It was nearly dawn when Artois fell asleep. He did not wake till past
ten o’clock. The servant who brought his breakfast handed him a note,
and told him that the ladies of the island had just left the hotel with
Gaspare. As Artois took the note he was conscious of a mingled feeling
of relief and disappointment. This swift, almost hurried departure left
him lonely, yet he could not have met Hermione and Vere happily in the
light of morning. To-day he felt a self-consciousness that was unusual
in him, and that the keen eyes of women could not surely fail to
observe. He wanted a little time. He wanted to think quietly, calmly, to
reach a decision that he had not reached at night.
Hermione and Vere had a very silent voyage. Gaspare’s tragic humor cast
a cloud about his mistresses. He had met them in the morning with a
look of heavy, almost sullen scrutiny in his great eyes, which seemed to
develop into a definite demand for information. But he asked nothing.
He made no allusion to the night before. To Vere his manner was almost
cold. When they were getting into the boat at Santa Lucia she said, with
none of her usual simplicity and self-possession, but like one making an
effort which was repugnant:
“I’m very sorry about last night, Gaspare.”
“It doesn’t matter, Signorina.”
“Did you get back very late?”
“I don’t know, Signora. I did not look at the hour.”
She looked away from him and out to sea.
“I am very sorry,” she repeated.
And he again said:
“It doesn’t matter, Signorina.”
It was nearly noon when they drew near to the island. The weather was
heavily hot, languidly hot even upon the water. There was a haze hanging
over the world in which distant objects appeared like unsubstantial
clouds, or dream things impregnated with a mystery that was mournful.
The voice of a fisherman singing not far off came to them like the voice
of Fate, issuing from the ocean to tell them of the sadness that was the
doom of men. Behind them Naples sank away into the vaporous distance.
Vesuvius was almost blotted out, Capri an ethereal silhouette. And their
little island, even when they approached it, did not look like the solid
land on which they had made a home, but like the vague shell of some
substance that had been destroyed, leaving its former abiding-place
untenanted.
As they passed San Francesco Vere glanced at him, and Hermione saw a
faint flush of red go over her face. Directly the boat touched the rock
she stepped ashore, and without waiting for her mother ran up the steps
and disappeared towards the house. Gaspare looked after her, then stared
at his Padrona.
“Is the Signorina ill?” he asked.
“No, Gaspare. But I think she is tired to-day and a little upset. We had
better take no notice of it.”
“Va bene, Signora.”
He busied himself in making fast the boat, while Hermione followed Vere.
In the afternoon about five, when Hermione was sitting alone in her
room writing some letters, Gaspare appeared with an angry and suspicious
face.
“Signora,” he said, “that Signore is here.”
“What Signore? The Marchese!”
“Si, Signora.”
Gaspare was watching his Padrona’s face, and suddenly his own face
changed, lightened, as he saw the look that had come into her eyes.
“I did not know whether you wished to see him--”
“Yes, Gaspare, I will see him. You can let him in. Wait a moment. Where
is the Signorina?”
“Up in her room, Signora.”
“You can tell her who is here, and ask her whether she wishes to have
tea in her room or not.”
“Si, Signora.”
Gaspare went out almost cheerfully. He felt that now he understood what
his Padrona was feeling and what she meant to do. She meant to do in her
way what he wanted to do in his. He ran down the steps to the water with
vivacity, and his eyes were shining as he came to the Marchesino, who
was standing at the edge of the sea looking almost feverishly excited,
but determined.
“The Signora will see you, Signor Marchese.”
The words hit the Marchesino like a blow. He stared at Gaspare for a
moment almost stupidly, and hesitated. He felt as if this servant had
told him something else.
“The Signora will see you,” repeated Gaspare.
“Va bene,” said the Marchesino.
He followed Gaspare slowly up the steps and into the drawing-room. It
was empty. Gaspare placed a chair for the Marchesino. And again the
latter felt as if he had received a blow. He glanced round him and sat
down, while Gaspare went away. For about five minutes he waited.
When he had arrived at the island he had been greatly excited. He had
felt full of an energy that was feverish. Now, in this silence, in this
pause during which patience was forced upon him, his excitement grew,
became fierce, dominant. He knew from Gaspare’s way of speaking, from
his action, from his whole manner, that his fate had been secretly
determined in that house, and that it was being rejoiced over. At first
he sat looking at the floor. Then he got up, went to the window, came
back, stood in the middle of the room and glanced about it. How pretty
it was, with a prettiness that he was quite unaccustomed to. In his
father’s villa at Capodimonte there was little real comfort. And he knew
nothing of the cosiness of English houses. As he looked at this room he
felt, or thought he felt, Vere in it. He even made an effort scarcely
natural to him, and tried to imagine a home with Vere as its mistress.
Then he began to listen. Perhaps Emilio was in the house. Perhaps Emilio
was talking now to the Signora, was telling her what to do.
But he heard no sound of voices speaking.
No doubt Emilio had seen the Signora that morning in the hotel. No
doubt there had been a consultation. And probably at this consultation
his--the Marchesino’s--fate had been decided.
By Emilio?
At that moment the Marchesino actively, even furiously, hated his former
friend.
There was a little noise at the door; the Marchesino turned swiftly, and
saw Hermione coming in. He looked eagerly behind her. But the door shut.
She was alone. She did not give her hand to him. He bowed, trying to
look calm.
“Good-afternoon, Signora.”
Hermione sat down. He followed her example.
“I don’t know why you wish to see me, after yesterday, Marchese,” she
said, quietly, looking at him with steady eyes.
“Signora, pardon me, but I should have thought that you would know.”
“What is it?”
“Signora, I am here to ask the great honor of your daughter the
Signorina’s hand in marriage. My father, to whom--”
But Hermione interrupted him.
“You will never marry my daughter, Marchese,” she said.
A sudden red burned in her cheeks, and she leaned forward slightly,
but very quickly, almost as if an impulse had come to her to push the
Marchesino away from her.
“But, Signora, I assure you that my family--”
“It is quite useless to talk about it.”
“But why, Signora?”
“My child is not for a man like you,” Hermione said, emphasizing the
first word.
A dogged expression came into the Marchesino’s face, a fighting look
that was ugly and brutal, but that showed a certain force.
“I do not understand, Signora. I am like other men. What is the matter
with me?”
He turned a little in his chair so that he faced her more fully.
“What is the matter with me, Signora?” he repeated, slightly raising his
voice.
“I don’t think you would be able to understand if I tried to tell you.”
“Why not? You think me stupid, then?”
An angry fire shone in his eyes.
“Oh no, you are not stupid.”
“Then I shall understand.”
Hermione hesitated. There was within her a hot impulse towards speech,
towards the telling to this self-satisfied young Pagan her exact opinion
of him. Yet was it worth while? He was going out of their lives. They
would see no more of him.
“I don’t think it is necessary for me to tell you,” she said.
“Perhaps there is nothing to tell because there is nothing the matter
with me.”
His tone stung her.
“I beg your pardon, Marchese. I think there is a good deal to tell.”
“All I say is, Signora, that I am like other men.”
He thrust forward his strong under jaw, showing his big, white teeth.
“There I don’t agree with you. I am thankful to say I know many men who
would not behave as you behaved last night.”
“But I have come to ask for the Signorina’s hand!” he exclaimed.
“And you think--you dare to think that excuses your conduct!”
She spoke with a sudden and intense heat.
“Understand this, please, Marchese. If I gave my consent to your
request, and sent for my daughter--”
“Si! Si!” he said, eagerly, leaning forward in his chair.
“Do you suppose she would come near you?”
“Certainly.”
“You think she would come near a man she will not even speak of?”
“What!”
“She won’t speak of you. She has told me nothing about last night. That
is why I know so much.”
“She has not--the Signorina has--not--?”
He stopped. A smile went over his face. It was sufficiently obvious that
he understood Vere’s silence as merely a form of deceit, a coquettish
girl’s cold secret from her mother.
“Signora, give me permission to speak to your daughter, and you will see
whether it is you--or I--who understands her best.”
“Very well, Marchese.”
Hermione rang the bell. It was answered by Gaspare.
“Gaspare,” said Hermione, “please go to the Signorina, tell her the
Signor Marchese is here, and wishes very much to see her before he
goes.”
Gaspare’s face grew dark, and he hesitated by the door.
“Go, Gaspare, please.”
He looked into his Padrona’s face, and went out as if reassured.
Hermione and the Marchese sat in silence waiting for him to return. In a
moment the door was reopened.
“Signora, I have told the Signorina.”
“What did she say?”
Gaspare looked at the Marchese as he answered.
“Signora, the Signorina said to me, ‘Please tell Madre that I cannot
come to see the Signor Marchese.’”
“You can go, Gaspare.”
He looked at the angry flush on the Marchesino’s cheeks, and went out.
“Good-bye, Marchese.”
Hermione got up. The Marchesino followed her example. But he did not go.
He stood still for a moment in silence. Then he lifted his head up with
a jerk.
“Signora,” he said, in a hard, uneven voice that betrayed the intensity
of his excitement, “I see how it is. I understand perfectly what is
happening here. You think me bad. Well, I am like other men, and I
am not ashamed of it--not a bit. I am natural. I live according to
my nature, and I do not come from your north, but from Naples--from
Naples.” He threw out his arm, pointing at a window that looked towards
the city. “If it is bad to have the blood hot in one’s veins and the
fire hot in one’s head and in one’s heart--very well! I am bad. And I do
not care. I do not care a bit! But you think me a stupid boy. And I am
not that. And I will show you.” He drew his fingers together, and bent
towards her, slightly lowering his voice. “From the first, from the very
first moment, I have seen, I have understood all that is happening here.
From the first I have understood all that was against me--”
“Marchese--!”
“Signora, pardon me! You have spoken, the Signorina has spoken, and now
it is for me to speak. It is my right. I come here with an honorable
proposal, and therefore I say I have a right--”
He put his fingers inside his shirt collar and pulled it fiercely out
from his throat.
“E il vecchio!” he exclaimed, with sudden passion. “E il maledetto
vecchio!”
Hermione’s face changed. There had been in it a firm look, a calmness of
strength. But now, at his last words, the strength seemed to shrink. It
dwindled, it faded out of her, leaving her not collapsed, but cowering,
like a woman who crouches down in a corner to avoid a blow.
“It is he! It is he! He will not allow it, and he is master here.”
“Marchese--”
“I say he is master--he is master--he has always been master here!”
He came a step towards Hermione, moving as a man sometimes moves
instinctively when he is determined to make something absolutely clear
to one who does not wish to understand.
“And you know it, and every one knows it--every one. When I was in the
sea, when I saw the Signorina for the first time, I did not know who she
was, where she lived; I did not know anything about her. I went to tell
my friend about her--my friend, you understand, whom I trusted, to
whom I told everything!--I went to him. I described the Signora,
the Signorina, the boat to him. He knew who the ladies were; he knew
directly. I saw it in his face, in his manner. But what did he say? That
he did not know, that he knew nothing. I was not to come to the island.
No one was to come to the island but he. So he meant. But I--I was
sharper than he, I who am so stupid! I took him to fish by night.
I brought him to the island. I made him introduce me to you, to the
Signorina. That night I made him. You remember? Well, then--ever since
that night all is changed between us. Ever since that night he is my
enemy. Ever since that night he suspects me, he watches me, he hides
from me, he hates me. Oh, he tries to conceal it. He is a hypocrite. But
I, stupid as I am, I see it all. I see what he is, what he wants, I
see all--all that is in his mind and heart. For this noble old man, so
respected, with the white hairs and the great brain, what is he, what
does he do? He goes at night to the Galleria. He consults with Maria
Fortunata, she who is known to all Naples, she who is the aunt of that
girl--that girl of the town and of the bad life, whom you have taken to
be your servant here. You have taken her because he--he has told you to
take her. He has put her here--”
“Marchese!”
“I say he has put her here that the Signorina--”
“Marchese, I forbid you to say that! It is not true.”
“It is true! It is true! Perhaps you are blind, perhaps you see nothing.
I do not know. But I know that I am not blind. I love, and I see. I see,
I have always seen that he--Emilio--loves the Signorina, that he loves
her madly, that he wishes, that he means to keep her for himself. Did he
not hide with her in the cave, in the Grotto of Virgil, that night when
I came to serenade her on the sea? Yes, he took her, and he hid her,
because he loves her. He loves her, he an old man! And he thinks--and he
means--”
“Marchese--”
“He loves her; I say he loves her!”
“Marchese, I must ask you to go!”
“I say--”
“Marchese, I insist upon your going.”
She opened the door. She was very pale, but she looked calm. The
crouching woman had vanished. She was mistress of herself.
“Gaspare!” she called, in a loud, sharp voice that betrayed the inner
excitement her appearance did not show.
“Signora,” vociferated the Marchesino, “I say and I repeat--”
“Gaspare! Come here!”
“Signora!” cried a voice from below.
Gaspare came running.
“The Signore Marchese is going, Gaspare. Go down with him to the boat,
please.”
The Marchesino grew scarlet. The hot blood rushed over his face, up to
his forehead, to his hair. Even his hands became red in that moment.
“Good-bye, Marchese.”
She went out, and left him standing with Gaspare.
“Signore Marchese, shall I take you to the boat?”
Gaspare’s voice was quite respectful. The Marchesino made no answer, but
stepped out into the passage and looked up to the staircase that led to
the top floor of the house. He listened. He heard nothing.
“Is the French Signore here?” he said to Gaspare. “Do you hear me? Is he
in this house?”
“No, Signore!”
The Marchesino again looked towards the staircase and hesitated. Then he
turned and saw Gaspare standing in a watchful attitude, almost like one
about to spring.
“Stay here!” he said, loudly, making a violent threatening gesture with
his arm.
Gaspare stood where he was with a smile upon his face.
A moment later he heard the splash of oars in the sea, and knew that the
Marchesino’s boat was leaving the island.
He drew his lips together like one about to whistle.
The sound of the oars died away.
Then he began to whistle softly “La Ciocciara.”