A SPIRIT IN PRISON

By Robert Hichens

Original Transcriber's Note: This text was prepared from a 1908 edition, published by Harper & Brothers, New York and London. 

A SPIRIT IN PRISON

CHAPTER I

Somewhere, not far off on the still sea that held the tiny islet in awarm embrace, a boy's voice was singing "Napoli Bella. "

Vere heard the song as she sat in the sun with her face set towardsNisida and the distant peak of Ischia; and instinctively she shifted herposition, and turned her head, looking towards the calm and untroubledwater that stretched between her and Naples. For the voice that sangof 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 tothe voice. He stood beyond the sheltered pool of the sea that dividedthe 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 leftshoulder, and his robe of dusty grayish brown touched his feet, whichhad never wandered one step since he was made, and set there to keepwatch over the fishermen who come to sleep under the lee of the islandby night. 

Now it was brilliant daylight. The sun shone vividly over the Bay ofNaples, over the great and vital city, over Vesuvius, the long line ofthe land towards Sorrento, over Capri with its shadowy mountain, andPosilippo with its tree-guarded villas. And in the sharp radiance of Maythe careless voice of the fisher-boy sang the familiar song that Verehad always known and seldom heeded. 

To-day, why she did not know, Vere listened to it attentively. Somethingin the sound of the voice caught her attention, roused within her asense of sympathy. 

Carelessness and happiness make a swift appeal to young hearts, andthis voice was careless, and sounded very happy. There was a deliberategruffness in it, a determination to be manly, which proved the vocalistto be no man. Vere knew at once that a boy was singing, and she feltthat she must see him. 

She got up, went into the little garden at the edge of the cliff, andlooked over the wall. 

There was a boat moving slowly towards her, not very far away. In itwere three figures, all stripped for diving, and wearing white cottondrawers. Two were sitting on the gunwale with their knees drawn upnearly to their chins. The third was standing, and with a languid, but strong and regular movement, was propelling the boat forward withbig-bladed oars. This was the singer, and as the boat drew nearer Verecould see that he had the young, lithe form of a boy. 

While she watched, leaning down from her eyrie, the boat and the songstopped, and the singer let go his oars and turned to the men behindhim. The boat had reached a place near the rocks that was good groundfor _frutti di mare_. 

Vere had often seen the divers in the Bay of Naples at their curioustoil. Yet it never ceased to interest her. She had a passion for thesea, and for all things connected with it. Now she leaned a little lowerover the wall, with her eyes fixed on the boat and its occupants. 

Upon the water she saw corks floating, and presently one of the menswung himself round and sat facing the sea, with his back to the boatand his bare legs dipping into the water. The boy had dropped downto the bottom of the craft. His hands were busy arranging clothes, ortackle, and his lusty voice again rang out to the glory of "Napoli, bella Napoli. " There was something infectious in his happy-go-luckylight-heartedness. Vere smiled as she listened, but there was awistfulness in her heart. At that moment a very common desire of youngand vigorous girls assailed her--the desire to be a boy; not a boy bornof rich parents, destined to the idle, aimless life of aristocraticyoung Neapolitans, but a brown, badly dressed, or scarcely dressed atall boy of the people. 

She was often light-hearted, careless. But was she ever as light-heartedand careless as that singing boy? She supposed herself to be free. Butwas 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 thegunwale, let his body droop forward, dropped into the water, paddled fora 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 fromthe boat into the sea and imitated him. The boy sat still and wenton singing. Vere felt disappointed. Was not he going to dive too? Shewanted him to dive. If she were that boy she would go in, she feltsure of it, before the men. It must be lovely to sink down into theunderworld of the sea, to rifle from the rocks their fruit, that grewthick as fruit on the trees. But the boy--he was lazy, good for nothingbut singing. She was half ashamed of him. Whimsically, and laughing toherself at her own absurdity, she lifted her two hands, brown with thesun, 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 shewas directing these strange sea doings. She was ruling over the men ofthe sea. 

The empty boat swayed softly on the water, but its three formeroccupants were all hidden by the sea. It seemed as if they would nevercome up again. Vere began to hold her breath as they were holdingtheirs. At last a dark head rose above the surface, then another. Thetwo men paddled for a minute, drawing the air into their lungs. But theboy did not reappear. 

As the seconds passed, Vere began to feel proud of him. He was doingthat which she would have tried to do had she been a boy. He wasrivalling the men. 

Another second slipped away--and another. He was more than rivalling, hewas beating the men. 

They dived once more. She saw the sun gleam on their backs, which lookedpolished 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? Whatif he had been caught by the seaweed, or if his groping hand had beenretained 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 hisagony, took part in his struggle to regain his freedom. She clinchedher small hands and set her teeth. She held her breath, trying to feelexactly as he was feeling. And then suddenly she lifted her hands up toher face, covering her nostrils. What a horrible sensation it was, thissuffocation, this pressing of the life out of the body, almost as onemay push a person brutally out of a room! She could bear it no more, andshe dropped her hands. As she did so the boy's dark head rose above thesea. 

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 amoment, 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 sightedthe 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 awatch, Madre?"

"Yes. "

"Take it out, there's a darling, and time him. I want to know--there heis! 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 Maymorning. 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 willhe be back from Naples with Monsieur Emile?"

"About twelve, I should think. But I doubt if they can sail. " She lookedout to sea, and added: "I think the wind is changing to scirocco. Theymay 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! Itmade me long to be a boy. "

"Did it?"

"Yes! Madre, tell me truly--sea-water on your lips, as the fishermensay--now truly, did you ever want me to be a boy?"

Hermione Delarey did not answer for a moment. She looked away over thestill sea, that seemed to be slowly losing its color, and she thought ofanother sea, of the Ionian waters that she had loved so much. They hadtaken her husband from her before her child was born, and this child'squestion recalled to her the sharp agony of those days and nights inSicily, when Maurice lay unburied in the Casa del Prete, and afterwardsin the hospital at Marechiaro--of other days and nights in Italy, when, isolated with the Sicilian boy, Gaspare, she had waited patiently forthe 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 itbecause 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 Sicilianeyes they were--opened very wide, and her lips remained slightly partedafter 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 ofyour father in those days, recalling him--well, recalling him as he hadbeen in Sicily. He went away from me so suddenly that somehow hisgoing, even when it had happened, for a long time seemed to be animpossibility. And I fancied, I suppose, that my child would be him in away. "

"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 sodemonstrated, very quietly and very completely, the relation existingbetween this mother and this child. 

"I wonder, now, " Vere said, presently, "why I never specially wished tobe a boy until to-day--because, after all, it can't be from you that thewish came. If it had been it must have come long ago. And it didn't. Itonly came when I heard that boy's voice. He sings like all the boys, you know, that have ever enjoyed themselves, that are still enjoyingthemselves 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 arestopping too. "

The boy was very quick in his movements. Almost before Vere had finishedspeaking he had pulled on his blue jersey and white trousers, and againtaken the big oars in his hands. Standing up, with his face set towardsthe islet, he began once more to propel the boat towards it. And as heswung his body slowly to and fro he opened his lips and sang lustilyonce more, "O Napoli, bella Napoli!"

Hermione and Vere sat silently listening as the song grew louder andlouder, till the boat was almost in the shadow of the islet, and theboy, with a strong stroke of the left oar turned its prow towards thepool 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 theysaw its name painted in red letters on the prow, _Sirena del Mare_. Thetwo men, one young, one middle-aged, were staring before them at therocks. But the boy, more sensitive, perhaps, than they were to thewatching 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 outfrom his parted lips, the shining of his eager dark eyes, full of thecareless merriment of youth, the black, low-growing hair stirring inthe light sea breeze about his brow, bronzed by sun and wind. Hisslight figure swayed with an easy motion that had the grace of perfectlycontrolled activity, and his brown hands gripped the great oars witha firmness almost of steel, as the boat glided under the lee of theisland, and vanished from the eyes of the watchers into the shadowy poolof San Francesco. 

When the boat had disappeared, Vere lifted herself up and turned roundto 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 boathad 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 herchild with sincerity. 

"Just for a moment, Vere, " she answered. "And then, very soon, you mademe feel how much more intimate can be the relationship between a motherand 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? Ifeel all the things, you know, that he can explain. "

There was a touch of something that was like a half-hidden irony in hervoice. 

"Monsieur Emile! Yes, I think he understands almost everything aboutpeople, " said Vere, quite without irony. "But could a man explain such athing as well as a woman? I don't think so. "

"We have the instincts, perhaps, men the vocabulary. Come, Vere, I wantto 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 passedthrough too much together for anything of that kind. Nobody could evertake 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 thesteps?"

"We'll look over. "

They passed in through a gateway to the narrow terrace that fronted theCasa del Mare facing Vesuvius, entered the house, traversed a littlehall, came out again into the air by a door on its farther side, andmade their way to a small pavilion that looked upon the Pool of SanFrancesco. Almost immediately below, in the cool shadow of the cliff, the boat was moored. The two men, lying at full length in it, theirfaces buried in their hands, were already asleep. But the boy, sittingastride on the prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side of itto the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather seriously, ahunch of yellow bread, from which he cut from time to time large pieceswith a clasp knife. As he ate, lifting the pieces of bread to his mouthwith the knife, against whose blade he held them with his thumb, hestared down at the depths below, transparent here almost to the seabed. His eyes were wide with reverie. He seemed another boy, not thegay singer of five minutes ago. But then he had been in the blaze of thesun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he had caught the influence ofthe dimmer light, the lack of motion, the delicate hush at the feet ofSan 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 beenbefore. 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 thesea, 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 rewardpresently--for his singing too. "

"Get him a dolce, then, from Carmela, if there is one. And you can givehim some cigarettes. "

"I will. He'll love that. Oh dear! I wish he didn't make me dissatisfiedwith myself!"

"Nonsense, Vere!"

Hermione bent down and kissed her child. Then she went rather quicklyaway from the pavilion and entered the Casa del Mare. 

CHAPTER II

After her mother had gone, Vere waited for a moment, then ran lightly tothe house, possessed herself of a dolce and a packet of cigarettes, andwent down the steps to the Pool of San Francesco, full of hospitableintentions towards the singing boy. She found him still sitting astrideof the boat's prow, not yet free of his reverie apparently; for whenshe gave a low call of "Pescator!" prolonging the last syllable with theemphasis and the accent of Naples, but always softly, he started, andnearly dropped into the sea the piece of bread he was lifting to hismouth. Recovering himself in time to save the bread deftly with onebrown hand, he turned half round, leaning on his left arm, and stared atVere with large, inquiring eyes. She stood by the steps and beckoned tohim, lifting up the packet of cigarettes, then pointing to his sleepingcompanions:

"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 uphis white trousers, and threw out his chest with an obvious desire to"fare figura" before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When he reachedher he lifted his hand to his bare head forgetfully, meaning to take offhis 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 andopening wide his mouth, uttered a little sound most characteristicallyNeapolitan--a sound that seemed lightly condemnatory of himself. Thisdone, he stood still before Vere, looking at the cigarettes and at thedolce. 

"I've brought these for you, " she said. 

"Grazie, Signorina. "

He did not hold out his hand, but his eyes, now devoted entirely tothe cigarettes, began to shine with pleasure. Vere did not give him thepresents at once. She had something to explain first. 

"We mustn't wake them, " she said, pointing towards the boat in which themen were sleeping. "Come a little way with me. "

She retreated a few steps from the sea, followed closely by the eagerboy. 

"We sha'n't disturb them now, " she said, stopping. "Do you know why I'vebrought 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 thecliff above their heads--"when you were sitting in the boat? I called toyou 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 ofhis being lazy seemed to delight his whole spirit. 

"You would have been lazy if you hadn't done what I told you, " saidVere, emphatically, forcing her words through his merriment withdetermination. "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 thesea, 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 almostwith rebuke, "if you went in of your own accord. "

"I go in because it is my mestiere, Signorina, " the boy said, simply. "Igo 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 tocajole her to generosity in his eyes, and in the pose he assumed. Veresaw it, and knew that if there had been a mirror within reach atthat moment the boy would have been looking into it, frankly admiringhimself. 

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 wassusceptible to all that was naturally picturesque. But a gay littlespirit 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 afavorite expression. 

"Signorina, I must enjoy it, by force. "

"You do it wonderfully. Do you know that? You do it better than themen. "

Again the conscious look came into the boy's face and body, as if hissoul were faintly swaggering. 

"There is no one in the Bay who can dive better than I can, " heanswered. "Giovannino thinks he can. Well, let him think so. He wouldnot dare to make a bet with me. "

"He would lose it if he did, " said Vere. "I'm sure he would. Just nowyou 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 downonce for me, won't you? Go down once for me, and you shall have thedolce 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 ofSicilians. 

"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 mooredclose to them. 

"Va bene, " said the boy again. 

He rolled his white trousers up above his knees, stripped off his bluejersey, leaving the thin vest that was beneath it, folded the jerseyneatly 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 theshore 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 thebottom. "

Taking the oars he slowly paddled a little way out to a deep clear poolof the sea. 

"I'll go in here, Signorina. "

He stood up straight, with his feet planted on each side of the boat'sprow, and glanced at the water intimately, as might a fish. Then heshot one more glance at Vere and at the cigarettes, made the sign of thecross, lifted his brown arms above his head, uttered a cry, and divedcleanly below the water, going down obliquely till he was quite dim inthe water. 

Vere watched him with deep attention. This feat of the boy fascinatedher. The water between them made him look remote, delicate andunearthly--neither boy nor fish. His head, she could see, was almosttouching the bottom. She fancied that he was actually touching bottomwith his hands. Yes, he was. Bending low over the water she saw hisbrown fingers, stretched out and well divided, promenading over thebasin of the sea as lightly and springily as the claws of a crabtip-toeing to some hiding-place. Presently he let himself down a littlemore, pressed his flat palms against the ground, and with the impetusthus 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 inthat, with a lithe ease that was enchantingly graceful. Finally, heturned over on his back and sank slowly down until he looked like acorpse lying at the bottom of the sea. 

Then Vere felt a sickness of fear steal over her, and leaning over thesea 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 thesummit 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 thestrange 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 longbreath, trod water, then threw up his chin with the touch of tongueagainst 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 youare. "

The boy was just getting out, pulling himself up slowly to the boat byhis arms, with his wet hands grasping the gunwale firmly. He looked atVere, with the salt drops running down his sunburnt face, and drippingfrom his thick, matted hair to his strong neck and shoulders. Again hiswhole face laughed, as, nimbly, he brought his legs from the water andstood 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 thatattracted 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, fastenedthe boat, and moved away a few steps. She wondered why, till she saw himstop 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, afterholding his right hand for a moment to the sun to get dry, drew out acigarette. 

"Oh, you want a match!"

He sprang away and ran lightly to the boat. Without waking hiscompanions 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 smokeinto 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 inhis face; and she liked the face, too. He was a very handsome boy, shethought, but somehow he did not look quite Neapolitan. His eyes lackedthe round and staring impudence characteristic of many Neapolitans shehad seen. There was something at times impassive in their gaze. In shapethey were long, and slightly depressed at the corners by the cheeks, andthey had full, almost heavy, lids. The features of the boy were smalland straight, and gave no promise of eventual coarseness. He wassplendidly made. When Vere looked at him she thought of an arrow. Yet hewas very muscular, and before he dived she had noticed that on his armsthe biceps swelled up like smooth balls of iron beneath the shiningbrown skin. 

"What month were you born in?" she asked. 

"Signorina, I believe I was born in March. I believe I was sixteen lastMarch. "

"Then I am older than you are!"

This seemed to the boy a matter of indifference, though it was evidentlyexercising the girl beside him. She had finished the dolce now, and hewas smoking the last fraction of an inch of the cigarette, economicallydetermined to waste none of it, even though he burnt his fingers. 

"Have another cigarette, " Vere added, after a pause during which sheconsidered 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 atMergellina?"

"Si, Signorina. But I wasn't born there. I wasn't born in Naples atall. "

"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 withhis 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 isEnglish. 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 livewith 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 stillasleep. "

"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 theeyes. 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'yousee?--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 upthe 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. Ruffosays only women eat sweet things. "

"Ruffo!"

"Yes, that's his name. He's been diving for me. You never saw anythinglike 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 MonsieurEmile 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 morefun 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, " sheflitted out of the room and down the stairs. 

"Ruffo! Ruffo!"

A minute later she was leaning over the bridge to the boy, who stoodsentinel below. He looked up, and saw her laughing face full of merrymischief, 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 agesture 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 bigcigarette--a cigarette such as he had never seen--in her small fingers. Quickly he made a receptacle of his joined hands, his eyes sparkling andhis 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 therock 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 allthe ten cigarettes had made their journey through the air. 

Vere would not let Ruffo know when a cigarette was coming, but kept himon the alert, pretending, holding it poised above him between his fingerand thumb until even his eyes blinked from gazing upward; then droppingit 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 hecaught 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 heavedhimself up from the bottom, and, choking down a yawn, stared with heavyamazement 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 handto Ruffo, she disappeared, leaving her prot�g� to run off gayly with hisbooty to his comrades of the _Sirena del Mare_. 

CHAPTER III

"I can see the boat, Vere, " said Hermione, when the girl came back, hereyes still gleaming with memories of the fun of the cigarette game withRuffo. 

"Where, Madre?"

She sat down quickly beside her mother on the window-seat, leaningagainst her confidentially and looking out over the sea. Hermione puther 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. Theywon'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'sobeyed me. The first time he was in the boat. I called out to him todive 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 aminute I felt frightened. So I called out to him to come up, and he cameup 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. Buteach time I did, without hearing me he had the sudden wish to do what Iwanted. 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. Youare gloriously young, both of you, little daughter. And youth turnsnaturally to youth, though I'm afraid old age doesn't always turnnaturally 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 ofbefore; 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 offhis hat in reply, and waved his hand, too. The rower pulled with thevivacity that comes to men near the end of a task, and the boat shotinto the Pool of the Saint, where Ruffo was at that moment enjoying histhird 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 immunityfrom gray hairs. His beard was lightly powdered with them, and thoughmuch of the still thick hair on his head was brown, and his figure waserect, and looked strong and athletic--he seemed what he was, a man ofmiddle age, who had lived, and thought, and observed much. His eyeshad the peculiar expression of eyes that have seen very many and veryvarious sights. It was difficult to imagine them not looking keenlyintelligent. The vivacity of youth was no longer in them, but thevividness of intellect, of an intellect almost fiercely alive andtenacious 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. ManySicilians grow old quickly--hard life wears them out. But Gaspare's fatehad been easier than that of most of his contemporaries and friends ofMarechiaro. Ever since the tragic death of the beloved master, whom hestill always spoke of as "mio Padrone, " he had been Hermione's faithfulattendant and devoted friend. Yes, she knew him to be that--she wishedhim to be that. Their stations in life might be different, but they hadcome to sorrow together. They had suffered together and been in sympathywhile they suffered. He had loved what she had loved, lost it when shehad lost it, wept for it when she had wept. 

And he had been with her when she had waited for the coming of thechild. 

Hermione really cared for three people: Gaspare was one of them. He knewit. 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 directnessthat she loved in him: "do you know that to-day you are lookinginsolent?"

"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, whoclose by in the boat was lying at his ease, his head thrown back, andone of the cigarettes between his lips. 

"What! That boy there?"

"Nonsense! Come along! Madre has been sitting at the window for ageslooking 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 issmoking one of my cigarettes! You sacrilegious little creature! You havebeen robbing my box!"

Gaspare's eyes followed Artois' to Ruffo, who was watching themattentively, 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. Andbesides, artists always smoke pipes. "

"Allow me to forget that I try to be an artist when I come to theisland, Vere. "

"Yes, yes, I will, " she said, with a pretty air of relenting. "Youpoor thing, here you are a king incognito, and we all treat you quitefamiliarly. I'll even go first, regardless of etiquette. " And she wentoff to the steps that led upward to the house. 

Artois followed her. As he went he said to Ruffo in the Neapolitandialect:

"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, somethingin his look and voice, that seemed to stir within the tenacious mind ofArtois a quivering chord of memory. 

"I wonder if I have spoken to that boy in Naples?" he thought, as hemounted the steps behind Vere. 

Hermione met him at the door of her room, and they went in almostdirectly to lunch with Vere. When the meal was over Vere disappeared, without saying why, and Hermione and Artois returned to Hermione's roomto have coffee. By this time the day was absolutely windless, the skyhad become nearly white, and the sea was a pale gray, flecked here andthere with patches of white. 

"This is like a June day of scirocco, " said Artois, as he lit his pipewith the air of a man thoroughly at home. "I wonder if it will succeedin affecting Vere's spirits. This morning, when I arrived, she lookedwildly young. But the day held still some blue then. "

Hermione was settling herself slowly in a low chair near the window thatfaced Capri. The curious, rather ghastly light from the sea fell overher. 

"Vere is very sensitive to almost all influences, " she said. "You knowthat, Emile. "

"Yes, " he said, throwing away the match he had been using; "and theinfluence 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, bronzeskin, a smile difficult to refuse, and a figure almost as perfect as aNubian's, but rather squarer about the shoulders?"

"You have seen him, then?"

"Smoking ten of my special Khali Targa cigarettes, with his bare toescocked 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 thelanguage. There's no mistaking the blow he gives to the last syllable ofa 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 ishe 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 theinner spirit of youth--almost as he was in Sicily. "

"Yes, " Artois said, gravely. "In some things she is very much hisdaughter. "

"In some things only?" asked Hermione. 

"Don't you think so? Don't you think she has much of you in her also? Ido. "

"Has she? I don't know that I see it. I don't know that I want to seeit. 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, whowill never come. "

"My friend, " said Artois, very seriously and gently, "are you stillallowing your mind to dwell upon that old imagination? And with Verebefore 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. Shedoes not doubt me or my love. "

"But, " he quietly persisted, "you still allow your mind to roveungoverned among those dangerous ways of the past?"

"Emile, " she said, still speaking with vehemence, "it may be very easyto a strong man like you to direct his thoughts, to keep them out of onepath and guide them along another. It may be--I don't know whether itis; but I don't pretend to such strength. I don't believe it is evergiven to women. Perhaps even strength has its sex--I sometimes thinkso. I have my strength, believe me. But don't require of me the peculiarstrength that is male. "

"The truth is that you love living in the past as the Bedouin lovesliving 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 inVere. "

"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 Imentally lean on you. And I like to feel that if you knew theabsolute 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 youthink?"

"I hope and believe I could, " he said. "You do not live in Vere. Is thatit?"

"I know it is considered the right, the perfectly natural thing that amother, stricken as I have been, should find in time perfect peace andcontentment in her child. Even you--you spoke of 'living again. ' It'sthe consecrated phrase, Emile, isn't it? I ought to be living again inVere. Well, I'm not doing that. With my nature I could never do that. Isthat 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 anundercurrent of passion, "whether I could ever live again in the life ofanother. But if I did it would be in the life of a man. I am not made tolive in a woman's life, really to live, giving out the force that isin me. I know I'm a middle-aged woman--to these Italians here more thanthat, an old woman. But I'm not a finished woman, and I never shallbe till I die. Vere is my child. I love her tenderly; more thanthat--passionately. She has always been close to me, as you know. Butno, Emile, my relation to Vere, hers to me, does not satisfy all my needof love, my power to love. No, no, it doesn't. There's something in methat wants more, much more than that. There's something in me that--Ithink only a son of his could have satisfied my yearning. A son mighthave 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'tmisunderstand me, Emile; in a way a son could never have been so closeto me as Vere is, --but I could have lived in him as I can never live inVere. I could have lived in him almost as once I lived in Maurice. Andto-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 getaway, 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 naturallyhere. And I should like to go on a little farther, now I've begun. Itwould 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 stoodby the window that looked towards Ischia. The stillness of the day wasintense, and gave to his mind a sensation of dream. Far off across thegray-and-white waters, partially muffled in clouds that almost resembledmist, the mountains of Ischia were rather suggested, mysteriouslyindicated, than clearly seen. The gray cliffs towards Bagnoli wentdown into motionless water gray as they were, but of a different, morepathetic shade. 

There was a luminous whiteness in the sky that affected the eyes, assnow does. 

Artois, as he looked, thought this world looked very old, a worldarranged for the elderly to dwell in. Was it not, therefore, anappropriate setting for him and for Hermione? As this idea came into hismind it sent a rather bitter smile to his lips, and Hermione, coming injust 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 wasfastened. It was tied beneath her chin, and hung down in a cloud overher breast. It made him think of the strange misty clouds which broodedabout 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 readingalmost more than I do. "

"Well?"

Hermione led the way down-stairs. When they were outside, on the crestof the islet, the peculiar sickliness of the weather struck them bothmore forcibly. 

"This is the strangest scirocco effect I think I have ever seen, " saidArtois. "It is as if nature were under the influence of a drug, and hadfallen into a morbid dream, with eyes wide open, and pale, inert andfolded hands. I should like to see Naples to-day, and notice if thisweather has any effect upon that amazing population. I wonder if myyoung friend, Marchese Isidoro Panacci--By-the-way, I haven't told youabout him?"

"No. "

"I must. But not now. We will continue our former conversation. Whereshall 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 doanything quickly on such a day. The smallest movement, indeed, seemedalmost an outrage, likely to disturb the great white dreamer of the sea. When they reached the foot of the cliff Gaspare was there, holding thelittle 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 avery 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 ofPosilipo. 

"I have been talking with them. One says he is of my country, aSicilian. "

"The boy?"

"Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak Sicilian, and he hasnever been in Sicily, poveretto!"

Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there was almost a hint ofcontempt. 

"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 thecliffs of the opposite shore. 

"Even San Francesco looks weary to-day, " he said, glancing across thepool at the Saint on his pedestal. "I should not be surprised if, whenwe return, we find that he has laid down his cross and is reclining likethe 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 camehere on such a day of scirocco as this, and felt that the world was veryold, 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 havewhite hairs to accord with the white waters, and whose nights are thewhite 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, andthen they saw the Capo Coroglio and the Island of Nisida with itsfort. On their right, and close to them, rose the weary-looking cliffs, honey-combed with caverns, and seamed with fissures as an old andhaggard 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 roofof rock. 

A darkness fell upon them. They had a safe, enclosed sensation inescaping for a moment from the white day, almost as if they had escapedfrom a white enemy. 

Artois let the oars lie still in the water, keeping his hands lightlyupon them, and both Hermione and he were silent for a few minutes, listening to the tiny sounds made now and then by drops of moisturewhich fell from the cavern roof softly into the almost silent sea. Atlast Artois said:

"You are out of the whiteness now. This is a shadowed place like aconfessional, where murmuring lips tell to strangers the stories oftheir lives. I am not a stranger, but tell me, my friend, about yourselfand Vere. Perhaps you scarcely know how deeply the mother and childproblem interests me--that is, when mother and child are two realforces, 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 theforce of charm!"

"Indeed she has that, as he had. That is one of the attributes shederives 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, combinedperhaps with the other. And that, I think, she derives from you. Then Idiscern in Vere intellectual force, immature, embryonic if you like, butunmistakable. "

"That does not come from me, " Hermione said, suddenly, almost withbitterness. 

"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 vaultwhich brooded above them, and listened till the chaotic noises diedaway. 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. Howstrange it was! I had Vere--but she wasn't enough to still the ache. AndI knew what work can be, what a consolation, because I knew you. AndI stretched out my hands to it--I stretched out my soul. And it was nouse; I wasn't made to be a successful writer. When I spoke from my heartto try and move men and save myself, my words were seized, as yours werejust 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 canonly do one thing: I can only feel. "

"It is true that you could never be an artist. Perhaps you were made tobe an inspiration. "

"But that's not enough. The role of starter to those who race--I haven'tthe temperament to reconcile myself to that. It's not that I have in mea conceit which demands to be fed. But I have in me a force that clamorsto exercise itself. Only when I was living on Monte Amato with Mauricedid 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 neverbeen told him: that Maurice had been false to her for the love of thepeasant girl Maddalena. He knew that Maurice had been done to death bythe 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 circumstancesof life, that they had never spoken to each other of the black truthknown to them both. Indeed, Artois believed that even now, after morethan sixteen years, if he ventured one word against the dead man Gasparewould be ready to fly at his throat in defence of the loved Padrone. Forthis divined and persistent loyalty Artois had a sensation of absolutelove. Between him and Gaspare there must always be the barrier of agreat and mutual reserve. Yet that very reserve, because there wassomething truly delicate, and truly noble in it, was as a link of steelbetween them. They were watchdogs of Hermione. They had been watchdogsthrough all these years, guarding her from the knowledge of a truth. Andso 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. Ihave even been false with myself. I have said to myself that she wasenough. I did that after I knew that I could never produce work of anyvalue. When Vere was a baby I lived only for her. Again, when she wasbeginning to grow up, I tried to live, I did live only for her. And Iremember I used to say, I kept on saying to myself, 'This is enough forme. I do not need any more than this. I have had my life. I am nowa middle-aged woman. I must live in my child. This will be mysatisfaction. This is my satisfaction. This is using rightly andnaturally all that force I feel within me. ' I kept on saying this. Butthere is something within one which rises up and defies a lie--howeverbeautiful the lie is, however noble it is. And I think even a lie cansometimes be both. Don't you, Emile?"

It almost seemed to him for a moment that she knew his lie andGaspare'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 tellme what has happened to-day. "

"To-day?"

"Yes. Something has happened either to-day or very recently--I amsure of it--that has stirred up within you this feeling of acutedissatisfaction. It was always there. But something has called it intothe 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--withyou. I do know. But it seems so strange, so almost inexplicable, andeven 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 waspartly Vere. "

"How do you mean?"

"Vere was so interested in him. It may have been that. Or perhaps itwas something in his look and in his voice when he was singing. I don'treally know what it was. But that boy made me feel--more horribly thanI have ever felt before--that Vere is not enough. Emile, there is somehunger, so persistent, so peculiar, so intense, that one feels as if itmust be satisfied eventually, as if it were impossible for it not to besatisfied. I think that human hunger for immortal life is like that, andI think my hunger for a son is like that. I know my hunger can neverbe satisfied. And yet it lives on in me just as if it knew more thanI know, as if it knew that it could and must. After all these years Ican't, no, I can't reconcile myself to the fact that Maurice was takenfrom me so utterly, that he died without stamping himself upon a son. Itseems as if it couldn't be. And I feel to-day that I cannot bear that itis. "

There were tears standing in her eyes. She had spoken with a force offeeling, with a depth of sincerity, that startled Artois, intimately ashe knew her. Till this moment he had not quite realized the wonderfulpersistence of love in the hearts of certain women, and not only thepersistence 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 rateto me, is this: how some human beings do bear the burdens laid uponthem. Christ bore His cross. But there has only been, since thebeginning of things, one Christ, and it is unthinkable that there canever be another. But all those who are not Christ, how is it they bearwhat they do bear? It is easy to talk of bravery, the necessity for itin life. It is always very easy to talk. The thing that is impossibleis to understand. How can you come to me to help you, my friend? Andsuppose I were to try. How could I try, except by saying that I thinkVere 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 Ihave 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 verystrange, and very wonderful and beautiful things. But are you so surethat if your husband had stamped himself upon a boy this force withinyou 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 dimcolor in the cave. 

"I think you are doubting that it would have been so?" she said, atlast. 

"Yes, that is true. I am doubting. "

"I wonder why?"

"I cannot help feeling that there is passion in you, such passion ascould 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 forme--and for you. We are in our right environment to-day. ' I was sayingthat, Hermione, but was I believing it, really? I don't think I was. AndI 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 eagercuriosity, but with deep inquiry. 

"You know, Emile, " she added, "I tell you very much, but you tell mevery little. Not that I wish to ask anything--no. I respect all yourreserve. And about your work: you tell me all that. It is a great thingin my life, your work. Perhaps you don't realize how sometimes I live inthe book that you are doing, almost as if I were writing it myself. Butyour inner life--"

"But I have been frankness itself with you, " said Artois. "To no onehave I ever said so much as to you. "

"Yes, I know, about many things. But about emotion, love, --notfriendship, the other love--do you get on without that? When you sayyour nature has always been older than mine, do you mean that it hasalways 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 theplace love occupies in many, perhaps in most men's lives. Everythingcomes second to work. I know that, because if any one attempts tointerfere with my work, or to usurp any of the time that should begiven to it, any regard I may have for that person turns at once toirritation, 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, stillI 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 knownagitations. But even those were long ago. And since I was thirty-fiveI have never felt really dominated by any one. Before that time Ioccasionally passed under the yoke, I believe, like other men. Why doyou 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 certainthat one will never be, or do, this or that? Surely, "--he smiled, --"youare not afraid for me?"

"I do not say that. But I think you have forces in you not fullyexercised even by your work. "

"Possibly. But there the years do really step in and count forsomething, even for much. There is no doubt that as the years increase, the man who cares at all for intellectual pleasures is able to carefor them more, is able to substitute them, without keen regret, withoutwailing and gnashing of teeth, for certain other pleasures, to which, perhaps, formerly he clung. That is why the man who is mentally andbodily--you know what I mean?"

"Yes. "

"Has such an immense advantage in years of decline over the man who ismerely 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 sufficientlyin friendship. "

As Artois said this his eyes rested upon Hermione with an expression inthem that revealed much that he never spoke in words. She put out herhand, and took his, and pressed it, holding hers over it upon the oar. 

"Emile, " she said, "sometimes you make me feel unworthy and ungratefulbecause--because I still need, I dare to need more than I have beengiven. 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, thecry 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 blessedto 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 inconfused and hollow mutterings. They both looked up, as if some one wereabove them, warning them or rebuking them. At that instant they had thefeeling that they were being watched. But there was only the empty graysea about them, and over their heads the rugged, weary rock that hadleaned over the sea for countless years. 

"Hark!" said Artois, "it is telling me that my debt to you can never bepaid: only in one way could it be partially discharged. If I couldshow you a path to happiness, the happiness you long for, and need, thepassionate happiness of the heart that is giving where it rejoices togive--for your happiness must always be in generosity--I should havepartially paid my debt to you. But that is impossible. "

"I've made you sad to-day by my complaining, " she said, withself-rebuke; "I'm sorry. You didn't realize?"

"How it was with you? No, not quite--I thought you were more at peacethan 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 leftshoulder-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 connectionwith us or with our lives, can do to us unconsciously!" she said. "Ihave heard a hundred boys sing on the Bay, seen a hundred rowing theirboats into the Pool--and just this one touches some chord, and all thestrings of my soul quiver. "

"Some people act upon us somewhat as nature does sometimes. And Verepaid the boy. There is another irony of unconsciousness. Vere, bone ofyour bone, flesh of your flesh, rewards your pain-giver. How we hideourselves 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 theadvantage 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 outof the cave. Both felt that it was no longer necessary to stay in thisconfessional of the rock. 

As they came out under the grayness of the sky, Hermione, with a changeof 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 hasscarcely travelled at all, except in Italy. Once he has been in Paris, where I met him, and once to Lucerne for a fortnight. Both hisfather and mother are Neapolitans. He is a charming fellow, utterlyunintellectual, but quite clever; shrewd, sharp at reading character, marvellously able to take care of himself, and hold his own withanybody. A cat to fall on his feet! He is apparently born without anysense of fear, and with a profound belief in destiny. He can drivefour-in-hand, swim for any number of hours without tiring, ride--well, as an Italian cavalry officer can ride, and that is not badly. Hisaccomplishments? He can speak French--abominably, and pick out allimaginable tunes on the piano, putting instinctively quite tolerablebasses. I don't think he ever reads anything, except the _Giorno_and the _Mattino_. He doesn't care for politics, and likes cards, butapparently not too much. They're no craze with him. He knows Naplesinside 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 senseat all that difference of age can be a barrier between two men. He istwenty-four, and I am what I am. He is quite unaware that there is anygulf 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 withperfect naivete. I am welcomed as Doro's chum with all the good-will inthe world. "

Hermione could not help laughing, and Artois echoed her laugh. 

"Merely talking about him has made you look years younger, " shedeclared. "The influence of the day has lifted from you. "

"It would not have fallen upon Isidoro, I think. And yet he is fullof sentiment. He is a curious instance of a very common Neapolitanobsession. "

"What is that?"

"He is entirely obsessed by woman. His life centres round woman. Youobserve I use the singular. I do that because it is so much more pluralthan the plural in this case. His life is passed in love-affairs, in asort 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 tolove, as many of them do. I never could understand it, even beforeI--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 hisfather. 

"Yes, he was a true Southerner, " Artois replied. 

For once he was off his guard with her, and uttered his real thoughtof Maurice, not without a touch of the irony that was characteristic ofhim. 

Immediately he had spoken he was aware of his indiscretion. But Hermionehad 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 thewater's edge to hold the prow while they got out, she rose from her seatslowly, and almost reluctantly, like one disturbed in a dream that shewould fain continue. 

"Have you seen the Signorina, Gaspare?" she asked him. "Has she beenout?"

"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. Giveme a cup of tea _a la Russe_, and one of Ruffo's cigarettes, and thenI must bid you adieu. I'll take the boat to the Antico Giuseppone, andthen 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 himunder the left shoulder-blade--before this morning. "

They spoke lightly. It seemed as if each desired for the moment to getaway from their mood in the confessional of Virgil's Grotto, and fromthe sadness of the white and silent day. 

As to Ruffo, about whom they jested, he was in sight of Naples, and notfar from Mergellina, still rowing with tireless young arms, and singingto "Bella Napoli, " with a strong resolve in his heart to return to theSaint'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, whosetrees were faintly visible far off across the Bay. Usually he talkedfamiliarly to any Neapolitan with whom he found himself, but to-day hewas taciturn, and sat in the stern of the broad-bottomed craft lookingtowards the city in silence while the boatman plied his oars. Thememory of his conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil, ofher manner, the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice there, gave himfood for thought that was deep and serious. 

Although Artois had an authoritative, and often an ironical manner thatfrightened timid people, he was a man capable of much emotion and ofgreat loyalty. He did not easily trust or easily love, but in thosewhose worth he had thoroughly proved he had a confidence as complete asthat of a child. And where he placed his complete confidence he placedalso his affection. The one went with the other almost as inevitably asthe wave goes with the wind. 

In their discussion about the emotion of the heart Artois had spoken thetruth to Hermione. As he had grown older he had felt the influence ofwomen less. The pleasures of sentiment had been gradually supercededin his nature--or so at least he honestly believed--by the purelyintellectual pleasures. More and more completely and contentedly hadhe lived in his work, and in the life of preparation for it. This lifecould never be narrow, for Artois was a traveller, and studied manylands. 

In the years that had elapsed since the tragedy in Sicily, when thehusband of Hermione had met his death suddenly in the sea, almost insight of the home of the girl he had betrayed, the fame of Artois hadgrown steadily. And he was jealous of his fame almost as a good woman isjealous of her honor. This jealousy had led him to a certain selfishnessof which he was quite aware--even to a certain hardness such as he hadhinted to Hermione. Those who strove, or seemed likely to strive tointerrupt him in his work, he pushed out of his life. Even if they werecharming women he got rid of them. And the fact that he did so provedto him, and not improbably to them, that he was more wrapped up in thegratification of the mind than in the gratification of the heart, orof the body. It was not that the charm of charming women had ceased toplease him, but it seemed to have ceased really to fascinate him. 

Long ago, before Hermione married, he had felt for her a warm andintimate friendship. He had even been jealous of Maurice. Without beingat all in love, he had cared enough for Hermione to be jealous. Beforeher marriage he had looked forward in imagination down a vista of longyears, and had seen her with a husband, then with children, always moredefinitely separated from himself. 

And he had seen himself exceptionally alone, even almost miserablyalone. 

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 beenjealous. And they had gone together to Sicily, to the husband whosememory 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 lefther 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 fullresponse of generosity from him. All his egotism and selfishness droppedfrom him then, shaken down like dead leaves by the tempest of a genuineemotion. His knowledge of her grief, his understanding of its depth, brought to him a sorrow that was keen, and even exquisitely painful. Fora long while he was preoccupied by an intense desire to assuage it. Hestrove to do so by acting almost in defiance of his nature, by fosteringdeception. From the Abetone Hermione had written him letters, humandocuments--the tale of the suffering of a woman's heart. Many reservesshe had from him and from every one. The most intimate agony was for heralone, and she kept it in her soul as the priest keeps the Sacred Hostin its tabernacle. But some of her grief she showed in her letters, andsome of her desire for comfort. And without any definite intention, she indicated to her subtle and devoted friend the only way in which hecould console her. 

For once, driven by his emotion, he took that way. 

He allowed Hermione to believe that he agreed with her in the conceptionshe had formed of her husband's love for her. It was difficult for himto do this, for he had an almost cruel passion for truth, and generallya clear insight into human character. Far less than many others wouldhave condemned did he, in his mind, condemn the man who was dead forthe sin against love that he had committed. He had understood Mauriceas Hermione had not understood him, and knowledge is full of pardon. Butthough he could pardon easily he could not easily pretend. By pretendinghe sinned against himself, and helped his friend some steps along theway to peace. He thought he had helped her to go much farther along thatway 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 bein his heart, as he realized how permanent was the storm in Hermione'snature. Something for her he had done. And something--much more, nodoubt--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 protecther, had taken his advice. After Vere was born she had wished to go backagain 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 herhome. He had fought against her in this matter, and had been aided byGaspare. 

There had been a subtle understanding, never expressed, between the boyand him. 

Artois had played upon her intellect, had appealed, too, to her mother'sheart. 

He had not urged her to try to forget, but he had urged her not morbidlyto remember, not to cherish and to foster the memory of the tragedywhich had broken her life. To go back to that tiny home, solitary in itsbeautiful situation, in the changed circumstances which were hers, wouldbe, he told her, to court and to summon sorrow. He was even cruel to bekind. When Hermione combated his view, assuring him that to herMonte Amato was like a sacred place, a place hallowed by memories ofhappiness, he recalled the despair in which that happiness had ended. With all the force at his command, and it was great, he drew the pictureof the life that would be in comparison with the life that had been. Andhe told her finally that what she wished to do was morbid, was unworthyof 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 anatmosphere of memories, casting a young and tender mind backward into acruel past instead of leading it forward into a joyous present? Mauricehad been the very soul of happiness. Vere must be linked with thesunbeams. With his utmost subtlety Artois described and traced theeffect upon a tiny and sensitive child of a mother's influence, whetherfor good or evil, until Hermione, who had a deep reverence for hisknowledge of all phases of human nature, at last, almost in despite ofthe truth within her, of the interior voice which said to her, "With youand Vere it would not be so, " caught alarm from his apparent alarm, drewdistrust of herself from his apparent distrust of her. 

Gaspare, too, played his part. When Hermione spoke to him of returningto the priest's house, almost wildly, and with the hot energy thatbursts 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 spokea genuine fear of the cottage came upon him. All the latent superstitionthat dwells in the contadino was stirred as dust by a wind. In cloudsit flew up about his mind. Fear looked out of his great eyes. Dread waseloquent in his gestures. And he, too, referred to the child, to the_povera piccola bambina_. It would cast ill-luck on the child to bringher up in a chamber of death. Her saint would forsake her. She too woulddie. The boy worked himself up into a fever. His face was white. Dropsof sweat stood on his forehead. 

He had set out to be deceptive--what he would have called _un pocobirbante_, and he had even deceived himself. He knew that it wouldbe dangerous for his Padrona to live again near Marechiaro. Any daya chance scrap of gossip might reach her ears. In time she wouldbe certain almost to hear something of the dead Padrone's closeacquaintance with the dwellers in the Casa delle Sirene. She wouldquestion him, perhaps. She would suspect something. She would inquire. She would search. She would find out the hideous truth. It was thisfear which made him argue on the same side as Artois. But in doing so hecaught another fear from his own words. He became really natural, reallytruthful in his fear. And--she scarcely knew why--Hermione was even moregoverned by him than by Artois. He had lived with them in the Casadel Prete, had been an intimate part of their life there. And he wasSicilian 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 poverapiccola bambina_. " And at last Hermione was overcome. 

"I won't go to Sicily, " she said to Artois. "For if I went there I couldonly go to Monte Amato. I won't go until Vere is old enough to wish togo, 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 thisearly victory. 

In returning from a tour in North America the following spring, whenVere was nearly two years old, he had paid a visit to Marechiaro, and, while there, had seen the contadino from whom Hermione had rented, andstill rented, the house of the priest. The man was middle-aged, ignorantbut shrewd, and very greedy. Artois made friends with him, and casually, over a glass of _moscato_, talked about his affairs and the landquestion in Sicily. The peasant became communicative and, of course, loud in his complaining. His land yielded nothing. The price of almondshad gone down. The lemon crop had been ruined by the storms. As to thevines--they were all devoured by the phylloxera, and he had no money tobuy and plant vines from America. Artois hinted that he received a goodrent from the English lady for the cottage on Monte Amato. The contadinoacknowledged that he received a fair price for the cottage and the landabout it; but the house, he declared, would go to rack and ruin with noone ever in it, and the land was lying idle, for the English lady wouldhave everything left exactly as it had been when she lived there withher husband. Artois seized upon this hint of what was in the peasant'smind, and bemoaned with him his situation. The house ought to beoccupied, the land all about it, up to the very door, and behind uponthe sunny mountain-side, planted with American vines. If it belonged tohim that was what he would do--plant American vines, and when the yearsof yielding came, give a good percentage on all the wine made and soldto the man who had tended the vineyard. 

The peasant's love of money awoke. He only let the cottage toHermione year by year, and had no contract with her extending beyond atwelve-months' lease. Before Artois left Marechiaro the tender treacherywas arranged. When the year's lease was up, the contadino wrote to herdeclining to renew it. She answered, protesting, offering more money. But it was all in vain. The man replied that he had already let thecottage and the land around it to a grower of vines for a long term ofyears, and that he was getting double the annual price she offered. 

Hermione was indignant and bitterly distressed. When this letter reachedher she was at Fiesole with Vere in a villa which she had taken. Shewould probably have started at once for Sicily; but Vere was just thenill with some infantile complaint, and could not be left. Artois, who was in Rome, and had received from her the news of this carefullyarranged disaster, offered to go to Sicily on her behalf--and actuallywent. He returned to tell her that the house of the priest was alreadyoccupied by contadini, and all the land up to the very door in processof being dug up and planted with vines. It was useless to make anyfurther offer. The thing was done. 

Hermione said nothing, but Artois saw in her eyes how keenly she wassuffering, and turned his own eyes away. He was only trying to preserveher 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 thewoman who roused all his tenderness, all his protective instinct. 

"I shall not go back to Marechiaro now, " Hermione said. "I shall notgo back even to see the grave. I could never feel that anything of hisspirit lingered there. But I did feel, I should have felt again, as ifsomething of him still loved that little house on the mountain, stillstayed among the oak-trees. It seemed to me that when I took Vere to theCasa del Prete she would have learned to know something of her fatherthere that she could never have learned to know in another place. Butnow--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 seehis family and his friends. He visited the grave and saw that it wasproperly kept. But Hermione remained in Italy. For some time she livednear Florence, first at Fiesole, later at Bellosguardo. When the summerheat came she took a villa at the Abetone. Or she spent some months withVere beside the sea. As the girl grew older she developed a passionfor the sea, and seemed to care little for the fascination of the pineforests. Hermione, noting this, gave up going to the Abetone and tooka house by the sea for the whole summer. Two years they were at SantaMargherita, one year at Sorrento. 

Then, sailing one evening on the sea towards Bagnoli, they saw the houseon 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 thesea!"

Hermione, too, was fascinated by its situation, the loneliness, thewildness, yet the radiant cheerfulness of it. She made inquiries, foundthat it was owned by a Neapolitan who scarcely ever went there, andeventually succeeded in getting it on a long lease. For two years nowshe and Vere had spent the summer there. 

Artois had noticed that since Hermione had been in the Casa del Marean old desire had begun to revive in her. She spoke more frequently ofSicily. Often she stood on the rock and looked across the sea, andhe knew that she was thinking of those beloved coasts--of the Ionianwaters, of the blossoming almond-trees among the olives and the rocks, of the scarlet geraniums glowing among the thorny cactus, of the giantwatercourses 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 hadpassed that even if Hermione revisited Marechiaro he believed therewould be little or no danger now of her ever learning the truth. It hadnever been known in the village, and if it had been suspected, all thesuspicions must have long ago died down. He had been successful in hisprotection. He was thankful for that. It was the one thing he had beenable to do for the friend who had done so much for him. 

The tragedy had occurred because of him. Because of him all knowledgeof it had been kept from Hermione, and would now be kept from herforever--because of him and Gaspare. 

This he had been able to do. But how powerless he was, and how powerlesswas Vere!

Now he looked vaguely at the villas of Posilipo, and he realized thisthoroughly. 

Something for her he had done, and something Vere had done. But howlittle it all was!

To-day a new light had been thrown upon Hermione, and he realized whatshe was as he had never realized it before. No, she was right. She couldnever live fully in a girl child--she was not made to do that. Why hadhe ever thought, hoped that perhaps it might be so, that perhaps Veremight some day completely and happily fill her life? Long ago he hadencouraged her to work, to write. Misled by her keen intelligence, herenthusiasm, her sincerity and vitality, by the passion that was in her, the great heart, the power of feeling, the power of criticisingand inspiring another which she had freely shown to him, Artois hadbelieved--as he had once said to her in London--that she might be anartist, but that she preferred to be simply a woman. But he found itwas not so. Hermione had not the peculiar gift of the writer. She couldfeel, but she could not arrange. She could discern, but she could notexpose. A flood of words came to her, but not the inevitable word. Shecould not take that exquisite leap from the known into the unknownwhich genius can take with the certainty of alighting on firm ground. In short, she was not formed and endowed to be an artist. About suchmatters Artois knew only how to be sincere. He was sincere with hisfriend, and she thanked him for being so. 

One possible life was taken from Hermione, the life of the artist wholives 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 livecompletely in her child, and he felt that he had been blind as men areoften blind about women, are blind because they are secretly selfish. The man lives for himself, but he thinks it natural, even distinctivelywomanly, that women should live for others--for him, for some otherman, for their children. What man finds his life in his child? But thewoman--she surely ought to, and without difficulty. Hermione had beensincere to-day, and Artois knew his blindness, and knew his secretselfishness. 

The gray was lifting a little over Naples, the distant shadowy form ofVesuvius was becoming clearer, more firm in outline. But the boatmanrowed 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 somethingof passion. And he began to wonder how it would have been if he hadacted differently, if he had allowed her to find out what he suspectedto be the exact truth of the dead man. Long ago he had saved her fromsuffering. 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. Hemust have done so had he acted differently. But if he had defiled it, might not Hermione have been the subject of a great revulsion? Horrorcan kill, but it can also cure. It can surely root out love. But fromsuch a heart as Hermione's?

Despite all his understanding of women, Artois felt at a loss to-day. Hecould not make up his mind what would have been the effect upon Hermioneif 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. Histenderness and pity for Hermione were replaced by another tenderness andpity. And these were wholly for Vere. Hermione was suffering becauseof Maurice. But Vere was surely suffering, subconsciously, because ofHermione. 

There were two links in the chain of suffering, that between Maurice andHermione, and that between Hermione and Vere. 

For a moment he felt as if Vere were bereaved, were motherless. Thesensation passed directly he realized the exaggeration in his mind. Buthe still felt as if the girl were deprived of something which she oughtto possess, which, till now, he had thought she did possess. It seemedto him that Vere stood quite outside of her mother's life, instead ofin it, in its centre, its core; and he pitied the child, almost as hepitied other children from time to time, children to whom their parentswere indifferent. And yet Hermione loved Vere, and Vere could not knowwhat he had only known completely to-day--that the mother often feltlonely 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, verypassionate, quick to feel and quick to understand. He discovered in herqualities inherited both from her father and her mother, attributes bothEnglish and Sicilian. In appearance she resembled her father. She had"thrown back" to the Sicilian ancestor, as he had. She had the Southerneyes, the Southern grace, the Southern vivacity and warmth that had madehim so attractive. But Artois divined a certain stubbornness in Verethat had been lacking in the dead man, a stubbornness that took its risenot in stupidity but in a secret consciousness of force. 

Vere, Artois thought, might be violent, but would not be fickle. She hada loyalty in her that was Sicilian in its fervor, a sense of gratitudesuch as the contadini have, although by many it is denied to them; aquick and lively temper, but a disposition that responded to joy, to brightness, to gayety, to sunlight, with a swiftness, almost afierceness, that was entirely un-English. 

Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, could never have hisgift of thoughtlessness. For she had intellect, derived from Hermione, and an old truthfulness that was certainly not Sicilian. Often therewere what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her sincerity. The strainsin her, united, made, he thought, a fascinating blend. But as yet shewas undeveloped--an interesting, a charming child, but only a child. In many ways she was young for her age. Highly intelligent, she wasanything rather than "knowing. " Her innocence was like clear water in aspring. The graciousness of youth was hers to the full. 

As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new thing, of thewonderful beauty of such innocent youth. 

It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet that link in thechain did exist. Vere had not something that surely she ought to have, and, without consciously missing it, she must sometimes subtly, perhapsvaguely, be aware that there was a lack in her life. Her mother gave hergreat 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 init. 

Maurice Delarey had been as the embodiment of joy. It was strange thatfrom the fount of joy sorrow was thrown up. But so it was. From himsorrow 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 thefuture. 

"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 willdo, 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 isenough for me. Why should I bother about to-morrow's maccheroni?"

Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the platform of stone thatprojected 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 inthe world to bother about to-morrow's maccheroni. "

CHAPTER V

Three days after Artois' conversation with Hermione in the Grotto ofVirgil the Marchesino Isidoro Panacci came smiling into his friend'sapartments in the Hotel Royal des Etrangers. He was smartly dressed inthe palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink socks, brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected by many youngNeopolitans, and a round straw hat, with a small brim, that was setslightly 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 hisleft hand, squeezed it affectionately, murmured "Caro Emilio, " and satdown in an easy attitude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on atable near by. 

It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had justdropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with"Caro Emilio, " and it never occurred to him that possibly he mightbe interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could notrealize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw himsometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was sureanybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him play avalse on the piano, or a bit of the "Boheme, " than bend over a table allby himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him. But it was notonly that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type, and a singularlyperfect one. 

Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair oppositeto the sofa. 

"Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of thesea!"

The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also shone in his roundand boyish eyes. 

"I have just come out of the sea. Papa and I have been bathing atthe Eldorado. We swam round the Castello until we were opposite yourwindows, and sang 'Funiculi, funicula!' in the water, to serenade you. Why didn't you hear us? Papa has a splendid voice, almost like Tamagno'sin the gramophone, when he sings the 'Addio' from 'Otello. ' Of coursewe kept a little out at sea. Papa is so easily recognized by his redmustaches. 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, sheused to be a milliner in the Toledo. I remember it perfectly, and nowSigismondo--But it's really Gilda that has made papa angry. You see, hehas paid twice for me, once four thousand lire, and the other time threethousand five hundred. And then he has lost a lot at Lotto lately. Hehas 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 everyone. "

"Diavolo! What! a lady?"

"Well, if you like to call her so, " returned Doro, negligently. "Herhusband 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 ownsin the Strada Chiatamone. After a time they got behind with the rent. Helet them stay on for six months without paying, and then he turned themout. What should he do?" Doro began to gesticulate. He held his righthand up on a level with his face, with the fingers all drawn togetherand pressed against the thumb, and moved it violently backwards andforwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his nose, then throwingit out towards Artois. "What else, I say? Was he to give his beautifulrooms to them for nothing? And she with a face like--have you, I askyou, 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 eyesfor an instant as if to ward off some dreadful vision. "They are likethe keys of a piano from Bordicelli's! Basta!" He dropped his handsand opened his eyes. "Yesterday papa was walking in the Chiaia. He metSignori Merani, and she began to abuse him. She had a red parasol. Sheshook it at him! She called him vigliacco--papa, a Panacci, dei Duchi diVedrano! The parasol--it was a bright red, it infuriated papa. He toldthe Signora to stop. She knows his temper. Every one in Naples knows ourtempers, every one! I, Viviano, even Sigismondo, we are all the same, we are all exactly like papa. If we are insulted we cannot controlourselves. You know it, Emilio!"

"I am perfectly certain of it, " said Artois. "I am positive you none ofyou can. "

"It does not matter whether it is a man or a woman. We must do somethingwith our hands. We have got to. Papa told the Signora he should strikeher at once unless she put down the red parasol and was silent. What didshe do, the imbecile? She stuck out her face like this, "--he thrusthis face forward with the right cheek turned towards Artois--"and said, 'Strike me! strike me!' Papa obeyed her. Poom! Poom! He gave her a smackon 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. Butdid you really think we were street singers?" He threw himself back, took the cigarette from his mouth, and laughed. Then he caught hold ofhis blond mustache with both hands, gave it an upward twist, at the sametime 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 tosee you angry. Every one talks of the Panacci temper, but when I am withyou I always see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he is aslively as a boy. Viviano--"

"Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey fromwhom another monkey has snatched a nut?"

"No. "

"It is like this--"

With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into thelikeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fiercesimian cries. 

"No, I can't do it. "

With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling selfagain. 

"Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the otherway when he passes along the Marina where the women are bathing in thesummer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you cometo Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you knowhow 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 hadin the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom heconsidered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy neveroccurred 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. Occasionallyit 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 aPanacci angry you do not really know him. With you, of course, I couldnever be angry--never, never. You are my friend, my comrade. To you Itell everything. "

A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. Evidently a new thought hadstarted into his active mind, for his face suddenly changed, and becameserious, even sentimental. 

"What is it?" asked Artois. 

"To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl--Madonna! Emilio, shehad a little nose that was perfect--perfect. How she was simpatica! Whata beautiful girl!"

His whole face assumed a melting expression, and he pursed his lips inthe 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 beenserenading you. She had heard us, I am sure, for she was laughing. Idived under the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks for her. Idid the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. She never took her eyesfrom 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, butshe was simpatica, too. She had nice eyes, and when I did the seal shecould 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 asa Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, intelligent. And the girl is a little brown--from the sun--with eyesfull of fun and fire, dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet--there issomething English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not cold. Andwhen she laughs! Her teeth are not like the keys of a piano fromBordicelli's. And she is full of passion, of flame, of sentiment, asI 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 beItalians. They may be tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have leftNaples. Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I tell who theyare?"

The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor vanished. His gesticulatinghands 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 withthe 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 AnticoGiuseppone. "

"So far off as that?" Artois said, rather abruptly. 

"Why not? To-day I hate the town. I want tranquility. At the AnticoGiuseppone there will be scarcely any one. It is early in the season. And afterwards we will fish for sarde, or saraglie. Take me away fromNaples, Emilio; take me away! For to-night, if I stay--well, I feel thatI 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 bewith Lidia. She is singing to-night at the Teatro Nuovo. Be ready athalf-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 onhis 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 fouro'clock just now?"

"No!"

"Nor does mamma! If she did! Povera mamma! But she can always go toMass. A rivederci, Emilio. "

He moved his hat a little more to one side and went out, swinging hiswalking-stick gently to and fro in a manner that was pensive and almostsentimental. 

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 whollyadmirable, there was really something of the simplicity of a child--of achild that could be very naughty--in his disposition. But if he couldbe na�ve he could also be mischievous and even subtle, and he was veryswift in grasping a situation, very sharp in reading character, verycunning in the pursuit of his pleasure, very adroit in deception, ifhe thought that publicity of pursuit would be likely to lead to thefrustration of his purpose. 

He had seen at once that Artois either knew, or suspected, who were theoccupants of the white boat with the green line, and he had also seenthat, influenced perhaps by one of those second thoughts which lead meninto caution, Artois desired to conceal his knowledge, or suspicion. Instantly the Marchesino had, therefore, dropped the subject, and asinstantly he had devised a little plan to clear the matter up. 

The Marchesino knew that when Artois had arrived in Naples he had had nofriends in the town or neighborhood. But he also knew that recently anEnglishwoman, an old friend of the novelist, had come upon the scene, that she was living somewhere not far off, and that Artois had been tovisit 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 notan inquisitive man by nature, and was always very busy with his ownpursuit of pleasure. But he remembered now that once he had seen hisfriend being rowed in the direction of Posilipo, and that in the eveningof the same day Artois had mentioned having been to visit his Englishfriend. This fact had suggested to the Marchesino that if his suspicionwere correct, and the ladies in the white boat with the green line werethis English friend and a daughter, they probably lived in some villa aseasily reached by sea as by land. Such villas are more numerous towardsthe point of the Capo di Posilipo than nearer Naples, as the high road, after the Mergellina, mounts the hill and diverges farther and fartherfrom the sea. The Antico Giuseppone is a small waterside ristorante atthe point of the Capo di Posilipo, a little below the Villa Rosebery. 

The Marchesino's suggestion of a dinner there that evening had beenprompted by the desire to draw his friend into the neighborhood of hischarmer of the sea. Once there he might either find some pretext formaking her acquaintance through Artois--if Artois did know her--or, ifthat were impossible, he might at least find out where she lived. By themanner of Artois when the Antico Giuseppone was mentioned, he knew atonce that he was playing his cards well. The occupants of the whiteboat were known to the novelist. They did live somewhere near the AnticoGiuseppone. And certainly Artois had no desire to bring about his--theMarchesino'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, despitehis geniality and friendliness, was often reserved--even with him. During their short intimacy he had certainly told Artois a great dealmore 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. Acareless good-nature was an essential part of his character. He did notfeel angry at his friend's secrecy, but he did feel mischievous. Hislively desire to know the girl with "the perfect little nose" was backedup now by another desire--to teach "Caro Emilio" that it was better tomeet complete frankness with complete frankness. 

He had strolled out of his friend's room pensively, acting themelancholy youth who had lost all hope of succeeding in his desire; butdirectly the door was shut his manner changed. Disregarding the lift, heran lightly down the stairs, made his way swiftly by the revolving doorinto the street, crossed it, and walked towards the harbor of SantaLucia, where quantities of pleasure-boats lie waiting for hire, and theboatmen are gathered in knots smoking and gossiping, or are strollingsingly up and down near the water's edge, keeping a sharp look-out forpossible 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 familiarlywith 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 thecigarette case which was now open, and which displayed two tempting rowsof fat Egyptian cigarettes reposing side by side. 

"Do you know a boat--white with a green line--which sometimes comes intothe 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 therein 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. "TheEnglish ladies who come in the summer to the Casa del Mare as they callit, on the island close to the Grotto of Virgilio by San Francesco'sPool. They were here this afternoon, but they're gone back. Their boatis 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'shand, called a hired carriage, and drove off towards the Villa--thehorse going at a frantic trot, while the coachman, holding a rein ineach hand, ejaculated, "A--ah!" every ten seconds, in a voice that wasfiercely hortatory. 

Artois, from his window, saw the carriage rattle past, and saw hisfriend leaning back in it, with alert eyes, to scan every woman passingby. He stood on the balcony for a moment till the noise of the wheels onthe stone pavement died away. When he returned to his writing-table themood for work was gone. He sat down in his chair. He took up hispen. But he found himself thinking of two people, the extraordinarydifference between whom was the cause of his now linking them togetherin 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 whiteboat. They were Hermione and Vere. The Marchesino had read him rightly, but Artois was not aware of it. His friend had deceived him, as almostany sharp-witted Neapolitan can deceive even a clever forestiere. Certainly he did not particularly wish to introduce his friend toVere. Yet now he was thinking of the two in connection, and not withoutamusement. What would they be like together? How would Vere's divineinnocence receive the amiable seductions of the Marchesino? Artois, in fancy, could see his friend Doro for once completely disarmed by achild. Vere's innocence did not spring from folly, but was backed upby excellent brains. It was that fact which made it so beautiful. Theinnocence and the brains together might well read Doro a pretty littlelesson. And Vere after the lesson--would she be changed? Would she loseby giving, even if the gift were a lesson?

Artois had certainly felt that his instinct told him not to do what Dorowanted. 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 theMarchesino seemed almost a boy, indeed, often quite a boy--was admirablein his precocity. He embodied Naples, its gay _furberia_, and yetthat was hardly the word--perhaps rather one should say its sunnynaughtiness, its reckless devotion to life purged of thought. AndVere--what did she embody? Not Sicily, though she was in some ways soSicilian. Not England; certainly not that!

Suddenly Artois was conscious that he knew Doro much better than he knewVere. He remembered the statement of an Austrian psychologist, that menare far more mysterious than women, and shook his head over it now. Hefelt strongly the mystery that lay hidden deep down in the innocence ofVere, 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 ofmen. Vere must be happy. 

When he said this to himself he knew that, perhaps for the firsttime, he was despairing of something that he ardently desired. He wastransferring a wish, that was something like a prayer in the heartof one who had seldom prayed. He was giving up hope for Hermione andfastening hope on Vere. For a moment that seemed like treachery, like anabandoning of Hermione. Since their interview on the sea Artois hadfelt that, for Hermione, all possibility of real happiness was over. Shecould 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 himmight have died, and in the course of years she might have been ableto love again. But now it was surely too late. She had lived with hermemory too long. It was her blessing--to remember, to recall, how lovehad blessed her life for a time. And if that memory were desecrated nowshe would be as one wrecked in the storm of life. Yet with that memoryhow she suffered!

What could he do for her? His chivalry must exercise itself. He mustremain in the lists, if only to fight for Hermione in Vere. And theMarchesino? Artois seemed to divine that he might be an enemy in certaincircumstances. 

A warmth of sentiment, not very common in Artois, generated within himby such thoughts as these, thoughts that detained him from work, stillglowed in his heart when evening fell and the Marchesino came gayly into take him out upon the sea. 

"There's a little wind, Emilio, " he said, as they got into the boat inthe harbor of Santa Lucia; "we can sail to the Antico Giuseppone. Andafter dinner we'll fish for sarde. Isn't it warm? One could sleep out onsuch a night. "

They had two men with them. When they got beyond the breakwater the sailwas set, the Marchesino took the helm, and the boat slipped through thesmooth sea, rounded the rocks on which the old fort stands to stare atCapri, radiant now as a magic isle in the curiously ethereal light ofevening, and headed for the distant point of land which hid Ischiafrom their eyes. The freedom of the Bay of Naples was granted them--thefreedom of the sea. As they ran out into the open water, and Artois sawthe round gray eyes of the Marchesino dancing to the merry music of acomplete bodily pleasure, he felt like a man escaping. He looked backat the city almost as at a sad life over, and despite his deep andpersistent interest in men he understood the joy of the hermit who caststhem from him and escapes into the wilds. The radiance of the Bay, oneof the most radiant of all the inlets of the sea, bold and glaringin the brilliant daytime, becomes exquisitely delicate towards night. Vesuvius, its fiery watcher, looks like a kindly guardian, until perhapsthe darkness shows the flame upon its flanks, the flame bursting forthfrom the mouth it opens to the sky; and the coast-line by Sorrento, thelifted crest of Capri, even the hill of Posilipo, appear romantic andenticing, calling lands holding wonderful pleasures for men, joysin their rocks and trees, joys in their dim recesses, joys and softrealities fulfilling every dream upon their coasts washed by thewhispering waves. 

The eyes of the Marchesino were dancing with physical pleasure. Artoiswondered how much he felt the beauty of the evening, and how. His friendevidently 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, itsrestaurants--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 shallnot 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 notthe sea, you have not the sun. "

Artois began laughingly to protest against the last statement, but theMarchesino 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 boldnessand directness of the sea. Neither of them looked gay. Many of theNeapolitans who are much upon the sea have serious, even grave faces. These were intensely, almost overpoweringly male. They seemed to partakeof the essence of the elements of nature, as if blood of the sea ran intheir veins, as if they were hot with the grim and inner fires of thesun. When they spoke their faces showed a certain changefulness thatdenoted intelligence, but never lost the look of force, of an almosttense masculinity ready to battle, perpetually alive to hold its own. 

The Marchesino was also very masculine, but in a different way and moreconsciously than they were. He was not cultured, but such civilizationas he had endowed him with a power to catch the moods of others notpossessed by these men, in whom persistence was more visible thanadroitness, 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 besthour and place for their fishing. "Are you hungry?"

"I shall be, " said Artois. "This wind brings an appetite with it. Howwell you steer!"

The Marchesino nodded carelessly. 

As the boat drew ever nearer to the point, running swiftly beforethe light breeze, its occupants were silent. Artois was watching theevening, with the eyes of a lover of nature, but also with the eyesof one who takes notes. The Marchesino seemed to be intent on hisoccupation of pilot. As to the two sailors, they sat in the accustomedcalm and staring silence of seafaring men, with wide eyes lookingout over the element that ministered to their wants. They saw itdifferently, perhaps, from Artois, to whom it gave now an intenseaesthetic pleasure, differently from the Marchesino, to whom it wasjust a path to possible excitement, possible gratification of a newand dancing desire. They connected it with strange superstitions, withgifts, with deprivations, with death. Familiar and mysterious it waspurely to them as to all seamen, like a woman possessed whose soul isfar away. 

Just as the clocks of Posilipo were striking eight the Marchesinosteered the boat into the quay of the Antico Guiseppone. 

Although it was early in the season a few deal tables were set out bythe waterside, and a swarthy waiter, with huge mustaches and a napkinover his arm, came delicately over the stones to ask their wishes. 

"Will you let me order dinner, Emilio?" said the Marchesino: "I knowwhat they do best here. "

Artois agreed, and while the waiter shuffled to carry out theMarchesino's directions the two friends strolled near the edge of thesea. 

The breeze had been kindly. Having served them well it was nowdying down to its repose, leaving the evening that was near to nightprofoundly calm. As Artois walked along the quay he felt the approach ofcalm like the approach of a potentate, serene in the vast consciousnessof power. Peace was invading the sea, irresistible peace. The night wasat hand. Already Naples uncoiled its chain of lamps along the Bay. Inthe gardens of Posilipo the lights of the houses gleamed. Opposite, but very far off across the sea, shone the tiny flames of the housesof Portici, of Torre del Greco, of Torre Annunziata, of Castellamare. Against the gathering darkness Vesuvius belched slowly soft clouds ofrose-colored vapor, which went up like a menace into the dim vault ofthe sky. The sea was without waves. The boats by the wharf, wherethe road ascends past the villa Rosebery to the village of Posilipo, scarcely moved. Near them, in a group, lounging against the wall andtalking rapidly, stood the two sailors from Naples with the boatmenof the Guiseppone. Oil lamps glimmered upon two or three of the dealtables, round one of which was gathered a party consisting of sevenlarge women, three children, and two very thin middle-aged men withbright eyes, all of whom were eating oysters. Farther on, from a smallarbor that gave access to a fisherman's house, which seemed to beconstructed partially in a cave of the rock, and which was gained by asteep and crumbling stairway of stone, a mother called shrilly to somehalf-naked little boys who were fishing with tiny hand-nets in thesea. By the table which was destined to the Marchesino and Artois threeambulant musicians were hovering, holding in their broad and dirty handstwo shabby mandolins and a guitar. In the distance a cook with a whitecap on his head and bare arms was visible, as he moved to and fro in thelighted kitchen of the old ristorante, preparing a "zuppa di pesce" forthe 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! Ourdinner is ready, with thanks to the Madonna!"

They sat down, one on each side of the small table, with a smoking lampbetween them. 

"I have ordered vino bianco, " said the Marchesino, who still lookedsentimental. "Cameriere, take away the lamp. Put it on the next table. Va bene. We are going to have 'zuppa di pesce, ' gamberi and vealcutlets. The wine is Capri. Now then, " he added, with sudden violenceand the coarsest imaginable Neapolitan accent, "if you fellows play'Santa Lucia, ' 'Napoli Bella, ' or 'Sole mio' you'll have my knife inyou. I am not an Inglese. I am a Neapolitan. Remember that!"

He proved it with a string of gutter words and oaths, at which themusicians smiled with pleasure. Then, turning again to Artois, hecontinued:

"If one doesn't tell them they think one is an imbecile. Emilio caro, doyou not love to see the moon with a beautiful girl?"

His curious assumption that Artois and he were contemporaries becausethey were friends, and his apparently absolute blindness to the factthat a man of sixty and a man of twenty-four are hardly likely toregard the other sex with an exactly similar enthusiasm, always secretlyentertained the novelist, who made it his business with this friend tobe 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 ofsoaked bread, Emilio. They know how to make this zuppa here. Everythingis 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 fromit now came shrill sounds of very common voices, followed by shouts ofmale 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 noiseand many gesticulations, two over-dressed women--probably, indeed almostcertainly, _canzonettiste_--and the two large young men, whose brownfingers and whose chests gleamed with false diamonds. As they passed thetable where the two friends were sitting, the Marchesino raked the womenwith his bold gray eyes. One of them was large and artificially blonde, with a spreading bust, immense hips, a small waist, and a quantity ofpale dyed hair, on which was perched a bright blue hat. The other wasfiercely dark, with masses of coarse black hair, big, blatant eyes thatlooked quite black in the dim lamplight, and a figure that suggested aself-conscious snake. Both were young. They returned the Marchesino'sstare 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 hername--Maria Leoni, I fancy. "

He looked enviously at the young men. The arrival of the lobsterdistracted his attention for the moment; but it was obvious that theappearance of these women had increased the feeling of sentimentalityalready generated in him by the softness and stillness of the night. 

The three musicians, rendered greedy rather than inspired by thepresence of more clients, now began to pluck a lively street tune fromtheir instruments; and the waiter, whose mustaches seemed if possiblebigger now that night was truly come, poured the white wine into theglasses with the air of one making a libation. 

As the Marchesino ate, he frequently looked towards the party at theneighboring table. He was evidently filled with envy of the two menwhose jewels glittered as they gesticulated with their big brown hands. But presently their pleasure and success recalled to him somethingwhich he had momentarily forgotten, the reason why he had planned thisexpedition. He was in pursuit. The recollection cheered him up, restoredto him the strength of his manhood, put him right with himself. The envyand the almost sickly sentimentality vanished from him, and he brokeinto the usual gay conversation which seldom failed him, either by dayor night. 

It was past nine before they had finished their coffee. The two boatmenhad been regaled and had drunk a bottle of wine, and the moon was risingand making the oil lamps of the Guiseppone look pitiful. From the tablewhere the canzonettiste were established came peals of laughter, whichobviously upset the seven large and respectable women who had beeneating oysters, and who now sat staring heavily at the gay revellers, while the two thin middle-aged men with bright eyes began to lookfurtively cheerful, and even rather younger than they were. Themusicians passed round a small leaden tray for soldi, and the waiterbrought the Marchesino the bill, and looked inquiringly at Artois, awarethat he at least was not a Neapolitan. Artois gave him something andsatisfied the musicians, while the Marchesino disputed the bill, notbecause he minded paying, but merely to prove that he was a Neapolitanand not an imbecile. The matter was settled at last, and they wenttowards the boat; the Marchesino casting many backward glances towardsthe two angels, who, with their lovers, were becoming riotous in theirgayety as the moon came up. 

"Are we going out into the Bay?" said Artois, as they stepped into theboat, and were pushed off. 

"Where is the best fishing-ground?" asked the Marchesino of the elder ofthe two men. 

"Towards the islet, Signorino Marchesino, " he replied at once, lookinghis interlocutor full in the face with steady eyes, but remainingperfectly grave. 

Artois glanced at the man sharply. For the first time it occurred tohim that possibly his friend had arranged this expedition with a purposeother than that which he had put forward. It was not the fisherman'svoice which had made Artois wonder, but the voice of the Marchesino. 

"There are generally plenty of sarde round the islet, " continued thefisherman, "but if the Signori would not be too tired it would be bestto stay out the night. We shall get many more fish towards morning, andwe can run the boat into the Pool of San Francesco, and have some sleepthere, if the Signori like. We others generally take a nap there, andgo to work further on in the night. But of course it is as the Signoriprefer. "

"They want to keep us out all night to get more pay, " said theMarchesino 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 hispurpose, which had become much more ardent with the coming of the night. The voices of the laughing women were ringing in his ears. He feltadventurous. 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 onsuch a night? It might be August, when one bathes at midnight, and singscanzoni till dawn. Let us do as he says. Let us rest in the--what is thepool?" 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 thefishermen along the coast towards Nisida go to sleep. I have slept theremany times when I was a boy, and so has Viviano. To-night shall we do asthe fishermen, Emilio?"

There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes for the momentlooked 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, buthe did not wish to seem reluctant to go. And he said to himself now thathis interior hesitation was absurd. Night had fallen. By the time theyreached the Pool the inmates of the Case del Mare would probably beasleep. Even if they were not, what did it matter? The boat would lieamong the vessels of the fishermen. The Marchesino and he would sharethe fishermen's repose. And even if Hermione and Vere should chanceto be out of doors they would not see him, or, if they did, would notrecognize him in the night. 

His slight uneasiness, prompted by a vague idea that the Marchesino wassecretly mischievous, had possibly some plan in his mind connected withthe islet, was surely without foundation. 

He told himself so as the fisherman laid hold of their oars and set theboat's prow towards the point of land which conceals the small harbor ofthe Villa Rosebery. 

The shrill voices of the two singers died away from their ears, butlingered in the memory of the Marchesino, as the silence of the sea tookthe boat to itself, the sea silence and the magic of the moon. 

He turned his face towards the silver, beyond which, hidden as yet, wasthe islet where dwelt the child he meant to know. 

CHAPTER VII

Although Hermione had told Artois that she could not find complete restand happiness in her child, that she could not live again in Vere fullyand intensely as she had lived once, as she still had it in her surelyto live, she and Vere were in a singularly close relationship. They hadnever yet been separated for more than a few days. Vere had not been toschool, and much of her education had been undertaken by her mother. InFlorence she had been to classes and lectures. She had had lessonsin languages, French, German, and Italian, in music and drawing. ButHermione had been her only permanent teacher, and until her sixteenthbirthday she had never been enthusiastic about anything withoutcarrying her enthusiasm to her mother, for sympathy, explanation, orencouragement. 

Sorrow had not quenched the elan of Hermione's nature. What she had toldArtois had been true--she was not a finished woman, nor would she everbe, so long as she was alive and conscious. Her hunger for love, herpassionate remembrance of the past, her incapacity to sink herself inany one since her husband's death, her persistent, though concealed, worship of his memory, all these things proved her vitality. Artois wasright when he said that she was a force. There was something in her thatwas red-hot, although she was now a middle-aged woman. She needed muchmore than most people, because she had much more than most people haveto give. 

Her failure to express herself in an art had been a tragedy. From thistragedy she turned, not with bitterness, but perhaps with an almostfiercer energy, to Vere. Her intellect, released from fruitless toil, was running loose demanding some employment. She sought that employmentin developing the powers of her child. Vere was not specially studious. Such an out-of-door temperament as hers could never belong to a bookwormor 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 agoHermione, trying with loving anxiety to educate her boyish husband, tomake him understand certain subtleties of her own, had found herselffrustrated. When she made such attempts with Vere she was met half way. The girl understood with swiftness even those things with which she wasnot specially in sympathy. Her father's mind had slipped away, ever sogracefully, from all which it did not love. Vere's could grasp even anunloved subject. There was mental grit in her--Artois knew it. In allher work until her sixteenth year Vere had consulted her mother. Nothingof her child till then was ever hidden from Hermione, except thosethings which the human being cannot reveal, and sometimes scarcelyknows of. The child drew very much from her mother, responded toher enthusiasm, yet preserved instinctively, and quite withoutself-consciousness, her own individuality. 

Artois had noticed this, and this had led him to say that Vere also wasa force. 

But when she was sixteen Vere woke up to something. Until now no one butherself knew to what. Sometimes she shut herself up alone in her roomfor 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 topush a boat out into the centre of the Saint's Pool, and lie in it withher hands clasped behind her head looking up at the passing clouds or atthe radiance of the blue. 

Hermione knew how fond Vere was of reading, and supposed that this lovewas increasing as the child grew older. She sometimes felt a littlelonely, but she was unselfish. Vere's freedom was quite innocent. She, the mother, would not seek to interfere with it. Soon after dinner onthe evening of the Marchesino's expedition with Artois, Vere had got upfrom the sofa, on which she had been sitting with a book of Rossetti'spoems in her hand, had gone over to one of the windows, and had stoodfor two or three minutes looking out over the sea. Then she had turnedround, 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 theystayed in the house, they usually sat in Hermione's room up-stairs. They had been sitting there to-night. The shutters were not closed. Thewindow that faced the sea towards Capri was open. A little moonlightbegan to mingle subtly with the light from the two lamps, to make itwhiter, cleaner, suggestive of outdoor things and large spaces. Hermionehad been reading when Vere was reading. She did not read now Vere wasgone. Laying down her book she sat listening to the silence, realizingthe world without. Almost at her feet was the sea, before her awide-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 Napleswith its furious activities, its gayeties, its intensities of sin, ofmisery, of pleasure. In the Galleria, tourists from the hotels andfrom the ships were wandering rather vaguely, watched and followedby 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 singersand players were making their nightly pilgrimage, pausing, wherever theysaw a lighted window or a dark figure on a balcony, to play and singthe tunes of which they were weary long ago. On the wall, high abovethe sea, were dotted the dilettante fishermen with their long rods andlines. And below, before each stone staircase that descended to thewater, 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 crowdand from the thronging houses, the real fishermen who live by the seawere alert and at work, or were plunged in the quiet sleep that is apreparation for long hours of nocturnal wakefulness. 

Hermione thought of it all, was aware of it, felt it, as she sat thereopposite 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 sofawhere Vere had been. She saw the volume of Rossetti lying beside thecushion that still showed a shallow dent where the child's head had beenresting. 

And then she shut her eyes, and asked her imagination to take her awayfor a moment, over the sea to Messina, and along the curving shore, andup 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 stillstood there, and the terrace was still before it. And the olive-treesrustled, perhaps, just now in the wind beneath the stars. 

Yes, she was there. Lucrezia and Gaspare were in bed. But she andMaurice were sitting in the straw chairs on each side of the table, facing the open French window and the flight of shallow steps that leddown to the terrace. 

Faintly she heard the whisper of the sea about the islet, but she wouldnot let it hinder her imagination: she translated it by means of herimagination into the whisper of the wind low down there, in the ravineamong the trees. And that act made her think of the ravine, seemedpresently to set her in the ravine. She was there in the night withGaspare. They were hurrying down towards the sea. He was behind her, and she could hear his footsteps--longing to go faster. But she wasbreathless, her heart was beating, there was terror in her soul. Whatwas that? A rattle of stones in the darkness, and then an old voicemuttering "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 tothe window. She must drive away that memory of the ravine, of all thatfollowed after. Often she lingered with it, but to-night, somehow, shecould 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 herselfnow with other people, other women. Did she know one who could notuproot 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 conditionof soul. But instantly it seemed to her as if far down in that soulsomething rose up and answered:

"No, it is not. It is beautiful. It is divine. It is more--it is due. Hegave you the greatest gift. He gave you what the whole world is alwaysseeking; even in blindness, even in ignorance, even in terrible vice. Hegave you love. How should you forget him?"

Far away on the sea that was faintly silvered by the moon there wasa black speck. It was, or seemed from the distance to be, motionless. Hermione's eyes were attracted to it, and again her imagination carriedher to Sicily. She stood on the shore by the inlet, she saw the boatcoming 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, andshe was here on the islet in the Sea of Naples, and Sicily was faraway across the moonlit waters. As to Gaspare--she was sure he was notweeping, faithful though he was to the memory of the dead Padrone. 

And Vere? Hermione wondered what Vere was doing. She felt sure, thoughshe did not know why, that Vere had not gone to bed. She realizedto-night that her child was growing up rapidly, was passing from thestage of childhood to the stage of girlhood, was on the threshold ofall the mysterious experiences that life holds for those who have ardenttemperaments and eager interests, and passionate desires and fearlesshearts. 

To-night Hermione felt very strongly the difference between the fatherand the daughter. There was a gravity in Vere, a firmness that Mauricehad lacked. Full of life and warmth as she was, she was not the purespirit of joy that he had been in those first days in Sicily. She wasnot irresponsible. She was more keenly aware of others, of just how theywere 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 consciousbefore, of the independence of her child's character. The knowledge ofthis independence seemed to come upon her suddenly--she could not tellwhy; and she saw Vere apart from her, detached, like a column in alonely place. 

Vere must not escape from her. She must accompany her child step bystep. She must not be left alone. She had told Emile that she could notlive again in Vere. And that was true. Vere was not enough. But Vere wasvery much. Without Vere, what would her life be?

A wave of melancholy flowed over her to-night, a tide come from she knewnot where. Making an effort to stem it, she recalled her happiness withMaurice after that day of the Tarantella. How groundless had really beenher melancholy then! She had imagined him escaping from her, but he hadremained 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 beenSicily. Always her imagination was her torturer. 

Her failure in art had been a tragedy because of this. If she could haveset her imagination free in an art she would have been far safer thanshe was. Emile Artois was really lonelier than she, for he had nota child. But his art surely saved him securely from her sense ofdesolation. And then he was a man, and men must need far less thanwomen do. Hermione felt that it was so. She thought of Emile in his mosthelpless moment, in that period when he was ill in Kairouan before shecame. Even then she believed that he could not have felt quite so muchalone as she did now; for men never long to be taken care of as womendo. And yet she was well, in this tranquil house which was her own--withVere, her child, and Gaspare, her devoted servant. 

As mentally she recounted her benefits, the strength there was in herarose, protesting. She called herself harsh names: egoist, craven, _faineant_. But it was no use to attack herself. In the deeps of herpoor, eager, passionate, hungry woman's nature something wept, andneeded, and could not be comforted, and could not be schooled. Itcomplained as one feeble, but really it must be strong; for it waspitilessly persistent in its grieving. It had a strange endurance. Life, the passing of the years, could not change it, could not still it. Thoseeternal hungers of which Hermione had spoken to Artois--they must havetheir meaning. Somewhere, surely, there are the happy hunting-grounds, dreamed of by the red man--there are the Elysian Fields where the soulsthat 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 pressedher head, and opened her eyes, instinctively laying her hand on Vere'svolume of Rossetti, and pretending to read it. 

"Avanti!" she said. 

The door opened and Gaspare appeared. Hermione felt an immediatesensation 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 onGaspare'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 anythingin 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 asif he must have come just then because he was conscious that she had somuch need of help and consolation. And she could not answer "no" to hissimple question. 

"Come in, Gaspare, " she said, "and shut the door. I'm all alone. Ishould like to have a little talk with you. "

He obeyed her, shut the door gently, and came up to her with thecomfortable confidence of one safe in his welcome, desired not merely asa 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, lookingabout the room. Hermione began to wonder what he had to say to her. Shewas certain that he had come to her for some reason other than just toask if she had need of him. 

"It does the Signorina good to get a breath of air before she goes tobed, " 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 odddirectness which had been characteristic of him as a boy, and which hehad not lost as a man. 

"The Signorina is getting quite big, Signora, " he said. "Have younoticed? Per Dio! In Sicily, if the Signorina was a Sicilian, thegiovinotti would be asking to marry her. "

"Ah, but, Gaspare, the Signorina is not a Sicilian, " she said. "Sheis English, you know, and English girls do not generally think of suchthings till they are much older than Sicilians. "

"But, Signora, " said Gaspare, with the bluntness which in him wasnever rudeness, but merely the sincerity which he considered due to hisPadrona--due also to himself, "my Padrone was like a real Sicilian, and the Signorina is his daughter. She must be like a Sicilian too, byforce. "

"Your Padrone, yes, he was a real Sicilian, " Hermione said softly. "But, well, the Signorina has much more English blood in her veins thanSicilian. She has only a little Sicilian blood. "

"But the Signorina thinks she is almost a Sicilian. She wishes to be aSicilian. "

"How do you know that, Gaspare?" she asked, smiling a little at hisfirmness and persistence. 

"The Signorina said so the other day to the giovinotto who had thecigarettes, Signora. I talked to him, and he told me. He said theSignorina had said to him that she was partly a Sicilian, and that hehad said 'no, ' that she was English. And when he said that--he said tome--the Signorina was quite angry. He could see that she was angry byher face. "

"I suppose that is the Sicilian blood, Gaspare. There is some in theSignorina's veins, of course. And then, you know, both her father andI loved your country. I think the Signorina must often long to seeSicily. "

"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 littleSicilian 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 countrywe do not let girls go about by themselves after they are sixteen. Weknow it is better not. Ecco!"

Hermione had some difficulty in not smiling. But she knew that if shesmiled 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 toany 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 Hermionestopped him. 

"Wait a minute, Gaspare. I want you to understand. I like your carefor the Signorina. You know I trust you and depend on you more than onalmost 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 inSicily. 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 Naplesalone. "

"Per Dio!" he interrupted, in a tone almost of horror. 

"Of course I should never allow that. But here on the island--why, whatcould happen to her here? Come, Gaspare, tell me what it is you arethinking of. You haven't told me yet. I knew directly you came in thatyou had something you wanted to say. What is it?"

"I know it is not my business, " he said. "And I should never speak tothe 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 seethe 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 knowthat. "

"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 quitedifferent. "

Suddenly Hermione understood. She remembered what Vere had said aboutGaspare 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 notNeapolitans. We are strangers here. We do not know their habits. Wedo not know what they think. They are different from us. If we werein Sicily! I am a Sicilian. I can tell. But when men come from Naplessaying they are Sicilians, how can I tell whether they are ruffiani ornot?"

Gaspare's inner thought stood revealed. 

"I see, Gaspare, " Hermione said, quietly. "You think I should not havelet 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 divedfor 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 myduty to tell you what I thought, Signora. Why should people come heresaying they are of my country, saying they are Sicilians, and talking asthe Neapolitans talk?"

"Well, but at the time, you didn't doubt that boy was what he said hewas, did you?"

"Signora, I did not know. I could not know. But since then I have beenthinking. "

"Well, Gaspare, you are quite right to tell me. I prefer that. I havemuch faith in you, and always shall have. But we must not say anythinglike 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"--Hermioneused the word "_offesa_, "--"as you would be if you fancied I thoughtsomething 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 theair 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 Gasparehad effectually changed her mood, had driven away what she chose tocall her egoism, had concentrated all her thoughts on Vere. He had neverbefore spoken like this about the child. It was a sudden waking up onhis part to the fact that Vere was growing up to womanhood. 

When he chose, Gaspare could always, or nearly always, make his Padronacatch his mood, there was something so definite about him that he madean impression. And, though he was easily inclined to be suspiciousof those whom he did not know well, Hermione knew him to be bothintelligent and shrewd, especially about those for whom he hadaffection. 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 hiscountrymen. 

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 theNeapolitans, they who were strangers in the land?

She wondered whether Vere was still outside. To-night she certainlyenvisaged Vere newly. Never till to-night had she thought of her asanything but a child; as characteristic, as ardent, as determinedsometimes, perhaps as forceful even, but always with a child's mindbehind it all. 

But to the people of the South Vere was already a woman--even toGaspare, who had held her in his arms when she was in long clothes. Atleast Hermione supposed so now, after what Gaspare had said about thegiovinotti, who, in Sicily, would have been wishing to marry Vere, hadshe been Sicilian. And perhaps even the mind of Vere was more grown-upthan her mother had been ready to suppose. 

The mother was conscious of a slight but distinct uneasiness. It wasvague. Had she been asked to explain it she could not, perhaps, havedone so. 

Presently, after a minute or two of hesitation, she went to the windowthat faced north, opened it, and stood by, listening. It was from thesea on this side that the fishermen who lived in the Mergellina, and inthe town of Naples, came to the islet. It was from this direction thatRuffo had come three days ago. 

Evidently Gaspare had been turning over the boy's acquaintance withVere in his mind all that time, disapproving of it, secretly condemningHermione for having allowed it. No, not that; Hermione felt that he wasquite incapable of condemning her. But he was a watchdog who did notbark, but who was ready to bite all those who ventured to approach histwo mistresses unless he was sure of their credentials. And of thisboy's, Ruffo's, he was not sure. 

Hermione recalled the boy; his brown healthiness, his laughing eyes andlips, his strong young body, his careless happy voice. And she foundherself instinctively listening by the window to hear that voice again. 

Now, as she looked out, the loveliness of the night appealed to herstrongly, and she felt sure that Vere must be still outside, somewhereunder the moon. 

Just beneath the window was the narrow terrace, on to which she hadstepped out, obedient to Vere's call, three days ago. Perhaps Vere wasthere, or in the garden beyond. She extinguished the lamp. She went toher bedroom to get a lace shawl, which she put over her head and drewround 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 themoon. 

CHAPTER VIII

Vere was outside under the stars. When she had said good-night and hadslipped away, it was with the desire to be alone, to see no one, tospeak with no one till next morning. But the desires of the young changequickly, and Vere's presently changed. 

She came out of the house, and passing over the bridge that connectedtogether the two cliffs of which the islet was composed, reached thelimit of the islet. At the edge of the precipice was a seat, and thereshe sat down. For some time she rested motionless, absorbing the beautyand the silence of the night. She was looking towards Ischia. She wishedto look that way, to forget all about Naples, the great city which laybehind her. 

Here were the ancient caves darkening with their mystery the silverwonder of the sea. Here the venerable shore stretched towards lands shedid not know. They called to the leaping desires of her heart as thecity did not call. They carried her away. 

Often, from this seat, on dark and moonless nights, she had watched thefishermen's torches flaring below her in the blackness, and had thrilledat the mystery of their occupation, and had imagined them lifting fromthe sea strange and wonderful treasures, that must change the current oftheir lives: pearls such as had never before been given to the breastsof women, caskets that had lain for years beneath the waters, bottles inwhich were stoppered up magicians who, released, came forth in smoke, asin the Eastern story. 

Once she had spoken of this last imagination to Gaspare, and had seenhis face suddenly change and look excited, vivid, and then sad. She hadasked him why he looked like that, and, after a moment of hesitation, hehad told her how, long ago, before she was born, his Padrone had readto 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 theheat of his recollection, had brought before her a picture of that scenein his simple life; had shown her how he lay, and how the Padronelay, he listening, the Padrone, book in hand, reading about the "magoafricano. " He had even told Vere of their conversation afterwards, andhow 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 athis memory growing still more excited he had told her many other thingsof which his Padrone and he had talked together, and had made her feelthe 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 questionhim about her father's death he had become silent, and she had seen thatit would be impossible to make him obey her and tell her all the detailsthat she longed to know. 

To-night Vere could see no fishermen at work. The silver of the seabelow her was unbroken by the black forms of gliding boats, the silencewas unbroken by calling voices. And to-night she was glad that it wasso; for she was in the mood to be quite alone. As she sat there verystill she seemed to herself to be drawing nearer to the sea, and drawingthe sea to her. Indeed, she was making some such imaginative attempt asher mother was making in the house--to become, in fancy at least, onewith something outside of her, to be fused with the sea, as her motherdesired to be fused with her. But Vere's endeavor was not tragic, likeher mother's, but was almost tenderly happy. She thought she felt thesea responding to her as she responded to the sea. And she was very gladin that thought. 

Presently she began to wonder about the fishermen. 

How did they feel about the sea? To her the sea was romantic andpersonal. Was it romantic and personal to them? They were romantic toher because of their connection with the sea, which had imprintedupon 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 theydipped their hands to get enough to live by. Or perhaps they thought ofit as an enemy, against which they lived in perpetual war, from whichthey wrung, as it were at the sword's point, a poor and precariousbooty. 

As she sat thinking about this Vere began to change in her desire, towish there were some fishermen out to-night about the islet, and thatshe could have speech of them. She would like to find out from one ofthem how they regarded the sea. 

She smiled as she imagined a conversation between herself and somestrong, brown, wild Neapolitan, she questioning and he replying. Howhe would misunderstand her! He would probably think her mad. And yetsometimes the men of the sea in their roughness are imaginative. Theyare superstitious. But a man--no, she could not question a man. Her mindwent to the boy diver, Ruffo. She had often thought about Ruffo duringthe last three days. She had expected to see him again. He had saidnothing about returning to the islet, but she had felt sure he wouldreturn, if only in the hope of being given some more cigarettes. Boysin his position, she knew well, do not get a present of Khali Targacigarettes every day of the week. How happy he had looked when he wassmoking them! She remembered exactly the expression of his brown facenow, as she sat watching the empty, moonlit sea. It was not greedy. Itwas voluptuous. She remembered seeing somewhere a picture of some Sultanof the East reclining on a divan and smoking a chibouk. She thoughtRuffo had looked rather like the Sultan, serenely secure of all earthlyenjoyment. At that moment the Pool of San Francesco had stood to the boyfor the Paradise of Mahomet. 

But Ruffo had not come again. 

Each morning Vere had listened for his voice, had looked down upon thesea for his boat, but all in vain. On the third day she had felt almostangry with him unreasonably. But then she remembered that he was not hisown master, not the owner of the boat. Of course, he could not do whathe liked. If he could--well, then he would have come back. She waspositive of that. 

If he ever did come back, she said to herself now, she would questionhim about the sea. She would get at his thoughts about the sea, at hisfeelings. She wondered if they could possibly be at all like hers. Itwas 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 understoodeach other. Even her mother had said that they seemed to be in sympathy. And that was true. Difference of rank need not, indeed cannot, destroythe magic chain if it exists, cannot prevent its links from beingforged. She knew that her mother was in sympathy with Gaspare, andGaspare with her mother. So there was no reason why she should not be insympathy with Ruffo. 

If he were here to-night she would begin at once to talk to him aboutthe sea. But of course he would never come at night to the islet. 

Vere knew that the Neapolitan fishermen usually keep each to his ownspecial branch of the common profession. By this time of night, nodoubt, Ruffo was in his home at the Mergellina, sitting in the midst ofhis 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, toshut herself in from the moon and the sea. The fishermen who slept inthe shelter of the Saint's Pool were enviable. They had the stars abovethem, the waters about them, the gentle winds to caress them as they layin 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 upand went back to the bridge, treading softly because she was thinking ofrepose. There she stopped and looked down. She saw two boats on the farside of the Pool almost at the feet of the Saint. The men in them mustbe lying down, for Vere could see only the boats, looking black, andfilled with a confused blackness--of sails probably, and sleeping men. The rest of the pool was empty, part of it bright with the radiance ofthe moon, part of it shading away to the mysterious dimness of stillwater at night under the lee of cliffs. 

For some time the girl stood, watching. Just at that moment her activebrain almost ceased to work, stilled by the reverie that is born ofcertain night visions. Without these motionless boats the Pool of theSaint would have been calm. With them, its stillness seemed almostineffably profound. The hint of life bound in the cores of sleep, prisoner to rest, deepened Nature's impression and sent Vere intoreverie. There were no trees here. No birds sang, for although it wasthe month of the nightingales, none ever came to sing to San Francesco. No insects chirped or hummed. All was stark and almost fearfully stillas in a world abandoned; and the light fell on the old faces of therocks faintly, as if it feared to show the ravages made in them by thestorms of the long ages they had confronted and defied. 

Vere had a sensation of sinking very slowly down into a gulf, as shestood there, not falling, but sinking, down into some world of quietthings, farther and farther down, leaving all the sounds of life far upin light above her. And descent was exquisite, easy and natural, and, indeed, inevitable. Nothing called her from below. For where she wasgoing there were no voices. Yet she felt that at last there would besomething to receive her; mystical stillness, mystical peace. 

A silky sound--far off--checked that imaginative descent that seemedso physical, first merely arrested it, then, always silky, but growinglouder, took her swiftly and softly back to the summit she had left. Nowshe 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-bladedoars 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. Itpushed its way to the water at her very feet, and chose that as itsanchorage. 

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. Herinclination was to bend down with the soft cry of "Pescator!" which shehad sent to him on the sunny morning of their meeting. She checked it, why she scarcely knew, in obedience to some imperious prompting of hernature. But she kept her eyes on him. And they were full of will. Shewas willing him not to lie down in the bottom of the boat and sleep. Sheknew that he and his companions must have come to the pool at that hourto rest. There were three other men in the boat. Two had been sittingon 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 hearthe sound of their voices, but not what they said. The conversationcontinued for two or three minutes, while Ruffo was taking in the oarsand laying them one on each side of the boat. When he had done this hestretched up his arms to their full length above his head, and a loudnoise 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 thereought to be their little secret. 

All this that was passing through her mind was utterly foreign to anycoquetry. Vere had no more feeling of sex in regard to Ruffo than shewould have had if she had been a boy herself. The sympathy she felt withhim was otherwise founded, deep down in mysteries beyond the mysteriesof sex. 

Again Ruffo and the man who had not lain down spoke together. But theman did not look up to Vere. He must have looked if his attention hadbeen drawn to the fact that she was there--a little spy upon the men ofthe 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 lifta leg to get over into the stern, treading carefully in order not totrample on his sleeping companions. Then his black figure seemed to shutup like a telescope. He had become one with the dimness in the boat, wasno longer detached from it. Only Ruffo was still detached. Was he goingto sleep, too?

A certain tenseness came into Vere's body. She kept her eyes, which shehad opened very wide, fixed upon the black figure. It remained standing. The head moved. He was certainly looking up. She realized that he wasnot sleepy, despite that yawn, --that he would like to speak to her--tolet 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. Theboat 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 intenselystill that he heard it. Or, if not that, he felt it. His shadow--soit seemed in the shadow of the cliff--flitted out of the boat anddisappeared. 

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 dimare_ 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 hewas 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 itwas 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. "Ithink 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, youknow. "

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 meinto his boat. But of course with a lady it is all different. A ladydoes 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 oftrouble, my poor mamma!"

"I am sorry. Is she like you?"

"I don't know, Signorina; I have never thought about it. What does itmatter?"

"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 theconversation 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 tobe gallant. And he had a good memory too. He had not forgotten herthree-days'-old claim to Sicilian blood. The night mitigated theblunders of his temperament, it seemed. Vere could not help beingpleased. There was something in her that ever turned towards the Sicilyshe 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, "andthat 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 thatthe Signorina was born after her father was dead, and that her fatherhad died in Sicily, she said--my poor mamma!--'If ever I see theSignorina's mother, I shall kiss her hand. She was a widow before shewas a mother; may the Madonna comfort her. ' My mamma spoke just likethat, Signorina. And then she cried for a long time. But when Patrignocame 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 boatfloated gently into it, going over to the far side, where alreadylay the two boats at the feet of San Francesco. Vere saw it withindifference. She was accustomed to the advent of the fishermen at thishour. 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 ofvoices, then silence again. 

The Marchesino had told the two sailors that they could have an hour ortwo of sleep before beginning to fish. 

The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to sleep at once. ButArtois and the Marchesino, lounging on a pile of rugs deftly arrangedin the bottom of the stern of the boat, smoked their cigars in a silencelaid upon them by the night silence of the Pool. Neither of them had asyet caught sight of the figures of Vere and Ruffo, which were becomingmore clearly relieved as the moon rose and brought a larger world withinits radiance, of its light. Artois was satisfied that the members of theCasa del Mare were in bed. As they approached the house he had seen nolight from its windows. The silence about the islet was profound, andgave him the impression of being in the very heart of the night. Andthis impression lasted, and so tricked his mind that he forgot that thehour was not really late. He lay back, lazily smoking his cigar, anddrinking in the stark beauty round about him, a beauty delicately andmysteriously fashioned by the night, which, as by a miracle, had laidhold of bareness and barren ugliness, and turned them to its exquisitepurposes, shrinking from no material in its certainty of its own powerto transform. 

The Marchesino, too, lay back, with his great, gray eyes staring abouthim. While the feelings of his friend had moved towards satisfaction, his had undergone a less pleasant change. His plan seemed to be goingawry, and he began to think of himself as of a fool. What had heanticipated? What had he expected of this expedition? He had been, asusual, politely waiting on destiny. He had come to the islet in the hopethat Destiny would meet him there and treat him with every kindness andhospitality, forestalling his desires. But lo! He was abandoned in aboat among a lot of taciturn men, while the object of all his thoughtsand pains, his plots and hopes, was, doubtless, hermetically sealed inthe home on the cliff above him. 

Several Neapolitan words, familiar in street circles, ran through hismind, but did not issue from his lips, and his face remained perfectlycalm--almost seraphic in expression. 

Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at "caro Emilio. " Hewished his friend would follow the example of the men and go to sleep. He wanted to feel himself alone in wakefulness and unobserved. For hewas not resigned to an empty fate. The voices of the laughing women atthe Antico Giuseppone still rang through his memory. He was adventurousby nature. What he would do if Emilio would only slumber he did notknow. But it was certain he would do something. The islet, dark anddistinct in outline beneath the moon, summoned him. Was he a Neapolitanand not beneath her window? It was absurd. And he was not at allaccustomed to control himself or to fight his own impulses. For themoment "caro Emilio" became "maledetto Emilio" in his mind. Sleepless asProvidence, Emilio reclined there. A slightly distracted look came intothe Marchesino's eyes as he glanced away from his friend and stared oncemore at the islet, which he longed so ardently to invade. 

This time he saw the figures of Vere and Ruffo above him in themoonlight, which now sharply relieved them. He gazed. And as he gazedthey moved away from the bridge, going towards the seat where Vere hadbeen 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 thewhite boat. Then the inhabitants of the house on the islet were notasleep, were not even in bed. They--she at least, and that was all hecared for--were out enjoying the moon and the sea. How favorable was thenight! But who was with her?

The Marchesino had very keen eyes. And now he used them with almostfierce intensity. But Ruffo was on the far side of Vere. It was notpossible to discern more than that he was male, and taller than the girlin the white dress. 

Jealousy leaped up in the Marchesino, that quick and almost frivolousjealousy which, in the Southerner, can so easily deepen into thedeadliness that leads to crime. Not for a moment did he doubt that theman with Vere was a lover. This was a blow which, somehow, he had notexpected. The girl in the white boat had looked enchantingly young. Whenhe had played the seal for her she had laughed like a child. He--evenhe, who believed in no one's simplicity, made sceptical by his ownnaughtiness so early developed towards a fine maturity!--had notexpected anything like this. And these English, who pride themselvesupon their propriety, their stiffness, their cold respectability! TheseEnglish misses!

"Ouf!"

It was out of the Marchesino's mouth before he was aware of it, anexclamation of cynical disgust. 

"What's the matter, amico mio?" said Artois, in a low voice. 

"Niente!" said the Marchesino, recollecting himself. "Are not you goingto 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 notunderstand the desire of Artois not to have his sense of the romance oftheir situation broken in upon by conversation just then. The romance ofwomen was not with Artois, but the romance of Nature was. He wanted tokeep it. And now he settled himself a little lower in the boat, underthe shadow of its side, and seemed to be giving himself to sleep. 

The Marchesino thanked the Madonna, and made his little pretence ofslumber too, but he kept his head above the gunwale, leaning it on hisarm with a supporting cushion beneath; and though he really did shutboth his eyes for a short time, to deceive caro Emilio, he very soonopened them again, and gazed towards the islet. He could not see thetwo figures now. Rage seized him. First the two men at the AnticoGiuseppone, 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--healone was the sport of "il maledetto destino. " He longed to commit someact of violence. Then he glanced cautiously round without moving. 

The two sailors were sleeping. He could hear their regular and ratherloud breathing. Artois lay quite still. The Marchesino turned his bodyvery carefully so that he might see the face of his friend. As he didso Artois, who had been looking straight up at the stars, shut his eyes, and simulated sleep. His suspicion of Doro, that this expedition hadbeen undertaken with some hidden motive, was suddenly renewed by thissly and furtive movement, which certainly suggested purpose and thedesire to conceal it. 

So caro Emilio slept very peacefully, and breathed with the calmregularity of a sucking child. But in this sleep of a child he waspresently aware that the boat was moving--in fact was being veryadroitly moved. Though his eyes were shut he felt the moonlight leavehis 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 peopleinstead 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 boatwith the wide airs about them, and felt sure that the sailors must havebeen waked by the tour of the boat across the Pool. Yet they had notmoved, and they continued apparently to sleep. He guessed that a glancefrom their "Padrone" had advised them not to wake. And this was thetruth. 

At the first movement of the boat both the men had looked up and hadreceived their message from the Marchesino's expressive eyes. Theyrealized at once that he had some design which he wished to keep fromthe knowledge of his friend, the forestiere. Of course it must beconnected with a woman. They were not particularly curious. They hadalways lived in Naples, and knew their aristocracy. So they merelyreturned the Marchesino's glance with one of comprehension and composedthemselves once more to repose. 

The Marchesino did not come back, and presently Artois lifted himself upa little, and looked out. 

The boat was right under the lee of the islet, almost touching theshore, but the sea was so perfectly still that it scarcely moved, andwas not in any danger of striking against the rock. The sailors had seenthat, too, before they slept again. 

Artois sat quite up. He wondered a good deal what his friend wasdoing. One thing was certain--he was trespassing. The islet belonged toHermione, and no one had any right to be upon it without her invitation. Artois had that right, and was now considering whether or not heshould use it, follow the Marchesino and tell him--what he had not toldhim--that the owner of the islet was the English friend of whom he hadspoken. 

For Artois the romance of the night in which he had been revellingwas now thoroughly disturbed. He looked again towards the two sailors, suspecting their sleep. Then he got up quietly, and stepped out of theboat 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 seemedto sleep on. 

Artois stood still for a moment at the edge of the sea. His great limbswere cramped, and he stretched them. Then he went slowly towards thesteps. He reached the plateau before the Casa del Mare. The Marchesinowas not there. He looked up at the house. As he did so the front dooropened and Hermione came out, wrapped in a white lace shawl. 

"Emile?" she said, stopping with her hand on the door. "Why--howextraordinary!"

She came to him. 

"Have you come to pay us a nocturnal visit, or--there's nothing thematter?"

"No, " he said. 

For perhaps the first time in his life he felt embarrassed withHermione. He took her hand. 

"I don't believe you meant me to know you were here, " she said, guidedby the extraordinary intuition of woman. 

"To tell the truth, " he answered, "I did not expect to see you. Ithought you were all in bed. "

"Oh no. I have been on the terrace and in the garden. Vere is outsomewhere. I was just going to look for her. "

There was a distinct question in her prominent eyes as she fixed them onhim. 

"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 oursleeping in the Saint's Pool for an hour or two first. I found Doro goneand 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 daywhen you were passing in the boat, --I think it was you. Did you see ayoung man who did some tricks in the water?"

"Oh yes, an impudent young creature. He pretended to be a porpoise anda seal. He made us laugh. Vere was delighted with him. Is that yourfriend? 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 hisbathe raving about Vere. I did not tell him I knew her. I think--I amsure he has guessed it, and much more. Let us go and find him. It seemsyou are to know him. E il destino. "

"You don't want me to know him?" she said, as they turned away from thehouse. 

"I don't know that there is any real reason why you should not. But myinstinct was against the acquaintance. Where can Vere be? Does she oftencome out alone at night?"

"Very often. Ah! There she is, beyond the bridge, and--is that theMarchesino 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 talkingearnestly together, but as Hermione and Artois came towards them theyturned round as if moved by a mutual impulse. Ruffo took off his cap andVere cried out:

"Monsieur Emile!"

She came up to him quickly. He noticed that her face lookedextraordinarily 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 attentivelyat Vere, who had spoken in French. She glanced at him, and suddenlybroke into Italian. 

"He was that absurd boy we saw in the sea, Madre, the other day, whopretended to be a seal, and made me laugh. He reminded me of it, andasked 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. Andhe 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 knowinghim, 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--Ididn't really listen very much, because Ruffo was telling me allabout the sea--and I thought it was all nonsense. He was absurdlycomplimentary first, you see! and so, when he began about friends, Ionly said 'good-night' again. And--and I'm really afraid I turned myback upon him. And now he's a friend of yours. Monsieur Emile! I amsorry!"

Already the Marchesino had had that lesson of which Artois had thoughtin 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 thiscompany, although he looked in no way shy, and had been smiling broadlyat 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 allwalked towards the house. 

Vere and her mother were in front, Artois and Ruffo behind. Artoislooked 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 withoutconsciously 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. "Thenyour 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, " saidHermione. 

"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 hatwhen he saw Hermione, and stopped. 

"I was looking for you, Emilio. "

He kept his hat in his hand. Evidently he had recovered completelyfrom his lesson. He looked gay and handsome. Artois realized how verycompletely the young rascal's desires were being fulfilled. But ofcourse 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 cameout of the house, her hands full of Khali Targa cigarettes, her faceeager at the thought of giving pleasure to Ruffo. 

"This is my daughter, Vere, " Hermione said. "Vere, this is the MarcheseIsidoro 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 fromthe little ceremony. For those watching it was impossible to knowwhether she wished to avoid the formal salutation of the young man'slips or not. 

"Here, Ruffo!" she said. She went up to the boy. "Put your handstogether. "

Ruffo gladly obeyed. He curved his brown hands into a cup, and Verefilled this cup with the big cigarettes, while Hermione, Artois, andthe Marchesino looked on; each one of them with a fixed attentionwhich--surely--the action scarcely merited. But there was somethingabout 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 crushedif 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 itseemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London, inCaminiti's restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the reverentialexpression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the boy Ruffolooked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing to do hisdevoir, 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 adelicious, childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the actionfrom impertinence, she took his cap off. "There!" She put it gently backon 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 inhis hands still held together like a cup. 

Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt something for Vere justthen that he could hardly have explained, master though he was ofexplanation of the feelings of man. It seemed to him that all thepurity, and the beauty, and the whimsical unselfconsciousness, and thetouchingness of youth that is divine, appeared in that little, almostcomic action of the girl. He loved her for the action, because she wasable to perform it just like that. And something in him, suddenly adoredyouth 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 almoststern. 

"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'shand 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. Buonapesca!"

She turned and followed her mother into the house. 

"Che simpatica!"

It was the Marchesino's voice, breathing the words through a sigh: "Chesimpatica Signorina!" Then an idea seemed to occur to him, and he lookedat his friend reproachfully. "And you knew the girl with the perfectlittle 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 trustme. "

"Caro amico, I do trust you--always to fall in love with every girl youmeet. But"--and his voice changed--"the Signorina is a child. Rememberthat, Doro. "

They were going down the steps to the sea. Almost as Artois spoke theyreached the bottom, and saw their boat floating in the moonlight nearlyin 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 tome. "

They began to stroll on the narrow space at the sea edge. Close by laythe boat to which Ruffo belonged. The boy was already in it, and theysaw him strike a match and light one of the cigarettes. Then he lay backat his ease, smoking, and staring up at the moon. 

"A girl of sixteen is not a child, and I am sure the Signorina issixteen. 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 itwith 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 hasdived for her. He has sung for her! She has given him cigarettes, taken from her mother's box, with her mother's consent. Everything theSignorina does her mother knows and approves of. You saw the Signorasend 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 tothat 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. Perhapshe thought you liked the Sicilians better than the Neapolitans. Butanyhow--Sicilian or Neapolitan, it is all one! He is a Southerner, andat 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 boydoes 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 shepretended as only a woman can pretend. "

"What did she pretend?"

"That she was not pleased at my coming, at my finding out where shelived, and seeking her. Why, Emilio, even when I was in the sea, when Iwas doing the seal, I could read the Signorina's character. She showedme 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 thestill sleeping fishermen. 

The boy jumped lightly out and came to them. When he stood still theMarchesino said, in his broadest Neapolitan:

"Now then, tell me the truth! I'm a Neapolitan, not a forestiere. You'veseen 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?--forfishing that night, after the episode of the islet. They hailed thesailors, who were really asleep this time, and were soon far out on thepath of the moonlight setting their course towards Naples. 

CHAPTER X

On the following morning Hermione and Vere went for an excursion toCapri. They were absent from the island for three nights. Whenthey returned they found a card lying upon the table in the littlehall--"Marchese Isidoro Panacci di Torno"--and Gaspare told them thatit had been left by a Signore, who had called on the day of theirdeparture, 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 fromDon Emilio. "

It was lying beside the Marchese's card with some other letters. Hermione opened it first, and read that Artois had been unexpectedlycalled away to Paris on business, but intended to return to Naples assoon as possible, and to spend the whole summer on the Bay. 

"I feel specially that this summer I should like to be near you, " hewrote. "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 Toledoincarnate. "

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, andwondered 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, lookingdisappointed. 

Hermione re-read the letter. She wondered, perhaps more than Vere, whythere was no message for the child. The child--she was still callingVere that in her mind, even after the night conversation with Gaspare. Two or three times she re-read that sentence, "I feel specially thatthis summer I should like to be near you, " and considered it; but shefinally put the letter away with a strong feeling that most of itsmeaning lay between the lines, and that she had not, perhaps, the powerto interpret it. 

Vere had said that Emile was forgetful. He might be many things, butforgetful he was not. One of his most characteristic qualities was hisexceptionally sharp consciousness of himself and of others. Hermioneknew that he was incapable of writing to her and forgetting Vere whilehe was doing so. 

She did not exactly know why, but the result upon her of this letter wasa certain sense of depression, a slight and vague foreboding. And yetshe was glad, she was even thankful, to know that her friend, was goingto spend the summer on the Bay. She blamed herself for her melancholy, telling herself that there was nothing in the words of Artois to makeher feel sad. Yet she continued to feel sad, to feel as if some grievouschange were at hand, as if she had returned to the island to confrontsome 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. Butall the time she had been watching Vere, studying her, as she had notwatched and studied her before. Something had suddenly made her feelunaccustomed to Vere. It might be the words of Gaspare, the expressionin the round eyes of the Marchesino, or something new, or newlyapparent, in Vere. She did not know. But she did know that now theomission of Artois to mention Vere in his letter seemed to add to thenovelty of the child for her. 

That seemed strange, yet it was a fact. How absolutely mysterious aremany of the currents of our being, Hermione thought. They flow far offin subterranean channels, unseen by us, and scarcely ever realized, but governing, carrying our lives along upon their deeps towards theappointed end. 

Gaspare saw that his Padrona was not quite as usual, and looked at herwith large-eyed inquiry, but did not at first say anything. After tea, however, when Hermione was sitting alone in the little garden with abook, 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 nevereven 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 informationwhich she needed and had lacked. 

Hermione made a sound that was like a little laugh, behind which therewas no mirth. 

"I don't know what it is. "

Then, after a pause, she added that phrase which is so often uponSicilian 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 haveto want it. And we think we are very free. And when we are old we don'tfeel 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 lookmore 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 mostof all, was in the grasp of an inflexible, of an almost fierce guide, who chose the paths, and turned the feet of each traveller, reluctantor not, into the path the will of the guide had selected. And now, stilldreamily, she wondered whether she would ever try to rebel if the pathselected for her were one that she hated or feared, one that led intoany horror of darkness, or any horror of too great light. For light, too, can be terrible, a sudden great light that shines pitilessly uponone's own soul. She was of those who possess force and impulse, and sheknew it. She knew, too, that these are often rebellious. But to-day itseemed to her that she might believe so much in destiny, be so entirelycertain of the inflexible purpose and power of the guide, thather intellect might forbid her to rebel, because of rebellion'sfore-ordained inutility. Nevertheless, she supposed that if it was herinstinct to rebel, she would do so at the psychological moment, evenagainst the dictates of her intellect. 

Gaspare remained beside her quietly. He often stood near her after theyhad been talking together, and calmly shared the silence with her. Sheliked 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 tounderstand, "as you might put a knife into a man who tried to force youto 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, " headded, 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, bea 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 shewanted to show it to him, to ask him to read for her the meaningbetween its lines. She put it away in her writing-table drawer, and thenresolved to forget the peculiar and disagreeable effect it had made uponher. 

A fortnight passed away before Artois' return. June came in upon theBay, 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 thatdanced in its beams seemed to increase also, to become more blatant, more persistent. The wild oleander was in flower. The thorny cactus putforth upon the rim of its grotesque leaves pale yellow blossoms torival the red geraniums that throng about it insolently in Italy. In thestreets of the city ragged boys ran by crying, "Fragole!" and holdingaloft the shallow baskets in which the rosy fruit made splashes of happycolor. The carters wore bright carnations above their dusty ears. Thechildren exposed their bare limbs to the sun, and were proud when theywere given morsels of ice wrapped up in vine leaves to suck in theintervals of their endless dances and their play. On the hill ofPosilipo the Venetian blinds of the houses, in the gardens clouded bythe rounded dusk of the great stone pines, were thrust back, the windowswere 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 thecall of "Aqua!" along the roads where there were buildings, and all thelemons of Italy seemed to be set forth in bowers to please the eyes withtheir sharp, yet soothing color, and tempt the lips with their poignantjuice. 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 thekiosk where the women sing on the nights of summer near the Caffe Turco. The "Margherita" was shutting up. The "Eldorado" was opening. And allalong the sea, from the vegetable gardens protected by brushwood hedgeson the outskirts of the city towards Portici, to the balconies ofthe "Mascotte, " under the hill of Posilipo, the wooden bathingestablishments were creeping out into the shallow waters, and displayingproudly to the passers-by above their names: "Stabilimento Elena, ""Stabilimento Donn' Anna, " "Stabilimento delle Sirene, " "Il piccoloParadiso. "

And all along the sea by night there was music. 

From the Piazza before the Palace the band of the Caffe Gambrinus sentforth its lusty valses. The posturing women of the wooden kiosk caughtup the chain of sound, and flung it on with their shrill voices down thehill towards Santa Lucia, where, by the waterside and the crowdingwhite yachts, the itinerant musicians took it into the keeping of theirguitars, their mandolins, their squeaky fiddles, and their hot andtremulous voices. The "Valse Bleu, " "Santa Lucia, " "Addio, mia bellaNapoli, " "La Frangese, " "Sole Mio, " "Marechiaro, " "Carolina, " "LaCiociara"; with the chain of lights the chain of songs was woven roundthe bay; from the Eldorado, past the Hotel de Vesuve, the Hotel Royal, the Victoria, to the tree-shaded alleys of the Villa Nazionale, to theMergellina, where the naked urchins of the fisherfolk took their eveningbath among the resting boats, to the "Scoglio di Frisio, " and upwards tothe Ristorante della Stella, and downwards again to the Ristorante delMare, and so away to the point, to the Antico Giuseppone. 

Long and brilliant was the chain of lamps, and long and ardent was thechain of melodies melting one into the other, and stretching to the widedarkness of the night and to the great stillness of the sea. The nightwas alive with music, with the voices that beat like hearts over-chargedwith sentimental longings. 

But at the point where stood the Antico Giuseppone the lights and thesongs died out. And beyond there was the mystery, the stillness of thesea. 

And there, beyond the chain of lights, the chain of melodies, the isletlay in its delicate isolation; nevertheless, it, too, was surely notunaware of the coming of summer. For even here, Nature ran up herflag to honor her new festival. High up above the rock on the mainlandopposite there was a golden glory of ginestra, the broom plant, anexpanse of gold so brilliant, so daring in these bare surroundings, thatVere said, when she saw it:

"There is something cruel even in beauty, Madre. Do you like successfulaudacity?"

"I think I used to when I was your age, " said Hermione. "Anythingaudacious was attractive to me then. But now I sometimes see through ittoo easily, and want something quieter and a little more mysterious. "

"The difference between the Marchesino and Monsieur Emile?" said thegirl, 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 inwhich he shows himself to others. "

"I think if I knew Monsieur Emile for centuries I should always wonderabout him. "

"What is it in Emile that makes you wonder?" asked her mother, with areal 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 wideawake. "

And Vere ran off to her room, or the garden, or the Saint's Pool--whoknew where?--leaving her mother to say to herself, as she had alreadysaid to herself in these last days of the growing summer, "When I saidthat to Emile, what a fool I was!" She was thinking of her statementthat there was nothing in her child that was hidden from her. As if inanswer to that statement, Vere was unconsciously showing to her day byday the folly of it. Emile had said nothing. Hermione remembered that, and realized that his silence had been caused by his disagreement. Butwhy had he not told her she was mistaken? Perhaps because she had justbeen laying bare to him the pain that was in her heart. Her call hadbeen for sympathy, not merely for truth. She wondered whether she wasa coward. Since they had returned from Capri the season and Vere hadsurely changed. Then, and always afterwards, Hermione thought of thosethree days in Capri as a definite barrier, a dividing line between twoperiods. Already, while in Capri, she had begun to watch her child ina new way. But that was, perhaps, because of an uneasiness, partlynervous, within herself. In Capri she might have been imagining. Now shewas not imagining, she was realizing. 

Over the sea came to the islet the intensity of summer. Their world waschanging. And in this changing world Vere was beginning to show forthmore clearly than before her movement onward--whither?

As yet the girl herself was unconscious of her mother's newwatchfulness. She was happy in the coming of summer, and in herhappiness was quite at ease, like a kitten that stretches itselfluxuriously in the sun. To Vere the world never seemed quite awaketill the summer came. Only in the hot sunshine did there glow thetruthfulness 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 fearor condemn it, or wish it away. For she was very young, and thoughshe spoke of cruelty she did not really understand it. In it there wasforce, 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 theflood of yellow that was like sunlight given a body upon the cliffopposite, and her soul revelled within her, and her heart rose up anddanced, alone, and yet as if in a glad company of dancers, all of whomwere friends. Her brain, too, sprang to the alert. The sun increased thefeeling 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 shewas a girl. 

How the sea welcomed the summer! To many this home on the island wouldhave seemed an arid, inhospitable place, desolate and lost amid a cruelworld of cliffs and waters. It was not so to Vere. For she entered intothe life of the sea. She knew all its phases, as one may know all themoods 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, andturned it to vivacity. A temper that was almost frivolous then possessedit, and it broke into gayeties like a child's. The waves were small, butthey were impertinently lively. They made a turmoil such as urchins makeat play. Heedless of reverence, but not consciously impious, they flungthemselves at the feet of San Francesco, casting up a tiny tribute ofspray into the sun. 

Then Vere thought that the Saint looked down with pleasure at them, as agood old man looks at a crowd of laughing children who have run againsthim in the street, remembering his own youth. For even the Saints wereyoung! And, after that, surely the waves were a little less boisterous. She thought she noted a greater calm. But perhaps it was only that thebreeze was dying down as the afternoon wore on. 

She often sat and wondered which she loved best--the calm that lay uponthe sea at dawn, or the calm that was the prelude to the night. Silverywere these dawns of the summer days. Here and there the waters gleamedlike the scales of some lovely fish. Mysterious lights, like those inthe 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-offkingdoms that man may never look on. Those dawns drew away the girl'ssoul as if she were led by angels, or, like Peter, walked upon the deepat some divine command. She felt that though her body was on the isletthe vital part of her, the real "I, " was free to roam across the greatexpanse that lay flat and still and delicately mysterious to the limitsof eternity. 

She had strange encounters there, the soul of her, as she went towardsthe East. 

The evening calm was different. There was, Vere thought, less of heavenabout it, but perhaps more of the wonder of this world. And this madeher feel as if she had been nearer to heaven at her birth than she wouldbe at her death. She knew nothing of the defilements of life. Her purityof mind was very perfect; but, taking a parable from Nature, she appliedit imaginatively to Man, and she saw him covered with dust because ofhis journey through the world. Poor man!

And then she pitied herself too. But that passed. For if the sea atevening held most of the wonder of this world, it was worth theholding. Barely would she substitute the heavenly mysteries for it. The fishermen's boats were dreams upon a dream. Each sail was akin toa miracle. A voice that called across the water from a distance broughttears to Vere's eyes when the magic was at its fullest. For it seemedto mean all things that were tender, all things that were wistful, allthings that trembled with hope--that trembled with love. 

With summer Vere could give herself up to the sea, and not onlyimaginatively but by a bodily act. 

Every day, and sometimes twice a day, she put on her bathing-dress inthe Casa del Mare, threw a thin cloak over her, and ran down to the edgeof the sea, where Gaspare was waiting with the boat. Hermione didnot bathe. It did not suit her now. And Gaspare was Vere's invariablecompanion. He had superintended her bathing when she was little. Hehad taught her to swim. And with no one else would he ever trust hisPadroncina when she gave herself to the sea. Sometimes he would row herout to a reef of rocks in the open water not too many yards from theisland, and she would dive from them. Sometimes, if it was very hot, hewould take her to the Grotto of Virgil. Sometimes they went far out tosea, and then, like her father in the Ionian Sea before the Casa delleSirene, Vere would swim away and imagine that this was her mode oftravel, that she was journeying alone to some distant land, or that shehad been taken by the sea forever. 

But very soon she would be sure to hear the soft splash of oarsfollowing her, and, looking back, would see the large, attentive eyes ofthe faithful Gaspare cautiously watching her dark head. Then she wouldlift 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 followedquietly and inflexibly. She would dive. She would swim under water. Shewould swim her fastest, as if really anxious to escape him. It was agame between them now. But always he was there, intent upon her safety. 

Vere did not know the memories within Gaspare that made him such aguardian to the child of the Padrone he had loved; but she loved himsecretly for his watchfulness, even though now and then she longed tobe quite alone with the sea. And this she never was when bathing, forHermione had exacted a promise from her not to go to bathe withoutGaspare. In former days Vere had once or twice begun to protest againstthis 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, shethrew eager arms about her, and anxiously promised to be good. 

One afternoon of the summer, towards the middle of June, she prolongedher bathe in the Grotto of Virgil until Gaspare used his authority, andinsisted 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 hishands, 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 thatstartled him. He looked round reproachfully over his shoulder. 

"Signorina, " he said, turning the boat round, "you are like a wickedbaby to-day. "

"What is it, Gaspare?" she asked, this time letting him come towardsher. 

"I say that you are like a wicked baby. And only the other day I wassaying 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 rowtowards the islet. 

"I was saying that you are nearly a woman now. "

Vere seemed extraordinarily thin and young as she sat there in herdripping bathing-dress, with her small, bare feet distilling drops intothe bottom of the boat, and her two hands, looking drowned, holdinglightly to the wood on each side of her. Even Gaspare, as he spoke, wasstruck by this, and by the intensely youthful expression in the eyesthat 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 becomethoughtful, and for a moment she said nothing. 

"And what did mother say?" she asked, looking up again. "But I know. Iam sure she laughed at you. "

Gaspare looked rather offended. His expressive face, which always showedwhat he was feeling, became almost stern, and he began to row fasterthan 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 thinksme 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 thinkyou notice everything. You are birbante, I am half afraid of you. "

Gaspare smiled, too. He had quite recovered his good humor. It pleasedhim 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 tillI know. Why should I? And I was at your baptism. When we came back tothe house I put five lire on the bed to bring you luck, although youwere not a Catholic. But it is just the same. Your Saint will take careof 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 inclinedto, 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 youdo. "

"No, Signorina, never! But women cannot talk to everybody, as childrencan. Nobody thinks anything of what children say. People only laughand say 'Ecco, it's a baby talking. ' But when we are older it is alldifferent. People pay attention to us. We are of more importance then. "

He did not mention Ruffo. He was too delicate to do that, forinstinctively he understood how childish his Padroncina still was. And, at that moment, Vere did not think of Ruffo. She wondered a little whatGaspare was thinking. That there was some special thought behind hiswords, 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 herclothes. Gaspare put her cloak carefully over her shoulders, and shehurried lightly up the steps and into her room. Her mother was not inthe house. She had gone to Naples that day to see some poor peoplein whom she was interested. So Vere was alone. She took off herbathing-dress, and began to put on her things rather slowly. Her wholebody was deliciously lulled by its long contact with the sea. She feltgloriously calm and gloriously healthy just then, but her mind wasworking 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 theGrotto, and laughed aloud. She was so very slim, too. The word womansuggested to her some one more bulky than she was. But all that wasabsurd, of course. She was thinking very frivolously to-day. 

She put on her dress and fastened it. At the age of sixteen she had putup her hair, but now it was still wet, and she had left it streamingover her shoulders. In a moment she was going out onto the cliff to letthe sun dry it thoroughly. The sun was so much better than any towel. With her hair down she really looked like a child, whatever Gasparethought. She said that to herself, standing for a moment before theglass. Vere was almost as divinely free from self-consciousness as herfather had been. But the conversation in the boat had made her think ofherself very seriously, and now she considered herself, not without keeninterest. 

"I am certainly not a wicked baby, " she said to herself. "But I don'tthink 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 Gasparetalk like that to Madre? I wonder what he said exactly. And then thatabout '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 afirm knock. Vere turned round, rather startled. She had been very muchabsorbed 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! Shewill 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 DonEmilio 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... Isha'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 therespeaking to Gaspare by a window. He turned rather quickly as Vere camein, 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 attemptat reprobation; but his nose twitched, and though he tried to compresshis 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 lookcondemnatory. 

"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'ssuch 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 meto for you. "

Artois was looking rather grave and tired. She noticed that now, anddropped 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 ofit, Monsieur Emile, for the sake of my _amour propre_. I said I wassorry--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 offriendliness 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 mycompartment in the wagon-lit with a German gentleman very far advancedin several unaesthetic ailments. Basta! Thank Heaven for this. Calm anddelicious!"

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 calmalso. "

"I am a woman--practically. "

"Practically?"

"Yes; isn't that the word people always put in when they mean 'that's alie'?"

"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 atmyself in the glass and saying, 'You're a woman'--solemnly, you know, asif it was a dreadful truth. "

Artois had sat down on a sofa. He leaned back now with his hands behindhis head. He still looked at Vere, and, as he did so, he heard the faintwhisper of the sea. 

"Child of nature, " he said--"call yourself that. It covers any age, andit's blessedly true. "

Giulia came in at this moment with tea. She smiled again broadly onArtois, and received and returned his greeting with the comfortable andunembarrassed friendliness of the Italian race. As she went out she wasstill smiling. 

"Addio to the German gentleman with the unaesthetic ailments!" saidArtois. 

An almost boyish sensation of sheer happiness invaded him. It made himfeel splendidly, untalkative. And he felt for a moment, too, as if hisintellect 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 clearyellow tea, and this brown toast, and this butter from Lombardy. Theyall 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 withvoluptuous 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 saythat. "

"You are right, Vere. But when are you not right? You ought always towear 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 realizethat truth is a question of feeling, not a question of fact. Youpenetrate beneath the gray hairs as the prosaic never do. This butter isdelicious! And to think that there have been moments when I have fearedbutter, when I have kept an eye upon a corpulent future. Give me somemore, plenty more. "

Vere stretched out her hand to the tea-table, but it shook. She drew itback, 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 sofoolish?"

She lay back in her chair, with her hair streaming about her, and herthin body quivered, as if the sense of fun within her were striving tobreak through its prison walls. 

"This, " said Artois, "this is sheer impertinence. I venture to inquirefor butter, and--"

"To inquire! One, two, three, four--five pats of butter right in frontof 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 happystolidity that had succeeded it for an instant. He felt full of lifeand gayety, and a challenging mental activity. A similar challengingactivity, he thought, shone in the eyes of the girl opposite to him. 

"Thank God I can still be foolish!" he exclaimed. "And thank God thatthere are people in the world devoid of humor. My German friend waswithout humor. Only that fact enabled me to endure his prodigiouscollection of ailments. But for the heat I might even have revelled inthem. He was asthmatic, without humor; dyspeptic, without humor. He hada bad cold in the head, without humor, and got up into the top berthwith two rheumatic legs and a crick in the back, without humor. Had heseen 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 crueltybehind 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 ofimagination. It can be religious. It can be passionate. It can besplendid. It can be almost everything. "

"Splendid!"

"Like Napoleon's cruelty to France. But why should I educate you inabominable knowledge?"

"Oh, " said the girl, thrusting forward her firm little chin, "I have nofaith 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 placefrom which they started for their journey through the world. "

Vere was silent for a moment. The sparkle of fun had died out of hereyes, which had become dark with the steadier fires of imagination. Thestrands of her thick hair, falling down on each side of her oval face, gave to it a whimsically mediaeval look, suggestive of legend. Herlong-fingered, delicate, but strong little hands were clasped in herlap, 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, oralmost. "

"When?"

She hesitated, looking at him, not altogether doubtfully, but with ashadow of reserve, which might easily, he fancied, grow deeper, or fadeentirely away. He saw the resolve to speak come quietly into her mind. 

"You know, Monsieur Emile, I love watching the sea, " she said, ratherslowly and carefully. "Especially at dawn, and in the evening beforeit is dark. And it always seems to me as if at dawn it is more heavenlythan 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 beautifultime--as if we were nearest the truth then. And, of course, that iswhen we are most ignorant, isn't it? So I suppose I have been thinking alittle bit like you. Haven't I?"

She asked it earnestly. Artois had never heard her speak quite likethis before, with a curious deliberation that was nevertheless withoutself-consciousness. Before he could answer she added, abruptly, as ifcorrecting, 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 himfeel suddenly a deep interest in what Vere said--a strong curiosityeven. 

"You have put it much better?" he said. 

Vere suddenly looked conscious. A faint wave of red went over her faceand down to her small neck. Her hands moved and parted. She seemed halfashamed of something for a minute. 

"Madre doesn't know, " she murmured, as if she were giving him a reasonfor something. "It isn't interesting, " she added. "Except, of course, tome. "

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--butonly half. "

"And now?"

She looked at him, but almost instantly looked down again, with a sortof shyness he had never seen in her before. And her eyes had been fullof a strange and beautiful sensitiveness. 

"Never mind, Vere, " he said quickly, obedient to those eyes, andresponding to their delicate subtlety. "We all have our righteoussecrets, and should all respect the righteous secrets of others. "

"Yes, I think we should. And I know you would be the very last, at leastMadre and you, to--I think I'm being rather absurd, really. " The lastwords were said with a sudden change of tone to determination, as ifVere 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 avery young one, am I not?"

"The youngest that exists. "

As he said that Artois thought, "Mon Dieu! If the Marchesino could onlysee her now!"

"If humor is cruel, Monsieur Emile, " Vere continued, "you will laugh atme. For I am sure, if I tell you--and I know now I'm going to--you willthink this fuss is as ridiculous as the German's cold in the head, andpoor 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 werereading. "

"No, " she said, still rather defiantly; "I've been writing that, andother 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, almostas 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 hadnever said much about it to me. But now and then from just a word I knowthat 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 thevocabulary. ' She was meaning that you had. She even told me to ask yousomething that I had asked her, and she said, 'I feel all the thingsthat he can explain. ' And there was something in her voice that hurtme--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 absurdnow that I'm telling you. "

"Yes, being just as you are, Vere, I can quite imagine that you do. Butwe can have sweet feelings of absurdity that only arise from somethingmoral within us, a moral delicacy. However, would you like me to look atwhat 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 wasutterly removed from conceit or pretentiousness. 

What a strange end, this, to their laughter!

Vere was away several minutes, during which at first Artois sat quitestill, leaning back, with his great frame stretched out, and his handsonce more behind his head. His intellect was certainly very much awakenow, and he was setting a guard upon it, to watch it carefully, lest itshould be ruthless, even with Vere. And was he not setting also anotherguard to watch the softness of his nature, lest it should betray himinto foolish kindness?

Yet, after a minute, he said to himself that he was wasting his timein both these proceedings. For Vere's eyes were surely a touchstoneto discover honesty. There is something merciless in the purity ofuntarnished youth. What can it not divine at moments?

Artois poured out another cup of tea and drank it, considering thelittle funny situation. Vere and he with a secret from Hermione sharedbetween them! Vere submitting verses to his judgment! He rememberedHermione's half-concealed tragedy, which, of course, had been patent tohim in its uttermost nakedness. Even Vere had guessed something ofit. Do we ever really hide anything from every one? And yet each onebreathes mystery too. The assertive man is the last of fools. Of that atleast Artois just then felt certain. 

If Vere should really have talent! He did not expect it, although hehad said that there was intellectual force in the girl. There wasintellectual force in Hermione, but she could not create. And Vere! Hesmiled as he thought of her rush into the room with her hair streamingdown, of her shrieks of laughter over his absurdity. But she was full ofchanges. 

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 thathe 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 whenyou 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 wereslightly trembling she gathered together her manuscripts, and carefullyarranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of ribbon round them, tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile Artois, standing up, was knockingthe shreds of tobacco out of his pipe against the chimney-piece into hishand. He carried them over to the window, dropped them out, then stoodfor a minute looking at the sea. 

"The evening calm is coming, Vere, " he said, "bringing with it thewonder 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 understandhow 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'sattention to the signs of age apparent in him. 

"I spoke to you about the admirable incentive of ambition, " hecontinued, after a moment. "But you must understand that I meant theambition for perfection, not at all the ambition for celebrity. Thesatisfaction of the former may be a deep and exquisite joy--the partialsatisfaction, for I suppose it can never be anything more than that. Butthe satisfaction of the other will certainly be Dead-sea fruit--fruit ofthe sea unlike that brought up by Ruffo, without lasting savor, withoutany real value. One should never live for that. "

The last words he spoke as if to himself, almost like a warningaddressed to himself. 

"I don't believe I ever should, " Vere said quickly. "I never thought ofsuch 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 youunderstand!"

She hurried out of the room, carrying the packet with her. 

Artois felt that the girl was strongly excited. She was revealing moreof herself to him, this little Vere whom he had known, and not known, ever since she had been a baby. The gradual revelation interested himintensely--so intensely that in him, too, there was excitement now. Somany truths go to make up the whole round truth of every human soul. Hermione saw some of these truths of Vere, Gaspare others, perhaps; heagain others. And even Ruffo and the Marchesino--he put the Marchesinomost definitely last--even they saw still other truths of Vere, hesupposed. 

To whom did she reveal the most? The mother ought to know most, andduring the years of childhood had doubtless known most. But thoseyears were nearly over. Certainly Vere was approaching, or was on, thethreshold of the second period of her life. 

And she and he had a secret from Hermione. This secret was a veryinnocent one. Still, of course, it had the two attributes that belong toevery secret: of drawing together those who share it, of setting apartfrom 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 showingforth with ardor the sincerity of her surprise and pleasure. 

"Gaspare told me. I nearly gave him a hug. You know his sly look when hehas 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 miseryand wickedness of Naples. I have seen a girl--such a tragedy! Whatdevils men can be in these Southern places! What hideous things theywill do under the pretence of being driven by love! But--no, don't letus spoil your arrival. Where is Vere? I thought she was entertainingyou. "

"We have been having tea together. She has this moment gone out of theroom. "

"Oh!"

She seemed to expect some further explanation. As he gave none she satdown. 

"Wasn't she very surprised to see you?"

"I think she was. She had just been bathing, and came running in withher hair all about her, looking like an Undine with a dash of Sicilianblood 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 wastrying to make up to her mother for the little secret she was keepingfrom 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, andhaving 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 wouldarrive to-day!"

"Why specially?"

"I've committed an unusual crime. I've made--actually--an engagement forthis 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, atthe Scoglio di Frisio. There! Why did I? I have no idea. I was hot froma horrible vicolo. He was cool from the sea. What chance had I againsthim? And then he is through and through Neapolitan, and gives no quarterto a woman, even when she is 'una vecchia. '"

As she finished Hermione broke into a laugh, evidently at somerecollection. 

"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 ofthe Marchesino. 

"Vere, you must not! Some day you will do it by accident when he ishere. "

"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 insiston 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 authoritativemanner. 

"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 excitementreally took the place of the first, and she was joyously alive to theprospect of a novel gayety. 

"I must not eat anything more, " said Hermione. "I believe the Marchesinois 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 undomy hair again and get Maria to dry it thoroughly, or I shall lookfrightening. "

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 ratherhave you with us. "

"If Doro asks me I shall certainly come. It's true that I wish you werenot engaged to-night--I should have enjoyed a quiet evening here. But weshall 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 ofit a letter. 

"Emile, " she said, coming back to him with it in her hand, "would youlike 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 wasmy 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 havetold 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 weshall. "

He did not say anything. 

"I saw that boy, Ruffo, this afternoon, " she said, after a moment ofsilence. 

"Did you?" said Artois, with a change of tone, a greater animation. "Iforgot to ask Vere about him. I suppose he has been to the island againwhile I have been away?"

"Not once. Poor boy, I find he has been ill. He has had fever. He wasout 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 sodelighted 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 intonationin Artois' voice as he asked it, an intonation that awakened surprise inHermione. 

"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, youknow. But they don't all get Khali Targa cigarettes given to them, forall that. "

"That's true. I have never seen Vere pay any particular attention to thefishermen who come to the island. In a way she loves them all becausethey belong to the sea, she loves them as a d�cor. But Ruffo isdifferent. I felt it myself. "

"Did you?"

He looked at her, then looked out of the window and pulled his beardslowly. 

"Yes. In my case, perhaps, the interest was roused partly by what Veretold 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 bothfelt that they were not talking very frankly--were not expressing theirthoughts to each other with their accustomed sincerity. At any rate, Artois suddenly introduced another topic of conversation, the reasonof his hurried visit to Paris, and for the next hour theydiscussed literary affairs with a gradually increasing vivacity andopen-heartedness. The little difficulty between them--of which bothhad been sensitive and fully conscious--passed away, and when at lengthHermione got up to go to her bedroom and change her dress for theevening, there was no cloud about them. 

When Hermione had gone Artois took up a book, but he sat till theevening was falling and Giulia came smiling to light the lamp, withoutreading a word of it. Her entry roused him from his reverie, and he tookout his watch. It was already past eight. The Marchesino would soon becoming. 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 anduneasy. 

"I am tired from the journey, " he thought. "Or--I wonder what theweather is this evening. The heat seems to have become suffocating sinceHermione went away. "

He went to one of the windows and looked out. Twilight was stealing overthe 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 oppositewindow. Above Ischia there was a great blackness like a pall. He stoodlooking at it for some minutes. His erring thoughts, which wandered likethings fatigued that cannot rest, went to a mountain village inSicily, through which he had once ridden at night during a terrificthunder-storm. In a sudden, fierce glare of lightning he had seen uponthe great door of a gaunt Palazzo, which looked abandoned, a strip ofblack cloth. Above it were the words, "Lutto in famiglia. "

That was years ago. Yet now he saw again the palace door, the stripof cloth soaked by the pouring rain, the dreary, almost sinister wordswhich 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 beenwatching. 

"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 werewhite, but she had on a small black hat, very French, and at the back ofher hair there was a broad black ribbon tied in a big bow. This ribbonmarked her exact age clearly, he thought. 

"This is a new frock, and my very smartest, " she said; "and you dared toabuse Paris!"

"Being a man. I must retract now. You are right, we cannot do withoutit. 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 perfectlyclear 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 onthe sea. 

"That must be the launch!" she said. 

Her eyes were gay and expectant. It was evident that she was in highspirits, that she was looking forward to this unusual gayety. 

"Yes. "

"Doesn't it sound in a hurry, as if the Marchesino was terribly afraidof 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 Emilesays we must take umbrellas. "

"Surely it isn't going to rain?"

"There is a thunder-storm coming up from Ischia, I believe, " saidArtois. 

"Then we will take our cloaks in case. It is fearfully hot. I thought sowhen 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 beunrecognizable 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 comingfrom Ischia. "

"So Don Emilio thinks. But we will take wraps, and we are going in alaunch. 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 acomfort to me Gaspare is? Ah, if people knew how women love those whoare ready to protect them! It's quite absurd, but just because Gasparesaid 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 receivethem. He was in evening dress, what he called "smoking, " with a flowerin his button-hole, and a straw hat, and held a pair of white kid glovesin his hand. He looked in rapturous spirits, but ceremonial. When hecaught 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 atFrisio'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! YourJack! 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 takingmy servant, Gaspare, to look after the cloaks and umbrellas. It seemsabsurd, 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 twosailors in the stern of the launch. A minute afterwards he went tohim and gave him some cigarettes. Then he brought from the cabin twobouquets of flowers, and offered them to Hermione and Vere, who, withArtois, were settling themselves in the bows. The siren sounded. Theywere off, cutting swiftly through the oily sea. 

"A storm, Signora. Cloaks and umbrellas!" said the Marchesino, shootinga glance of triumph at "Cara Emilio, " whose presence to witness hissuccess completed his enjoyment of it. "But it is a perfect night. Lookat the sea. Signorina, let me put the cushion a little higher behindyou. It is not right. You are not perfectly comfortable. And everythingmust be perfect for you to-night--everything. " He arranged the cushiontenderly. "The weather, too! Why, where is the storm?"

"Over Ischia, " said Artois. 

"It will stay there. Ischia! It is a volcano. Anything terrible mayhappen there. "

"And Vesuvius?" said Hermione, laughing. 

The Marchesino threw up his chin. 

"We are not going to Vesuvius. I know Naples, Signora, and I promiseyou fine weather. We shall take our coffee after dinner outside upon theterrace at the one and only Frisio's. "

He chattered on gayly. His eyes were always on Vere, but he talkedchiefly to Hermione, with the obvious intention of fascinating themother in order that she might be favorably disposed towards him, andlater on smile indulgently upon his flirtation with the daughter. Hisproceedings were carried on with a frankness that should have beendisarming, and that evidently did disarm Hermione and Vere, who seemedto regard the Marchesino as a very lively boy. But Artois was almostimmediately conscious of a secret irritation that threatened to spoilhis evening. 

The Marchesino was triumphant. Emilio had wished to prevent him fromknowing these ladies. Why? Evidently because Emilio considered himdangerous. Now he knew the ladies. He was actually their host. And hemeant to prove to Emilio how dangerous he could be. His eyes shot alively defiance at his friend, then melted as they turned to Hermione, melted still more as they gazed with unwinking sentimentality intothe eyes of Vere. He had no inward shyness to contend against, and wasperfectly at his ease; and Artois perceived that his gayety and sheeranimal spirits were communicating themselves to his companions. Veresaid little, but she frequently laughed, and her face lit up witheager animation. And she, too, was quite at her ease. The direct, and desirous, glances of the Marchesino did not upset her innocentself-possession at all, although they began to upset the self-possessionof Artois. As he sat, generally in silence, listening to the frivolousand cheerful chatter that never stopped, while the launch cut its waythrough the solemn, steel-like sea towards the lights of Posilipo. He felt that he was apart because he was clever, as if his clevernesscaused loneliness. 

They travelled fast. Soon the prow of the launch was directed to adarkness that lay below, and to the right of a line of brilliant lightsthat shone close to the sea; and a boy dressed in white, holding aswinging lantern, and standing, like a statue, in a small niche of rockalmost flush with the water, hailed them, caught the gunwale of thelaunch with one hand, and brought it close in to the wall that toweredabove 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. Hecalled to the sailors that he would send down food and wine to themand Gaspare. Then, piloted by the boy with the lantern, they walked upcarefully through dark passages and over crumbling stairs, turned tothe left, and came out upon a small terrace above the sea and facing thecurving lamps of Naples. Just beyond was a long restaurant, lined withgreat windows on one side and with mirrors on the other, and blazingwith light. 

"Ecco!" cried the Marchesino. "Ecco lo Scoglio di Frisio! And here isthe Padrone!" he added, as a small, bright-eyed man, with a militaryfigure and fierce mustaches, came briskly forward to receive them. 

CHAPTER XIII

The dinner, which was served at a table strewn with red carnations closeto an open window, was a gay one, despite Artois. It could hardlyhave been otherwise with a host so complacent, so attentive, soself-possessed, so hilarious as the Marchesino. And the Padrone of therestaurant warmly seconded the efforts of the giver of the feast. Hehovered perpetually, but always discreetly, near, watchfully directingthe middle-aged waiters in their duties, smiling to show his teeth, stained with tobacco juice, or drawing delicately close to relateanecdotes connected with the menu. 

The soup, a "zuppa di pesce alla marinara" remarkable for its beautifulred color, had been originally invented by the chef of Frisio's for theex-Queen Natalie of Servia, who had deigned to come, heavily veiled, to lunch at the Scoglio, and had finally thrown off her veil and herincognito, and written her name in the visitors' book for all to see. The Macaroni a l'Imperatrice had been the favorite _plat_ of the deadEmpress Elizabeth of Austria, who used to visit Frisio's day afterday, 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 walkedover from the Villa Rendel to breakfast; and the delicious punch servedbefore the dolce, and immediately after the "Pollo panato alla Frisio, "had been lauded by the late Czar of all the Russias, who was drinking aglass of it--according to the solemn asseveration of the Padrone--whenthe telegram announcing the assassination of his father was put into hishand. 

Names of very varied popular and great ones of the earth floated aboutthe table. Here, it appeared, Mario Costa and Paolo Tosti had composedtheir most celebrated songs between one course and another. Here Zolaand Tolstoy had written. Here Sarah Bernhardt had ordered a dozenbottles of famous old wine to be sent to the Avenue Pereire from thecellars of Frisio, and had fallen in love with a cat from Greece. HereMatilde Serao had penned a lasting testimony to the marital fidelity ofher husband. 

Everything--everything had happened here, just here, at Frisio's. 

Seeing the amused interest of his guests, the Marchesino encouragedthe Padrone to talk, called for his most noted wines, and demandedat dessert a jug of Asti Spumante, with snow in it, and strawberriesfloating 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 hergayety--had been noticed by her mother all through the evening. It wasreally due to the afternoon's incident with Artois, succeeded by thisunexpected festival, in which the lively homage of the Marchesino wasmingled with the long procession of celebrated names introduced by thePadrone. Vere was secretly strung up, had been strung up even before shestepped into the launch. She felt very happy, but in her happiness therewas something feverish, which was not customary to any mood of hers. Shenever drank wine, and had taken none to-night, yet as the evening woreon she was conscious of an effervescence, as if her brain were full ofwinking 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 militarydictator, she saw the dead Empress, with her fan before her face, nodding her head to the jig of "Funiculi, funicula, " while she watchedthe red cloud from Vesuvius rising into the starry sky; she saw SarahBernhardt taking the Greek cat upon her knee; the newly made Czarreading the telegram with his glass of punch beside him; Tosti tracinglines of music; Gladstone watching the sea; and finally the gaunt figureand the long beard of Tolstoy bending over the book in which he wroteclearly so many years ago, "Vedi Napoli e poi mori. "

"Monsieur Emile, you must write in the wonderful book of Frisio's, " sheexclaimed. 

"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 greatman. 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 ofthe girl. He had been distrait during the dinner, certainly neitherbrilliant nor amusing, despite his efforts to seem talkative andcheerful. A depression had weighed upon him, as it had weighed upon himin the launch during the voyage from the island. He had felt as if hewere apart, even almost as if he were _de trop_. Had Vere noticed it?Was that the reason of this sudden and charming demonstration in hisfavor?

He looked across at her, longing to know. But she was arguing gayly withthe Marchesino, who continued to insist that they must all write theirnames 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 drinkno 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 honorany 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 anybook to have the Signorina's name?"

He spoke emphatically and looked really in earnest. Artois felt as if hewere 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 littledetermined air that was sometimes characteristic of her. "I am going tosee 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 bebrought 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 unmoment, Madame. "

He bowed over Hermione's hand, and hurried away after Vere. 

The Padrone put his book very carefully down between Hermione andArtois, and left them with a murmured apology that he had to look afteranother party of guests which had just come into the restaurant. 

"I thought you would be glad to get rid of those young things for aminute, " said Hermione, in explanation of what she had done. 

Artois did not reply, but turned over the leaves of the bookmechanically. 

"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 ontothe 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 bookaway. 

"No; do write. "

"Why should I?"

"I agree with Vere. Your name will add something worth having to thebook. "

"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 shutthe 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 ofthe room. Three musicians had come in. They were shabbily dressed. Onewas very short, stout, and quite blind, with a gaping mouth that had anodd resemblance to an elephant's mouth when it lifts its trunk and showsits rolling tongue. He smiled perpetually. The other two were thin anddreary, middle-aged, and hopeless-looking. They stood not far fromthe table and began to play on guitars, putting wrong harmonies to awell-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 theyseldom do. "

Except for the thin and uncertain music the restaurant was almostsilent. The people who had just come in were sitting down far awayat the end of the long room. Hermione and Artois were the only othervisitors, 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, althoughshe 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, evenapprehensive. 

"Where are the stars?" he added. 

She followed his example and leaned out of the great window. Not a starwas visible in all the sky. 

"You are right. It is coming. I feel it now. The sea is like lead, andthe sky, too. There is no sense of freedom to-night, no out-of-doorsfeeling. 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 alittle on your nerves, Emile, " Hermione said now. "They are so absurdlyyoung, both of them. Wasn't it so?"

"Am I so old that youth should get upon my nerves?" he returned, with acreeping irritation, which, however, he tried to keep out of his voice. 

"No. But of course we can hardly enjoy nonsense that might amuse themimmensely. Vere is such a baby, and your friend is a regular boy, inspite 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 sawthat, 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 laughterin 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 ofwind. 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 somedistance 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 sweatinghand, coarse and violent, and repugnant. 

Hermione drew in. 

"There is something disgusting in nature to-night, " she said--"somethingthat 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 backhis head, stared with his sightless eyes at the ceiling, and showed histongue. The whole of his fat body swayed. His face became scarlet. Thetwo hopeless, middle-aged men on either side of him stared into vacancyas, with dirty hands on which the veins stood out, they played wrongbasses 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. Itflew 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 hernerves, but she did not say so. In that moment, when she wasstartled, she had instinctively put out her hand towards him. But, asinstinctively, 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 sawGaspare's sturdy legs marching decisively towards them, his great eyesexamining the row of mirrors, the tables, the musicians, then settlingcomfortably upon his Padrona. Over his arms he carried the cloaks, and his hands grasped the two umbrellas. At that moment, if she hadtranslated her impulse into an action, Hermione would have given Gasparea good hug--just for being himself; for being always the same:honest, watchful, perfectly fearless, perfectly natural, and perfectlydetermined to take care of his Padrona and his Padroncina. 

Afterwards she remembered that she had found in his presence relief fromsomething that had distressed her in her friend. 

"Signora, the storm is coming. Look at the sea!" said Gaspare. Hepointed 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, andsuddenly the sound of the wind was loud upon the sea, and mingled withthe growing murmur of waves. 

"Ecco!" said Gaspare. "Signora, you ought to start at once. But theSignor Marchese--"

The thunder followed. Hermione had been waiting for it, and felt almostrelieved when it came crashing above the Scoglio di Frisio. 

"The Signor Marchese, Gaspare?" she asked, putting on the cloak he washolding for her. 

"He only laughs, Signora, " said Gaspare, rather contemptuously. "TheSignor Marchese thinks only of his pleasure. "

"Well, he must think of yours now, " said Artois, decisively, toHermione. "You will have a rough voyage to the island, even as it is. "

They were walking towards the entrance. Hermione had noticed thepronoun, 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 iswith you--"

"Oh, of course!" she said quickly. "It would be ridiculous for you tocome 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 donenothing. 

"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 theMarchesino running in from the darkness. Vere was laughing, and lookedmore joyous than before. 

"Such a storm, Madre! The sea is a mass of foam. It's glorious! Hark atthe fishermen!"

From the blackness below rose hoarse shouts and prolonged calls--somenear, some far. Faintly with them mingled the quavering and throatyvoice 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. Ipromise 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 justabove 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 pavementto shut the great windows. The rush of the rain made a noise likequantities of silk rustling. 

The Marchesino laughed, quite unabashed. His cheeks were slightlyflushed and his eyes shone. 

"Could I tell the truth, Signora? You might have refused to come. Butnow 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 lookedardently 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 somethingabout the launch. A glare of lightning lit up the shore immediatelybelow the terrace, showing him the launch buffeted by the waves thatwere now breaking over the sandy beach. There came a summoning call fromthe 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 canstop 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. Thesea is not too bad yet. "

"Come along!" Hermione cried, with decision. "Come, Vere! I'm verysorry, 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 umbrellaover 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. Hecast 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 beobstinate. 

"Ma Signorina--mais Mademoiselle--"

"Gaspare! Is Madre all safe in the launch?"

Vere glided from under the Marchesino's umbrella and sought the shadeof Gaspare's. Behind, the Marchesino was murmuring to himself Neapolitanstreet expressions. 

"Si, Signorina. "

Gaspare's face had suddenly lighted up. His Padroncina's little hand washolding 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 onthe waves. 

"Madre! What a night!"

Vere sank down on the narrow seat of the little cabin. The Marchesinojumped aboard. The machine in the stern throbbed. They rushed forwardinto the blackness of the impenetrable night, the white of the leapingfoam, the hissing of the rain, the roaring of the wind. In a blurred andhasty vision the lights of Frisio's ran before them, fell back into thestorm like things defeated. Hermione fancied she discerned for a secondthe blind man's scarlet face and open mouth, the Padrone at a windowwaving a frantic adieu, having only just become aware of theirdeparture. But if it were so they were gone before she knew--gone intomystery, with Emile and the world. 

The Marchesino inserted himself reproachfully into the cabin. He hadturned up the collar of his "smoking, " and drawn the silk lapels forwardover his soft shirt-front. His white gloves were saturated. He came tosit down by Vere. 

"Madame!" he said reproachfully, "we should have waited. The sea is toorough. Really, it is dangerous. And the Signorina and I--we could havedanced 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 hadto watch the storm. "

She was peering out of the cabin window at the wild foam that leapedup round the little craft and disappeared in the darkness. There was nosensation of fear in her heart, only a passion of interest and an oddfeeling of triumph. 

To dance with the Marchesino at the Scoglio di Frisio would have beenbanal in comparison with this glorious progress through the night in theteeth of opposing elements. She envied Gaspare, who was outside withthe sailors, and whose form she could dimly see, a blur against theblackness. She longed to take off her smart little hat and her Frenchfrock, and be outside too, in the wind and the rain. 

"It is ridiculous to be dressed like this!" she said, quickly, takingoff the glove she had put on her left hand. "You poor Marchese!"

She looked at his damp "smoking, " his soaking gloves and deplorableexpression, and could not repress a little rush of laughter. 

"Do forgive me! Madre, I know I'm behaving shamefully, but we are allso hopelessly inappropriate. Your diamond broach, Madre! And your hatis all on one side. Gaspare must have knocked it with the umbrella. I amsure we all look like hens in a shower!"

She leaned back against the swaying side of the cabin and laughed tillthe tears were in her eyes. The sudden coming of the storm had increasedthe excitement that had been already within her, created by theincidents of the day. 

"Vere!" said her mother, but smiling through the protest. 

The Marchesino showed his big white teeth. Everything that Vere didseemed to develop his admiration for her. He was delighted with thismood, and forgot his disappointment. But there was a glint of wonder inhis eyes, and now he said:

"But the Signorina is not afraid! She does not cry out! She does notcall upon the Madonna and the Saints! My mother, my sisters, if theywere 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! Thesea will never harm you. How could it? It will treat you as it treatsthe Saint of your pool, San Francesco. You know what the sailors andthe fishermen say? In the wildest storms, when the sea crashes upon therocks, never, never does it touch San Francesco. Never does it put outthe 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 theseamen had got hold of her, had touched her. The compliment to herselfshe 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 thefishermen pass under San Francesco's pedestal they bend down, and lifta little water from the sea, and sprinkle it into the boat, and make thesign of the cross. They call it 'acqua benedetta. ' I love to see them dothat. "

Another big wave struck the launch and made it shiver. The Marchesinocrossed himself, but quite mechanically. He was intent on Vere. 

"I wonder, " the girl said, "whether to-night San Francesco will not bebeaten by the waves, whether his light will be burning when we reach theisland. "

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 thatjust 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, whoprotected the men of the sea, and the boys--Ruffo, too!--would it greetthem, 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 SanFrancesco's feet?

"I do hope it will. "

Why did Hermione's heart echo Vere's words with such a strenuous andsudden passion, such a deep desire? She scarcely knew then. But sheknew that she wanted a light to be shining for her when she nearedhome--longed for it, needed it specially that night. If San Francesco'slamp were burning quietly amid the fury of the sea in such a blacknessas this about them--well, it would seem like an omen. She would take itas an omen of happiness. 

And if it were not burning?

She, too, longed to be outside with Gaspare and the sailors, staringinto the darkness with eyes keen as those of a seaman, looking for thelight. Since Vere's last words and her reply they had sat in silence. Even the Marchesino's vivacity was suddenly abated, either by theincreasing violence of the storm or by the change in Vere. It would havebeen difficult to say by which. The lightning flashed. The thunder atmoments seemed to split the sky asunder as a charge of gunpowder splitsasunder a rock. The head wind rushed by, yet had never passed them, butwas forever coming furiously to meet them. On the roof of the littlecabin 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, inbeing closely confined, shut in by low roof and narrow walls from suchsweeping 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, andsaw a watchful, shining, half-humorous, half-passionate look in her eyesthat 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 Neapolitanwomen, 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 seain 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 thestern, with his hands holding fast to the rail that edged the cabinroof, bent down till his brown face was on a level with hers, and hisbig 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 theelements. 

"Impossible!"

"Signorina, " said the Marchesino, "you cannot mean it. But you will bewashed off. And the water--you will be drowned. It cannot be. "

"Marchese, look at Madre! If she stays inside another minute she will beill. She is stifling! Quickly! Quickly!"

The Marchesino, whose sense of humor was not of a kind to comprehendthis freak of Vere's, was for once really taken aback. There were twosliding doors to the cabin, one opening into the bows of the launch, theother into the stern. He got up, looking very grave and rather confused, and opened the former. The wind rushed in, carrying with it spray fromthe sea. At the same moment there was a loud tapping on the glassbehind them. Vere looked round. Gaspare was crouching down with his faceagainst 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 comeout, 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 lookingdoubtful. 

"I will stay here with the Marchese. I am really too old to face such atempest, 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 yourcollar. "

She spoke almost as if to a boy, and like a gay boy Vere obeyed her andslipped 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 thewind. 

Then the Marchesino sat down and looked at his damp patent-leatherboots. 

He really could not comprehend these English ladies. That Vere wasgreatly attracted by him he thoroughly believed. How could it beotherwise? Her liveliness he considered direct encouragement. And thenshe had gone out to the terrace after dinner, leaving her mother. Thatwas to make him follow her, of course. She wanted to be alone withhim. In a Neapolitan girl such conduct would have been a declaration. A Neapolitan mother would not have allowed them to sit together on theterrace without a chaperon. But the English mother had deliberatelyremained within and had kept Caro Emilio with her. What could suchconduct mean, if not that the Signorina was in love with him, theMarchesino, and that the Signorina's mamma was perfectly willing for himto make love to her child?

And yet--and yet?

There was something in Vere that puzzled him, that had kept himstrangely discreet upon the terrace, that made him silent and thoughtfulnow. Had she been a typical English girl he might have discernedsomething of the truth of her. But Vere was lively, daring, passionate, and not without some traces of half-humorous and wholly innocentcoquetry. She was not at all what the Neapolitan calls "a lump ofsnow to cool the wine. " In her innocence there was fire. That was whatconfused the Marchesino. 

He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone out, and his roundeyes became almost pathetic for a moment. Then it occurred to himthat perhaps this exit was a second ruse, like Vere's departure to theterrace, and he made a movement as if to go out and brave the storm. ButHermione stopped him decisively. 

"No, Marchese, " she said, "really I cannot let you expose yourself tothe 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 amother's authority. Till we reach the island stay here and make the bestof me. "

Hermione had touched the right note. Metaphorically, the Marchesino casthimself at her feet. With a gallant assumption of undivided adorationhe burst into conversation, and, though his eyes often wandered to theblurred glass, against which pressed and swayed a blackness that told ofthose outside, his sense of his duty as a host gradually prevailed, andhe and Hermione were soon talking quite cheerfully together. 

Vere had forgotten him as utterly as she had forgotten Naples, swallowedup by the night. Just then only the sea, the night, Gaspare, and the twosailors 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 tomake more room for itself. 

She stood by Gaspare, touching him, and clinging on, as he did, tothe rail. Impenetrably black was the night. Only here and there, atdistances she could not begin to judge of, shone vaguely lights thatseemed to dance and fade and reappear like marsh lights in a world ofmist. Were they on sea or land? She could not tell and did not ask. Thesailors doubtless knew, but she respected them and their duty too muchto speak to them, though she had given them a smile as she came out tojoin them, and had received two admiring salutes in reply. Gaspare, too, had smiled at her with a pleasure which swiftly conquered the faintreproach in his eloquent eyes. He liked his Padroncina's courage, likedthe 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 theboat rose and sank on the crests and into the hollows of the waves thelight shone and faded, shone and faded. She guessed it to be a light atthe Antico Giuseppone. Despite the head wind and the waves that metthem the launch travelled bravely, and soon the light was gone. She toldherself that it must have been at the Giuseppone, and that now theyhad got beyond the point, and were opposite to the harbor of the VillaRosebery. 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 shelooked straight forward. 

Now she was intent on San Francesco. She was thinking of him, of thePool, of the island. And she thrilled with joy at the thought of thewonderful wildness of her home. As they drew on towards it the waveswere bigger, the wind was stronger. Even on calm nights there was alwaysa breeze when one had passed the Giuseppone going towards Ischia, andbeyond the island there was sometimes quite a lively sea. What would itbe to-night? Her heart cried out for a crescendo. Within her, at thatmoment, was a desire like the motorist's for speed. More! more! Morewind! More sea! More uproar from the elements!

And San Francesco all alone in this terrific blackness! Had he not beendashed from his pedestal by the waves? Was the light at his feet stillburning?

"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 hadconfidence in the obedience of the sea, this sea that roared aroundthem like a tyrant. Suddenly she had no doubt. It would be so. The saintwould be untouched. The light would still be burning. She looked for it. And now she remembered her mother. She must tell her mother directly shesaw 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 butlosing physical force. Surely it was going slower. She laid one handupon the cabin roof as if in encouragement. Her heart was with thelaunch, as the seaman's is with his boat when it resists, surely for hissake consciously, the assault of the great sea. 

"Coraggio!"

She was murmuring the word. Gaspare looked at her. And the word was inhis eyes as it should be in all eyes that look at youth. And the launchstrove on. 

"Coraggio! Coraggio!"

The spray was in her face. Her hair was wet with the rain. Her Frenchfrock--that was probably ruined! But she knew that she had never feltmore happy. And now--it was like a miracle! Suddenly out of the darknessa 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 itwith their hands, Gaspare, too. Vere understood, and, kneeling on thegunwale, firmly in Gaspare's grasp, she joined in their action. 

She sprinkled the boat with the acqua benedetta and made the sign of thecross. 

CHAPTER XIV

When, the next day, Artois sat down at his table to work he found itimpossible to concentrate his mind. The irritation of the previousevening had passed away. He attributed it to the physical effect madeupon him by the disturbed atmosphere. Now the sun shone, the sky wasclear, the sea calm. He had just come out of an ice-cold bath, had takenhis 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 belowhim, several heads of swimmers moved. One boy was "making death. " Hefloated on his back with his eyes closed and his arms extended. Hisbody, 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 areply in the broadest Neapolitan, then began to swim vigorously towardsthe slimy rocks at the base of Castel dell' Ovo. Upon the wooden terraceof the baths among green plants in pots stood three women, probablyfriends of the proprietor. For though it was already hot, the regularbathing season of Naples had not yet begun and the baths were notcompleted. Only in July, after the festa of the Madonna del Carmine, dothe Neapolitans give themselves heart and soul to the sea. Artois knewthis, and wondered idly what the women were doing on the terrace. Onehad a dog. It sat in the sun and began to cough. A long wagon on twowheels 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 andflung it down upon the white. He wore a handkerchief on his head. Hischest was bare. As he passed beneath the window he sang a loud song thatsounded Eastern, such a song as the Spanish wagoners sing in Algeria, asthey set out by night on their long journeys towards the desert. Upona tiny platform of wood, fastened to slanting stakes which met togetherbeneath it in a tripod, a stout man in shirt and trousers, with blackwhiskers, was sitting on a chair fishing with a rod and line. A boysat beside him dangling his legs over the water. At a little distance alarge fishing-smack, with sails set to catch the breeze farther out inthe Bay, was being laboriously rowed towards the open sea by half-nakedmen, who shouted as they toiled at the immense oars. 

Artois wondered where they were going. Their skins were a rich orangecolor. From a distance in the sunlight they looked like men of gold. Their cries and their fierce movements suggested some fantastic quest tolands 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 vagranton a long, white road. Everything that he saw below him in the calmradiance of the morning pushed it from thought to thought. Yet none ofthese thoughts were valuable. None seemed fully formed. They resembledhenids, things seen so far away that one cannot tell what they are, butis 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 arather anxious glance at her friend, a glance that seemed to say thatshe 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 andrestless, an unfruitful combination. Perhaps something in me secretlyknew that you were coming. "

"Then it is my fault. "

They came into his sitting-room. It had four windows, two facing thesea, two looking on the road, and the terraces and garden of the HotelHassler. The room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It containeda light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over it, red-and-goldchairs, mirrors, a white marble mantelpiece, a gray-and-pink sofa witha pink cushion. Only the large writing-table, covered with manuscripts, letters, and photographs in frames, said something individual to thevisitor. 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 betweenus--didn't there?"

"I was in a bad humor. I was tired after the journey, and perhaps theweather upset me. "

"It's all right--one can't be always--Well, this is what I wanted tosay. I alluded to it yesterday when I told you about my visit to Napleswith 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 visita consumptive woman in one of those narrow streets going uphill to theleft of the Via Roma, and while there by chance I heard of it. In thesame house as the sick woman there is a girl. Not many days ago she wasbeautiful!"

"Yes? What has happened to her?"

"I'll tell you. Her name is Peppina. She is only nineteen, but she hasbeen one of those who are not given a chance. She was left an orphanvery young and went to live with an aunt. This aunt is a horrible oldwoman. 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 womanwe were visiting, a neighbor. This aunt forced Peppina into sin. Her beauty, which must have been extraordinary, naturally attractedattention and turned people's heads. It seems to have driven one mannearly mad. He is a fisherman, not young, and a married man. It seemsthat he is notoriously violent and jealous, and thoroughly unscrupulous. He is a member of the Camorra, too. He pestered Peppina with hisattentions, coming day after day from Mergellina, where he lives withhis wife. One night he entered the house and made a scene. Peppinarefused finally to receive his advances, and told him she hated himbefore 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 agirl is his property. But what is it you wish to do for Peppina? I seeyou 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 thetruth. He was rich and bribed the aunt. But of course the neighbors allknow, and--the population here has its virtues, but it is not exactly adelicate population. "

"Per Bacco!"

"And now that the poor girl is disfigured the aunt is going to turn herout-of-doors. She says Peppina must go and earn money for herself. Ofcourse 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, andall her beauty gone! Isn't it devilish?"

"And the man?"

"Oh, they say he'll get scarcely anything, if anything. Two or threemonths, 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 Ijustified in taking her? Of course I could help her with money. If I hadnot 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. Ifeel she wants the island. "

"And the other servants?"

"They need only know she was attacked. They need not know her pasthistory. But all that does not matter. It is only the question of Verethat troubles me. "

"You mean that you are not decided whether you ought to bring into thehouse 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 inhis face. Hermione did not at all understand what feeling was promptinghim, but again, as on the previous evening, she felt as if there were abarrier between them--very slight, perhaps, very shadowy, but definitenevertheless. There was no longer complete frankness in their relations. At moments her friend seemed to be subtly dominated by some secretirritation, or anxiety, which she did not comprehend. She had been awareof it yesterday. She was aware of it now. After his last exclamation shesaid 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 inclinedto be a coward about Vere. She is growing up. She will be seventeenthis year, very soon. There are girls who marry at sixteen, even Englishgirls. "

"That is true. "

She could gather nothing from his tone; and now his face was perfectlycalm. 

"My instinct is to keep Vere just as she is, to preserve the lovelinessof childhood in her as long as possible, to keep away from her allknowledge of sin, sorrow, the things that distract and torture theworld. But I mustn't be selfish about Vere. I mustn't keep her wrappedin cotton wool. That is unwholesome. And, after all, Vere must have herlife apart from me. Last night I realized that strongly. "

"Last night?"

"Yes, from the way in which she treated the Marchese, and laterfrom something else. Last night Vere showed two sides of a woman'snature--the capacity to hold her own, what is vulgarly called 'to keepher distance, ' and the capacity to be motherly. "

"Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked Artois, not withoutirony. 

"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 Istood for a minute at the foot of the steps to listen to the roaring ofthe 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 wascomparatively calm. But the rain was falling in torrents. There wasone fishing-boat in the pool, close to where we were, and as we werestanding and listening, Vere said, suddenly, 'Madre, that's Ruffo'sboat!' I asked her how she knew--because he has changed into anotherboat lately--she had told me that. 'I saw his head, ' she answered. 'He'sthere and he's not asleep. Poor boy, in all this rain!' Ruffo has beenill with fever, as I told you, and when Vere said that I remembered itat once. "

"Had you told Vere yet?" interposed Artois. 

"No. But I did then. Emile, she showed an agitation that--well, it wasalmost strange, I think. She begged me to make him come into the houseand 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. Theywere 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 strangerswho come into our lives. But I haven't had time to talk to him thismorning. "

"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 theterrace of the bath-house, more fishing-boats were being towed or rowedout into the Bay, carts were passing by, and people were strolling inthe sun. 

"You say that Vere showed agitation last night?" he said, turning roundafter a moment. 

"About Ruffo's illness? It really almost amounted to that. But Vere wascertainly excited. Didn't you notice it?"

"I think she was. "

"Emile, " Hermione said, after an instant of hesitation, "you remember mysaying 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--onlysince then--I have sometimes felt that there is much in Vere that I donot 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 feelas if--no, I don't know what I feel. But if Vere should ever drift awayfrom me I don't know how I could bear it. A boy--one expects him to goout 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 bearit. "

"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 thinkright. In some things you do wisely to consult me. But in this you mustrely on yourself. Let your heart teach you. Do not ask questions of myhead. "

"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 wasdisconcerted 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 amoment 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 theinclination 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--asmany 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, andwatched her get into the carriage and drive away towards Naples. She didnot look up again. 

"She has gone to fetch that girl Peppina, " Artois said to himself, "andI might have prevented it. "

He knew very well the reason why he had not interfered. He had notinterfered because he had wished too much to interfere. The desire hadbeen strong enough to startle him, to warn him. 

An islet! That suggests isolation. Like Hermione, he wished to isolateVere, to preserve her as she was in character. He did not know when thewish had first been consciously in his mind, but he knew that since hehad been consulted by Vere, since she had broken through her reserve andsubmitted to him her poems, unveiling for him alone what was really toher a holy of holies, the wish had enormously increased. He told himselfthat Vere was unique, and that he longed to keep her unique, so that thetalent he discerned in her might remain unaffected. How great her talentwas 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 oneelse's. 

He had made up his mind very soon about Hermione's incapacity to producework of value. Although Vere was such a child, so inexperienced, soinnocent, so cloistered, he knew at once that he dared not dash herhopes. It was possible that she might eventually become what her mothercertainly could never be. 

But she must not be interfered with. Her connection with the seamust not be severed. And people were coming into her life--Ruffo, theMarchesino, and now this wounded girl Peppina. 

Artois felt uneasy. He wished Hermione were less generous-hearted, lessimpulsive. She looked on him as a guide, a check. He knew that. But thistime he would not exercise his prerogative. Ruffo he did not mind--atleast he thought he did not. The boy was a sea creature. He might evenbe an inspiring force to Vere. Something Artois had read had taught himthat. And Ruffo interested him, attracted him too. 

But he hated Vere's acquaintance with the Marchesino. He knew that theMarchesino 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 "behindthe shutter, " of the lives led by some men and women, some boys andgirls of the great city beneath the watching volcano. He thought ofevenings he had spent in the Galleria. He saw before him an old womanabout whom he had often wondered. Always at night, and often in theafternoon, she walked in the Galleria. She was invariably alone. Thefirst time he had seen her he had noticed her because she had a slightlyhumped back. Her hair was snow white, and was drawn away from her long, pale face and carefully arranged under a modest bonnet. She carried asmall umbrella and a tiny bag. Glancing at her casually, he had supposedher to be a respectable widow of the borghese class. But then he hadseen her again and again, and by degrees he had come to believe that shewas something very different. And then one night in late spring he hadseen her in a new light dress with white thread gloves. And shehad noticed him watching her, and had cast upon him a look that wasunmistakable, a look from the world "behind the shutter"; and he hadunderstood. Then she had followed him persistently. When he sat beforethe "Gran caffe" sipping his coffee and listening to the orchestra ofwomen that plays on the platform outside the caffe, she had passed andrepassed, always casting upon him that glance of sinister understanding, of invitation, of dreary wickedness that sought for, and believed thatit had found, an answering wickedness in him. 

Terrible old woman! Peppina's aunt might well be like that. And Peppinawould sleep, perhaps to-night, in the Casa del Mare, under the same roofas Vere. 

He resolved to go that evening to the island, to see Peppina, to seeVere. 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. Heknew that, and said to himself that it was natural. For Hermione was awoman, with experience of life; but Vere was only upon the threshold ofthe world. She needed protection more than Hermione. 

Some time ago, when he was returning to Naples from the island on anevening of scirocco, Artois had in thought transferred certain hopesof his from Hermione to Vere. He had said to himself that he musthenceforth 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 notfulfil his intention. When the sun began to sink he threw a light coatover his arm and walked down to the harbor of Santa Lucia. A boatmanwhom 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 manspoke 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 thedirection of Posilipo. It was a still evening, and very clear after thestorm of the preceding night. Artois longed to be in that travellingboat, longed to see the night come from the summit of the island withHermione and Vere. But he resisted the sea, its wide peace, its subtlesummons, called a carriage and drove to the Galleria. Arrived there, he took his seat at a little table outside the "Gran Caffe, " ordered asmall dinner, and, while he was eating it, watched the people strollingup 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 inwhite came out one by one to the platform that, surrounded by a whiterailing edged with red velvet, is built out beyond the caffe to face thecrowd, the number of promenaders increased, and many stood still waitingfor the first note, and debating the looks of the players. Othersthronged around Artois, taking possession of the many little tables, andcalling for ices, lemon-water, syrups, and liqueurs. Priests, soldiers, sailors, students, actors--who assemble in the Galleria to seekengagements--newsboys, and youths whose faces suggested that they were"ruffiani, " mingled with foreigners who had come from the hotels andfrom the ships in the harbor, and whose demeanor was partly curiousand partly suspicious, as of one who longs to probe the psychology of athief while safely guarding his pockets. The buzz of voices, the trampof feet, gained a peculiar and vivid sonorousness from the high andvaulted roof; and in the warm air, under the large and winking electriclights, the perpetually moving figures looked strangely capricious, hungry, determined, furtive, ardent, and intent. On their little standsthe electric fans whirred as they slowly revolved, casting an artificialbreeze upon pallid faces, and around the central dome the angels withgilded wings lifted their right arms as if pointing the unconsciousmultitude 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 aparroquet's, with small, beady eyes full of an unintellectual sharpness. His plump body suggested this world, and his whole demeanor, themovements of his dimpled, dirty hands, and of his protruding lips, theattitude of his extended legs, the pose of his coarse shoulders, seemedhostile to things mystical. He munched an ice, and swallowed hastydraughts of iced water, talking the while with a sort of gluttonousvivacity. Artois looked at him and heard, with his imagination, thesound of the bell at the Elevation, and saw the bowed heads of thecrouching worshippers. The irony of life, that is the deepest mystery oflife, came upon him like the wave of some Polar sea. He looked up at thegilded angels, then dropped his eyes and saw what he had come to see. 

Slowly threading her way through the increasing throng, came the oldwoman 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 gownof grayish mauve, a bonnet edged with white ribbon, a pair of whitethread gloves. She carried her little bag and a small Japanese fan. Walking in a strange, flat-footed way that was peculiar to her, andglancing narrowly about her, yet keeping her hand almost still, sheadvanced towards the band-stand. As she came opposite to Artois theorchestra of women struck up the "Valse Noir, " and the old woman stoodstill, impeded by the now dense crowd of listeners. While the demurelysinister music ran its course, she remained absolutely immobile. Artoiswatched her with a keen interest. 

It had come into his mind that she was the aunt of Peppina, thedisfigured girl, who perhaps to-night was sleeping in the Casa del Marewith Vere. 

Presently, attracted, no doubt, by his gaze, the old woman looked acrossat Artois and met his eyes. Instantly a sour and malignant expressioncame into her long, pale face, and she drew up a corner of her upperlip, 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 hadscented a client in him and had been deceived, and this deception hadbred within her an acrid hatred of him. To-night he would chase awaythat hatred. For he meant to speak to her. The old woman looked awayfrom him, holding her head down as if in cold disdain. Artois readeasily what was passing in her mind. She believed him wicked, butnervous in his wickedness, desirous of her services but afraid to invitethem. And she held him in the uttermost contempt. Well, to-night hewould undeceive her on one point at least. He kept his eyes upon herso firmly that she looked at him again. This time he made a sign ofrecognition, of understanding. She stared as if in suspicious amazement. He glanced towards the dome, then at her once more. At this moment thewaiter came up. Artois paid his bill slowly and ostentatiously. As hecounted out the money upon the little tray he looked up once, and sawthe eyes in the long, pale face of the venerable temptress glitter whilethey watched. The music ceased, the crowd before the platform brokeup, and began quickly to melt away. Only the woman waited, holding herlittle bag and her cheap Japanese fan. 

Artois drew out a cigar, lit it slowly, then got up, and began to moveout among the tables. 

The priest looked after him, spoke rapidly to his companions, and burstinto 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 peoplelooked at him, but none spoke to him, for he was known now, as eachstranger who stays long in Naples is known, summed up, labelled, andeither ignored or pestered. The touts and the ruffiani were awarethat it was no use to pester the Frenchman, and even the decrepitand indescribably seedy old men who hover before the huge plate-glasswindows of the photograph shops, or linger near the entrance to thecinematograph, never peeped at him out of the corners of their bloodshoteyes or whispered a word of the white slaves in his ear. 

When he was beneath the dome, and could see the light gleaming upon thewings of the pointing angels, Artois seemed to be aware of an individualstep among the many feet behind him, a step soft, furtive, andobstinate, 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 tothe right and made his way still slowly towards the Via Roma, alwayscrowded 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 theGalleria, and crossed the street to the far side, from which innumerablenarrow and evil-looking alleys stretch away into the darkness up thehill, the influence of the following old woman increased upon him, casting upon him like a mist her hateful eagerness. He desired to be ridof it, and, quickening his walk, he turned into the first alley he cameto, walked a little way up it, until he was in comparative solitude andobscurity, then stopped and abruptly turned. 

The shiny, grayish mauve gown and the white-trimmed bonnet were close tohim. Between them he faintly perceived a widely smiling face, and fromthis face broke at once a sickly torrent of speech, half Neapolitandialect, 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 theedge of a little case containing paper notes. The woman misunderstoodhim. He knew that by her face, which for the moment was as abattle-field on which lust fought with a desperate anger ofdisappointment. 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 facewith 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 schemeof the universe, it seemed. She chattered like an ape. Artois soothedher with a ten-lire note. 

That night, when he went back to the hotel, he had heard theaunt's version of Peppina, and knew--that which really he had knownbefore--that Hermione had taken her to live on the island. 

Hermione! What was she? An original, clever and blind, great-hearted andunwise. An enthusiast, one created to be carried away. 

Never would she grow really old, never surely would the primal fireswithin her die down into the gray ashes that litter so many of thehearths by which age sits, a bleak, uncomely shadow. 

And Peppina was on the island, a girl from the stews of Naples; notwicked, perhaps, rather wronged, injured by life--nevertheless, theniece 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 seethe gathering together of the geese?"

"Che Diavolo! What's that?"

"This summer the Marchesa Pontini has organized a sort of club, whichmeets in the Villa every day except Sundays. Three days the meeting isin the morning, three days in the afternoon. The silliest people of thearistocracy belong to this club, and the Marchesa is the mother goose. Ecco! Will you come, or--or have you some appointment?" He smiled in hisfriend'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 cetapres-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 wasfeeling unusually mischievous. As they walked along the sea-front amoment 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 terriblestorm. What else could I do?"

"And how were they?"

"The Signora was in Naples, and of course the Signorina could not havereceived me alone. But the saints were with me, Emilio. I met her onthe sea; quite by herself, on the sea of the Saint's pool. She was lyingback 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 dreamsof 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 shetell you?"

"No, but I am sure. We walked together from the boats. I told her shewas an enchantress of the sea, the spirit of the wave--I told her!"

He spread out his hands, rejoicing in the remembrance of his gracefulcompliments. 

"The Signorina was delighted, but she could not stay long. She had aslight headache and was a little tired after the storm. But she wouldhave liked to ask me to the house. She was longing to. I could seethat. "

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 acquaintanceof 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 walkedtowards the kiosk. Near it, on the small, green chairs, were some ladiesswathed in gigantic floating-veils, talking to two or three very smartyoung men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned forward eying themsteadily with a determined yet rather vacuous boldness that did notdisconcert them. One of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white check, was immensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, which wascarried on with extreme vivacity in very loud and not melodious voices. 

"Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Marchesino, touching Artoison the arm. "And that"--he pointed to the stout lady, who at this momenttossed her head till her veil swung loose like a sail suddenlydeserted by the wind--"is the goose-mother. Buona sera, Marchesa! Buonasera--molto piacere. Carlo, buona sera--a rivederci, Contessa! A questasera. "

He showed his splendid teeth in a fixed but winning smile, and, hat inhand, went by, walking from his hips. Then, replacing his hat on hishead, he added to his friend:

"The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa d'Aosta will comeone day, if only for a moment, to smile upon the geese. But--well, theDuchessa prefers to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has aheart. Let us sit here, Emilio. "

They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino looked at his pointedboots for a moment in silence, pushing forward his under lip until hisblond mustache touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he began tolaugh, 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 istoo good! C'est parfait!"

The Marchesino turned towards Artois. 

"And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, the white-hairedprotectress of the strangers! Emilio--you might have come to me! But youdo 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 isfull--but full--of eyes?"

"Va bene! But you don't understand. "

"Emilio!"

He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eyebrows. His wholebeing 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 causedhis frivolous companion to stare at him with an inquiry that was, for amoment, 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 theimprobability of a man so mental, so known, so travelled as he was, falling like a school-boy publicly into a sordid adventure. But hestopped, realizing the uselessness of such an explanation. And he couldnot tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy in a by-streetwith the old creature from behind the shutter. 

"You have made a mistake about me, " he said. "But it is of noconsequence. Look! There is another goose coming. "

He pointed with his cane in the direction of the chatterers near thekiosk. 

"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 theCompagnia 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, andtouched his left hand in token of farewell. 

"I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May thewriter's saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!"

There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat andstrutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois staredafter him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, andleaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at thislittle episode--unreasonably vexed. In his friend Doro he now discerneda possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily forgive ifhe is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a dawning hostilityin the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro was essentiallygood-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an exhibitionof frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him, and as it wasimpossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. Heknew, of course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in masculinevirtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro's laughingthought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to forbiddenpleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted?

Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him the answer tohis questionings. And he knew that his vexation arose from the secretapprehension of a future in which he would desire to stand between herand the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro certain truths whichare universal, not national. Such truths would come ill from one whomthe 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 invadedby her doubts he resolved to set out for the island. If he took a boatat once he could be there between six and seven o'clock. 

And perhaps he would see the new occupant of the Casa del Mare. Perhapshe would see Peppina. 

CHAPTER XVI

"I have come, you see, " said Artois that evening, as he enteredHermione's room, "to have the first of our quiet, happy evenings, aboutwhich 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 thevague doubts and apprehensions that beset him. He came with a definitebrightness, a strong intimacy, holding out his hands, intent really onforcing Fate to weave her web in accordance with his will. 

"We women are full of little fears, even the bravest of us. Chase mineaway, Emile. "

He sat down. 

"What are they?"

She shook her head. 

"Formless--or almost. But perhaps that adds to the uneasiness theyinspire. 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 youchange?"

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' forillusions, a blind benevolence of judgment, a tenderness of heart thatwas 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, myfriend?"

"Have I a great facility for illusions? Am I capable of heroic devotionto 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 youare often so concentrated upon the person who stands, perhaps suffering, immediately before you, that you forget who is on the right, who is onthe 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 servantsreceive her?"

"I think they were rather surprised. Of course they don't know thetruth. "

"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 madethe recipient of my heroic devotion?"

"Give him all you like, " said Artois, with warmth. "You will neverrepent 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 asad 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 belistening. I don't believe she has seen Peppina yet. When we arrived shewas shut up in her room. "

As she spoke she was looking at him, and she saw a slight change comeover 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 heturned his head and looked out of the window towards Ischia. "How clearit is to-night! There will be no storm. "

"No. We can dine outside. I have told them. " Her voice sounded slightlyconstrained. "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 hadgiven to her mind, perhaps to her heart, too, an impulse that hadcaused an outburst of young energy. Ah! the blessed ardors of youth! Howbeautiful they are, and, even in their occasional absurdity, how sacred. What Hermione had said had made him realize acutely the influence whichhis celebrity and its cause--the self that had made it--must have upon agirl who was striving as Vere was. He felt a thrill of pleasure, even oftriumph, that startled him, so seldom now, jealous and careful as he wasof his literary reputation, did he draw any definite joy from it. WouldVere ever do something really good? He found himself longing that shemight, as the proud godparent longs for his godchild to gain prizes. He remembered the line at the close of Maeterlinck's "Pelleas andMelisande, " a line that had gone like a silver shaft into this soul whenhe first heard it--"Maintenant c'est au tour de la pauvre petite" (Nowit's the child's turn. )

"Now it's the child's turn, " he said it to himself, forming the wordswith his lips. At that moment he was freed entirely from the selfishnessof age, and warm with a generous and noble sympathy with youth, itsaspirations, 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 pouredit--inspiration molten in a long-tried furnace. He had no need of anyone 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 hadstartled her. 

"Yes. She is glad, I know. Dear little Vere!"

Her voice was dull, and she spoke--or he fancied so--rathermechanically. He remembered all she did not know and was conscious ofher false position. In their intercourse she had so often, so generally, been the enthusiastic sympathizer. More than she knew she had inspiredhim. 

"Dear Hermione! How good it is to be here with you!" he said, turningtowards her the current of his sympathy. "As one grows old one clingsto the known, the proved. That passion at least increases while so manyothers fade away, the passion for all that is faithful in a shiftingworld, 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 betweenmother and child. Vere was very quiet. Her excitement, her almostfeverish gayety of the evening of the storm had vanished. To-nightdreams hung in her eyes. And the sea was quiet as she was, repentantsurely of its former furies. There seemed something humble, somethingpleading in its murmur, as if it asked forgiveness and promisedamendment. 

The talk was chiefly between Hermione and Artois. It was not veryanimated. Perhaps the wide peace of the evening influenced their minds. When coffee was carried out Artois lit his pipe, and fell intocomplete silence, watching the sea. Giulia brought to Hermione a bitof embroidery on which she was working, cleared away the dessert andquietly 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 calmof the silent trio that faced it, seemed to deepen as if in delicateprotest against the interference. The stillness of Nature to-night wasvery natural. But was the human stillness natural? Presently Artois, suddenly roused, he knew not why, to self-consciousness, found himselfwondering. Vere lay back in her wicker chair like one at ease. Hermionewas 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 atregular intervals by the red fire that issued from the entrails ofthe mountain. Silently it rose from its hidden world, glowed angrily, menacingly, faded, then glowed again. And the life that is in fire, andthat seems to some the most intense of all the forces of life, stirredArtois from his peace. The pulse of the mountain, whose regular beatingwas surely indicated by the regularly recurring glow of the risingflame, seemed for a moment to be sounding in his ears, and, with it, allthe pulses that were beating through the world. And he thought of thecalm of their bodies, of Hermione's, of Vere's, of his own, as he hadthought of the calm of the steely sky, the steely sea, that had precededthe bursting of the storm that came from Ischia. He thought of it assomething unnatural, something almost menacing, a sort of combined liethat strove to conceal, to deny, the leaping fires of the soul. 

Suddenly Vere got up and went quietly away. While she had been with themsilence had been easy. Directly she was gone Artois felt that it wasdifficult, 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 ofthe island. A very confined space seems always to heighten the influenceof human personality, I think. On your rock everybody must mean a gooddeal, perhaps more than you realize, Hermione. "

"I am beginning to realize that, " she answered, quietly. "Perhaps theymean 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 couldnever descend into the arena of life to struggle to keep what I have, ifothers 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 isolatingmyself with Vere. Perhaps it is unwise, weak, this instinct to keep outthe 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 somethingstrange 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, Ihave been realizing that Vere is moving, is beginning to move veryfast. 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 Verealone. What she needs she will obtain. Have no fear of that. "

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure. Sometimes, often, the children know instinctively more thantheir elders know by experience. "

Hermione's lips trembled. 

"Sometimes, " she said, in a low voice, "I think Vere knows far morethan I do. But--but I often feel that I am very blind, very stupid. Youcalled me an impulsive--I suppose I am one. But if I don't follow myimpulses, what am I to follow? One must have a guide. "

"Yes, and reason is often such a dull one, like a verger throwing oneover a cathedral and destroying its mystery and its beauty with everyword he speaks. When one is young one does not feel that one needs aguide at all. "

"Sometimes--often--I feel very helpless now, " she said. 

He was acutely conscious of the passionate longing for sympathy that wasalive within her, and more faintly aware of a peculiar depression thatcompanioned her to-night. Yet, for some reason unknown to him, he couldnot issue from a certain reserve that checked him, could not speak toher as he had spoken not long ago in the cave. Indeed, as she came inher last words a little towards him, as one with hands tremblingly and alittle doubtfully held out, he felt that he drew back. 

"I think we all feel helpless often when we have passed our firstyouth, " he answered. 

He got up and stretched himself, towering above her. 

"Shall we stroll about a little?" he added. "I feel quite cramped withsitting. "

"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 beforeher at the sea. 

Artois heard voices in the house, and listened for a new one, the voiceof Peppina. But he could not distinguish it. He went down into the tinygarden. No one was there, and he returned, and passing through the housecame out on its farther side. Here he met Gaspare coming up from thesea. 

"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 thesubject. 

"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 hadhad 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 lookat 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 momentlooking after him and pulling at his beard. There was something veryforcible in Gaspare's personality. Artois felt it the more becauseof his knowledge of Gaspare's power of prolonged, perhaps of eternalsilence. The Sicilian was both blunt and subtle, therefore not alwayseasily read. To-night he puzzled Artois because he impressed himstrongly, yet vaguely. He seemed to be quietly concealing somethingthat was not small. What it was Artois could not divine. Only he feltpositive that there was something. In Gaspare's eyes that evening hehad seen an expression such as had been in them long ago in Sicily, whenArtois rode up after Maurice's death to see Hermione, and Gaspare turnedfrom him and looked over the wall of the ravine: an expression of doggedand impenetrable reserve, that was like a door closing upon unseen, justnot 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 ofthe night, which had now fallen ever so softly. The troop of the starswas posted in the immeasurable deeps of the firmament. There was, therewould be, no moon, yet it was not black darkness, but rather a dimlypurple twilight which lifted into its breast the wayward songs of thesea. And the songs and the stars seemed twin children of the wedded waveand night. Divinely soft was the wind, divinely dreamy the hour, andbearing something of youth as a galley from the East bears odors. Over the spirit of Artois a magical essence seemed scattered. And theyoungness that lives forever, however deeply buried, in the man who isan 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 knowsthat. 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 havebeen 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, Ithink soon she will begin to wonder what you do when you are shut up forso 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 desireto keep their little secret. 

"I know. You mean what I said the other day. But--if Madre should behurt. I don't think I have ever had a secret from her before, a realsecret. But--it's like this. If Madre knows I shall feel horriblyself-conscious, because of what I told you--her having tried and givenit 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 wouldbe different. If it's certain that you can do a thing well it seems tome 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 asyou say: if you told her before you have thoroughly tried your wingsyou might be paralyzed. When, if ever, you can show her something reallygood she will be the first to encourage you. But--till then--I thinkwith you that her influence in that direction would probably bediscouraging. Indeed, I feel sure of it. "

"But if she should really begin to wonder! Perhaps she will ask. It'sabsurd, 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 oceanhere. What is that far-away light?"

He pointed. 

"Low down? Oh, that must be the light of a fisherman, one of those whoseek in the rocks for shell-fish. "

"How mysterious it looks, moving to and fro! One feels life there, thedoings of unknown men in the darkness. "

"I wonder if--would you hate to go out a little way in the boat? The menlook 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 theterrace Hermione took up her embroidery, and Gaspare, who was standingbeside her, picked up the tray with the coffee-cups and went off with ittowards the kitchen. 

"Well, Vere?"

"Madre, we are going out a little way in the boat, and we want you tocome with us. "

"Where are you going?"

"To see the fishermen, just beyond the grotto of Virgilio. You willcome?"

"Do come, my friend, " added Artois. 

But Hermione sat still. 

"I'm a little tired to-night, " she answered. "I think I would ratherstay quietly here. You won't be long, will you?"

"Oh no, Madre. Only a few minutes. But, really, won't you?" Vere laidher 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 twogo. 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 creepdown softly, or he will think it his duty to come with us, starving, andthat 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 ontiptoe 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 ofGaspare, got into the little boat, and rowed gently out towards Nisida. 

"I feel like a contrabandista, " said Artois, as they stole under the leeof the island towards the open sea--"as if Gaspare would fire upon us ifhe heard the sound of oars. "

"Quick! Quick! Let us get away. Pull harder, Monsieur Emile! How slowyou 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, withdignity. 

"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, " hesaid. 

"Indeed I won't. Why should I? I like you best when you are quitenatural. "

"Do you?"

"Yes. Look! There are the lights! Oh, how strange they are. Go a littlenearer, 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 alittle coxswain, bent towards him with each word, giving him a bodilysignal for the stroke. Presently she stretched out her hand. 

"Stop!"

He stopped at once. For a minute the boat glided on. Then the impetus hehad given died away from it, and it floated quietly without perceptiblemovement 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 shadowycoast. 

"Now watch!"

They sat in silence, while the boat drifted on the smooth and oily wateralmost in the shadow of the cliffs. At some distance beyond them thecliffs sank, and the shore curved sharply in the direction of theisland with its fort. There was the enigmatic dimness, though not densedarkness, of the night. Nearer at hand the walls of rock made the nightseem more mysterious, more profound, and at their base flickered theflames which had attracted Artois' attention. Fitfully now these flames, rising from some invisible brazier, or from some torch fed by it, fellupon half-naked forms of creatures mysteriously busy about some hiddentask. Men they were, yet hardly men they seemed, but rather unknowndenizens of rock, or wave, or underworld; now red-bodied against thegleam, now ethereally black as are shadows, and whimsical and shifty, yet always full of meaning that could not be divined. They bent, theycrouched. 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 theswiftness of their movements there was something that was sad. Or wasit, perhaps, only pathetic, wistful with the wistfulness of the seaand of all nocturnal things? Artois did not ask, but his attention, theattention of mind and soul, was held by these distant voiceless beingsas by a magic. And Vere was still as he was, tense as he was. All thepoetry that lay beneath his realism, all the credulity that slept belowhis scepticism, all the ignorance that his knowledge strove to dominate, had its wild moment of liberty under the smiling stars. The lights movedand swayed. Now the seamed rock, with its cold veins and slimy creviceswas gilded, its nudity clothed with fire. Now on the water a trailof glory fell, and travelled and died. Now the red men were utterlyrevealed, one watching with an ardor that was surely not of this world, some secret in the blackness, another turning as if to strike in defenceof his companion. Then both fell back and were taken by the night. Andout 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, keepingnear the base of the cliffs. He meant to take Vere back at once to theisland, leaving the impression made upon her by the men of the firevivid, and undisturbed by speech. But when they came to the huge mouthof 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 wasechoed by the child. Since his conversation with Hermione on the day ofscirocco he had not been here, and as the boat glided under the hollowblackness of the vault, and there lay still, he remembered theirconversation, the unloosing of her passion, the strength and tenacity ofthe nature she had shown to him, gripping the past with hands almost asunyielding as the tragic hands of death. 

And he waited in silence, and with a deep expectation, for therevelation of the child. It seemed to him that Vere had her purpose incoming here, as Hermione had had hers. And once more the words of theold man in "Pelleas and Melisande" haunted him. Once more he heard themin 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 questionseemed 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 hadthe 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 Idon'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 knowhow 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 justlately, 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 wearyrock, as he had heard the revelation of the mother. How different itwas! Yet in it, too, there was the beating of the pulse of life. Butthere was no regret, no looking back into the past, no sombre exhibitionof force seeking--as a thing groping, desperately in a gulf--an objecton which to exercise itself. Instead there was aspiration, there wasexpectation, there was the wonder of bright eyes lifted to the sun. Andthere was a reverence that for a moment recalled to Artois the reverenceof the dead man from whose loins this child had sprung. But Vere's wasthe reverence of understanding, not of a dim amazement--more beautifulthan Maurice's. When he had been with Hermione under the brooding rockArtois 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. Nowhe was impregnated with humanity's passionate hope. He saw lifelight-footed in a sweet chase for things ideal. And all the blacknessof the rock and of the silent sea was irradiated with the light thatstreamed from a growing soul. 

A voice--an inquiring, searching voice, surely, rose quivering from somedistance on the sea, startling Vere and Artois. It was untrainedbut unshy, and the singer forced it with resolute hardihood that wasindifferent to the future. Artois had never heard the Marchesino singbefore, but he knew at once that it was he. Some one at the island mustsurely have told the determined youth that Vere was voyaging, and hewas now in quest of her, sending her an amorous summons couched in thedialect 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 fervidprotestation, a message illuminated as it were by the vibrato, he beganto hate the terrible frankness of the Italian nature which, till now, hehad thought he loved. The beauty of reticence appealed to him in a newway. There was savagery in a bellowed passion. The voice was travelling. They heard it moving onward towards Nisida. Artois wondered if Vere knewwho was the singer. She did not leave him long in doubt. 

"Now's our chance, Monsieur Emile!" she said, suddenly, leaning towardshim. "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, withdecision. "And what a voice! Ruffo doesn't sing like that. That shakingsounds--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 childishindignation. 

"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 itis 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 tothe house with her. He found her standing very still just behind him atthe 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 onelistening 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 veryfaint 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 whereshe 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 turnedreluctantly to obey her. As he did so there came to them both throughthe 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 girlwho 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 washorribly disfigured. Upon the right cheek, extending from the templealmost to the line of the jaw, a razor had cut a sign, a brutal signof the cross. As Vere saw it, showing redly through the darkness, she recoiled. The girl read the meaning of her movement, and shrankbackward, putting up her hand to cover the wound. But Vere recoveredinstantly, and bent down once more, intent only on trying to comfortthis sorrow, whose violence seemed to open to her a door into a new andfrightful 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 himand began to speak softly to Peppina. 

Artois obeyed and left her. 

He knew that just then she would not acknowledge his authority. As hewent slowly up the steps he wondered--he feared. Peppina had criedwith the fury of despair, and the Neapolitan who is desperate knows noreticence. 

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 toknowledge?

CHAPTER XVII

That night the Marchesino failed in his search for Vere, and he returnedto Naples not merely disappointed but incensed. He had learned froma fisherman in the Saint's Pool that she was out upon the sea "with aSignore, " and he had little difficulty in guessing who this Signore was. Of course it was "Caro Emilio, " the patron of Maria Fortunata. He beganto consider his friend unfavorably. He remembered how frankly he hadalways told Emilio of his little escapades, with what enthusiasm, inwhat copious detail. Always he had trusted Emilio. And now Emiliowas trying to play him false--worse, was making apparently a completesuccess of the attempt. For Emilio and Vere must have heard hisbeautiful singing, must have guessed from whom that vibrant voiceproceeded, must have deliberately concealed themselves from itspossessor. Where had they lain in hiding? His shrewd suspicion fell uponthe very place. Virgilio's Grotto had surely been their refuge. 

"Ladro! Vigiliacco!" Words of no uncertain meaning flowed from hisovercharged heart. His whole hot nature was aroused. His spirit wasup in arms. And now, almost for the first time, he drew a comparisonbetween 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, fora man with gray hairs thick upon his head, for a man who spent half hishours bent over a writing-table? Emilio had never wished him to know theladies of the island. He knew the reason now, and glowed with afiery lust of battle. Vere had attracted him from the first. But thisopposition drove on attraction into something stronger, more determined. He said to himself that he was madly in love. Never yet had he beenworsted in an amour by any man. The blood surged to his head at themere thought of being conquered in the only battle of life worthfighting--the battle for a woman, and by a man of more than twice hisage, a man who ought long ago to have been married and have had childrenas old as the Signorina Vere. 

Well, he had been a good friend to Emilio. Now Emilio should see thatthe good friend could be the good enemy. Late that night, as he satalone in front of the Caffe Turco smoking innumerable cigarettes, heresolved to show these foreigners the stuff a Neapolitan was made of. They did not know. Poor, ignorant beings from cold England, drownedforever in perpetual yellow fogs, and from France, country of volatilitybut not of passion, they did not know what the men of the South, of avolcanic soil, were capable of, once they were roused, once their bloodspoke and their whole nature responded! It was time they learned. Andhe would undertake to teach them. As he drove towards dawn up the dustyhill to Capodimonte he was in a fever of excitement. 

There was excitement, too, in the house on the island, but it did notcentre 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 notstir her. She was aware for the first time of the teeming horrors oflife. There, in the darkness beneath the cliff, Peppina had sobbed outher story, and Vere, while she listened, had stepped from girlhood intowomanhood. 

She had come into the house quietly, and found Artois waiting for heralone. 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 noone, and she bade Artois good-bye at once, telling him nothing, and notmeeting his eyes when he touched her hand in adieu. And he had askednothing. Why should he, when he read the truth in the grave, almoststern face of the child?

Vere knew. 

The veils that hung before the happy eyes of childhood had been tornaway, and those eyes had looked for the first time into the deeps of anunhappy 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 asa safe retreat in which her delicate, and as yet childish talent, mightgradually mature under his influence and the influence of the sea. Shehad been like some charming and unusual plant of the sea, shot withsea colors, wet with sea winds, fresh with the freshness of thesmooth-backed waves. And now in a moment she was dropped into the filthydust of city horrors. What would be the result upon her and upon herdawning gift?

The double question was in his mind, and quite honestly. For hisinterest of the literary man in Vere was very vivid. Never yet had hehad a pupil or dreamed of having one. There are writers who found aschool, whose fame is carried forward like a banner by young andeager hands. Artois had always stood alone, ardently admired, ardentlycondemned, but not imitated. And he had been proud of his solitude. But--lately--had not underthoughts come into his mind, thoughts ofleaving an impress on a vivid young intellect, a soul that was full oflife, and the beginnings of energy? Had not he dreamed, howevervaguely, of forming, like some sculptor of genius, an exquisitestatuette--poetry, in the slim form of a girl-child singing to theworld?

And now Peppina had rushed into Vere's life, with sobs and a tumult ofcries to the Madonna and the saints, and, no doubt, with imprecationsupon the wickedness of men. And where were the dreams of the sea? Andhis dreams, where were they?

That night the irony that was in him woke up and smiled bitterly, and heasked 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 oneagainst the assaults of the facts of life. Hermione, perhaps, had beenwiser than he, and yet he could not help feeling something that wasalmost like anger against her for what he called her quixotism. Thewoman of passionate impulses--how dangerous she is, even when herimpulses are generous, are noble! Action without thought, though theprompting heart behind it be a heart of gold--how fatal may it be!

And then he remembered a passionate impulse that had driven a happywoman across a sea to Africa, and he was ashamed. 

Yet again the feeling that was almost like hostility returned. He saidto himself that Hermione should have learned caution in the passingof so many years, that she ought to have grown older than she had. But there was something unconquerably young, unconquerably na�ve, inher--something that, it seemed, would never die. Her cleverness wenthand in hand with a short-sightedness that was like a rather beautiful, yet sometimes irritating stupidity. And this latter quality mightinnocently make victims, might even make a victim of her own child. 

And then a strange desire rose up in Artois, a desire to protect Vereagainst her own mother. 

But how could that be done?

Vere, guarded by the beautiful unconsciousness of youth, was unawareof the subtleties that were brought into activity by her. That theMarchesino was, or thought himself, in love with her she realized. But she could not connect any root-sincerity with his feeling. Shewas accustomed vaguely to think of all young Southern Italians asperpetually sighing for some one's dark eyes. The air of the South wasfull of love songs that rose and fell without much more meaning than atwitter of birds, that could not be stilled because it was so natural. And the Marchesino was a young aristocrat who did absolutely nothing ofany importance to the world. The Northern blood in Vere demanded otherthings of a man than imitations of a seal, the clever driving of afour-in-hand, light-footed dancing, and songs to the guitar. In Gaspareshe saw more reality than she saw as yet in the Marchesino. The dawningintellect of her began to grasp already the nobility of work. Gasparehad his work to do, and did it with loyal efficiency. Ruffo, too, hadhis profession of the sea. He drew out of the deep his livelihood. Evenwith 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 naturalacceptance of work as a condition of his life, she liked and respectedin Ruffo. 

On the morning after the incident with Peppina, Vere came down lookingstrangely grave and tired. Her mother, too, was rather heavy-eyed, andthe breakfast passed almost severely. When it was over Hermione, whostill conducted Vere's education, but with a much relaxed vigor in thesummer months, suggested that they should read French together. 

"Let us read one of Monsieur Emile's books, Madre, " said Vere, with anawakening of animation. "You know I have never read one, only two orthree 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 containsmany 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 readEmile'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 Ido. "

It was not without an effort, a strong effort, that Hermione was ableto speak the last sentence. Vere came nearer to her mother, and stoodbefore her, as if she were going to say something that was decisive orimportant. But she hesitated. 

"What is it, Vere?" Hermione asked, gently. 

"I might learn from life itself what Monsieur Emile's books might teachme. "

"Some day. And when that time comes neither I nor he would wish to keepthem 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 previousnight and Peppina. But, somehow, at the last moment she could not. 

And thus, for the moment at least, Artois and she shared another secretof which Hermione was unaware. 

But very soon Hermione noticed that Vere was specially kind always toPeppina. They did not meet, perhaps, very often, but when by chancethey did Vere spoke to the disfigured girl with a gentleness, almost atenderness, 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 thespirit had set two lamps in them. 

"It is strange, " Vere continued, in a quieter tone; "but sometimes Ifeel as if on the night of the storm I had had a sort of consciousnessof her coming--as if, when I saw the Saint's light shining, and bentdown to the water and made the sign of the Cross, I already knewsomething of Peppina's wound, as if I made the sign to protect our Casadel 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 tobe a sign, a warning come into the house. When I see it it seems to saythere 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 momentin 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 dealof pain. And what we hide from others we sometimes seem almost to bedestroying 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 knewabout Peppina, she was on the edge of telling her about the poems ofthe sea. And again, moved by some sudden, obstinate reluctance, come sheknew not why, she withheld the words that were almost on her lips. 

And each time the mother was aware of something avoided, of an impulsestifled, and therefore of a secret deliberately kept. The first timeHermione had not allowed her knowledge to appear. But on this secondoccasion for a moment she lost control of herself, and when, after aperceptible pause, Vere said, "I know I love it, " and was silent, sheexclaimed:

"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 ofyour own accord, out of your own heart and desire. Such a confidence isbeautiful. 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 ifshe put upon herself an embargo not to hasten. 

The words and--specially that--the way in which they were spoken madeVere suddenly and completely aware of something that perhaps she hadalready latently known--that the relation between her mother and herselfhad, of late, not been quite what once it was. At moments she had feltalmost shy of her mother, only at moments. Formerly she had always toldher mother everything, and had spoken--as her mother had just said--outof 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 thoughtof the Marchesino, of Peppina, of her conversation with Monsieur Emilein the Grotto of Virgilio, and realized the blooming of her girlhood, was aware that she was changing. And she felt half frightened, theneager, ardently eager. An impulse filled her, the impulse towards afulness of life that, till now, she had not known. And for a moment sheloved those little, innocent secrets that she kept. 

But then she thought again of her mother, the most beloved of all herworld. 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 certainperplexities that troubled her in the sea. But Gaspare was not on theisland. He had gone she knew not where. She looked at the sea withlonging. When would Gaspare be back? Well, at least she could go out inthe small boat. Then she would be near to the water. She ran down thesteps and embarked. At first she only rowed a little way out into theSaint's Pool, and then leaned back against the white cushions, andlooked up at the blue sky, and let her hand trail in the water. Butshe was restless to-day. The Pool did not suffice her, and she beganto 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 antiquechurch. Children called to her. A fisherman shouted: "Buon viaggio, Signorina!" She waved her hand to them apathetically and rowed slowlyon. Now she had a bourne. A little farther on there was a small inlet ofthe sea containing two caves, not gloomy and imposing like the Grottoof Virgilio, but cosy, shady, and serene. Into the first of them she ranthe boat until its prow touched the sandy bottom. Then she lay downat full length, with her hands behind her head on the cushions, andthought--and thought. 

Figures passed through her mind, a caravan of figures travelling as allare travelling: her mother, Gaspare, Giulia, with her plump and swarthyface; Monsieur Emile, to whom she had drawn so pleasantly, interestinglynear in these last days; the Marchesino (strutting from the hips andmaking 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 waterseemed to rock her soul in a cradle. "Madre--Ruffo! Madre--Ruffo!"The words were in her mind like a refrain. And then the oddity, thepromiscuity of life struck her. How many differences there were in thissmall group of people by whom she was surrounded! What would their fatesbe, and hers? Would her life be happy? She did not feel afraid. Youthran in her veins. But--would it be? She saw the red cross on Peppina'scheek. Why was one singled out for misery, another for joy? Which wouldbe her fate? Ruffo seemed to be standing near her. She had seen himseveral times in these last days, but only at evening, fugitively, whenhe came in the boat with the fishermen. He was stronger now. He hadsaluted her eagerly. She had spoken to him from the shore. But he hadnot landed again on the island. She felt as if she saw his bright andbeaming eyes. And Ruffo--would he be happy? She hoped so. She wanted himto be happy. He was such a dear, active boy--such a real boy. Whatmust it be like to have a brother? Gaspare approved of Ruffo now, shethought; and Gaspare did not like everybody, and was fearfully blunt inexpressing his opinion. She loved his bluntness. How delightfully hisnose twitched when he was pleased! Dear old Gaspare! She could neverfeel afraid of anything or anybody when he was near. Monsieur Emile--thepoems--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. Perspirationstood 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 wasshe still not thoroughly awake? His eyes looked excited, surely, as ifsomething unusual had been happening. And they were fixed upon her facewith a scrutiny that was strange, almost as if he saw her now for thefirst 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 hesaid:

"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 siestaafter the mid-day meal. The awnings and blinds were drawn. Silencereigned, 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 wasalmost an empty sea, for few boats passed by in those hot, still hours. 

To-day the servants were quiet in their quarters. Only Gaspare wasoutside. And he, in shirt and trousers, with a white linen hat coveringhis brown face, was stretched under the dwarf trees of the littlegarden, in the shadow of the wall, resting profoundly after the laborsof the morning. In their respective rooms Hermione and Vere weresecluded 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 desirefor 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 solitudeeternal. 

What was growing up between them, and why was it growing?

Hermione was beset by a strange sensation of impotence. She felt as ifher 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 andheart? She did not think it possible. Nor had it been possible for herto kill those pains, although she had made her effort--to conceal them. Long ago, before she was married to Maurice, Emile had spoken to themof jealousy. At the time she had not understood it. She rememberedthinking, 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 shehad not been aware. She had realized her passion for her child. Was itstrange that she had not always known how deep and strong it was?Her mutilated life was more vehemently centred upon Vere than she hadunderstood. Of Vere she could be jealous. If Vere put any one beforeher, trusted any one more than her, confided anything to another ratherthan 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. Shewas glad of that, as if it kept out prying eyes. For sometimes she wasashamed 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? Itseemed to her that it was so. She knew that it was so. Women are so sureof certain things, more almost than men are ever sure of anything. Andwhy should Vere have drifted, Emile have drifted, if there were not somelink between them--some link between the child and the middle-aged manwhich they would not have her know of?

Vere had told to Emile something that she had kept, that she still keptfrom her mother. When Vere had been shut up in her room she had not beenreading. Emile knew what it was that she did during those long hourswhen she was alone. Emile knew that, and perhaps other things of Verethat she, Hermione, did not know, was not allowed to know. 

Hermione, in their long intimacy, had learned to read Artois moreclearly, more certainly than he realized. Although often impulsive, and seemingly unconscious of the thoughts of others, she could be bothsharply observant and subtle, especially with those she loved. Shehad noticed the difference between his manner when first they spoke ofVere's hidden occupation and his manner when last they spoke of it. Inthe 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 herto suspect this. Vere must have told him what it was. 

It was characteristic of Hermione that at this moment she was free fromany common curiosity as to what it was that Vere did during those manyhours when she was shut up in her room. The thing that hurt her, thatseemed to humiliate her, was the Emile should know what it was and notshe, 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 thatcould act with violence. It startled her, almost as a stranger rushinginto her room would have startled her. 

For a moment she thought of her child and her loved friend with abitterness that was cruel. 

How long had they shared their secret? She wondered, and beganto consider the recent days, searching their hours for those tinyincidents, those small reticences, avoidances, that to women arerevelations. When had she first noticed a slight change in Emile'smanner to her? When had Vere and he first seemed a little more intimate, a little more confidential than before? When had she, Hermione, firstfelt a little "out of it, " not perfectly at ease with these two deardenizens of her life?

Her mind fastened at once upon the day of the storm. On the night of thestorm, when she and Emile had been left alone in the restaurant, shehad felt almost afraid of him. But before then, in the afternoon on theisland, there had been something. They had not been always at ease. She had been conscious of trying to tide over moments that were almostawkward--once or twice, only once or twice. But that was the day. Herwoman's instinct told her so. That was the day on which Vere had toldEmile the secret she had kept from her mother. How excited Vere hadbeen, almost feverishly excited! And Emile had been very strange. Whenthe Marchesino and Vere went out upon the terrace, how restless, howirritable he--

Suddenly Hermione sat up in her bed. The heat, the stillness, the whitecage of the mosquito net, the silence had become intolerable to her. She pulled aside the net. Yes, that was better. She felt more free. Shewould 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 coldwater. Then she put some _eau de Cologne_ on her forehead, opened adrawer and drew out a fan, went over to an arm-chair near the window andsat 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 thatof a homing pigeon, Hermione's mind went to that book as to a book ofrevelation. 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. Andthen 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 sheshould not read it. The book was one that all might see, was kept to belooked over by any chance visitor. She would go one day, one evening, tothe restaurant and see what Emile had written. He would not mind. If shehad 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 thatnight. She remembered how the wind had blown up the white table-cloth, her cold, momentary shiver of fear, her relief when she had seen Gasparewalking sturdily into the room. 

And now, at once, this thought of Gaspare brought to her a sense ofrelief again, of relief so great, so sharp--piercing down into the verydeep of her nature--that by it she was able to measure something, herinward desolation at this moment. Yes, she clung to Gaspare, because hewas loyal, because he loved her, because he had loved Maurice--but alsobecause she was terribly alone. 

Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a time, really a time, whenshe had possessed one who belonged utterly to her, who lived only in andfor 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 couldnever be taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped from her, if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped from her, thememory of her Sicilian was forever hers, the memory of his love, his joyin their mutual life, his last kiss. Long ago she had taken that kiss asa 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 deadPadrone. He would always protect her, put her first without hesitation, conceal nothing from her that it was her right--for surely even thehumblest, the least selfish, the least grasping, surely all who lovehave their rights--that it was her right to know. 

Her cheeks were burning. She felt like one who had been making somephysical exertion. 

Deeply silent was the house. Her room was full of shadows, yet full ofthe hidden presence of the sun. There was a glory outside, againstwhich she was protected. But outside, and against assaults that wereinglorious, what protection had she? Her own personality must protecther, her own will, the determination, the strength, the courage thatbelong to all who are worth anything in the world. And she called uponherself. 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 calledagain, and she listened--and again there was silence. 

Then she was afraid. She had a strange and horrible feeling that she wasdeserted by herself, by that which, at least, had been herself and onwhich she had been accustomed to rely. And what was left was surelyutterly incapable, full of the flabby wickedness that seems to dwell inweakness. 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 intruderwould have paused on the threshold amazed to see a stranger there. Shefelt afraid to be seen and yet afraid to remain alone. Should she dosomething definite, something defiant, to prove to herself that she hadwill 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, "Keepyour secrets. " What if she went now and humbled herself, explainedto the child quite simply and frankly a mother's jealousy, a widow'sloneliness, made her realize what she was in a life from which thegreatest thing had been ruthlessly withdrawn? Vere would understandsurely, 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 imperiousreserve, autocrat, tyrant, rose up suddenly within her. She could nevermake such a confession to Vere. She could never plead for her child'sconfidence--a confidence already given to Emile, to a man. And now forthe first time the common curiosity to which she had not yet fallen avictim came upon her, flooded her. What was Vere's secret? That it wasinnocent, probably even childish, Hermione did not question even for amoment. But what was it?

She heard a light step outside and drew back from the door. The steppassed on and died away down the paved staircase. Vere had gone out tothe terrace, the garden, or the sea. 

Hermione again moved forward, then stopped abruptly. Her face wassuddenly 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 outsurreptitiously 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, andagainst whom. 

CHAPTER XVIII

During the last days Artois had not been to the island, nor had he seenthe Marchesino. A sudden passion for work had seized him. Since thenight of Vere's meeting with Peppina his brain had been in flood withthoughts. Life often acts subtly upon the creative artist, repressingor encouraging his instinct to bring forth, depressing or excitinghim when, perhaps, he expects it least. The passing incidents of lifefrequently have their hidden, their unsuspected part in determining hisactivities. So it was now with Artois. He had given an impetus to Vere. That was natural, to be expected, considering his knowledge and hisfame, his great experience and his understanding of men. But now Verehad given an impetus to him--and that was surely stranger. Since theconversation among the shadows of the cave, after the vision of themoving men of darkness and of fire, since the sound of Peppina sobbingin the night, and the sight of her passionate face lifted to show itsgashed cross to Vere, Artois' brain and head had been alive with a furyof energy that forcibly summoned him to work, that held him working. Heeven felt within him something that was like a renewal of some part ofhis vanished youth, and remembered old days of student life, nights inthe Quartier Latin, his debut as a writer for the papers, the sensationof joy with which he saw his first article in the _Figaro_, his dreamsof fame, his hopes of love, his baptism of sentiment. How he had workedin those days and nights! How he had hunted experience in the streetsand the by-ways of the great city! How passionate and yet how ruthlesshe had been, as artists often are, governed not only by their quickemotions, but also by the something watchful and dogged underneath, thatwill not be swept away, that is like a detective hidden by a house doorto spy out all the comers in the night. Something, some breath from theformer days, swept over him again. In his ears there sounded surely thecries of Paris, urging him to the assault to the barricades of Fame. Andhe sat down, and he worked with the vehement energy, with the pulsatingeagerness of one of "les jeunes. " Hour after hour he worked. He tookcoffee, and wrote through the night. He slept when the dawn came, gotup, 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, hestretched himself, and he knew that his great effort had tired himtremendously--tremendously. 

He looked at his right hand. It was cramped. As he held it up he sawthat it was shaking. He had drunk a great deal of black coffee duringthose days, had drunk it recklessly as in the days of youth, when hecared 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 thesunshine of the bright summer afternoon, people bathing and shouting toone another from the diving platforms and the cabins; people gallopingby 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 wasat work, unless Hermione came. And he had not once been disturbed. Nowhe 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 theSignore. 

"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. Attheir last parting in the Villa he had shown a certain irony that hadin it a hint of bitterness. Artois did not know of the fisherman'sinformation, that Doro had guessed who was Vere's companion that nightupon the sea. He supposed that his friend was angry because he believedhimself distrusted. Well, that could soon be put right. He thought ofthe Marchesino now with lightness, as the worker who has just made agreat 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, wasnot in the mood just then to bother about a feather. Still less was heinclined for companionship. He wanted some hours of complete rest out inthe air, with gay and frivolous scenes before his eyes. 

He wanted to look on, but not to join in, the merry life that was abouthim, and that for so long a time he had almost violently ignored. 

He resolved to take a carriage, drive slowly to Posilipo, and eat hisdinner there in some eyrie above the sea; watching the pageant thatunfolds itself on the evenings of summer about the ristoranti and theosterie, round the stalls of the vendors of Fruitti di Mare, and thepiano-organs, to the accompaniment of which impudent men sing love songsto the saucy, dark-eyed beauties posed upon balconies, or gathered inknots upon the little terraces that dominate the bathing establishments, and the distant traffic of the Bay. His brain longed for rest, but itlonged also for the hum and the stir of men. His heart lusted for thesight of pleasure, and must be appeased. 

Catching up his hat, almost with the hasty eagerness of a boy, hewent down-stairs. On the opposite side of the road was a smart littlecarriage in which the coachman was asleep, with his legs cocked upon the driver's seat, displaying a pair of startling orange-and-blacksocks. By the socks Artois knew his man. 

"Pasqualino! Pasqualino!" he cried. 

The coachman sprang up, showing a round, rosy face, and a pair ofshrewd, 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 worea 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 wentslowly, as if all his spirit and agility had suddenly been withdrawnfrom 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 richSignore speak of working. 

"And you? You have been spending money as usual. All your clothes arenew. "

Pasqualino smiled, showing rows of splendid teeth under his littletwisted-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-bluedrawers. 

"The suspenders--they are new, Signore!" He drew attention to thescarlet elastics that kept the orange-and-black socks in place. "My boots!" He put his feet up on the box that Artois might see hislemon-colored boots, then unbuttoned and threw open his waistcoat. "Myshirt is new! My cravat is new! Look at the pin!" He flourished hisplump, brown, and carefully washed hands. "I have a new ring. " He benthis head. "My hat is new. "

Artois broke into a roar of laughter that seemed to do him good afterhis 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 havea rich and generous Padrone who wishes his coachman to be chic. When hesees 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 notholding 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 hischildish passion for finery, were refreshing, and seemed to belong toa young and thoughtless world. The sea-breeze was soft as silk, theafternoon sunshine was delicately brilliant. The Bay looked as it oftendoes in summer--like radiant liberty held in happy arms, alluring, fullof promises. And a physical well-being invaded Artois such as he had notknown 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 abrilliant world! He issued forth into it with almost joyous expectation. 

They went slowly, and presently drew near to the Rotonda. Artois leaneda little forward and saw that the fishermen were at work. They stood inlines upon the pavement pulling at the immense nets which were stilla long way out to sea. When the carriage reached them Artois toldPasqualino to draw up, and sat watching the work and the fierce energyof the workers. Half naked, with arms and legs and chests that gleamedin the sun like copper, they toiled, slanting backward, one towardsanother, laughing, shouting, swearing with a sort of almost angry joy. In their eyes there was a carelessness that was wild, in their gesturesa lack of self-consciousness that was savage. But they looked likecreatures who must live forever. And to Artois, sedentary for so long, the sight of them brought a feeling almost of triumph, but also asensation of envy. Their vigor made him pine for movement. 

"Drive on slowly, Pasqualino, " he said. "I will follow you on foot, andjoin 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 itspopulation of fisherfolk, the thought of Ruffo came into his mind. Heremembered that Ruffo lived here. Perhaps he might see the boy thisafternoon. 

On the mole that serves as a slight barrier between the open sea andthe snug little harbor several boys were fishing. Others were bathing, leaping into the water with shouts from the rocks. Beyond, upon theslope of dingy sand among the drawn-up boats, children were playing, thegirls generally separated from the boys. Fishermen, in woolen shirtsand white linen trousers, sat smoking in the shadow of their craft, orleaned muscular arms upon them, standing at ease, staring into vacancyor calling to each other. On the still water there was a perpetualmovement of boats; and from the distance came a dull but continuousuproar, the yells and the laughter of hundreds of bathers at theStabilimento di Bagni beyond the opposite limit of the harbor. 

Artois enjoyed the open-air gayety, the freedom of the scene; and onceagain, as often before, found himself thinking that the out-door life, the life loosed from formal restrictions, was the only one really andfully worth living. There was a carelessness, a camaraderie among thesepeople that was of the essence of humanity. Despite their frequentquarrels, their intrigues, their betrayals, their vendettas, they hungtogether. There was a true and vital companionship among them. 

He passed on with deliberation, observing closely, yet half-lazily--forhis brain was slack and needed rest--the different types about him, musing on the possibilities of their lives, smiling at the gambols ofthe intent girls, and the impudent frolics of the little boys who seemedthe very spawn of sand and sea and sun, till he had nearly passed theharbor, and was opposite to the pathway that leads down to the jetty, tothe left of which lie the steam-yachts. 

At the entrance to this pathway there is always a knot of peoplegathered about the shanty where the seamen eat maccaroni and strangemesses, and the stands where shell-fish are exposed for sale. On the farside of the tramway, beneath the tall houses which are let out in roomsand apartments for families, there is an open space, and here in summerare set out quantities of strong tables, at which from noon till lateinto the evening the people of Mergellina, and visitors of the humblerclasses from Naples, sit in merry throngs, eating, smoking, drinkingcoffee, syrups, and red and white wine. 

Artois stood still for a minute to watch them, to partake from adistance, and unknown to them, in their boisterous gayety. He had lita 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 twostout men obviously trying to drive a bargain with vigorous rhetoric andemphatic gestures, now on an elderly woman in a shawl spending an hourwith her soldier son in placid silence, now on some sailors from a shipin the distant port by the arsenal bent over a game of cards, or a partyof workmen talking wages or politics in their shirt-sleeves with flowersabove their ears. 

What a row they made, these people! Their animation was almost like theanimation of a nightmare. Some were ugly, some looked wicked; othersmischievous, sympathetic, coarse, artful, seductive, boldly defiant orboisterously excited. But however much they differed, in one qualitythey were nearly all alike. They nearly all looked vivid. If theylacked anything, at least it was not life. Even their sorrows should beenergetic. 

As this thought came into his mind Artois' eyes chanced to rest on twopeople 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 hisinterest in the crowd. 

At first he could only see Ruffo's side-face. But the woman was exactlyopposite to him. 

She was neatly dressed in some dark stuff, and wore a thin shawl, purplein color, over her shoulders. She looked middle-aged. Had she been anEnglishwoman Artois would have guessed her to be near fifty. But asshe was evidently a Southerner it was possible that she was very muchyounger. Her figure was broad and matronly. Her face, once probablyquite pretty was lined, and had the battered and almost corrugated lookthat the faces of Italian women of the lower classes often reveal whenthe years begin to increase upon them. The cheek-bones showed harshly init, by the long and dark eyes, which were surrounded by little puckersof yellow flesh. But Artois' attention was held not by this woman'squite ordinary appearance, but by her manner. Like the people about hershe was vivacious, but her vivacity was tragic--she had not come hereto be gay. Evidently she was in the excitement of some great grief orpassion. She was speaking vehemently to Ruffo, gesticulating with herdark hands, on which there were two or three cheap rings, catching ather shawl, swaying her body, nodding her head, on which the still blackhair was piled in heavy masses. And her face was distorted by an emotionthat seemed of sorrow and anger mingled. In her ears, pretty and almostdelicate in contrast to the ruggedness of her face, were large goldrings, such as Sicilian women often wear. They swayed in response to herperpetual movements. Artois watched her lips as they opened and shut, were compressed or thrust forward, watched her white teeth gleaming. Shelifted her two hands, doubled into fists, till they were on a levelwith her shoulders, shook them vehemently, then dashed them down on thetable. The coffee-cup was overturned. She took no notice of it. She washeedless 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 acigarette, lighted it carefully, and began to smoke. There was somethingvery 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 onehand on his arm and bent forward. He slightly shrugged his shouldersand shook his head. She kept her hand on his arm, went on talkingpassionately, and suddenly began to weep. Tears rushed out of her eyes. Then the boy took her hand gently, stroked it, and began to speakto her, always keeping her hand in his. The woman, with a despairingmovement, laid her face down on the table, with her forehead touchingthe wood. Then she lifted it up. The paroxysm seemed to have passed. Shetook out a handkerchief from inside the bodice of her dress and driedher eyes. Ruffo struck the table with his glass. An attendant came. Hepaid the bill, and the woman and he got up to go. As they did so Ruffopresented for a moment his full face to Artois, and Artois swiftlycompared it with the face of the woman, and felt sure that they weremother and son. 

Artois moved on towards the hill of Posilipo, but after taking a fewsteps turned to look back. The woman and Ruffo had come into the roadby the tram-line. They stood there for a moment, talking. Then Ruffocrossed over to the path, and the woman went away slowly towards theRotonda. Seeing Ruffo alone Artois turned to go back, thinking to havea word with the boy. But before he could reach him he saw a man step outfrom behind the wooden shanty of the fishermen and join him. 

This man was Gaspare. 

Ruffo and Gaspare strolled slowly away towards the jetty where theyachts lie, and presently disappeared. 

Artois found Pasqualino waiting for him rather impatiently not far fromthe 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 theNeapolitan coachman for those who get their living by the sea. He livedat 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 Idrive you?"

Artois hesitated, passing in mental review the various ristoranti on thehill. 

"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 theside of the road farthest from the sea, he had almost all the tables tochoose from, as it was still early in the evening, and in the summerthe Neapolitans who frequent the more expensive restaurants usually dinelate. He sat down at a table in the open air close to the railing, fromwhich he could see a grand view of the Bay, as well as all that waspassing on the road beneath, and ordered a dinner to be ready in half anhour. He was in no hurry, and wanted to finish his cigar. 

There was a constant traffic below. The tram-bell sounded its reiteratedsignal to the crowds of dusty pedestrians to clear the way. Donkeystoiled upward, drawing carts loaded with vegetables and fruit. Animatedyoung men, wearing tiny straw hats cocked impertinently to one side, drove frantically by in light gigs that looked like the skeletons ofcarriages, holding a rein in each hand, pulling violently at theirhorses' 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 menranged along the low wall on the sea-side with a cool steadiness thatwas almost Oriental. Some of them were talking. But by far the greaternumber leaned back almost immobile against their cushions; and theirpale faces showed nothing but the languid consciousness of beingobserved and, perhaps, desired. Stout Neapolitan fathers, with bulgingeyes, immense brown cheeks, and peppery mustaches, were promenadingwith their children and little dogs, looking lavishly contentedwith themselves. Young girls went primly past, holding their narrow, well-dressed heads with a certain virginal stiffness that was yet notdevoid of grace, and casting down eyes that were supposed not yet to beenlightened. Their governesses and duennas accompanied them. Barefootedbrown children darted in and out, dodging pedestrians and horses. Priests and black-robed students chattered vivaciously. School-boys withpeaked caps hastened homeward. The orphans from Queen Margherita's Home, higher up the hill, marched sturdily through the dust to the sound of aboyish but desperately martial music. It was a wonderfully vivid world, but the eyes of Artois wandered away from it, over the terraces, thehouses, 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 wasSicily. 

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 withthe 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--yetnot unkind or even disrespectful, only wonderfully natural andwonderfully young. 

"He was the deathless boy. "

Suddenly those words started into Artois' mind. Had he read themsomewhere? For a moment he wondered. Or had he heard them? They seemedto suggest speech, a voice whose intonations he knew. His mind was stillfatigued by work, and would not be commanded by his will. Keeping hiseyes fixed on the ethereal outline of Capri, he strove to remember, to find the book which had contained these words and given them to hiseyes, 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 theright, and above its hard accompaniment there rose a powerful tenorvoice singing. The song must have been struck forcibly upon some partof his brain that was sleeping, must have summoned it to activity. Forinstantly, ere the voice had sung the first verse, he saw imaginativelya mountain top in Sicily, evening light--such as was then shining overand 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 MauriceDelarey. And now idly, strangely, he had recalled them as he thought ofRuffo's young and careless attitude by the table of the ristorante thatafternoon. 

The waiter, coming presently to bring the French Signore the plate ofoysters 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 itwon the first prize at last year's festa of Piedigrotta. "

"Comment donc?" exclaimed Artois, as if startled. "What?--no--yes. Ilike it. It's a capital song. Lemon? That's right--and red pepper. Vabene!"

And he bent over his plate rather hurriedly and began to eat. 

The piano-organ and the singing voice died away down the hill, goingtowards Mergellina. 

But the effect, curious and surely unreasonable, of the song remained. Often, while he ate, Artois turned his eyes towards the mountain ofCapri, and each time that he did so he saw, beyond it and its circlingsea, Sicily, Monte Amato, the dying lights on Etna, the evening starabove its plume of smoke, the figure of a woman set in the shadow of hersorrow, yet almost terribly serene; and then another woman, sitting at atable, vehemently talking, then bowing down her head passionately as ifin angry grief. 

When he had finished his dinner the sun had set, and night had droppeddown softly over the Bay. Capri had disappeared. The long serpent oflights 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 deepsky of bloomy purple. There was no chill in the air, but a voluptuous, brooding warmth, that shed over the city and the waters a luxuriousbenediction, giving absolution, surely, to all the sins, to all theriotous follies of the South. 

Artois rested his arms on the balustrade. 

The ristorante was nearly full now, gay with lights and with a tempestof talk. The waiter came to ask if the Signore would take coffee. 

Artois hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He realized that hisnerves had been tried enough in these last days and nights. He must letthem rest for a while. 

The waiter went away, and he turned once more towards the sea. To-nighthe 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, amysterious way. A very modern man and, in his art, a realist, to-nightthere was surely something very young alert within him, something ofvague sentimentality that was like an echo from Byronic days. He feltover-shadowed, but not unpleasantly, by a dim and exquisite melancholy, in which he thought of nature and of human nature pathetically, linkingthem together; those singing voices with the stars, the women who leanedon balconies to listen with the sea that was murmuring below them, thefishermen upon that sea with the deep and marvellous sky that watchedtheir 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 sadnessstreamed from the stars. The voices below expressed it. The fishermen'storches in the Bay, those travelling lights that are as the eyes of theSouth searching for charmed things in secret places, lifted the sorrowsof earth towards the stars, and they were golden too. There was a joyeven in the tears wept on such a night as this. 

He loved detail. It was, perhaps, his fault to love it too much. But nowhe realized that the magician, Night, knew better than he what were thequalities of perfection. She had changed Naples into a diaper of jewelssparkling softly in the void. He knew that behind that lacework ofjewels there were hotels, gaunt and discolored houses full of poverty, shame, and wickedness, galleries in which men hunted the thingsthat gratify their lusts, alleys infected with disease and filthindescribable. He knew it, but he no longer felt it. The glamour of themagician was upon him. Perhaps behind the stars there were terrors, too. But who, looking upon them, could believe it? Detail might createa picture; its withdrawal let in upon the soul the spirit light of thetrue magic. 

It was a mistake to search too much, to draw too near, to seek always tosee clearly. 

The Night taught that in Italy, and many things not to be clothed withwords. 

Reluctantly at last he lifted his arms from the balcony rail and got upto leave the restaurant. He dreaded the bustle of the street. As he cameout into it he heard the sharp "Ting! Ting!" of a tram-bell higher upthe hill, and stepped aside to let the tram go by. Idly he looked at itas it approached. He was still in the vague, the almost sentimental moodthat had come upon him with the night. The tram came up level with himand slipped slowly by. There was a number of people in it, but on thelast seat one woman sat alone. He saw her clearly as she passed, andrecognized 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 fromthe box of a carriage coming up the hill. He jumped back and gainedthe path. There again he stood still. The sweet and half-melancholyvagueness had quite left him now. The sight of his friend had swept itaway. Why was she going to Mergellina at that hour? And why did she looklike that?

And he thought of the expression he had seen on her face as the tramslipped by, an expression surely of excitement; but also a furtiveexpression. 

Artois had seen Hermione in all her moods, and hers was a very changefulface. But never before had he seen her look furtive. Nor could he haveconceived it possible that she could look so. 

Perhaps the lights had deceived him. And he had only seen her for aninstant. 

But why was she going to Mergellina?

Then suddenly it occurred to him that she might be going to Naples, notto Mergellina at all. He knew no reason why her destination should beMergellina. He began to walk down the hill rather quickly. Some hundredsof yards below the Ristorante della Stella there is a narrow flight ofsteps between high walls and houses, which leads eventually down to thesea at a point where there are usually two or three boats waiting forhire. Artois, when he started, had no intention of going to sea thatnight, but when he reached the steps he paused, and finally turned fromthe path and began to descend them. 

He had realized that he was really in pursuit, and abruptly relinquishedhis purpose. Why should he wish to interfere with an intention ofHermione'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 tenorvoice 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 toSorrento or to Capri to-night. "

He held Artois by the right arm, gently assisting him into thebroad-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 nearas you can to the Mergellina. "

"Va bene, Signore. "

They slipped out, with a delicious, liquid sound, upon the movingsilence 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 herseclusion there she had once been disturbed by Gaspare, who had come toask her if she wanted him for anything, and, if not, whether he might goover to Mergellina for the rest of the afternoon to see some friends hehad made there. She told him he was free till night, and he went awayquickly, after one searching, wide-eyed glance at the face of hisPadrona. 

When he had gone Hermione told herself that she was glad he was away. Ifhe had been on the island she might have been tempted to take one of theboats, 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 aboatman from the village on the mainland near by, but without Gaspare'scompanionship she would not care to go. So that was settled. She wouldthink no more about it. She had tea with Vere, and strove with all hermight to be natural, to show no traces in face or manner of the stormthat had swept over her that day. She hoped, she believed that she wassuccessful. 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--wherecan she be at ease?

It was really the reaction from that effort that sent Hermione from theisland that evening. She felt as if she could not face another meal withVere just then. She felt transparent, as if Vere's eyes would be able tosee all that she must hide if they were together in the evening. And sheresolved to go away. She made some excuse--that she wished for a littlechange, 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 theroad 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 therestraint 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? Hewould 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 mainlandand 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 lastperson 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 lizardslipped across the warm earth in front of her, almost touching her foot, climbed the bank swiftly, and vanished among the dry leaves with a faintrustle. 

She felt quite alone to-day in Italy, and far off, as if she hadno 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 consciousof the change of climate, the inland sensation, the falling away of thefreedom from her, the freedom that seems to exhale from wave and wind ofthe wave. 

She walked on, meeting no one and still undecided what to do. Thethought of the Scoglio di Frisio returned to her mind, was dismissed, returned again. She might go and dine there quietly alone. Was shedeceiving herself, and had she really made up her mind to go to theScoglio before she left the island? No, she had come away mainly becauseshe felt the need of solitude, the difficulty of being with Vere justfor this one night. To-morrow it would be different. It should bedifferent to-morrow. 

She saw a row of houses in the distance, houses of poor people, and knewthat she was nearing the road. Clothes were hanging to dry. Childrenwere playing at the edge of a vineyard. Women were washing linen, mensitting on the doorsteps mending _nasse_. As she went by she nodded tothem, and bade them "Buona sera. " They answered courteously, some withsmiling faces, others with grave and searching looks--or so she thought. 

The tunnel that runs beneath the road at the point where this path joinsit came in sight. And still Hermione did not know what she was going todo. As she entered the tunnel she heard above her head the rumble of atram going towards Naples. This decided her. She hurried on, turnedto the right, and came out on the highway before the little lonelyristorante 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 tosympathize with the Signora, and to suggest that she should take a seatand drink some lemon water, or gazzosa, while waiting for the nexttram. Or would not the Signora dine in the upper room and watch the_tramontare del sole_. It would be splendid this evening. And he couldpromise her an excellent risotto, sardines with pomidoro, and a biftecksuch as certainly she could not get in the restaurants of Naples. 

"Very well, " Hermione answered, quickly, "I will dine here, but notdirectly--in half an hour or three-quarters. "

What Artois was doing at the Ristorante della Stella she was doing atthe Trattoria del Giardinetto. 

She would dine quietly here, and then walk back to the sea in the coolof the evening. 

That was her decision. Yet when evening fell, and her bill was paid, shetook the tram that was going down to Naples, and passed presently beforethe eyes of Artois. The coming of darkness had revived within hermuch of the mood of the afternoon. She felt that she could not go homewithout doing something definite, and she resolved to go to the Scogliodi 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 windwould cool her, would do her good. 

Nothing told her when the eyes of her friend were for an instant fixedupon her, when the mind of her friend for a moment wondered at thestrange, new look in her face. She left the tram presently at thedoorway above which is Frisio's name, descended to the little terracefrom which Vere had run in laughing with the Marchesino, and stood therefor a moment hesitating. 

The long restaurant was lit up, and from it came the sound ofmusic--guitars, and a voice singing. She recognized the throaty tenor ofthe 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 shefelt again the strange, the unreasonable sense of fear, indefinable butharsh, which had come upon her then, as fear comes suddenly sometimesupon a child. 

Then she stepped into the restaurant. 

As on the other night, there were but few people dining there, and theywere away at the far end of the big room. Near them stood the musiciansunder a light--seedy, depressed; except the blind man, who lifted hisbig head, rolled his tongue, and swelled and grew scarlet in an effortto be impressive. 

Hermione sat down at the first table. 

For a moment no one saw her. She heard men's voices talking loudly andgayly, the clatter of plates, the clink of knives and forks. She lookedround for the visitors' book. If it were lying near she thought shewould open it, search for what Emile had written, and then slip away atonce unobserved. 

There was a furtive spirit within her to-night. 

But she could not see the book; so she sat still, listening to the blindman 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 thedarkness, 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 betokeningthe presence of a new-comer in his restaurant. It might be a queen, anempress! Who could tell?

With his stiff yet alert military gait, he at once came marching downtowards her, staring hard with his big, bright eyes. When he saw who itwas he threw up his brown hands. 

"The Signora of the storm!" he exclaimed. He moved as if about to turnaround. "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 Ducadi--"

"Yes, yes. But I am only here for a moment, so it is not worth while totell the Marchese. "

"You are not going to dine, Signora! The food of Frisio does not pleaseyou!"

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 wonderfulvisitors' book? To tell the truth, that is what I have come for, to seethe marvellous book. I hadn't enough time the other night. May I?"

The Padrone was appeased. He smiled graciously and turned upon hisheels. 

"At once, Signora. "

"And--not a word to the Marchese! He is with friends. I would rather notdisturb 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 greatworld. He understood. What a mercy it was to be "educato"!

He came back again almost directly, bearing the book as a sacristanmight 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 intoher face a look of pious admiration, and he at once departed. Hermioneopened the book rather furtively. She had the unpleasant sensationof doing a surreptitious action, and she was an almost abnormallystraightforward woman by nature. The book was large, and containedan immense number of inscriptions and signatures in handwritings thatvaried as strangely as do the characters of men. She turned the leaveshastily. Where had Emile written? Not at the end of the book. Sheremembered that his signature had been followed by others, although shehad not seen, or tried to see, what he had written. Perhaps his namewas near Tolstoy's. They had read together Tolstoy's _Vedi Napoli e poiMori_. 

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 gatherround her. Why had she not told the Padrone she wished to be quitealone? She heard the shuffle of feet. They were coming. Feverishly sheturned 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 toanother, 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 theMarchesino. She was full of the desire to escape, to get away and be outon 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, bentover it, and kissed it. 

"What a pleasure!" he repeated, glancing round. "And you are alone! TheSignorina 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--givehim 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 theunfinished 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 wentdrearily 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 youngman would be absolutely unbearable. 

"Marchese, indeed I cannot--I cannot allow it. We Englishwomen are veryindependent, you know. But you may call me a boat and take me down toit, 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 tothe island again. I stayed too long in the sea the other day, or--" Heshrugged 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 waswhite, and that his big and boyish eyes held a tired and yet excitedexpression. 

"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 atonce. 

"Then when may I come?"

"Whenever you like. "

"To-morrow?"

"Certainly. "

"At what time?"

Hermione suddenly remembered his hospitality and felt that she ought toreturn it. 

"Come to lunch--half-past twelve. We shall be quite alone. "

"Signora, for loneliness with you and the Signorina I would give upevery 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. Treather as you would treat the Madonna. Do you hear?"

The boatman grinned and took off his cap, and the boat glided awayacross the path of yellow light that was shed from the window ofFrisio's. 

Hermione leaned back against the white cushions. She was thankful toescape. She felt tired and confused. That dreadful music had distractedher, that--and something else, her tricked expectation. She knew nowthat she had been very foolish, perhaps even very fantastic. She hadfelt so sure that Emile had written in that book--what?

As the boat went softly on she asked herself exactly what she hadexpected to find written there, and she realized that her imaginationhad, as so often before, been galloping like a frightened horse with thereins 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 ennous. "

She did not know the words. Were they his own or another's? And had hewritten them simply because they had chanced to come into his mind atthe moment, or because they expressed some underthought or feeling thathad surged up in him just then? She wished she knew. 

It was a fine saying, she thought, but for the moment she was lessinterested in it than in Emile's mood, his mind, when he had writtenit. She realized now, on this calm of the sea, how absurd had been thethought that a man so subtle as Emile would flagrantly reveal a passingphase of his nature, a secret irritability, a jealousy, perhaps, or asudden hatred in a sentence written for any eyes that chose to see. Buthe 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 tothem from the illuminated heights where people were making merry in thenight. Now and then a boat passed them. In one, young men were singing, and interrupting their song to shout with laughter. Here and there afisherman's torch glided like a great fire-fly above the oily darknessof the sea. The distant trees of the gardens climbing up the hillmade an ebony blackness beneath the stars, a blackness that suggestedimpenetrable beauty that lay deep down with hidden face. And the lightsdispersed among them, gaining significance by their solitude, seemed tosummon adventurous or romantic spirits to come to them by secret pathsand learn their revelation. Over the sea lay a delicate warmth, nottropical, not enervating, but softly inspiring. And beyond the circlinglamps of Naples Vesuvius lit up the firmament with a torrent ofrose-colored fire that glowed and died, and glowed again, constantly asbeats a heart. 

And to Hermione came a melancholy devoid of all violence, soft almostas the warmth upon this sea, quite as the resignation of the fatalisticEast. She felt herself for a moment such a tiny, dark thing caught inthe meshes of the great net of the Universe, this Universe that shecould never understand. What could she do? She must just sink down uponthe breast of this mystery, let it take her, hold her, do with her whatit would. 

Her subtlety against Emile's! She smiled to herself in the dark. Whata combat of midgets! She seemed to see two marionettes battling in thedesert. 

And yet--and yet! She remembered a saying of Flaubert's, that man islike a nomad journeying on a camel through the desert; and he is thenomad, and the camel--and the desert. 

How true that was, for even now, as she felt herself to be nothing, shefelt herself to be tremendous. 

She heard the sound of oars from the darkness before them, and saw thedim outline of a boat, then the eyes of Emile looking straight intohers. 

"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 littleway 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 atPosilipo. "

He did not ask her where she had been. 

"Yes. I think you look tired, " she said. He did not speak, and sheadded: "I felt restless, so I took the tram from the Trattoria delGiardinetto as far as the Scoglio di Frisio, and am going back, as yousee, 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 hispowerful face. 

"Yes, " he answered. "It makes one sad. "

For a moment she felt that they were in perfect sympathy, as they usedto be. Their sadness, born of the dreaming hour, united them. 

"Come soon to the island, dear Emile, " she said, suddenly and with theimpulsiveness that was part of her, forgetting all her jealousy and allher shadowy fears. "I have missed you. "

He noticed that she ruled out Vere in that sentence; but the warmth ofher 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 whenhe 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 ofArtois. 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 bonvoyage 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 friendhad made her feel guilty. 

Andrea, the boatman, still paused. Now she saw him staring into herface, 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 italone. She saw herself, a poor, starved, shrinking figure, travellingthrough a vast, a burning, a waterless expanse, with an iron sky aboveher, a brazen land beneath. She was in rags, barefoot, like the poorestnomad of them all. 

But even the poorest nomad carries something. 

Against her breast, to her heart, she clasped--a memory--the sacredmemory of him who had loved her, who had taken her to be his, who hadgiven her himself. 

CHAPTER XX

That night when Hermione drew near to the island she saw the Saint'slight shining, and remembered how, in the storm, she had longed forit--how, when she had seen it above the roaring sea, she had felt thatit was a good omen. To-night it meant nothing to her. It was just alamp lit, as a lamp might be lit in a street, to give illumination indarkness to any one who passed. She wondered why she had thought of itso strangely. 

Gaspare met her at the landing. She noticed at once a suppressedexcitement 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 aloneon 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 itsreturn to Posilipo. 

Hermione stood at the water's edge watching its departure. It passedbelow 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 thewater. He was making the fishermen's sign of the Cross. The cross onPeppina's face--was it an enemy of the Cross that carried with it SanFrancesco's blessing? Vere's imagination! She turned to go up to thehouse. 

"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 himfor 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 thehouse. 

"I think I'll go and see Ruffo, " said Hermione. 

She was close to the door of the house, Gaspare stood immediately beforeher. He did not move now, but he said:

"I can go and tell the Signorina you are here, Signora. She will come atonce. "

Again Hermione noticed a curious, almost dogged, excitement in hismanner. It recalled to her a night of years ago when he had stood on aterrace beside her in the darkness and had said: "I will go down to thesea. 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 beenforced 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 didnot come immediately. To her mother it seemed as if she was a very longtime coming; but at last her light step fell on the stairs, and sheentered quickly. 

"Madre! How late you are! Where have you been?"

"Am I late? I dined at the little restaurant at the top of the hillwhere 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. Andwhat have you been doing?"

"Oh, all sorts of things--what I always do. Just now I've been withRuffo. "

"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. Shestood near the window looking out, and the expression on her face hadbecome 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. Shewas feeling tired. 

"But generally he looks so gay, so strong. Don't you remember that firstday 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 hometo make him unhappy sometimes. "

"Has he been telling you so?"

"Oh, he doesn't complain, " Vere said, quickly, and almost with a touchof heat. "A boy like that couldn't whine, you know, Madre. But one canunderstand things without hearing them said. There is some trouble. I don't know what it is exactly. But I think his step-father--hisPatrigno, as he calls him--must have got into some bother, or donesomething horrible. Ruffo seemed to want to tell me, and yet not towant to tell me. And, of course, I couldn't ask. I think he'll tell meto-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 thestorm. "

"I wonder why?" said Hermione. 

She was interested; but she still felt tired, and the fatigue crept intoher voice. 

"So do I, " Vere said. "He had a reason, I'm sure. You're tired Madre, soI'll go to bed. Good-night. "

She came to her mother and kissed her. Moved by a sudden overwhelmingimpulse of tenderness, Hermione put her arms round the child's slimbody. But even as she did so she remembered Vere's secret, shared withEmile and not with her. She could not abruptly loose her arms withoutsurprising her child. But they seemed to her to stiffen, against herwill, and her embrace was surely mechanical. She wondered if Verenoticed 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 thatevening. 

"By-the-way, " she said, "I met the Marchesino to-night. He was at theScoglio 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 hisdinner, Vere. "

"Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right. "

She stood by the door with her bright, expressive eyes fixed on hermother. Her dark hair had been a little roughened by the breeze fromIschia, 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 cominghe said he wouldn't. "

As Hermione said this she looked very steadily at her child. Vere's eyesdid 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 aman like the Marchesino could interest a man like Monsieur Emile--at anyrate, for long. Well--" She gave a little sigh, throwing up her prettychin. "A letto si va!"

And she vanished. 

When she had gone Hermione thought she too would go to bed. She was verytired. She ought to go. Yet now she suddenly felt reluctant to go, andas if the doings of the day for her were not yet over. And, besides, shewas not going to sleep well. That was certain. The dry, the almost sandysensation of insomnia was upon her. What was the matter with Gaspareto-night? Perhaps he had had a quarrel with some one at Mergellina. Hehad a strong temper as well as a loyal heart. 

Hermione went to a window. The breeze from Ischia touched her. Sheopened her lips, shut her eyes, drank it in. It would be delicious tospend the whole night upon the sea, like Ruffo. Had he gone yet? Or washe in the boat asleep, perhaps in the Saint's Pool? How interestedVere was in all the doings of that boy--how innocently, charminglyinterested!

Hermione stood by the window for two or three minutes, then went outof the room, down the stairs, to the front door of the house. It wasalready 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 roundthe island was at night, and how full of meaning not quite to bedivined! It came upon her heart like the whisper of a world trying totell its secret to the darkness. What depths, what subtleties, whatunfailing revelations of beauty, and surely, too, of love, there werein Nature! And yet in Nature what terrible indifference there was: apowerful, an almost terrific inattention, like that of the sphinx thatgazes at what men cannot see. Hermione moved away from the house. Shewalked to the brow of the island and sat down on the seat that Vere wasfond of. Presently she would go to the bridge and look over into thePool and listen for the voices of the fishermen. She sat there for sometime gaining a certain peace, losing something of her feeling of wearyexcitement and desolation under the stars. At last she thought thatsleep might come if she went to bed. But before doing so she made herway 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 lyingclose to the rock. She stood and watched it, and presently she lostherself in a thicket of night thoughts, and forgot where she was andwhy she had come there. She was recalled by hearing a very faint voicesinging, 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 thebalcony of the Ristorante della Stella. But this singer of it sang theItalian words, and not the dialetto. The song that wins the prize at thePiedigrotta 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 heardincessantly. 

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 notcertain 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 wasthere, 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-nighthe was not very happy, and vaguely he longed for sympathy. 

Hermione listened to the pretty, tripping words, the happy, youthfulwords. 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 therapture of youth, the sweet white moons of summer in the South. Shehad known them long ago for a little while, and therefore she knew themwhile she lived. A woman's heart is tenacious, and wide as the world, when it contains that world which is the memory of something perfectthat 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 deepnight! Like that once Maurice, her sacred possession of youth, sang. Shefelt a rush of tenderness for Ruffo, just because he was so young, andsang--and brought back to her the piercing truth of the everlastingrenewal that goes hand in hand with the everlasting passing away. 

"Ruffo--Ruffo!"

Almost as Vere had once called "Pescator!" she called. And as Ruffo hadonce 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 couldunderstand. And he looked at her simply, with a sort of fearlessgentleness, and readiness to receive the kindness which he knew dwealtin 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 humorwhich 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 hehas 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 assentwas to her hope or to the fact of his happiness. She wondered which itwas. 

"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 thesea 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 thatthis 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 thisafternoon. "

"And you met there, did you?"

"Si, Signora. I had been with my mamma, and when I left mymamma--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 wouldlike to tell her. Perhaps some instinct made him know that she felttender 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 andlooked down towards the boat. Hermione did not press him, said nothing. 

"Signora, " Ruffo said, at last, coming to a decision, "my Patrigno isnot 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 thepersistent infidelities of Neapolitan men. Poor women who had to sufferthem!

"I am sorry for your mother, " she said, gently. "That must be veryhard. "

"Si, Signora, it is hard. My mamma was very unhappy to-day. She put herhead on the table, and she cried. But that was because my Patrigno isput in prison. "

"In prison! What has he done?"

Ruffo looked at her, and she saw that the simple expression had gone outof 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, canshe manage? About money, I mean?"

"It is not so much the money she was crying about, Signora. But, ofcourse, while Patrigno is in prison he cannot earn money for her. Ishall give her my money. But my mamma does not like all the neighborsknowing 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, whenshe knelt before a mountain shrine in the night, she had put herselfimaginatively in the place of a woman, this time in the place of Ruffo'smother. 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 tosee her, only--well, you see, I have Peppina here, and--"

She broke off. Perhaps the boy would not understand what she consideredthe awkwardness of the situation. She did not quite know how thesepeople regarded certain things. 

"Wait here a moment, Ruffo, " she said. "I am going to give you somethingfor your mother. I won't be a moment. "

"Grazie, Signora. "

Hermione went away to the house. The perfect naturalness and simplicityof the boy appealed to her. She was pleased, too, that he had not toldall this to Vere. It showed a true feeling of delicacy. And she was surehe was a good son. She went up to her room, got two ten lira notes, andwent quickly back to Ruffo, who was standing upon the bridge. 

"There, Ruffo, " she said, giving them to him. "These are for yourmother. "

The boy's brown face flushed, and into his eyes there came an expressionof 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, andagain, as he was lifting up his head, she saw the melting look in hiseyes. 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 therailing, bending down to see the boy reappear below. When he came helooked like a shadow. From this shadow there rose a voice singing verysoftly. 

 "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 lipsthat 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 themelting look of Ruffo's face. She felt frightened in the dark. Maurice--when he kissed her for the last time, had looked at her likethat. It could not be fancy. It was not. 

Was this the very first time she had noticed in Ruffo a likeness to herdead husband? She asked herself if it was. Yes. She had never--or hadthere been something? Not in the face, perhaps. But--the voice? Ruffo'ssinging? His attitude as he stood up in the boat? Had there not beensomething? She remembered her conversation with Artois in the cave. Shehad said to him that--she did not know why--the boy, Ruffo, had madeher feel, had stirred up within her slumbering desires, slumberingyearnings. 

"I have heard a hundred boys sing on the Bay--and just this one touchessome chord, and all the strings of my soul quiver. "

She had said that. 

Then there was something in the boy, something not merely fleeting likethat look of gentleness--something permanent, subtle, that resembledMaurice. 

Now she no longer felt frightened, but she had a passionate wish to godown to the boat, to see Ruffo again, to be with him again, now that shewas awake to this strange, and perhaps only faint, imitation by anotherof the one whom she had lost. No--not imitation; this fragmentaryreproduction of some characteristic, some--

She lifted herself up from the railing. And now she knew that her eyeswere wet. She wiped them with her handkerchief, drew a deep breath, andwent back to the house. She felt for the handle of the door, and, whenshe found it, opened the door, went in, and shut it rather heavily, thenlocked it. As she bent down to push home the bolt at the bottom a voicecalled out:

"Who's there?"

She was startled and turned quickly. 

"Gaspare!"

He stood before her half dressed, with his hair over his eyes, and arevolver 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 andbolted 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 justput on my clothes when again I heard a noise at the door. I myself hadlocked it for the night. What should I think?"

"I was outside. I came back for something. That was what you heard. ThenI went out again. "

"Si. "

He stood there staring at her in a way that seemed, she fancied, torebuke her. She knew that he wished to know why she had gone out solate, returned to the house, then gone out once more. 

"Come up-stairs for a minute, Gaspare, " she said. "I want to speak toyou. "

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. Hefollowed. 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 sharpintensity which hardened her whole face. Was he, too, being insincerewith her, he whom she trusted implicitly?

"Did you forget, Gaspare?" she said. 

"Signora, " he repeated, with a certain, almost ugly doggedness, "I wastired. Forgive me. "

She felt sure that he had chosen deliberately not to come to her forthe evening salutation. It was a trifle, yet to-night it hurt her. Fora 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 behindimpenetrable walls of obstinate reserve. And she did know his naturethrough and through. If he was odd to-night, unlike himself, there wassome 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 saygood-night to me. I am accustomed to that, and I miss it if you don'tcome. "

"Si, Signora, " he said, in a very low voice. 

He turned a little away from her, and made a small noise with his noseas if he had a cold. 

"Gaspare, " she said, with an impulse to be frank, "I saw Ruffoto-night. "

He turned round quickly. She saw moisture in his eyes, but they wereshining 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 almosta rebuke. 

"Signora, " he said, bluntly, "if I were you I would not have anything todo with these people. Ruffo's Patrigno is a bad man. Better leave themalone. "

"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 arenot Neapolitan. We had better keep to ourselves. You have too muchheart, Signora, a great deal too much heart, and you do not always knowwhat people are. "

"Do you think I ought not to have given Ruffo that money for hismother?" Hermione asked, almost meekly. 

"Si, Signora. It is not for you to give his mother money. It is not foryou. "

"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 wasnot sure that the opportunity was a good one. He was odd to-night. Histemper had surely been upset. Perhaps it would be better to wait. Shedecided 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 saygood-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 wentout of the room. 

That night, as she got into bed, Hermione called down on that faithfulwatch-dog's dark head a blessing, the best that heaven contained forhim. Then she put out the light, and lay awake so long that when a boatcame round the cliff from the Saint's Pool to the open sea, in the hourbefore the dawn, she heard the soft splash of the oars in the water andthe 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 acrossthe 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 whenit died away, did not he fade with it--fade until the Ionian waters tookhim?

She sat up in the darkness until long after the song was hushed. But sheheard 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, wascertainly not a calm one, and Isidoro, was, perhaps, the most excitablemember of an abundantly excitable family. Although changeable, he wasvehement. He knew not the meaning of the word patience, and had alwaysbeen accustomed to get what he wanted exactly when he wanted it. Delayin the gratification of his desires, opposition to his demands, renderedhim as indignant as if he were a spoiled child unable to understand thefixed position and function of the moon. And since the night of hisvain singing along the shore to the Nisida he had been ill with fever, brought on by jealousy and disappointment, brought on partly also by thebusy workings of a heated imagination which painted his friend Emilio incolors of inky black. 

The Marchesino had not the faintest doubt that Artois was in love withVere. 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 hehad seen Emilio paying court to the pretty English girl. But, then, hehad only seen them together twice--on the night of his first visit tothe island and on the night of the storm. It was the general conduct ofhis friend that convinced him, conduct in connection not with Vere, butwith himself--apart from that one occasion when Emilio must have lainhidden with Vere among the shadows of the grotto of Virgil. He had beendeceived by Emilio. He had thought of him as an intellectual, who wasalso a bon vivant and interested in Neapolitan life. But he had notthought of him as a libertine. Yet that was what he certainly was. Theinterview with Maria Fortunata in the alley beyond the Via Roma hadquite convinced the Marchesino. He had no objection whatever to looseconduct, but he had a contempt for hypocrisy which was strong andgenuine. He had trusted Emilio. Now he distrusted him, and was ready tosee subtlety, deceit, and guile in all his undertakings. 

Emilio had been trying to play with him. Emilio looked upon him as a boywho knew nothing of the world. The difference in their respective ages, so long ignored by him, now glared perpetually upon the Marchesino, evenroused within him a certain condemnatory something that was almost akinto moral sense, a rare enough bird in Naples. He said to himself thatEmilio was a wicked old man, "un vecchio briccone. " The delights of sinwere the prerogative of youth. Abruptly this illuminating fact swam, like a new comet, within the ken of the Marchesino. He towered towardsthe heights of virtuous indignation. As he lay upon his fevered pillow, drinking a tisane prepared by his anxious mamma, he understood the innerbeauty of settling down--for the old, and white-haired age, still intentupon having its fling, appeared to him so truly pitiable and disgustingthat he could almost have wept for Emilio had he not feared to makehimself more feverish by such an act of enlightened friendship. 

And the sense and appreciation of the true morality, ravishing in itsutter novelty for the young barbarian, was cherished by the Marchesinountil he began almost to swell with virtue, and to start on stilts toheaven, big with the message that wickedness was for the young and mustnot 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 settledown to the rigid asceticism of Neapolitan wedded life. 

And as the Marchesino had lain in bed tingling with morality, so didhe get up and issue forth to the world, and even set sail upon thefollowing day for the island. Morality was thick upon him, as upon that"briccone" Emilio, something else was thick. About mediaeval chivalryhe knew precisely nothing. Yet, as the white wings of his pretty yachtcaught the light breeze of morning, he felt like a most virtuous knight_sans peur et sans reproche_. He even felt like a steady-going personwith a mission. 

But he wished he thoroughly understood the English nation. Towards theEnglish he felt friendly, as do most Italians; but he knew little ofthem, except that they were very rich, lived in a perpetual fog, andwere "un poco pazzi. " But the question was how mad--in other words, howdifferent from Neapolitans--they were! He wished he knew. It would makethings easier for him in his campaign against Emilio. 

Till he met the ladies of the island he had never said a hundred wordsto any English person. The Neapolitan aristocracy is a very conservativebody, and by no means disposed to cosmopolitanism. To the Panacci Villaat Capodimonte came only Italians, except Emilio. The Marchesino hadinquired of Emilio if his mother should call upon the Signora Delarey, but Artois, knowing Hermione's hatred of social formalities, hadhastened to say that it was not necessary, that it would even be asurprising departure from the English fashion of life, which ordainedsome knowledge of each other by the ladies of two families, or atleast some formal introduction by a mutual woman friend, before anacquaintance could be properly cemented. Hitherto the Marchesino hadfelt quite at ease with his new friends. But hitherto he had been, as itwere, merely at play with them. The interlude of fever had changed hisviews and enlarged his consciousness. And Emilio was no longer at handto be explanatory if desired. 

The Marchesino wished very much that he thoroughly understood the innerworkings of the minds of English ladies. 

How mad were the English? How mad exactly, for instance, was theSignora Delarey? And how mad exactly was the Signorina? It would be veryvaluable to know. He realized that his accurate knowledge of Neapolitanwomen, hitherto considered by him as amply sufficient to conduct himwithout a false step through all the intricacies of the world feminine, might not serve him perfectly with the ladies of the island. Hisfever had, it seemed, struck a little blow on his self-confidence, andrendered 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? Therewere two perpendicular lines above his eyebrows as the boat drew near tothe island. 

But when he came into the little drawing-room, where Hermione waswaiting to receive him, he looked young and debonair, though still palefrom his recent touch of illness. 

Vere was secretly irritated by his coming. Her interview with Peppinahad opened her eyes to many things, among others to a good deal that waslatent in the Marchesino. She could never again meet him, or any manof his type, with the complete and masterful simplicity of ignorantchildhood that can innocently coquet by instinct, that can manage byheredity from Eve, but that does not understand thoroughly, either, whatit 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 haveanother talk with Monsieur Emile. Pretty, delicate, yet strong-fibredambitions were stirring within her, and the curious passion to use lifeas a material, but not all of life that presented itself to her. Withthe desire to use that might be greedy arose the fastidious prerogativeof rejection. 

And that very morning, mentally, Vere had rejected the Marchesino assomething not interesting in life, something that was only lively, likethe very shallow stream. What a bore it would be having to entertainhim, to listen to his compliments, to avoid his glances, to pretend tobe at ease with him. 

"But Madre can have him for a little first, " she said to herself, as shelooked into the glass to see that her hair was presentable. "Madre askedhim 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, whenshe heard the cry of the siren that betokened his approach. Again shelooked in the glass and gave a pat to her hair. And just as she wasdoing it she thought of that day after the bathe, when Gaspare had cometo 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 tolunch, that he was uninteresting, frivolous, empty-headed. But directlyshe 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 ofa personage, than he had seemed to her before. Even his face lookeddifferent, 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 hesaid 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 inquiredperfunctorily after his health, and expressed regret for his slightillness. 

"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 andslipped surreptitiously home under cover of the darkness, she flushedand said:

"The night of the storm--you got wet, didn't you?"

"But that was long ago, Signorina, " he answered, looking steadily ather, 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 notknowing what it sprang from, came to the rescue with an effort. She wasreally disinclined for talk, and was perpetually remembering that thepresence of the Marchesino had prevented Emile from coming to spend along day. But she remembered also her guest's hospitality at Frisio's, and her social instinct defied her natural reluctance to be lively. Shesaid to herself that she was rapidly developing into a fogey, andmust rigorously combat the grievous tendency. By a sheer exertion ofwill-power she drove herself into a different, and conversational, mood. The Marchesino politely responded. He was perfectly self-possessed, buthe was not light-hearted. The unusual effort of being thoughtful had, perhaps, distressed or even outraged his brain. And the worst of it wasthat he was still thinking--for him quite profoundly. 

However, they talked about risotto, they talked about Vesuvius, theyspoke of the delights of summer in the South and of the advantages ofliving on an island. 

"Does it not bore you, Signora, having the sea all round?" asked theMarchesino. "Do you not feel in a prison and that you cannot escape?"

"We don't want to escape, do we, Madre?" said Vere, quickly, beforeHermione could answer. 

"I am very fond of the island, certainly, " said Hermione. "Still, ofcourse, we are rather isolated here. "

She was thinking of what she had said to Artois--that perhaps herinstinct to shut out the world was morbid, was bad for Vere. The girl atonce caught the sound of hesitation in her mother's voice. 

"Madre!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say that you are tired of ourisland 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 almostwicked to. Oh, let us live in the moment, Madre, and pretend it will bealways 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 eyessuddenly shone. The Marchesino looked at her with an admiration he didnot try to conceal. 

"You love the sea, Signorina?" he asked. 

But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that he mightdestroy its completeness by trying to share it. 

"Oh yes, " she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gaspare, MonsieurEmile--everybody. "

It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among themthat day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his large whiteteeth. 

"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 herfeelings towards the "vecchio briccone"? He did not understand thesituation, because he did not understand precisely the nature of madnessof the English. Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio an Italian, hewould have felt on sure ground. But in England, so he had heard, thereis a fantastic, cold, sexless something called friendship that can existbetween 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 notresist adding:

"When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot be forever runningto 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 ofthat?"

"Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, not because he hasa 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 thedoor 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 knewwhat her child was doing in those hours of seclusion. And she rememberedher own passionate attempts to stave off despair by work. She rememberedher own failure. 

"Poor little Vere!" That was her first thought. "But what is Emiledoing?" That was the second. He had discouraged her. He had told her thetruth. What was he telling Vere? A flood of bitter curiosity seemed torise 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 noimagination. 

Her youth made her very drastic, very sweeping, in her secret mentalassertions. 

She labelled the Marchesino "Philistine, " and popped him into hisdrawer. 

Lunch was over, and they got up. 

"Are you afraid of the heat out-of-doors, Marchese?" Hermione asked, "orshall we have coffee in the garden? There is a trellis, and we shall beout 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 onbasket-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 carelesslyover her small, dark head a red parasol. It was evident that she was notafraid even of the midday sun. That new look in her face, soft womanhoodat 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 changein her. To-day she knew what before she had not known. 

As he stared at Vere with adoring eyes suddenly there came into his mindthe question: "Who has taught her?"

And then he thought of the night when all in vain he had sung upon thesea, while the Signorina and "un Signore" were hidden somewhere nearhim. 

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 itsway out. He put down his coffee cup, and the two perpendicular linesappeared above his eyebrows, giving him an odd look, cruel and rathercatlike. 

"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. Thenatural supposition in a Neapolitan would, of course, have been thatArtois was her lover. But when the Marchesino looked at Hermione's eyeshe could not tell. 

What did it all mean? He felt furious at being puzzled, as if he weredeliberately 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 wasalone for a moment with Hermione. 

"You are fortunate, Signora, in having such a daughter, " he said, with asigh that was boyish. 

"Yes, " Hermione said. 

That bitter curiosity was still with her, and her voice soundedlistless, almost cold. The Marchesino looked up. Ah! Was there somethinghere that he could understand? Something really feminine? A creepingjealousy? He was on the _qui vive_ at once. 

"And such a good friend as Don Emilio, " he added. "You have known Emiliofor a long time, Signora?"

"Oh yes, for a very long time. "

"He is a strange man, " said the Marchesino, with rather elaboratecarelessness. 

"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 surprisedHermione, who thought the Marchesino quick witted but very superficial. 

"As he is a writer, I suppose he has to study people a good deal, " shesaid, quietly. 

"I do not think I can understand these great people. I think they aretoo 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 wasnot to be trusted. He believed that Hermione must be very blind, veryunfitted to look after a lovely daughter. But when he glanced at herface he did not quite know how to hint what was in his mind. And justthen Vere came back and the opportunity was gone. She held out a box tothe Marchesino. As he thanked her and took a cigarette he tried to lookinto her eyes. But she would not let him. And when he struck his matchshe returned once more to the house, carrying the box with her. Hermovement was so swift and unexpected that Hermione had not time to speakbefore 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-daythat, with a very slight incentive, he might lose his head. The newatmosphere which Vere diffused around her excited him strangely. Hewas certain that she was able to understand something of what he wasfeeling, that on the night of the storm she would not have been ableto understand. Again he thought of Emilio, and moved restlessly in hischair, looking sideways at Hermione, then dropping his eyes. Vere didnot come back. 

Hermione exerted herself to talk, but the task became really a difficultone, for the Marchesino looked perpetually towards the house, and so farforgot himself as to show scarcely even a wavering interest in anythinghis hostess said. As the minutes ran by a hot sensation of anger beganto 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 theglare 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 notyou?"

"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 littlelonger. "

"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 boreyou?"

"No; do come. "

Hermione felt rather guilty, as if they had been inhospitable, she andVere; 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?" sheadded. "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 shemurmured a respectful salutation and passed quickly by, averting herwounded cheek. Almost immediately behind her was Vere. The Marchesinolooked openly amazed for a moment, then even confused. He stared firstat Hermione, then at Vere. 

"I am sorry, Madre; I was kept for a moment, " the girl said. "Are youcoming up-stairs?"

"The Marchese says he must go, Vere. He is determined not to deprive usof our siesta. "

"One needs to sleep at this hour in the hot weather, " said theMarchesino. 

The expression of wonder and confusion was still upon his face, and hespoke 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 ranlightly 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 themoment. He looked at Hermione swiftly, searchingly, then dropped hiseyes. 

"What is it, Marchese?" she asked, wondering what was the matter withhim. 

He still hesitated. Evidently he was much disturbed. At last he saidagain:

"Pardon me, Signora. I--as you know, I am Neapolitan. I have alwayslived 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 isimpossible. "

"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 havekindly 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 tohimself for a moment, uttering many exclamations. In truth, he wasutterly amazed. Maria Fortunata had spread abroad diligently the fame ofher niece's beauty, and the Marchesino, like the rest of the gay youngmen of Naples, had known of and had misjudged her. He had read in thepapers of the violence done to her, and had at once dismissed her fromhis mind with a muttered "Povera Ragazza!"

She was no longer beautiful. 

And now he discovered her living as a servant with the ladies of theisland. Who could have put her there? He thought of Emilio's colloquywith Maria Fortunata. But the Signora? A mother? What did it all mean?Even the madness of the English could scarcely be so pronounced as tomake such a proceeding as this quite a commonplace manifestation of thenational life and eccentricity. He could not believe that. 

He stepped into his boat. As the sailors rowed it out from the Pool--thewind had gone down and the sails were useless--he looked earnestly up tothe 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 theSignora? What was she?

The Marchesino was no believer in the virtue of women. But the lack ofbeauty in Hermione, and her age, rendered him very doubtful as to herrole in the life on the island. Vere's gay simplicity had jumped to theeyes. But now she, too, was becoming something of a mystery. 

He traced it all to Emilio, and was hot with a curiosity that was linkedclosely with his passion. 

Should he go to see Emilio? He considered the question and resolved notto do so. He would try to be patient until the night of the dinner onthe island. He would be birbante, would play the fox, as Emilio surelyhad done. The Panacci temper should find out that one member of thefamily could control it, when such control served his purpose. 

He was on fire with a lust for action as he made his resolutions. Vere'scoolness to him, even avoidance of him, had struck hammer-like blowsupon his _amour propre_. He saw her now--yes, he saw her--comingdown the stairs behind Peppina. Had they been together? Did they talktogether, the cold, the prudish Signorina Inglese--so he called Vere nowin his anger--and the former decoy of Maria Fortunata?

And then a horrible conception of Emilio's role in all this darted intohis mind, and for a moment he thought of Hermione as a blind innocent, like his subservient mother, of Vere as a preordained victim. Then theblood coursed through his veins like fire, and he felt as if he could nolonger sit still in the boat. 

"Avanti! avanti!" he cried to the sailors. "Dio mio! There is enoughbreeze to sail. Run up the sail! Madonna Santissima! We shall not be toNaples 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 fingerson 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 theisland. He did not feel as if he could wait long without seeing Vereagain. But would it ever be possible to see her alone? Emilio saw heralone. His white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her outupon the sea. 

The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. Surely it wasfluttering very strangely. Like many young Italians he was a mixture offearlessness 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 lookedon 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 thatthe 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 wasa bore having to entertain any one in the hot weather. As she wentup-stairs she said to herself that her guest's addio had been thefinal fiasco of an unfortunate morning. Evidently he knew something ofPeppina, and had been shocked to find the girl in the house. Emile hadtold her--Hermione--that she was an impulsive. Had she acted foolishlyin taking Peppina? She had been governed in the matter by her heart, in which dwelt pity and a passion for justice. Surely the sense ofcompassion, the love of fair dealing could not lead one far astray. Andyet, since Peppina had been on the island the peace of the life therehad been lessened. Emile had become a little different, Vere too. Andeven Gaspare--was there not some change in him?

She thought of Giulia's assertion that the disfigured girl had the evileye. 

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 theother servants. But certainly the joy of their life in this House ofthe Sea was not what it had been. And even Vere had had forebodings withwhich Peppina had been connected. Perhaps the air of Italy, this clear, this radiant atmosphere which seemed created to be the environment ofhappiness, 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 powerfulface with the steady eyes. And a wave of depression went over her, asshe understood how very much she had relied on him since the death ofMaurice. Without him she would indeed have been a derelict. 

Again that bitter flood of curiosity welled up in her. She wonderedwhere Vere was, but she did not go to the girl's room. Instead, she wentto her own sitting-room. Yesterday she had been restless. She had feltdriven. To-day she felt even worse. But to-day she knew what yesterdayshe had not known--Vere's solitary occupation. Why had not Vere toldher, confided in her? It was a very simple matter. The only reason whyit now assumed an importance to her was because it had been so carefullyconcealed. Why had not Vere told her all about it, as she told her otherlittle matters of their island life, freely, without even a thought ofhesitation?

She sought the reason of this departure which was paining her. But atfirst she did not find it. 

Perhaps Vere wanted to give her a surprise. For a moment her heart grewlighter. Vere might be preparing something to please or astonish hermother, and Emile might be in the secret, might be assisting in someway. But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been followed too long. And then Emile had not always known what it was. He had only knownlately. 

Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she lay in the littleboat in the shadow cast by the cliffs over the Saint's Pool--they werethe 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 offame. What clever, what imaginative and energetic child has not suchdreams at some period or other? How absurd we all are, thinking to climbto the stars almost as soon as we can see them!

And then the smile died away from Hermione's lips as the greattenderness of the mother within her was moved by the thought of thedisappointments that come with a greater knowledge of life. Vere wouldsuffer when she learned the truth, when she knew the meaning of failure. 

Quite simply and naturally Hermione was including her child inevitablywithin 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 latelythan ever before?

Was Emile helping Vere in what she was doing? But if he was, then hemust believe in Vere's capacity to do something that was worth doing. 

Hermione knew the almost terrible sincerity of Artois in the thingsof the intellect, his clear, unwavering judgment, his ruthlesstruthfulness. Nothing would ever turn him from that. Nothing, unlesshe--

Her face became suddenly scarlet, then pale. A monstrous idea had sprungup in her mind; an idea so monstrous that she strove to thrust it awayviolently, without even contemplating it. Why had Vere not told her?There must be some good and sufficient reason. Vehemently--to escapefrom that monstrous idea--she sought it. Why had everything else in herchild been revealed to her, only this one thing been hidden from her?

She searched the past, Vere and herself in that past. And now, despiteher emotion, her full intelligence was roused up and at work. Andpresently she remembered that Emile and Vere shared the knowledge ofher 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 knewsomething. Could that mutual knowledge be the reason of this mutualsecrecy? As women often do, Hermione had leaped into the very coreof the heart of the truth, had leaped out of the void, guided by somestrange instinct never alive in man. But, as women very seldom do, sheshrank away from the place she had gained. Instead of triumphing, shewas 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 sheaccused it of playing her false once more, of running wild. Sharply shepulled herself up. She was assuming things. That was her great fault, toassume that things were that which perhaps they were not. 

How often Emile had told her not to trust her imagination! She wouldheed him now. She knew nothing. She did not even know for certain thatVere's flush, Vere's abrupt hesitation at lunch, were a betrayal of thechild's secret. 

But that she would find out. 

Again the fierce curiosity besieged and took possession of her. Afterall, she was a mother. A mother had rights. Surely she had a right toknow 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 hadnot done it. She had felt that to do it would be a humiliation. But nowshe was resolved to do it, for she knew more of her own condition andwas more afraid of herself. She began to feel like one who has undergonea prolonged strain of work, who believes that it has not been too greatand has been capably supported, and who suddenly is aware of ayielding, of a downward and outward movement, like a wide and spreadingdisintegration, in which brain, nerves, the whole body are involved. 

Yet what had been the strain that she had been supporting, that nowsuddenly she began to feel too much? The strain of a loss. Time shouldhave eased it. But had Time eased it, or only lengthened the periodduring which she had been forced to carry her load? People ought toget accustomed to things. She knew that it is supposed by many that thehuman body, the human mind, the human heart can get accustomed--by whichis apparently meant can cease passionately and instinctively to striveto repel--can get accustomed to anything. Well she could not. Nevercould she get accustomed to the loss of love, of man's love. The wholeworld might proclaim its proverbs. For her they had no truth. Forher--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 eversuspected. 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 assomething terrible, nameless. 

She must ask Vere, do what she had said to herself that she would notdo. Unless she had the complete confidence of her child she could notcontinue to do without the cherishing love she had lost. She saw herselfa cripple, something maimed. Hitherto she had been supported by blessedhuman crutches: by Vere, Emile, Gaspare. How heavily she had leaned uponthem! She knew that now. How heavily she must still lean if she were tocontinue on her way. And a fierce, an almost savage something, desperateand 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. Butshe had had the wonderful thing. She had held for a brief time the magicof the world within the hollow of her hands, within the shadow of herheart. And the others? Children slip from their parents' lives into thearms of another whose call means more to them than the voices of thosewho made them love. Friends drift away, scarcely knowing why, dividedfrom each other by the innumerable channels that branch from the mainstream of existence. Even a faithful servant cannot be more than afriend. 

There is one thing that is great, whose greatness makes the smallnessof 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 factof her whole nature recognizing that little's enormous value to her. Notfor a moment did she underrate her possession. Indeed, she had to fightagainst the tendency to exaggeration. Her intellect said to her that, in being so deeply moved by such a thing as the concealment from her byVere of something innocent of which Emile knew, she was making a waterdrop into an ocean. Her intellect said that. But her heart said no. 

And the voice of her intellect sank away like the frailest echo thatever raised its spectral imitation of a reality. And the voice of herheart 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 intothe sunshine. 

Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and he was smoking acigarette. He was dressed in white linen, without a coat, and had awhite linen hat on his head. He stood near the house, apparently lookingout to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione watched him. The sightof him reminded her of another question she wished to ask. 

Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white trousers. With the otherhe held the cigarette. Hermione saw the wreaths of pale smoke curlingup and evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemed full ofjoyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand forgot to do its work. Thecigarette, only half smoked, went out, and he stood there as if plungedin 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 doggedlook 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 thosefew she cared for, out of mystery into a clear light. She had a desireto 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 thevillage 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 tramor 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 sometime--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, andslowly, with a good deal of hesitation and thought, she wrote part of aletter 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 theMarchesino there. Yet she was going to ask them to meet each other. Shehad 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 trapfor a friend. So she wrote on, asking Emile to let her know the night hewould 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 therecollection of our dulness from his mind. Gaspare will bring me youranswer. "

At the bottom she wrote "Hermione. " But just as she was going to sealthe letter in its envelope she took it out, and added, "Delarey" to herChristian name. 

"Hermione Delarey. " She looked at the words for a long time before sherang the bell for Gaspare. 

When she gave him the letter, "Are you going by Mergellina?" she askedhim. 

"Si, Signora. "

He stood beside her for a moment; then, as she said nothing more, turnedto 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, andit 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 aman of strong character sometimes looks when he wishes to turn his eyesaway from the glance of another, but will not, because of his manhood. 

Hermione hesitated to go on, but something drove her to be moreexplicit. 

"Have you never noticed in Ruffo a likeness to--to your Padrone?" shesaid, slowly. 

"My Padrone!"

Gaspare's great eyes dropped before hers, and he stood looking on thefloor. 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 withhim. Had he noticed this strange, this subtle resemblance between thefisher-boy and the dead man at once, long before she had? Had he beenswifter 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 doorshut 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 wasdust? She thought of Vere and Ruffo standing together, so youthful, sohappy in their simple, casual intercourse. 

It was as if Vere had been mysteriously drawn to this boy because of hisresemblance to the father she had never seen. 

Vere! Little Vere!

Again the mother's tenderness welled up in Hermione's heart, this timesweeping 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 thistime 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. Themosquito-net was drawn round the bed, but Hermione saw that her childwas not behind it. Vere had gone out somewhere. 

The mother went to the big window which looked out upon the sea. Thegreen Venetian blind was drawn. She pushed up one of its flaps and bentto look through. Below, a little way out on the calm water, she sawVere's boat rocking softly in obedience to the small movement that isnever absent from the sea. The white awning was stretched above thestern-seats, and under it lay Vere in her white linen dress, her smallhead, not protected by a hat, supported by a cushion. She lay quitestill, 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 bythe tempered fires of the sun! How much of power to lift up and tocast 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 thechild. 

"Now it's the child's turn. "

Surely Vere must be asleep. Such absolute stillness must mean temporarywithdrawal of consciousness. 

Just as Hermione was thinking this, Vere's left hand moved. The girllifted it up to her face, and gently and repeatedly rubbed her eyebrow. 

Hermione dropped the flap of the blind. The little, oddly naturalmovement had suddenly made her feel that it was not right to be watchingVere when the child must suppose herself to be unobserved and quitealone with the sea. 

As she came away from the window she glanced quickly round the room, andupon a small writing-table at the foot of the bed she saw a number ofsheets of paper lying loose, with a piece of ribbon beside them. Theyhad evidently been taken out of the writing-table drawer, which waspartially open, and which, as Hermione could see, contained other sheetsof a similar kind. Hermione looked, and then looked away. She passed thetable and reached the door. When she was there she glanced again atthe sheets of paper. They were covered with writing. They drew, theyfascinated her eyes, and she stood still, with her hand resting on thedoor-handle. As a rule it would have seemed perfectly natural to her toread anything that Vere had left lying about, either in her own room oranywhere else. Until just lately her child had never had, or dreamed ofhaving any secret from her. Never had Vere received a letter that hermother 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 andheld the mother's eyes. 

She had, of course, a perfect right to read them. Or had she--shewho had said to Vere, "Keep your secrets"? In those words had shenot deliberately relinquished such a right? She stood there thinking, recalling those words, debating within herself this question--and surelywith 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 wascertain, absolutely certain. She remembered the long-ago days, whenshe had submitted to him similar sheets. What Emile had read surelyshe might read. Again that intense and bitter curiosity mingled withsomething else, a strange, new jealousy in which it was rooted. She feltas if Vere, this child whom she had loved and cared for, had done hera cruel wrong, had barred her out from the life in which she had alwaysbeen till now the best loved, the most absolutely trusted dweller. Whyshould she not take that which she ought to have been given?

Again she was conscious of that painful, that piteous sensation of onewho is yielding under a strain that has been too prolonged. Somethingsurely collapsed within her, something of the part of her being that wasmoral. 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, handledit, held it close to her eyes. 

Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every one begins by being apoet. Hermione smiled, almost laughed aloud. Poor little Vere with herpoor little secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother, thatsense of wrong. But she read on and on. And presently she started andher hand shook. 

She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's handwriting, and onthe 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 readingfor a moment, and she laid the paper down. She felt like one who hassuddenly unmasked a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for herintellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaimed it. 

Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in vain for her to wasteher 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--todo 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 mindthat day returned to Hermione. There is one thing that sometimes blindsthe most clear-sighted men, so that they cannot perceive truth. 

But--Hermione again bent over the sheets of paper, this time seeking fora weapon against the idea which assailed her. On several pages she foundemendations, excisions, on one a whole verse completely changed. And onthe margins were pencilled "Monsieur Emile's suggestion"; "Monsieur E. 'sadvice"; and once, "These two lines invented by Monsieur Emile. "

When had Vere and Emile had the opportunity for this long and secretdiscussion? On the day of the storm they had been together alone. Theyhad had tea together alone. And on the night Emile dined on the islandthey had been out in the boat together for a long time. All this musthave been talked over then. 

Yes. 

She read on. Had Vere talent? Did her child possess what she had longedfor, and had been denied? She strove to read critically, but she wastoo excited, too moved to do so. All necessary calm was gone. She waspainfully upset. The words moved before her eyes, running upward inirregular lines that resembled creeping things, and she saw rings oflight, yellow in the middle and edged with pale blue. 

She pushed away the sheets of paper, got up and went again to thewindow. She must look at Vere once more, look at her with this newknowledge, look at her critically, with a piercing scrutiny. And shebent 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 tomake 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 hermother had been doing. 

Hermione did not hesitate. She crossed the room swiftly, opened thedoor, and went out. She reached her own room without meeting Vere. Butshe had not been in it for more than a minute and a half when she heardVere come up-stairs, the sound of her door open and shut. 

Hermione cleared her throat. She felt the need of doing somethingphysical. Then she pulled up her blinds and let the hot sun stream inupon 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. Shemust have light around her, although there was none within her. 

She was thankful she had escaped in time. If she had not, if Vere hadrun into the room and found her there, she was sure she would havefrightened her child by some strange outburst. She would have said ordone something--she did not at all know what--that would perhaps havealtered their relations irrevocably. For, in that moment, the sense ofself-control, of being herself--so she put it--had been withdrawn fromher. 

She would regain it, no doubt. She was even now regaining it. Alreadyshe was able to say to herself that she was not seeing things in theirtrue proportions, that some sudden crisis of the nerves, due perhaps tosome purely physical cause, had plunged her into a folly of feeling fromwhich she would soon escape entirely. She was by nature emotional andunguarded: therefore specially likely to be the victim in mind of anybodily ill. 

And then she was not accustomed to be unwell. Her strength of body wasremarkable. Very seldom had she felt weak. 

She remembered one night, long ago in Sicily, when an awful bodilyweakness had overtaken her. But that had been caused by dread. The mindhad reacted upon the body. Now, she was sure of it, body had reacted onmind. 

Yet she had not been ill. 

She felt unequal to the battle of pros and cons that was raging withinher. 

"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. Thenshe laid the book down and looked at the clock. It was nearly four. Teawould 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 bedone? She found herself wondering for the first time how she had managedto "get through" week after week there. And in a moment her wonder madeher realize the inward change in her, the distance that now divided herfrom Vere, the gulf that lay between them. 

A day with a stranger may seem long, but a month with a friend howshort! 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 weretogether?

When Hermione contemplated that reunion, she felt that it would beto her intolerable. And yet she desired it. For she wanted to knowsomething, and she was certain that if she, Vere, and Emile could betogether, without any fourth person, she would know it. 

A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing action, she hadresolved to ask Emile to meet the Marchesino. She had felt as if thatmeeting would clear the air, would drive out the faint mystery whichseemed to be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly friends, were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted to restore things totheir former footing, or to make the enmity come out into the open, tounderstand it thoroughly, and to know if she and Vere had any part init. Her desire had been to throw open windows and let in light. 

But now things were changed. She understood, she knew more. And shewanted to be alone with Emile and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she wouldunderstand everything. 

She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was changed. The firehad died down in her, and she felt almost sluggish, although stillrestless. The monstrous idea had come to her again. She did notvehemently repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. But nowshe meant to be a watcher. Before she took up her book and began to readshe had been, perhaps, almost hysterical, had been plunged in a welterof 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 theknowledge she had gained in her child's room that day suggested as apossibility. 

She regretted her note to Emile. Why had not she asked him to comealone, 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, andobtained 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 Gasparewalked in, with a large-eyed inquiring look. 

"Good-day, Gaspare. You've never seen my quarters before, I think, " saidArtois, 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, whileGaspare went out on to the balcony and stood looking at the bathers whowere diving from the high wooden platform of the bath establishment overthe way. When Artois had finished writing he joined Gaspare. He had agreat wish that day to break down a reserve he had respected formany years, but he knew Gaspare's determined character, his power ofobstinate, of dogged silence. Gaspare's will had been strong when hewas a boy. The passing of the years had certainly not weakened it. Nevertheless, Artois was moved to make the attempt which he foresawwould 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 stoodlooking at Artois, holding the cigar in his left hand. In all theseyears Artois had never found out whether Gaspare liked him or not. Hewished now that he knew. 

"Gaspare, " he said, "I think you know that I have a great regard foryour 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 anyfresh trouble should come into her life. "

Gaspare's eyes were always fixed steadily upon Artois, who, as he spokethe last words, fancied he saw come into them an expression that wasalmost 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 youcould. 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. ApparentlyGaspare had no thought in common with the strange, the perhaps fantasticthought that had been in his own mind. 

"Here--no!" he said, with a smile. "Only you and I are here, and weshall 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, forinstance. "

"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 spokevery gravely--"I respect you for your discretion of many years. But ifyou know of any trouble, any danger that is near to the Signora, andagainst which I could help you to protect her, I hope you will trust meand 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 tothe island who might make the Signora very unhappy?"

Gaspare had dropped his eyes. Now he lifted them, and looked Artoisstraight 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 blockedthe way. But why? Surely they were at cross purposes. The working ofGaspare'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 theSignora 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 theisland and my Padrona loves the Signorina. "

"But the Signorina would not be selfish. If it was best for her motherto go--"

"The Signorina would not think it was best; she would never think it wasbest to leave the island. "

"But what I want to know, Gaspare, is whether you think it would bebest for them to leave the island. That's what I want to know--and youhaven'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 nobodycould 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 Artoisbelieved that he caught an echo of a deep-down thought of his own. Withall his virtues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit of the East thatdwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, brooding over a naturehowever fine, prevents action, a spirit that says to a man, "This isordained. This is destiny. This is to be. "

"Gaspare, " Artois said, strong in this conviction, "I have heard yousay, 'e il destino. ' But you know we can often get away from things ifwe 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 herlife. We must keep out any more. "

"Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare my Padrona. Thank youfor the cigar, Signore. I ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellinafor the boat. "

"To Mergellina?"

Again Artois looked at him searchingly. 

"Si, Signore; I left the boat at Mergellina. It is very hot to row allthe way here. "

"Yes. A rivederci, Gaspare. Perhaps I shall sail round to the islandto-night after dinner. But I'm not sure. So you need not say I amcoming. "

"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 attitudetowards him that day. Till now their mutual reserve had surely linkedthem together. Then silence had been a bond. But there was a change, andthe bond seemed suddenly loosened. 

"Damn the difference between the nations!" Artois thought. "How can wegrasp the different points of view? How can even the cleverest of usread 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. Butthis anger roused him, and he resolved to do something from which tillnow he had instinctively shrunk, strong-willed man though he was. If Gaspare would not help him he would act for himself. Possibly thesuspicion, the fear that beset him was groundless. He had put itaway from him more than once, had said that it was absurd, that hisprofession of an imaginative writer rendered him, perhaps, more liableto strange fancies than were other men, that it encouraged him toseek instinctively for drama, and that what a man instinctively andperpetually seeks he will often imagine that he has found. Now he wouldtry to prove what was the truth. 

He had written to Hermione saying that he would be glad to dine with heron any evening that suited the Marchesino, that he had no engagements. Why she wished him to meet the Marchesino he did not know. No doubtshe had some woman's reason. The one she gave was hardly enough, andhe divined another beneath it. Certainly he did not love Doro on theisland, but perhaps it was as well that they should meet there once, andget over their little antagonism, an antagonism that Artois thought ofas almost childish. Life was not long enough for quarrels with boys likeDoro. Artois had refused Hermione's invitation on the sea abruptly. Hehad felt irritated for the moment, because he had for the moment beenunusually expansive, and her announcement that Doro was to be there hadfallen upon him like a cold douche. And then he had been nervous, highlystrung from overwork. Now he was calm, and could look at things asthey were. And if he noticed anything leading him to suppose that theMarchesino was likely to try to abuse Hermione's hospitality he meantto have it out with him. He would speak plainly and explain the Englishpoint of view. Doro would no doubt attack him on the ground of hisinterview with Maria Fortunata. He did not care. Somehow his presentpreoccupation with Hermione's fate, increased by the visit of Gaspare, rendered his irritation against the Marchesino less keen than it hadbeen. But he thought he would probably visit the island to-night--afteranother visit which he intended to pay. He could not start at once. Hemust give Gaspare time to take the boat and row off. For his first visitwas to Mergellina. 

After waiting an hour he started on foot, keeping along by the sea, ashe did not wish to meet acquaintances, and was likely to meet them inthe Villa. As he drew near to Mergellina he felt a great and growingreluctance to do what he had come to do, to make inquiries into acertain matter; and he believed that this reluctance, awake within himalthough perhaps he had scarcely been aware of it, had kept him inactiveduring many days. Yet he was not sure of this. He was not sure when afaint suspicion had first been born in his mind. Even now he said tohimself that what he meant to do, if explained to the ordinary man, would probably seem to him ridiculous, that the ordinary man wouldsay, "What a wild idea! Your imagination runs riot. " But he thought ofcertain subtle things which had seemed like indications, like shadowypointing fingers; of a look in Gaspare's eyes when they had met his--ahard, defiant look that seemed shutting him out from something; of alook in another face one night under the moon; of some words spoken ina cave with a passion that had reached his heart; of two childrenstrangely at ease in each other's society. And again the thought prickedhim, "Is not everything possible--even that?" All through his life hehad sought truth with persistence, sometimes almost with cruelty, yetnow he was conscious of timidity, almost of cowardice--as if he fearedto seek it. 

Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in Sicily. Then hehad been afraid, not for himself but for another. To-day again theprotective instinct was alive in him. It was that instinct which madehim afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to his firstintention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. No safety can be inignorance for a strong man. He must know. Then he can act. 

When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for Ruffo, but he couldnot see the boy. He had never inquired Ruffo's second name. He mightmake a guess at it. Should he? He looked at a group of fishermen whowere talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. One of themhad a handsome face bronzed by the sun, frank hazel eyes, a mouth oddlysensitive for one of his class. His woolen shirt, wide open, showed amedal resting on his broad chest, one of those amulets that are said toprotect the fishermen from the dangers of the sea. Artois resolved toask 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 wasbecause 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 thewall. 

"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 ofsurprise. "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 cantell 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 inSicily?"

"I have met with the name there once. But perhaps you can tell me of aboy, one of the fishermen, called Ruffo?"

"Ruffo Scarla? You mean Ruffo Scarla, who fishes with Giuseppe--MandanoGiuseppe, 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 inSicily, and was born in America. "

"That's the boy. "

"Do you want him, Signore? But he is not here to-day. He is at seato-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 intoone. "

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

"Diavolo! He is jealous. He has not been tried yet, perhaps he neverwill 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, myown 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 hereI 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 begantalking eagerly to them, and pointing after the stranger. 

Artois did not know what he would do later on in the evening, but hehad decided on the immediate future. He would walk up the hill to thevillage of Posilipo, then turn down to the left, past the entrance tothe Villa Rosebery, and go to the Antico Giuseppone, where he coulddine by the waterside. It was quiet there, he knew; and he could have acutlet and a zampaglione, a cup of coffee and a cigar, and sit and watchthe night fall. And when it had fallen? Well, he would not be far fromthe island, nor very far from Naples, and he could decide then what todo. 

He followed out this plan, and arrived at the Giuseppone at evening. Ashe came down the road between the big buildings near the waterside hesaw in the distance a small group of boys and men lounging by the threeor four boats that lie at the quay, and feared to find, perhaps, abustle and noise of people round the corner at the ristorante. But whenhe turned the corner and came to the little tables that were set outin the open air, he was glad to see only two men who were bending overtheir plates of fish soup. He glanced at them, almost without noticingthem, so preoccupied was he with his thoughts, sat down at an adjoiningtable and ordered his simple meal. While it was being got ready helooked out over the sea. 

The two men near him conversed occasionally in low voices. He paid noheed to them. Only when he had dined slowly and was sipping his blackcoffee did they attract his attention. He heard one of them say to theother in French:

"What am I to do? It would be terrible for me! How am I to prevent itfrom 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. "Theyseek, 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 thegrains of the sand-storm. They lift up their voices to be heard by thewind from the South. They stretch forth their hands to gather the mirageinto 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, andone they snatch at, and one they would refuse. And they are afraidstill more of the door that all must enter, Sultan and Nomad--he who haswashed himself and made the threefold pilgrimage, and he who is a leperand is eaten by flies. So it is. And nevertheless all that is to comemust come, and all that is to go must go at the time appointed; just asthe cloud falls and lifts at the time appointed, and the wind blows andfails, and Ramadan is here and is over. "

As he ceased from speaking he got up from his chair, and, followed bythe young Frenchman, he passed in front of Artois, went down to thewaterside, stepped into a boat, and was rowed away into the gatheringshadows of night. 

Artois sat very still for a time. Then he, too, got into a boat and wasrowed 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 upquickly, 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 wego to her?"

He was struck by her nervous uneasiness. And he thought of the words ofthe old Oriental, which had made upon him a profound impression, perhapsbecause they had seemed spoken, not to the young Frenchman, but inanswer 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 whileabout trifling things. And then Artois was moved to tell her of theconversation he had that evening overheard, to repeat to her, almostword for word, what the old Oriental had said. When he had finishedHermione was silent for a minute. Then she moved her chair and said, inan unsteady voice:

"I don't think I should ever learn the lesson of the desert. Perhapsonly 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 thefront 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 ofMergellina. 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, thatperson. Simply, and very naturally, it just gave to the night a verysimple and a very natural song. 

As Artois listened he felt as if he learned what he had not been ableto learn that day at Mergellina. Strange as this thing was--if indeedit was--he felt that it must be, that it was ordained to be, it andall that might follow from it. He even felt almost that Hermione mustalready know it, have divined it, as if, therefore, any effort to hideit from her must be fruitless, or even contemptible, as if indeed alleffort 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 thosechildren should not be disturbed. Hermione hesitated for a moment. Thenshe 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 stillnight. 

CHAPTER XXIV

Her unrest was greater than ever, and the desire that consumed herremained ungratified, although Emile had come to the island as if inobedience to her fierce mental summons. But she had not seen him evenfor a moment with Vere. Why had she let him go? When would he comeagain? She might ask him to come for a long day, or she might get Vereto ask him. 

Vere must surely be longing to have a talk with her secret mentor, withher admirer and inspirer. And then Hermione remembered how often she hadencouraged Emile, how they had discussed his work together, how he hadclaimed her sympathy in difficult moments, how by her enthusiasm shehad even inspired him--so at least he had told her. And now he wasfulfilling in her child's life an office akin to hers in his life. 

The knowledge made her feel desolate, driven out. Yes, she felt asif this secret shared by child and friend had expelled her from theirlives. 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. Shedid not issue from the loins of the immutable East. And yet how muchbetter it was to be resigned, to sit enthroned above the chances oflife, to have conquered fate by absolute submission to its decrees!

Why was her heart so youthful in her middle-aged body? Why did it stillinstinctively clamor for sympathy, like a child's? Why could she be soeasily and so cruelly wounded? It was weak. It was contemptible. Shehated herself. But she could only be the thing she at that moment hated. 

Her surreptitious act of the afternoon seemed to have altered herirrevocably, to have twisted her out of shape--yet she could not wish itundone, the knowledge gained by it withheld. She had needed to know whatEmile 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 revealthe secret. She would never know that now. But there were other thingsthat she felt she must know: why Vere had never told her--and somethingelse. 

Her act of that day had twisted her out of shape. She was awry, and shefelt that she must continue to be as she was, that her fearless honestywas no longer needed by her, could no longer rightly serve her in thenew circumstances that others had created for her. They had been secret. She could not be open. She was constrained to watch, to conceal--to beawry, in fact. 

Yet she felt guilty even while she said this to herself, guilty andashamed, and then doubtful. She doubted her new capacity to be furtive. She could watch, but she did not know whether she could watch withoutshowing what she was doing. And Emile was terribly observant. 

This thought, of his subtlety and her desire to conceal, made hersuddenly realize their altered relations with a vividness thatfrightened her. Where was the beautiful friendship that had been thecomfort, the prop of her bereaved life? It seemed already to have sunkaway into the past. She wondered what was in store for her, if therewere new sorrows being forged for her in the cruel smithy of the greatRuler, sorrows that would hang like chains about her till she could gono farther. The Egyptian had said: "What is to come will come, and whatis to go will go, at the time appointed. " And Vere had said she feltas if perhaps there was a cross that must be borne by some one on theisland, by "one of us. " Was she, Hermione, picked out to bear thatcross? Surely God mistook the measure of her strength. If He had Hewould soon know how feeble she was. When Maurice had died, somehow shehad 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 ifsuffering, instead of strengthening, had weakened her character, as ifshe had not much "fight" left in her. 

"I don't believe I could endure another great sorrow, " she said toherself. "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 coolskin suddenly made her long to sob, and to say many things. She took herlips 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 somethingso transparently natural, so transparently innocent and girlish in herdisappointment, 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 therehaving a little talk with Ruffo. "

"I know. "

"And you never called me, Madre!" Vere looked openly hurt. "Why didn'tyou?"

In truth, Hermione hardly knew. Surely it had been Emile who had ledthem 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 hesings 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 madeus go. He didn't want to disturb you, I think. "

"I understand. "

Vere's face softened. Again Hermione felt a creeping jealousy at herheart. Vere had surely been annoyed with her, but now she knew that itwas Emile who had not wished to disturb the _tete-a-tete_ on the cliffshe did not mind. She even looked as if she were almost touched. Couldthe mother be wrong where the mere friend was right? She felt, when Verespoke and her expression changed, the secret understanding from whichshe 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 interruptedher by saying:

"We must get Emile to come for a long day. I wish you would write hima note to-morrow morning, Vere. Write for me and ask him to come onThursday. I have a lot to do in the morning. Will you save me thetrouble?" She tried to speak, carelessly. "I've a long letter to send toEvelyn Townley, " she added. 

"Of course, Madre. And I'll tell Monsieur Emile all I think of him forneglecting 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 readhis 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 tounderstand. "

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. Itseems almost ridiculous to know him so well, and not to know him reallyat 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 sheonly 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 didnot 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 otherday 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 athing that was mean, or at least she had done a thing from a mean, adespicable motive. She knew it as the door shut behind her child, andshe was frightened of herself. Never before had she been governed byso contemptible a feeling as that which had just prompted her. If Emileever knew, or even suspected what it was, she felt that she could neverlook into his face again with clear, unfaltering eyes. What madness wasupon her? What change was working within her? Repulsion came, and withit the desire to combat at once, strongly, the new, the hateful selfwhich had frightened her. 

She hastened after Vere, and in a moment was knocking at the child'sdoor. 

"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, certainlynot 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 suddenlyshrivel within her, and a bitter jealousy take its place. Vere came tothe 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 tellher about the poems, but without asking. She felt as if she could notcontinue in her present condition, excluded from Vere's confidence. Yetshe 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 everlike 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 wantedto be alone, to go on with her secret occupation. She came back slowlyto her mother, who was sitting on a chair by the bedside. Hermione tookher hand, and Vere pushed up the edge of the mosquito-curtain and satdown 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 yousad, 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 conceptionof 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 hadcome in which, perhaps, she could force the telling of that truth whichalready she knew. 

"I suppose so, Vere; but we need not surely keep any side hidden fromthose 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 onewe 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, evenspeaking of it without mentioning it. But whereas she knew that Verewas doing so, Vere could not know that she was. So Vere was at adisadvantage. Vere's last words had opened the mother's eyes. What shehad guessed was true. This secret of the poems was kept from her becauseof her own attempt to create and its failure. Abruptly she wondered ifVere and Emile had ever talked that failure over. At the mere thought ofsuch 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 itnow. Around her mother there was an atmosphere of uneasiness in whichshe felt herself involved. And she was vaguely conscious of the newdistance between them, a distance daily growing wider. Now and then, lately, she had felt almost uncomfortable with her mother, in thesitting-room when she was saying good-night, and just now when she saton the bed. Youth is terribly quick to feel hostility, however subtle. The thought that her mother could be hostile to her had neverentered Vere's head. Nevertheless, the mother's faint and creepinghostility--for at times Hermione's feeling was really that, thought shewould doubtless have denied it even to herself--disagreeably affectedthe child. 

"What can be the matter with Madre?" she thought. 

She went over to the writing-table, where she had hastily shut up herpoems on hearing the knock at the door, but she did not take them outagain. Instead she sat down and wrote the note to Monsieur Emile. Asshe wrote the sense of mystery, of uneasiness, departed from her, chasedaway, perhaps, by the memory of Monsieur Emile's kindness to her andwarm encouragement, by the thought of having a long talk with him again, of showing him certain corrections and developments carried out by hersince she had seen him. The sympathy of the big man meant a great dealto her, more even than he was aware of. It lifted up her eager youngheart. It sent the blood coursing through her veins with a new andardent strength. Hermione's enthusiasm had been inherited by Vere, andwith it something else that gave it a peculiar vitality, a power oflasting--the secret consciousness of talent. 

Now, as she wrote her letter, she forgot all her uneasiness, and her penflew. 

At last she sighed her name--"Vere. "

She was just going to put the letter into its envelope when somethingstruck 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 bynature more fatalistic than Hermione, and moreover he knew what she didnot. Long ago he had striven against a fate. With the help of Gasparehe had conquered it--or so he had believed till now. But now he askedhimself whether he had not only delayed its coming. If his suspicionwere well founded, --and since his last visit to the island he felt as ifit must be, --then surely all he had done with Gaspare would be in vainat the last. 

If his suspicion were well founded, then certain things are ordained. They have to happen for some reason, known only to the hiddenIntelligence that fashions each man's character, that develops it in joyor grief, that makes it glad with feasting, or forces it to feed uponthe bread of tears. 

Did Gaspare know? If the truth were what Artois suspected, and Gasparedid 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 believedthat for his beloved Padrona he would fight to the death. He, Artois, would leave this fight against destiny to the Sicilian. For him theOriental's philosophy; for him resignation to the inevitable, whateverit might be. 

He said to himself that to do more than he had already done to ward offthe assaults of truth would be impious. Perhaps he ought never to havedone anything. Perhaps it would have been far better to have let thewave sweep over Hermione long ago. Perhaps even in that fight of histhere had been secret selfishness, the desire that she should notknow how by his cry from Africa her happy life had been destroyed. Andperhaps he was to be punished some day for that. 

He did not know. But he felt, after all these years, that if to thathermitage of the sea Fate had really found the way he must let thingstake their course. And it seemed to him as if the old Oriental had beenmysteriously appointed to come near him just at that moment, to make himfeel that this was so. The Oriental had been like a messenger sent tohim out of that East which he loved, which he had studied, but fromwhich, perhaps, he had not learned enough. 

Vere's letter came. He read it with eagerness and pleasure till he cameto the postscript. But that startled him. He knew that Vere had neverread his books. He thought her far too young to read them. Till latelyhe had almost a contempt for those who write with one eye on "la jeunefille. " Now he could conceive writing with a new pleasure something thatVere might read. But those books of his! Why had Hermione suddenly giventhat permission? He remembered Peppina. Vere must have told her motherof the scene with Peppina, and how her eyes had been opened to certaintruths of life, how she had passed from girlhood to womanhood throughthat gate of knowledge. And Hermione must have thought that it wasuseless 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 andreluctance. That little home in the sea, washed by blue waters, rootedby blue skies, sun-kissed and star-kissed by day and night, drew andrepelled him. There was the graciousness of youth there, of youth andpromise; but there was tragedy there, too, in the heart of Hermione, andin Peppina, typified by the cross upon her cheek. And does not like drawlike?

For a moment he saw the little island with a great cloud above it. Butwhen he landed and met Vere he felt the summer, and knew that the skywas clear. 

Hermione was not on the island, Vere told him. She had left manyapologies, and would be home for lunch. She had had to go in to Naplesto see the dentist. A tooth had troubled her in the night. She had goneby tram. As Vere explained Artois had a moment of surprise, a moment ofsuspicion--even of vexation. But it passed when Vere said:

"I'm afraid poor Madre suffered a great deal. She looked dreadful thismorning, as if she hadn't slept all night. "

"Poveretta!" said Artois. 

He looked earnestly at Vere. This was the first time they had met sincethe revelation of Peppina. What the Marchesino had seen Artois saw moreplainly, felt more strongly than the young Neapolitan had felt. But helooked at Vere, too, in search of something else, thinking of Ruffo, trying to probe into the depth of human mysteries, to find the secretspring 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 rousedme 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 cometo 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 bya mutual instinct, turned towards the seat that faced Ischia, clearto-day, yet romantic with the mystery of heat. When they had sat downVere added:

"And besides, of course, I know that it is Madre who encourages you whenyou are depressed about your work. I have heard you say so often. "

"Your mother has done a great deal for me, " said Artois, seriously--"farmore than she will ever know. "

There was a sound of deep, surely of eternal feeling in his voice, whichsuddenly touched the girl to the quick. 

"I like to hear you say that--like that, " she said, softly. "I thinkMadre does a great deal for us all. "

If Hermione could have heard them her torn heart might perhaps haveceased to bleed. It had been difficult for her to do what she haddone--to leave the island that morning. She had done it to disciplineher 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 shehad lain awake feeling this new and terrible emanation from her soul, conscious of this monster that lifted up its head and thrust it forthout of the darkness. 

But one merit she had. She was frank with herself. She named the monsterbefore she strove to fight it, to beat it back into the darkness fromwhich it was emerging. 

She was jealous, doubly jealous. The monopolizing instinct ofstrong-natured and deeply affectionate women was fiercely alive in her. Always, no doubt, she had had it. Long ago, when first she was in Sicilyalone, 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 isolationof Monte Amato. And when that love was taken from her, and her childcame and was at the age of blossom, she had brought her child to thisisle, this hermitage of the sea. Emile, too, her one great friend, shehad never wished to share him. She had never cared much to meet him insociety. Her instinct was to have him to herself, to be with him alonein 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 fortheir friends, with other women: those many women who are born thieves, who are never happy unless they are taking from their sisters thepossessions those sisters care for most. Hermione could never havefought with other women for the love or the friendship of a man. Herinstinct, perhaps, was to carry her treasure out of all danger into thewilderness. 

Two treasures she had--Vere her child, Emile her friend. And now shewas jealous of each with the other. And the enormous difference in theirages made her jealousy seem the more degrading. Nevertheless, she couldnot feel that it was unnatural. By a mutual act they had excluded herfrom their lives, had withdrawn from her their confidence while givingit to each other. And their reason for doing this--she was sure of itnow--was her own failure to do something in the world of art. 

She was jealous of Vere because of that confidence given to Emile, andof Emile because of his secret advice and help to Vere--advice and helpwhich he had not given to the mother, because he had plainly seen thatto do so would be useless. 

And when she remembered this Hermione was jealous, too, of the talentVere must have, a talent she had longed for, but which had been deniedto her. For even if Emile... And then again came the most hatefulsuspicion of all--but Emile could not lie about the things of art. 

Had they spoken together of her failure? Again and again she askedherself the question. They must have spoken. They had spoken. She couldalmost hear their words--words of regret or of pity. "We must not hurther. We must keep it from her. We must temper the wind to the shornlamb. " The elderly man and the child had read together the tragedy ofher failure. To the extremes of life, youth and age, she had appeared anobject 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 hislove swept over her again, and she felt that he was the only person whohad been able to love her really, and that now he was gone there was noone. 

At that moment she forgot Gaspare. Her sense of being abandoned, and ofbeing humiliated, swept out many things from her memory. Only Mauricehad loved her really. Only he had set her on high, where even thehumblest woman longs to be set by some one. Only he had thought herbetter, 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 towithdraw the little power that there is. 

Hermione, feeling in this humiliation of the imagination that shewas less than nothing, clung desperately to the memory of him whohad thought her much. The dividing years were gone. With a strange, abeautiful and terrible freshness, the days of her love came back. Shesaw Maurice's eyes looking at her with that simple, almost reverentadmiration which she had smiled at and adored. 

And she gripped her memory. She clung to it feverishly as she had neverclung to it before. She told herself that she would live in it as in ahouse of shelter. For there was the desolate wind outside. 

And she thought much of Ruffo, and with a strange desire--to be withhim, to search for the look she loved in him. For a moment with himshe had seemed to see her Mercury in the flesh. She must watch for hisreturn. 

When the morning came she began her fight. She made her excuse, and leftthe morning free for Emile to be with Vere. 

Two dreary hours she spent in Naples. The buzzing city affected herlike a nightmare. Coming back through Mergellina, she eagerly lookedfor Ruffo. But she did not see him. Nor had she seen him in the earlymorning, when she passed by the harbor where the yachts were lying inthe sun. 

Gaspare came with the boat to take her over from the nearest village tothe 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 theboat 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 secretjealousy? She felt as if she were made of glass. But she returned hisgaze 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 almostsulky. 

"May I not look at you, Signora?" he asked, rather defiantly. "Have Ithe evil eye?"

"No--no, Gaspare! Only--only you looked at me as if something were thematter. Do I look ill?"

She asked the question with a forced lightness, with a smile. Heanswered, bluntly:

"Si, Signora. You look very ill. "

She put up her hand to her face instinctively, as if to feel whether hiswords 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 shefound 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 wehad better go away from here. "

He spoke slowly, and with something less than his usual firmness, as ifin his mind there was uncertainty, some indecision or some conflict ofdesires. 

"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 theidea of leaving the island. "

"The Signorina is not every one, " he returned. 

Habitually blunt as Gaspare was, Hermione had never before heard himspeak of Vere like this, not with the least impertinence, but with acertain roughness. To-day it did not hurt her. Nor, indeed, could itever have hurt her, coming from some one so proven as Gaspare. Butto-day it even warmed her, for it made her feel that some one wasthinking exclusively of her--was putting her first. She longed for someexpression of affection from some one. She felt that she was starvingfor 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 elsewanted?"

"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 usleave it. Let us go away. "

"Well, but I have never said I wished to go. I am--" she paused. "I havebeen very contented to be here. "

"Va bene, Signora. "

When they reached the island Hermione felt nervous--almost as if shewere to meet strangers who were critical, who would appraise her andbe ready to despise her. She told herself that she was mad to feel likethat; but when she thought of Emile and Vere talking of her failure--oftheir secret combined action to keep from her the knowledge of theeffort of the child--that seemed just then to her a successful rivalryconcealed--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 areon 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 thatof a boy. 

She hurried after him and went into the house. After what he had said inthe boat she wished to look at herself in the glass, to see if there wasanything strange or painful, anything that might rouse surprise, in herappearance. She gained her bedroom, and went at once to the mirror. 

Hermione was not by nature at all a self-conscious woman. She knew thatshe was plain, and had sometimes, very simply, regretted it. But she didnot generally think about her appearance, and very seldom now wonderedwhat others were thinking of it. When Maurice had been with her she hadoften indeed secretly compared her ugliness with his beauty. But a greatlove 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 keenfeminine anxiety, any tremor of fear, or any cruel self-criticism. Butnow she stood for a long time before the glass, quite still, looking ather reflection with wide, almost with staring, eyes. 

It was true what Gaspare said. She saw that she was looking ill, verydifferent from her usual strong self. There was not a thread of whitein her thick hair, and this fact, combined with the eagerness of herexpression, the strong vivacity and intelligence that normally shone inher eyes, deceived many people as to her age. But to-day her face wasstrained, haggard, and feverish. Under the brown tint that the sunrayshad given to her complexion there seemed to lurk a sickly white, whichwas most markedly suggested at the corner of the mouth. The cheek-bonesseemed unusually prominent. And the eyes held surely a depth ofuneasiness, of--

Hermione approached her face to the mirror till it almost touched theglass. The reflected eyes drew hers. She gazed into them with a scrutinyinto which she seemed to be pouring her whole force, both of soul andbody. 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--whetherfor good or evil. The eyes into which she looked both helped her andfrustrated her. They told her much--too much. And yet they baffled her. When she would know all, they seemed to substitute themselves for thatwhich she saw through them, and she found herself noticing their size, their prominence, the exact shade of their brown hue. And the quickhuman 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 witha 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 sheheard voices in the garden. She stood still and listened. They were thevoices of Vere and Emile talking tirelessly. She could not hear whatthey 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 whichhuman beings strive to explain, or to conceal, what they really are. They were talking seriously. She heard no sounds of laughter. Vere wassaying most. It seemed to Hermione that Vere never talked so much and soeagerly to her, with such a ceaseless vivacity. And there was surely anintimate sound in her voice, a sound of being warmly at ease, as if shespoke in an atmosphere of ardent sympathy. 

Again the jealousy came in Hermione, acute, fierce, and travelling--likea needle being moved steadily, point downwards, through a network ofquivering 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 strengthand will. 

"Vere! Emile!"

As she called again she went towards the window. She felt passionatelyexcited. The excitement had come suddenly to her when they had not heardher 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, crushingdown 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 hadhappened. "

"You nervous people! Isn't it lunch-time?"

As they looked at her she felt they had been talking about her, abouther failure. And she felt, too, as if they must be able to see in hereyes that she knew the secret Vere had wished to keep from her andthought she did not know. Emile had given her a glance of intensescrutiny, and the eyes of her child still questioned her with a sort ofbright and searching eagerness. 

"You make me feel as if I were with detectives, " she said, laughing, butuneasily. "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 Veretogether, without any third person, she would know something that shefelt 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 herthat for some reason they, too, were on the alert, and so were notquite natural. And she could not be sure of certain things unless theatmosphere was normal. So she said to herself now, though before she hadhad the inimitable confidence of woman in certain detective instinctsclaimed by the whole sex. At one moment the thing she feared--and herwhole being recoiled from the thought of it with a shaking disgust--thething she feared seemed to her fact. Then something occurred to makeher distrust herself. And she felt that betraying imagination of hers atwork, obscuring all issues, tricking her, punishing her. 

And when the meal was over she did not know at all. And she felt as ifshe had perhaps been deliberately baffled--not, of course, by Vere, ofwhose 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 thewilderness. And she even felt vexed that it should be supposed shewanted Emile's company. Nevertheless, she restrained herself from makingany disclaimer. Vere went up-stairs, and she and Artois went out and satdown under the trellis. But with the removal of Vere a protection andsafety-valve seemed to be removed, and neither Hermione nor Emile couldfor 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 oftenbeen a self-reliant woman. Now she felt a humbleness such as she knewno one should ever feel--a humbleness that was contemptible, that feltitself incapable, unworthy of notice. She tried to resist it, but whenshe thought of this man, her friend, talking over her failure with herchild, in whom he must surely believe, she could not. She felt "Verecan 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 shrankbeneath the thongs of age, which had not even brought to her those giftsof the mind with which it often partially replaces the bodily gifts andgraces 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 thatrather 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. Whatwould 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 inthem. 

"After I had told Vere--" she began. 

She was about to defend herself, to tell him how she had gone to Vere'sroom intending to withdraw the permission given; but suddenly sherealized clearly that she, a mother, was being secretly taken to task bya man for her conduct to her child. 

That was intolerable. 

And Vere had yielded to Emile's prohibition, though she had eagerlyresisted her mother's attempt to retreat from the promise made. That wasmore intolerable. 

She sat without saying anything. Her knees were trembling under her thinsummer gown. Artois felt something of her agitation, perhaps, for hesaid, 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 inquestion--" He broke off. "You won't misunderstand my motives?" heconcluded. 

"Oh no. "

He was more conscious that she was feeling something acutely. 

"I feel that I perfectly understand why you gave the permission at thisparticular moment, " he continued, anxious to excuse her to herself andto 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 keepingVere in cotton-wool?"

She knew that he was deceiving her. A hopeless, desperate feelingof being in the dark rushed over her. What was friendship withoutsincerity? Nothing--less than nothing. She felt as if her whole bodystiffened with a proud reserve to meet the reserve with which he treatedher. And she felt as if her friend of years, the friend whose life shehad perhaps saved in Africa, had turned in that moment into a stranger, or--even into an enemy. For this furtive withdrawal from their beautifuland open intimacy was like an act of hostility. She was almost dazed foran instant. Then her brain worked with feverish activity. What had Emilemeant? 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, sowarmly benign when it was turned to his, was hard and cold. 

"Emile, " she said, "what was it you meant about Peppina? I think I havea right to know. I brought her into the house. Why should Peppina haveanything to do with my giving Vere permission to read your books?"

Artois' instinct was not to tell what Vere had not told, and thereforehad not wished to be known. Yet he hated to shuffle with Hermione. Hechose 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 aboutit. But do not be angry with me about the books. I think my motive inspeaking as I did to Vere was partly a selfish one. It is not only thatI wish Vere to be as she is for as long a time as possible, but thatI--well, don't think me a great coward if I say that I almost dreadher 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, thesweet 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 canhave?"

She thought of Ruffo singing, "Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate"--andsuddenly she felt that she could not stay any longer with Artois justthen. She got up. 

"I don't feel very well, " she said. 

Artois sprang up and came towards her with a face full of concern. Butshe drew back. 

"I didn't sleep last night--and then going into Naples--I'll go to myroom and lie down. I'll keep quiet. Vere will look after you. I'll bedown at tea. "

She went away before he could say or do anything. For some time he wasalone. Then Vere came. Hermione had not told her of the episode, and shehad only come because she thought the pretended siesta had lasted longenough. When Artois told her about her mother, she wanted to run awayat once, and see what was the matter--see if she could do something. ButArtois stopped her. 

"I should leave her to rest, " he said. "I--I feel sure she wishes to bealone. "

Vere was looking at him while he spoke, and her face caught the gravityof his, reflected it for a moment, then showed an uneasiness thatdeepened 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 ofwhich till then she had only been vaguely aware. 

"Madre has seemed different lately, " she said--"been different. I amsure she has. What is it?"

As the girl spoke, and looked keenly at him with her bright, searchingeyes, a thought came, like a flash, upon Artois--a thought that almostfrightened him. He could not tell it to Vere, and almost immediately hethrust it away from his mind. But Vere had seen that something had cometo 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 isanything seriously troubling your mother I do not know what it is. Shehas sorrows, of course. You know that. "

"This is something fresh, " the girl said. She thrust forward her littlechin 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. Youlet your imagination--"

"No, Monsieur Emile, indeed I don't. "

He did not try any more to remove her impression. He saw that to do sowould be quite useless. 

"I should like to speak to Gaspare, " Vere said, after a moment'sthought. 

"Gaspare! Why?"

"Perhaps you will laugh at me! But I often think Gaspare understandsMadre 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 youwrong. "

At tea-time Hermione came from her bedroom looking calm and smiling. There was something deliberate about her serenity, and her eyeswere tired, but she said the little rest had done her good. Vereinstinctively felt that her mother did not wish to be observed, or tohave any fuss made about her condition, and Artois took Vere's cue. Whentea was over, Artois said:

"Well, I suppose I ought to be going. "

"Oh no, " Hermione said. "We asked you for a long day. That meansdinner. "

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 ofyou. "

It struck him for the first time that she was becoming very ready tosubstitute Vere for herself as his companion. He wondered if he hadreally offended or hurt her in any way. He even wondered for amoment whether she was not pleased at his spending the summer inNaples--whether, for some reason, she had wished, and still wished, tobe 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 secretlytrying to smooth things out, to cover up the difficulty that hadintruded itself into their generally natural and simple relations. 

"And your mother says nothing, " said Artois, trying to fall in with herdesire, and to restore their wonted liveliness. "Don't you look upon meas 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 shemeant what she said. Yet Artois had never felt his age more acutely thanwhen she finished speaking. 

"I am a poor companion for Vere, " he said, almost bitterly. "She oughtto be with friends of her own age. "

"You mean that I am a poor companion for you, Monsieur Emile. I oftenfeel 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 earnestnessthat seemed to him wonderfully gracious. He looked at her, and his eyesthanked her gently. 

"Take Emile out in the boat, Vere, " Hermione said, "while I read a booktill dinner time. "

At that moment she longed for them to be gone. Vere looked at hermother, 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 herand said:

"You are sure you won't come out with us, my friend? Perhaps the air onthe 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 hadseen 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 Emilewould go out in the boat, but she thought they would. If they came outto the open sea beyond the island it was possible that she might hearthem. Presently, as she did not hear them, she got up. She wanted tosatisfy herself that they were at sea. Going to the window she lookedout. 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 reallysomething of the same feeling which had come to her long ago during herfirst visit to Sicily. In the contemplation of beauty she knew the needof love, knew it with an intimacy that was cruel. 

She came away from the window and went to the terrace. From there shecould not see the boat. Finally she went to the small pavilion thatoverlooked the Saint's Pool. Leaning over the parapet, she perceived thelittle white boat just starting around the cliff towards the Grotto ofVirgil. Vere was rowing. Hermione saw her thin figure, so impregnatedwith the narrow charm of youth, bending backward and forward to theoars, Emile's big form leaning against the cushions as if at ease. Fromthe dripping oars came twinkling lines of light, that rayed out andspread 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 faintcommotion in the water that told where the boat had passed. Now itwas turning into the Grotto of Virgil. She felt sure of that. It wasentering the shadows where she had shown to Emile not long ago the verydepths of her heart. 

How could she have done that? She grew hot as she thought of it. In hernew and bitter reserve she hated to think of his possession that couldnever be taken from him, the knowledge of her hidden despair, her hiddenneed of love. And by that sensation of hatred of his knowledge shemeasured the gulf between them. When had come the very first narrowfissure 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'sauthority governing her child, substituted surely for hers! The gulf hadbeen made wider by her learning that episode; and the fact that secretlyshe felt her permission ought never to have been given caused her themore bitterness. Vere had yielded to Emile because he had been in theright. Instinctively her child had known which of the two with whom shehad 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 certainlyexisted, but which she had never suspected till that day. 

The boat was gone, and she knew where. She went back into the house andrang the bell. Giulia came. 

"Oh, Giulia, " Hermione said, "will you please ask Peppina to come to mysitting-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 isnot 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 iswith us all, Signora. "

Hermione shook her head impatiently. But when Giulia was gone shethought of her words about Gaspare. Words, even the simplest, spokenjust before some great moment of a life, some high triumph, or deepcatastrophe, stick with resolution in the memory. Lucrezia had once saidof Gaspare on the terrace before the Casa del Prete: "One cannotspeak with him to-day. " That was on the evening of the night on whichMaurice's dead body was found. Often since then Hermione had thoughtthat Gaspare had seemed to have a prevision of the disaster that wasapproaching. 

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 Hermionehad 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 amoment. "

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 wantyou to tell me the truth without being afraid. "

"Si, Signora. "

"You remember, when I took you, I told you not to say anything to mydaughter, the Signorina, about your past life, your aunt, and--and allyou had gone through. Have you said anything?"

Peppina looked more frightened. 

"Signora, " she began. "Madonna! It was not my fault, it was not myfault!"

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 tellme--quietly--what have you told the Signorina?"

And presently Peppina was induced to be truthful, and Hermione knew ofthe outburst in the night, and that "the foreign Signore" had known ofit from the moment of its happening. 

"The Signorina was so kind, Signora, that I forgot. I told her all!--Itold her all--I told her--"

Once Peppina had begun to be truthful she could not stop. Sherecalled--or seemed to--the very words she had spoken to Vere, all thedetails of her narration. 

"And the foreign Signore? Was he there, too?" Hermione asked, at theend. 

"No, Signora. He went away. The Signorina told him to go away and leaveus. "

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, willyou?"

She spoke very kindly but very firmly. 

"May the Madonna take out my tongue if I speak, Signora!" Peppina raisedher 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'simpression of the gulf which was now between them, and which she wassure he knew of. When darkness comes to intimacy it seems to make thatintimacy more perfect. Now surely it caused reserve, restraint, to bemore complete. The two secrets which Hermione now knew, but which werestill cherished as secrets by Vere and Artois, stood up between themother and her child and friend, inexorably dividing them. 

Hermione was strung up to a sort of nervous strength that was full ofdetermination. She had herself in hand, like a woman of the world whofaces society with the resolution to deceive it. While Vere and Artoishad been out in the boat she had schooled herself. She felt morecompetent to be the watcher of events. She even felt calmer, forknowledge increased almost always brings an undercurrent of increasedtranquility, because of the sense of greater power that it produces inthe mind. She looked better. She talked more easily. 

When dinner was over they went as usual to the garden, and whenthey were there Hermione referred to the projected meeting with theMarchesino. 

"I made a promise, " she said. "I must keep it. "

"Of course, " said Artois. "But it seems to me that I am always beingentertained, and that I am inhospitable--I do nothing in return. I havea proposal to make. Monday will be the sixteenth of July, the festaof the Madonna del Carmine--Santa Maria del Carmine. It is one of theprettiest of the year, they tell me. Why should not you and Vere cometo dine at the Hotel, or in the Galleria, with me? I will ask Panacci tojoin 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 yousay?"

"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 seatsthere. And you can bring Gaspare, if you like. Then you will have threecavaliers. "

"Yes, I should like Gaspare to come, " said Hermione. 

There was a sound of warmth in her hitherto rather cold voice when shesaid that. 

"How you rely on Gaspare!" Artois said, almost as if with a momentarytouch 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 wereany danger he'd never hesitate. He'd save Madre if he left every otherhuman 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, withoutapparent reason. She pulled at the branches of the fig-trees. Shegathered a flower. She moved away, and leaned upon the wall. Finally, when her mother and Artois had fallen into conversation about some newbook, she slipped very quietly away. 

Hermione and Artois continued their conversation, though without muchanimation. At length, however, some remark of Hermione led Artois tospeak of the book he was writing. Very often and very openly in the daysgone by she had discussed with him his work. Now, feeling the barrierbetween them, he fancied that perhaps it might be removed more easilyby such another discussion. And this notion of his was not any proof ofwant of subtlety on his part. Without knowing why, Hermione felt alack of self-confidence, a distressing, an almost unnatural humblenessto-day. He partially divined the feeling. Possibly it sprang from theirdifference of opinion on the propriety of Vere's reading his books. Hethought it might be so. And he wanted to oust Hermione gently from herlow 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. Heexplained the progress he had made during the days when he was absentfrom the island and shut perpetually in his room. She listened inperfect silence. 

They were sitting near each other, but not close together, for Vere hadbeen between them. It was dark under the fig-trees. They could see eachother's faces, but not quite clearly. There was a small breeze whichmade the trees move, and the leaves rustled faintly now and then, makinga tiny noise which joined the furtive noise of the sea, not far belowthem. 

Artois talked on. As his thoughts became more concentrated upon the bookhe grew warmer. Having always had Hermione's eager, even enthusiasticsympathy and encouragement in his work, he believed himself to have themnow. And in his manner, in his tone, even sometimes in his choice ofwords, he plainly showed that he assumed them. But presently, glancingacross at Hermione, he was surprised by the expression on her face. It seemed to him as if a face of stone had suddenly looked bitterlysatirical. 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 leaveshad thrown their little shadows across her features. He said to himselfthat it must be so--that his friend, Hermione, could never have lookedlike that. Yet he was chilled. And he remembered her passing by in thetram at Posilipo, and how he had stood for a moment and watched her, andseen 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. Wasthere living in Hermione some one whom he did not know, with whom he hadhad 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. Hehad 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 mywork. You've been such a kind, such a sympathetic friend and encouragerthat--"

He broke off, thinking of that face. Was it possible that throughall these years Hermione had been playing a part with him, had beenpretending to admire his talent, to care for what he was doing, whenreally she had been bored by it? Had the whole thing been a weariness toher, endured perhaps because she liked him as a man? The thought cut himto the very quick, seared his self-respect, struck a blow at his pridewhich made it quiver, and struck surely also a blow at something else. 

His life during all these years--what would it have been withoutHermione's friendship? Was he to learn that now?

He looked at her. Now her face was almost as usual, only less animatedthan 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, forthe eternal woman deep down in her had heard the sound almost ofhelplessness in his voice, had felt the leaning of his nature, strongthough it was, on her, and had responded instantly, inevitably, almostpassionately. But then came the thought of his secret intercourse withVere. She saw in the dark words: "Monsieur Emile's idea. " "MonsieurEmile's suggestion. " She remembered how Artois had told her that shecould never be an artist. And again the intensely bitter feeling ofsatire, 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 hadseen surely for a moment the whole great and undying selfishness of man, exactly as it was. And she had seen surely, also, the ministering worldof women gathered round about it, feeding it, lest it should fail and beno 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 oftengoes there at this hour. She goes to meet Ruffo. "

The name switched the mind of Artois on to a new and profoundlyinteresting 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 toHermione. 

"I was at Mergellina the other day, " he said. "And I saw Ruffo with hismother. "

"Did you. What is she like?"

"Oh, like many middle-aged women of the South, rather broad andbattered-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 thefaint 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 severalthings. "

Each time Hermione mentioned Ruffo's name it seemed to Artois that hervoice softened, almost that she gave the word a caress. He longed to askher something, but he was afraid to. 

He would try not to interfere with Fate. But he would not hasten itscoming--if it were coming. And he knew nothing. Perhaps the anxioussuspicion which had taken up its abode in his mind, and which, without definite reason, seemed gradually changing into convictionwas erroneous. Perhaps some day he would laugh at himself, and say tohimself, "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 coverher last words. 

"Ruffo told me something that I did not know about Peppina. Hisstep-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. Suddenlyhe wished more than ever before that Hermione had not taken Peppina tolive 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 awayfrom 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 thinkthat, Hermione?"

"I have sometimes thought it, when I have been depressed. I havesometimes said to myself, 'E il destino!'"

She remembered at that moment her feeling on the day when she returnedfrom the expedition with Vere to Capri--that perhaps she had returnedto the island to confront some grievous fate. Had Artois such a thought, such a prevision? Suddenly she felt frightened, like a child when, atnight, 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 onand 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 filledhis whole being, to know what Hermione's exact feeling towards Ruffowas. 

"Don't you think, " he said, "that perhaps it is a little dangerous toallow 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 expressionto punish his almost mystical curiosity. Was she warding him offconsciously?

They passed through the house and came out on its further side, but theydid not go immediately to the cliff top. Both of them felt certain thetwo children must be there, and both of them, perhaps, were heldback for a moment by a mutual desire not to disturb their innocentconfidences. They stood upon the bridge, therefore, looking down intothe dimness of the Pool. From the water silence seemed to float up tothem, almost visibly, like a lovely, delicate mist--silence, and thetenderness of night, embracing their distresses. 

The satire died out of Hermione's poor, tormented heart. And Artoisfor a moment forgot the terrible face half seen in the darkness of thetrees. 

"There is the boat. He is here. "

Hermione spoke in a low voice, pointing to the shadowy form of a boatupon the Pool. 

"Yes. "

Artois gazed at the boat. Was it indeed a Fate that came by night to theisland softly across the sea, ferried by the ignorant hands of men?He longed to know. And Hermione longed to know something, too: whetherArtois had ever seen the strange likeness she had seen, whether Mauricehad 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 fromeach other. And because of the gulf between them her memory had suddenlybecome far more sacred, far more necessary to her even, than it had beenbefore. 

It had been a solace, a beautiful solace. But now it was much more thanthat--now it was surely her salvation. 

As she felt that, a deep longing filled her heart to look again onRuffo's face, to search again for the expression that sent back theyears. But she wished to do that without witnesses, to be alone withthe boy, as she had been alone with him that night upon the bridge. Andsuddenly she was impatient of Vere's intercourse with him. Vere couldnot know what the tender look meant, if it came. For she had never seenher father's face. 

"Let us go to the cliff, " Hermione said, moved by this new feeling ofimpatience. 

She meant to interrupt the children, to get rid of Vere and Emile, andhave Ruffo to herself for a moment. Just then she felt as if he werenearer, far nearer, to her than they were: they who kept things fromher, 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 uponholy ground, those two so full of youth, who talked together in thenight; as if they knew mysteriously things that were hidden from theirelders, from those wiser, yet far less full of the wisdom that iseternal, the wisdom in instinct, than themselves. There is alwayssomething sacred about children. And he had never lost the sense of itamid the dust of his worldly knowledge. But about these children, aboutthem or within them, there floated, perhaps, something that was mystic, something that was awful and must not be disturbed. Hermione did notfeel it. How could she? He himself had withheld from her for many yearsthe only knowledge that could have made her share his present feeling. He could tell her nothing. Yet he could not conceal his intensereluctance to go to that seat upon the cliff. 

"But it's delicious here. I love the Pool at night, don't you? Look atthe Saint's light, how quietly it shines!"

She took her hands from the rail. His attempt at detention irritated herwhole being. She looked at the light. On the night of the storm shehad felt as if it shone exclusively for her. That feeling was dead. SanFrancesco watched, perhaps, over the fishermen. He did not watch overher. 

And yet that night she, too, had made the sign of the cross when sheknew that the light was shining. 

She did not answer Artois' remark, and he continued, always for thechildren's sake, and for the sake of what he seemed to divine secretlyat work in them:

"This Pool is a place apart, I think. The Saint has given hisbenediction to it. "

He was speaking at random to keep Hermione there. And yet his wordsseemed 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 theCreator of the world?"

"No. But I scarcely thought you believed in the efficacy of a plasterSaint. "

"Not of the plaster--no. But don't you think it possible that truth, emanating from certain regions and affecting the souls of men, mightmove them unconsciously to embody it in symbol? What if this Pool wereblessed, and men, feeling that it was blessed, put San Francesco herewith his visible benediction?"

He said to himself that he was playing with his imagination, assometimes he played with words, half-sensuously and half-aesthetically;yet he felt to-night as if within him there was something that mightbelieve far more than he had ever suspected it would be possible for himto believe. 

And that, too, seemed to have come to him from the hidden children whowere so near. 

"I don't feel at all as if the Pool were blessed, " said Hermione. Shesighed. 

"Let us go to the cliff, " she said, again, this time with a strongimpatience. 

He could not, of course, resist her desire, so they moved away, andmounted to the summit of the island. 

The children were there. They could just see them in the darkness, Vereseated upon the wooden bench, Ruffo standing beside her. Their formslooked like shadows, but from the shadows voices came. 

When he saw them, Artois stood still. Hermione was going on. He put hishand upon her arm to stop her. She sent an almost sharp inquiry to himwith her eyes. 

"Don't you think, " he said--"don't you think it is a pity to disturbthem?"

"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 wokeup in her. "Am I to have nothing at all? May I not even speak to thisboy, in whom I have seen Maurice for a moment--because if I do I maydisturb some childish gossip?"

Her eyes gave to Artois a fierce rebuke. 

"I beg your pardon, Hermione, " he said, hastily. "Of course if youreally 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 thirdfigure on the cliff. Gaspare was at a little distance. Hermione couldsee 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 herhead and got up from the seat. 

Neither the girl nor the boy gave any explanation of their beingtogether. Evidently they did not think it necessary to do so. Hermionewas the first to speak. 

"Good-evening, Ruffo, " she said. 

Artois noticed a peculiar kindness and gentleness in her voice when shespoke to the boy, a sound apart, that surely did not come into her voiceeven when it spoke to Vere. 

"Good-evening, Signora. " He stood with his cap in his hand. "I have beentelling 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 notknow. "

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 thatwas because you were so kind. And she said to me, 'Ruffo, why shoulda strange lady be so kind to me? Why should a strange lady think aboutme?' she said. 'Ruffino, ' she said, 'it must be Santa Maddalena who hassent her here to be good to me. ' My poor mamma!"

"The Signora does not want to be bothered with all this!" It was Gasparewho had spoken, roughly, and who now pushed in between Ruffo and thosewho 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 wereharsh, 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 ashe said, before Hermione could reply:

"Signorina, the Signora does not know Ruffo's mother, so such thingscannot interest her. Is it not so, Signora?"

Hermione was still governed by the desire to be alone for a little whilewith Ruffo, and the sensation of intense reserve--a reserve that seemedeven partially physical--that she felt towards Artois made her dislikeRuffo'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 DonEmilio listening to my supposed good deeds forever. So that's enough. "

Vere reddened. Evidently she felt snubbed. She said nothing, but sheshot a glance of eager sympathy at Ruffo, who stood very simply lookingat Hermione with a sort of manly deference, as if all that she said, orwished, must certainly be right. Then she moved quietly away, pressingher lips rather firmly together, and went slowly towards the house. After a moment's hesitation, Artois followed her. Hermione remained byRuffo, and Gaspare stayed doggedly with his Padrona. 

Hermione wished he would go. She could not understand his exact feelingabout the fisher-boy's odd little intimacy with them. Her instinct toldher that secretly he was fond of Ruffo. Yet sometimes he seemed to behostile to him, to be suspicious of him, as of some one who might dothem harm. Or, perhaps, he felt it his duty to be on guard against allstrangers who approached them. She knew well his fixed belief that sheand Vere depended entirely on him, felt always perfectly safe when hewas 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'tthink--"

She glanced at Gaspare. 

"I didn't want to stop you, " she continued, trying to steer an evencourse. "But it's a very little thing. I hope your mother is getting onpretty well. She must have courage. "

As she said the last sentence she thought it came that night oddly fromher lips. 

Gaspare moved as if he felt impatient, and suddenly Hermione knewan anger akin to Vere's, an anger she had scarcely ever felt againstGaspare. 

She did not show it at first, but went on with a sort of forced calmnessand deliberation, a touch even perhaps of obstinacy that was meant forGaspare. 

"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; andas he listened to Ruffo's carefully detailed reply, delivered with theperfect naturalness of one sure of the genuine interest taken in hisconcerns by his auditors, his large eyes travelled from the face of theboy to the face of his Padrona with a deep and restless curiosity. Heseemed 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 willwant 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 suddenlygetting the upper hand in her nature. "Are you afraid that Ruffo willhurt me?"

"No, Signora. "

As Vere had reddened, he reddened, and he looked with deep reproachat his Padrona. That look went to Hermione's heart; she thought, "Am Igoing to quarrel with the one true and absolutely loyal friend I have?"She remembered Vere's words in the garden about Gaspare's devotion toher, 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 hisfeeling for her had changed. The Sicilian in him rose up to honor herlike 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 thathe knew how to be a Sicilian. And now he looked from one to the other tosee how they took his salutation; looked gently, confidentially, with asmile dawning in his eyes under the deference and the boyish affectionand gratitude. 

And again it seemed to Hermione for a moment that Maurice stood therebefore her in the night. Her impulse was to catch Gaspare's arm, to sayto him, "Look! Don't you see your Padrone?"

She did not do this, but she did turn impulsively to Gaspare. And asshe turned she saw tears start into his eyes. The blood rushed to histemples, 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 histhroat. 

"Madre di Dio!"

He spoke very roughly. 

But his roughness did not hurt Hermione; for suddenly she felt far lesslonely 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 Gasparetalked together. 

And yet they spoke no words. 

CHAPTER XXVII

Neither Artois nor the Marchesino visited the island during the daysthat elapsed before the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine. But Artoiswrote to tell Hermione that the Marchesino had accepted his invitation, and that he hoped she and Vere would be at the Hotel des Etrangerspunctually by eight o'clock on the night of the sixteenth. He wrotecordially, but a little formally, and did not add any gossip or anyremarks about his work to the few sentences connected with the projectedexpedition. And Hermione replied as briefly to his note. Usually, whenshe wrote to Artois, her pen flew, and eager thoughts, born of thethought of him, floated into her mind. But this time it was not so. Theenergies of her mind in connection with his mind were surely failing. Asshe put the note into its envelope, she had the feeling of one who hadbeen trying to "make" conversation with an acquaintance, and who hadnot been successful, and she found herself almost dreading to talk withEmile. 

Yet for years her talks with him had been her greatest pleasure, outsideof her intercourse with Vere and her relations with Gaspare. 

The change that had come over their friendship, like a mist over thesea, was subtle, yet startling in its completeness. She wondered if hesaw and felt this mist as definitely as she did, if he regretted thefair 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 thechange?

She remembered the days when she had nursed him in Kairouan. She feltagain the hot dry atmosphere. She heard the ceaseless buzzing of theflies. How pale his face had been, how weak his body! He had returnedto the weakness of a child. He had depended upon her. That fact, that hehad for a time utterly depended upon her, had forged a new link in theirfriendship, the strongest link of all. At least she had felt it to beso. 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, asif their natures were hidden from her, and perhaps, of necessity, fromall 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'snatures were hidden. 

And yet it was not true. 

For Maurice, at least, she had understood. She had not feared hisgayeties, his boyish love of pleasure, his passion for the sun, hisjoy in the peasant life, his almost fierce happiness in the life ofthe body. She had feared nothing in him, because she had felt thatshe understood him thoroughly. She had read the gay innocence of histemperament rightly, and so she had never tried to hold him back fromhis pleasures, to keep him always with her, as many women would havedone. 

And she clung to the memory of her understanding of Maurice as she facedthe mist that had swept up softly and silently over that sea and skywhich had been clear. He had been simple. There was nothing to dreadin cleverness, in complexity. One got lost in a nature that was full ofwinding paths. Just then, and for the time, she forgot her love of, evenher passion for, mental things. The beauty of the straight white roadappealed 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. Theymet, of course, at meals, and often for a few minutes at other times. But it seemed as if each tacitly, and almost instinctively, sought toavoid any prolonged intercourse with the other. Hermione was a greatdeal in her sitting-room, reading, or pretending to read. And Vere madeseveral long expeditions upon the sea in the sailing-boat with Gaspareand a boy from the nearest village, who was hired as an extra hand. 

Hermione had a strange feeling of desertion sometimes, when the whitesail of the boat faded on the blue and she saw the empty sea. She wouldwatch the boat go out, standing at the window and looking through theblinds. The sailor-boy pulled at the oars. Vere was at the helm, Gasparebusy with the ropes. They passed quite close beneath her. She saw Vere'sbright and eager face looking the way they were going, anticipating thevoyage; Gaspare's brown hands moving swiftly and deftly. She saw thesail 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? Thefisher-boy? What were they now, they and the boat that held them? Only awhite sail on the blue, going towards the sun. 

And how deep was the silence that fell about the house, how deep andhollow! She saw her life then like a cavern that was empty. No watersflowed into it. No lights played in its recesses. No sounds echoedthrough it. 

She looked up into the blue, and remembered her thought, that Mauricehad been taken by the blue. Hark! Was there not in the air the thinsound of a reed flute playing a tarantella? She shut her eyes, and sawthe gray rocks of Sicily. But the blue was too vast. Maurice was lost init, lost to her forever. And she gazed up into it again, with the effortto travel through it, to go on and on and on. And it seemed as if hersoul ached from that journey. 

The sail had dipped down below the horizon. She let fall the blind. Shesat down in the silence. 

Vere was greatly perplexed about her mother. One day in the boat shefollowed her instinct and spoke to Gaspare about her. Hermione and shebetween them had taught Gaspare some English. He understood it fairlywell, and could speak it, though not correctly, and he was very proud ofhis knowledge. Because of the fisher-boy, Vere said what she had to sayslowly in English. Gaspare listened with the grave look of learning thatbetokened his secret sensation of being glorified by his capacities. But when he grasped the exact meaning of his Padroncina's words, hisexpression changed. He shook his head vigorously. 

"Not true!" he said. "Not true! No matter--there is no matter with myPadrona. "

"But Gaspare--"

Vere protested, explained, strong in her conviction of the change in hermother. 

But Gaspare would not have it. With energetic gestures he affirmed thathis Padrona was just as usual. But Vere surprised a look in his eyeswhich told her he was watching her to see if he had deceived her. Thenshe realized that for some reason of his own Gaspare did not wish her toknow that he had seen the change, wished also to detach her observationfrom her mother. 

She wondered why this was. 

Her busy mind could not arrive at any conclusion in the matter, but sheknew her mother was secretly sad. And she knew that she and her motherwere no longer at ease with each other. This pained her, and the painwas beginning to increase. Sometimes she felt as if her mother dislikedsomething in her, and did not choose to say so, and was irritated bythe silence that she kept. But what could it be? She searched among herdoings carefully. Had she failed in anything? Certainly she had not beenlacking in love. And her knowledge of that seemed simply to exclude anypossibility of serious shortcomings. And her mother?

Vere remembered how her mother had once longed to have a son, how shehad felt certain she was going to have a son. Could it be that? Couldher mother be dogged by that disappointment? She felt chilled to theheart at that idea. Her warm nature protested against it. The loveshe gave to her mother was so complete that it had always assumed thecompleteness of that which it was given in return. But it might be so, Vere supposed. It was possible. She pondered over this deeply, and whenshe was with her mother watched for signs that might confirm or dispelher fears. And thus she opposed to the mother's new watchfulness thewatchfulness of the child. And Hermione noticed it, and wondered whetherVere 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 haddone what she had been told not to do--related the story of her fate. Almost all delicate-minded mothers and daughters find certain subjectsdifficult, if not impossible of discussion, even when an apparentnecessity of their discussion arrives in the course of life. The presentreserve between Hermione and Vere rendered even the idea of any plainspeaking about the revelation of Peppina quite insupportable to themother. 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 thedifference it had made in Vere. That difference was owing to her ownimpulsive action. And Emile knew the whole truth. She understood nowwhat he had been going to say about Peppina and Vere when they hadtalked 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 curiousdesire of his to protect Vere against her. And yet without her impulsivenature he himself might long ago have died. 

She could not help at this time dwelling secretly on one or two actionsof hers, could not help saying to herself now and then: "I have beensome good in the world. I am capable of unselfishness sometimes. Idid leave my happiness for Emile's sake, because I had a great dealof friendship and was determined to live up to it. My impulses are notalways crazy and ridiculous. "

She did this, she was obliged to do it, to prevent the feeling ofimpotence from overwhelming her. She had to do it to give herselfstrength to get up out of the dust. The human creature dares not say toitself, "You are nothing. " And now Hermione, feeling the withdrawal fromher of her friend, believing in the withdrawal from her of her child, spoke to herself, pleading her own cause to her own soul againstinvisible detractors. 

One visitor the island had at this time. Each evening, when thedarkness fell, the boat of Ruffo's employer glided into the Pool of SanFrancesco. And the boy always came ashore while his companions slept. Since Hermione had been charitable to his mother, and since he hadexplained to her about his Patrigno and Peppina, he evidently hadsomething of the ready feeling that springs up in Sicilians in whomreal interest has been shown--the feeling of partly belonging to hisbenefactor. There is something dog-like in this feeling. And it istouching and attractive because of the animalism of its frankness andsimplicity. And as the dog who has been kindly, tenderly treated hasno hesitation in claiming attention with a paw, or in laying its muzzleupon the knee of its benefactor, so Ruffo had no hesitation in relatingto Hermione all the little intimate incidents of his daily life, increditing her with an active interest in his concerns. There was noconceit in this, only a very complete boyish simplicity. 

Hermione found in this new attitude of Ruffo's a curious solace for thesudden loneliness of soul that had come upon her. Originally Ruffo'schief friendship had obviously been for Vere, but now Vere, seeing hermother's new and deep interest in the boy, gave way a little to it, yetwithout doing anything ostentatious, or showing any pique. Simply shewould stay in the garden, or on the terrace, later than usual, tillafter Ruffo was sure to be at the island, and let her mother stroll tothe cliff top. Or, if she were there with him first, she would soon makean excuse to go away, and casually tell her mother that he was therealone or with Gaspare. And all this was done so naturally that Hermionedid not know it was deliberate, but merely fancied that perhaps Vere'sfirst enthusiasm for the fisher-boy was wearing off, that it had been achild's sudden fancy, and that it was lightly passing away. 

Vere rather wondered at her mother's liking for Ruffo, althoughshe herself had found him so attractive, and had drawn her mother'sattention to his handsome face and bold, yet simple bearing. Shewondered, because she felt in it something peculiar, a sort of heat andanxiety, a restlessness, a watchfulness; attributes which sprang fromthe observation of that resemblance to the dead man which drew hermother to Ruffo, but of which her mother had never spoken to her. 

Nor did Hermione speak of it again to Gaspare. He had almost angrilydenied it, but since the night of Artois' visit she knew that he hadseen 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 latentexcitement in him. His temper was uneven. Giulia had said that one couldnot speak with him. Since that day she had grumbled about him again, butdiscreetly, with a certain vagueness. For all the servants thoroughlyappreciated his special position in the household as the "camerieredi confidenza" of the Padrona. One thing which drew Hermione's specialattention was his extraordinary watchfulness of her. When they weretogether she frequently surprised him looking at her with a sort ofpenetrating and almost severe scrutiny which startled her. Once ortwice, 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 illto-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?" Andshe instinctively glanced down at her gown, and put up her hands to herhead. 

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"--heshook his head--"I forget the word. But I am sure it was something thata man could never be. Per dio!"

And then he had gone off into a rambling conversation that had ledHermione'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. Doyou 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: 'Thereis plenty of time, Signorina. If one marries in a hurry, one makes twofaces ugly!' I should think the girl must be sick of waiting. "

Hermione was sure that there was some very definite reason for Gaspare'scurious behavior, but she could not imagine what it was. That it was notanything to do with his health she had speedily ascertained. Any smalldiscipline of Providence in the guise of a cold in the head, or a painin the stomach, despatched him promptly to the depths. But he hadtold her that he was perfectly well and "made of iron, " when she hadquestioned him on the subject. 

She supposed time would elucidate the mystery, and meanwhile she knewit was no use troubling about it. Years had taught her that when Gasparechose to be silent not heaven nor earth could make him speak. 

Although Vere could not know why Ruffo attracted her mother, Hermioneknew that Gaspare must understand, at any rate partially, why she caredso much to be with him. During the days between the last visit of Artoisand the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine her acquaintance with the boyhad progressed so rapidly that sometimes she found herself wonderingwhat the days had been like before she knew him, the evenings before hisboat slipped into the Saint's Pool, and his light feet ran up from thewater's edge to the cliff top. Possibly, had Ruffo come into her lifewhen she was comparatively happy and at ease, she would never havedrawn so closely to him, despite the resemblance that stirred her to theheart. But he came when she was feeling specially lonely and sad; andwhen he, too, was in trouble. Both wanted sympathy. Hermione gave Ruffohers in full measure. She could not ask for his. But giving had alwaysbeen her pleasure. It was her pleasure now. And she drew happiness fromthe obvious and growing affection of the boy. Perfectly natural at alltimes, he kept back little from the kind lady of the island. He told herthe smallest details of his daily life, his simple hopes and fears, his friendships and quarrels, his relations with the other fishermen ofMergellina, 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 seemedto be the ultimate aim of his life. Hermione smiled as she heard it, andsaw his eyes shining with the excitement of anticipation. When he spokethe word "Padrone, " his little form seemed to expand with authority andconscious pride. He squared his shoulders. He looked almost a man. Thepleasures of command dressed all his person, as flags dress a ship on afestival day. He stood before Hermione a boy exuberant. 

And she thought of Maurice bounding down the mountain-side to thefishing, and rousing the night with his "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao, Morettinabella--Ciao!"

But Ruffo was sometimes reserved. Hermione could not make him speak ofhis father. All she knew of him was that he was dead. Sometimes she gaveRuffo good advice. She divined the dangers of Naples for a lad withthe blood bounding in his veins, and she dwelt upon the pride of man'sstrength, and how he should be careful to preserve it, and not dissipateit before it came to maturity. She did not speak very plainly, but Ruffounderstood, and answered her with the unconscious frankness that ischaracteristic of the people of the South. And at the end of his remarkshe added:

"Don Gaspare has talked to me about that. Don Gaspare knows much, Signora. "

He spoke with deep respect. Hermione was surprised by this littlerevelation. Was Gaspare secretly watching over the boy? Did he concernhimself seriously with Ruffo's fate? She longed to question Gaspare. But she knew that to do so would be useless. Even with her Gaspare wouldonly speak freely of things when he chose. At other times he was calmlymute. He wrapped himself in a cloud. She wondered whether he had evergiven Ruffo any hints or instructions as to suitable conduct when withher. 

Although Ruffo was so frank and garrulous about most things, she noticedthat if she began to speak of his mother or his Patrigno, his mannerchanged, and he became uncommunicative. Was this owing to Gaspare'srather rough rebuke upon the cliff before Artois and Vere? Or hadGaspare emphasized that by further directions when alone with Ruffo? Shetried deftly to find out, but the boy baffled her. But perhaps he wasdelicate about money, unlike Neapolitans, and feared that if he talkedtoo much of his mother the lady of the island would think he was "makingmisery, " was hoping for another twenty francs. As to his Patrigno, thefact that Peppina was living on the island made that subject rather adifficult one. Nevertheless, Hermione could not help suspecting thatGaspare 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 hadbeen a sudden impulse to help a suffering woman, less because she wasprobably in poverty than because she was undoubtedly made unhappy byher husband. Since she had suffered at the hands of death, Hermionefelt very pitiful for women. She would gladly have gone to see Ruffo'smother, 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 moneyhelp--she remembered Gaspare's warning. Perhaps he knew something of themother 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 thenseveral times he had spoken with great affection of his mother. 

She left things as they were, taking her cue from the boy in despiteof her desire. And here, as in some other directions, she was secretlygoverned by Gaspare. 

Only sometimes did she see in Ruffo's face the look that had drawn herto him. The resemblance to Maurice was startling, but it was nearlyalways fleeting. She could not tell when it was coming, nor retain itwhen it came. But she noticed that it was generally when Ruffo was movedby affection, by a sudden sympathy, by a warm and deferent impulse thatthe look came in him. And again she thought of the beautiful obediencethat springs directly from love, of Mercury poised for flight to thegods, 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 somethingalmost sacred, silently shared with Gaspare. 

To no one could that look mean what it meant to her. To no other heartcould it make the same appeal. 

And so in those few days between Hermione and the fisher-boy a firmfriendship was established. 

And to Hermione this friendship came like a small ray of brightly goldenlight, falling gently in a place that was very dark. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

When the Marchesino received the invitation of Artois to dine with himand the ladies from the island on the night of the Festa of the Madonnadel Carmine he was again ill in bed with fever. But nevertheless hereturned an immediate acceptance. Then he called in the family doctor, and violently demanded to be made well, "perfectly well, " by the eveningof the sixteenth. The doctor, who guessed at once that some amorousadventure was on foot, promised to do his best, and so ingeniously pliedhis patient with drugs and potions that on the sixteenth Doro was outof bed, and busily doing gymnastics to test his strength for the comingcampaign. 

Artois' invitation had surprised him. He had lost all faith in hisfriend, and at first almost suspected an ambush. Emilio had not invitedhim out of love--that was certain. But perhaps the ladies of the islandhad desired his presence, his escort. He was a Neapolitan. He knew theways of the city. That was probably the truth. They wanted him, andEmilio had been obliged to ask him. 

He saw his opportunity. His fever, coming at such a time, had almostmaddened him, and during the days of forced inaction the Panacci temperhad been vigorously displayed in the home circle. As he lay in bed hisimagination ran riot. The day and the night were filled with thoughtsand dreams of Vere. And always Emilio was near her, presiding over herdoings with a false imitation of the paternal manner. 

But now at the last the Marchesino saw his opportunity to strike a blowat Emilio. Every year of his life since he was a child he had been tothe festa in honor of the Madonna del Carmine. He knew the crowd thatassembled under the prison walls and beneath Nuvolo's tall belfry, thecrowds that overflowed into the gaunt Square of the Mercato and streameddown the avenues of fire into the narrow side streets. In those crowdsit would be easy to get lost. Emilio, when he heard his friend's voicesinging, had hidden with the Signorina in the darkness of a cave. Hemight be alone with the Signorina when he would. The English ladiestrusted his white hairs. Or the English ladies did not care for the_convenances_. Since he had found Peppina in the Casa del Mare, theMarchesino did not know what to think of its Padrona. And now he wastoo reckless to care. He only knew that he was in love, and thatcircumstances so far had fought against him. He only knew that he hadbeen tricked, and that he meant to trick Emilio in return. His anxietyto revenge himself on Emilio was quite as keen as his desire to be alonewith Vere. The natural devilry of his temperament, a boy's devilry, notreally wicked, but compounded of sensuality, vanity, the passion forconquest, and the determination to hold his own against other males andto shine in his world's esteem, was augmented by the abstinence from hisusual life. The few days in the house seemed to him a lifetime alreadywasted. He meant to make up for it, and he did not care at whoseexpense, so long as some of the debt was paid by Emilio. 

On the sixteenth he issued forth into life again in a mood that wasdangerous. The fever that had abandoned his body was raging in hismind. He was in the temper which had governed his papa on the day of theslapping of Signora Merani's face in the Chiaia. 

The Marchesino always thought a great deal about his personalappearance, but his toilet on the night of the sixteenth was unusuallyprolonged. On several matters connected with it he was undecided. Shouldhe wear a waistcoat of white pique or one of black silk? Should he puton a white tie, or a black? And what about rings?

He loved jewelry, as do most Neapolitans, both male and female, and hadquantities of gaudy rings, studs, sleeve links, and waistcoat buttons. In his present mood he was inclined to adorn himself with as many ofthem as possible. But he was not sure whether the English liked diamondsand rubies on a man. He hesitated long, made many changes, and lookedmany times in the glass. At last he decided on a black tie, a whitewaistcoat with pearl buttons, a pearl shirt-stud surrounded withdiamonds, pearl and diamond sleeve-links, and only three rings--a goldsnake, a seal ring, and a ring set with turquoises. This was a modesttoilet, suited, surely to the taste to the English, which he rememberedto have heard of as sober. 

He stood long before the mirror when he was ready, and had poured overhis handkerchief a libation of "Rose d'amour. "

Certainly he was a fine-looking fellow--his natural sincerity obligedhim to acknowledge it. Possibly his nose stuck out too much to balanceperfectly the low forehead and the rather square chin. Possibly hischeek-bones were too prominent. But what of that? Women always lookedat a man's figure, his eyes, his teeth, his mustaches. And he had asplendid figure, enormous gray eyes, large and perfectly even whiteteeth between lips that were very full and very red, and blond mustacheswhose turned-up points were like a cry of victory. 

He drew himself up from the hips, enlarged his eyes by opening themexaggeratedly, stretched his lips till his teeth were well exposed, andvehemently twisted the ends of his mustaches. 

Yes, he was a very handsome fellow, and boyish-looking, too--but not tooboyish. 

It really was absurd of Emilio to think of cutting him out with agirl--Emilio, an old man, all beard and brains! As if any living womanreally cared for brains! Impertinence, gayety, agility, muscle--that waswhat women loved in men. And he had all they wanted. 

He filled his case with cigarettes, slipped on a very smart fawn-coloredcoat, cocked a small-brimmed black bowler hat over his left ear, pickedup a pair of white gloves and a cane surmounted by a bunch of goldengrapes, and hurried down-stairs, humming "Lili Kangy, " the "canzonettabirichina" 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 whowander there, of Peppina's aunt, of certain others. And then he hadthought of Vere. And his decision was quickly taken. When the Marchesinoarrived, Artois was alone in his sitting-room. The two men looked intoeach other's eyes as they met, and Artois saw at once that Doro was ina state of suppressed excitement and not in a gentle mood. Although Dorogenerally seemed full of good-humor, and readiness to please and to bepleased, 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 becomemore salient, the nose sharper, the eyes catlike, the large butwell-shaped mouth venomous instead of passionate. He looked older andalso commoner directly his insouciance departed from him, and one coulddivine a great deal of primitive savagery beneath his lively grace andboyish charm. 

But to-night, directly he spoke to Artois, his natural humor seemed toreturn. He explained his illness, which accounted for his not havingcome as usual to see his friend, and drew a humorous picture of aPanacci 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 linessuddenly appeared in his forehead just above the inside corners of hiseyes. 

"Work! work!" he said. "You make me feel quite guilty, amico mio. I livefor happiness, for love, but you--you live for duty. "

He put his arm through his friend's with a laugh, and drew him towardsthe 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 therewas something that seemed to hint a longing to close them violently andcause a shudder of pain. 

"Even you have moments when the brain goes to sleep and--and the bodywakes 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 notwork, 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 eveningwe go to the Galleria, and find it is not so, that you are likeourselves, 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 takeus all in. We are children beside you, we who say all we feel, who showwhen we hate and when we love. We are babies. If I ever want to becomereally birbante, I shall become a worker. "

He spoke always lightly, laughingly; but Artois understood the maliceat his heart, and hesitated for a moment whether to challenge it quietlyand firmly, or whether laughingly, to accept the sly imputationsof secrecy, of hypocrisy, in a "not-worth-while" temper. If thingsdeveloped--and Artois felt that they must with such a protagonist as theMarchesino--a situation might arise in which Doro's enmity must come outinto the open and be dealt with drastically. Till then was it not bestto ignore it, to fall in with his apparent frivolity? Before Artoiscould decide--for his natural temper and an under-sense of prudence andcontempt pulled different ways--the Marchesino suddenly released hisarm, leaned over the balcony rail, and looked eagerly down the road. Acarriage had just rattled up from the harbor of Santa Lucia only a fewyards 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 hasrowed 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 ofsensations, which made these two dear and close friends, these intimatesof his life, seem almost new. He was acutely conscious of the mist ofwhich Hermione had thought. He wondered about her, as she about him. Hesaw again that face in the night under the trellis. He heard the voicethat had called to him and Vere in the garden. And he knew that enmity, mysterious yet definite, might arise even between Hermione and him; thateven they two--inexorably under the law that has made all human beingsseparate entities, and incapable of perfect fusion--might be victimsof misunderstanding, of ignorance of the absolute truth of personality. Even now he was companioned by the sudden and horrible doubt which hadattacked him in the garden: that perhaps she had been always playinga part when she had seemed to be deeply interested in his work, thatperhaps there was within her some one whom he did not know, had nevereven caught a glimpse of until lately, once when she was in the tramgoing to the Scoglio di Frisio, and once the last time they had met. Andyet this was the woman who had nursed him in Africa--and this was thewoman against whose impulsive actions he had had the instinct to protectVere--the Hermione Delarey whom he had known for so many years. 

Never before had he looked at Hermione quite as he looked at herto-night. His sense of her strangeness woke up in him something that wasill at ease, doubtful, almost even suspicious, but also something thatwas 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 capableof mystery; a soul with room in it for secret things; a temple whoseoutside he had seen, but whose god, perhaps, he had never seen. 

And Vere was involved in her mother's strangeness, and had her ownstrangeness too. Of that he had been conscious before to-night. For Verewas being formed. The plastic fingers were at work about her, mouldingher 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. Thatsuspicion, that fear, not to be banished by action, added to thecuriosity, as about an unknown land, that she aroused. 

And the new and vital sense of Hermione's strangeness which was alivein Artois was met by a feeling in her that was akin to it, only of thefeminine 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 notin use, and their table was laid in the small restaurant that looks outon the Marina, and was placed close to the window. 

"At last we are repeating our _partie carree_ of the Guiseppone, " saidArtois, as they sat down. 

He felt that as host he must release himself from subtleties andunder-feelings, must stamp down his consciousness of secret inquiriesand of desires or hatreds half-concealed. He spoke cheerfully, evenconventionally. 

"Yes, but without the storm, " said Hermione, in the same tone. "There isno feeling of electricity in the air to-night. "

Even while she spoke she felt as if she were telling a lie which wasobvious to them all. And she could not help glancing hastily round. Shemet the large round eyes of the Marchesino, eyes without subtlety thoughoften expressive. 

"No, Signora, " he said, smiling at her, rather obviously to captivateher by the sudden vision of his superb teeth--"La Bruna is safeto-night. "

"La Bruna?"

"The Madonna del Carmine. "

They talked of the coming festa. 

Vere was rather quiet, much less vehement in appearance and lively inmanner than she had been at the Marchesino's dinner. Artois thoughtshe looked definitely older than she had then, though even then she hadplayed quite well the part of a little woman of the world. There wassomething subdued in her eyes to-night which touched him, because itmade him imagine Vere sad. He wondered if she were still troubled abouther mother, if she had fulfilled her intention and asked Gaspare whathe thought. And he longed to ask her, to know what Gaspare had said. Theremembrance 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 hislightest, most boyish manner--a manner that the determination in hiseyes contradicted rather crudely. "Do you take him everywhere, like alittle 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 foranything, or any one, we like to have always with us. "

"I see. Well, call Gaspare a watch-dog if you like, " she answered, witha smile; "he watches over me carefully. "

"A watch-dog, Signora! But do you like to be watched? Is it notunpleasant?"

He was speaking now to get rid of the impression his first remark hadevidently made upon her. 

"I think it depends how, " she replied. "If Gaspare watches me it is onlyto protect me--I am sure of that. "

"But, Signora, do you not trust Don Emilio, do you not trust me, to beyour watch-dogs to-night at the festa?"

There was a little pressure in his voice, but he still preserved hislight and boyish manner. And now he turned to Vere. 

"Speak for us, Signorina! Tell the Signora that we will take care of herto-night, that there is no need of the faithful Gaspare. "

Vere looked at him gravely. She had wondered a little why her motherhad brought Gaspare, why, at least, she had not left him free till theyreturned to the boat at Santa Lucia. But her mother wanted him to comewith them, and that was enough for her. She opened her lips, and Artoisthought she was going to snub her companion. But perhaps she suddenlychanged her mind, for she only said:

"Who would trust you, Marchese?"

She met his eyes with a sort of child's impertinence. She had abruptlybecome 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 Signorinaremembered his feats in the water. All his self-confidence returned, allhis former certainty that the Signorina was secretly devoted to him. Hisdays of doubt and fury were forgotten. His jealousy of Emilio vanishedin a cloud of happy contempt for the disabilities of age, and he beganto talk to Vere with a vivacity that was truly Neapolitan. When theMarchesino was joyous he had charm, the charm that emanates from thebounding 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, clothingbody and soul. And Vere seemed to respond to it. She began to chatter, too. She talked lightly, flicking him with little whips of sarcasm thatdid not hurt, but only urged him on. The humor of a festa might begin toflow from these two. 

And again, instead of infecting Artois, it seemed to set him apart, torebuke 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 hefound words to play with the words of Vere! His Latin vivacity seemed aperfect substitute for thought, for imagination, for every subtlety. Hebubbled like champagne. And when champagne winks and foams at the edgeof the shining glass, do the young think of, or care for, the sobergravity, the lingering bouquet of claret, even if it be Chateau Margaux?

As Artois half listened to the young people, while he talked quietlywith Hermione, playing the host with discretion, he felt the peculiarcruelty which ordains that the weapons of youth, even if taken up andused by age with vigor and competence, shall be only reeds in thosehands whose lines tell of the life behind. 

Yet how Vere and he had laughed together on the day of his returnfrom Paris! One gust of such mutual laughter is worth how many days ofearnest talk!

Vere was gleaming with fun to-night. 

The waiters, as they went softly about the table, looked at her withkind eyes. Secretly they were enjoying her gayety because it was sopretty. 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 allwomen like to feel their power over men. Few men have not this theory. But there was in Vere something immensely independent, that seemedwithout sex, and that hinted at a reserve not vestal, but very pure--toopure, perhaps, to desire an empire which is founded certainly upondesire. 

And the Marchesino was essentially and completely the young animal;not the heavy, sleek, and self-contented young animal that the northerncountries breed, but the frolicsome, playful, fiery young animal thathas 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 hehad written there, surely in a moment of almost heated impulse. And asshe thought of it she was moved to speak of her thought. She had so manysecret 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 wonderfulvisitors' book. "

"Did you?"

"Yes. And I saw what you had written. "

Their eyes met. She wondered if by the expression in hers he divinedwhy she had made that expedition, moved by what expectation, by whatcuriosity. She could tell nothing by his face, which was calm andinscrutable. 

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 atsomething the Marchesino was saying. 

"Did she?--Oh! Take some of that salade a la Russe. I gave the chef therecipe 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, andillustrating something he was telling her by curious undulating gestureswith both hands that suggested a flight. 

"At least some of us have, " he continued. "And some never have, andnever 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, " heanswered. "That sounds like some nonsense game with words, but it's thebest way to put it. Conscience seems to speak out of the silence. Butthere 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 othersthan 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 notaware 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 shehad given Vere the permission to read his books. 

But still she did not know whether he had written that sentence in thebook at Frisio's carelessly, or prompted by some violent impulse toexpress 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, shakinghis head, and holding the table with his two hands. His white teethgleamed. 

"What is the joke?" asked Artois. 

Vere turned her head. 

"Oh, nothing. It's too silly. I can't imagine why the Marchesino is somuch amused by it. "

Artois felt shut out. But when Vere and he had laughed over thetea-table in a blessed community of happy foolishness, who could haveunderstood their mirth? He remembered how he had pitied the imaginedoutsider. 

He turned again to Hermione, but such conversation as theirs, and indeedall serious conversation, now seemed to him heavy, portentous, almostludicrous. The young alone knew how to deal with life, chasing it as achild chases a colored air-ball, and when it would sink, and fall and beinert, sending it with a gay blow soaring once more towards the blue. 

Perhaps Hermione had a similar thought, or perhaps she knew of it inhim. At any rate, for a moment she had nothing to say. Nor had he. Andso, tacitly excluded, as it seemed, from the merriment of the youngones, 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 someof the crumb from his roll, and pressed it softly between his largefingers, and scattered the tiny fragments mechanically over thetable-cloth near his plate. Hermione watched his moving hand. TheMarchesino was talking now. He was telling Vere about a paper-chase atCapodimonte, which had started from the Royal Palace. His vivacity, his excitement made a paper-chase seem one of the most brilliant andremarkable events in a brilliant and remarkable world. He had been thehare. And such a hare! Since hares were first created and placed in theGarden of Eden there had been none like unto him. He told of his cunningexploits. 

The fingers of Artois moved faster. Hermione glanced at his face. Its massiveness looked heavy. The large eyes were fixed upon thetable-cloth. His hand just then was more expressive. And as she glancedat it again something very pitiful awoke in her, something pitifulfor him and for herself. She felt that very often lately she hadmisunderstood him--she had been confused about him. But now, in thismoment, 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 neverwritten 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 itwas 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 peoplepass by, and wondering where they were all going, and what they were allthinking and hoping. I don't know why they should have come into myhead just then. I suppose it will soon be time for us to start for thefesta. "

"Yes. We'll have coffee in my sitting-room--when they are ready. " Helooked 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 Artoisleaned out of the window for a moment. 

"You needn't be afraid. There will be no storm to-night, Emilio!" saidthe 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 theMarchese can follow in the other. "

"Signora, " said the Marchesino, drawing on his white gloves, "you stilldo not trust us? You are still determined to take the watch-dog? It iscruel 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 ofhumorous resignation which hid a real chagrin. He knew how watchful aSicilian can be, how unyielding in attention to his mistresses, if hethinks they need protection. 

But perhaps this Gaspare was to be bribed. 

Instinctively the Marchesino put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, andbegan 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 ofthe room. 

Emilio had called him "Panacci. " That sounded almost like a declarationof war. Well, he was ready. At dinner his had been the triumph, andEmilio knew it. He meant his triumph to be a greater one before theevening was over. The reappearance of the gay child in Vere, graftedupon the comprehending woman whom he had seen looking out of her eyes onthe day of his last visit to the island, had put the finishing touch tothe amorous madness of the Marchesino. He dreamed Vere an accomplishedcoquette. He believed that her cruelty on the night of his serenade, that her coldness and avoidance of him on the day of the lunch, weremeans devised to increase his ardor. She had been using Emilio merely asan instrument. He had been a weapon in her girlish hands. That was thesuitable fate of the old--usefulness. 

The Marchesino was in a fever of anticipation. Possibly Vere would playinto his hands when they got to the festa. If not, he must manage thingsfor himself. The Signora, of course, would make Emilio her escort. Verewould naturally fall to him, the Marchesino. 

But there was the fifth--this Gaspare. 

When they came out to the pavement the Marchesino cast a searchingglance at the Sicilian, who was taking the cloaks, while the twocarriages which had been summoned by the hotel porter were rattling upfrom the opposite side of the way. Gaspare had saluted him, but did notlook 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 wentto tell the coachman which way to drive to the Carmine. When he hadfinished he looked at Gaspare and said:

"There will be a big crowd. Take care the Signora does not get hurt init. "

He laid a slight emphasis on the word "Signora, " and put his handsignificantly into his waistcoat-pocket. 

Gaspare regarded him calmly. 

"Va bene, Signor Marchese, " he replied. "I will take care of the Signoraand the Signorina. "

The Marchesino turned away and jumped into the second carriage withEmilio, 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 theMarchesino. 

"Grazie. But we must walk about. We must show the ladies the fun in theMercato. 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 Marchesinoto 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 atfirst, then turning to the left up the hill towards the Piazza delPlebiscito. The Marchesino crossed his legs, folded his arms, andinstinctively assumed the devil-may-care look characteristic of theyoung Neapolitan when driving through his city. 

"Emilio, " he said, after a moment, looking at Artois out of the cornersof his eyes without moving his head, "when I was at the island the otherday, 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 theSignorina?"

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 pitythat some one does not explain to the Signora how impossible--"

"Caro mio!" Artois exclaimed, unable to endure his companion's obviousinclination to pose as a protector of Vere's innocence. "English ladiesdo not care to be governed. They are not like your charming women. Theyare independent and do as they choose. You had much better not botheryour head about what happens on the island. Very soon the Signora may beleaving it and going away from Naples. "

"Davvero?"

The Marchesino turned right round in the little carriage, forgetting hispose. 

"Davvero? No. I don't believe it. You play with me. You wish to frightenme. "

"To frighten you! I don't understand what you mean. What can it matterto 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 complicatematters with the ladies. 

As they entered the Via del Popolo, and drew near to the Piazza diMasaniello, his excitement increased, stirred by the sight of the crowdsof people, who were all streaming in the same direction past the ironrails of the port, beyond which, above the long and ghostly sheds thatskirt the sea, rose the tapering masts of vessels lying at anchor. Plans buzzed in his head. He called upon all his shrewdness, allhis trickiness of the South. He had little doubt of his capacityto out-manoeuvre Emilio and the Signora. And if the Signorina werefavorable to him, he believed that he might even get the betterof Gaspare, in whom he divined a watchful hostility. But would theSignorina help him? He could not tell. How can one ever tell what a girlwill do at a given moment?

With a jerk the carriage drew up beneath the walls of the prison thatfrowns upon the Piazza di Masaniello, and the Marchesino roused himselfto the battle and sprang out. The hum of the great crowd alreadyassembled, the brilliance of the illuminations that lit up the houses, Nuvolo's tower, the fa�ade of the Church of the Carmine, and theadjoining monastery, the loud music of the band that was stationed inthe Kiosk before the enclosure, stirred his young blood. As he wentquickly to help Hermione and Vere, he shot a glance almost of contemptat 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 ofpeople who were struggling gayly towards the centre of the square, intent upon seeing the big doll that was enthroned there dressed asMasaniello. 

"We had better go into the enclosure. Don't you think so?" he said toHermione. 

"If you like. I am ready for anything. "

"We can walk about afterwards. Perhaps the crush will be less when thefire-balloon has gone up. "

The Marchesino said nothing, and they gained the enclosure, where rowsof little chairs stood on the short grass that edges the side of theprison that looks upon the Piazza. Gaspare, who on such occasionswas full of energy and singularly adroit, found them good places in amoment. 

"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, andstood like a sentinel. Artois had never liked him better than at thatmoment. Hermione, who looked rather tired, sat down on her chair. Theloud music of the band, the lines of fire that brought the discoloredhouses into sharp relief, and that showed her with a distinctness thatwas fanciful and lurid the moving faces of hundreds of strangers, thedull roar of voices, and the heat that flowed from the human bodies, seemed to mingle, to become concrete, to lie upon her spirit like aweight. Artois stood by her, leaning on his stick and watching the crowdwith his steady eyes. The Marchesino was looking up at Vere, standingin a position that seemed to indicate a longing that she should rest herhand 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 lita 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 afurnace 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 hisface 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 asensation of great restlessness. 

"What do you say, Vere?" she added. 

"Oh, I should love to go among the people and see everything, " sheanswered, 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. "Thecrowd is tremendous. "

"But they are all in good humor, " he answered, carelessly. "WeNeapolitans, we are very gay, that is true, but we do not forget ourmanners when we have a festa. There is nothing to fear. This is the bestway out. We must cross the Mercato. The illuminations of the streetsbeyond are always magnificent. The Signorina shall walk down paths offire, but she shall not be burned. "

He led the way with Vere, going in front to disarm the suspicion whichhe saw plainly lurking in Emilio's eyes. Artois followed with Hermione, and Gaspare came last. The exit from the enclosure was difficult, asmany people were pouring in through the narrow opening, and others, massed together outside the wooden barrier, were gazing at the seatedwomen within; but at length they reached the end of the Piazza, andcaught a glimpse of the Masaniello doll, which faced a portrait of theMadonna del Carmine framed in fire. Beyond, to the right, abovethe heads of the excited multitude, rose the pale-pink globe of thefire-balloon, and as for a moment they stood still to look at it theband struck up a sonorous march, the balloon moved sideways, swayed, heeled over slightly like a sailing-yacht catching the breeze beyondthe harbor bar, recovered itself, and lifted the blazing car above thegesticulating arms of the people. A long murmur followed it as it glidedgently away, skirting the prodigious belfry with the apparent precautionof a living thing that longed for, and sought, the dim freedom of thesky. The children instinctively stretched out their arms to it. Allfaces were lifted towards the stars, as if a common aspiration at thatmoment infected the throng, a universal, though passing desire to befree of the earth, to mount, to travel, to be lost in the great spacesthat encircle terrestrial things. At the doors of the trattorie thepeople, who had forsaken their snails, stood to gaze, many of themholding glasses of white wine in their hands. The spighe arrosto, thewatermelons, were for a moment forgotten on the stalls of their vendors, who ceased from shouting to the passers-by. There was a silence in whichwas almost audible the human wish for wings. Presently the balloon, caught by some vagrant current of air, began to travel abruptly, andmore swiftly, sideways, passing over the city towards its centre. Atonce the crowd moved in the same direction. Aspiration was gone. Aviolence of children took its place, and the instinct to followwhere the blazing toy led. The silence was broken. People called andgesticulated, laughed and chattered. Then the balloon caught fire fromthe brazier beneath it. A mass of flames shot up. A roar broke from thecrowd and it pressed more fiercely onward, each unit of it longing tosee where the wreck would fall. Already the flames were sinking towardsthe city. 

"Where are Vere and the Marchesino?"

Hermione had spoken. Artois, whose imagination had been fascinated bythe instincts of the crowd, and whose intellect had been chained towatchfulness 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 nolonger with them. The watch-dog had been more faithful than he. 

"They must be close by, " he added. "The sudden movement separated us, nodoubt. "

"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 lookfor them. They are certain to have gone with the crowd. "

They followed the people into the Mercato. The burning balloon droppeddown 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 thecrowd pressed against her roughly. Instinctively she caught hold ofArtois' 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 towalk on steadily, though slowly. Now that the balloon had vanished thecrowd had forgotten it, and was devoting itself eagerly to the pleasuresof the bar. In the tall and barrack-like houses candles gleamed in honorof Masaniello. The streets that led away towards the city's heartwere decorated with arches of little lamps, with columns and chains oflights, and the pedestrians passing through them looked strangely blackin this great frame of fire. From the Piazza before the Carmine thefirst rocket rose, and, exploding, showered its golden rain upon thepicture of the Virgin. 

"Perhaps they have gone back into the Piazza. "

Hermione spoke after a long silence, during which they had searchedin vain. Artois stood still and looked down at her. His face was verystern. 

"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 forGaspare. "

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 madehim mad. "

"But Vere was only gay at dinner as any child--"

"Don't think I am blaming Vere. If she has fascination, she cannot helpit. "

"What shall we do?"

"Will you let me put you into a cab? Will you wait in my room at thehotel until I come back with Vere? I can search for her better alone. Iwill find her--if she is here. "

Their eyes met steadily as he finished speaking, and he saw, or thoughthe saw, in hers a creeping menace, as if she had the intention to attackor 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 avery difficult one for him. And the violence that was blazing within himmade him fear that if Hermione did not yield to his wish he might losehis 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 hadtold the driver to go to the Hotel Royal. Then she glanced at him with astrange expression of acute self-consciousness which he had never beforeseen on her face. 

"You don't believe that--that there is any danger to Vere?" she said, ina 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 swishand the bang of rockets, the vehement music of the band, the criesand laughter of the people, the sound of footsteps as if a world werestarting on some pilgrimage; how long he saw the dazzling avenues offire stretching away into the city's heart; how long he looked at thefaces of strangers, seeking Vere's face. He was excessively conscious ofalmost 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 sawGaspare 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 tothe 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 hisinattention. 

"Some one spoke to me. When I--when I had finished the Signorina andthat 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 swiftlytowards the Marina. All the time the little carriage rattled over thestony streets Artois expected Gaspare to speak to him, to tell him more, to tell him something tremendous. He felt as if the Sicilian were besetby an imperious need to break a long reserve. But, if it were so, thisreserve was too strong for its enemy. Gaspare's lips were closed. He didnot say a word till the cabman drew up before the hotel. 

As Artois got out he knew that he was terribly excited. The hall wasalmost dark, and the night concierge came from his little room on theright 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 atGaspare. 

"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 heheard 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 fromArtois. 

"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, buthis touch told the Sicilian much--told him how he was understood, how hewas 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 inthe 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 theout-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 almostangrily astonished. 

"They may come here immediately, " he said. "I wish to see Panacci--whenhe comes. "

She looked at him quickly. 

"It must be an accident, " she said. "I can't--I won't believe that--noone 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 turnedround. 

"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 toyou?"

"I think Gaspare might have kept with Vere, ought to have kept withVere. "

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 willunderstand 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 tobe commanding destiny. 

Artois said nothing. And his apparent calm seemed to punish her, almostas 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 soundof wheels. She felt that she heard him listening, that she heard himdemanding the sound. And as she looked at his dark figure, beyond whichshe saw the vagueness of night and some stars, she was conscious ofthe life in him as she had never been conscious of it before, she wasconscious of all his manhood terribly awake. 

That was for Vere. 

A quarter of an hour went by. Artois remained always on the balcony, andscarcely moved. Hermione watched him, and tried to learn a lesson;tried to realize without bitterness and horror that in the heart ofman everything has been planted, and that therefore nothing which growsthere should cause too great amazement, too great condemnation, orthe absolute withdrawal of pity; tried to face something which mustcompletely change her life, sweeping away more than mere illusions, sweeping away a long reverence which had been well founded, and whichshe had kept very secret in her heart, replacing its vital substancewith a pale shadow of compassion. 

She watched him, and she listened for the sound of wheels, until at lastshe 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 ofa carriage rapidly approaching. He looked over the road. The carriagerattled up. She heard it stop, and saw him bend down. Then suddenly hedrew 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 theuncarpeted corridor, and Vere entered, followed, but not closely, by theMarchesino. Vere went up at once to her mother, without even glancing atArtois. 

"I am so sorry, Madre, " she said, quietly. "But--but it was not myfault. "

The Marchesino had paused near the door, as if doubtful of Vere'sintentions. 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 separatedfrom you by the crowd, and could not find you immediately. The Signorinawished to go back to the enclosure. Unfortunately I had lost thetickets, so that we should not have been readmitted. Under thesecircumstances I thought the best thing was to show the Signorina theilluminations, and then to come straight back to the hotel. I hope youhave not been distressed. The Signorina was of course perfectly safewith me. "

"Thank you, Marchese, " said Hermione, coldly. "Emile, what are we to doabout 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 bestplan. "

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. "Itis too late for them to go home by boat, and their servant has not comeback 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 athim. 

She followed her mother without saying another word. 

Artois looked after them as they went down the corridor, watched Vere'sthin 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, tomake sure of his self-control. When the sound of the footsteps had diedcompletely away he drew back into the room and shut the door. 

The Marchesino was standing near the window. When he saw the face ofArtois 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 youanything 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 somelemon-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 seethe illuminations. What's the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because welost you in the crowd?"

"You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotelto-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-likelook had come into his face, changing it from its usual boyish impudenceto a hardness that suggested age. At that moment he looked much olderthan he was. 

"Be careful, Emilio!" he said. "I am Neapolitan, and I do not allowmyself 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'slife 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'sarm. 

"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 theMarchesino. 

"Where did you take that child? What did you say to her? What did youdare to say?"

"I! And you?" said the Marchesino, sharply. 

He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. "And you--you!" herepeated. 

"I?"

"Yes--you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I atleast am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate. Iknow what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I--I amready 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! Likeit or hate it--that does not matter! It is not his fault. He is likethat. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that, and he isthat--he is that!' Do you hear? That is what I am ready to do. Butyou--you--! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!"

He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shookhis head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently andrepeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look cameinto his mobile face. 

"The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above thefollies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl, andwho is proud of loving her, and who knows that he loves her, that hewants her, that he wishes to take her! Stand still!"--he suddenly hissedout the words. "The man with the white hairs who might have had manychildren of his own, but who prefers to play papa--caro papa, Babbobello!--to the child of another on a certain little island. Ah, buonDio! The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; by whose sidethe little Isidoro seems only a small boy from college, about whomnobody need bother! How he is loved, and how he is trusted on theisland! Nobody must come there but he and those whom he wishes. He isto 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 lovespleasure. He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidoro! Keephim out! Keep him away! But the great writer--with the whitehairs--everything is allowed to him because he is Caro Papa. He mayteach the Signorina. He may be alone with her. He may take her outat night in the boat. "--His cheeks were stained with red and hiseyes glittered. --"And when the voice of that wicked little Isidoro isheard--Quick! Quick! To the cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it isdark, 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 nighttill he is tired! Ah--ah--ah! That is good! And now back to theisland--quick!--before he finds out!"--He thrust out his arm towardsArtois. --"And that is my friend!" he exclaimed. "He who calls himselfthe friend of the little wicked Isidoro. P--!"--He turned his head andspat on to the balcony. --"Gran Dio! And this white-haired Babbo! Hesteals into the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He puts agirl of the town to live with the Signorina upon the island, to teachher--"

"Stop!" said Artois. 

"I will not stop!" said the Marchesino, furiously. "To teach theSignorina 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 whitehairs, you are mad. You are mad about the 'child. ' You play papa, andall the time you are mad, and you think nobody sees it. But every onesees it, every one knows it. Every one knows that you are madly in lovewith the Signorina. "

Artois had stepped back. 

"I--in love!" he said. 

His voice was contemptuous, but his face had become flushed, and hishands suddenly clinched themselves. 

"What! you play the hypocrite even with yourself! Ah, we Neapolitans, wemay be shocking; but at least we are sincere! You do not know!--then Iwill tell you. You love the Signorina madly, and you hate me because youare jealous of me--because I am young and you are old. I know it; theSignora knows it; that Sicilian--Gaspare--he knows it! And now you--youknow 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 withit. 

Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking at the Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something more which must inevitably come. TheMarchesino took out his handkerchief, passed it several times quicklyover his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and shut it up in his lefthand. 

"I am young and you are old, " he said. "And that is all the matter. Youhate me, not because you think I am wicked and might do the Signorinaharm, but because I am young. You try to keep the Signorina from mebecause 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 didknow, if once she did feel, if she touched the fire"--he struck his handdown on his breast--"she would be carried away, she would be gone fromyou forever. You think, 'Now she looks up to me! She reverences me! Sheadmires me! She worships me as a great man!' And if once, only once shetouched 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. --"Awaywould go everything--everything. She would forget your talent, she wouldforget your fame, she would forget your thoughts, your books, she wouldforget you, do you hear?--all, all of you. She would remember only thatyou are old and she is young, and that, because of that, she is not foryou. And then"--his voice dropped, became cold and serious and deadly, like the voice of one proclaiming a stark truth--"and then, if sheunderstood you, what you feel, and what you wish, and how you think ofher--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. Arivederci, Emilio!"

His manner had suddenly become almost calm. He turned away and wenttowards 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 thehalf-hour after one. Artois looked at it and at his watch, comparingthem. The action was mechanical, and unaccompanied by any thoughtconnected with it. When he put his watch back into his pocket he didnot know whether its hands pointed to half-past one or not. He carrieda 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 themind of Artois--why, he did not know. He saw before him a vision of agirl and of a flame. The flame aspired towards the girl, but the girlhesitated, 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 madlyin love with Vere. Monstrous absurdity! What trivial nonsense men talkedin moments of anger, when they desired to wound!

And to-morrow the Marchesino would ask Vere to marry him. Of courseVere would refuse. She had no feeling for him. She would tell him so. Hewould be obliged to understand that for once he could not have his ownway. 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 girlwho 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 notsecretly groaned or cursed, railed against destiny, striven to defy itby travesty, as do many men. He had thought himself to be "above" allthat--until lately. But now, as he thought of the fire, he was consciousof an immense sadness that had in it something of passion, or a regretthat was, for a moment, desperate, bitter, that seared, that tortured, that was scarcely to be endured. It is terrible to realize that one isat a permanent disadvantage, which time can only increase. And just thenArtois 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 hadspoken with a strange assurance. He had dared to say:

"You love the Signorina. I know it; the Signora knows it; Gaspare--heknows it. And now you--you know it. "

Was it possible that his deep interest in Vere, his paternal delight inher talent, in her growing charm, in her grace and sweetness, could havebeen mistaken for something else, for the desire of man for woman? Verehad certainly never for a moment misunderstood him. That he knew assurely as he knew that he was alive. But Gaspare and Hermione? He fellinto deep thought, and presently he was shaken by an emotion that waspartly disgust and partly anxiety. He got up from his chair andlooked out into the night. The weather was exquisitely still, the skyabsolutely clear. The sea was like the calm that dwells surely in thebreast of God. Naples was sleeping in the silence. But he was terriblyawake, 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 adiscerner of it. The Marchesino was but a thoughtless, passionate boy, headstrong, Pagan, careless of intellect, and immensely physical. Yetit was possible that he had been enabled to see a truth which Artois hadneither seen nor suspected. Artois began to believe it possible, as heremembered many details of the conduct of Hermione and of Gasparein these last summer days. There had been something of condemnationsometimes in the Sicilian's eyes as they looked into his. He hadwondered what it meant. Had it meant--that? And that night in the gardenwith Hermione--

With all the force and fixity of purpose he fastened his mind uponHermione, letting Gaspare go. 

If what the Marchesino had asserted were true--not that--but if Hermionehad believed it to be true, much in her conduct that had puzzled Artoiswas made plain. Could she have thought that? Had she thought it? And ifshe had--? Always he was looking out to the stars, and to the ineffablecalm of the sea. But now their piercing brightness, and its largerepose, only threw into a sort of blatant relief in his mind itsconsciousness of the tumult of humanity. He saw Hermione involved inthat 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 timeconsidering the Marchesino seriously, not as a boy, but as a man whoperhaps 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 looknow at himself, into his own heart and nature, into his own life. Uponthe sea, to the right and far off, a light was moving near the blacknessof the breakwater. It was the torch of a fisherman--one of those eyes ofthe South of which Artois had thought. His eyes became fascinated byit, and he watched it with intensity. Sometimes it was still. Then ittravelled gently onward, coming towards him. Then it stopped again. Fire--the fire of youth. He thought of the torch as that; as youth withits hot strength, its beautiful eagerness, its intense desires, itsspark-like hopes, moving without fear amid the dark mysteries of theworld and of life; seeking treasure in the blackness, the treasure ofan answering soul, of a completing nature, of the desired and desirousheart, 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, longedfor. And she knew it, and must be searching, too, perhaps withoutdefinite consciousness of what she was doing, instinctively. She wassearching there in the blackness, and in her quest she was approachinghim. But where he stood it was all dark. There was no flame liftingitself up that could draw her flame to it. The fire that was approachingwould pass before him, would go on, exploring the night, would vanishaway from his eyes. Elsewhere it would seek the fire it needed, the fireit would surely find at last. 

And so it was. The torch came on, passed softly by, slipped from hissight beneath the bridge of Castel dell' Uovo. 

When it had gone Artois felt strangely deserted and alone, strangelyunreconciled with life. And he remembered his conversation with Hermionein 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 otherhuman needs come after that great necessity. He had thought himself aman full of self-knowledge, full of knowledge of others. But he had notknown himself. Perhaps even now the real man was hiding somewhere, fardown, shrinking away for fear of being known, for fear of being draggedup into the light. 

He sought for this man, almost with violence. 

A weariness lay beneath his violence to-night, a physical fatigue suchas he sometimes felt after work. It had been produced, no doubt, by thesecret anger he had so long controlled, the secret but intense curiositywhich was not yet satisfied, and which still haunted him and torturedhim. This curiosity he now strove to expel from his mind, tellinghimself that he had no right to it. He had wished to preserve Vere justas she was, to keep her from all outside influences. And now he askedthe real man why he had wished it? Had it been merely the desire ofthe literary godfather to cherish a pretty and promising talent? Or hadsomething of the jealous spirit so brutally proclaimed to him thatnight by the Marchesino really entered into the desire? This torturingcuriosity to know what had happened at the Festa surely betrayed theexistence of some such spirit. 

He must get rid of it. 

He began to walk slowly up and down the little balcony, turning everyinstant like a beast in a cage. It seemed to him that the real man hadindeed lain in hiding, but that he was coming forth reluctantly into thelight. 

Possibly he had been drifting without knowing it towards some namelessfolly. He was not sure. To-night he felt uncertain of himself and ofeverything, almost like an ignorant child facing the world. And he feltalmost afraid of himself. Was it possible that he, holding within him somuch of the knowledge, so much of pride, could ever draw near to a crazyabsurdity, a thing that the whole world would laugh at and despise? Hadhe drawn near to it. Was he near it now?

He thought of all his recent intercourse with Vere, going back mentallyto the day in spring when he arrived in Naples. He followed the recordday by day until he reached that afternoon when he had returned fromParis, when he came to the island to find Vere alone, when she readto him her poems. Very pitilessly, despite the excitement still ragingwithin him, he examined that day, that night, recalling every incident, recalling every feeling the incidents of those hours had elicited fromhis heart. He remembered how vexed he had been when Hermione told himof the engagement for the evening. He remembered the moments afterthe dinner, his sensation of loneliness when he listened to the gayconversation of Vere and the Marchesino, his almost irritable anxietywhen she had left the restaurant and gone out to the terrace in thedarkness. He had felt angry with Panacci then. Had he not always feltangry with Panacci for intruding into the island life?

He followed the record of his intercourse with Vere until he reached theFesta of that night, until he reached the moment in which he was pacingthe 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 beentelling over in his mind affected her? What had she been thinking ofit--feeling about it? And Gaspare?

Even now Artois did not understand himself, did not know whither hissteps might have tended had not the brutality of the Marchesino rousedhim abruptly to this self-examination, this self-consideration. He didnot fully understand himself, and he wondered very much how Hermione andthe Sicilian had understood him--judged him. 

Artois had a firm belief in the right instincts of sensitive butuntutored natures, especially when linked with strong hearts capable ofdeep love and long fidelity. He did not think that Gaspare would easilymisread the character or the desires of one whom he knew well. Hermionemight. She was tremendously emotional and impulsive, and might becarried away into error. But there was a steadiness in Gaspare which wasimpressive, 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 hatin his hand, and looking tragic and very hot and tired. 

"Oh, Gaspare!" said Artois, coming in from the balcony, "they have comeback. "

"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 mustspend 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 andlemon-juice. He would not have brandy or whiskey, though he would nothave 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 theharbor. And the Signorina?"

He stared at Artois searchingly above his glass. His face was coveredwith 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 lyingon 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 na�ve 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 doggedemphasis. 

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 heonly said:

"The Signore Marchese will know that to-morrow. "

And as he spoke the words he was conscious of an immense sensation ofrelief which startled him. He was too glad when he thought of the finaldismissal of the Marchesino. 

Gaspare nodded his head and put his glass to his lips. When he set itdown 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 cruelwatcher, 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 beevaded, a question that would break like a hammer upon a mutual silenceof years, was almost upon Artois' lips. Perhaps Gaspare saw it, for hegot 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 pastten 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 withGaspare. As Artois took the note he was conscious of a mingled feelingof relief and disappointment. This swift, almost hurried departure lefthim lonely, yet he could not have met Hermione and Vere happily in thelight of morning. To-day he felt a self-consciousness that was unusualin him, and that the keen eyes of women could not surely fail toobserve. He wanted a little time. He wanted to think quietly, calmly, toreach a decision that he had not reached at night. 

Hermione and Vere had a very silent voyage. Gaspare's tragic humor casta cloud about his mistresses. He had met them in the morning with alook of heavy, almost sullen scrutiny in his great eyes, which seemed todevelop into a definite demand for information. But he asked nothing. He made no allusion to the night before. To Vere his manner was almostcold. When they were getting into the boat at Santa Lucia she said, withnone of her usual simplicity and self-possession, but like one making aneffort 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 washeavily hot, languidly hot even upon the water. There was a haze hangingover the world in which distant objects appeared like unsubstantialclouds, or dream things impregnated with a mystery that was mournful. The voice of a fisherman singing not far off came to them like the voiceof Fate, issuing from the ocean to tell them of the sadness that was thedoom of men. Behind them Naples sank away into the vaporous distance. Vesuvius was almost blotted out, Capri an ethereal silhouette. And theirlittle island, even when they approached it, did not look like the solidland on which they had made a home, but like the vague shell of somesubstance that had been destroyed, leaving its former abiding-placeuntenanted. 

As they passed San Francesco Vere glanced at him, and Hermione saw afaint flush of red go over her face. Directly the boat touched the rockshe stepped ashore, and without waiting for her mother ran up the stepsand disappeared towards the house. Gaspare looked after her, then staredat his Padrona. 

"Is the Signorina ill?" he asked. 

"No, Gaspare. But I think she is tired to-day and a little upset. We hadbetter 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 herroom writing some letters, Gaspare appeared with an angry and suspiciousface. 

"Signora, " he said, "that Signore is here. "

"What Signore? The Marchese!"

"Si, Signora. "

Gaspare was watching his Padrona's face, and suddenly his own facechanged, 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. Whereis the Signorina?"

"Up in her room, Signora. "

"You can tell her who is here, and ask her whether she wishes to havetea in her room or not. "

"Si, Signora. "

Gaspare went out almost cheerfully. He felt that now he understood whathis Padrona was feeling and what she meant to do. She meant to do in herway what he wanted to do in his. He ran down the steps to the water withvivacity, and his eyes were shining as he came to the Marchesino, whowas 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 amoment almost stupidly, and hesitated. He felt as if this servant hadtold 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. Itwas empty. Gaspare placed a chair for the Marchesino. And again thelatter felt as if he had received a blow. He glanced round him and satdown, while Gaspare went away. For about five minutes he waited. 

When he had arrived at the island he had been greatly excited. He hadfelt full of an energy that was feverish. Now, in this silence, in thispause during which patience was forced upon him, his excitement grew, became fierce, dominant. He knew from Gaspare's way of speaking, fromhis action, from his whole manner, that his fate had been secretlydetermined in that house, and that it was being rejoiced over. At firsthe sat looking at the floor. Then he got up, went to the window, cameback, stood in the middle of the room and glanced about it. How prettyit was, with a prettiness that he was quite unaccustomed to. In hisfather's villa at Capodimonte there was little real comfort. And he knewnothing of the cosiness of English houses. As he looked at this room hefelt, or thought he felt, Vere in it. He even made an effort scarcelynatural 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 Emiliowas 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. Nodoubt there had been a consultation. And probably at this consultationhis--the Marchesino's--fate had been decided. 

By Emilio?

At that moment the Marchesino actively, even furiously, hated his formerfriend. 

There was a little noise at the door; the Marchesino turned swiftly, andsaw 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 tolook calm. 

"Good-afternoon, Signora. "

Hermione sat down. He followed her example. 

"I don't know why you wish to see me, after yesterday, Marchese, " shesaid, 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 theSignorina'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 theMarchesino 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 thefirst word. 

A dogged expression came into the Marchesino's face, a fighting lookthat was ugly and brutal, but that showed a certain force. 

"I do not understand, Signora. I am like other men. What is the matterwith 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 hisvoice. 

"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 opinionof him. Yet was it worth while? He was going out of their lives. Theywould 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 matterwith 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 whowould 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 yourrequest, 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. Thatis why I know so much. "

"She has not--the Signorina has--not--?"

He stopped. A smile went over his face. It was sufficiently obvious thathe understood Vere's silence as merely a form of deceit, a coquettishgirl's cold secret from her mother. 

"Signora, give me permission to speak to your daughter, and you will seewhether 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 theSignor Marchese is here, and wishes very much to see her before hegoes. "

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 amoment 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 cannotcome 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 witha jerk. 

"Signora, " he said, in a hard, uneven voice that betrayed the intensityof his excitement, "I see how it is. I understand perfectly what ishappening here. You think me bad. Well, I am like other men, and Iam not ashamed of it--not a bit. I am natural. I live according tomy nature, and I do not come from your north, but from Naples--fromNaples. " He threw out his arm, pointing at a window that looked towardsthe city. "If it is bad to have the blood hot in one's veins and thefire hot in one's head and in one's heart--very well! I am bad. And I donot care. I do not care a bit! But you think me a stupid boy. And I amnot that. And I will show you. " He drew his fingers together, and benttowards her, slightly lowering his voice. "From the first, from the veryfirst 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 nowit is for me to speak. It is my right. I come here with an honorableproposal, and therefore I say I have a right--"

He put his fingers inside his shirt collar and pulled it fiercely outfrom his throat. 

"E il vecchio!" he exclaimed, with sudden passion. "E il maledettovecchio!"

Hermione's face changed. There had been in it a firm look, a calmness ofstrength. But now, at his last words, the strength seemed to shrink. Itdwindled, 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 movesinstinctively when he is determined to make something absolutely clearto one who does not wish to understand. 

"And you know it, and every one knows it--every one. When I was in thesea, when I saw the Signorina for the first time, I did not know who shewas, where she lived; I did not know anything about her. I went to tellmy friend about her--my friend, you understand, whom I trusted, towhom I told everything!--I went to him. I described the Signora, the Signorina, the boat to him. He knew who the ladies were; he knewdirectly. I saw it in his face, in his manner. But what did he say? Thathe 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 wassharper 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 theSignorina. That night I made him. You remember? Well, then--ever sincethat night all is changed between us. Ever since that night he is myenemy. Ever since that night he suspects me, he watches me, he hidesfrom me, he hates me. Oh, he tries to conceal it. He is a hypocrite. ButI, stupid as I am, I see it all. I see what he is, what he wants, Isee all--all that is in his mind and heart. For this noble old man, sorespected, with the white hairs and the great brain, what is he, whatdoes he do? He goes at night to the Galleria. He consults with MariaFortunata, she who is known to all Naples, she who is the aunt of thatgirl--that girl of the town and of the bad life, whom you have taken tobe your servant here. You have taken her because he--he has told you totake 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 lovesher madly, that he wishes, that he means to keep her for himself. Did henot hide with her in the cave, in the Grotto of Virgil, that night whenI 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 hemeans--"

"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. Thecrouching woman had vanished. She was mistress of herself. 

"Gaspare!" she called, in a loud, sharp voice that betrayed the innerexcitement 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 tohis 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, butstepped out into the passage and looked up to the staircase that led tothe top floor of the house. He listened. He heard nothing. 

"Is the French Signore here?" he said to Gaspare. "Do you hear me? Is hein this house?"

"No, Signore!"

The Marchesino again looked towards the staircase and hesitated. Then heturned and saw Gaspare standing in a watchful attitude, almost like oneabout to spring. 

"Stay here!" he said, loudly, making a violent threatening gesture withhis 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 theMarchesino'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 uponthe island, holding it closely, softly, in a hypnotic grasp, bidding itsurely 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 stayedto greet the darkness and the strange, enormous silence that lay uponthe waters. In the Casa del Mare the atmosphere was almost suffocating, although every window was wide open. The servants went about theirduties leaden-footed, drooping, their Latin vivacity quenched as by aspell. Vere was mute. It seemed, since the episode of the Carmine, as ifher normal spirit had been withdrawn, as if a dumb, evasive personalityreplaced it. The impression made upon Hermione was that the real Verehad 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 soulenjoyed the safety of utter isolation. 

Hermione did not wish to pursue this anchorite. She did not wish to drawnear 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 outburstof the Marchesino, she, too, had felt the desire, the necessity, of adesert place, where she could sit alone and realize the bareness of herworld. 

In that outburst of passion the Marchesino had gathered together andhurled at her beliefs that had surely been her own, but that she hadstriven to avoid, that she had beaten back as spectres and unreal, thatshe had even denied, tricking, or trying to trick, her terrible sense oftruth. His brutality had made the delicacy in her crouch and sicken. It had been almost intolerable to her, to see her friend, Emile, thusdriven out into the open, like one naked, to be laughed at, condemned, held up, that the wild folly, the almost insane absurdity of his secretself might be seen and understood even by the blind, the determined instupidity. 

She had always had a great reverence for her friend, which had beenmingled with her love for him, giving it its character. Was thisreverence to be torn utterly away? Had it already been cast to thewinds?

Poor Emile!

In the first moments after the departure of the Marchesino she pitiedEmile 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 inhis heart, but in his mind! His sense of pride, his self-respect, hispassion for complete independence, his meticulous consciousness of thefitness of things, of what could be and what was impossible--all must bylying in the dust. She could almost have wept for him then. 

But another feeling succeeded this sense of pity, a sensation ofoutrage that grew within her and became almost ungovernable. She had herindependence too, her pride, her self-respect. And now she saw them indust that Emile had surely heaped about them. A storm of almosthard anger shook her. She tasted an acrid bitterness that seemed toimpregnate her, to turn the mainspring of her life to gall. She heardthe violent voice of the young Neapolitan saying: "He is master, he ismaster, he has always been master here!" And she tried to look backover her life, and to see how things had been. And, shaken still bythis storm of anger, she felt as if it were true, as if she had allowedArtois to take her life in his hands and to shape it according to hiswill, as if he had been governing her although she had not known it. Hehad been the dominant personality in their mutual friendship. His hadbeen the calling voice, hers the obedient voice that answered. Only oncehad 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. Andeven from her Garden of Paradise she had obeyed it. For the first timeshe saw that act of renunciation as the average man or woman wouldprobably see it; as an extraordinary, quixotic act, to be wondered atblankly, or, perhaps, to be almost angrily condemned. She stoodaway from her own impulsive, enthusiastic nature, and stared at itcritically--as even her friends had often stared--and realized that itwas unusual, perhaps extravagant, perhaps sometimes preposterous. Thisreadiness to sacrifice--was it not rather slavish than regallyloyal? This forgetfulness of personal joy, this burnt-offering ofpersonality--was it not contemptible? Could such actions bring intobeing the respect of others, the respect of any man? Had Emile respectedher for rushing to Africa? Or had he, perhaps, then and through allthese years, simply wondered how she could have done such a thing?

And Maurice--Maurice? Oh, what had he thought? How had he looked uponthat action?

Often and often in lonely hours she had longed to go down into thegrave, or to go up into the blue, to drag the body, the soul, the heartshe loved back to her. She had been rent by a desire that had made herlimbs shudder, or that had flushed her whole body with red, and set hertemples beating. The longing of heart and flesh had been so vehementthat 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 hehad perhaps died misunderstanding; why she had left him to go to Artois, exactly how she had felt, how desperately sad to abandon the Garden ofParadise, 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 cruellyjealous! 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 precedingdecision as others had seen it, as no doubt Maurice had seen it, asperhaps even Artois had seen it. Why had she instinctively felt thatbecause her nature was as it was, and because she was bravely followingit, every one must understand her? Oh, to be completely understood! Ifshe could call Maurice back for one moment, and just make him see heras she had been then; loyal to her friend, and through and throughpassionately 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 couldhave been supremely happy. She had come back to have a few short hoursdevoid of calm, chilled sometimes by the strangeness that had intrudeditself between her and Maurice, to have one kiss in which surely at lastmisunderstanding 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 hadcarried away from Africa and death had been with her. He had beenclosely 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 alwaysseen, 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? Somethingwithin her, the something, perhaps, that felt rejected, strove to rejectin its turn, did surely reject. Pride burned in her like a fire thatcruelly illumines night, shining upon the destruction it is compassing. 

The terrible sense of outrage that gripped her soul and body--her bodybecause Vere was bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh--seemed to beforcibly changing her nature, as cruel hands, prompted by murder in aheart, change form, change beauty in the effort to destroy. 

That evening Hermione felt herself being literally defaced by thissensation of outrage within her, a sensation which she was powerless toexpel. 

She found herself praying to God that Artois might not come to theisland that night. And yet, while she prayed, she felt that he wascoming. 

She dined with Vere, in almost complete silence--trying to love thisdear child as she had always loved her, even in certain evil moments ofan irresistible jealousy. But she felt immensely far from Vere, distantfrom her as one who does not love from one who loves; yet hideouslynear, too, like one caught in the tangle of an enforced intimacy rootedin a past which the present denies and rejects. Directly dinner was overthey 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 wascoming. She felt that he was on the sea, environed by this strange mistthat 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 lovewith her then unborn child. 

Monstrosities, the monstrosities that are in life, deny them, beat themback, close our eyes to them as we will, rose up around her in the hotstillness. She felt haunted, terrified. She was forcibly changed, andnow all the world was changing about her. 

She must have relief. She could not sit there among spectres waitingfor the sound of oars that would tell her Vere's lover had come to theisland. 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 ofthe night. The heat of it was flaccid. The island seemed to swim in afatigued and breathless atmosphere. The mist that hung about it was likethe mist in a vapor-bath. 

Below the vague sea lay a thing exhausted, motionless, perhaps faintingin the dark. And in this heat and stillness there was no presage, nothrill, however subtle, of a coming change, of storm. Rather there wasthe deadness of eternity, as if this swoon would last forever, neitherdeveloping into life, nor deepening into death. 

Hermione had left the house feverishly, yearning to escape from hercompany of spectres, yearning to escape from the sensation of ruthlesshands defacing her. As she passed the door-sill it was only withdifficulty that she suppressed a cry of "Ruffo!" a cry for help. Butwhen the night took her she no longer had any wish to disturb it by asound. She was penetrated at once by an atmosphere of fatality. Her pacechanged. She moved on slowly, almost furtively. She felt inclined tocreep. 

Would Ruffo be at the island to-night? Would Artois really come? Itseemed unlikely, almost impossible. But if Ruffo were there, if Artoiscame, 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 scarcelybelieve that Vere, that Gaspare, that the servants were there--amongthem Peppina with her cross. 

They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she perhaps cast a spellto-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 ifRuffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, aboy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of thesong of Mergellina. 

And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, sheaccepted his presence as a thing inevitable. 

It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should standtogether 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 notDon Gaspare tell you?"

"Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?"

She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her under the influenceof the night. But already she felt a slight yet decided sense of relief, almost of peace. She drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very closeto him, she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in it theexpression 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 hadbeen eating snails, Signora, and afterwards watermelon, and we had eachhad a glass of white wine. And I was feeling very happy, because my poormamma 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 backagain. 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, andwe were going to see everything: the Madonna, and Masaniello, and thefireworks, 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 thehideous complexities of life; no child of tragedy, but the son surely ofa love that had been gay and utterly contented. 

"Si, Signora! Per dio, Signora, it was wonderful! It was just beforethe fire-balloon went up, Signora, that I saw the Signorina with theNeapolitan Signorino. And close behind them was Don Gaspare. I said tomy mamma, 'Mamma, ecco the beautiful Signorina of the island!' My mammawas 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. 'Andis 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 DonGaspare. "

Ruffo stopped, and Hermione saw a change, a gravity, come into hisbright face. 

"Well, Ruffo?" she said, wondering what was coming. 

"I said to my mamma, Signora, 'Mamma, this is Don Gaspare of theisland. ' Signora, my mamma looked at Don Gaspare for a minute. Herface 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 uslaugh. And Don Gaspare, too, he looked"--Ruffo paused, then used a wordbeloved 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 mymamma. And then my mamma said, 'Gaspare!' just like that, Signora, andput out her hand--so. And Don Gaspare's face got red and hot. And thenfor a minute they spoke together, Signora, and I could not hear whatthey said. For Don Gaspare stood with his back so that I should nothear. And then the balloon went sideways and the people ran, and I didnot see Don Gaspare any more. And after that, Signora, my mamma wascrying all the time. And she would not tell me anything. I only heardher say: 'To think of its being Gaspare! To think of its being Gaspareon 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 Iwas like somebody. "

The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. He stood quietly byHermione, waiting for her to speak in her turn. For a moment she saidnothing. 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 wascrying. 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 knowwhat 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 onespeaking 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 waswatching him. But to-night she did not see the look she longed for, thelook that made Maurice stand before her. Only she discerned, or believedshe discerned, a definite physical resemblance in the boy to the deadman, a certain resemblance of outline, a likeness surely in the poiseof the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in a trait thatsuggested ardor about the full yet delicate lips. Why had she nevernoticed these things before? Had she been quite blind? Or was she nowimaginative? 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 hadforgotten Artois. The words of Ruffo had led her on another step in thejourney 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 theundercurrents that carry through wayward, or terrible, channels thewind-driven bark of life. What could it mean, this encounter justdescribed to her: this pain, this emotion of a woman, her strangequestion 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 haveknown him intimately in the past. When? Surely long ago in Sicily; forRuffo was sixteen, and Hermione felt sure--knew, in fact--that till theycame 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 instinctivelyand with a sure swiftness, turned to retreat from it. She had lostconfidence in herself. She feared her own impulses. Now, abruptly, she told herself that this idea was wholly extravagant. Ruffo probablyresembled some one else whom his mother and Gaspare knew. That was farmore likely. That must be the truth. 

But again she seemed to hear in the night the dull murmurings of thoseundercurrents. And many, many times she recurred mentally to thatweeping 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 oppressiveatmosphere created by the mentality of some of its inhabitants. 

Even she, on that day when she had returned from Capri, had felt asensation of returning to meet some grievous tale. 

She remembered Artois now, recalling his letter which she had found thatday. 

Gaspare and Artois--did they both suspect, or both know, something whichthey had been concealing from her?

Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Yet she did not form in hermind any definite conception of what such a mutual secret might be. Shesimply began to feel frightened, almost like a child. 

She said to herself that this brooding night, with its dumbness, itsheat, its vaporous mystery, was affecting her spirit. And she got upfrom 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 thecrest of the cliff Artois had arrived at the island, that he was nowwith Vere in the house. She knew that it was so. 

And again there rushed upon her that sensation of outrage, of beingdefaced, and of approaching a dwelling in which things monstrous hadtaken up their abode. 

She came to the bridge and paused by the rail. She felt a sort of horrorof the Casa del Mare in which Artois was surely sitting--alone or withVere? 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 therejust below her, the boat to which Ruffo belonged. Was there another? Sheglanced to the right. Yes; there lay by the rock a pleasure-boat fromNaples. 

Artois had come in that. 

She looked again at the other boat, searching the shadowy blackness forthe form of Ruffo. She longed that he might be awake. She longed that hemight sing, in his happy voice, of the happy summer nights, of the sweetwhite moons that light the Southern summer nights, of the bright eyes ofRosa, 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 thelittle light of San Francesco. Only the darkness and the mist confrontedher. She saw no light--and she trembled like one to whom the omens arehostile. 

She trembled and hid her face for a moment. Then she turned and went upinto the house. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

When Hermione reached the door of the Casa del Mare she did not go inimmediately, but waited on the step. The door was open. There was a dimlamp burning in the little hall, which was scarcely more than apassage. She looked up and saw a light shining from the window of hersitting-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 beforeshe entered the house. 

Perhaps they had gone into the garden. The night was terribly hot. Theywould prefer to be out-of-doors. Vere loved the garden. Or they might beon the terrace. 

She stepped into the hall and went to the servants' staircase. Now sheherd voices, a laugh. 

"Giulia!" she called. 

The voices stopped talking, but it was Gaspare who came in answer to hercall. 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 themeeting 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 sitand wait. "

"I see. And the Signorina?"

"I did not tell her, either. She was in the garden alone, but Ihave 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 shedisappeared in the passage. The passage was not long, but it seemed toHermione as if a multitude of impressions, of thoughts, of fears, ofdeterminations rushed through her heart and brain while she walked downit 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 sheheard nothing. 

They were not on the terrace, then!

She again stood still. Her heart was beating violently, and she feltviolent all over, thrilling with violence like one on the edge of someoutburst. 

She looked towards the French window. Through its high space she saw thewan night outside, a sort of thin paleness resting against the blacknessin which she was hidden. And as her eyes became accustomed to theirenvironment she perceived that the pallor without was impinged upon bytwo shadowy darknesses. Very faint they were, scarcely relieved againstthe night, very still and dumb--two shadowy darknesses, Emile and Veresitting together in silence. 

When Hermione understood this she remained where she was, trying tosubdue even her breathing. Why were they not talking? What did thismutual silence, this mutual immobility mean? She was only a few feetfrom them. Yet she could not hear a human sound, even the slightest. There was something unnatural, but also tremendously impressive toher in their silence. She felt as if it signified something unusual, something of high vitality. She felt as if it had succeeded some speechthat 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 wouldhave felt had she found them talking. 

Presently, as the silence continued, she moved softly back into thepassage. She went down it a little way, then returned, walking brisklyand loudly. In this action her secret violence was at play. When shecame to the room she grasped the door-handle with a force that hurt herhand. She went in, shut the door sharply behind her, and without anypause 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. Youdon'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, andshe thought his face looked drawn, almost tortured. But the light wasvery 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 slightlyforward, she looked towards Vere, and thought that she was sitting in avery strange position. In the darkness it seemed to the mother as ifher child's body were almost crouching in its chair, as if the head weredrooping, as if--

"Vere! Is anything the matter with you?"

Suddenly, as if struck sharply, Vere sprang up and passed intothe darkness of the house, leaving a sound that was like a mingledexclamation 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 ahand 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 heought surely to have resented. But he did not resent it. 

"I was sitting on the terrace, " he said, gently. "Vere came in from thegarden. 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 eachother as we always have been--till now. "

He was almost pleading with her, but she did not feel her hardnessmelting. 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 knoweverything about my child's life. "

In those words, and in the way they were spoken, Hermione's bitterjealousy 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 tothe whole world without shame; and yet there may be many things that aninnocent girl would not care to tell to any one. "

"But if things are told they should be told to the mother. The mothercomes first. "

He said nothing. 

"The mother comes first!" she repeated, almost fiercely. "And you oughtto 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 byVere's exclusion of her from the knowledge that had been freely given toArtois brimmed up suddenly in her heart, overflowed boundaries, seemedto 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 thedark. "

Suddenly she was horribly conscious of the darkness of the night inwhich they were together, of the darkness of the world. 

"You love to keep me in the dark, in prison. It is cruel, it is wickedof you. "

"But Hermione--"

"Take care, Emile, take care--or I shall hate you for keeping me in thedark. "

Her passionate words applied only to the later events in which Vere wasconcerned. But his mind rushed back to Sicily, and suddenly there cameto his memory some words he had once read, he did not know when, orwhere:

"The spirit that resteth upon a lie is a spirit in prison. "

As he remembered them he felt guilty, guilty before Hermione. He sawher as a spirit confined for years in a prison to which his action hadcondemned 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 theaccurate knowledge of the essential truths of our own individual lives. From his mind in that moment the cause of Hermione's outburst, Vere andher childish secrets, were driven out by a greater thing that came uponit like a strong and mighty wind--the memory of that lie, in which hehad enclosed his friend's life for years, that lie on which her spirithad rested, on which it was resting still. And his sense of truth didnot permit him to try to refute her accusation. Indeed, he was filledwith a desire that nearly conquered him--there and then, brutally, clearly, nakedly, to pour forth to his friend all the truth, to say toher:

"You have a strong, a fiery spirit, a spirit that hates the dark, thathates imprisonment, a spirit that can surely endure, like the eagle, togaze steadfastly into the terrible glory of the sun. Then come out ofthe darkness, come out of your prison. I put you there--let me bringyou forth. This is the truth--listen! hear it!--it is this--it isthis--and--this!"

This desire nearly conquered him. Perhaps it would have conquered himbut for an occurrence that, simple though it was, changed the atmospherein which their souls were immersed, brought in upon them another worldwith 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, andfrom the misty darkness his happy voice came up to them in the song ofMergellina 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 heartdefied it, laughed at the sorrowful truths of life, set the sweet whitemoon in the sky, covered the sea with her silver. Artois turned towardsthe song and stood still. But Hermione, as if physically compelledtowards it, moved away down the terrace, following in the direction inwhich the boat was going. 

As she passed Artois saw tears running down her cheeks. And he said tohimself:

"No, I cannot tell her; I can never tell her. If she is to be told, letRuffo tell her. Let Ruffo make her understand. Let Ruffo lift her upfrom 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 floodedhis heart. He stood where he was. Far off he still heard Ruffo's voicedrifting away in the mist out to the great sea. And he saw the vagueform of Hermione leaning down over the terrace wall, towards the sea, the song, and Ruffo. 

How intensely strange, how mysterious, how subtle was the influencehoused within the body of that singing boy, that fisher-boy, which, like an issuing fluid, or escaping vapor, or perfume, had stirred andattracted the childish heart of Vere, had summoned and now held fast thedeep heart of Hermione. 

Just then Artois felt as if in the night he was walking with theEternities, as if that song, now fading away across the sea, cameeven from them. We do not die. For in that song to which Hermione bentdown--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 youngheart 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 haddeceived, yet whom he had loved. 

Then let him--let the dead man himself--speak out of that temple whichhe had created in a moment of lawless passion, out of that son whom hehad made to live by the action which had brought upon him death. 

Ruffo--all was in the hands of Ruffo, to whom Hermione, weeping, bentfor consolation. 

The song died away. Yet Hermione did not move, but still leaned overthe sea. She scarcely knew where she was. The soul of her, the sufferingsoul, was voyaging through the mist with Ruffo, was voyaging through themist 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, thatshe had lost Emile in the dark, that even Gaspare was drifting from herin 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 lovedhim. In his happy, innocent song was his happy, innocent soul. 

She listened, she leaned down, almost she stretched out her arms towardsthe sea. And in that moment she knew in her mind and she felt in herheart 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. Hewaited a long time. But she did not move to come to him. And he did notdare to go to her. He did not dare! In all their long friendship neverbefore had his spirit bent before, or retreated as if in fear fromHermione's. To-night he was conscious that in her fierce anger, andafterwards in her tears, she had emancipated herself from him. He wasconscious of her force as he had never been conscious of it before. Something within him almost abdicated to her intensity. And at last heturned 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 longerfriends. Almost imperceptibly, with movement so minute that it hadseemed like immobility, they had been drifting apart through these daysand nights of the summer. And now abruptly the gulf appeared betweenthem. 

He felt just then that they could never more be friends, that their oldhappy camaraderie could never be reestablished. 

That they could ever be enemies was unthinkable. Even in Hermione'sbitterness and anger Artois felt her deep affection. In her cry, "Takecare, Emile, or I shall hate you for keeping me in the dark!" he heardonly the hatred that is the other side of love. 

But could they ever be comrades again? And if they could not, what couldthey be?

As the boat slipped on, under the Saint's light, which was burningalthough the mist had hidden it from Hermione's searching eyes, and outto the open sea, Artois heard again her fierce exclamation. It blendedwith Vere's sob. He looked up and saw the faint lights of the Casa delMare fading from him in the night. And an immense sadness, mingled withan immense, but chaotic, longing invaded him. He felt horribly lonely, and he felt a strange, new desire for the nearness to him of life. Heyearned to feel life close to him, pulsing with a rhythm to which therhythm of his being answered. He yearned for that strange and exquisitesatisfaction, compounded of mystery and wonder, and thrilling withsomething akin to pain, that is called forth in the human being whofeels another human being centring all its highest faculties, itsstrongest powers, its deepest hopes in him. He desired intensely, as hehad never desired before, true communion with another, that mingling ofbodies, 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 thepowerful night would not yield up its prey. 

And now, in the darkness and with Hermione's last words ringing in hisears, he felt almost overwhelmed by the solitariness of his life in theworld of lives. 

That day, before he came to the island, he had met himself face to facelike a man meeting his double. He had stripped himself bare. He hadsearched himself for the truth. Remembering all the Marchesino had said, he had demanded of his heart the truth, uncertain whether it would saveor slay him. It had not slain him. When the colloquy was over he wasstill 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 intime, and with clear, steadfast eyes, might he not have fallen?

His affection for Vere was perfectly pure, was the love of a man withoutdesire for a gracious and charming child. It still was that. He knew itfor that by the wave of disgust that went over him when his imagination, prompted by the Marchesino's brutality, set pictures before him ofhimself in other relations with Vere. The real man in him recoiledso swiftly, so uncontrollably, that he was reassured as to hisown condition. And yet he found much to condemn, something to becontemptuous of, something almost to weep over--that desire to establisha monopoly--that almost sickly regret for his vanished youth, thatbitterness against the community to which all young things instinctivelybelong, whatever their differences of intellect, temperament, andfeeling. 

Could he have fallen?

Even now he did not absolutely know whether such a decadence might havebeen possible to him or not. But that now it would not be possible hefelt that he did know. 

Age could never complete youth, and Vere must be complete. He haddesired to make her gift for song complete. He could never desire tomutilate her life. Had he not said to himself one day, as his boatglided 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 thedetermination to be really himself, no longer half self-deceived and sodeceiving. He had gone out upon the terrace, and waited there. But whenVere had come to join him, he had not been able to be natural. In hisdesire to rehabilitate himself thoroughly and swiftly in his own opinionhe must have been almost harsh to the child. She had approached him alittle doubtfully. She had needed specially just then to be met witheven more than the usual friendship. Artois had seen in her face, in herexpressive 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 hisself-examination, and because he was feeling acutely, he had beenabrupt, cold, changed in his manner. They had sat down together in thedark, and after some uneasy conversation, Vere, perhaps eager to makethings easier between herself and "Monsieur Emile, " had brought up thesubject of her poems with a sort of anxious simplicity, and a touch oftimidity that yet was confidential. And Artois, still recoiling secretlyfrom that which might possibly have become a folly but could never havebeen anything more, had told Vere plainly and almost sternly that shemust 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, leastof all on me. "

"No, Monsieur Emile, " she had answered. 

Those were the last words exchanged between them before Hermione cameand questioned Vere. And only when Vere slipped into the house, leavingthat sound of pain behind her, did Artois realize how cruel he must haveseemed in his desire quickly to set things right. 

He realized that; but, subtle though he was, he did not understand theinmost and root-cause of Vere's loss of self-control. 

Vere was feeling bitterly ashamed, had been bending under this sense ofundeserved shame, ever since the Marchesino's stratagem on the precedingnight. Although she was gay and fearless, she was exquisitely sensitive. Peppina's confession had roused her maidenhood to a theoreticalknowledge of certain things in life, of certain cruel phases of man'sselfishness and lust which, till then, she had never envisaged. TheMarchesino's madness had carried her one step further. She had notactually looked into the abyss. But she had felt herself near tosomething that she hated even more than she feared it. And she hadreturned to the hotel full of a shrinking delicacy, not to be explained, intense as snow, which had made the meeting with her mother and Artoisa torture to her, which had sealed her lips to silence that night, whichhad 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 feelas if she were despised by him because she had been the victim of theMarchesino's trick. Or perhaps Monsieur Emile completely misunderstoodher; perhaps he thought--perhaps he dared to think, that she had helpedthe Marchesino in his manoeuvre. 

Vere felt almost crucified, but was too proud to speak of the pain andbitterness within her. Only when her mother came out upon the terracedid she suddenly feel that she could bear no more. 

That night, directly she was in her room, she locked her door. She wasafraid 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 songhad died away she still leaned over the sea, following his boat with herdesirous heart. Artois, too, was on the sea. She did not know it. Shewas, almost desperately, seeking a refuge in the past. The presentfailed her. That was her feeling. Then she would cling to the past. Andin that song, prompted now by her always eager imagination, she seemedto hear it. For she was almost fiercely, feverishly, beginning tofind resemblances in Ruffo to Maurice. At first she had noticed none, although she had been strangely attracted by the boy. Then she had seenthat look, fleeting but vivid, that seemed for a moment to bring Mauricebefore her. Then, on the cliff, she had discerned a likeness of line, adefinite similarity of features. 

And now--was not that voice like Maurice's? Had it not his wonderfulthrill of youth in it, that sound of the love of life which wakes allthe 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. Butto 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 wassinking 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 delMare, 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 herforever! 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. Ruffowas taken by the mists and by the night. She lifted herself up fromthe balustrade and looked round, remembering suddenly that she had leftArtois upon the terrace. He had disappeared silently, without a word ofgood-bye. 

And now, seeing the deserted terrace, she recollected her fierce attackupon Artois, she remembered how she had stood in the black roomwatching the two darknesses outside, listening to their silence. And sheremembered her conversation with Ruffo. 

Actualities rushed back upon her memory. She felt as if she heard themcoming like an army to the assault. Her brain was crowded with jostlingthoughts, her heart with jostling feelings and fears. She was like onetrying 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 hadnot spoken of it to her mother. Hermione had found it impossible to askher child for any details. There was a secret too. And there were thetwo secrets, which now she knew, but which Vere and Artois thoughtwere unknown to her still. And then--that mystery of which Ruffo hadinnocently spoken that night. 

As Hermione, moving in imagination through the black and threateningtroop, came to that last secret, she was again assailed by a curious, and horrible, sensation of apprehension. She again felt very little andvery 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 thisside of the Casa del Mare were dark. She felt that she must go to thatlight quickly, and she hastened in, went cautiously--though now almostpanic-stricken--through the black room with the French windows, and cameinto 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 notlooking into her face. 

Hermione turned to go up-stairs. She went up two or three steps. Sheheard a bolt shot into its place below her, and she stopped again. To-night she felt for the first time almost afraid of Gaspare. Shetrusted him as she had always trusted him--completely. Yet that trustwas mingled with this new and dreadful sensation of fear bred of herconviction that he held some secret from her in his breast. Indeed, itwas her trust in Gaspare which made her fear so keen. As she stood onthe staircase she knew that. If Gaspare kept things, kept anything fromher that at all concerned her life, it must be because he was faithfullytrying to save her from some pain or misery. 

But perhaps she was led astray by her depression of to-night. Perhapsthis mystery was her own creation, and he would be quite willing toexplain, 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 aminute, will you?"

"Va bene, Signora. "

Was there reluctance in his voice? She thought there was. She wentup-stairs and waited in her sitting-room. It seemed to her that Gasparewas a very long time locking up. She leaned out of the window thatoverlooked 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 notbe 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 anddisappeared. Directly afterwards she heard the windows being shut andbarred, 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 manytimes in reply she had expressed some simple desire! To-night she founda difficulty in answering that blunt question. There was so much thatshe 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 themoment she was entirely dominated by Ruffo and that, which concerned, which was connected with him. The fisher-boy had assumed an abrupt andvast 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 necessaryyou 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. " Shelooked at him earnestly. "But I sometimes wonder--I mean lately--Isometimes wonder whether you do quite understand me. "

"Why, Signora?"

"Do you know what I like best from the people who are near me, who livewith 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 betrusted. I'm not curious. I hate to pry into people's affairs. But Ilove to feel that I am trusted, that those I trust and care for wouldnever 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'tsee 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 hemisunderstood her explanation. But she knew his quickness of mind toowell to be deceived. 

"Gaspare, " she said, "I don't know whether you are going to be frankwith 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. Hecame 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 waswhat is called "an open face. " Now it looked the opposite to that. Whenshe glanced at him, almost furtively, Hermione was once more assailedby fear. She began to speak quickly, with determination, to combat herfear. 

"Gaspare, I may be wrong, but for some time I have felt now and then asif you and I were not quite as we used to be together, as if--well, nowand then it seems to me as if there was a wall, and I was on one sideof the wall and you were on the other. I don't like that feeling, afterhaving you with me so long. I don't like it, and I want to get rid ofit. "

She paused. 

"Si, Signora, " he said, in a low voice. 

He was now looking at the floor. His arms were resting on his knees, andhis hands hung down touching each other. 

"It seems to me that--I never noticed the thing between us until--untilRuffo came to the island. "

"Ruffo?"

"Yes, Gaspare, Ruffo. "

She spoke with increasing energy and determination, still combating herstill formless fear. And because of this interior combat her manner andvoice were not quite natural, though she strove to keep them so, knowingwell 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 withRuffo. "

Gaspare said nothing. 

"I know you like Ruffo, Gaspare. I believe you like him very much. Don'tyou?"

"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 noticedthat. "

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--Ifeel 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 mequite 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 accentof defiance that he was trying to control. Hermione noticed it, and itbrought her to a resolve that, till now, she had avoided. Her secretfear had prompted her to delay, to a gradual method of arriving atthe truth. Now she sat forward, clasping her hands together hard, andspeaking quickly:

"Gaspare, I feel sure that you noticed long ago something very strangein Ruffo. Perhaps you noticed it almost at once. I believe you did. Itis this. Ruffo has an extraordinary look in his face sometimes, a lookof--of your dead Padrone. I didn't see it for some time, but I think yousaw it directly. Did you? Did you, Gaspare?"

There was no answer. Gaspare only cleared his throat again moreviolently. Hermione waited for a minute. Then, understanding that he wasnot going to answer, she went on:

"You have seen it--we have both noticed it. Now I want to tell yousomething--something that happened to-night. "

Gaspare started, looked up quickly, darted at his Padrona a searchingglance of inquiry. 

"What is it?" she said. 

"Niente!"

He kept his eyes on her, staring with a tremendous directness that wasessentially southern. And she returned his gaze. 

"I was with Ruffo this evening. We talked, and he told me that he metyou at the Festa last night. He told me, too, that he was with hismother. "

She waited to give him a chance of speaking, of forestalling anyquestion. 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 wasspeaking more slowly now, and more unevenly--"was this--"

"Si?"

Gaspare's voice was loud. He lifted up his hands and laid them heavilyon 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 itnew to Hermione. Never before had she seen such an expression--or hadshe once--long ago--one night in Sicily?

"That isn't all. Ruffo took his mother home, and when they got home shesaid 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, likeone shaping a thought in her mind while she spoke--"it seems to mestrange that you and Ruffo's mother should have known each other so welllong before Ruffo was born, and that she should cry because she met youat the Festa, and that--afterwards--she should ask Ruffo that. "

"Strange?"

The fear that had been formless was increasing now in Hermione, andsurely it was beginning at last to take a form, but as yet only a formthat was vague and shadowy. 

"Yes. I think it very strange. Did you"--an intense curiosity was alivein 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, withsudden and intense violence. "May the Madonna let me die--may I die"--heheld up his arms--"may I die to-morrow if I have ever said Ruffo waslike anybody!"

He got up from his chair. His face was red in patches, like the face ofa 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 likethat 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 arealways on the door-step, their tongues are always going. Dio mio! Who isto 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 methis--did Ruffo's mother ever know your Padrone?"

She looked straight into his eyes. It seemed to her as if, for the firsttime, there came from them to her a look that had something in it ofdislike. This look struck her to a terrible melancholy, yet she met itfirmly, almost fiercely, with a glance that fought it, that strove tobeat it back. And with a steady voice she repeated the question he hadnot answered. 

"Did Ruffo's mother ever know your Padrone?"

Gaspare moved his lips, passing his tongue over them. His eyes fell. Hemoved his arm, trying to shift it from his Padrona's hand. Her fingersclosed on it more tenaciously. 

"Gaspare, I order you to tell me. "

"Signora, " he said, "such things are not in my service. I am here towork, 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. Helooked into her face, and his eyes were full of a lustrous softness thatwas like a gentle and warm caress. 

"Signora, you know what I am for you. Then leave me alone, Signora. " Hespoke 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 feltbeset by fear, and as if she had nothing within her that was strongenough to stand up in further combat against the assaults of the worldand of destiny. The desire to know all, to probe this mystery, abruptlyleft 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 itall 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'veforgotten it. We've forgotten Sicily, Gaspare. Why should we think of itor 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 stillwith 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 walkedup and down the room. To-night there was no stability in her. Shewas shaken, lacerated mentally, by sharply changing moods that rushedthrough her, one chasing another. Scarcely had Gaspare gone before shelonged to call him back, to force him to speak, to explain everything toher. The fear that cringed was suddenly replaced by the fear that rushesforward blindly, intent only on getting rid of uncertainty even at thecost of death. Soldiers know that fear. It has given men to bayonetpoints. 

Now it increased rapidly within Hermione. She was devoured by a terrorthat was acutely nervous, that gnawed her body as well as her soul. 

Gaspare had known Ruffo's mother in Sicily. And Maurice--he had knownRuffo's mother. He must have known her. But when? How had he got to knowher?

Hermione stood still. 

"It must have been when I was in Africa!"

A hundred details of her husband's conduct, from the moment of hisreturn from the fair till the last kiss he had given her before he wentaway down the side of Monte Amato, flashed through her mind. And eachone 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 upand looked out over the sea. The mist had vanished with the darkness. The vaporous heat was replaced by a delicate freshness that embraced theSouth as dew embraces a rose. On the as yet pale waters, full of varyingshades of gray, slate color, ethereal mauve, very faint pink and white, were dotted many fishing-boats. Hermione looked at them with her tiredeyes. Ruffo's boat was no doubt among them. There was one only a fewhundred yards beyond the rocks from which Vere sometimes bathed. Perhapsthat was his. 

Ruffo's boat! Ruffo!

She put her elbows on the sill of the window and rested her face in herhands. 

Her eyes felt very dry, like sand she thought, and her mind felt drytoo, as if insomnia was withering it up. She opened her lips to breathein the salt freshness of the morning. 

Upon Anacapri a woolly white cloud lay lightly. The distant coast, wheredreams Sorrento, was becoming clearer every moment. 

Often and often in the summer-time had Hermione been invaded by theradiant cheerfulness of the Bay of Naples. She knew no sea that had itsspecial gift of magical gayety and stirring hopefulness, its laughingPagan appeal to all the light things of the soul. It woke even the wearyheart to holiday when, in the summer, it glittered and danced in thesun, whispering or calling with a tender or bold vivacity along itslovely coast. 

Out of this morning beauty, refined and exquisitely gentle, would risepresently 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 tounderstand it. 

All that was long ago. 

Now, as she leaned out, her soul felt old and haggard, and the contactwith the youth and freshness of the morning emphasized its inabilityto be influenced any more by youthful wonders, by the graciousness andinspiration that are the gifts of dawn. 

Was that Ruffo's boat?

Her mind was dwelling on Ruffo, but mechanically, heavily, like a thingwith feet of lead, unable to lift itself once it had dropped down upon asurface. 

All the night her brain had been busy. Now it did not slumber, but itbrooded, like the mist that had so lately left the sea. It brooded uponthe 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, itsburnished gift of gold. The gray was lost in gold. 

And Hermione watched, and drank in the delicate air, but caught nothingof the delicate spirit of the dawn. 

Presently the boat that lay not far beyond the rocks moved. A littleblack figure stood up in it, swayed to and fro, plying tiny oars. Theboat diminished. It was leaving the fishing-ground. It was going towardsMergellina. 

"To-day I am going to Mergellina. "

Hermione said that to herself as she watched the boat till itdisappeared 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 whichthey 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 Paganspirit surely stirred from its brief repose to greet the brilliant day. 

Presently she became aware of a boat approaching the island from thedirection of Mergellina. She saw it first when it was a long distanceoff, and watched it idly as it drew near. It looked black against thegold, till it was off the Villa Pantano. But then, or soon after, shesaw that it was white. It was making straight for the island, propelledby vigorous arms. 

Now she thought it looked like one of the island boats. Could Vere havegot up and gone out so early with Gaspare?

She drew back, lifted her face from her hands, and stood straight upagainst the curtain of the window. In a moment she heard the sound ofoars in the water, and saw that the boat was from the island, and thatGaspare was in it alone. He looked up, saw her, and raised his cap, butwith a rather reluctant gesture that scarcely indicated satisfaction ora 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 intothe Saint's Pool. 

"He has been to Mergellina. "

The mind of Hermione was awake again. The sight of Gaspare had liftedthose feet of lead. Once more she was in flight. 

Arabs can often read the thoughts of those whom they know. In manySicilians there is some Arab blood, and sometimes Hermione had felt thatGaspare 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 togo to Mergellina, to see the mother of Ruffo, to ask her for the truthwhich Gaspare had refused to tell. He had divined this, and he had goneto 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 thishidden truth?

Now she felt that it was vital to her to know this truth. Yet when hermind, 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 tolisten, refused to hear, revolted from--what it did not acknowledge theexistence of. 

Paradox alone could hint the condition of her mind just then. She was inthe thrall of fear, but, had she been questioned, would not have allowedthat she was afraid. 

Afterwards she never rightly knew what was the truth of her during thisperiod 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 hadfinished 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, herexpression, and she came away from the glass feeling almost afraid ofherself. 

At breakfast she and Vere always met. The table was laid out-of-doorsin the little garden or on the terrace if the weather was fine, in thedining-room if it was bad. This morning Hermione saw the glimmer ofthe 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 silvercoffee-pot in quite a bower of roses. Vere was not visible. 

Hermione exchanged a good-morning with Giulia and sat down. Theservant's smiling face brought her a mingled feeling of relief andwonder. The pungent smell of coffee, conquering the soft scent of themany roses, pinned her mind abruptly down to the simple realities andanimal pleasures and necessities of life. She made a strong effort tobe quite normal, to think of the moment, to live for it. The morning wasfresh and lively; the warmth of the sun, the tonic vivacity of the airfrom the sea, caressed and quickened her blood. 

The minute garden was secluded. A world that seemed at peace, a worldof 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 andnot yet carried out resolution crumbled into dust. She forgot thesun, the sea, the peaceful situation and all material things. Shewas confronted by the painful drama of the island life! Vere with hersecrets, Emile with his, Gaspare fighting to keep her, his Padrona, still in mystery. And she was confronted by her own passions, thosehosts 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 doto-day?"

Hermione gave her her coffee, and the little dry tap of a spoon on anegg-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 thanlassitude. 

"I don't know that I shall go as far as Naples. I am going toMergellina. "

"Oh!"

Vere did not ask her what she was going to do there. She showed nospecial interest, no curiosity. 

"What will you do, Vere?"

"I don't know. "

She glanced round. Hermione saw that her usually bright eyes were dulland 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 bereally 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 intoher voice, yet could not keep out of it. "You always manage to findsomething to do. "

Suddenly Vere's eyes filled with tears. She bent down her head and wenton eating. Again she heard Monsieur Emile's harsh words. They seemed tohave changed her world. She felt despised. At that moment she hated theMarchesino with a fiery hatred. 

Hermione was not able to put her arm round her child quickly, to askher what was the matter, to kiss her tears away, or to bid them flowquietly, openly, while Vere rested against her, secure that the sorrowwas understood, was shared. She could only pretend not to see, while shethought 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 Emilehad let Vere see plainly his--his--? But here Hermione stopped. Noteven in her own mind, for herself alone, could she summon up certainspectres. 

She went on eating her breakfast, and pretending not to notice that Verewas 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 theimpossibility of taking Vere with her. Directly she had said thewords she realized that they must have fallen on Vere like a blow. Sherealized this still more when she looked quickly up and saw that Vere'sface was scarlet. 

"I don't mean that I shouldn't like to have you with me, Vere, " sheadded, hurriedly. "But--"

"It's all right, Madre. Well, I've finished. I think I shall go out alittle in my boat. "

She went away, half humming, half singing the tune of the Mergellinasong. 

Hermione put down her cup. She had not finished her coffee, but she knewshe could not finish it. Life seemed at that moment utterly intolerableto her. She felt desperate, as a nature does that is forced back uponitself by circumstances, that is forced to be, or to appear to be, traitor to itself. And in her desperation action presented itself to heras imperatively necessary--necessary as air is to one suffocating. 

She got up. She would start at once for Mergellina. As she wentup-stairs she remembered that she did not know where Ruffo's motherlived, what she was like, even what her name was. The boy had alwaysspoken of her as "Mia Mamma. " They dwelt at Mergellina. That was all sheknew. 

She did not choose to ask Gaspare anything. She would go alone, and findout somehow for herself where Ruffo lived. She would ask the fishermen. Or perhaps she would come across Ruffo. Probably he had gone home bythis time from the fishing. 

Quickly, energetically she got ready. 

Just before she left her room she saw Vere pass slowly by upon thesea, rowing a little way out alone, as she often did in the calm summerweather. Vere had a book, and almost directly she laid the oars in theirplaces side by side, went into the stern, sat down under the awning, and began--apparently--to read. Hermione watched her for two or threeminutes. She looked very lonely; and moved by an impulse to try toerase the impression made on her by the abrupt exclamation at thebreakfast-table, the mother leaned out and hailed the child. 

"Good-bye, Vere! I am just starting!" she cried out, trying to make hervoice 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. Iam 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 beyondMergellina. Find Gaspare, will you?"

Giulia went away and Hermione descended to the Saint's Pool. She waitedthere 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 knewhe had been to see Ruffo's mother. If that were so her journey wouldprobably be in vain. In their conflict Gaspare had struck the firstblow. 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 shewould overleap them. At all costs she would emerge from the darkness inwhich she was walking. A heat of anger rushed over her. She felt as ifGaspare, 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 onthe 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 wassomething brave, something "safe"--so she called it to herself--in hiswhole appearance which had always appealed to her nature. How she longedat that moment to be quite at ease with him! Why would he not trust hercompletely? Perhaps in her glance just then she showed her thought, herdesire. 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 saidnothing. 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 rowme back. "

The fisherman smiled, but Gaspare said:

"I can come for you, Signora. You will not be very long, will you? Youwill 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 strongand almost doglike affection. And, feeling them, she was seized oncemore 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 turnedto walk up the hill. 

At the top, by the Trattoria del Giardinetto, she had to wait forseveral minutes before the tram came. She remembered her solitary dinnerthere on the evening when she had gone to the Scoglio di Frisio to lookat the visitor's book. She had felt lonely then in the soft light of thefading day. She felt far more lonely now in the brilliant sunshine ofmorning. And for an instant she saw herself travelling steadily alonga straight road, from which she could not diverge. She passed milestoneafter milestone. And now, not far off, she saw in the distance a greatdarkness in which the road ended. And the darkness was the ultimateloneliness which can encompass on earth the human spirit. 

The tram-bell sounded. She lifted her head mechanically. A moment latershe was rushing down towards Naples. Before the tram reached the harborof Mergellina, on the hill opposite the Donn' Anna, Hermione got out. Something in her desired delay; there was plenty of time. She wouldwalk a little way among the lively people who were streaming to theStabilimenti to have their morning dip. 

In the tram she had scarcely thought at all. She had given herself tothe air, to speed, to vision. Now, at once, with physical action came ananxiety, a restlessness, that seemed to her very physical too. Her bodyfelt ill, she thought; though she knew there was nothing the matter withher. All through her life her health had been robust. Never yet had shecompletely "broken down. " She told herself that her body was perfectlywell. 

But she was afraid. That was the truth. And to feel fear was speciallyhateful to her, because she abhorred cowardice, and was inclined todespise all timidity as springing from weakness of character. 

She dreaded reaching Mergellina. She dreaded seeing this woman, Ruffo'smother. And Ruffo? Did she dread seeing him?

She fought against her fear. Whatever might befall her she would remainherself, essentially separate from all other beings and from events, secure of the tremendous solitude that is the property of every humanbeing on earth. 

"Pain, misery, horror, come from within, not from without. " She saidthat to herself steadily. "I am free so long as I choose, so long as Ihave the courage to choose, to be free. "

And saying that, and never once allowing her mind to state frankly anyfear, she came down to the harbor of Mergellina. 

The harbor and its environs looked immensely gay in the brilliantsunshine. Life was at play here, even at its busiest. The very workerssang 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 roadwhere the fishermen were talking with intensity, as they leaned againstthe wall hot with the splendid sun. 

Hermione looked for Ruffo's face among all these sun-browned faces, forhis bright eyes among all the sparkling eyes of these children of thesea. 

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 tothe rocks, and saw the brown body of one shoot through the shining airand 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-lookingboatman, with hazel eyes and a sensitive mouth, hailed her from thewater. It was Fabiano Lari, to whom Artois had once spoken, waiting forcustom in his boat the _Stella del Mare_. 

Hermione was attracted to the man, as Artois had been, and she resolvedto find out from him, if possible, where Ruffo's mother lived. She wentdown 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 Idon'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. Theboy ran down to the boat. Fabiano spoke to him in dialect. He got intothe 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 ofhimself, his family, the life and affairs of a boatman. She listenedsympathetically, occasionally putting in a word, till suddenly Fabianosaid:

"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 wassurely groping after something, eagerly, feverishly, yet blindly. 

Fabiano paused beside her. 

"Signora, " he said, staring at her in surprise, "are you tired? Are younot well?"

"I'm quite well. But wait a minute. Yes, I do want to rest for aminute. "

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 calledMaddalena, some girl or some woman. She thought of the servants inthe Casa del Prete, Lucrezia. Had she any sister, any relation calledMaddalena? Or had Gaspare--?

Suddenly Hermione seemed to be on the little terrace above the ravinewith 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 lookingugly. 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 hadspoken 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 thechattering people. They had come to the wooden station where thetram-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 directlyto the tunnel, whose mouth confronted them in the distance. Hermionefelt as if they were going to enter it, were going to walk down it tothe great darkness which seemed to wait for her, to beckon her. Butpresently Fabiano turned to the right, and they came into a streetleading 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 roomsto people who were comparatively poor; not very poor, not in anydestitution, but who made a modest livelihood, and could pay theirfourteen or fifteen lire a month for lodging. She divined by its aspectthat every room was occupied. For the building teemed with life, andechoed with the sound of calling, or screaming, voices. The inhabitantswere surely all of them in a flurry of furious activity. Children wereplaying before and upon the door-step, which was flanked by an openshop, whose interior revealed with a blatant sincerity a rummage ofmysterious edibles--fruit, vegetables, strings of strange objectsthat looked poisonous, fungi, and other delights. Above, from severalwindows, women leaned out, talking violently to one another. Two wereholding babies, who testified their new-born sense of life by screamingshrilly. Across other window-spaces heads passed to and fro, denotingthe continuous movement of those within. People in the street calledto people in the house, and the latter shouted in answer, with thatabsolute lack of self-consciousness and disregard of the opinions ofothers which is the hall-mark of the true Neapolitan. From the cornercame the rumble and the bell notes of the trams going to and coming fromthe tunnel that leads to Fuorigrotta. And from every direction rosethe vehement street calls of ambulant venders of the necessaries ofNeapolitan life. 

"Ruffo lives here!" said Hermione. 

She could hardly believe it. So unsuitable seemed such a dwelling tothat bright-eyed child of the sea, whom she had always seen surroundedby 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 ofnoises, 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 someone 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 ininquiry. 

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 andpertinacious scrutiny to Hermione, who stood behind him. "I thoughtperhaps 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 womanwith 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 MaddalenaBernari's shoulder a hostile glance at Hermione. 

"Madonna Santissima!" baaed the woman with the blue-black hair. "Perhapshe 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 fora certainty. Every one knows it. His friends"--he raised a big brownhand significantly--"his friends have managed well for him. "

"Si! si! It is true!" said the black-haired woman, nodding her largehead, and gesticulating towards Madre Teresa. "He will be here to-day. Antonio will be here. "

They all stared at Hermione, suddenly forgetting their personal andprivate affairs. 

"Donna Maddalena, " said Fabiano, "here is a signora who knows Ruffo. Imet 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 theshining air, of the gay splash as it entered the water. 

"I know your son so well that I should like to know his mother, " shesaid. 

Fabiano by this time had moved aside, and the two women were confrontingeach other in the doorway. Behind Maddalena the two other women staredand listened with all their might, giving their whole attention to thisunexpected scene. 

"Are you the Signora of the island?" asked Maddalena. 

"Yes, I am. "

"Let the Signora in, Donna Maddalena, " said Fabiano. "She is tired andwants 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 akitchen, the former the sleeping-room. Hermione looked quietly round it, and her eyes fell at once upon a large green parrot, which was sittingat the end of the board on which, supported by trestles of iron, thehuge bed of Maddalena and her husband was laid. At present this bedwas rolled up, and in consequence towered to a considerable height. The parrot looked at Hermione coldly, with round, observant eyes whosepupils kept contracting and expanding with a monotonous regularity. She felt as if it had a soul that was frigidly ironic. Its pertinaciousglance chilled and repelled her, and she fancied it was reflected in thefaces 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 alwaysangry and always upon the verge of tears. Over her shoulders she worea black shawl, and as she talked she kept fidgeting with it, pulling itfirst to one side, then to the other, or dragging at it with her thinand crooked yellow fingers. The parrot watched her steadily. Her hideousvoice played upon Hermione's nerves till they felt raw. At length, looking back, as she walked, with bloodshot eyes, she went into thekitchen, followed by the young woman. They began talking together insibilant whispers, like people conspiring. 

After a moment of apparent hesitation Maddalena gave her visitor achair. 

"Thank you, " Hermione said, taking it. 

She looked round the room again. It was clean and well kept, but humblyfurnished. Ruffo's bed was rolled up in a corner. On the walls were someshields of postcards and photographs, such as the poor Italians love, deftly enough arranged and fastened together by some mysterious notapparent means. Many of the postcards were American. Near two smallflags, American and Italian, fastened crosswise above the head of thebig bed, was a portrait of Maria Addolorata, under which burned a tinylight. A palm, blessed, and fashioned like a dagger with a cross for thehilt, was nailed above it, with a coral charm to protect the householdagainst the evil eye. And a little to the right of it was a small objectwhich Hermione saw and wondered at without understanding why it shouldbe there, or what was its use--a _Fattura della morte_ (death-charm), inthe form of a green lemon pierced with many nails. This hung by a bit ofstring 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, witha broad and spreading figure, wide hips, plump though small-boned arms, heavy shoulders. The face--that, perhaps--yes, that, certainly--musthave been once pretty. Very pretty? Hermione looked searchingly atit until she saw Maddalena's eyes drop before hers suddenly, as ifembarrassed. She must say something. But now that she was here she felta difficulty in opening a conversation, an intense reluctance to speakto this woman into whose house she had almost forced her way. With theson she was strangely intimate. From the mother she felt separated by agulf. 

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, butinexpressively. 

"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, unhookedthe string from the nail, and put the death-charm into her pocket. Asshe 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. Thegreen parrot turned sideways on the board beyond the pile of rolled-upmattresses, and looked, with one round eye, steadfastly at Hermione. 

An almost intolerable sensation of desertion swept over her. She felt asif every one hated her. 

"Would you mind shutting that door?" she said to Maddalena, pointingtowards 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 anxiouscuriosity. 

"Please shut that door. "

It was like an order. Maddalena obeyed it, despite a cataract of wordsfrom the old woman that voiced indignant protest. 

"And do sit down, won't you? I don't like to sit while you arestanding. "

"Signora, I--"

"Please do sit down. "

Hermione's voice began to show her acute nervous agitation. Maddalenastared, then took another chair from its place against the wall, and satdown at some distance from Hermione. She folded her plump hands inher lap. Seated, she looked bigger, more graceless, than before. ButHermione saw that she was not really middle-aged. Hard life and troubledoubtless had combined to destroy her youth and beauty early, to coarsenthe outlines, to plant the many wrinkles that spread from the cornersof her eyes and lips to her temples and her heavy, dusky cheeks. She wasnow 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 herabrupt gentleness she looked much younger than before. Hermione divinedin that moment her vanished beauty. It seemed suddenly to be unveiled byher tenderness. 

"I heard you were in trouble. "

"Si, Signora--great trouble. "

Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth worked. As if moved by anuncontrollable impulse, she thrust one hand into her dress, drew out thedeath-charm, and contemplated it, at the same time muttering somewords 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 becameharsh 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 wassurreptitious. 

"Yes, " Hermione said again, gazing into Maddalena's still beautifuleyes. "And you have trouble!"

Maddalena looked afraid, like an ignorant person whose tragicsuperstition is proved true by an assailing fact. 

"Signora!"

"You have trouble in your house. Have you ever brought trouble to anyone? 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?" sherepeated. 

The parrot shifted on the board, lifted its left claw, and craned itshead forward in the direction of the two women. The tram-bell soundedits 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 itsmovements with a strained attention. Its presence distracted her. Shehad 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 thussaid. 

"Where did you know Gaspare?"

"Who says I know Gaspare?"

The way in which she pronounced his name revealed to Hermione a formerintimacy between them. 

"Ruffo says so. "

The parrot was quite at the edge of the board now, listening apparentlywith cold intensity to every word that was being said. And Hermione feltthat behind the kitchen door the two women were straining their earsto catch the conversation. Was the whole world listening? Was the wholeworld coldly, cruelly intent upon her painful effort to come out ofdarkness 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 herknees 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 fromMarechiaro. "

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 rememberme?"

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 meta gaze that was steady but dull, almost like that of a sulky child, andfor a moment she felt as if this woman was only a great child, heavy, ignorant, but solemnly determined, a child that had learned its lessonand was bent on repeating it word for word. 

"Did Gaspare come here early this morning to see you?" she asked, withsudden 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 creakedunder her weight, and twisted her full lips sideways. Her whole bodylooked half-sleepily apprehensive. The parrot watched her with supremeattention. Suddenly Hermione felt that she could no longer bear thisstruggle, that she could no longer continue in darkness, that she musthave full light. The contemplation of this stolid ignorance--that yetknew how much?--confronting her like a featureless wall almost maddenedher. 

"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 tillher 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 youhear?" She bent down. She was standing almost over Maddalena. "You musttell me!"

There was again a silence through which presently the tram-bell sounded. Maddalena's face had become heavily expressionless, almost like a faceof stone. And Hermione, looking down at this face, felt a moment ofimpotent 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 theback 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--Mauricehad looked down over the terrace wall to the sea. He had seen alight--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 inSicily, when Gaspare was with us as our servant. "

Maddalena's lips parted. Her mouth began to gape. It was obvious thatshe was afraid. 

"You--you knew Gaspare. You knew--you knew my husband, the Signore ofthe 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 alwaysresting on her knees. 

"It was in the summer-time--" She was again in Sicily. She was tracingout a story. It was almost as if she saw words and read them from abook. "There were no forestieri in Sicily. They had all gone. Only wewere there--" An expression so faint that it was like a fleeting shadowpassed over Maddalena's face, the fleeting shadow of something thatdenied. "Ah, yes! Till I went away, you mean! I went to Africa. Did youknow it then? But before I went--before--" She was thinking, she wasburrowing deep down into the past, stirring the heap of memories thatlay like drifted leaves. "They used to go--at least they went once--downto the sea. One night they went to the fishing. And they slept out allnight. They slept in the caves. Ah, you know that? You remember thatnight!"

The trembling that shook her body was reflected in her voice, whichbecame tremulous. She heard the tram-bell ringing. She saw the greenparrot listening on its board. And yet she was in Sicily, and saw theline 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 tellme!"

As she said the last words she felt that she was entering the greatdarkness. 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 forherself and to her own soul. "They didn't tell me!"

Maddalena shook her head like one in sympathy or agreement. But Hermionedid not see the movement. She no longer saw Maddalena. She saw onlyherself, and those two, whom she had trusted so completely, and--who hadnot told her. 

What had they not told her?

And then she was in Africa, beside the bed of Artois, ministering to himin the torrid heat, driving away the flies from his white face. 

What had been done in the Garden of Paradise while she had been inexile?

She turned suddenly sick. Her body felt ashamed, defiled. A shutterseemed to be sharply drawn across her eyes, blotting out life. Her headwas 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 aboy'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, wasplastered down upon his brown forehead--as _his_ hair had been when, inthe 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 ambulantsellers, the calls of women and children, the tinkling bells and therumble of the trams, and the voice of Fabiano Lari speaking--was it toher?

"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 theroad that leads to the tunnel. She turned mechanically towards thetunnel, 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 expandingand 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 walkedon. 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 rememberednow. As Ruffo stood before her with the wet hair on his forehead therehad come a shrill cry from the old woman in the kitchen: a cry that washideous and yet almost beautiful, so full it was of joy. Then from thekitchen the two women had rushed in, gesticulating, ejaculating, theirfaces convulsed with excitement. They had seized Maddalena, Ruffo. Oneof them--the old woman, she thought--had even clutched at Hermione'sarm. 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 otherevil-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 parrotand hearing the cries of the sellers, the tram-bells, and Fabiano'squestioning voice. 

Now she continued her walk towards the harbor of Mergellina alone. Thethought of the green parrot obsessed her mind. 

She saw it before her on its board, with the rolled-up bed toweringbehind 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 heartheir conversation better. 

She saw it with extreme distinctness, and now she also saw on the wallof the room near it the "Fattura della Morte"--the green lemon with thenails stuck through it, like nails driven into a cross. 

Vaguely the word "crucifixion" went through her mind. Many people, manywomen, had surely been crucified since the greatest tragedy the worldhad ever known. What had they felt, they who were only human, theywho 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? Perhapsscarcely anything. Perhaps merely a sensation of numbness, as if theirwhole bodies, and their minds, too, were under the influence of a greatinjection of cocaine. Her thoughts again returned to the parrot. Shewondered where it had been bought, whether it had come with Antonio fromAmerica. 

Presently she reached the tramway station and stood still. She had togo 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 waswritten 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 thosewords on any of them. She began to think of the sea, of the brownbody of the bathing boy which she had seen shoot through the air anddisappear into the shining water before she had gone to that house wherethe 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 thetrams and the waiting people. Then she went down a road not far from theGrand Hotel and came to the Marina. 

There were boys bathing still from the breakwater of the rocks. Andstill 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 aglorious day, one of the tremendous days of summer. 

The nails driven through the green lemon like nails driven through across--Peppina--the cross cut on Peppina's cheek. 

That broad-shouldered man who had come in at the door had cut that crosson Peppina's cheek. 

Was it true that Peppina had the evil eye? Had it been a fatal day forthe Casa del Mare when she had been allowed to cross its threshold? Verehad 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 houseon the island, that it seemed to say, "There is a cross to be borne bysome 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 toher, but she had not heeded them. 

She saw a brown body shoot through the air from the rocks and disappearinto the shining sea. Was it Ruffo? With an effort she remembered thatshe had left Ruffo in the tall house, in the room where the green parrotwas. 

She walked on slowly till she came to the place where Artois had seenRuffo with his mother. A number of tables were set out, but there werefew people sitting at them. She felt tired. She crossed the road, wentto a table, and sat down. A waiter came up and asked her what she wouldhave. 

"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 anddrank. But she was not conscious of tasting anything. For a considerabletime she sat there. People passed her. The trams rushed by. On severalof them were printed the words she had looked for in vain at thestation. 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 wasin the sun forever. 

While she sat there she was always thinking, but vaguely, slowly, lethargically. And her thoughts reiterated themselves, were likerecurring fragments of dreams, and were curiously linked together. Thegreen parrot she always connected with the death-charm, because thelatter had once been green. Whenever the one presented itself to hermind it was immediately followed by the other. The shawl at which theold woman's yellow fingers had perpetually pulled led her mind tothe thought of the tunnel, because she imagined that the latter musteventually end in blackness, and the shawl was black. She knew, ofcourse, really that the tunnel was lit from end to end by electricity. But her mind arbitrarily put aside this knowledge. It did not belong toher strange mood, the mood of one drawing near to the verge either ofsome abominable collapse or of some terrible activity. Occasionally, shethought of Ruffo; but always as one of the brown boys bathing from therocks beyond the harbor, shouting, laughing, triumphant in his gloriousyouth. And when the link was, as it were, just beginning to form itselffrom the thought-shape of youth to another thought-shape, her mindstopped short in that progress, recoiled, like a creature recoiling froma precipice it has not seen but has divined in the dark. She sipped thevermouth and the iced water, and stared at the drops chasing each otherdown the clouded glass. And for a time she was not conscious where shewas, 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 ceasedfrom gazing at the drops on the glass, looked up, listened. 

The song came nearer. The tenor voice was hard, strident, sang lustilybut inexpressively in the glaring sunshine. And the dialect made thesong seem different, almost new. Its charm seemed to have evaporated. Yet she remembered vaguely that it had charmed her. She sought for thecharm, striving feebly to recapture it. 

The piano-organ hurt her, the hard voice hurt her. It sounded cruel andgreedy. But the song--once it had appealed to her. Once she had leaneddown to hear it, she had leaned down over the misty sea, her soul hadfollowed 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 naturalswiftness and vivacity, her imagination and her heart awaked. She wasagain alive. She saw the people. She heard the sounds about her. Shefelt the scorching heat of the sun. But in it she was conscious also ofthe opposite of day, of the opposite of heat. At that moment she had adouble consciousness. For she felt the salt coolness of the night aroundthe lonely island. And she heard not only the street singer, but Ruffoin his boat. 

Ruffo--in his boat. 

Suddenly she could not see anything. Her sight was drowned by tears. Shegot up at once. She felt for her purse, found it, opened it, felt formoney, 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 sightof all men, and crying, sobbing, with her face against the ground. Sheheard 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, toGaspare, to Emile--to her life. 

Her body and soul revolted from the thought, her outraged body and heroutraged soul, which were just beginning to feel their courage, as fleshand nerves begin to feel pain after an operation when the effect of theanaesthetic gradually fades away. 

She was walking up the hill and still crying. 

She met a boy of the people, swarthy, with impudent black eyes, tangledhair, and a big, pouting mouth, above which a premature mustache showedlike a smudge. He looked into her face and began to laugh. She saw hiswhite teeth, and her tears rushed back to their sources. At once hereyes were dry. And, almost at once, she thought, her heart became hardas 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 gotin, and sat down next to two thin English ladies, who held guide-booksin 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 somethingabout 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 andwholesome, such as you get in England?"

"It would be Italian food. "

"Oh, dear. Fanny, this lady says we can only get Italian food atBagnoli!"

"Tcha! Tcha!"

"But perhaps--excuse me, but do you think we could get a good cup of teathere? We might manage with that--tea and some boiled eggs. Don't youthink 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, theirpointed features red with surprise and indignation. 

Hermione again began to walk, but almost directly she saw a wanderingcarriage 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 youfor less than--"

"Anything--five lire--drive on at once. "

The man drove on, grinning. 

Presently Hermione was walking through the short tunnel that leads tothe path descending between vineyards to the sea. She must take a boatto the island. She must go back to the island. Where else could shego? If Vere had not been there she might--but Vere was there. It wasinevitable. 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 thesloping, vine-covered land. The sight of the water reminded her thatGaspare would be waiting for her on the sand below the village. When sheremembered that she stopped again. Then she turned round, and began towalk back towards the highroad. 

Gaspare was waiting. If she went down to the sand she would have to meethis great intent eyes, those watching eyes full of questions. He wouldread her. He would see in a moment that--she knew. And he would see morethan that! He would see that she was hating him. The hatred was onlydawning, struggling up in her tangled heart. But it existed--it wasthere. And he would see that it was there. 

She walked back till she reached the tunnel under the highroad. Butshe did not pass through it. She could not face the highroad with itstraffic. Perhaps the English ladies would be coming back. Perhaps--Sheturned again and presently sat down on a bank, and looked at the dry andwrinkled ground. Nobody went by. The lizards ran about near her feet. She sat there over an hour, scarcely moving, with the sun beating uponher head. 

Then she got up and walked fast, and with a firm step, towards thevillage and the sea. 

The village is only a tiny hamlet, ending in a small trattoria with arough terrace above the sea, overlooking a strip of sand where a fewboats lie. As Hermione came to the steps that lead down to the terraceshe stood still and looked over the wall on her left. The boat fromthe 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 someone she had cared for but who was gone from her forever. 

Perhaps he was not asleep, for almost directly he became aware of herobservation, sat up, and uncovered his face, turning towards her andlooking up. Already, and from this distance, she would see a fierceinquiry 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 wentand fetched the boat. 

His action--the taking out of the watch--reminded Hermione of thetime. She looked at her watch. It was half-past two. On the island theylunched 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 tothe beach. 

Gaspare should not know that she knew. She was resolved upon that, concentrated upon that. Continually she saw in front of her the poutingmouth, 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 shouldsee any difference in her. All the time that she had been sitting stillin the sun upon the bank she had been fiercely schooling herself in anact new to her--the act of deception. She had not faced the truth thatto-day she knew. She had not faced the ruin that its knowledge had madeof all that had been sacred and lovely in her life. She had fastened herwhole force fanatically upon that one idea, that one decision and theeffort that was the corollary of it. 

"There shall be no difference in me. No one is to know that anything hashappened. "

At that moment she was a fanatic. And she looked like one as she camedown 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 nottouch him. She knew that. She felt that she would rather die at themoment 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 facetowards her. But to-day he stood up to row, turning his back to her. Andthis 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 onlychance. 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, horriblysuggestive of ruin and despair. 

She was like that. Gaspare was looking at her. Gaspare must know thatshe was like that. 

But she was a fanatic just then, and she smiled at him with a resolutionthat had in it something almost brutal, something the opposite of whatshe was, of the sum of her. 

"I forgot the time. It is so lovely to-day. It was so gay atMergellina. "

"Si?"

"I sat for a long time watching the boats, and the boys bathing, andlistening 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 waspassionately trying to imagine what that spreading, graceless woman, with her fat hands resting on her knees set wide apart, was likeonce--was like nearly seventeen years ago. Was she ever pretty, beautiful? Never could she have been intelligent--never, never. Thenshe must have been beautiful. For otherwise--Hermione's drawn face wasflooded with scarlet. 

"If--if it's easier to you to row standing up, Gaspare, " she almoststammered, "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--achange 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 thedust!

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Gaspare did not offer to help Hermione out of the boat when they reachedthe island. He glanced at her face, met her eyes, looked away againimmediately, and stood holding the boat while she got out. Even when shestumbled slightly he made no movement; but he turned and gazed afterher as she went up the steps towards the house, and as he gazed his faceworked, his lips muttered words, and his eyes, become almost ferociousin their tragic gloom, were clouded with moisture. Angrily he fastenedthe boat, angrily he laid by the oars. In everything he did there wasviolence. He put up his hands to his eyes to rub the moisture thatclouded them away. But it came again. And he swore under his breath. Helooked once more towards the Casa del Mare. The figure of his Padronahad disappeared, but he remembered just how it had gone up thesteps--leaning forward, moving very slowly. It had made him think of anearly morning long ago, when he and his Padrona had followed a coffindown the narrow street of Marechiaro, and over the mountain-path tothe Campo Santo above the Ionian Sea. He shook his head, murmuring tohimself. 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 lethis 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 onlyknew, he only felt. And he suffered horribly. How had his Padrona beenable to look at him like that?

The moisture came thickly to his eyes now, and he no longer attempted torub 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 suddenlyabandoned by its mother. He began to think now. He thought over all hehad done to be faithful to his dead Padrone and to be faithful to thePadrona. During many, many years he had done all he could to be faithfulto these two, the dead and the living. And at the end of this longservice 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 whatemotional pilgrimage, she had reached that look of hatred which she hadcast upon him. If she had not returned, if she had done some deed ofviolence in the house of Maddalena, he could perhaps have comprehendedit. But that she should come back, that she should smile, make him sitfacing her, talk about Maddalena as she had talked, and then--then lookat him like that!

His _amour-propre_, his long fidelity, his deep affection--all wereoutraged. 

Vere came down the steps and found him there. 

"Gaspare!"

He got up instantly when he heard her voice, rubbed his eyes, andyawned. 

"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'mfrightened! 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 hasMadre 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 speakto the servants--they are making the siesta. Gaspare, come with me, andtell me what we ought to do. But--never say to any one--never say--ifyou 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 andwent before him to the house. She walked softly, and he imitated her. They almost crept up-stairs till they reached the landing outsideHermione'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 hishands. 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 bearit!"

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 thewriting-table, then at the floor near it. On the table lay a quantityof fragments of broken glass, and a silver photograph-frame bent, almostbroken. 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 ofcard-board from the floor, and put them into his pocket. 

"Father's photograph! She was in here--she came in here to do that! Andshe 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 andtouched his arm. His Padroncina--she at least still loved, still trustedhim. 

"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 thefragments 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 smallmysteries in the recent conduct of her mother, many moments when she hadbeen 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 askedhim 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 thathe was acting a part--that he wished to detach her observation from hermother. 

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 aboutMadre. "

"Signorina--"

"Do you think I'm a coward? I was frightened--I am frightened, but I'mnot 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. Thehorror 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 eyeswere 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. Gaspareheld 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 hisother 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 ofthe island and looked out over the sea. Not far off, between the islandand Nisida, there was a boat. Gaspare put his hands to his mouth andhailed her with all his might. The two men in her heard, and cametowards the shore. 

A few minutes later, with money in their pockets, and set but cheerfulfaces, they were rowing with all their strength in the direction ofNaples. 

That afternoon Artois, wishing to distract his thoughts and quite unableto work, went up the hill to the Monastery of San Martino. He returnedto the hotel towards sunset feeling weary and depressed, companionless, too, in this gay summer world. Although he had never been deeplyattached to the Marchesino he had liked him, been amused by him, grownaccustomed to him. He missed the "Toledo incarnate. " And as he walkedalong the Marina he felt for a moment almost inclined to go away fromNaples. 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 whichwere surely stretched out towards her, which might grasp her at anymoment, even to-night, and alter her life forever? No, he knew he couldnot. 

"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 itsdescent. Vere's writing was on the envelope he held; but Vere's writingdistorted, frantic, tragic. He knew before he opened the envelope thatit must contain some dreadful statement or some wild appeal; and hehurried to his room, almost feeling the pain and fear of the writer burnthrough 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. Thewalls 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 fromits repose, had been scourged to its feet to face the fierce light oftruth. 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 itfor 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 minutelater he was in the Via Chiatamone at the back of the hotel waiting forthe tram. He must go by Posilipo to the Trattoria del Giardinetto, walkdown 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 hewatched the tram gliding towards him he was conscious of an almostterrible reluctance--a reluctance surely of fear--to go that night tothe island. 

But he must go. 

The sun was setting when he got down before the Trattoria delGiardinetto. Three soldiers were sitting at a table outside on the dustyroad, clinking their glasses of marsala together, and singing, "PiangeRosina! La Mamma ci domanda. " Their brown faces looked vivid with thecareless happiness of youth. As Artois went down from the road into thetunnel their lusty voices died away. 

Because his instinct was to walk slowly, to linger on the way, he walkedvery fast. The slanting light fell gently, delicately, over the opulentvineyards, where peasants were working in huge straw hats, over thestill shining but now reposeful sea. In the sky there was a mystery ofcolor, very pure, very fragile, like the mystery of color in a curvingshell of the sea. The pomp and magnificence of sunset were in abeyanceto-night, were laid aside. And the sun, like some spirit modestlyradiant, slipped from this world of vineyards and of waters almostsurreptitiously, yet shedding exquisite influences in his going. 

And in the vineyards, as upon the dusty highroad, the people of theSouth were singing. 

The sound of their warm voices, rising in the golden air towards thetender beauty of the virginal evening sky, moved Artois to a suddenlonging for a universal brotherhood of happiness, for happy men on ahappy earth, men knowing the truth and safe in their knowledge. And helonged, too, just then to give happiness. A strongly generous emotionstirred him, and went from him, like one of the slanting rays of lightfrom the sun, towards the island, towards his friend, Hermione. Hisreluctance, his sense of fear, were lessened, nearly died away. Hisquickness of movement was no longer a fight against, but a fulfilment ofdesire. 

Once she had helped him. Once she had even, perhaps, saved him fromdeath. She had put aside her own happiness. She had shown the divineself-sacrifice of woman. 

And now, after long years, life brought to him an hour which would provehim, prove him and show how far he was worthy of the friendship whichhad been shed, generously as the sunshine over these vineyards of theSouth, 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 andset 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 forher at half-past eleven, and she did not come till nearly three. Gasparewas in a state, I can tell you. I have known him--for years I have knownhim--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 beenlooked 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 werestriking upon the windows of the Casa del Mare. 

The boat, urged by Giovanni's powerful arms, drew rapidly near to theland, and Artois, leaning forward with an instinct to help the rower, fixed his eyes upon these windows which, like swift jewels, focussed andgave back the light. While he watched them the sun sank. Its radiancewas withdrawn. He saw no longer jewels, casements of magic, but only thewindows of the familiar house; and then, presently, only the windowof one room, Hermione's. His eyes were fixed on that as the boat drewnearer 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 tookpossession of him, held him fast, body and soul. She knew, and she wasin that house!

The boat was close in now, but had not yet turned into the Pool ofSan Francesco. Artois kept his eyes upon the window for still a momentlonger. He felt now, he knew, that Hermione was in the room beyond thatwindow. As he gazed up from the sea he saw that the window was open. Hesaw behind the frame of it a white curtain stirring in the breeze. Andthen he saw something that chilled his blood, that seemed to drive it inan 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--awhite, distorted face utterly strange to him looked out--a hand liftedin a frantic gesture. 

The gesture was followed by a crash. 

The green Venetian blind had fallen, hiding the window, hiding thestranger's face. 

"Who was that at the window, Signore?" asked Giovanni, staring at Artoiswith round and startled eyes. 

And Artois answered: "It is difficult to see, Giovanni, now that the sunhas 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 boatand stood for a moment, hesitating whether to keep Giovanni or todismiss him. 

"I can stay, Signore, " said the man. "You will want some one to row youback. "

"No, Giovanni. I can get Gaspare to put me ashore. You had better beoff. "

"Va bene, Signore, " he replied, looking disappointed. 

The Signora of the Casa del Mare was always very hospitable to suchfishermen as she knew. Giovanni wanted to seek out Gaspare, to have acigarette. But he obediently jumped into the boat and rowed off into thedarkness, 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 franticgesture, the descending blind that brought to Hermione's bedroom a greatobscurity. And he remembered Hermione's face in the garden, half seen byhim once in shadows, with surely a strange and terrible smile upon it--asmile 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 stoodbefore 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 notefrom 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 thesacred house and her within it. Deep in the blood of him was the sensethat, 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 youare here?"

For a moment Artois felt deeply wounded--wounded to the quick. He hadnot supposed it was possible for any one to hurt him so much with a fewquiet words. Anger rose in him, an anger such as the furious attack ofthe 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 wasseized again, as when he walked in the golden air between the vineyardsand heard the peasants singing, by an intense desire to bring happinessto the unhappy, especially and above all to one unhappy woman. To-nighthis intellect was subordinate to his heart, his pride of intellect waslost in feeling, in an emotion that the simplest might have understoodand shared: the longing to be of use, to comfort, to pour balm into theterrible wound of one who had been his friend--such a friend as only acertain type of woman can be to a certain type of man. 

"Gaspare, " he said, "you and I--we helped the Signora once, we helpedher 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 intothe 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 Gaspareshut the door. 

"I am sorry, Signore; the lamp is not lighted. "

Artois felt at once an unusual atmosphere in the house, an atmospherenot of confusion but of mystery, of secret curiosity, of broodingapprehension. At the foot of the servants' staircase he heard a remotesound of whispering, which emphasized the otherwise complete silence ofthis familiar dwelling, suddenly become unfamiliar to him--unfamiliarand 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 anundervoice. 

"You saw the Signora?"

Gaspare looked at him with sudden eagerness mingled with a flaminganxiety. 

"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 wentaway, always softly. Artois stood still on the terrace. The twilightwas spreading itself over the sea, like a veil dropping over a face. The house was dark behind him. In that darkness Hermione was hidden, theHermione who was a stranger to him, the Hermione into whose heart andsoul he was no longer allowed to look. Upon Monte Amato at evening shehad, very simply, showed him the truth of her great sorrow. 

Now--he saw the face at the window, the falling blind. Between then andnow--what a gulf fixed!

Vere came from the garden followed by Gaspare. Her eyes were wide withterror. The eyelids were red. She had been weeping. She almost ran toArtois, as a child runs to refuge. Never before had he felt so acutelythe childishness that still lingered in this little Vere of theisland--lingered unaffected, untouched by recent events. Thank God forthat! In that moment the Marchesino was forgiven; and Artois--did he notperhaps 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 hishand. 

"Has Gaspare told you?" She turned her head towards Gaspare. "Somethingterrible 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 trustedhim. He returned the Sicilian's glance, and Gaspare moved away, went tothe rail of the terrace, and looked down over the sea. 

"Do you know? Do you know anything--anything dreadful about Madre thatyou 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 awaysuch a long time. When she came back I was in my room. I didn't know. Ididn't hear the boat. But my door was open, and presently I heard someone come up-stairs and go into the boudoir. It was Madre. I know herstep. I know it was Madre!"

She reiterated her assertion, as if she anticipated that he was going todispute 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--andtore 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 suddenlyinto 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 tofetch 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 hearwhether she locked the door. I only heard it shut. But Gaspare sayshe knows it is locked. Two or three minutes after the door was shut Iheard--I heard--"

"Don't be afraid. Tell me--if I ought to know. "

Those words voiced a deep and delicate reluctance which was beginning toinvade him. Yet he wished to help Vere, to release this child from thethrall 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--Gasparemade the servants keep downstairs ever since. And I--I have been waitingfor 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. Comeand sit down on the bench. "

He drew her down beside him. He felt that he was with a child whom hemust comfort. Gaspare stood always looking down over the rail of theterrace 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 thissummer. 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 notknow 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 thatchange, although perhaps now he partly understood it, he could neverspeak 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 andhis intellect seemed to him less than a handful of dust. 

"But this change of to-day is different, " he said, slowly. "Your motherhas 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 onethere--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 suddenconscious look in his eyes, a movement of his lips--he drew them sharplytogether, 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 wasless. 

"Something to do with Ruffo?" she repeated. 

Suddenly she moved, she got up. And all the fear had come back to herface, 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 turnedtowards the sea. All her body relaxed. The voice passed on. The sadlittle song passed under the cliff, to the Saint's Pool and the lee ofthe 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 wouldsurely be to do something that was beautiful. But he dared not--he hadno right. 

A bell rang in the house, loudly, persistently, tearing its silence. Gaspare turned angrily from the rail, with an expression of apprehensionon 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 hadgone to see if his Padrona was coming. Moved by a mutual instinct, theystayed 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 usgo in. "

They passed into the house, and went to the dining-room. The table waslaid. The lamp was lit. Giulia stood by the sideboard looking anxiousand subdued. She did not even smile when she saw Artois, who was herfavorite. 

"Where is Gaspare, Giulia?" said Artois. 

"Up-stairs, Signore. He came in and ran up-stairs, and he has not comedown. Ah!"--she raised her hands--"the evil eye has looked upon thishouse! When that girl Peppina--"

"Be quiet!" Artois said, sharply. 

Giulia's round, black eyes filled with tears, and her mouth opened insurprise. 

He put his hand kindly on her arm. 

"Never mind, Giulia mia! But it is foolish to talk like that. There isno 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. Ihave 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 waswaiting for her. "

"Yes?"

"The Signora did not answer. There was no noise, and in the room thereis 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 longtime, 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 alonein 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 feltafraid. But he concealed his fear. 

"Perhaps you had better go, Vere, " he said, at length. "But if she doesnot answer, don't try the door. Don't knock. Just speak. You will findthe best words. "

"Yes. I'll try--I'll try. "

Gaspare opened the door. Giulia was sobbing outside. Her pride anddignity 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 herhand and kissed it. Vere released her hand very gently and went slowlyup the stairs. 

The instinct of Artois was to follow her. He longed to follow her, buthe denied himself, and sat down by the dinner-table, on which the zuppadi pesce was smoking under the lamp. Giulia, trying to stifle her sobs, went away down the kitchen stairs, and Gaspare stood near the door. Hetouched his face with his hands, opened and shut his lips, then thrusthis hands into his pockets, and stared first at Artois then at thefloor. His cheeks and his forehead looked hot, as if he had justfinished some difficult physical act. Artois did not glance at him. Inthat moment both men, in their different ways, felt dreadfully, almostunbearably, self-conscious. 

Presently Vere's step was heard again on the stairs, descending softlyand 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 thrustthem in again. 

Artois stood in silence. His face, generally so strong, soauthoritative, showed his irresolution, and Vere, looking to him like afrightened child for guidance, felt her terror increase. 

"Shall I go up again. I didn't knock. You told me not to. Shall I go andknock? Or shall Gaspare go again?"

She did not suggest that Artois should go himself. He noticed that, evenin 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 feelsthat she must be alone. We have no right to try to force ourselves uponher. "

"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. Iwill 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. Veresat in her mother's place, with her back to the door. Artois was facingher. Often his eyes travelled to the door. Often, too, Vere turned herhead. And in the silence both were listening for a step that did notcome: Vere with a feverish eagerness, Artois with a mingling of longingand of dread. For he knew he dreaded to see Hermione that night. He knewthat 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 wascompanioned by a great and growing fear, which he must hide. And thatact of secrecy, undertaken for Vere's sake, seemed to increase thething he hid, till the shadow it had been began to take form, to grow instature, to become dominating, imperious. 

Giulia put some fruit on the table. The meal was over, and there hadbeen 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 isany light in your mother's window. "

She obeyed him silently and went away. Then he took his hat and went outupon the terrace. 

Gaspare had said that Hermione's room was dark. Perhaps he had beenmistaken. The key might have been so placed in the lock that he had beendeceived. As Artois walked to a point from which he could see one ofthe windows of Hermione's bedroom, he knew that he longed to see alight there. If the window was dark the form of his fear would be moredistinct. He reached the point and looked up. There was no light. 

He stood there for some time gazing at that darkness. He thought of thebent photograph frame, of the photograph that had been so loved torninto fragments, of the sound that was--hardly crying, and of the face hehad seen for an instant as he drew near to the island. He ought to cometo some decision, to take some action. Vere was depending upon him. Buthe felt as if he could do nothing. In answer to Vere's appeal hehad hastened to the island. And now he was paralyzed, he was utterlyuseless. 

He felt as if he dared not do anything. Hermione in her grief, hadsuddenly passed from him into a darkness that was sacred. What right hadhe to try to share it?

And yet--if that great shape of fear were not the body of a lie, but ofthe 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 onadmittance? And if there was no reply?--what ought he to do then? Breakdown the door?

He went into the house. Vere was sitting in the drawing-room looking atthe 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 thesame shape as his. 

"Monsieur Emile, you--you don't think--?"

Her voice faltered, her bright eyes became changed, dim, seemed to sinkinto 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 itthere came from below in the house a loud, shrill cry. It was followedby an instant of silence, then by another cry, louder, nearer thanbefore. 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 thedoor, her disfigured face convulsed with terror, her hand out-stretched. 

"Look!" she cried shrilly. "Look, Signorina! Look, Signore! _La fatturadella morte_! _La fattura della morte_! It has been brought to the houseto-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 intosilence by Artois. He had taken the lemon from Peppina, and it lay nowin 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 whomit is placed. "

"Who can have put it in the house to-night?" Vere said. Her voice waslow 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 somethingof 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 almostlivid. 

"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 tablecovered 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 thatmust 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-charmwith a sort of mysterious caution. 

"Signore, " he said to Artois, "I will go down to the Saint's Pool. Iwill 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 reliefthat was almost overwhelming. 

"You are certain?"

"Si, Signore. The Padrona is walking up and down the room. When Peppinascreamed out I heard the Padrona move. And then I heard her walking upand down the room. "

He looked again at the death-charm and went out. Vere stood for amoment. Then she, too, went suddenly away, and Artois heard her lightfootstep 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 leftalone with the death-charm. 

He sat down by the table on which it lay among the bright toys ofsilver. Released from his great fear, released from his undertaking toforce his way into the darkness of that room which had been silent, he seemed suddenly to regain his identity, to be put once more intopossession of his normal character. He had gone out from it. He returnedto it. The cloud of superstition, in which even he had been for a momentinvolved with Vere and with the servants, evaporated, and he was ableto smile secretly at them and at himself. Yet while he smiled thussecretly, and while he looked at the lemon with its perforating nails, he realized his own smallness, helplessness, the smallness and thehelplessness of every man, as he had never realized them before. And herealized also something, much, of what it would have meant to him, hadthe 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 thedeath-charm!

He stretched out his hand to the table, lifted the death-charm fromamong the silver ornaments, held it, kept it in his hand, which he laidupon 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 withoutHermione. 

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 magicmirror, among the scars of its burning, and among the nails that piercedit, as the woman who had fashioned it, and fired it, and mutteredwitch's words over it, longed to pierce the heart of her enemy, he sawscenes of the past, and shadowy, moving figures. He saw among the scarsand among the nails Hermione and himself!

They were in Paris, at a table strewn with flowers. That was the firstscene in the magic mirror of the _fattura della morte_, the scene inwhich they met for the first time. Hermione regarded him almost withtimidity. And he looked at her doubtfully, because she had no beauty. 

Then they were in another part of Paris, in his "Morocco slipper of aroom, " crammed with books, and dim with Oriental incense and tobaccosmoke, his room red and yellow, tinted with the brilliant colors ofthe East. And he turned to her for sympathy, and he received it in fullmeasure, pressed down and running over. He told her his thought, andhe told her his feelings, his schemes, his struggles, his moments ofexaltation, his depressions. Something, much indeed of him was hers, theegotistic 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 shewas giving and always he was taking. 

Then they were in London, in another room full of books. He stood by afire, and she was seated with a bundle of letters in her lap. And hisheart was full of something that was like anger, and of a dull andsmouldering jealousy. And hers was full of a new and wonderful beauty, apiercing 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 narrowroom. And now in the magic mirror a third figure showed itself, a figureof youth incarnate, brave, passionate, thrilling with the joy of life. He watched it, how coldly, although he felt its charm, the rays offire that came from it, as sunbeams come from the sun! And apprehensionstirred within him. And presently in the night, by ebony waters, and bystrange and wandering lights, and under unquiet stars, he told Hermionesomething of his fear. 

Africa--and the hovering flies, and the dreadful feeling that death'shands were creeping about his body and trying to lay hold of it! A verylonely creature lay there in the mirror, with the faint shadow ofa palm-leaf shifting and swaying upon the ghastly whiteness of itsface--himself, in the most desolate hour of his life. As he gazed he wastransported to the City of the Mosques. The years rolled back. Hefelt again all, or nearly all, that he had felt then of helplessness, abandonment, despair. It was frightful to go out thus alone, to beextinguished in the burning heat of Africa, and laid in that arid soil, where the vipers slid through the hot crevices of the earth, and thescorpions bred in the long days of the summer. Now it was evening. Heheard the call to prayer, that wailing, wonderful cry which saluted thesinking sun. 

He remembered exactly how it had come into his ears through thehalf-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 Eastwhich had mingled with the call to prayer. And then, he, Artois beingquite alone, had given way in his great pain and weakness. He rememberedfeeling the tears slipping over his cheeks, one following another, quickly, quickly. It had seemed as if they would never stop, as ifthere would always be tears to flow from those sources deep within hisstricken body, his stricken soul. 

He looked into the mirror. The door of the room was opened. A womanstood upon the threshold. The sick man turned upon his pillow. He gazedtowards the woman. And his tears ceased. He was no longer alone. Hisfriend had come from her garden of Paradise to draw him back to life. 

In the magic mirror of the _fattura della morte_ other scenes formedthemselves, were clearly visible for a moment, then dispersed, dissolved--till scenes of the island came, till the last scene in themirror dawned faintly before his eyes. 

He saw a dark room, and a woman more desolate than he had been when helay alone with the shadow of the palm-tree shifting on his face, andheard the call to prayer. He saw Hermione in her room in the Casa delMare 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 inAfrica years and years ago. 

He laid the death-charm down once more among the silver toys. Buthe still looked at it as he sat back now in his chair, waiting forGaspare's return. 

He gazed at the symbol of death. And he began to think how strangelyappropriate was its presence that night in the Casa del Mare, how almostmore than strange had been its bringing there by Ruffo--if indeed Ruffohad brought it, as Gaspare declared. And Ruffo, all ignorantly andunconsciously, had pierced the heart of Hermione. 

Artois knew nothing of what had happened that day at Mergellina, buthe divined that it was Ruffo who, without words, had told Hermione thetruth. 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 muchof truth, Artois saw the murdered man stirring from his sleep, unable torest because of the lie that had been coiled around his memory, makingit what it should not be. Perhaps only the dead know the true, thesacred passion for justice. Perhaps only they are indifferent toeverything save truth, they who know the greatest truth of all. 

And Artois saw Maurice Delarey, the gay, the full-blooded youth, grownstern in the halls of death, unable to be at peace until she who hadmost 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 truththat day. He, too, had been perhaps a spirit in prison, through allthese years since his death. 

Artois saw him in freedom. 

And at that moment Artois felt that in the world there was only onething 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 hadsaved him from the death of the body. If only he could save her fromanother and more terrible death--the death of the spirit that believesand trusts in life!

He had been absorbed in thought and unconscious of time. Now he lookedup, he was aware of things. He listened. Surely Gaspare had been away along while. And Vere--where was she?

He had a strange desire to see Ruffo now. Something new and mystic hadbeen born, or had for the first time made itself apparent, within himto-night. And he knew that to-night he would look at Ruffo as he hadnever looked at him before. 

He got up and, leaving the death-charm lying on the table, went tothe door. There he hesitated. Should he go to the terrace, to Vere? Orshould 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 onceby the steps to the Pool of San Francesco. But he changed his mind andwent 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 theCasa 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, tothe seat where Vere so often went at night, and where Hermione, too, hadoften 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, andheard their voices talking. As he went towards them Gaspare was speakingvehemently. He threw up one arm in a strong, even, and excited gesture, and was silent. Then Artois heard Ruffo say, in a voice that, thoughrespectful 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 ifI have put it in the house. "

"Dio mio!" cried Gaspare. "But you have put it in the house! Is it notthere--is it not there now to bring death upon the Signora, upon theSignorina, upon us all?"

"It was made for Peppina. My mamma made it only against Peppina, becauseshe has brought evil into our house. It will hurt only Peppina! It willkill 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 theirconversation. 

"It will not hurt the Signora or the Signorina. The _fattura dellamorte_--it is to harm Peppina. Has she not done us injury? Has she nottaken my Patrigno from my mamma? Has she not made him mad? Is it not forher that he has been in prison, and that he has left my mamma without asoldo 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 Signoraas I respect my mamma. Only to-day, only this very day she came toMergellina, she came to see my mama. And when she knew that my Patrignowas 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 diDio! She was all white, she was shaking--she was worse than my poormamma. And when I came to her, and when I called out, 'Signora!Signora!' you should have seen! She opened her eyes! She gave me sucha look! And then my Patrigno came in at the door, and the Signora--shewent away. I was going to follow her, but she put out her hand--so, tomake me stay--she wanted me to stay with my mamma. And she went down thestairs 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. Forthe 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 Ikill her? To me the Signora is as my mamma! I respect the Signora as Irespect my mamma. Ecco!"

"The _fattura della morte_ will bring evil on the house, it will bringdeath into the house. "

Gaspare spoke again, and his voice was dogged with superstition, but itwas less vehement than before. 

"Already--who knows what it has brought? Who knows what evil ithas done? All the house is sad to-night, all the house is terribleto-night. "

"It is Peppina who has looked on the house with the evil eye, " saidRuffo. "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, towardsRuffo. 

"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 gazinginto 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 withdeep, 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 houseto-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 Patrignomad. 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. Atfirst he had put it from him. Now, suddenly, he caressed it, he resolvedto 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 houseto-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 onRuffo were full of the almost melting gentleness that Hermione had seenin them sometimes and that she had always loved. 

"Come on, Ruffino!"

He walked away quickly, almost sternly, towards the house. And Ruffofollowed him. 

CHAPTER XLI

Artois did not go with them. Once again he was governed by an imperiousfeeling that held him inactive, the feeling that it was not for him toapproach Hermione--that others might draw near to her, but that he darednot. The sensation distressed and almost humiliated him, it came uponhim like a punishment for sin, and as a man accepts a punishment whichhe is conscious of deserving Artois accepted it. 

So now he waited alone on the crest of the island, looking towards theCasa 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. Hehurried towards the house. He crossed the bridge. When he was on it heheard the splash of oars below him in the Pool, but he took no heed ofit. What were the fishermen to him to-night? Before the house door hemet 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_ hasgone. "

"The _fattura della morte_ has gone!" repeated Ruffo. 

The repetition of the words struck a chill to the heart of Artois. Againhe was beset by superstition. He caught it from these children of theSouth, 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 notknow"--he lowered his voice almost to a whisper--"she does not knowabout 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 oarsin water. Yet he heard nothing. 

"Gaspare, " he said quickly, "have you looked everywhere for theSignora?"

"I have looked in the house, Signore. I have been on the terrace andto the Signorina in the garden. Then I came to tell you. I thought youshould know about the Signora and the _fattura della morte_. "

Artois felt that it was this fact of the disappearance of thedeath-charm which for the moment paralyzed Gaspare's activities. Whatstirring of ancient superstition was in the Sicilian's heart he did notknow, but he knew that now his own time of action was come. No longercould he delegate to others the necessary deed. And with this knowledgehis nature seemed to change. An ardor that was almost vehement withyouth, and that was hard-fibred with manly strength and resolution, wokeup 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 doanything, 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 hadfinished, 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 pullin the other. He held out his arm to help Artois into the boat, thentook 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. Herelied upon Artois. He trusted him--and this fact, of Gaspare's trustand reliance upon him, added now to that feeling of ardor that hadrisen up in Artois, gave him courage, helped to banish completely thatpunishing sensation which had condemned him to keep away from Hermioneas 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 forcedthe 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. Itcast but a thin and distant glint of silver upon the waters. By the nearshore the dimness of this hour was unbroken by any light, unstirred byany sound except the withdrawn and surreptitious murmur of the sea. Thehumped shapes of the low yellow rocks showed themselves faintly likeshapes of beasts asleep. In the distance, lifted above the sea, two orthree flames shone faintly. They were shed by lamps or candles set inthe 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 ablind impulse to get away, and be alone. Artois could not tell. But shehad taken the _fattura della morte_. 

He wondered whether she knew its meaning, with what sinister intentionit had been made. Something in the little worthless thing must haveattracted her, have fascinated her, or she would not have taken it. In her distress of mind, in her desire for solitude, she would havehastened away and left it lying where it was. 

Perhaps she had a purpose in leaving the island with the _fattura dellamorte_. 

Her taking of it began to seem to Artois, as it had evidently seemed toGaspare, a fact of profound significance. His imagination, working withan almost diseased rapidity and excitement, brought before him a seriesof scenes in which the death-charm figured as symbol. In one of thesethere were two women--Hermione and Maddalena. 

Hermione might have set out on some wild quest to Mergellina. Heremembered the face at the window, and knew that to-night everything waspossible. 

"Row quickly, Gaspare!"

Gaspare bent almost furiously to the oars. Then sharply he turned hishead. 

"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 chestheave. Instinctively Artois put his hands on the gunwale of the boat oneither side of him, moving as if to stand up. 

"Take care, Signore!"

"I'd forgotten--" He leaned forward, searching the night. "Where is theSignora?"

"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 theSpirits row in there. "

"Si, Signore. "

He drew the oars again strongly through the water. 

Artois remembered a blinding storm that had crashed over a mountainvillage in Sicily long ago, a flash of lightning which had revealed tohim the gaunt portal of a palace that seemed abandoned, a strip of blackcloth, the words "_Lutto in famiglia_. " They had seemed to him propheticwords. 

And now--?

In the darkness he saw another darkness, the strange and broken outlineof the ruined palace by the sea, once perhaps, the summer home of somewealthy Roman, now a mere shell visited in the lonely hours by theinsatiate waves. Were Hermione and he to meet here? To-day he hadthought of his friend as a spirit that had been long in prison. Now hecame to the Palace of the Spirits to face her truth with his. The Palaceof the Spirits! The name suggested the very nakedness of truth. Well, let it be so, let the truth stand there naked. Again, mingling with acertain awe, there rose up in him a strong ardor, a courage that wasvehement, that longed at last to act. And it seemed to him suddenly thatfor many years, through all the years that divided Hermione and him fromthe Sicilian life, they had been held in leash, waiting for the momentof this encounter. Now the leash slackened. They were being freed. Andfor what?

Gaspare plunged his right oar into the sea alone. The boat swung roundobediently, 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 togo out alone grated against theirs. 

"Madonna! To leave the boat like that!" exclaimed Gaspare, bending tocatch the tow-rope. "The Signora is not safe to-night. The Signora'ssaint will not look on her to-night. "

"Put me ashore, Gaspare. "

"Si, Signore. "

The boat passed before the fa�ade of the palace. 

Artois knew the palace well by day. This was the first time he had cometo it by night. In daylight it was a small and picturesque ruin washedby the laughing sea, lonely but scarcely sad. Leaping from its dark andcrumbling walls the fisher-boys often plunged into the depths below;or they lay upon the broad sills of the gaping window-spaces to drythemselves in the sun. Men came with rods and lines to fish from itsdeserted apartments, through which, when rough weather was at hand, thescreaming sea-birds flew. The waves played frivolously enough in itsrecesses. And their voices were heard against the slimy and defiantstones calling to teach other merrily, as perhaps once the voicesof revellers long dead called in the happy hours of a vanishedvilleggiatura. 

But the night wrought on it, in it, and about it change. Its solitudethen became desolation, the darkness of its stones a blackness thatwas tragic, its ruin more than a suggestion, the decisive picture ofdespair. 

At its base was a line of half-discovered window-spaces, the lower partsof which had become long since the prey of the waves. Above it weremore window-spaces, fully visible, and flanking a high doorway, once, nodoubt, connected with a staircase, but now giving upon mid-air. Formerlythere had been another floor, but this had fallen into decay anddisappeared, with the exception of one small and narrow chamber situatedimmediately over the doorway. Isolated, for there was no means ofapproach to it, this chamber had something of the aspect of a low andsombre tower sluggishly lifting itself towards the sky. The palace wasset upon rock and flanked by rocks. Round about it grass grew to thebase of a high cliff at perhaps two hundred yards distance from it. Andhere 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, towhich from the land no road, no footpath led, he stared at the darknessof 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 withthe _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 cannothear her. "

He lifted up his hand. They listened. But they heard only the suckingmurmur of the sea against the rocks perforated with little holes, and indistant, 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 comeback. "

"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 ismad to-night. She gave me a look--" His eyes clouded with moisture. "Ifthe poor Signora had not been mad she could not have looked at me likethat--at another, perhaps, but not at me. "

It seemed as if at last his long reserve was breaking down. He put uphis hand to his eyes. 

"I did not think that my Padrona--"

He stopped. Artois remembered the face at the window. He graspedGaspare's hand. 

"The Signora does not understand, " he said. "I will make the Signoraunderstand. "

"Si, Signore, you must make the poor Signora understand. "

Gaspare's hand held on to the hand of Artois, and in that clasp theimmense reserve, that for so many years had divided, and united, thesetwo 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 itssister boat, on the calm sea that kissed the palace walls. He gave hisPadrona's fate into the hands of Artois. It was a tribute which had uponArtois 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 ofauthority as the confidential servant and protector of Hermione. And now, suddenly, and very simply, he seemed to acknowledge hishelplessness 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 tobear. He had sent Vere to Hermione. He had sent Gaspare to her. Hehad even sent Ruffo to her. Now he must go himself. Vere, Gaspare, Ruffo--they were all looking to him. But Gaspare's eyes were mostexpressive, held more of demand for him than the eyes of the girl andboy. For the past was gathered in Gaspare, spoke to him in Gaspare'svoice, looked at him from Gaspare's eyes, and in Gaspare's soul waitedsurely to know how it would be redeemed. 

He turned from the sea and looked towards the cliff. Now he had thepalace on his left hand. On his right, not far off, was a high bluffgoing almost sheer into the sea. Nevertheless, access to the villagewas possible by the strip of rocks beneath it. Had Hermione gone to thevillage by the rocks? If she had, Gaspare's keen eyes would surely haveseen her. Artois looked at the blank wall of the palace. This extendeda little way, then turned at right angles. Just beyond the angle, in itsshadow, 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 comealmost without noise. Before him he saw blackness, the blackness of apassage extending from the orifice of the doorway to an interior chamberof the palace. He heard the peculiar sound of moving water that is besetand covered in by barriers of stone, a hollow and pugnacious murmur, asof something so determined that it would be capable of striving througheternity, 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 shewas near. 

He did not call again. He waited a moment, then he stepped into thepassage. 

The room to which it led was the central room, or hall, of the palace--avaulted chamber, high and narrow, opening to the sea at one end by thegreat doorway already mentioned, to the land beneath the cliff by asmaller doorway at the other. The faint light from without, penetratingthrough these facing doorways, showed to Artois a sort of lesserdarkness, towards which he walked slowly, feeling his way along thewall. When he reached the hall he again stood still, trying to getaccustomed to the strange and eerie obscurity, to pierce it with hiseyes. 

Now to his left, evidently within the building, and not far from wherehe stood, he heard almost loudly the striving of the sea. He heard theentering wave push through some narrow opening, search round the wallsfor egress, lift itself in a vain effort to emerge, fall back baffled, retreat, murmuring discontent, only to be succeeded by another eagerwave. And this startling living noise of water filled him with asensation 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, thatit was growing louder, was filling the palace with an uproar that wasangry. 

"Hermione! Hermione!"

He strove to dominate that uproar. 

Now, far off, through the seaward opening, he saw a streak of silverlying like a thread upon the darkness of the sea. And as he saw it, thevoice of the waves within the palace seemed to sink suddenly away almostto silence. He did not know why, but the vision of that very distantradiance of the young and already setting moon seemed to restore to himabruptly the accuracy of his sense of hearing. 

He again went forward a few steps, descending in the chamber towards thedoorway by the worn remains of an almost effaced staircase. Reaching thebottom he stood still once more. On either side of him he could faintlydiscern openings leading into other rooms. Perhaps Hermione, hearing himcall, had retreated from him through one of them. A sort of horrorof the situation came upon him, as he began thoroughly to realize thehatred, hatred of brain, of nerves, of heart, that was surely quiveringin Hermione in this moment, that was driving her away into the darknessfrom sound and touch of life. Like a wounded animal she was creepingaway from it and hating it. He remembered Gaspare's words about the lookshe 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 hersee 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 thepassing of a thing coated with ice. He had been surely a reasonableman, and his reasonableness had led him to this hour. Suddenly he sawhimself, as he had seen that palace door by lightning. He saw himselffor an instant lit by a glare of fire. He looked, he stared uponhimself. 

And he shivered, as if he had drawn close to, as if he had stood by, athing coated with ice. 

And he dared to come here, to pursue such a woman as Hermione! He daredto think that he could have any power over her, that his ice could haveany power over her fire! He dared to think that! For a moment all, andfar more than all, his former feelings of unworthiness, of helplessness, of cowardice, rushed back upon him. Then, abruptly, there came uponhim this thought--"Vere believes I have power over Hermione. " And thenfollowed the thought--"Gaspare believes that I have power over her. " Andthe ice seemed to crack. He saw fissures in it. He saw it melting. He saw the "thing" it had covered appearing, being gradually revealedas--man. 

"Vere believes in my power. Gaspare believes in my power. They are thenearest to Hermione. They know her best. Their instincts about hermust be the strongest, the truest. Why do they believe in it? Why dothey--why do they know--for they must, they do know, that I have thispower, that I am the one to succeed where any one else would fail? Whyhave they left Hermione in my hands to-night?"

The ice was gone. The lightning flash lit up a man warm with the breathof life. From the gaunt door of the abandoned palace the strip of blackcloth, the tragic words above it, dropped down and disappeared. 

Suddenly Artois knew why Vere believed in his power, and why Gasparebelieved in it--knew how their instincts had guided them, knew to whatsecret knowledge--perhaps not even consciously now their knowledge--theyhad travelled. And he remembered the words he had written in the book atFrisio's on the night of the storm:

"La Conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons ennous. "

He had written those words hurriedly, irritably, merely because he hadto write something, and they chanced--he knew not why--to come into hismind as he took hold of the pen. And it was on that night, surely, thathis conscience--his innate knowledge--began to betray him. Or--no--itwas on that night that he began to defy it, to deny it, to endeavor tocast it out. 

For surely he must have known, he had known, what Vere and Gaspareinnately knew. Surely his conscience had not slept while theirs had beenawake. 

He did not know. It seemed to him as if he had not time to decide thisnow. Very rapidly his mind had worked, rushing surely through corridorsof knowledge to gain an inner room. He had only stood at the foot ofthe crumbling staircase two or three minutes before he moved againdecisively, 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 takenpossession of by the sea. She could not have gone that way, unless--hethought of the _fattura della morte_, and for a moment the superstitioushorror returned upon him. But he banished it. That could not be. Hisheart was flooded by conviction that cruelty has an end, that the mostrelentless fate fails at last in its pursuing, that the _fattura dellamorte_, if it brought death with it, brought a death that was not of thebody, brought, perhaps, a beautiful death of something that had livedtoo long. 

He banished fear, and he entered the chamber on the right. It was litonly by an opening looking to the sea. As he came into it he saw a tallthing--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 hadpassed 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 orland. 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. Heremembered Gaspare's trust. He remembered that Gaspare was waiting inthe 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 surelyhe 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'tyou 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 tome to come. It has not been--it is not a simple thing to me to break inupon--upon--"

He had begun to speak with determination. He had said the very firstwords with energy, almost with a warm eagerness, as of one hurrying onto 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 ofcold 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 gathereditself together, took a form, the form of a wave, towered up as agigantic wave towers, rolled upon him to overwhelm him. So acute washis sensation of being attacked, of being in peril, that his body wasgoverned by it and instinctively shrank, trying to make itself smallthat it might oppose as little resistance as possible to the oncomingfoe. 

For it seemed to him that the wave of blackness was the wave ofHermione's present hatred, that it came upon him, that it struck him, that it stunned and almost blinded him, then divided, rushing onwards heknew not where, unspent and unsatisfied. 

He stood like a man startled and confused, striving to regain lostfooting, to recover his normal condition. 

"You hate me. "

Had he spoken the words or merely thought them? He did not know. He wasnot conscious of speaking them, yet he seemed to hear them. He lookedat the blackness. And again it surely moved. Again he surely saw itgathering itself together, and towering up as a wave towers. 

His sensation was absolutely one of nightmare. And exactly as in anightmare a man feels that he is no longer fully himself, has no longerthe 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. Heturned and looked behind him, moved by a fierce desire for relief. Hehad not the courage to persist in confronting that blackness which tooka form, which came upon him, which would surely overwhelm him. 

In the distance he saw a pallor, where the face of the night lookedinto the palace from the sea. And he heard the distant water. Still thelittle waves were entering the deserted chambers, only to seek an exitwhich they could never find. Their ceaseless determination was horribleto him, because it suggested to him the ceaseless determination of thoseother waves of black hatred, one following another, from some hiddencentre of energy that was inexhaustible. As he listened the sound of thesea stole into his ears till his brain was full of it, till he feltas if into his brain, as into those deserted chambers, the waves werepenetrating, the waves of the sea and those dark waves which gatheredthemselves together and flowed upon him from the void. 

For a moment they possessed him. For a moment he was the prey of thesetwo oceans. 

Then he made a violent effort, released himself, and turned again tothe chamber in which Hermione was hidden. He faced the blackness. He wasable to do that now. But he was not able to go on speaking to thewoman who remained invisible, but whose influence he was so painfullyconscious of. He was not able to speak to her because she was surelyspeaking to him, was communicating to him not only her feeling towardshim, but also its reason, its basis, in that wordless language whichis only used and comprehended by human beings in moments of crisis andintense emotion. That was what he felt, seemed to know. 

He stood there, facing the blackness and listening, while she seemed tobe telling him her woman's reasons for her present hatred of the man whohad been for so long a time her closest friend. 

And these reasons were not only the reasons born of a day's events, ofthe discovery of the lie on which her spirit had been resting. She didnot say--her heart did not say only: "I hate you because you letme believe in that which never existed except in my imagination--myhusband's complete love of me, complete faithfulness to me. I hateyou because you enclosed me in the prison of a lie. I hate you becauseduring all these years you have been a witness of my devotion to anidol, a graven image whose wooden grimace I mistook for the smile of thegod's happy messenger, because you have been a witness of my cult forthe memory of one who betrayed my trust in him, who thought nothing ofmy gift to him, who put another in the sanctuary that should have beensacred to me, and who has poisoned the sources of the holy streams thatflow into and feed the soul of a good woman. "

If Hermione had silently told Artois reasons such as these for hatinghim she would have roused him to battle with her, to defend himself withsome real hope of holding his own, even of eventual conquest. But otherreasons, too, did they not come from her, creeping out of her brainand 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 hecomprehended women well. Hermione best of all women. But these reasons, creeping out of her into him, set a ring of illuminating fire abouthis misconception. They told him that though perhaps he had known oneHermione in his friend, there were other Hermiones in her whom he hadnever really known. Once in the garden of the island by night hehad seen, or fancied he had seen, a strange smile upon her face thatbetokened 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 witha stranger who was hostile to him, or, if not actually hostile, wasalmost 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 womenspecially want, specially need in life. And the catalogue of these needsseemed to him to be also the catalogue of her reasons for hating him atthis moment. 

"Women need--I needed, " she seemed to say, "not only a large and amplefriendship, noble condescending, a friendship like an announcement tocitizens affixed to the wall of a market-place, and covering boldly allthe principal circumstances and likely happenings of ordinary femininelife, but a friendship, an affection, very individual, very full ofsubtlety, not such as would suit, would fit comfortably women, butsuch as would suit, would fit comfortably, would fit beautifully oneindividual 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 stoodto 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 alongthe path that leads to glory. I needed some one for whom I could beunselfish, to whom I could often offer those small burnt sacrificeswhose smoke women love to see ascending towards God, burnt sacrificesof small personal desire, small personal plans and intentions. Ineeded some one to need my encouragement, my admiration--frequentlyexpressed--my perpetual sympathy hovering about him like a warm cloudof fragrant incense, my gentle criticism, leading him to efforts whichwould win from the world, and from me, more admiration of and wonder athis energy and genius. I needed some one to stir within me woman's softpassion for forgiveness, woman's delight in petting the child who hasbeen naughty, but who puts the naughtiness aside and runs home to begood 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, forunselfishness, for the sacrifice of my little personal desires, plans, and intentions, for encouragement of you, for admiration of yourabilities, for sympathy--even for gentle criticism leading you toefforts which won from me eventually a greater respect for your powersand for secret forgiveness which ended in open petting. When I preparedthe pedestal you were quite ready to mount it, and to remain upon itwithout 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 forgenerosity, but to have many gifts, and gifts of a special nature, madein return to me. I needed to feel another often, if not perpetually andexclusively, intent on me. I needed to feel tenderness--watchful, quick, eager tenderness, not tenderness slow-footed and in blinkers--roundabout me. 

"I needed a little blindness in my friend. That is true. But theblindness that I needed was not blindness to my little sacrifices, butblindness 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 smallburnt-offerings of self made for his sake. But I longed, too, for himnot always to see with calm, clear eyes my petty failings, my minutevanities, my inconsistencies, my incongruities, my frequent lackof reasoning power and logical sequence, my gusts of occasionalinjustice--ending nearly always in a rain of undue benefits--my surelyforgivable follies of sentiment, my irritabilities--how often due tophysical causes which no man could ever understand!--my blunders ofthe head--of the heart I made but few, or none--my weak depressions, struggled against but not always conquered, my perhaps childishanxieties and apprehensions, my forebodings, not invariably wellfounded, 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 sawmy little faults, and he made me see that he saw them. Men are so freefrom the tender deceits that women are compact of. 

"And as I needed blindness in some directions, in others I needed clearsight. 

"I needed some one to see that my woman's heart was not only the heartof a happy mother, to whom God had given an almost perfect child, butalso the heart of a lover--not of a _grande amoureuse_, perhaps, butof a lover who had been deprived of the love that is the complement ofwoman's, and who suffered perpetually in woman's peculiar and terribleway because of that deprivation. 

"I needed an understanding of my sacred hunger, a comprehension of mydesolation, a realization that my efforts to fill my time with workwere as the efforts of a traveller in a forest to escape from the wolveswhose voices he hears behind him. I needed the recognition of a simpletruth--that the thing one is passionately eager to give is nearly alwaysthe thing one is passionately eager to receive, and that when I pouredforth sympathy upon others I was longing to have it poured forth uponme. I gave because secretly I realized the hunger I was sharing. Andoften, having satisfied your hunger, I was left to starve, no longer incompany, but entirely alone. 

"I needed great things, perhaps, but I needed them expressed inlittle ways; and I needed little cares, little attentions, littlethoughtfulnesses, little preventions, little, little, absurd kindnesses, tendernesses, recognitions, forgivenesses. Perhaps, indeed, even morethan anything magnificent or great, I needed the so-called littlethings. It is not enough for a woman to know that a man would do forher something important, something even superb, if the occasion for itarose. Such an occasion probably never would arise--and she cannot wait. She wants to be shown at every moment that some one is thinking kindlyof her, is making little, kind plots and plans for her, is wishing toward off from her the chill winds, to keep from pricking her the thornsof the roses, to shut out from her the shadows of life and let in thesunbeams to her pathway. 

"I needed the tender, passing touch to show me my secret grief wasunderstood, and my inconsistency was pardoned. I needed the generoussmile to prove to me that my greed for kindness, even when perhapsinopportune, was met in an ungrudging spirit. I needed now and then--Ineeded this sometimes terribly, more, perhaps, than any other thing--asacrifice of some very small, very personal desire of yours, because itwas not mine or because it was opposite to mine. Never, never, did myheart and my nature demand of yours any great sacrifice of self, suchas mine could have made--such as mine once did make--for you. But it diddemand, often--often it demanded some small sacrifice: the giving up ofsome trifle, the resignation of some advantage, perhaps, that your man'sintellect gave you over my woman's intellect, the abandoning ofsome argumentative position, or the not taking of it, the sweetpretence--scarcely a sin against the Holy Ghost of truth!--that I was atiny bit more persuasive, or more clear-sighted, or more happy in somecontention, 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, everanxious, to show mine for you, in all the little ways that are thelanguage 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 thenature of man cries out for God. But all this I needed generally invain. You were not always a niggard. You were ready sometimes to givein your way. But were you ever ready to give in mine when you saw--andsometimes you must have seen, sometimes you did see--what mine was? Ilonged always to give you all you wanted in the way you wanted it. Butyou 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, Iwas always giving far more than I received. 

"But all that time I had something. All that time I had a memory that Icounted sacred. All that time, like an idiot child, I was clasping in myhand a farthing, which I believed, which I stated, to be a shining pieceof 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 understandthat I realize not only that that farthing is a farthing, but that allfarthings are farthings? Can't you understand that I hate those who havegiven me farthings when my hands were stretched out for gold--my handsthat were giving gold?

"Can't you understand? Can't you? Then I'll make you understand! I'llmake you! I'll make you!"

Again the blackness gathered itself together, took a form, the form ofa wave, towered up as a gigantic wave towers, rolled upon Artoisto overwhelm him. He stood firm and received the shock. For he wasbeginning to understand. He was no longer confronting waves of hatredwhich 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. Butas he stood there in the dark at the door of that black chamber, hearingthe distant murmur of the sea about the palace walls, there were bornein upon him, as if in words she told him, all the reasons for presenthatred of him which preceded the great reason of that day; reasonsfor hatred which sprang, perhaps, which surely must spring, from otherreasons of love. 

His mind was exaggerating, as minds do when the heart is intenselymoved, yet it discerned much truth. And it was very strange, but his nowacute consciousness of a personal hatred coming to him from out ofthe darkness of this almost secret chamber, and of its complex causes, causes which nevertheless would surely never have produced the effect hefelt but for the startling crisis of that day, this acute consciousnessof a personal and fierce hatred bred suddenly in Artois a new sensationof something that was not hatred, that was the reverse of hatred. Verehad once compared him to a sleepy lion. The lion was now awake. 

"Hermione, " he said--and now his voice was strong and unfaltering--"Iseem to have been listening to you all this time that I have beenstanding here. Surely I have been listening to you, hearing yourthoughts. Don't you know it? Haven't you felt it? When I left theisland, when I followed you, I thought I understood. I thought Iunderstood what you were feeling, almost all that you were feeling. Iknow now how little I understood. I didn't realize how much there was tounderstand. 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 atlast. I thought--till now I have thought that I was more able to readthe truth than most men. You must often have laughed--how you must havelaughed--secretly at my pretensions. Only once--one night in the gardenon the island--I think I saw you laughing. And even then I didn'tunderstand. Mon Dieu!"

He was becoming fiercely concentrated now on what he was saying. He waslosing all self-consciousness. He was even losing consciousness ofthe strange fact that he was addressing a void. It was as if he sawHermione, 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. PerhapsI am blind now. I don't know. But, Hermione, I can see something. I doknow something of you and of myself. I do know that even now there is alink between us. You want to deny it. You wouldn't acknowledge it. Butit 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 thatnight we met in Paris, at Madame Enthoven's"--he paused again, so vividly flashed the scene of that dinner in Paris upon hismemory--"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 ofsome help, even now? Don't say I am utterly useless because I have beenso useless to you, so damnably useless in the past. I see all that, mywretched uselessness to you through all these years. I am seeing it nowwhile I am speaking. All the time I'm seeing it. What you have deservedand what you have had!"

He stopped, then he said again:

"What you have deserved and what you have had from me! And from--it wasso--it was the same long ago, not here. But till to-day you didn't knowthat. I was wrong. I must have been wrong, hideously wrong, but I didn'twant you ever to know that. It isn't that I don't love truth. You know Ido. 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. Itwas intended that you should know. God, perhaps, intended it. "

He thought he heard a movement. But he was not quite sure. For there wasalways 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, blindwith you, about you. I thought you need never know. I was mad enoughto think that. But I was madder still, for I thought--I must havethought--that you could not bear to know, that you weren't strong enoughto endure the knowledge. But"--he was digging deep now, searching forabsolute truth: in this moment his natural passion for truth, in onedirection repressed for many years deliberately and consciously, inother directions, perhaps almost unconsciously frustrated, took entirepossession of his being--"but nothing should ever be allowed to stand inthe way of truth. I believe that. I know it. I must, I will always actupon 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 ahorrible _faineant_, the last of _faineants_. I protected you from thetruth. With Gaspare I managed to do it. We never spoke of it--never. ButI 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, andthat my motives in doing it were fine. But sometimes I have wonderedwhether they weren't selfish--whether, instead of protecting you, Iwasn't only protecting myself. For it was all my fault. It all cameabout through me, through my weakness, my cursed weakness, my cursedweakness and whining for help. " He grew scarlet in the dark, realizinghow his pride in his strength, his quiet assumption with Hermione thathe 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 allhave been different. "

"No, it would all have been the same. "

Artois started. Out of the darkness a voice, a low, cold, inexorablevoice 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 theman's. He had been feeling the shell; she plucked out the kernel. Hehad been speaking of the outward facts, of the actions of the body; shespoke of the inward facts, of the actions of the soul. Her husband's sinagainst 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 shehad been giving her whole self to him, all the time that she had beensurrounding him with her love, he had retained in his soul the powerto will to commit it. That he had been given an opportunity to sin wasimmaterial. What was material was that he had been capable of sinning. 

Artois saw his lie. And he stood there silent, rebuked, waiting for thevoice to speak again. But it did not speak. And he felt as if Hermionewere 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--" Hisintention was to say, "But we should not have known it. " He checkedhimself. Even as they formed themselves in his mind the words seemedbending like some wretched, flabby reed. 

"It would have been the same. But that makes no difference in myconduct. 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--hereally and thoroughly comprehended her self-sacrifice, the almostbizarre generosity of her implacably unselfish nature. He measured theforce of her love and the greatness of her sacrifice, by the depth ofher disillusion; and he began to wonder, almost as a child wonders atthings, how he had been able during all these years quite simply, withindeed the almost incredible simplicity of man, never to be shared byany woman, to assume and to feel, when with Hermione, that he was thedominant spirit of the two, that she was, very rightly and properly, andvery happily for her, leaning comfortably upon his strength. And in hiswonder 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 wonderfullystrong, when--afterwards. On Monte Amato--that evening--you werestrong. "

His mind went to that mountain summit. The eyes of his mind saw theevening calm on Etna, and then--something else, a small, flutteringfragment of white paper at his feet among the stones. And, as if hermind read his, she spoke again, still in that low, cold, and inexorablevoice. 

"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 awayin a sob. The sin--that she could speak of with a sound of calm. But allthe woman in her was stricken by the thought of her happy letter treatedlike 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 thedarkness. 

"Don't!"

The voice had changed again, had become sharp, almost cutting. Like thelash of a whip it fell upon him. And he stopped at once. It seemed tohim as if she had cried out, "If you dare to give me your pity I shallkill you!"

And he felt as if just then, for such a reason, she would be capable ofsuch an action. 

"I will not--" He almost faltered. "I am not--coming. "

Never before had he been so completely dominated by any person, or byany 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 againstyour nature. I ought to have realized that as I have not realized it. Iought to have trusted to your strength long ago. "

If he had known how weak she felt while she listened to him, how herwhole being was secretly entreating to be supported, to be taken hold oftenderly, and guarded and cared for like a child! But he was a man. Andat one moment he understood her and at another he did not. 

"Gaspare and I--we wished to spare you. And perhaps I wished to sparemyself. I think I did. I am sure I did. I am sure that was partly myreason. 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 myappeal to you had caused--all it had caused--"

He paused. He was thinking of Maurice's death, which must have been amurder, 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 yourlife 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 thatwas more than the tender friend within him might prompt him to try tohide. 

"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 strivingof 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 thedark. Did she wish to think, wish to be sure that her husband had beenmurdered? He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved. Was shecoming nearer? He heard her breathing, or thought he heard it. He longedto 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 heknew--when he went down to the sea. I am sure he knew--when he saidgood-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 thedifferent women who dwelt within her, to understand and to know them ashe 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 havevoices, 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 speakingfor herself--that she was telling herself that her husband's last actionhad 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 hedidn'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 asort of passion of love for woman's love welled up in his heart. Atthat moment he almost worshipped Hermione for being unable, even in thatmoment, not to love Gaspare because Gaspare had loved the dead man morethan 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, withoutresonance, like the voice of some one very old. And Artois thought ofVirgil's Grotto, of all they had said there, and of how the rock abovethem 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 thesea. 

"Hermione, we must speak only the truth to-night. "

"I am telling you the truth. You chose to follow me. You chose to huntme--to hunt me when you knew it was necessary to me to be alone. It wasbrutal to do it. It was brutal. I had earned the right at least to onething: I had earned the right to be alone. But you didn't care. Youwouldn't respect my right. You hunted me as you might have hunted ananimal. I tried to escape. But you saw me coming, and you chased me, andyou caught me. I can't get away. You have driven me in here. And I can'tget 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 goor 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 anda very little to Gaspare. It never has really mattered to anybody. Ithought it did once to some one. I thought I knew it did. But I waswrong. It didn't. It never mattered. "

As she spoke an immense, a terrific feeling of desolation poured overher, as if from above, coming down upon her in the dark. It was likea flood that stiffened into ice upon her, making her body and her soulnumb for a moment. 

"I've never mattered to any one. "

She muttered the words to herself. As she did so Artois seemed again tobe looking into the magic mirror of the _fattura della morte_, to seethe 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 sinceritywhich can no more be simulated, or mistaken, than the ringing music ofsterling gold. But perhaps she was not in a condition to hear rightly, or perhaps something within her chose to deny, had a lust for denialbecause denial hurt her. 

"To you least of all, " she said. "Only yourself has ever really matteredto you. "

In a sentence she summed up the long catalogue that had been given tohim by her silence. 

His whole body felt as if it reddened. His skin tingled with a sortof physical anger. His mature pride that had grown always, as a strongman's natural pride does grow with the passing of the years, seemed tohim instinctively to rush forward to return the blow that had been dealtit. 

"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 wasnot the eternal egoist she dubbed him. Sometimes he had been genuinelyunselfish, sometimes--not often, perhaps, but sometimes--he had reallysunk himself in her. She was not being quite just. But how could she bequite just to-night? An almost reckless feeling overtook him, a desireto conquer at all costs in this struggle; to win her back, whetheragainst her will or not, to her old self; to eliminate the shockingimpression made upon her soul by the discovery of that day, to wipeit out utterly, to replace it with another; to revive within her thatbeautiful enthusiasm which had been as a light always shining for herand from her upon people and events and life; to make her understand, toprove to her that, after all allowance has been made for uncertaintiesand contradictions of fate, for the ironies, the paradoxes, thecruelties, the tragedies, and the despairs of existence, the great, broad fact emerges, that what the human being gives, in the long runthe human being generally gets, and that she who persistently gives goldwill surely at last receive it. 

The thought of a lost Hermione struck to his heart a greater fear thanhad already that night the thought of a dead Hermione. And if she waschanged she was lost. 

The real, the beautiful Hermione--he must seize her, grip her, hold herfast before it was too late. 

"Hermione, " he said, "I think you saved me from death; I am sure youdid. 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 allcovered with dust from your journey across the plains? I do. I rememberit 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 wouldconquer. It had seemed to me that Africa meant to have me and would haveme. Unless you came I felt certain of that. And I had thought about itall as I lay there in the stifling heat, till I almost felt the feverishearth enclosing me. I had loved Africa, but Africa seemed to me terriblethen. I thought of only Arabs, always Arabs, walking above me on thesurface of the ground when I was buried. And the thought made me shudderwith horror. As if it could have mattered! I was absurd! But one isoften absurd when one is very ill. The child in one comes out then, Isuppose. And I had wondered--how I had wondered!--whether there was anychance of your coming. I hadn't actually asked you to come. I hadn'tdared to do that. But it was the same thing almost. I had let youknow--I had let you know. And I saw you come into my room all coveredwith dust. You had come so quickly--at once. Perhaps--perhaps sometimesyou have thought I had forgotten that evening. I may be an egoist. Iexpect 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 seemedto make me realize that you had not lost a moment as to whether youwould come or not. You looked as if--almost as if you had run all theway 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 soundof her at all, and for a moment he almost wondered whether she haddiscovered that the chamber had some second outlet, whether she had notescaped while he had been speaking. But he looked round and he sawonly dense darkness. She must be there still, close to him, hearingeverything he said, whether against her will or with it. He was beingperfectly sincere, and he was feeling very deeply, with intensity. Butout of his natural reserve now rose a fear--the fear that perhaps hisvoice, his speech, did not convey his sincerity to her. If she shouldmistake him! If she should fancy he was trying to play upon her emotionsin order to win her away from some desperate resolve. He longed tomake her see what he was feeling, feel what he was feeling, be him andherself for one moment. And now the darkness began to distract him. Hewanted light. He wanted to see Hermione, to see which of the women inher faced him, which was listening to him. 

"Hermione, " he said, "I want you--I want--it's hateful speaking likethis, always in the darkness. Don't make me feel all the time that I amholding 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, inwhich there was a very little, very faint light. There he waited. 

Almost immediately the tall shadow which had disappeared into thedarkness emerged from it, passed before him, and went into the centralchamber of the palace. He followed it, and found Hermione standing bythe great doorway that overlooked the sea. Hermione she was, no longera shadow, but the definite darkness of a human form relieved against theclear but now moonless night. She was waiting. Surely she was waitingfor 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 thesound of the sea which came from the chamber on the left was much moredistinct and disturbing than in the chamber where she had hidden. And hecame 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, yousaid, 'Take care--or I shall hate you for keeping me in the dark. ' Ifyou hated me because of what I have done, with Gaspare, Hermione, Icould bear it. I could bear it, because I think it would pass away. Wedid 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 wouldforgive us, I know you would forgive us in the end. But I understand itisn't only that--"

Suddenly he thought of Vere, of that perhaps dawning folly, so utterlydead now, so utterly dead that he could no longer tell whether it hadever even sluggishly stirred with life. He thought of Vere, and ofthe poems, and of the secret of Peppina's revelation. And he wonderedwhether the record he seemed to read in the silence had been a truerecord, 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 beenonly impersonating her? Had it been really himself that had spoken tohimself? As this question arose in his mind he longed to makeHermione speak. Then he could be sure of all. He must clear away allmisconception. Yet, even now, how could he speak of that episode withVere?

"You say you have always wanted gold, and that you have never been givengold--"

"Yes. "

He saw the dark figure near him lift its head. And he felt that Hermionehad come out of the darkness with the intention of speaking the truth ofwhat she felt. If she could not have spoken she would have stayed in theinner chamber, or she would have escaped altogether from the palace whenhe moved from the doorway. He was sure that only if she spoke would shechange. In her silence there was damnation for them both. But she meantto speak. 

"I have been a fool. I see that now. But I think I have been suspectingit for some time--nearly all this summer. "

He could hear by the sound of her voice that while she was speaking shewas 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--haveoften smiled at my enthusiasms. No wonder you smiled! No wonder youlaughed 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 ashort-sighted person tumbling over all the little obstacles on a road. I was always tumbling over things--always--and you must always havebeen laughing. I have been a fool. Instead of growing up, my heart hasremained a child--till now. That's what it is. Children who have beenkindly treated think the world is all kindness. Because my friends weregood to me, the world was good to me, I got into the habit of believingthat I was lovable, and of loving in return. And I trusted people. Ialways thought they were giving me what I was giving them. That hasbeen my great folly, the folly I'm punished for. I have been a credulousfool. I have thought that because I gave a thing with all my heart itwas--it must be--given back to me. And yet I was surprised--I couldscarcely believe it--when--when--"

He knew she was thinking of her beautiful wonder when Maurice had saidhe loved her. 

"I could scarcely believe it! But, because I was a fool, I got tobelieve 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 tillto-day. "

"Hermione!"

"Yes, you mayn't have meant to laugh, but you must have laughed. Yourmind, your intellect must have laughed. Don't say they haven't. Iwouldn'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 amoment that I know anything--anything at all--about a man's heart. ButI do know something about your mind. And I know the irony in it. What asubject I have presented to you all these years for the exercise of yourironic faculty! You ought to thank me! You ought to go on your knees andthank me and bless me for that!"

"Hermione!"

"Just now you talked of my coming into your room in Kairouan all coveredwith dust. You asked me if I remembered it. Yes, I do. And I remembersomething you don't--probably you don't--remember. There was nolooking-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 sawthere wasn't, and I was glad. Because I couldn't look at myself and seehow 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 Ilooked at your face. And I thought 'he doesn't care. He loves me, alldusty and hideous and horrid, as I am. ' And then I didn't care either. Isaid to myself, 'I look an object, and I don't mind a bit, because Isee 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 shestopped short. For a full minute she was silent. And Artois did notspeak. Nor did he move. 

"I felt then, perhaps for the first time, 'the outside doesn't matter toreal people. ' I felt that. I felt, 'I'm real, and he is real, and--andMaurice is real. And though it is splendid to be beautiful, and beautymeans so much, yet it doesn't mean so much as I used to think. Realpeople get beyond it. And when once they have got beyond it then lifebegins. ' I remember thinking that, feeling that, and--just for aminute loving my own ugliness. And then, suddenly, I wished there was alooking-glass in the room that I might stand before it and see whatan object I was, and then look into your face and see that it didn'tmatter. And I even triumphed in my ugliness. 'I have a husband whodoesn'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 womaninside--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 andanything for you; heroic things, or small, dreadful, necessary things;as if I could be the servant of, or sacrifice my life easily for, thosewho loved me so splendidly, who knew how to love so splendidly. AndI was happy then even in sacrificing my happiness with Maurice. And Ithanked God then for not having given me beauty. 

"And I was a fool. But I didn't find it out. And so I revelled inself-sacrifice. You don't know, you could never understand, how Ienjoyed doing the most menial things for you in your illness. Often youthanked me, and often you seemed ashamed that I should do such things. And the doctor--that little Frenchman--apologized to me. And you boththought that doing so much in the frightful heat would make me ill. AndI blessed the heat and the flies and everything that made what I did foryou more difficult to do. Because the doing of what was more difficult, more trying, more fatiguing needed more love. And my gratitude to youfor 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 goback to Maurice I shall be worth a little more, I shall be a little bitfiner, and he'll feel it. He'll understand exactly what it was to meto leave him so soon, to leave--to leave what I thought of then as myGarden of Paradise. And he'll love me more because I had the courage toleave it to try and save my friend. He'll realize--he'll realize--' Butmen don't. They don't want to. Or they can't. I'm sure--I'm positive nowthat men think less of women who are ready to sacrifice themselvesthan of women who wish to make slaves of them. I see that now. It's theselfish women they admire, the women who take their own way and insiston having all they want, not the women who love to serve them--notslavishly, but out of love. A selfish woman they can understand; but awoman 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'tbelieve you ever understood it. You must have wondered at my coming asmuch 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, youdid wonder. You thought it Quixotic, odd. You said to yourself, 'It wasjust like Hermione. How could she do it? How could she come to me if shereally loved her husband?' And very likely my coming made you doubtmy really loving Maurice. I am almost sure it did. I don't believe allthese years you have ever understood what I felt about him, what hisdeath meant to me, what life meant to me afterwards. I told--I tried totell you in the cave--that day. But I don't think you really understoodat all. And he--he didn't understand my love for him. But I suppose hedidn'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 anotherwoman was there--and that was enough for him. And I dare say--now--itis enough for most men, perhaps for every man. And then I'd made anothermistake. I was always making mistakes when my heart led me. And I'dmade a mistake in thinking that real people get beyond looks, theoutside--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 foryouthful charm and a face that is pretty, for the mere look in a pair ofeyes or the curve of a mouth, he'll almost forget that she's alive, evenwhen she's there before him. He'll take the other woman's part againsther instinctively, whichever is in the right. If both women do exactlythe same thing a man will find that the pretty woman has performed amiracle and the ugly woman made some preposterous mistake. That is howmen are. That is how you are, I suppose, and that was Maurice, too. Heforgot me for a peasant. But--she must have been pretty once. And I wasalways ugly!"

"Delarey loved you, " Artois said, suddenly, interrupting her in astrong, 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 memoryso intense, so poignant, that she made, she could make, no effort torelease herself. She heard the drowsy wail of the Ceramella droppingdown the mountain-side in the radiant heat of noon. She felt Maurice'swarm hand. She remembered her words about the woman's need to love--"Iwanted, I needed to love--do men ever feel that? Women do often, nearlyalways, I think. " The Pastorale--it sounded in her ears. Or was it thesea that sounded, the sea in the abandoned chambers of the Palace of theSpirits? She listened. No, it was the Pastorale, that antique, simple, holy tune, that for her must always be connected with the thought oflove, man's love for woman, and the Bambino's love for all the creaturesof God. It flooded her heart, and beneath it sank down, like a drowningthing, for a moment the frightful bitterness that was alive in her heartto-night. 

"Delarey loved you, " Artois repeated. "He loved you on the first day inSicily, and he loved you on the last. "

"And--and the days between?"

Her voice spoke falteringly. In her voice there was a sound of pleadingthat struck into the very depths of his heart. The real Hermione wasin that sound, the loving woman who needed love, who deserved a love asdeep as that which she had given, as that which she surely still had togive. 

"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 differentways of loving. But I don't believe a human being ever existed who hadno way at all. Delarey's way was different from your way, so differentthat, now you know the truth of him, perhaps you can't believe he everloved you. But he did. He was young, and he was hot-blooded--he wasreally 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, andI felt without at all fully understanding it the drama in his soul. Butnow I understand it. I'm sure I understand it. And I think the depth ofa 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 determinationalways from henceforth to be absolutely sincere with himself and withthose whom he really loved. 

"I am sure there is no more exact measure. Hermione, it is verydifficult, I think, to realize what any human being is, to judge anyone 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 judgeDelarey by his act of faithlessness? And, if you do, how would you judgeme?"

"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 youegoism. It is egoism, I suppose. But I want to know--I must know. Howwould 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 thedistance I fall, the distance, perhaps, you think I have fallen?"

He spoke slowly. He was delaying. For all the time he spoke he wassecretly battling with his pride--and his pride was a strong fighter. But to-night his passion for sincerity, his instinct that forHermione--and for him, too--salvation lay in their perfect, even intheir cruel sincerity to themselves and to each other, was a strongfighter 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 feltit, and you have felt it. "

"Yes. "

"It might, perhaps, have arisen from the fact of my suspicion who Ruffowas, a suspicion that lately became a certainty. My suspicion, andlatterly my knowledge, no doubt changed my manner--made me anxious, perhaps, uneasy, made me watchful, made me often seem very strange toyou. That alone might have caused a difference in our relations. But Ithink 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. Shewas growing up. She was passing from childhood into girlhood. She wasdeveloping swiftly. That development fascinated me. Of course I hadalways been very fond of Vere. But this summer she meant more to me thanshe had meant. One day--it was the day I came back to the island aftermy visit to Paris--"

"Yes?"

He looked at her, trying to read what she was feeling in her face, butit 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 tellingher to continue. Once, Hermione, you consulted me. Then my advice wasdifferent. "

"I know. "

"The remembrance of this, and Vere's knowledge that you had suffered innot succeeding with work, prompted us to keep the matter of her attemptsto write a secret for the time. It seems a trifle--all this, but lookingback 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 yourcorrections. 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 hadsaid to Vere, 'Keep your secrets. ' So I had no right, and I did wrong inreading them. "

He felt that she was instinctively trying to match his sincerity withhers, and that fact helped him to continue. 

"The knowledge of this budding talent of Vere's made me take a newinterest in her, made me wish very much--at least I thought, I believedit was that, Hermione--that no disturbing influence should come intoher life. Isidoro Panacci came--through me. Peppina came--through you. Hermione, on the night when Vere and I went out alone together inthe boat Vere learned the truth about Peppina and the life behind theshutter. "

"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 himin 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 hadcost 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 tellhim. Yet he felt as if she had struck him. And so absolutely was heaccustomed to delicate tenderness, and the most thoughtful, anxiouskindness from her, that he suffered acutely and from a double distress. The thing itself was cruel and hurt him. But that Hermione had doneit hurt him far more. He could hardly believe it. That by any roadshe could travel to such an action seemed incredible to him. He stood, realizing it. And the bitter sharpness of his suffering made himunderstand something. In all its fulness he understood what Hermione'stenderness had been in his life for many, many years. And then--his mindseemed 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 musthave been storm-tossed, before it was driven to succumb to such animpulse. 

And he came quite close to her. And he felt a strange, sudden nearnessto 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 guiltyduring this summer. You have told me something that it was verydifficult for you to tell. I have something to tell you. And it is--itis not easy to tell. "

"Tell it me. "

He looked at her. He was now quite close to her, and could see theoutline of her face but not the expression in her eyes. 

"My interest in Vere increased. I believed it to be an interest arousedin me by the discovery of this talent in her. I believed the newfondness I felt for her to be a very natural fondness, caused by hercharming confidence in me. Our little secret drew us together. And Iunderstand now, Hermione, that it seemed to set you apart from us. Ibelieve I understand all now, all the circumstances that have seemedstrange to me this summer. I wanted Vere's talent to develop naturally, unhindered, unaffected--I thought it was merely that--and I becameexigent, I even became jealous of all outside interference. On the nightwe dined at Frisio's I felt strongly irritated at Panacci's interest inVere. And there were other moments--"

He looked at her again. She stood perfectly still. Her head was slightlybent and she seemed to be looking at the ground. 

"And then came the night of the Carmine. Hermione, after you and Verehad 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, andeven--even that Gaspare knew it. At the moment I think I laughed athim. I thought his accusation ridiculous. But when he was gone--andafterwards--I examined myself. I tried to know myself. I spent hoursin 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 beenin love with Vere. When I thought of Vere and myself in such a relationmy spirit recoiled. Such a thing seemed to me monstrous. But though Iknew that it was not true, I knew also that I had been jealous ofVere, unjust to others because of Vere. I had been, perhaps, foolish, undignified. Perhaps--perhaps--for how can we be quite sure ofourselves. Hermione? How can we be certain of our own natures, our ownconduct?--perhaps, if Panacci's coarse brutality had not waked up mywhole 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 inthe eyes of others. I scarcely think so. But I want to be sincere. I would rather exaggerate than minimize my own shortcomings to youto-night. I scarcely believe it ever could have been so. But Panaccisaid 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. Andeven in that moment of emotion, and of a sort of strange exhaustionfollowing upon emotion, she knew, as no other living person could haveknown, 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 tome 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 destiniesthat I should know myself. I wish I dared to tell you more. I wishto-night I dared to tell you all that I have come to know. But I darenot, I dare not. You would not believe me. I could not even expect youto believe me. "

He stopped. Perhaps he hoped for a word that would deny his lastobservation. But it did not come to him. And he hesitated for whatseemed to him a very long time, almost an eternity. He was beset byindecision, by an extraordinary deep modesty and consciousness of hisown unworthiness that he had never before experienced, and also by anew and acute consciousness of the splendor of Hermione's nature, of thepower of her heart, of the faithfulness and nobility of her temperament. 

"All I can say, Hermione"--he at length went on speaking, and in hisvoice sounded that strange modesty, a modesty that made his voice seemto her almost like a voice of hesitating youth--"all that I dare to sayto-night is this. I told you just now that we all have our differentways of loving. You have loved in your way. You have loved Delarey asyour husband. And you have loved me as your friend. Delarey, as yourhusband, betrayed you. Only to-day you know it. I, as your friend--haveI ever betrayed you? Do you believe--even now when you are ready tobelieve very much of evil--do you really believe that as a friend Icould ever betray you?"

He moved, stood in front of her, lifted his hands and laid them on hershoulders. 

"Do you believe that?"

"No. "

"You have loved us in your way. He is dead. But I am here to love youalways 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 thatI know so much of myself--and of you"--there was a slight break in hisvoice--"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 hershoulders, began to lean heavily upon them, to press them, to grip themtill 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 askyou to-night is--that you will not forbid me to seek it. "

The pressure of his hands upon her shoulders was becoming almostunbearable. But she bore it. She bore it for she loved it. Perhaps thatnight no words could have quite convinced her of his desperate honestyof soul in that moment, perhaps no sound of his voice could have quiteconvinced her. But the unconsciously cruel pressure of his hands uponher convinced her absolutely. She felt as if it was his soul--the truthof his soul--which was grasping her--which was closing upon her. And shefelt 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, sheknew, 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 amoment 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 theCasa del Mare. "

"Not to me?"

"No, to Peppina. Has it not brought another death? Or, at least, does itnot typify another death to-night, the death of a great lie? I think itdoes. I look upon it as a symbol. But--but--?"

He looked at her. He was at the huge doorway of the palace. The seamurmured 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 theycame 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 inletbeneath the Isle of the Sirens when he was bringing the body of Mauricefrom the sea. As she had trembled then, she began to tremble now. Shefelt exhausted, that she could bear no more, that she must rest, beguarded, cared for, protected, loved. The boat touched shore. Gaspareleaped out. He cast an eager, fiery look of scrutiny on his Padrona. Shereturned it. Then, suddenly, he seized her hand, bent down and kissedit. 

She trembled more. He lifted his head, stared at her again. Then hetook her up in his strong arms, as if she were a child, and carried hergently 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 getin, the boat pushed off, the splash of the oars. But she did not openher eyes, until presently an instinct told her there was something shemust see. Then she looked. 

The boat was passing under the blessing hand of San Francesco, under thelight of the Saint, which was burning calmly and brightly. 

Hermione moved. She bent down to the water, the _acqua benedetta_. Shesprinkled it over the boat and made the sign of the cross. When theyreached 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 youthink--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, walkingslowly but firmly. They came to the house door. Gaspare had kept closebehind them. At the door Artois stopped. He felt as if to-night he oughtto go no farther. 

Hermione looked at him and passed into the house. Gaspare, seeing thatArtois 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 speakingtogether. 

"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 lookingdown to the dim sea, from which only the night before Ruffo's voicehad floated up to her, singing the song of Mergellina. Only the nightbefore! And it seemed to her centuries ago. 

"Madre!"

Vere spoke to her. Vere was beside her. But she gazed beyond her childto Ruffo, who stood with his cap in his hand and his eyes, full ofgentleness, 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 saymore. But she did not speak. She stood quite still for a moment lookingat the boy. Then she put one hand on his shoulder, bent down and touchedhis 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 littleharbor of Mergellina a white boat with a green line put off. It wasrowed 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 sofar ahead of them that they could only see it as a moving dot upon theshining sea, when they rounded the breakwater and set their course forthe point of land where lies the Antico Giuseppone. 

Gaspare rowed standing up, with his back towards Hermione and Artoisand his great eyes staring steadily out to sea. He plied the oarsmechanically. During the first few minutes of the voyage to the islandhis mind was far away. He was a boy in Sicily once more, waiting proudlyupon his first, and indeed his only, Padrona in the Casa del Preteon Monte Amato. Then she was quite alone. He could see her sitting atevening upon the terrace with a book in her lap, gazing out across theravine and the olive-covered mountain slopes to the waters that kissedthe shore of the Sirens' Isle. He could see her, when night fell, going slowly up the steps into the lighted cottage, and turning on itsthreshold to wish him "Buon riposo. "

Then there was an interval--and she came again. He was waiting at thestation of Cattaro. Outside stood the little train of donkeys, decoratedwith flowers under his careful supervision. Upon Monte Amato, in theCasa del Prete, everything was in readiness for the arrival of thePadrona--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 browneager face looking out of a window--a face which at once had seemedfamiliar 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 theCampo Santo where Protestants were buried, and threw flowers from hisfather'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 theAbetone he received for the first time into his untutored arms hisPadroncina. His Padrone was gone from him forever. But once more, as hewould have expressed it to a Sicilian comrade, they were "in three. " Andstill another period began. 

And now that period was ended. 

As Gaspare rowed slowly on towards the island, in his simple and yetshrewd way he was pondering on life, on its irresistible movement, on its changes, its alternations of grief and joy, loneliness andcompanionship. He was silently reviewing the combined fates of hisPadrona and himself. 

Behind him for a long while there was silence. But when the boat wasabreast 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 writesomething, so I wrote that. I wonder--I wonder now why long ago myconscience did not tell me plainly something. I wonder it did not tellme 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 towardsme, till I thought of you living, but with your affection permanentlywithdrawn from me. That night--you know--?"

"Yes, I know. "

"At first I was not sure--I was afraid for a moment about you. Vere andI were afraid, when your room was dark and we heard nothing. But eventhen I did not fully understand how much I need you. I only understoodthat 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 alesson, 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, afterthat night, we can never for very long misunderstand each other. Forthat 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 thepoint, until in the distance the island appeared, even until the prowof the boat grated against the rock beneath the window of the Casa delMare. 

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. Hermionetenderly returned the kiss, looked at Artois, and went out. 

She made her way to the brow of the island, and stood still for awhile, drinking in the soft wind that blew to her from Ischia. Then shedescended 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 voicesinging 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. "