The ghostly day sank into a ghostly night that laid pale hands upon
the island, holding it closely, softly, in a hypnotic grasp, bidding it
surely rest, it and those who dwelled there with all the dreaming hours.
A mist hung over the sea, and the heat did not go with day, but stayed
to greet the darkness and the strange, enormous silence that lay upon
the waters. In the Casa del Mare the atmosphere was almost suffocating,
although every window was wide open. The servants went about their
duties leaden-footed, drooping, their Latin vivacity quenched as by a
spell. Vere was mute. It seemed, since the episode of the Carmine, as if
her normal spirit had been withdrawn, as if a dumb, evasive personality
replaced it. The impression made upon Hermione was that the real Vere
had sunk far down in her child, out of sight and hearing, out of reach,
beyond pursuit, to a depth where none could follow, where the soul
enjoyed the safety of utter isolation.
Hermione did not wish to pursue this anchorite. She did not wish to draw
near to Vere that evening. To do so would have been impossible to her,
even had Vere been willing to come to her. Since the brutal outburst
of the Marchesino, she, too, had felt the desire, the necessity, of a
desert place, where she could sit alone and realize the bareness of her
world.
In that outburst of passion the Marchesino had gathered together and
hurled at her beliefs that had surely been her own, but that she had
striven to avoid, that she had beaten back as spectres and unreal, that
she had even denied, tricking, or trying to trick, her terrible sense of
truth. His brutality had made the delicacy in her crouch and sicken.
It had been almost intolerable to her, to see her friend, Emile, thus
driven out into the open, like one naked, to be laughed at, condemned,
held up, that the wild folly, the almost insane absurdity of his secret
self might be seen and understood even by the blind, the determined in
stupidity.
She had always had a great reverence for her friend, which had been
mingled with her love for him, giving it its character. Was this
reverence to be torn utterly away? Had it already been cast to the
winds?
Poor Emile!
In the first moments after the departure of the Marchesino she pitied
Emile intensely with all her heart of woman. If this thing were true,
how he must have suffered, how he must still be suffering--not only in
his heart, but in his mind! His sense of pride, his self-respect, his
passion for complete independence, his meticulous consciousness of the
fitness of things, of what could be and what was impossible--all must by
lying in the dust. She could almost have wept for him then.
But another feeling succeeded this sense of pity, a sensation of
outrage that grew within her and became almost ungovernable. She had her
independence too, her pride, her self-respect. And now she saw them in
dust that Emile had surely heaped about them. A storm of almost
hard anger shook her. She tasted an acrid bitterness that seemed to
impregnate her, to turn the mainspring of her life to gall. She heard
the violent voice of the young Neapolitan saying: “He is master, he is
master, he has always been master here!” And she tried to look back
over her life, and to see how things had been. And, shaken still by
this storm of anger, she felt as if it were true, as if she had allowed
Artois to take her life in his hands and to shape it according to his
will, as if he had been governing her although she had not known it. He
had been the dominant personality in their mutual friendship. His had
been the calling voice, hers the obedient voice that answered. Only once
had she risen to a strong act, an act that brought great change with it,
and that he had been hostile to. That was when she had married Maurice.
And she had left Maurice for Artois. From Africa had come the calling,
dominant voice. And even in her Garden of Paradise she had heard it. And
even from her Garden of Paradise she had obeyed it. For the first time
she saw that act of renunciation as the average man or woman would
probably see it; as an extraordinary, quixotic act, to be wondered at
blankly, or, perhaps, to be almost angrily condemned. She stood
away from her own impulsive, enthusiastic nature, and stared at it
critically--as even her friends had often stared--and realized that it
was unusual, perhaps extravagant, perhaps sometimes preposterous. This
readiness to sacrifice--was it not rather slavish than regally
loyal? This forgetfulness of personal joy, this burnt-offering of
personality--was it not contemptible? Could such actions bring into
being the respect of others, the respect of any man? Had Emile respected
her for rushing to Africa? Or had he, perhaps, then and through all
these years, simply wondered how she could have done such a thing?
And Maurice--Maurice? Oh, what had he thought? How had he looked upon
that action?
Often and often in lonely hours she had longed to go down into the
grave, or to go up into the blue, to drag the body, the soul, the heart
she loved back to her. She had been rent by a desire that had made her
limbs shudder, or that had flushed her whole body with red, and set her
temples beating. The longing of heart and flesh had been so vehement
that it had seemed to her as if they must compel, or cease to be.
Now, again, she desired to compel Maurice to come to her from his far,
distant place, but in order that she might make him understand what he
had perhaps died misunderstanding; why she had left him to go to Artois,
exactly how she had felt, how desperately sad to abandon the Garden of
Paradise, how torn by fear lest the perfect days were forever at an end,
how intensely desirous to take him with her. Perhaps he had felt cruelly
jealous! Perhaps that was why he had not offered to go with her at once.
Yes, she believed that now. She saw her action, she saw her preceding
decision as others had seen it, as no doubt Maurice had seen it, as
perhaps even Artois had seen it. Why had she instinctively felt that
because her nature was as it was, and because she was bravely following
it, every one must understand her? Oh, to be completely understood! If
she could call Maurice back for one moment, and just make him see her
as she had been then; loyal to her friend, and through and through
passionately loyal to him! If she could! If she could!
She had left Maurice, the one being who had utterly belonged to her,
to go to Artois. She had lost the few remaining days in which she could
have been supremely happy. She had come back to have a few short hours
devoid of calm, chilled sometimes by the strangeness that had intruded
itself between her and Maurice, to have one kiss in which surely at last
misunderstanding was lost and perfect love was found. And then--that
“something” in the water! And then--the gulf.
In that gulf she had not been quite alone. The friend whom she had
carried away from Africa and death had been with her. He had been
closely in her life ever since. And now--
She heard the Marchesino’s voice: “I see what he is, what he wants,
I see it all--all that is in his mind and heart. I see, I have always
seen, that he loves the Signorina, that he loves her madly.”
Vere!
Hermione sickened. Emile and Vere in that relation!
The storm of anger was not spent yet. Would it ever be spent? Something
within her, the something, perhaps, that felt rejected, strove to reject
in its turn, did surely reject. Pride burned in her like a fire that
cruelly illumines night, shining upon the destruction it is compassing.
The terrible sense of outrage that gripped her soul and body--her body
because Vere was bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh--seemed to be
forcibly changing her nature, as cruel hands, prompted by murder in a
heart, change form, change beauty in the effort to destroy.
That evening Hermione felt herself being literally defaced by this
sensation of outrage within her, a sensation which she was powerless to
expel.
She found herself praying to God that Artois might not come to the
island that night. And yet, while she prayed, she felt that he was
coming.
She dined with Vere, in almost complete silence--trying to love this
dear child as she had always loved her, even in certain evil moments of
an irresistible jealousy. But she felt immensely far from Vere, distant
from her as one who does not love from one who loves; yet hideously
near, too, like one caught in the tangle of an enforced intimacy rooted
in a past which the present denies and rejects. Directly dinner was over
they parted, driven by the mutual desire to be alone.
And then Hermione waited for that against which she had prayed.
Artois would come to the island that night. Useless to pray! He was
coming. She felt that he was on the sea, environed by this strange mist
that hung to-night over the waters. She felt that he was coming to Vere.
She had gone to Africa to save him--in order that he might fall in love
with her then unborn child.
Monstrosities, the monstrosities that are in life, deny them, beat them
back, close our eyes to them as we will, rose up around her in the hot
stillness. She felt haunted, terrified. She was forcibly changed, and
now all the world was changing about her.
She must have relief. She could not sit there among spectres waiting
for the sound of oars that would tell her Vere’s lover had come to the
island. How could she detach herself for a moment from this horror?
She thought of Ruffo.
As the thought came to her she got up and went out of the house.
Only when she was out-of-doors did she fully realize the strangeness of
the night. The heat of it was flaccid. The island seemed to swim in a
fatigued and breathless atmosphere. The mist that hung about it was like
the mist in a vapor-bath.
Below the vague sea lay a thing exhausted, motionless, perhaps fainting
in the dark. And in this heat and stillness there was no presage, no
thrill, however subtle, of a coming change, of storm. Rather there was
the deadness of eternity, as if this swoon would last forever, neither
developing into life, nor deepening into death.
Hermione had left the house feverishly, yearning to escape from her
company of spectres, yearning to escape from the sensation of ruthless
hands defacing her. As she passed the door-sill it was only with
difficulty that she suppressed a cry of “Ruffo!” a cry for help. But
when the night took her she no longer had any wish to disturb it by a
sound. She was penetrated at once by an atmosphere of fatality. Her pace
changed. She moved on slowly, almost furtively. She felt inclined to
creep.
Would Ruffo be at the island to-night? Would Artois really come? It
seemed unlikely, almost impossible. But if Ruffo were there, if Artois
came, it would be fatality. That she was there was fatality.
She walked always slowly, always furtively, to the crest of the cliff.
She stood there. She listened.
Silence.
She felt as if she were quite alone on the island. She could scarcely
believe that Vere, that Gaspare, that the servants were there--among
them Peppina with her cross.
They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she perhaps cast a spell
to-night?
Hermione did not smile at such an imagination as she dismissed it.
She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did not feel as if
Ruffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, a
boy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of the
song of Mergellina.
And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, she
accepted his presence as a thing inevitable.
It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should stand
together that night, speak together as now they were about to speak.
“Signora, buona sera.”
“Buona sera, Ruffo.”
“The Signorina is not here to-night?”
“I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to-night.”
“The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora.”
“You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?”
“Ma si, Signora.”
“Did we tell you we were going? I had forgotten.”
“It was not that, Signora. But I saw the Signorina at the Festa. Did not
Don Gaspare tell you?”
“Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?”
She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her under the influence
of the night. But already she felt a slight yet decided sense of relief,
almost of peace. She drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very close
to him, she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in it the
expression that she loved.
“Did he see you, Ruffo?”
“Ma si, Signora. I was with my poor mamma.”
“Your mother! I wish I had met her!”
“Si, Signora. I was with my mamma in the Piazza of Masaniello. We had
been eating snails, Signora, and afterwards watermelon, and we had each
had a glass of white wine. And I was feeling very happy, because my poor
mamma had heard good news.”
“What was that?”
“To-morrow my Patrigno is to be let out of prison.”
“So soon! But I thought he had not been tried.”
“No, Signora. But he is to be let out now. Perhaps he will be put back
again. But now he is let out because”--he hesitated--“because--well,
Signora, he has such friends, he has friends who are powerful for him.
And so he is let out just now.”
“I understand.”
“Well, Signora, and after the white wine we were feeling happy, and
we were going to see everything: the Madonna, and Masaniello, and the
fireworks, and the fire-balloon. Did you see the fire-balloon, Signora?”
“Yes, Ruffo. It was very pretty.”
His simple talk soothed her. He was so young, so happy, so free from the
hideous complexities of life; no child of tragedy, but the son surely of
a love that had been gay and utterly contented.
“Si, Signora! Per dio, Signora, it was wonderful! It was just before
the fire-balloon went up, Signora, that I saw the Signorina with the
Neapolitan Signorino. And close behind them was Don Gaspare. I said to
my mamma, ‘Mamma, ecco the beautiful Signorina of the island!’ My mamma
was excited, Signora. She held on to my arm, and she said: ‘Ruffino,’
she said, ‘show her to me. Where is she?’ my mamma said, Signora. ‘And
is the Signora Madre with her?’ Just then, Signora, the people moved,
and all of a sudden there we were, my mamma and I, right in front of Don
Gaspare.”
Ruffo stopped, and Hermione saw a change, a gravity, come into his
bright face.
“Well, Ruffo?” she said, wondering what was coming.
“I said to my mamma, Signora, ‘Mamma, this is Don Gaspare of the
island.’ Signora, my mamma looked at Don Gaspare for a minute. Her
face was quite funny. She looked white, Signora, my mamma looked white,
almost like the man at the circus who comes in with the dog to make us
laugh. And Don Gaspare, too, he looked”--Ruffo paused, then used a word
beloved of Sicilians who wish to be impressive--“he looked mysterious,
Signora. Don Gaspare looked mysterious.”
“Mysterious? Gaspare?”
“Si, Signora, he did. And he looked almost white, too, but not like my
mamma. And then my mamma said, ‘Gaspare!’ just like that, Signora, and
put out her hand--so. And Don Gaspare’s face got red and hot. And then
for a minute they spoke together, Signora, and I could not hear what
they said. For Don Gaspare stood with his back so that I should not
hear. And then the balloon went sideways and the people ran, and I did
not see Don Gaspare any more. And after that, Signora, my mamma was
crying all the time. And she would not tell me anything. I only heard
her say: ‘To think of its being Gaspare! To think of its being Gaspare
on the island!’ And when we got home she said to me, ‘Ruffo,’ she said,
‘has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?’ What is it, Signora?”
“Nothing, Ruffo. Go on.”
“But--”
“Go on, Ruffo.”
“‘Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?’ my mamma said.”
“And you--what did you say?”
“I said, ‘No,’ Signora. And that is true. Don Gaspare has never said I
was like somebody.”
The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. He stood quietly by
Hermione, waiting for her to speak in her turn. For a moment she said
nothing. Then she put her hand on Ruffo’s arm.
“Whom do you think your mother meant when she said ‘somebody,’ Ruffo?”
“Signora, I do not know.”
“But surely--didn’t you ask whom she meant?”
“No, Signora. I told my mamma Don Gaspare had never said that. She was
crying. And so I did not say anything more.”
Hermione still held his arm for a moment. Then her hand dropped down.
Ruffo was looking at her steadily with his bright and searching eyes.
“Signora, do you know what she meant?”
“I! How can I tell, Ruffo? I have never seen your mother. How can I know
what she meant?”
“No, Signora.”
Again there was a silence. Then Hermione said:
“I should like to see your mother, Ruffo.”
“Si, Signora.”
“I must see her.”
Hermione said the last words in a low and withdrawn voice, like one
speaking to herself. As she spoke she was gazing at the boy beside her,
and in her eyes there was a mystery almost like that of the night.
“Ruffo,” she added, in a moment, “I want you to promise me something.”
“Si, Signora.”
“Don’t speak to any one about the little talk we have had to-night.
Don’t say anything, even to Gaspare.”
“No, Signora.”
For a short time they remained together talking of other things.
Hermione spoke only enough to encourage Ruffo. And always she was
watching him. But to-night she did not see the look she longed for, the
look that made Maurice stand before her. Only she discerned, or believed
she discerned, a definite physical resemblance in the boy to the dead
man, a certain resemblance of outline, a likeness surely in the poise
of the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in a trait that
suggested ardor about the full yet delicate lips. Why had she never
noticed these things before? Had she been quite blind? Or was she now
imaginative? Was she deceiving herself?
“Good-night, Ruffo,” she said, at last.
He took off his cap and stood bareheaded.
“Good-night, Signora.”
He put the cap on his dark hair with a free and graceful gesture.
Was not that, too, Maurice?
“A rivederci, Signora.”
He was gone.
Hermione stood alone in the fatal night. She had forgotten Vere. She had
forgotten Artois. The words of Ruffo had led her on another step in the
journey it was ordained that she should make. She felt the under-things.
It seemed to her that she heard in the night the dull murmuring of the
undercurrents that carry through wayward, or terrible, channels the
wind-driven bark of life. What could it mean, this encounter just
described to her: this pain, this emotion of a woman, her strange
question to her son? And Gaspare’s agitation, his pallor, his
“mysterious” face, the colloquy that Ruffo was not allowed to hear!
What did it mean? That woman’s question--that question!
“What is it? What am I near?” Ruffo’s mother knew Gaspare, must have
known him intimately in the past. When? Surely long ago in Sicily; for
Ruffo was sixteen, and Hermione felt sure--knew, in fact--that till they
came to the island Gaspare had never seen Ruffo.
That woman’s question!
Hermione went slowly to the bench and sat down by the edge of the cliff.
What could it possibly mean?
Could it mean that this woman, Ruffo’s mother, had once known Maurice,
known him well enough to see in her son the resemblance to him?
But then--
Hermione, as sometimes happened, having reached truth instinctively
and with a sure swiftness, turned to retreat from it. She had lost
confidence in herself. She feared her own impulses. Now, abruptly,
she told herself that this idea was wholly extravagant. Ruffo probably
resembled some one else whom his mother and Gaspare knew. That was far
more likely. That must be the truth.
But again she seemed to hear in the night the dull murmurings of those
undercurrents. And many, many times she recurred mentally to that
weeping woman’s question to her son--that question about Gaspare.
Gaspare--he had been strange, disturbed lately. Hermione had noticed it;
so had the servants. There had been in the Casa del Mare an oppressive
atmosphere created by the mentality of some of its inhabitants.
Even she, on that day when she had returned from Capri, had felt a
sensation of returning to meet some grievous tale.
She remembered Artois now, recalling his letter which she had found that
day.
Gaspare and Artois--did they both suspect, or both know, something which
they had been concealing from her?
Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Yet she did not form in her
mind any definite conception of what such a mutual secret might be. She
simply began to feel frightened, almost like a child.
She said to herself that this brooding night, with its dumbness, its
heat, its vaporous mystery, was affecting her spirit. And she got up
from the bench, and began to walk very slowly towards the house.
When she did this she suddenly felt sure that while she had been on the
crest of the cliff Artois had arrived at the island, that he was now
with Vere in the house. She knew that it was so.
And again there rushed upon her that sensation of outrage, of being
defaced, and of approaching a dwelling in which things monstrous had
taken up their abode.
She came to the bridge and paused by the rail. She felt a sort of horror
of the Casa del Mare in which Artois was surely sitting--alone or with
Vere? With Vere. For otherwise he would have come up to the cliff.
She leaned over the rail. She looked into the Pool. One boat was there
just below her, the boat to which Ruffo belonged. Was there another? She
glanced to the right. Yes; there lay by the rock a pleasure-boat from
Naples.
Artois had come in that.
She looked again at the other boat, searching the shadowy blackness for
the form of Ruffo. She longed that he might be awake. She longed that he
might sing, in his happy voice, of the happy summer nights, of the sweet
white moons that light the Southern summer nights, of the bright eyes of
Rosa, of the sea of Mergellina. But from the boat there rose no voice,
and the mist hung heavily over the silent Pool.
Then Hermione lifted her eyes and looked across the Pool, seeking the
little light of San Francesco. Only the darkness and the mist confronted
her. She saw no light--and she trembled like one to whom the omens are
hostile.
She trembled and hid her face for a moment. Then she turned and went up
into the house.