -The voice was still almost a whisper. - -"I think it was." - -"Maurice paid then--he paid!" - -"Yes. I am sure he paid." - -"Gaspare knew. Gaspare knew--that night. He was afraid. He knew--but -he didn't tell me. He has never told me." - -"He loved his master." - -"Gaspare loved Maurice more than he loved me." - -By the way she said that Artois knew that Gaspare was forgiven. And a -sort of passion of love for woman's love welled up in his heart. At -that moment he almost worshipped Hermione for being unable, even in -that moment, not to love Gaspare because Gaspare had loved the dead -man more than he loved her. - -"But Gaspare loves you," he said. - -"I don't believe in love. I don't want love any more." - -Again the voice was transformed. It had become hollow and weary, -without resonance, like the voice of some one very old. And Artois -thought of Virgil's Grotto, of all they had said there, and of how the -rock above them had broken into deep and sinister murmurings, as if to -warn them, or rebuke. - -And now, too, there were murmurings about them, but below them from the -sea. - -"Hermione, we must speak only the truth to-night." - -"I am telling you the truth. You chose to follow me. You chose to hunt -me--to hunt me when you knew it was necessary to me to be alone. It -was brutal to do it. It was brutal. I had earned the right at least to -one thing: I had earned the right to be alone. But you didn't care. -You wouldn't respect my right. You hunted me as you might have hunted -an animal. I tried to escape. But you saw me coming, and you chased -me, and you caught me. I can't get away. You have driven me in here. -And I can't get away from you. You won't even let me be alone." - -"I dare not let you be alone to-night." - -"Why not? What are you afraid of? What does it matter to you where I -go or what I do? Don't say it matters! Don't dare say that!" - -Her voice was fierce now. - -"It doesn't matter to anybody, except perhaps a little to Vere and a -very little to Gaspare. It never has really mattered to anybody. I -thought it did once to some one. I thought I knew it did. But I was -wrong. It didn't. It never mattered." - -As she spoke an immense, a terrific feeling of desolation poured over -her, as if from above, coming down upon her in the dark. It was like a -flood that stiffened into ice upon her, making her body and her soul -numb for a moment. - -"I've never mattered to any one." - -She muttered the words to herself. As she did so Artois seemed again -to be looking into the magic mirror of the /fattura della morte/, to -see the pale man, across whose face the shadow of a palm-leaf shifted, -turning on his bed towards a woman who stood by an open door. - -"You have always mattered to me," he said. - -As he spoke there was in his voice that peculiar ring of utter -sincerity which can no more be simulated, or mistaken, than the -ringing music of sterling gold. But perhaps she was not in a condition -to hear rightly, or perhaps something within her chose to deny, had a -lust for denial because denial hurt her. - -"To you least of all," she said. "Only yourself has ever really -mattered to you." - -In a sentence she summed up the long catalogue that had been given to -him by her silence. - -His whole body felt as if it reddened. His skin tingled with a sort of -physical anger. His mature pride that had grown always, as a strong -man's natural pride does grow with the passing of the years, seemed to -him instinctively to rush forward to return the blow that had been -dealt it. - -"That is not quite true," he said. - -"It is true. I have always had copper and I have always wanted gold," -she answered. - -He controlled himself, to prove to himself that she lied, that he was -not the eternal egoist she dubbed him. Sometimes he had been genuinely -unselfish, sometimes--not often, perhaps, but sometimes--he had really -sunk himself in her. She was not being quite just. But how could she -be quite just to-night? An almost reckless feeling overtook him, a -desire to conquer at all costs in this struggle; to win her back, -whether against her will or not, to her old self; to eliminate the -shocking impression made upon her soul by the discovery of that day, -to wipe it out utterly, to replace it with another; to revive within -her that beautiful enthusiasm which had been as a light always shining -for her and from her upon people and events and life; to make her -understand, to prove to her that, after all allowance has been made -for uncertainties and contradictions of fate, for the ironies, the -paradoxes, the cruelties, the tragedies, and the despairs of -existence, the great, broad fact emerges, that what the human being -gives, in the long run the human being generally gets, and that she -who persistently gives gold will surely at last receive it. - -The thought of a lost Hermione struck to his heart a greater fear than -had already that night the thought of a dead Hermione. And if she was -changed she was lost. - -The real, the beautiful Hermione--he must seize her, grip her, hold -her fast before it was too late. - -"Hermione," he said, "I think you saved me from death; I am sure you -did. Did you save me only to hate me?" - -She made no reply. - -"Do you remember that evening when you came into my room at Kairouan -all covered with dust from your journey across the plains? I do. I -remember it as if it had happened an hour ago instead of nearly -seventeen years. I remember the strange feeling I had when I turned my -head and saw you, a feeling that you and Africa would fight for me and -that you would conquer. It had seemed to me that Africa meant to have -me and would have me. Unless you came I felt certain of that. And I -had thought about it all as I lay there in the stifling heat, till I -almost felt the feverish earth enclosing me. I had loved Africa, but -Africa seemed to me terrible then. I thought of only Arabs, always -Arabs, walking above me on the surface of the ground when I was -buried. And the thought made me shudder with horror. As if it could -have mattered! I was absurd! But one is often absurd when one is very -ill. The child in one comes out then, I suppose. And I had wondered-- -how I had wondered!--whether there was any chance of your coming. I -hadn't actually asked you to come. I hadn't dared to do that. But it -was the same thing almost. I had let you know--I had let you know. And -I saw you come into my room all covered with dust. You had come so -quickly--at once. Perhaps--perhaps sometimes you have thought I had -forgotten that evening. I may be an egoist. I expect most men are -egoists. And perhaps I am the egoist you say I am. Often one doesn't -know what one is. But I have never forgotten that day, and that you -were covered with dust. It was that--the dust--which seemed to make me -realize that you had not lost a moment as to whether you would come or -not. You looked as if--almost as if you had run all the way to be in -time to save my life--my wretched life. And you saved it. Did you save -me to hate me?" - -He waited for her to speak. But still she was silent. He heard no -sound of her at all, and for a moment he almost wondered whether she -had discovered that the chamber had some second outlet, whether she -had not escaped while he had been speaking. But he looked round and he -saw only dense darkness. She must be there still, close to him, -hearing everything he said, whether against her will or with it. He -was being perfectly sincere, and he was feeling very deeply, with -intensity. But out of his natural reserve now rose a fear--the fear -that perhaps his voice, his speech, did not convey his sincerity to -her. If she should mistake him! If she should fancy he was trying to -play upon her emotions in order to win her away from some desperate -resolve. He longed to make her see what he was feeling, feel what he -was feeling, be him and herself for one moment. And now the darkness -began to distract him. He wanted light. He wanted to see Hermione, to -see which of the women in her faced him, which was listening to him. - -"Hermione," he said, "I want you--I want--it's hateful speaking like -this, always in the darkness. Don't make me feel all the time that I -am holding you a prisoner. No, I can't--I won't bear that any more." - -He moved suddenly from the doorway back into the room behind him, in -which there was a very little, very faint light. There he waited. - -Almost immediately the tall shadow which had disappeared into the -darkness emerged from it, passed before him, and went into the central -chamber of the palace. He followed it, and found Hermione standing by -the great doorway that overlooked the sea. Hermione she was, no longer -a shadow, but the definite darkness of a human form relieved against -the clear but now moonless night. She was waiting. Surely she was -waiting for him. She might have escaped, but she stayed. She was -willing, then, to hear what he had to say, all he had to say. - -He stood still at a little distance from her. But in this hall the -sound of the sea which came from the chamber on the left was much more -distinct and disturbing than in the chamber where she had hidden. And -he came nearer to her, till he was very near, almost close to her. - -"If you hated me for--once, when we were standing on the terrace, you -said, 'Take care--or I shall hate you for keeping me in the dark.' If -you hated me because of what I have done, with Gaspare, Hermione, I -could bear it. I could bear it, because I think it would pass away. We -did keep you in the dark. Now you know it. But you know our reason, -and that it was a reason of very deep affection. And I think you would -forgive us, I know you would forgive us in the end. But I understand -it isn't only that--" - -Suddenly he thought of Vere, of that perhaps dawning folly, so utterly -dead now, so utterly dead that he could no longer tell whether it had -ever even sluggishly stirred with life. He thought of Vere, and of the -poems, and of the secret of Peppina's revelation. And he wondered -whether the record he seemed to read in the silence had been a true -record, or whether his imagination and his intellect of a -psychologist, alert even in this hour of intense emotion, had been -deceiving him. Hermione had seemed to be speaking to him. But had he -really been only impersonating her? Had it been really himself that -had spoken to himself? As this question arose in his mind he longed to -make Hermione speak. Then he could be sure of all. He must clear away -all misconception. Yet, even now, how could he speak of that episode -with Vere? - -"You say you have always wanted gold, and that you have never been -given gold--" - -"Yes." - -He saw the dark figure near him lift its head. And he felt that -Hermione had come out of the darkness with the intention of speaking -the truth of what she felt. If she could not have spoken she would -have stayed in the inner chamber, or she would have escaped altogether -from the palace when he moved from the doorway. He was sure that only -if she spoke would she change. In her silence there was damnation for -them both. But she meant to speak. - -"I have been a fool. I see that now. But I think I have been -suspecting it for some time--nearly all this summer." - -He could hear by the sound of her voice that while she was speaking -she was thinking deeply. Like him, she was in search of absolute -truth. - -"It is only this summer that I have begun to see why people--you--have -often smiled at my enthusiasms. No wonder you smiled! No wonder you -laughed at me secretly!" - -Her voice was hard and bitter. - -"I never laughed at you, never--either secretly or openly!" he said, -with a heat almost of anger. - -"Oh yes, you did, as a person who can see clearly might laugh at a -short-sighted person tumbling over all the little obstacles on a road. -I was always tumbling over things--always--and you must always have -been laughing. I have been a fool. Instead of growing up, my heart has -remained a child--till now. That's what it is. Children who have been -kindly treated think the world is all kindness. Because my friends -were good to me, the world was good to me, I got into the habit of -believing that I was lovable, and of loving in return. And I trusted -people. I always thought they were giving me what I was giving them. -That has been my great folly, the folly I'm punished for. I have been -a credulous fool. I have thought that because I gave a thing with all -my heart it was--it must be--given back to me. And yet I was surprised ---I could scarcely believe it--when--when--" - -He knew she was thinking of her beautiful wonder when Maurice had said -he loved her. - -"I could scarcely believe it! But, because I was a fool, I got to -believe it, and I have believed it till to-day--you have stood by, and -watched me believing it, and laughed at me for believing it till -to-day." - -"Hermione!" - -"Yes, you mayn't have meant to laugh, but you must have laughed. Your -mind, your intellect must have laughed. Don't say they haven't. I -wouldn't believe you. And I know your mind--at any rate, I know that. -Not your heart! I shall never pretend--I shall never think again for a -moment that I know anything--anything at all--about a man's heart. But -I do know something about your mind. And I know the irony in it. What -a subject I have presented to you all these years for the exercise of -your ironic faculty! You ought to thank me! You ought to go on your -knees and thank me and bless me for that!" - -"Hermione!" - -"Just now you talked of my coming into your room in Kairouan all -covered with dust. You asked me if I remembered it. Yes, I do. And I -remember something you don't--probably you don't--remember. There was -no looking-glass in your room." - -She stopped. - -"No looking-glass!" he repeated, wondering. - -"No, there was no looking-glass. And I remember when I came in I saw -there wasn't, and I was glad. Because I couldn't look at myself and -see how dreadful and dishevelled and hideous I was--how dirty even I -was. My impulse was to go to a glass. And then I was glad I couldn't. -And I looked at your face. And I thought 'he doesn't care. He loves -me, all dusty and hideous and horrid, as I am.' And then I didn't care -either. I said to myself, 'I look an object, and I don't mind a bit, -because I see in his face that he loves me for myself, because he sees -my heart, and--' " - -And suddenly in her voice there was a sharp, hissing catch, and she -stopped short. For a full minute she was silent. And Artois did not -speak. Nor did he move. - -"I felt then, perhaps for the first time, 'the outside doesn't matter -to real people.' I felt that. I felt, 'I'm real, and he is real, and-- -and Maurice is real. And though it is splendid to be beautiful, and -beauty means so much, yet it doesn't mean so much as I used to think. -Real people get beyond it. And when once they have got beyond it then -life begins.' I remember thinking that, feeling that, and--just for a -minute loving my own ugliness. And then, suddenly, I wished there was -a looking-glass in the room that I might stand before it and see what -an object I was, and then look into your face and see that it didn't -matter. And I even triumphed in my ugliness. 'I have a husband who -doesn't mind,' I thought. 'And I have a friend who doesn't mind. They -love me, both of them, whatever I look like. It's me--the woman inside ---they love, because they know I care, and how I care for them.' And -that thought made me feel as if I could do anything for Maurice and -anything for you; heroic things, or small, dreadful, necessary things; -as if I could be the servant of, or sacrifice my life easily for, -those who loved me so splendidly, who knew how to love so splendidly. -And I was happy then even in sacrificing my happiness with Maurice. -And I thanked God then for not having given me beauty. - -"And I was a fool. But I didn't find it out. And so I revelled in -self-sacrifice. You don't know, you could never understand, how I -enjoyed doing the most menial things for you in your illness. Often -you thanked me, and often you seemed ashamed that I should do such -things. And the doctor--that little Frenchman--apologized to me. And -you both thought that doing so much in the frightful heat would make -me ill. And I blessed the heat and the flies and everything that made -what I did for you more difficult to do. Because the doing of what was -more difficult, more trying, more fatiguing needed more love. And my -gratitude to you for your loving friendship, and for needing me more -than any one else, wanted to be tried to the uttermost. And I thought, -too, 'When I go back to Maurice I shall be worth a little more, I -shall be a little bit finer, and he'll feel it. He'll understand -exactly what it was to me to leave him so soon, to leave--to leave -what I thought of then as my Garden of Paradise. And he'll love me -more because I had the courage to leave it to try and save my friend. -He'll realize--he'll realize--' But men don't. They don't want to. Or -they can't. I'm sure--I'm positive now that men think less of women -who are ready to sacrifice themselves than of women who wish to make -slaves of them. I see that now. It's the selfish women they admire, -the women who take their own way and insist on having all they want, -not the women who love to serve them--not slavishly, but out of love. -A selfish woman they can understand; but a woman who gives up -something very precious to her they don't understand. Maurice never -understood my action in going to Africa. And you--I don't believe you -ever understood it. You must have wondered at my coming as much as he -did at my going. You were glad I came at the moment. Oh yes, you were -glad. I know that. But afterwards you must have wondered, you did -wonder. You thought it Quixotic, odd. You said to yourself, 'It was -just like Hermione. How could she do it? How could she come to me if -she really loved her husband?' And very likely my coming made you -doubt my really loving Maurice. I am almost sure it did. I don't -believe all these years you have ever understood what I felt about -him, what his death meant to me, what life meant to me afterwards. I -told--I tried to tell you in the cave--that day. But I don't think you -really understood at all. And he--he didn't understand my love for -him. But I suppose he didn't even want to. When I went away he simply -forgot all about me. That was it. I wasn't there, and he forgot. I -wasn't there, and another woman was there--and that was enough for -him. And I dare say--now--it is enough for most men, perhaps for every -man. And then I'd made another mistake. I was always making mistakes -when my heart led me. And I'd made a mistake in thinking that real -people get beyond looks, the outside--and that then life begins. They -don't--at least real men don't. A woman may spend her heart's blood -for a man through years, and for youthful charm and a face that is -pretty, for the mere look in a pair of eyes or the curve of a mouth, -he'll almost forget that she's alive, even when she's there before -him. He'll take the other woman's part against her instinctively, -whichever is in the right. If both women do exactly the same thing a -man will find that the pretty woman has performed a miracle and the -ugly woman made some preposterous mistake. That is how men are. That -is how you are, I suppose, and that was Maurice, too. He forgot me for -a peasant. But--she must have been pretty once. And I was always -ugly!" - -"Delarey loved you," Artois said, suddenly, interrupting her in a -strong, deep voice, a voice that rang with true conviction. - -"He never loved me. Perhaps he thought he did. He must have thought -so. And that first day--when we were coming up the mountain-side--" - -She stopped. She was seized; she was held fast in the grip of a memory -so intense, so poignant, that she made, she could make, no effort to -release herself. She heard the drowsy wail of the Ceramella dropping -down the mountain-side in the radiant heat of noon. She felt Maurice's -warm hand. She remembered her words about the woman's need to love--"I -wanted, I needed to love--do men ever feel that? Women do often, -nearly always, I think." The Pastorale--it sounded in her ears. Or was -it the sea that sounded, the sea in the abandoned chambers of the -Palace of the Spirits? She listened. No, it was the Pastorale, that -antique, simple, holy tune, that for her must always be connected with -the thought of love, man's love for woman, and the Bambino's love for -all the creatures of God. It flooded her heart, and beneath it sank -down, like a drowning thing, for a moment the frightful bitterness -that was alive in her heart to-night. - -"Delarey loved you," Artois repeated. "He loved you on the first day -in Sicily, and he loved you on the last." - -"And--and the days between?" - -Her voice spoke falteringly. In her voice there was a sound of -pleading that struck into the very depths of his heart. The real -Hermione was in that sound, the loving woman who needed love, who -deserved a love as deep as that which she had given, as that which she -surely still had to give. - -"He loved you always, but he loved you in his way." - -"In his way!" she repeated, with a sort of infinite, hopeless sadness. - -"Yes, Hermione, in his way. Oh, we all have our ways, all our -different ways of loving. But I don't believe a human being ever -existed who had no way at all. Delarey's way was different from your -way, so different that, now you know the truth of him, perhaps you -can't believe he ever loved you. But he did. He was young, and he was -hot-blooded--he was really of the South. And the sun got hold of him. -And he betrayed you. But he repented. That last day he was stricken, -not by physical fear, but by a tremendous shame at what he had done to -you, and perhaps, also, by fear lest you should ever know it. I sat -with him by the wall, and I felt without at all fully understanding it -the drama in his soul. But now I understand it. I'm sure I understand -it. And I think the depth of a shame is very often the exact measure -of the depth of a love. Perhaps, indeed, there is no more exact -measure." - -Again he thought of the episode with Vere, and of his determination -always from henceforth to be absolutely sincere with himself and with -those whom he really loved. - -"I am sure there is no more exact measure. Hermione, it is very -difficult, I think, to realize what any human being is, to judge any -one quite accurately. Some judge a nature by the distance it can sink, -others by the distance it can rise. Which do you do? Do you judge -Delarey by his act of faithlessness? And, if you do, how would you -judge me?" - -"You!" - -There was a sound of wonder in her voice. - -"Yes. You say I am an egoist. And this that I am saying will seem to -you egoism. It is egoism, I suppose. But I want to know--I must know. -How would you judge me? How do you judge me?" - -She was silent. - -"How are you judging me at this moment? Aren't you judging me by the -distance I fall, the distance, perhaps, you think I have fallen?" - -He spoke slowly. He was delaying. For all the time he spoke he was -secretly battling with his pride--and his pride was a strong fighter. -But to-night his passion for sincerity, his instinct that for Hermione ---and for him, too--salvation lay in their perfect, even in their -cruel sincerity to themselves and to each other, was a strong fighter -also. In it his pride met an antagonist that was worthy of it. And he -went on: - -"Are you judging me by this summer?" - -He paused. - -"Go on," she said. - -He could not tell by her voice what she was feeling, thinking. -Expression seemed to be withdrawn from it, perhaps deliberately. - -"This summer something has come between us, a cloud has come between -us. I scarcely know when I first noticed it, when it came. But I have -felt it, and you have felt it." - -"Yes." - -"It might, perhaps, have arisen from the fact of my suspicion who -Ruffo was, a suspicion that lately became a certainty. My suspicion, -and latterly my knowledge, no doubt changed my manner--made me -anxious, perhaps, uneasy, made me watchful, made me often seem very -strange to you. That alone might have caused a difference in our -relations. But I think there was something else." - -"Yes, there was something else." - -"And I think, I feel sure now, that it was something to do with Vere. -I was, I became deeply interested in Vere--interested in a new way. -She was growing up. She was passing from childhood into girlhood. She -was developing swiftly. That development fascinated me. Of course I -had always been very fond of Vere. But this summer she meant more to -me than she had meant. One day--it was the day I came back to the -island after my visit to Paris--" - -"Yes?" - -He looked at her, trying to read what she was feeling in her face, but -it was too dark for him to discern it. - -"Vere made a confession to me. She told me she was working secretly, -that she was writing poems. I asked her to show them to me. She did -so. I found some talent in them, enough for me to feel justified in -telling her to continue. Once, Hermione, you consulted me. Then my -advice was different." - -"I know." - -"The remembrance of this, and Vere's knowledge that you had suffered -in not succeeding with work, prompted us to keep the matter of her -attempts to write a secret for the time. It seems a trifle--all this, -but looking back now I feel that we were quite wrong in not telling -you." - -"I found it out." - -"You knew?" - -"I went to Vere's room. The poems were on the table with your -corrections. I read them." - -"We ought to have told you." - -"I oughtn't to have read them, but I did." - -"A mother has the right--" - -"Not a mother who has resigned her right to question her child. I had -said to Vere, 'Keep your secrets.' So I had no right, and I did wrong -in reading them." - -He felt that she was instinctively trying to match his sincerity with -hers, and that fact helped him to continue. - -"The knowledge of this budding talent of Vere's made me take a new -interest in her, made me wish very much--at least I thought, I -believed it was that, Hermione--that no disturbing influence should -come into her life. Isidoro Panacci came--through me. Peppina came-- -through you. Hermione, on the night when Vere and I went out alone -together in the boat Vere learned the truth about Peppina and the life -behind the shutter." - -"I knew that, too." - -"You knew it?" - -"Yes. I suspected something. You led me to suspect it." - -"I remember--" - -"I questioned Peppina. I made her tell me." - -He said nothing for a moment. Then, with an effort, he said: - -"You knew we had kept those two things from you, Vere and I?" - -"Vere and you--yes." - -Now he understood almost all, or quite all, that had been strange to -him in her recent conduct. - -"Sometimes--have you almost hated us for keeping those two secrets?" - -"I don't think I have ever hated Vere." - -"But me?" - -"Do you know why I told Vere she might read your books?" - -"Why?" - -"Because I thought they might make her feel differently towards you." - -"Less--less kindly?" - -"Yes." - -She spoke very quietly, but he felt--he did not know why--that it had -cost her very much to say what she had said. - -"You wanted Vere to think badly of me!" - -He was honoring her for the moral courage which enabled her to tell -him. Yet he felt as if she had struck him. And so absolutely was he -accustomed to delicate tenderness, and the most thoughtful, anxious -kindness from her, that he suffered acutely and from a double -distress. The thing itself was cruel and hurt him. But that Hermione -had done it hurt him far more. He could hardly believe it. That by any -road she could travel to such an action seemed incredible to him. He -stood, realizing it. And the bitter sharpness of his suffering made -him understand something. In all its fulness he understood what -Hermione's tenderness had been in his life for many, many years. And -then--his mind seemed to take another step. "Why does a woman do such -a thing as this?" he asked himself. "Why does such a woman as Hermione -do such a thing?" And he knew what her suffering must have been, and -how her heart must have been storm-tossed, before it was driven to -succumb to such an impulse. - -And he came quite close to her. And he felt a strange, sudden nearness -to her that was no nearness of body. - -"Hermione," he said, "I could never judge your character by that -action. Don't--don't judge mine by any cruelty of which I have been -guilty during this summer. You have told me something that it was very -difficult for you to tell. I have something to tell you. And it is--it -is not easy to tell." - -"Tell it me." - -He looked at her. He was now quite close to her, and could see the -outline of her face but not the expression in her eyes. - -"My interest in Vere increased. I believed it to be an interest -aroused in me by the discovery of this talent in her. I believed the -new fondness I felt for her to be a very natural fondness, caused by -her charming confidence in me. Our little secret drew us together. And -I understand now, Hermione, that it seemed to set you apart from us. I -believe I understand all now, all the circumstances that have seemed -strange to me this summer. I wanted Vere's talent to develop -naturally, unhindered, unaffected--I thought it was merely that--and I -became exigent, I even became jealous of all outside interference. On -the night we dined at Frisio's I felt strongly irritated at Panacci's -interest in Vere. And there were other moments--" - -He looked at her again. She stood perfectly still. Her head was -slightly bent and she seemed to be looking at the ground. - -"And then came the night of the Carmine. Hermione, after you and Vere -had gone to bed Panacci and I had a quarrel. He attacked me violently. -He told me--he told me that I was in love with Vere, and that you, and -even--even that Gaspare knew it. At the moment I think I laughed at -him. I thought his accusation ridiculous. But when he was gone--and -afterwards--I examined myself. I tried to know myself. I spent hours -in self-examination, cruel self-examination. I did not spare myself. -Believe that, Hermione! Believe that!" - -"I do believe it." - -"And at the end I knew that it was not true. I was not, I had never -been in love with Vere. When I thought of Vere and myself in such a -relation my spirit recoiled. Such a thing seemed to me monstrous. But -though I knew that it was not true, I knew also that I had been -jealous of Vere, unjust to others because of Vere. I had been, -perhaps, foolish, undignified. Perhaps--perhaps--for how can we be -quite sure of ourselves. Hermione? How can we be certain of our own -natures, our own conduct?--perhaps, if Panacci's coarse brutality had -not waked up my whole being, I might have drifted on towards an -affection for Vere that, in a man of my age, would have been absurd, -have made me ridiculous in the eyes of others. I scarcely think so. -But I want to be sincere. I would rather exaggerate than minimize my -own shortcomings to you to-night. I scarcely believe it ever could -have been so. But Panacci said it was so. And you--I don't know what -you have thought--" - -"What I have thought doesn't matter now." - -She spoke very quietly, but not with bitterness. She knew Artois. And -even in that moment of emotion, and of a sort of strange exhaustion -following upon emotion, she knew, as no other living person could have -known, the effort it must have cost him to speak as he had just -spoken. - -"That, at any rate, is the exact truth." - -"I know it is." - -"I have thought myself clear-sighted, Hermione. I have studied others. -Just lately I have been forced to study myself. It is as if--it seems -to me as if events had conspired against my own crass ignorance of -myself, as if a resolve had been come to by the power that directs our -destinies that I should know myself. I wish I dared to tell you more. -I wish to-night I dared to tell you all that I have come to know. But -I dare not, I dare not. You would not believe me. I could not even -expect you to believe me." - -He stopped. Perhaps he hoped for a word that would deny his last -observation. But it did not come to him. And he hesitated for what -seemed to him a very long time, almost an eternity. He was beset by -indecision, by an extraordinary deep modesty and consciousness of his -own unworthiness that he had never before experienced, and also by a -new and acute consciousness of the splendor of Hermione's nature, of -the power of her heart, of the faithfulness and nobility of her -temperament. - -"All I can say, Hermione"--he at length went on speaking, and in his -voice sounded that strange modesty, a modesty that made his voice seem -to her almost like a voice of hesitating youth--"all that I dare to -say to-night is this. I told you just now that we all have our -different ways of loving. You have loved in your way. You have loved -Delarey as your husband. And you have loved me as your friend. -Delarey, as your husband, betrayed you. Only to-day you know it. I, as -your friend--have I ever betrayed you? Do you believe--even now when -you are ready to believe very much of evil--do you really believe that -as a friend I could ever betray you?" - -He moved, stood in front of her, lifted his hands and laid them on her -shoulders. - -"Do you believe that?" - -"No." - -"You have loved us in your way. He is dead. But I am here to love you -always in my way. Perhaps my way seems to you such a poor way--it -must, it must--that it is hardly worth anything at all. But perhaps, -now that I know so much of myself--and of you"--there was a slight -break in his voice--"and of you, I shall be able to find a different, -a better way. I don't know. To-night I doubt myself. I feel as if I -were so unworthy. But I may--I may be able to find a better way of -loving you." - -Quite unconsciously his two hands, which still rested upon her -shoulders, began to lean heavily upon them, to press them, to grip -them till she suffered a physical discomfort that almost amounted to -pain. - -"I shall seek a better way--I shall seek it. And the only thing I ask -you to-night is--that you will not forbid me to seek it." - -The pressure of his hands upon her shoulders was becoming almost -unbearable. But she bore it. She bore it for she loved it. Perhaps -that night no words could have quite convinced her of his desperate -honesty of soul in that moment, perhaps no sound of his voice could -have quite convinced her. But the unconsciously cruel pressure of his -hands upon her convinced her absolutely. She felt as if it was his -soul--the truth of his soul--which was grasping her--which was closing -upon her. And she felt that only a thing that needed could grasp, -could close like that. - -And even in the midst of her chaos of misery and doubt she felt, she -knew, that it was herself that was needed. - -"I will not forbid you to seek it," she said. - -He sighed deeply. His hands dropped down from her. They stood for a -moment quite still. Then he said, in a low voice: - -"You took the /fattura della morte/?" - -"Yes," she answered. "It was in--in her room at Mergellina to-day." - -"Have you got it still?" - -"Yes." - -She held out her right hand. He took the death-charm from her. - -"She made it--the woman who wronged you made it to bring death into -the Casa del Mare." - -"Not to me?" - -"No, to Peppina. Has it not brought another death? Or, at least, does -it not typify another death to-night, the death of a great lie? I -think it does. I look upon it as a symbol. But--but--?" - -He looked at her. He was at the huge doorway of the palace. The sea -murmured below him. Hermione understood and bent her head. - -Then Artois threw the death-charm far away into the sea. - -"Let me take you to the boat. Let me take you back to the island." - -She did not answer him. But when he moved she followed him, till they -came to the rocks and saw floating on the dim water the two white -boats. - -"Gaspare!" - -"Vengo!" - -That cry--what did it recall to Hermione? Gaspare's cry from the inlet -beneath the Isle of the Sirens when he was bringing the body of -Maurice from the sea. As she had trembled then, she began to tremble -now. She felt exhausted, that she could bear no more, that she must -rest, be guarded, cared for, protected, loved. The boat touched shore. -Gaspare leaped out. He cast an eager, fiery look of scrutiny on his -Padrona. She returned it. Then, suddenly, he seized her hand, bent -down and kissed it. - -She trembled more. He lifted his head, stared at her again. Then he -took her up in his strong arms, as if she were a child, and carried -her gently and carefully to the stern of the boat. - -"Lei si riposi!" he whispered, as he set her down. - -She shut her eyes, leaning back against the seat. She heard Artois get -in, the boat pushed off, the splash of the oars. But she did not open -her eyes, until presently an instinct told her there was something she -must see. Then she looked. - -The boat was passing under the blessing hand of San Francesco, under -the light of the Saint, which was burning calmly and brightly. - -Hermione moved. She bent down to the water, the /acqua benedetta/. She -sprinkled it over the boat and made the sign of the cross. When they -reached the island Artois got out. As she came on shore he said to -her: - -"Hermione, I left the--the two children together in the garden. Do you -think--will you go to them for a moment? Or--" - -"I will go," she answered. - -She was no longer trembling. She followed him up the steps, walking -slowly but firmly. They came to the house door. Gaspare had kept close -behind them. At the door Artois stopped. He felt as if to-night he -ought to go no farther. - -Hermione looked at him and passed into the house. Gaspare, seeing that -Artois did not follow her, hesitated, but Artois said to him: - -"Go, Gaspare, go with your Padrona." - -Then Gaspare went in, down the passage, and out to the terrace. - -Hermione was standing there. - -"Do you think they are in the garden, Gaspare?" she said. - -"Si, Signora. Listen! I can hear them!" - -He held up his hand. Not far away there was a sound of voices speaking -together. - -"Shall I go and tell them, Signora?" - -After a moment Hermione said: - -"Yes, Gaspare--go and tell them." - -He went away, and she waited, leaning on the balustrade and looking -down to the dim sea, from which only the night before Ruffo's voice -had floated up to her, singing the song of Mergellina. Only the night -before! And it seemed to her centuries ago. - -"Madre!" - -Vere spoke to her. Vere was beside her. But she gazed beyond her child -to Ruffo, who stood with his cap in his hand and his eyes, full of -gentleness, looking at her for recognition. - -"Ruffo!" she said. - -Vere moved to let Ruffo pass. He came up and stood before Hermione. - -"Ruffo!" she said again. - -It seemed that she was going to say more. They waited for her to say -more. But she did not speak. She stood quite still for a moment -looking at the boy. Then she put one hand on his shoulder, bent down -and touched his forehead with her lips. - -And in that kiss the dead man was forgiven. - - - -EPILOGUE - -On a radiant day of September in the following year, from the little -harbor of Mergellina a white boat with a green line put off. It was -rowed by Gaspare, who wore his festa suit, and it contained two -people, a man and a women, who had that morning been quietly married. - -Another boat preceded theirs, going towards the island, but it was so -far ahead of them that they could only see it as a moving dot upon the -shining sea, when they rounded the breakwater and set their course for -the point of land where lies the Antico Giuseppone. - -Gaspare rowed standing up, with his back towards Hermione and Artois -and his great eyes staring steadily out to sea. He plied the oars -mechanically. During the first few minutes of the voyage to the island -his mind was far away. He was a boy in Sicily once more, waiting -proudly upon his first, and indeed his only, Padrona in the Casa del -Prete on Monte Amato. Then she was quite alone. He could see her -sitting at evening upon the terrace with a book in her lap, gazing out -across the ravine and the olive-covered mountain slopes to the waters -that kissed the shore of the Sirens' Isle. He could see her, when -night fell, going slowly up the steps into the lighted cottage, and -turning on its threshold to wish him "Buon riposo." - -Then there was an interval--and she came again. He was waiting at the -station of Cattaro. Outside stood the little train of donkeys, -decorated with flowers under his careful supervision. Upon Monte -Amato, in the Casa del Prete, everything was in readiness for the -arrival of the Padrona--and the Padrone. For this time his Padrona was -not to be alone. And the train came in, thundering along by the sea, -and he saw a brown eager face looking out of a window--a face which at -once had seemed familiar to him almost as if he had always known it in -Sicily. - -And the new and wonderful period of his boy's life began. - -But it passed, and in the early morning he stood in the corner of the -Campo Santo where Protestants were buried, and threw flowers from his -father's terreno into an open grave. - -And once more his Padrona was alone. - -Far away from Sicily, from his "Paese," among the great woods of the -Abetone he received for the first time into his untutored arms his -Padroncina. His Padrone was gone from him forever. But once more, as -he would have expressed it to a Sicilian comrade, they were "in -three." And still another period began. - -And now that period was ended. - -As Gaspare rowed slowly on towards the island, in his simple and yet -shrewd way he was pondering on life, on its irresistible movement, on -its changes, its alternations of grief and joy, loneliness and -companionship. He was silently reviewing the combined fates of his -Padrona and himself. - -Behind him for a long while there was silence. But when the boat was -abreast of the sloping gardens of Posilipo Artois spoke at last. - -"Hermione!" he said. - -"Yes," she answered. - -"Do you remember that evening when I met you on the sea?" - -"After I had been to Frisio's? Yes I remember it." - -"You had been reading what I wrote in the wonderful book." - -"And I was wondering why you had written it." - -"I had no special reason. I thought of that saying. I had to write -something, so I wrote that. I wonder--I wonder now why long ago my -conscience did not tell me plainly something. I wonder it did not tell -me plainly what you were in my life, all you were." - -"Have I--have I really been much?" - -"I never knew how much till I thought of you permanently changed -towards me, till I thought of you living, but with your affection -permanently withdrawn from me. That night--you know--?" - -"Yes, I know." - -"At first I was not sure--I was afraid for a moment about you. Vere -and I were afraid, when your room was dark and we heard nothing. But -even then I did not fully understand how much I need you. I only -understood that in the Palace of the Spirits, when--when you hated -me--" - -"I don't think I ever hated you." - -"Hatred, you know, is the other side of love." - -"Then perhaps I did. Yes--I did." - -"How long my conscience was inactive, was useless to me! It needed a -lesson, a terrible lesson. It needed a cruel blow to rouse it." - -"And mine!" she answered, in a low voice. - -"We shall make many mistakes, both of us," he said. "But I think, -after that night, we can never for very long misunderstand each other. -For that night we were sincere." - -"Let us always be sincere." - -"Sincerity is the rock on which one should build the house of life." - -"Let us--you and I--let us build upon it our palace of the spirits." - -Then they were silent again. They were silent until the boat passed -the point, until in the distance the island appeared, even until the -prow of the boat grated against the rock beneath the window of the -Casa del Mare. - -As Hermione got out Gaspare bent to kiss her hand. - -"Benedicite!" he murmured. - -And, as she pressed his hand with both of hers, she answered: - -"Benedicite!" - - - -That night, not very late, but when darkness had fallen over the sea, -Hermione said to Vere: - -"I am going out for a little, Vere." - -"Yes, Madre." - -The child put her arms round her mother and kissed her. Hermione -tenderly returned the kiss, looked at Artois, and went out. - -She made her way to the brow of the island, and stood still for a -while, drinking in the soft wind that blew to her from Ischia. Then -she descended to the bridge and looked down into the Pool of San -Francesco. - -The Saint's light was burning steadily. She watched it for a moment, -and while she watched it she presently heard beneath her a boy's voice -singing softly the song of Mergellina: - - "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate - Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina; - Mi destan le dolcissime serate, - Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." - -The voice died away. There was a moment of silence. - -She clasped the rail with her hand; she leaned down over the Pool. - -"Buona notte, Ruffino!" she said softly. - -And the voice from the sea answered her: - -"Buona notte, Signora. Buona notte e buon riposo." - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Etext A Spirit in Prison, by Robert Hichens - |