A Spirit in Prison. Robert Hichens
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she likes. She can speak to any one she pleases. She is free as a boy is free.”
“Certainly she is free. I wish her to be free.”
“Va bene, Signora, va bene.”
A cloud came over his face, and he moved as if to go. But Hermione stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Gaspare. I want you to understand. I like your care for the Signorina. You know I trust you and depend on you more than on almost any one. But you must remember that I am English, and in England, you know, things in some ways are very different from what they are in Sicily. Any English girl would be allowed the freedom of the Signorina.”
“Why?”
“Why not? What harm does it do? The Signorina does not go to Naples alone.”
“Per Dio!” he interrupted, in a tone almost of horror.
“Of course I should never allow that. But here on the island—why, what could happen to her here? Come, Gaspare, tell me what it is you are thinking of. You haven’t told me yet. I knew directly you came in that you had something you wanted to say. What is it?”
“I know it is not my business,” he said. “And I should never speak to the Signorina, but—”
“Well, Gaspare?”
“Signora, all sorts of people come here to the island—men from Naples. We do not know them. We cannot tell who they are. And they can all see the Signorina. And they can even talk to her.”
“The fishermen, you mean?”
“Any one who comes in a boat.”
“Well, but scarcely any one ever comes but the fishermen. You know that.”
“Oh, it was all very well when the Signorina was a little girl, a child, Signora,” he said, almost hotly. “But now it is different. It is quite different.”
Suddenly Hermione understood. She remembered what Vere had said about Gaspare being jealous. He must certainly be thinking of the boy-diver, of Ruffo.
“You think the Signorina oughtn’t to talk to the fishermen?” she said.
“What do we know of the fishermen of Naples, Signora? We are not Neapolitans. We are strangers here. We do not know their habits. We do not know what they think. They are different from us. If we were in Sicily! I am a Sicilian. I can tell. But when men come from Naples saying they are Sicilians, how can I tell whether they are ruffiani or not?”
Gaspare’s inner thought stood revealed.
“I see, Gaspare,” Hermione said, quietly. “You think I should not have let the Signorina talk to that boy the other day. But I saw him myself, and I gave the Signorina leave to take him some cigarettes. And he dived for her. She told me all about it. She always tells me everything.”
“I do not doubt the Signorina,” said Gaspare. “But I thought it was my duty to tell you what I thought, Signora. Why should people come here saying they are of my country, saying they are Sicilians, and talking as the Neapolitans talk?”
“Well, but at the time, you didn’t doubt that boy was what he said he was, did you?”
“Signora, I did not know. I could not know. But since then I have been thinking.”
“Well, Gaspare, you are quite right to tell me. I prefer that. I have much faith in you, and always shall have. But we must not say anything like this to the Signorina. She would not understand what we meant.”
“No, Signora. The Signorina is too good.”
“She would not understand, and I think she would be hurt”—Hermione used the word “offesa,”—“as you would be if you fancied I thought something strange about you.”
“Si, Signora.”
“Good-night, Gaspare.”
“Good-night, Signora. Buon riposo.”
He moved towards the door. When he reached it he stopped and added:
“I am going to bed, Signora.”
“Go. Sleep well.”
“Grazie, Signora. The Signorina is still outside, I am sure.”
“She goes out for a minute nearly every evening, Gaspare. She likes the air and to look at the sea.”
“Si, Signora; in a minute I shall go to bed. Buon riposo.”
And he went out.
When he had gone Hermione remained at first where she was. But Gaspare had effectually changed her mood, had driven away what she chose to call her egoism, had concentrated all her thoughts on Vere. He had never before spoken like this about the child. It was a sudden waking up on his part to the fact that Vere was growing up to womanhood.
When he chose, Gaspare could always, or nearly always, make his Padrona catch his mood, there was something so definite about him that he made an impression. And, though he was easily inclined to be suspicious of those whom he did not know well, Hermione knew him to be both intelligent and shrewd, especially about those for whom he had affection. She wondered now whether it were possible that Gaspare saw, understood, or even divined intuitively, more clearly than she did—she, a mother!
It was surely very unlikely.
She remembered that Gaspare had a jealous nature, like most of his countrymen.
Nevertheless he had suddenly made the islet seem different to her. She had thought of it as remote, as pleasantly far away from Naples, isolated in the quiet sea. But it was very easy to reach from Naples, and, as Gaspare had said, what did they know, or understand, of the Neapolitans, they who were strangers in the land?
She wondered whether Vere was still outside. To-night she certainly envisaged Vere newly. Never till to-night had she thought of her as anything but a child; as characteristic, as ardent, as determined sometimes, perhaps as forceful even, but always with a child’s mind behind it all.
But to the people of the South Vere was already a woman—even to Gaspare, who had held her in his arms when she was in long clothes. At least Hermione supposed so now, after what Gaspare had said about the giovinotti, who, in Sicily, would have been wishing to marry Vere, had she been Sicilian. And perhaps even the mind of Vere was more grown-up than her mother had been ready to suppose.
The mother was conscious of a slight but distinct uneasiness. It was vague. Had she been asked to explain it she could not, perhaps, have done so.
Presently, after a minute or two of hesitation, she went to the window that faced north, opened it, and stood by, listening. It was from the sea on this side that the fishermen who lived in the Mergellina, and in the town of Naples, came to the islet. It was from this direction that Ruffo had come three days ago.
Evidently Gaspare had been turning over the boy’s acquaintance with Vere in his mind all that time, disapproving of it, secretly condemning Hermione for having allowed it. No, not that; Hermione felt that he was quite incapable of condemning her. But he was a watchdog who did not bark, but who was ready to bite all those who ventured to approach his two mistresses unless he was sure of their credentials. And of this boy’s, Ruffo’s, he was not sure.
Hermione recalled the boy; his brown healthiness, his laughing eyes and lips, his strong young body, his careless happy voice. And she found herself instinctively listening by the window to hear that voice again.
Now, as she looked out, the loveliness of the night appealed to her strongly, and she felt sure that Vere must be still outside, somewhere under the moon.
Just beneath the window was the narrow terrace, on to which she had stepped out, obedient to Vere’s call, three days ago. Perhaps Vere was there, or in the garden beyond. She extinguished the lamp. She went to her bedroom to get a lace shawl, which she put over her head and drew