Gaspare did not offer to help Hermione out of the boat when they reached
the island. He glanced at her face, met her eyes, looked away again
immediately, and stood holding the boat while she got out. Even when she
stumbled slightly he made no movement; but he turned and gazed after
her as she went up the steps towards the house, and as he gazed his face
worked, his lips muttered words, and his eyes, become almost ferocious
in their tragic gloom, were clouded with moisture. Angrily he fastened
the boat, angrily he laid by the oars. In everything he did there was
violence. He put up his hands to his eyes to rub the moisture that
clouded them away. But it came again. And he swore under his breath. He
looked once more towards the Casa del Mare. The figure of his Padrona
had disappeared, but he remembered just how it had gone up the
steps--leaning forward, moving very slowly. It had made him think of an
early morning long ago, when he and his Padrona had followed a coffin
down the narrow street of Marechiaro, and over the mountain-path to
the Campo Santo above the Ionian Sea. He shook his head, murmuring to
himself. He was not swearing now. He shook his head again and again.
Then he went away, and sat down under the shadow of the cliff, and let
his hands drop down between his knees.
The look he had seen in his Padrona’s eyes had made him feel terrible.
His violent, faithful heart was tormented. He did not analyze--he only
knew, he only felt. And he suffered horribly. How had his Padrona been
able to look at him like that?
The moisture came thickly to his eyes now, and he no longer attempted to
rub it away. He no longer thought of it.
Never had he imagined that his Padrona could look at him like that.
Strong man though he was, he felt as a child might who is suddenly
abandoned by its mother. He began to think now. He thought over all he
had done to be faithful to his dead Padrone and to be faithful to the
Padrona. During many, many years he had done all he could to be faithful
to these two, the dead and the living. And at the end of this long
service he received as a reward this glance of hatred.
Tears rolled down his sunburnt cheeks.
The injustice of it was like a barbed and poisoned arrow in his heart.
He was not able to understand what his Padrona was feeling, how, by what
emotional pilgrimage, she had reached that look of hatred which she had
cast upon him. If she had not returned, if she had done some deed of
violence in the house of Maddalena, he could perhaps have comprehended
it. But that she should come back, that she should smile, make him sit
facing her, talk about Maddalena as she had talked, and then--then look
at him like that!
His _amour-propre_, his long fidelity, his deep affection--all were
outraged.
Vere came down the steps and found him there.
“Gaspare!”
He got up instantly when he heard her voice, rubbed his eyes, and
yawned.
“I was asleep, Signorina.”
She looked at him intently, and he saw tears in her eyes.
“Gaspare, what is the matter with Madre?”
“Signorina?”
“Oh, what is the matter?” She came a step nearer to him. “Gaspare, I’m
frightened! I’m frightened!”
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Why, Signorina? Have you seen the Padrona?”
“No. But--but--I’ve heard--What is it? What has happened? Where has
Madre been all this time? Has she been in Naples?”
“Signorina, I don’t think so.”
“Where has she been?”
“I believe the Signora has been to Mergellina.”
Vere began to tremble.
“What can have happened there? What can have happened?”
She trembled in every limb. Her face had become white.
“Signorina, Signorina! Are you ill?”
“No--I don’t know what to do--what I ought to do. I’m afraid to speak
to the servants--they are making the siesta. Gaspare, come with me, and
tell me what we ought to do. But--never say to any one--never say--if
you hear!”
“Signorina!”
He had caught her terror. His huge eyes looked awestruck.
“Come with me, Gaspare!”
Making an obvious and great effort, she controlled her body, turned and
went before him to the house. She walked softly, and he imitated her.
They almost crept up-stairs till they reached the landing outside
Hermione’s bedroom door. There they stood for two or three minutes,
listening.
“Come away, Gaspare!”
Vere had whispered with lips that scarcely moved.
When they were in Hermione’s sitting-room she caught hold of both his
hands. She was a mere child now, a child craving for help.
“Oh, Gaspare, what are we to do? Oh--I’m--I’m frightened! I can’t bear
it!”
The door of the room was open.
“Shut it!” she said. “Shut it, then we sha’n’t--”
He shut it.
“What can it be? What can it be?”
She looked at him, followed his eyes. He had stared towards the
writing-table, then at the floor near it. On the table lay a quantity
of fragments of broken glass, and a silver photograph-frame bent, almost
broken. On the floor was scattered a litter of card-board.
“She came in here! Madre was in here--”
She bent down to the carpet, picked up some of the bits of card-board,
turned them over, looked at them. Then she began to tremble again.
“It’s father’s photograph!”
She was now utterly terrified.
“Oh, Gaspare! Oh, Gaspare!”
She began to sob.
“Hush, Signorina! Hush!”
He spoke almost sternly, bent down, collected the fragments of
card-board from the floor, and put them into his pocket.
“Father’s photograph! She was in here--she came in here to do that! And
she loves that photograph. She loves it!”
“Hush, Signorina! Don’t, Signorina--don’t!”
“We must do something! We must--”
He made her sit down. He stood by her.
“What shall we do, Gaspare? What shall we do?”
She looked up at him, demanding counsel. She put out her hands again and
touched his arm. His Padroncina--she at least still loved, still trusted
him.
“Signorina,” he said, “we can’t do anything.”
His voice was fatalistic.
“But--what is it? Is--is--”
A frightful question was trembling on her lips. She looked again at the
fragments of card-board in her hand, at the broken frame on the table.
“Can Madre be--”
She stopped. Her terror was increasing. She remembered many small
mysteries in the recent conduct of her mother, many moments when she had
been surprised, or made vaguely uneasy, by words or acts of her mother.
Monsieur Emile, too, he had wondered, and more than once. She knew that.
And Gaspare--she was sure that he, also, had seen that change which now,
abruptly, had thus terribly culminated. Once in the boat she had asked
him what was the matter with her mother, and he had, almost angrily,
denied that anything was the matter. But she had seen in his eyes that
he was acting a part--that he wished to detach her observation from her
mother.
Her trembling ceased. Her little fingers closed more tightly on his arm.
Her eyes became imperious.
“Gaspare, you are to tell me. I can bear it. You know something about
Madre.”
“Signorina--”
“Do you think I’m a coward? I was frightened--I am frightened, but I’m
not really a coward, Gaspare. I can bear it. What is it you know?”
“Signorina, we can’t do anything.”
“Is it--Does Monsieur Emile know what it is?”
He did not answer.
Suddenly she got up, went to the door, opened it, and listened. The
horror came into her face again.
“I can’t bear it,” she said. “I--I shall have to go into the room.”
“No, Signorina. You are not to go in.”
“If the door isn’t locked I must--”
“It is locked.”
“You don’t know. You can’t know.”
“I know it is locked, Signorina.”
Vere put her hands to her eyes.
“It’s too dreadful! I didn’t know any one--I have never heard--”
Gaspare went to her and shut the door resolutely.
“You are not to listen, Signorina. You are not to listen.”
He spoke no longer like a servant, but like a master.
Vere’s hands had dropped.
“I am going to send for Monsieur Emile,” she said.
“Va bene, Signorina.”
She went quickly to the writing-table, sat down, hesitated. Her eyes
were riveted upon the photograph-frame.
“How could she? How could she?” she said, in a choked voice.
Gaspare took the frame away reverently, and put it against his breast,
inside his shirt.
“I can’t go to Don Emilio, Signorina. I cannot leave you.”
“No, Gaspare. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
She was the terrified child again.
“Perhaps we can find a fisherman, Signorina.”
“Yes, but don’t--Wait for me, Gaspare!”
“I am not going, Signorina.”
With feverish haste she took a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote:
“DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island _at once_.
Something terrible has happened. I don’t know what it is. But
Madre is--No, I can’t put it. Oh, _do come_--please--please come!
VERE
“Come the _quickest_ way.”
When the paper was shut in an envelope and addressed she got up. Gaspare
held out his hand.
“I will go and look for a fisherman, Signorina.”
“But I must come with you. I must keep with you.”
She held on to his arm.
“I’m not a coward. But I can’t--I can’t--”
“Si, Signorina! Si, Signorina!”
He took her hand and held it. They went to the door. When he put out his
other hand to open it Vere shivered.
“If we can’t do anything, let us go down quickly, Gaspare!”
“Si, Signorina. We will go quickly.”
He opened the door and they went out.
In the Pool of the Saint there was no boat. They went to the crest of
the island and looked out over the sea. Not far off, between the island
and Nisida, there was a boat. Gaspare put his hands to his mouth and
hailed her with all his might. The two men in her heard, and came
towards the shore.
A few minutes later, with money in their pockets, and set but cheerful
faces, they were rowing with all their strength in the direction of
Naples.
That afternoon Artois, wishing to distract his thoughts and quite unable
to work, went up the hill to the Monastery of San Martino. He returned
to the hotel towards sunset feeling weary and depressed, companionless,
too, in this gay summer world. Although he had never been deeply
attached to the Marchesino he had liked him, been amused by him, grown
accustomed to him. He missed the “Toledo incarnate.” And as he walked
along the Marina he felt for a moment almost inclined to go away from
Naples. But the people of the island! Could he leave them just now?
Could he leave Hermione so near to the hands of Fate, those hands which
were surely stretched out towards her, which might grasp her at any
moment, even to-night, and alter her life forever? No, he knew he could
not.
“There is a note for Monsieur!”
He took it from the hall porter.
“No, I’ll walk up-stairs.”
He had seen the lift was not below, and did not wish to wait for its
descent. Vere’s writing was on the envelope he held; but Vere’s writing
distorted, frantic, tragic. He knew before he opened the envelope that
it must contain some dreadful statement or some wild appeal; and he
hurried to his room, almost feeling the pain and fear of the writer burn
through the paper to his hand.
“DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island _at once_.
Something terrible has happened. I don’t know what it is. But
Madre is--No, I can’t put it. Oh, _do come_--please--please come!
VERE
“Come the _quickest_ way.”
“Something terrible has happened.” He knew at once what it was. The
walls of the cell in which he had enclosed his friend had crumbled away.
The spirit which for so long had rested upon a lie had been torn from
its repose, had been scourged to its feet to face the fierce light of
truth. How would it face the truth?
“But Madre is--No, I can’t put it.”
That phrase struck a chill almost of horror to his soul. He stared at it
for a moment trying to imagine--things. Then he tore the note up.
The quickest way to the island!
“I shall not be in to dinner to-night.”
He was speaking to the waiter at the door of the Egyptian Room. A minute
later he was in the Via Chiatamone at the back of the hotel waiting for
the tram. He must go by Posilipo to the Trattoria del Giardinetto, walk
down to the village below, and take a boat from there to the island.
That was the quickest way. The tram-bell sounded. Was he glad? As he
watched the tram gliding towards him he was conscious of an almost
terrible reluctance--a reluctance surely of fear--to go that night to
the island.
But he must go.
The sun was setting when he got down before the Trattoria del
Giardinetto. Three soldiers were sitting at a table outside on the dusty
road, clinking their glasses of marsala together, and singing, “Piange
Rosina! La Mamma ci domanda.” Their brown faces looked vivid with the
careless happiness of youth. As Artois went down from the road into the
tunnel their lusty voices died away.
Because his instinct was to walk slowly, to linger on the way, he walked
very fast. The slanting light fell gently, delicately, over the opulent
vineyards, where peasants were working in huge straw hats, over the
still shining but now reposeful sea. In the sky there was a mystery of
color, very pure, very fragile, like the mystery of color in a curving
shell of the sea. The pomp and magnificence of sunset were in abeyance
to-night, were laid aside. And the sun, like some spirit modestly
radiant, slipped from this world of vineyards and of waters almost
surreptitiously, yet shedding exquisite influences in his going.
And in the vineyards, as upon the dusty highroad, the people of the
South were singing.
The sound of their warm voices, rising in the golden air towards the
tender beauty of the virginal evening sky, moved Artois to a sudden
longing for a universal brotherhood of happiness, for happy men on a
happy earth, men knowing the truth and safe in their knowledge. And he
longed, too, just then to give happiness. A strongly generous emotion
stirred him, and went from him, like one of the slanting rays of light
from the sun, towards the island, towards his friend, Hermione. His
reluctance, his sense of fear, were lessened, nearly died away. His
quickness of movement was no longer a fight against, but a fulfilment of
desire.
Once she had helped him. Once she had even, perhaps, saved him from
death. She had put aside her own happiness. She had shown the divine
self-sacrifice of woman.
And now, after long years, life brought to him an hour which would prove
him, prove him and show how far he was worthy of the friendship which
had been shed, generously as the sunshine over these vineyards of the
South, upon him and his life.
He came down to the sea and met the fisherman, Giovanni, upon the sand.
“Row me quickly to the island, Giovanni!” he said.
“Si, Signore.”
He ran to get the boat.
The light began to fall over the sea. They cleared the tiny harbor and
set out on their voyage.
“The Signora has been here to-day, Signore,” said Giovanni.
“Si! When did she come?”
“This morning, with Gaspare, to take the tram to Mergellina.”
“She went to Mergellina?”
“Si, Signore. And she was gone a very long time. Gaspare came back for
her at half-past eleven, and she did not come till nearly three. Gaspare
was in a state, I can tell you. I have known him--for years I have known
him--and never have I seen him as he was to-day.”
“And the Signora? When she came, did she look tired?”
“Signore, the Signora’s face was like the face of one who has been
looked on by the evil eye.”
“Row quickly, Giovanni!”
“Si, Signore.”
The men talked no more.
When they came in sight of the island the last rays of the sun were
striking upon the windows of the Casa del Mare.
The boat, urged by Giovanni’s powerful arms, drew rapidly near to the
land, and Artois, leaning forward with an instinct to help the rower,
fixed his eyes upon these windows which, like swift jewels, focussed and
gave back the light. While he watched them the sun sank. Its radiance
was withdrawn. He saw no longer jewels, casements of magic, but only the
windows of the familiar house; and then, presently, only the window
of one room, Hermione’s. His eyes were fixed on that as the boat drew
nearer and nearer--were almost hypnotized by that. Where was Hermione?
What was she doing? How was she? How could she be, now that--she knew?
A terrible but immensely tender, immensely pitiful curiosity took
possession of him, held him fast, body and soul. She knew, and she was
in that house!
The boat was close in now, but had not yet turned into the Pool of
San Francesco. Artois kept his eyes upon the window for still a moment
longer. He felt now, he knew, that Hermione was in the room beyond that
window. As he gazed up from the sea he saw that the window was open. He
saw behind the frame of it a white curtain stirring in the breeze. And
then he saw something that chilled his blood, that seemed to drive it in
an icy stream back to his heart, leaving his body for a moment numb.
He saw a figure come, with a wild, falling movement to the window--a
white, distorted face utterly strange to him looked out--a hand lifted
in a frantic gesture.
The gesture was followed by a crash.
The green Venetian blind had fallen, hiding the window, hiding the
stranger’s face.
“Who was that at the window, Signore?” asked Giovanni, staring at Artois
with round and startled eyes.
And Artois answered: “It is difficult to see, Giovanni, now that the sun
has gone down. It is getting dark so quickly.”
“Si, Signore, it is getting dark.”