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:

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.

“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.”