"We ... missed you," she added quickly.
"Thank you," said Amaldi. His voice shook a little.
"I ... I thought perhaps you mightn't come till I had gone."
He was silent a second, then he said in a queer voice:
"Could you really have thought that?"
"Well ... I ... I was afraid you might be kept," she stumbled. There had
been a hurt in his voice.
"Nothing could have kept me from saying good-by to you," he said
quietly.
Her head turned towards him, quick and startled.
"Oh! Are you going away again?" she said--then caught her lip between
her teeth in the soft gloom.
"No," said Amaldi very low.
Sophy felt the strange tension of this halting talk. She rose suddenly.
"Perhaps we had better go in after all," she said, and her tone was full
of the embarrassment against which she struggled. "We seem like two
disembodied spirits talking out of the dusk like this."
"I wish we were," came the answer, tense and abrupt as though in spite
of his will.
"Oh, no," she faltered, attempting a little laugh which died out
helplessly. "We are both too fond of life for that, Marchese."
"I could be fond of it."
"No, no. You are fond of it now."
"Yes ... now."
"Come--Luigi has taken up my parcels. Such lovely things. I want to show
them to you."
"_Prego_ ... but I must be going--Baldi will begin to fret."
He had recovered a more ordinary tone. He had himself gripped hard. What
was there in her shy voice which had almost made him lose command of
himself for a moment? There had been something. No; he was a fond fool.
He held out his hand for good-night. She put hers in it. The man's
blood and spirit was one cry within him. It called to her so wildly that
he thought she must hear that voice of silence. Her hand seemed to
quiver as it lay in his, then she withdrew it quickly.
"Good-night," she said. He murmured "good-night," turned and was gone.
Sophy stood gazing out to where the _Fretta_ lay a whitish blur along
the _banchetta_. Then she saw the little jewel of its lamp shine
suddenly--Peder's face glowed yellow-red in the flare of the match, then
went out as it were. Now Amaldi had got in. She heard the engine begin
to hum. In a second the dusk had swallowed them.
She stood gripping the iron rail, till the chill struck along her arms.
She was very honest with herself. "I care too much ... not _that_ way
... but oh! ... I care too much!" she was saying. "And he cares ... he
cares ... I must go away ... I must go even sooner than I thought...."
Then she sank down on the little stone seat, and pressed her forehead to
the rail.
"Life is hard ... it is hard ... hard," she thought, a great wave of
bitterness going over her.
But the next day she was so worried about Bobby, who had caught cold in
some way, that she had no time to give, even in thought, to other
anxieties. The child looked pale, the glands in his little neck were
swollen, he seemed to have pain, clasping his fat little stomach with
pathetic hands and saying: "Naughty tummy. Bobby tummy bad--naughty." He
was a manly little chap and wouldn't howl outright, but he curled into a
ball on his cot, murmuring, "Oo ... oo ... o--o" plaintively.
Sophy would not have felt so anxious had Miller been with her, but that
personage had found Italy with its "gibberish" and lack of most domestic
conveniences insupportable after the first two weeks, and so she had
respectfully given warning. Bobby, to Sophy's great relief, took her
departure calmly. Miller had been a dutiful but not endearing nurse.
Then the Marchesa had come to the fore with her usual kindliness, and
provided Bobby with the nurse who was to prove the love of his young
life. This woman was Rosa Ramoni, a Lombard peasant. Her dark,
square-lidded eyes reminded Sophy of the Duse's, but their expression
was very different--almost bovinely guileless, yet sparkling with
merriment, that gushed over at the least trifle, into her free,
delicious Contadina's laugh. Rosa had one of the wisest hearts in the
world, but her knowledge of nursery physic was primitive to say the
least. Even after seeing Dottore Camenis from Stresa, and hearing to her
great relief that Bobby's "naughty tummy" was only the result of
indigestion brought on by cold, Sophy was afraid to leave him quite to
Rosa's care for a day or two, so she had to refuse the invitation which
came from the Marchesa, the morning after Amaldi's return, and which
said that now they must have the _gita_ which Marco's visit to Rome had
broken up.
When Sophy wrote to explain, the Marchesa answered by saying, "Then the
first day your dear _tousin_ is well enough." Sophy could not refuse
without seeming ungracious. "This time, then," she thought, "but I must
make definite plans to-morrow for leaving. Bobby's cold gives me just
the right excuse...." But her heart felt very heavy and very lonely at
this decision of her reason.
The afternoon was all blue and gold--one of those perfect days in late
August, when the summer warmth sparkles with the zest of autumn. An old
school-friend of the Marchesa was arriving by the evening train from
Milan. So they were to use the _Fretta_, starting at five o'clock from
Villa Bianca and stopping at Isola Bella for tea. Afterwards Sophy would
be left at home, and the _Fretta_ would go on to Laveno to meet the
Marchesa's friend.
It seemed strange, startling somehow, to see Amaldi's face in this blaze
of sunshine, after last seeing it in the dim starlight. He was as
quietly composed as usual, however. The only difference that she noticed
about him was that he managed always when looking at her not to look
directly into her eyes. This relieved and saddened her at the same time.
But when they got to Isola Bella, and he grasped her hand, assisting her
to step in and out of the row-boats that lay between the _Fretta_ and
the shore, she caught her foot on a seat, nearly falling into the water:
then his eyes went into hers. He had to catch her to him, rather roughly
in the exigency of the moment, close against his side. As he glanced
down at her, she glanced up involuntarily:--his eyes went deep into
hers--a keen, quick ray, making her feel as if her spirit had been
stabbed. It winced from that suddenly unsheathed stabbing look, as her
flesh would have winced from a blade. He loosed her instantly, but she
felt the contact of that look through and through her.
During tea she talked rather fast and rather more than usual. She made
the Marchesa laugh her gay arpeggio of "Ha-ha's"; Amaldi smiled
politely. He was smoking after his tea. He seemed to enjoy his cigarette
especially--inhaling deeply and letting the smoke escape through his
nostrils very slowly, his eyes watching it.
"I am still worried about Bobby, Marchesa," said Sophy suddenly. "He has
a little cough. I think I shall take him south. I thought of Sorrento."
"But, my dear, September is a warm, lovely month with us--like summer.
Only the nights and mornings are crisp. Aren't you over-anxious?"
The Marchesa had not been a fussy mother herself. She thought Sophy
inclined to coddle Bobby.
"Yes--I know," Sophy replied hurriedly. "But the change will be best for
him I'm sure. Besides--my husband will be well enough to travel
shortly--I heard from the nurse to-day. He loves the sea--sailing and
fishing. I'm afraid he'd feel the lake too shut in----"
"Oh, in that case...." said the Marchesa. She was pleased to hear Sophy
mention her husband in this way. It had struck her how rarely she
mentioned him. Never before had she done so when the three were
together, that the Marchesa could remember. She had wondered sometimes
what could ail Mr. Chesney, that his wife seemed so reticent about his
illness. Now she felt that things were settling down into just the right
form. It was very good that Marco should hear Sophy planning thus for
the pleasure of her husband. She glanced at him _a la derobee_. He was
smoking as imperturbably as ever. He seemed to be interested in the
movements of some fishermen who were putting out for the evening cast.
"I've heard that there's splendid sailing and fishing around Naples,"
Sophy went on, nervously garrulous. "Cecil won't be coming for another
month, I suppose; but I could go and look up a villa and--and get things
ready."
"And what will you do with _this_ villa, my dear? You've four months yet
to run. You should sublet it."
And the Marchesa, always practical, began to discuss with Sophy the
possibilities of subletting Villa Bianca.
It was six o'clock when they left Isola Bella. The train from Milan did
not reach Laveno until half-past seven. Amaldi spoke of this as they
went toward the landing.
"What shall we do with our extra hour?" asked the Marchesa. "What would
you like to do, my dear?" she said, turning to Sophy, who was gazing at
the Palazzo on the Isola Madre.
Sophy started, as she often did these days when some one spoke suddenly
to her. She had been immersed in a sad, prescient feeling, as though
this afternoon were one of long farewells. Now as the Marchesa spoke,
she yielded to a wish that she had often had, and that came to her in
this moment very strongly. They had never visited the Isola Madre. There
had been so many other things of more obvious interest to see; but Sophy
had always felt drawn to that tranquil, tree-clad spot, with its rosy
Palace in which no one lived.
"Do you think--would there be time, for us to go to Isola Madre?" she
asked hesitatingly.
The Marchesa said briskly that it was the very thing--and on their way,
too.
The evening came stealing on as with a gracious modesty. There was no
flare of gorgeous colour--not a cloud. Very delicately, very slowly, sky
and water became suffused with soft, dim saffron. The Isola Madre lay
against it like an island of dark-green smoke, sent up to the lake's
clear surface by some submerged volcano.
They found another boat at the landing. No sooner had they reached the
upper terrace than the Marchesa was approached by a lively French lady
who had brought some friends to see the island. There was a flutter of
introductions all round. Sophy was much disappointed. This vivacious
lady seemed so jarringly out of key with the lovely hour, and the
wistful beauty of the island. Amaldi was standing near her.
"Shall we walk on?" he said, in a low voice. "I know the island
well...."
She turned away with him, feeling that perhaps she should not, feeling
also that whether it were wrong or right she would have this last,
beautiful hour with him.
They went in silence across the lawns to the flagged walk behind the
Palazzo, which leads, broad and stately, set with shallow steps, beneath
an avenue of ilex trees. The dark, pointed leaves made a gothic
fret-work against the saffron of the sky.
"Ladies in Genoa velvets and silk gowns embroidered with golden castles,
like the gown of poor Isabella," murmured Sophy. "I see them moving on
before me--with white peacocks mincing after.... There.... Don't you see
them, too? This walk is haunted...."
"It will be haunted ... when I return to it ... alone...." said Amaldi.
She tried to think of some answer. She could not. Yet the silence must
be broken. Silence had such a terrible eloquence of its own.
"I ... I shall come back some day," she said at last. It was as if the
words sprang of their own volition. Yet as she uttered them a feeling
leaped also within her. She felt sure, sure that she would come back
some day--that he and she would be walking here together--that all would
be different--that they would say to each other: "Do you remember that
other evening when we walked here?"
"So you feel that, too?" he said, in that same low voice. And now he was
looking into her eyes steadily, and there was exultation in this look.
Here the Marchesa called them. She was walking briskly towards them,
holding up her little watch on its jewelled chain, stopping where she
was.
"Time to go!" she called. As they joined her, she said vexedly: "That
_oca_ of a woman kept me standing there till a moment since--I'm glad
Marco thought of taking you on, my dear. You wouldn't have had time for
even a peep, otherwise."
It was quite dusk when they reached the Villa Bianca. Amaldi helped
Sophy out and went up to the villa with her. As they mounted the last
step, and came out upon the terrace, they saw that some one was standing
there--the figure of a man, looking almost gigantic in the thick
twilight. He walked towards them with a long, swinging step that brought
him near in a few paces.
"_Cecil_...?" Amaldi heard her whisper.
"Is that you, Sophy?" came Chesney's voice. "This is the most
confoundedly tricky light." He was close now.
"Ah, yes!... I see it's you," he ended, with a note of vibrant
satisfaction in his voice. "How d'ye do?" he added, peering at Amaldi.
"The Marchese Amaldi----" murmured Sophy, as once before.
"How d'ye do?" said Chesney again.
"How d'ye do?" said Amaldi. The men bowed without shaking hands. The
three stood a little awkwardly for a second in the dusk. Luigi came
pattering down the third flight of steps that led to the upper terrace
on which the house stood. Amaldi yielded Sophy's cloak to him.
"Excuse my haste," he then said, "but my mother's waiting for me below.
We've a train to meet. Good evening, Mrs. Chesney. Good evening...."
He was gone.
Chesney stood immovable till he heard the descending footsteps die away.
Then he said:
"Sophy!" His voice was thick with feeling. Sophy felt giddy--the
twilight seemed closing in on her in waves. She breathed it like a
stifling vapour.
"Sophy!" said Chesney again. He caught her to him--felt for her mouth
with his in the blinding dusk--crushed kisses down upon it until she
winced with physical pain. That London smell of his coat was strong in
her nostrils. The past two months shrivelled like a wisp of paper in a
flame. There was no Italy ... no dream ... only this great man holding
her, bruising her with his lips and body. In the utter quiet of the
evening, she could hear distinctly the throbbing of the _Fretta_'s
engine as it sped away towards Laveno.