More than an hour had passed. To Vere it had seemed like five minutes.
Her cheeks were hotly flushed. Her eyes shone. With hands that were
slightly trembling she gathered together her manuscripts, and carefully
arranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of ribbon round them,
tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile Artois, standing up, was knocking
the shreds of tobacco out of his pipe against the chimney-piece into his
hand. He carried them over to the window, dropped them out, then stood
for a minute looking at the sea.
“The evening calm is coming, Vere,” he said, “bringing with it the
wonder of this world.”
“Yes.”
He heard a soft sigh behind him, and turned round.
“Why was that? Has dejection set in, then?”
“No, no.”
“You know the Latin saying: ‘Festina lente’? If you want to understand
how slowly you must hasten, look at me.”
He had been going to add, “Look at these gray hairs,” but he did not.
Just then he felt suddenly an invincible reluctance to call Vere’s
attention to the signs of age apparent in him.
“I spoke to you about the admirable incentive of ambition,” he
continued, after a moment. “But you must understand that I meant the
ambition for perfection, not at all the ambition for celebrity. The
satisfaction of the former may be a deep and exquisite joy--the partial
satisfaction, for I suppose it can never be anything more than that. But
the satisfaction of the other will certainly be Dead-sea fruit--fruit of
the sea unlike that brought up by Ruffo, without lasting savor, without
any real value. One should never live for that.”
The last words he spoke as if to himself, almost like a warning
addressed to himself.
“I don’t believe I ever should,” Vere said quickly. “I never thought of
such a thing.”
“The thought will come, though, inevitably.”
“How dreadful it must be to know so much about human nature as you do!”
“And yet how little I really know!”
There came up a distant cry from the sea. Vere started.
“There is Madre! Of course, Monsieur Emile, I don’t want--but you
understand!”
She hurried out of the room, carrying the packet with her.
Artois felt that the girl was strongly excited. She was revealing more
of herself to him, this little Vere whom he had known, and not known,
ever since she had been a baby. The gradual revelation interested him
intensely--so intensely that in him, too, there was excitement now. So
many truths go to make up the whole round truth of every human soul.
Hermione saw some of these truths of Vere, Gaspare others, perhaps; he
again others. And even Ruffo and the Marchesino--he put the Marchesino
most definitely last--even they saw still other truths of Vere, he
supposed.
To whom did she reveal the most? The mother ought to know most, and
during the years of childhood had doubtless known most. But those
years were nearly over. Certainly Vere was approaching, or was on, the
threshold of the second period of her life.
And she and he had a secret from Hermione. This secret was a very
innocent one. Still, of course, it had the two attributes that belong to
every secret: of drawing together those who share it, of setting apart
from them those who know it not. And there was another secret, too,
connected with it, and known only to Artois: the fact that the child,
Vere, possessed the very small but quite definite beginnings, the seed,
as it were, of something that had been denied to the mother, Hermione.
“Emile, you have come back! I am glad!”
Hermione came into the room with her eager manner and rather slow gait,
holding out both her hands, her hot face and prominent eyes showing
forth with ardor the sincerity of her surprise and pleasure.
“Gaspare told me. I nearly gave him a hug. You know his sly look when he
has something delightful up his sleeve for one! Bless you!”
She shook both his hands.
“And I had come back in such bad spirits! But now--”
She took off her hat and put it on a table.
“Why were you in bad spirits, my friend?”
“I had been with Madame Alliani, seeing something of the intense misery
and wickedness of Naples. I have seen a girl--such a tragedy! What
devils men can be in these Southern places! What hideous things they
will do under the pretence of being driven by love! But--no, don’t let
us spoil your arrival. Where is Vere? I thought she was entertaining
you.”
“We have been having tea together. She has this moment gone out of the
room.”
“Oh!”
She seemed to expect some further explanation. As he gave none she sat
down.
“Wasn’t she very surprised to see you?”
“I think she was. She had just been bathing, and came running in with
her hair all about her, looking like an Undine with a dash of Sicilian
blood in her. Here she is!”
“Are you pleased, Madre? You poor, hot Madre!”
Vere sat down by her mother and put one arm round her. Subtly she was
trying to make up to her mother for the little secret she was keeping
from her for a time.
“Are you very, very pleased?”
“Yes, I think I am.”
“Think! You mischievous Madre!”
Hermione laughed.
“But I feel almost jealous of you two sitting here in the cool, and
having a quiet tea and a lovely talk while--Never mind. Here is my tea.
And there’s another thing. Oh, Emile, I do wish I had known you would
arrive to-day!”
“Why specially?”
“I’ve committed an unusual crime. I’ve made--actually--an engagement for
this evening.”
Artois and Vere held up their hands in exaggerated surprise.
“Are you mad, my dear Hermione?” asked Artois.
“I believe I am. It’s dangerous to go to Naples. I met a young man.”
“The Marchesino!” cried Vere. “The Marchesino! I see him in your eye,
Madre.”
“C’est cela!” said Artois, “and you mean to say--!”
“That I accepted an invitation to dine with him to-night, at nine, at
the Scoglio di Frisio. There! Why did I? I have no idea. I was hot from
a horrible vicolo. He was cool from the sea. What chance had I against
him? And then he is through and through Neapolitan, and gives no quarter
to a woman, even when she is ‘una vecchia.’”
As she finished Hermione broke into a laugh, evidently at some
recollection.
“Doro made his eyes very round. I can see that,” said Artois.
“Like this!” cried Vere.
And suddenly there appeared in her face a reminiscence of the face of
the Marchesino.
“Vere, you must not! Some day you will do it by accident when he is
here.”
“Is he coming here?”
“In a launch to fetch me--us.”
“Am I invited?” said Vere. “What fun!”
“I could not get out of it,” Hermione said to Artois. “But now I insist
on your staying here till the Marchesino comes. Then he will ask you,
and we shall be a quartet.”
“I will stay,” said Artois, with a sudden return of his authoritative
manner.
“It seems that I am woefully ignorant of the Bay,” continued Hermione.
“I have never dined at Frisio’s. Everybody goes there at least once.
Everybody has been there. Emperors, kings, queens, writers, singers,
politicians, generals--they all eat fish at Frisio’s.”
“It’s true.”
“You have done it?”
“Yes. The Padrone is worth knowing. He--but to-night you will know him.
Yes, Frisio’s is characteristic. Vere will be amused.”
With a light tone he hid a faint chagrin.
“What fun!” repeated Vere. “If I had diamonds I should put them on.”
She too was hiding something, one sentiment with another very different.
But her youth came to her aid, and very soon the second excitement
really took the place of the first, and she was joyously alive to the
prospect of a novel gayety.
“I must not eat anything more,” said Hermione. “I believe the Marchesino
is ordering something marvellous for us, all the treasures of the sea.
We must be up to the mark. He really is a good fellow.”
“Yes,” said Artois. “He is. I have a genuine liking for him.”
He said it with obvious sincerity.
“I am going,” said Vere. “I must think about clothes. And I must undo
my hair again and get Maria to dry it thoroughly, or I shall look
frightening.”
She went out quickly, her eyes sparkling.
“Vere is delighted,” said Hermione.
“Yes, indeed she is.”
“And you are not. Would you rather avoid the Marchesino to-night, Emile,
and not come with us? Perhaps I am selfish. I would so very much rather
have you with us.”
“If Doro asks me I shall certainly come. It’s true that I wish you were
not engaged to-night--I should have enjoyed a quiet evening here. But we
shall have many quiet, happy evenings together this summer, I hope.”
“I wonder if we shall?” said Hermione, slowly.
“You--why?”
“I don’t know. Oh, I am absurd, probably. One has such strange ideas,
houses based on sand, or on air, or perhaps on nothing at all.”
She got up, went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out of
it a letter.
“Emile,” she said, coming back to him with it in her hand, “would you
like to explain this to me?”
“What is it?”
“The letter I found from you when I came back from Capri.”
“But does it need explanation?”
“It seemed to me as if it did. Read it and see.”
He took it from her, opened it and read it.
“Well?” he said.
“Isn’t the real meaning between the lines?”
“If it is, cannot you decipher it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Somehow it depressed me. Perhaps it was
my mood just then. Was it?”
“Perhaps it was merely mine.”
“But why--‘I feel specially this summer I should like to be near you’?
What does that mean exactly?”
“I did feel that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I can tell you now. I am not sure that I could even have
told you at the time I wrote that letter.”
She took it from him and put it away again in the drawer.
“Perhaps we shall both know later on,” she said, quietly. “I believe we
shall.”
He did not say anything.
“I saw that boy, Ruffo, this afternoon,” she said, after a moment of
silence.
“Did you?” said Artois, with a change of tone, a greater animation. “I
forgot to ask Vere about him. I suppose he has been to the island again
while I have been away?”
“Not once. Poor boy, I find he has been ill. He has had fever. He was
out to-day for the first time after it. We met him close to Mergellina.
He was in a boat, but he looked very thin and pulled down. He seemed so
delighted to see me. I was quite touched.”
“Hasn’t Vere been wondering very much why he did not come again?”
“She has never once mentioned him. Vere is a strange child sometimes.”
“But you--haven’t you spoken of him to her?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Vere’s silence made you silent?”
“I suppose so. I must tell her. She likes the boy very much.”
“What is it that attracts her to this boy, do you think?”
The question was ordinary enough, but there was a peculiar intonation
in Artois’ voice as he asked it, an intonation that awakened surprise in
Hermione.
“I don’t know. He is an attractive boy.”
“You think so too?”
“Why, yes. What do you mean, Emile?”
“I was only wondering. The sea breeds a great many boys like Ruffo, you
know. But they don’t all get Khali Targa cigarettes given to them, for
all that.”
“That’s true. I have never seen Vere pay any particular attention to the
fishermen who come to the island. In a way she loves them all because
they belong to the sea, she loves them as a décor. But Ruffo is
different. I felt it myself.”
“Did you?”
He looked at her, then looked out of the window and pulled his beard
slowly.
“Yes. In my case, perhaps, the interest was roused partly by what Vere
told me. The boy is a Sicilian, you see, and just Vere’s age.”
“Vere’s interest perhaps comes from the same reason.”
“Very likely it does.”
Hermione spoke the last words without conviction. Perhaps they both
felt that they were not talking very frankly--were not expressing their
thoughts to each other with their accustomed sincerity. At any rate,
Artois suddenly introduced another topic of conversation, the reason
of his hurried visit to Paris, and for the next hour they
discussed literary affairs with a gradually increasing vivacity and
open-heartedness. The little difficulty between them--of which both
had been sensitive and fully conscious--passed away, and when at length
Hermione got up to go to her bedroom and change her dress for the
evening, there was no cloud about them.
When Hermione had gone Artois took up a book, but he sat till the
evening was falling and Giulia came smiling to light the lamp, without
reading a word of it. Her entry roused him from his reverie, and he took
out his watch. It was already past eight. The Marchesino would soon be
coming. And then--the dinner at Frisio’s!
He got up and moved about the room, picking up a book here and there,
glancing at some pages, then putting it down. He felt restless and
uneasy.
“I am tired from the journey,” he thought. “Or--I wonder what the
weather is this evening. The heat seems to have become suffocating since
Hermione went away.”
He went to one of the windows and looked out. Twilight was stealing over
the sea, which was so calm that it resembled a huge sheet of steel.
The sky over the island was clear. He turned and went to the opposite
window. Above Ischia there was a great blackness like a pall. He stood
looking at it for some minutes. His erring thoughts, which wandered like
things fatigued that cannot rest, went to a mountain village in
Sicily, through which he had once ridden at night during a terrific
thunder-storm. In a sudden, fierce glare of lightning he had seen upon
the great door of a gaunt Palazzo, which looked abandoned, a strip of
black cloth. Above it were the words, “Lutto in famiglia.”
That was years ago. Yet now he saw again the palace door, the strip
of cloth soaked by the pouring rain, the dreary, almost sinister words
which he had read by lightning:
“Lutto in famiglia.”
He repeated them as he gazed at the blackness above Ischia.
“Monsieur Emile!”
“Vere!”
The girl came towards him, a white contrast to what he had been
watching.
“I’m all ready. It seems so strange to be going out to a sort of party.
I’ve had such a bother with my hair.”
“You have conquered,” he said. “Undine has disappeared.”
“What?”
“Come quite close to the lamp.”
She came obediently.
“Vere transformed!” he said. “I have seen three Veres to-day already.
How many more will greet me to-night?”
She laughed gently, standing quite still. Her dress and her gloves were
white, but she had on a small black hat, very French, and at the back of
her hair there was a broad black ribbon tied in a big bow. This ribbon
marked her exact age clearly, he thought.
“This is a new frock, and my very smartest,” she said; “and you dared to
abuse Paris!”
“Being a man. I must retract now. You are right, we cannot do without
it. But--have you an umbrella?”
“An umbrella?”
She moved and laughed again, much more gayly.
“I am serious. Come here and look at Ischia.”
She went with him quickly to the window.
“That blackness does look wicked. But it’s a long way off.”
“I think it is coming this way.”
“Oh, but”--and she went to the opposite window--“the sky is perfectly
clear towards Naples. And look how still the sea is.”
“Too still. It is like steel.”
“Hush! Listen!”
She held up her hand. They both heard a far-off sound of busy panting on
the sea.
“That must be the launch!” she said.
Her eyes were gay and expectant. It was evident that she was in high
spirits, that she was looking forward to this unusual gayety.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t it sound in a hurry, as if the Marchesino was terribly afraid
of being late?”
“Get your umbrella, Vere, and a waterproof. You will want them both.”
At that moment Hermione came in.
“Madre, the launch is coming in a frightful hurry, and Monsieur Emile
says we must take umbrellas.”
“Surely it isn’t going to rain?”
“There is a thunder-storm coming up from Ischia, I believe,” said
Artois.
“Then we will take our cloaks in case. It is fearfully hot. I thought so
when I was dressing. No doubt the launch will have a cabin.”
A siren hooted.
“That is the Marchesino saluting us!” cried Vere. “Come along, Madre!
Maria! Maria!”
She ran out, calling for the cloaks.
“Do you like Vere’s frock, Emile?” said Hermione, as they followed.
“Yes. She looks delicious--but quite like a little woman of the world.”
“Ah, you like her best as the Island child. So do I. Oh, Emile!”
“What is it?”
“I can’t help it. I hate Vere’s growing up.”
“Few things can remain unchanged for long. This sea will be
unrecognizable before we return.”
Gaspare met them on the landing with solemn eyes.
“There is going to be a great storm, Signora,” he said. “It is coming
from Ischia.”
“So Don Emilio thinks. But we will take wraps, and we are going in a
launch. It will be all right, Gaspare.”
“Shall I come with you, Signora?”
“Well, Gaspare, you see it is the Marchese’s launch--”
“If you would like me to come, I will ask the Signore Marchese.”
“We’ll see how much room there is.”
“Si, Signora.”
He went down to receive the launch.
“Emile,” Hermione said, as he disappeared, “can you understand what a
comfort to me Gaspare is? Ah, if people knew how women love those who
are ready to protect them! It’s quite absurd, but just because Gaspare
said that, I’d fifty times rather have him with us than go without him.”
“I understand. I love your watch-dog, too.”
She touched his arm.
“No one could ever understand the merits of a watch-dog better than you.
That’s right, Maria; we shall be safer with these.”
The Marchesino stood at the foot of the cliff, bare-headed, to receive
them. He was in evening dress, what he called “smoking,” with a flower
in his button-hole, and a straw hat, and held a pair of white kid gloves
in his hand. He looked in rapturous spirits, but ceremonial. When he
caught sight of Artois on the steps behind Hermione and Vere, however,
he could not repress an exclamation of “Emilio!”
He took Hermione’s and Vere’s hands, bowed over them and kissed them.
Then he turned to his friend.
“Caro Emilio! You are back! You must come with us! You must dine at
Frisio’s.”
“May I?” said Artois.
“You must. This is delightful. See, Madame,” he added to Hermione,
suddenly breaking into awful French, “we have the English flag! Your
Jack! Voila, the great, the only Jack! I salute him! Let me help you!”
As Hermione stepped into the launch she said:
“I see there is plenty of room. I wonder if you would mind my taking
my servant, Gaspare, to look after the cloaks and umbrellas. It seems
absurd, but he says a storm is coming, and--”
“A storm!” cried the Marchesino. “Of course your Gaspare must come.
Which is he?”
“There.”
The Marchesino spoke to Gaspare in Italian, telling him to join the two
sailors in the stern of the launch. A minute afterwards he went to
him and gave him some cigarettes. Then he brought from the cabin two
bouquets of flowers, and offered them to Hermione and Vere, who, with
Artois, were settling themselves in the bows. The siren sounded. They
were off, cutting swiftly through the oily sea.
“A storm, Signora. Cloaks and umbrellas!” said the Marchesino, shooting
a glance of triumph at “Cara Emilio,” whose presence to witness his
success completed his enjoyment of it. “But it is a perfect night. Look
at the sea. Signorina, let me put the cushion a little higher behind
you. It is not right. You are not perfectly comfortable. And everything
must be perfect for you to-night--everything.” He arranged the cushion
tenderly. “The weather, too! Why, where is the storm?”
“Over Ischia,” said Artois.
“It will stay there. Ischia! It is a volcano. Anything terrible may
happen there.”
“And Vesuvius?” said Hermione, laughing.
The Marchesino threw up his chin.
“We are not going to Vesuvius. I know Naples, Signora, and I promise
you fine weather. We shall take our coffee after dinner outside upon the
terrace at the one and only Frisio’s.”
He chattered on gayly. His eyes were always on Vere, but he talked
chiefly to Hermione, with the obvious intention of fascinating the
mother in order that she might be favorably disposed towards him, and
later on smile indulgently upon his flirtation with the daughter. His
proceedings were carried on with a frankness that should have been
disarming, and that evidently did disarm Hermione and Vere, who seemed
to regard the Marchesino as a very lively boy. But Artois was almost
immediately conscious of a secret irritation that threatened to spoil
his evening.
The Marchesino was triumphant. Emilio had wished to prevent him from
knowing these ladies. Why? Evidently because Emilio considered him
dangerous. Now he knew the ladies. He was actually their host. And he
meant to prove to Emilio how dangerous he could be. His eyes shot a
lively defiance at his friend, then melted as they turned to Hermione,
melted still more as they gazed with unwinking sentimentality into
the eyes of Vere. He had no inward shyness to contend against, and was
perfectly at his ease; and Artois perceived that his gayety and sheer
animal spirits were communicating themselves to his companions. Vere
said little, but she frequently laughed, and her face lit up with
eager animation. And she, too, was quite at her ease. The direct,
and desirous, glances of the Marchesino did not upset her innocent
self-possession at all, although they began to upset the self-possession
of Artois. As he sat, generally in silence, listening to the frivolous
and cheerful chatter that never stopped, while the launch cut its way
through the solemn, steel-like sea towards the lights of Posilipo.
He felt that he was apart because he was clever, as if his cleverness
caused loneliness.
They travelled fast. Soon the prow of the launch was directed to a
darkness that lay below, and to the right of a line of brilliant lights
that shone close to the sea; and a boy dressed in white, holding a
swinging lantern, and standing, like a statue, in a small niche of rock
almost flush with the water, hailed them, caught the gunwale of the
launch with one hand, and brought it close in to the wall that towered
above them.
“Do we get out here? But where do we go?” said Hermione.
“There is a staircase. Let me--”
The Marchesino was out in a moment and helped them all to land. He
called to the sailors that he would send down food and wine to them
and Gaspare. Then, piloted by the boy with the lantern, they walked up
carefully through dark passages and over crumbling stairs, turned to
the left, and came out upon a small terrace above the sea and facing the
curving lamps of Naples. Just beyond was a long restaurant, lined with
great windows on one side and with mirrors on the other, and blazing
with light.
“Ecco!” cried the Marchesino. “Ecco lo Scoglio di Frisio! And here is
the Padrone!” he added, as a small, bright-eyed man, with a military
figure and fierce mustaches, came briskly forward to receive them.