A Spirit in Prison. Robert Hichens
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now. Rage seized him. First the two men at the Antico Giuseppone, and now this man on the islet! Every one was companioned. Every one was enjoying the night as it was meant to be enjoyed. He—he alone was the sport of “il maledetto destino.” He longed to commit some act of violence. Then he glanced cautiously round without moving.
The two sailors were sleeping. He could hear their regular and rather loud breathing. Artois lay quite still. The Marchesino turned his body very carefully so that he might see the face of his friend. As he did so Artois, who had been looking straight up at the stars, shut his eyes, and simulated sleep. His suspicion of Doro, that this expedition had been undertaken with some hidden motive, was suddenly renewed by this sly and furtive movement, which certainly suggested purpose and the desire to conceal it.
So caro Emilio slept very peacefully, and breathed with the calm regularity of a sucking child. But in this sleep of a child he was presently aware that the boat was moving—in fact was being very adroitly moved. Though his eyes were shut he felt the moonlight leave his face presently, and knew they were taken by the shadow of the islet. Then the boat stopped.
A moment later Artois was aware that the boat contained three people instead of four.
The Marchesino had left it to take a little stroll on shore.
Artois lay still. He knew how light is the slumber of seamen in a boat with the wide airs about them, and felt sure that the sailors must have been waked by the tour of the boat across the Pool. Yet they had not moved, and they continued apparently to sleep. He guessed that a glance from their “Padrone” had advised them not to wake. And this was the truth.
At the first movement of the boat both the men had looked up and had received their message from the Marchesino’s expressive eyes. They realized at once that he had some design which he wished to keep from the knowledge of his friend, the forestiere. Of course it must be connected with a woman. They were not particularly curious. They had always lived in Naples, and knew their aristocracy. So they merely returned the Marchesino’s glance with one of comprehension and composed themselves once more to repose.
The Marchesino did not come back, and presently Artois lifted himself up a little, and looked out.
The boat was right under the lee of the islet, almost touching the shore, but the sea was so perfectly still that it scarcely moved, and was not in any danger of striking against the rock. The sailors had seen that, too, before they slept again.
Artois sat quite up. He wondered a good deal what his friend was doing. One thing was certain—he was trespassing. The islet belonged to Hermione, and no one had any right to be upon it without her invitation. Artois had that right, and was now considering whether or not he should use it, follow the Marchesino and tell him—what he had not told him—that the owner of the islet was the English friend of whom he had spoken.
For Artois the romance of the night in which he had been revelling was now thoroughly disturbed. He looked again towards the two sailors, suspecting their sleep. Then he got up quietly, and stepped out of the boat onto the shore. His doing so gave a slight impetus to the boat, which floated out a little way into the Pool. But the men in it seemed to sleep on.
Artois stood still for a moment at the edge of the sea. His great limbs were cramped, and he stretched them. Then he went slowly towards the steps. He reached the plateau before the Casa del Mare. The Marchesino was not there. He looked up at the house. As he did so the front door opened and Hermione came out, wrapped in a white lace shawl.
“Emile?” she said, stopping with her hand on the door. “Why—how extraordinary!”
She came to him.
“Have you come to pay us a nocturnal visit, or—there’s nothing the matter?”
“No,” he said.
For perhaps the first time in his life he felt embarrassed with Hermione. He took her hand.
“I don’t believe you meant me to know you were here,” she said, guided by the extraordinary intuition of woman.
“To tell the truth,” he answered, “I did not expect to see you. I thought you were all in bed.”
“Oh no. I have been on the terrace and in the garden. Vere is out somewhere. I was just going to look for her.”
There was a distinct question in her prominent eyes as she fixed them on him.
“No, I haven’t seen Vere,” he said, answering it.
“Are you alone?” she asked, abruptly.
“No. You remember my mentioning my friend, the Marchesino Panacci? Well, he is with me. We were going to fish. The fishermen suggested our sleeping in the Saint’s Pool for an hour or two first. I found Doro gone and came to look for him.”
There was still a faint embarrassment in his manner.
“I believe you have seen him,” he added. “He was bathing the other day when you were passing in the boat—I think it was you. Did you see a young man who did some tricks in the water?”
“Oh yes, an impudent young creature. He pretended to be a porpoise and a seal. He made us laugh. Vere was delighted with him. Is that your friend? Where can he be?”
“Where is Vere?” said Artois.
Their eyes met, and suddenly his embarrassment passed away.
“You don’t mean that—?”
“My friend, you know what these Neapolitans are. Doro came back from his bathe raving about Vere. I did not tell him I knew her. I think—I am sure he has guessed it, and much more. Let us go and find him. It seems you are to know him. E il destino.”
“You don’t want me to know him?” she said, as they turned away from the house.
“I don’t know that there is any real reason why you should not. But my instinct was against the acquaintance. Where can Vere be? Does she often come out alone at night?”
“Very often. Ah! There she is, beyond the bridge, and—is that the Marchesino Panacci with her? Why—no, it’s—”
“It is Ruffo,” Artois said.
Vere and the boy were standing near the edge of the cliff and talking earnestly together, but as Hermione and Artois came towards them they turned round as if moved by a mutual impulse. Ruffo took off his cap and Vere cried out:
“Monsieur Emile!”
She came up to him quickly. He noticed that her face looked extraordinarily alive, that her dark eyes were fiery with expression.
“Good-evening, Vere,” he said.
He took her small hand.
“Buona sera, Ruffo,” he added.
He looked from one to the other, and saw the perfect simplicity of both.
“Tell me, Vere,” he said. “Have you seen any one on the islet to-night?”
“Yes, just now. Why? What made you think so?”
“Well?”
“A man—a gentleman came. I told him he was trespassing.”
Artois smiled. Ruffo stood by, his cap in his hand, looking attentively at Vere, who had spoken in French. She glanced at him, and suddenly broke into Italian.
“He was that absurd boy we saw in the sea, Madre, the other day, who pretended to be a seal, and made me laugh. He reminded me of it, and asked me if I didn’t recognize him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘No’ and ‘Good-night.’ ”
“And did he go?” asked Artois.
“No, he would not go. I don’t know what he wanted. He looked quite odd, as if he were feeling angry