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.”