THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON
 
 [See page 12 
 
 " ' RUFFO THAT'S A NICE NAME. IT SOUNDS STRONG AND BOLD ' "
 
 By ROBERT HICHENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "The Call of the Blood," "The Garden 
 of Allah," etc. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 CYRUS CUNEO 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 Publishers New Tork 
 
 Published by arrangement with Harper & Biothers
 
 Copyright, 1907, 1908, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights resirvtd. 
 Published September, 1908.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SOMEWHERE, not far off on the still sea that held the 
 tiny islet in a warm embrace, a boy's voice was singing 
 "Napoli Bella." 
 
 Vere heard the song as she sat in the sun with her face 
 set towards Nisida and the distant peak of Ischia; and 
 instinctively she shifted her position, and turned her 
 head, looking towards the calm and untroubled water 
 that stretched between her and Naples. For the voice 
 that sang of the beautiful city was coming towards her 
 from the beautiful city, hymning the siren it had left 
 perhaps but two hours ago. 
 
 On his pedestal set upon rock San Francesco seemed 
 to be attentive to the voice. He stood beyond the 
 sheltered pool of the sea that divided the islet from the 
 mainland, staring across at Vere as if he envied her; he 
 who was rooted in Italy and deprived of her exquisite 
 freedom. His beard hung down to his waist, his cross 
 protruded over his left shoulder, and his robe of dusty 
 grayish brown touched his feet, which had never wan- 
 dered one step since he was made, and set there to keep 
 watch over the fishermen who come to sleep under the 
 lee of the island by night. 
 
 Now it was brilliant daylight. The sun shone vividly 
 over the Bay of Naples, over the great and vital city, 
 
 3 
 
 2041659
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 over Vesuvius, the long line of the land towards Sorrento, 
 over Capri with its shadowy mountain, and Posilippo 
 with its tree-guarded villas. And in the sharp radiance 
 of May the careless voice of the fisher-boy sang the 
 familiar song that Vere had always known and seldom 
 heeded. 
 
 To-day, why she did not know, Vere listened to it 
 attentively. Something in the sound of the voice 
 caught her attention, roused within her a sense of sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Carelessness and happiness make a swift appeal to 
 young hearts, and this voice was careless, and sounded 
 very happy. There was a deliberate gruffness in it, a 
 determination to be manly, which proved the vocalist 
 to be no man. Vere knew at once that a boy was sing- 
 ing, and she felt that she must see him. 
 
 She got up, went into the little garden at the edge of 
 the cliff, and looked over the wall. 
 
 There was a boat moving slowly towards her, not very 
 far away. In it were three figures, all stripped for diving, 
 and wearing white cotton drawers. Two were sitting 
 on the gunwale with their knees drawn up nearly to their 
 chins. The third was standing, and with a languid, but 
 strong and regular movement, was propelling the boat 
 forward with big-bladed oars. This was the singer, and 
 as the boat drew nearer Vere could see that he had the 
 young, lithe form of a boy. 
 
 While she watched, leaning down from her eyrie, the 
 .boat and the song stopped, and the singer let go his oars 
 and turned to the men behind him. The boat had reach- 
 ed a place near the rocks that was good ground for frutti 
 di mare. 
 
 Vere had often seen the divers in the Bay of Naples 
 at their curious toil. Yet it never ceased to interest 
 her. She had a passion for the sea, and for all things 
 connected with it. Now she leaned a little lower over 
 
 4
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the wall, with her eyes fixed on the boat and its occu- 
 pants. 
 
 Upon the water she saw corks floating, and presently 
 one of the men swung himself round and sat facing the 
 sea, with his back to the boat and his bare legs dipping 
 into the water. The boy had dropped down to the 
 bottom of the craft. His hands were busy arranging , 
 clothes, or tackle, and his lusty voice again rang out to 
 the glory of "Napoli, bella Napoli." There was some- 
 thing infectious in his happy-go-lucky light-heartedness. 
 Vere smiled as she listened, but there was a wistfulness in 
 her heart. At that moment a very common desire 
 of young and vigorous girls assailed her the desire to 
 be a boy; not a boy born of rich parents, destined to the 
 idle, aimless life of aristocratic young Neapolitans, but a 
 brown, badly dressed, or scarcely dressed at all boy of 
 the people. 
 
 She was often light-hearted, careless. But was she 
 ever as light-hearted and careless as that singing boy? 
 She supposed herself to be free. But was she, could she 
 ever be at liberty as he was ? 
 
 The man who had been dipping his feet in the sea 
 rested one hand on the gunwale, let his body droop 
 forward, dropped into the water, paddled for a moment, 
 reached one of the floating corks, turned over head down- 
 wards, describing a circle which showed his chocolate- 
 colored back arched, kicked up his feet and disappeared. 
 The second man lounged lazily from the boat into the sea 
 and imitated him. The boy sat still and went on singing. 
 Vere felt disappointed. Was not he going to dive too? 
 She wanted him to dive. If she were that boy she would 
 go in, she felt sure of it, before the men. It must be 
 lovely to sink down into the underworld of the sea, to 
 rifle from the rocks their fruit, that grew thick as fruit on 
 the trees. But the boy he was lazy, good for nothing 
 but singing. She was half ashamed of him. Whin>
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 sically, and laughing to herself at her own absurdity, she 
 lifted her two hands, brown with the sun, to her lips, 
 and cried with all her might: 
 
 "Va dentro, pigro! Va dentro!" 
 
 As her voice died away, the boy stopped singing, 
 sprang into the sea, kicked up his feet and disappeared. 
 
 Vere was conscious of a thrill that was like a thrill of 
 triumph. 
 
 "He obeyed me!" she thought. 
 
 A pleasant feeling of power came to her. From her 
 eyrie on the rock she was directing these strange sea 
 doings. She was ruling over the men of the sea. 
 
 The empty boat swayed softly on the water, but its 
 three former occupants were all hidden by the sea. It 
 seemed as if they would never come up again. Vere 
 began to hold her breath as they were holding theirs. 
 At last a dark head rose above the surface, then another. 
 The two men paddled for a minute, drawing the air into 
 their lungs. But the boy did not reappear. 
 
 As the seconds passed, Vere began to feel proud of him. 
 He was doing that which she would have tried to do had 
 she been a boy. He was rivalling the men. 
 
 Another second slipped away and another. He was 
 more than rivalling, he was beating the men. 
 
 They dived once more. She saw the sun gleam on 
 their backs, which looked polished as they turned slowly 
 over, almost like brown porpoises. 
 
 But the boy remained hidden beneath the veil of water. 
 
 Vere began to feel anxious. What if some accident 
 had happened ? What if he had been caught by the sea- 
 weed, or if his groping hand had been retained by some 
 crevice of the rock? There was a pain at her heart. 
 Her quick imagination was at work. It seemed to her 
 as if she felt his agony, took part in his struggle to regain 
 his freedom. She clinched her small hands and set her 
 teeth. She held her breath, trying to feel exactly as he 
 
 6
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 was feeling. And then suddenly she lifted her hands up 
 to her face, covering her nostrils. What a horrible sen- 
 sation it was, this suffocation, this pressing of the life 
 out of the body, almost as one may push a person brutally 
 out of a room! She could bear it no more, and she drop- 
 ped her hands. As she did so the boy's dark head rose 
 above the sea. 
 
 Vere uttered a cry of joy. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo!" 
 
 She felt as if he had returned from the dead. He was 
 a wonderful boy. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravissimo!" 
 
 Serenely unconscious of her enthusiasm, the boy 
 swam slowly for a moment, breathing the air into his 
 lungs, then serenely dived again. 
 
 "Vere!" called a woman's voice from the house 
 "Vere!" 
 
 "Madre!" cried the girl in reply, but without turning 
 away from the sea. ' ' I am here ! Do come out ! I want 
 to show you something." 
 
 On a narrow terrace looking towards Naples a tall 
 figure appeared. 
 
 "Where are you?" 
 
 "Here! here!" 
 
 The mother smiled and left the terrace, passed through 
 a little gate, and almost directly was standing beside 
 the girl, saying: 
 
 "What is it? Is there a school of whales in the Bay, 
 or have you sighted the sea-serpent coming from Capri ?" 
 
 "No.no! But you see that boat ?" 
 
 "Yes. The men are diving for frutti di mare, aren't 
 they?" 
 
 Vere nodded. 
 
 "The men are nothing. But there is a boy who is 
 wonderful." 
 
 "Why? What does he do?" 
 
 7
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "He stays under water an extraordinary time. Now 
 wait. Have you got a watch, Madre ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Take it out, there's a darling, and time him. I want 
 to know there he is! You see?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Have you got your watch? Wait till he goes under! 
 Wait a minute! There! He's gone! Now begin." 
 
 She drew into her lungs a long breath, and held it. 
 The mother smiled, keeping her eyes obediently on the 
 watch which lay in her hand. 
 
 There was a silence between them as the seconds 
 passed. 
 
 "Really," began the mother presently, "he must be " 
 
 "Hush, Madre, hush!" 
 
 The girl had clasped her hands tightly. Her eyes 
 never left the sea. The tick, tick of the watch was just 
 audible in the stillness of the May morning. At last 
 
 "There he is!" cried the girl. "Quick! How long 
 has he been under?" 
 
 "Just fifty seconds." 
 
 "I wonder I'm sure it's a record. If only Gaspare 
 were here! When will he be back from Naples with 
 Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "About twelve, I should think. But I doubt if they 
 can sail." She looked out to sea, and added: "I think 
 the wind is changing to scirocco. They may be later." 
 
 "He's gone down again!" 
 
 "I never saw you so interested in a diver before," said 
 the mother. "What made you begin to look at the 
 boy?" 
 
 "He was singing. I heard him, and his voice made me 
 feel " She paused. 
 
 "What?" said her mother. 
 
 "I don't know. Un poco diavolesca, I'm afraid. One 
 thing, though! It made me long to be a boy." 
 
 8
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Did it?" 
 
 "Yes! Madre, tell me truly sea-water on your lips, 
 as the fishermen say now truly, did you ever want me 
 to be a boy?" 
 
 Hermione Delarey did not answer for a moment. She 
 looked away over the still sea, that seemed to be slowly 
 /osing its color, and she thought of another sea, of the 
 Ionian waters that she had loved so much. They had 
 taken her husband from her before her child was born, 
 and this child's question recalled to her the sharp agony 
 of those days and nights in Sicily, when Maurice lay un- 
 buried in the Casa del Prete, and afterwards in the hos- 
 pital at Marechiaro of other days and nights in Italy, 
 when, isolated with the Sicilian boy, Gaspare, she had 
 waited patiently for the coming of her child. 
 
 "Sea-water, Madre, sea- water on your lips!" 
 
 Her mother looked down at her. 
 
 "Do you think I wished it, Vere?" 
 
 "To-day I do." 
 
 "Why to-day?" 
 
 "Because I wish it so much. And it seems to me as 
 if perhaps I wish it because you once wished it for me. 
 You thought I should be a boy?" 
 
 "I felt sure you would be a boy." 
 
 ' ' Madre ! How strange ! ' ' 
 
 The girl was looking up at her mother. Her dark 
 eyes almost Sicilian eyes they were opened very wide, 
 and her lips remained slightly parted after she had spoken. 
 
 "I wonder why that was?" she said at length. 
 
 "I have wondered too. It may have been that I was 
 always thinking of your father in those days, recalling 
 him well, recalling him as he had been in Sicily. He 
 went away from me so suddenly that somehow his going, 
 even when it had happened, for a long time seemed to 
 be an impossibility. And I fancied, I suppose, that my 
 child would be him in a way." 
 
 9
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Come back?" 
 
 "Or never quite gone." 
 
 The girl was silent for a moment. 
 
 "Povera Madre mia!" at last she said. 
 
 But she did not seem distressed for herself. No per- 
 sonal grievance, no doubt of complete love assailed her. 
 And the fact that this was so demonstrated, very quietly 
 and very completely, the relation existing between this 
 mother and this child. 
 
 "I wonder, now," Vere said, presently, "why I never 
 specially wished to be a boy until to-day because, after 
 all, it can't be from you that the wish came. If it had 
 been it must have come long ago. And it didn't. It 
 only came when I heard that boy's voice. He sings like 
 all the boys, you know, that have ever enjoyed them- 
 selves, that are still enjoying themselves in the sun." 
 
 "I wish he would sing once more!" said Hermione. 
 
 "Perhaps he will. Look! He's getting into the boat. 
 And the men are stopping too." 
 
 The boy was very quick in his movements. Almost 
 before Vere had finished speaking he had pulled on his 
 blue jersey and white trousers, and again taken the big 
 oars into his hands. Standing up, with his face set 
 towards the islet, he began once more to propel the boat 
 towards it. And as he swung his body slowly to and 
 fro he opened his lips and sang lustily once more, 
 
 " O Napoli, bella Napoli I" 
 
 Hermione and Vere sat silently listening as the song 
 grew louder and louder, till the boat was almost in the 
 shadow of the islet, and the boy, with a strong stroke of 
 the left oar turned its prow towards the pool over which 
 San Francesco watched. 
 
 "They're going into the Saint's Pool to have a siesta," 
 said Vere. "Isn't he a splendid boy, Madre?" 
 
 As she spoke the boat was passing almost directly be-
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 neath them, and they saw its name painted in red letters 
 on the prow, Sirena del Mare. The two men, one young, 
 one middle-aged, were staring before them at the rocks. 
 But the boy, more sensitive, perhaps, than they were to 
 the watching eyes of women, looked straight up to Vere 
 and to her mother. They saw his level rows of white 
 teeth gleaming as the song came out from his parted lips, 
 the shining of his eager dark eyes, full of the careless 
 merriment of youth, the black, low-growing hair stirring 
 in the light sea breeze about his brow, bronzed by sun and 
 wind. His slight figure swayed with an easy motion 
 that had the grace of perfectly controlled activity, and 
 his brown hands gripped the great oars with a firmness 
 almost of steel, as the boat glided under the lee of the 
 island, and vanished from the eyes of the watchers into 
 the shadowy pool of San Francesco. 
 
 When the boat had disappeared, Vere lifted herself up 
 and turned round to her mother. 
 
 "Isn't he a jolly boy, Madre?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hermione. 
 
 She spoke in a low voice. Her eyes were still on the 
 sea where the boat had passed. 
 
 "Yes," she repeated, almost as if to herself. 
 
 For the first time a little cloud went over Vere's sen- 
 sitive face. 
 
 "Madre, how horribly I must have disappointed you," 
 she said. 
 
 The mother did not break into protestations. She 
 always treated her child with sincerity. 
 
 "Just for a moment , Vere , ' ' she answered . ' ' And then , 
 very soon, you made me feel how much more intimate 
 can be the relationship between a mother and a daughter 
 than between a mother and any son." 
 
 "Is that true, really?" 
 
 "I think it is." 
 
 "But why should that be?" 
 3 ii
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Don't you think Monsieur Emile could tell you much 
 better than I ? I feel all the things, you know, that he 
 can explain." 
 
 There was a touch of something that was like a half- 
 hidden irony in her voice. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile! Yes, I think he understands al- 
 most everything about people," said Vere, quite without 
 irony. "But could a man explain such a thing as well as 
 a woman? I don't think so." 
 
 "We have the instincts, perhaps, men the vocabulary. 
 Come, Vere, I want to look over into the Saint's Pool and 
 see what those men are doing." 
 
 Vere laughed. 
 
 "Take care, Madre, or Gaspare will be jealous." 
 
 A soft look came into Hermione's face. 
 
 "Gaspare and I know each other," she said, quietly. 
 
 "But he could be jealous horribly jealous." 
 
 "Of you, perhaps, Vere, but never of me. Gaspare 
 and I have passed through too much together for any- 
 thing of that kind. Nobody could ever take his place 
 with me, and he knows it quite well." 
 
 "Gaspare's a darling, and I love him," said Vere, 
 rather inconsequently. "Shall we look over into the 
 Pool from the pavilion, or go down by the steps?" 
 
 "We'll look over." 
 
 They passed in through a gateway to the narrow 
 terrace that fronted the Casa del Mare facing Vesuvius, 
 entered the house, traversed a little hall, came out again 
 into the air by a door on its farther side, and made their 
 way to a small pavilion that looked upon the Pool of San 
 Francesco. Almost immediately below, in the cool 
 shadow of the cliff, the boat was moored. The two men, 
 lying at full length in it, their faces buried in their hands, 
 were already asleep. But the boy, sitting astride on the 
 prow, with his bare feet dangling on each side of it to 
 the clear green water, was munching slowly, and rather 
 
 12
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 seriously, a hunch of yellow bread, from which he cut 
 from time to time large pieces with a clasp knife. As he 
 ate, lifting the pieces of bread to his mouth with the 
 knife, against whose blade he held them with his thumb, 
 he stared down at the depths below, transparent here 
 almost to the sea bed. His eyes were wide with reverie. 
 He seemed another boy, not the gay singer of five 
 minutes ago. But then he had been in the blaze of the 
 sun. Now he was in the shade. And swiftly he had 
 caught the influence of the dimmer light, the lack of 
 motion, the delicate hush at the feet of San Fran- 
 cesco. 
 
 This time he did not know that he was being watched. 
 His reverie, perhaps, was too deep, or their gaze less 
 concentrated than it had been before. And after a 
 moment, Hermione moved away. 
 
 "You are going in, Madre?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you mind if I give something to that boy?" 
 
 "Do you mean money?" 
 
 "Oh no. But the poor thing's eating dry bread, 
 and 
 
 "And what, you puss?" 
 
 "Well, he's a very obedient boy." 
 
 "How can you know that?" 
 
 "He was idling in the boat, and I called out to 
 him to jump into the sea, and he jumped in immedi- 
 ately." 
 
 "Do you think because he heard you?" 
 
 "Certainly I do." 
 
 "You conceited little creature! Perhaps he was only 
 pleasing himself!" 
 
 "No, Madre, no. I think I should like to give him a 
 little reward presently for his singing too." 
 
 "Get him a dolce, then, from Carmela, if there is one. 
 And you can give him some cigarettes."
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I will. He'll love that. Oh dear! I wish he didn't 
 make me dissatisfied with myself!" 
 
 "Nonsense, Vere!" 
 
 Hermione bent down and kissed her child. Then she 
 went rather quickly away from the pavilion and entered 
 the Casa del Mare.
 
 "HE LIFTED HIS BROWN ARMS ABOVE HIS HEAD, UTTERED 
 A CRY, AND DIVED CLEANLY BELOW THE SURFACE"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AFTER her mother had gone, Vere waited for a moment, 
 then ran lightly to the house, possessed herself of a dolce 
 and a packet of cigarettes, and went down the steps to 
 the Pool of San Francesco, full of hospitable intentions 
 towards the singing boy. She found him still sitting 
 astride of the boat's prow, not yet free of his reverie 
 apparently; for when she gave a low call of "Pescator!" 
 prolonging the last syllable with the emphasis and the 
 accent of Naples, but always softly, he started, and nearly 
 dropped into the sea the piece of bread he was lifting to 
 his mouth. Recovering himself in time to save the bread 
 deftly with one brown hand, he turned half round, lean- 
 ing on his left arm, and stared at Vere with large, in- 
 quiring eyes. She stood by the steps and beckoned to 
 him, lifting up the packet of cigarettes, then pointing to 
 his sleeping companions: 
 
 "Come here for a minute!" 
 
 The boy smiled, sprang up, and leaped onto the islet. 
 As he came to her, with the easy, swinging walk of the 
 barefooted sea-people, he pulled up his white trousers, 
 and threw out his chest with an obvious desire to "fare 
 figura" before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When he 
 reached her he lifted his hand to his bare head forget- 
 fully, meaning to take off his cap to her. Finding that 
 he had no cap, he made a laughing grimace, threw up 
 his chin and, thrusting his tongue against his upper teeth 
 and opening wide his mouth, uttered a little sound most 
 characteristically Neapolitan a sound that seemed
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 lightly condemnatory of himself. This done, he stood 
 still before Vere, looking at the cigarettes and at the dolce. 
 
 "I've brought these for you," she said. 
 
 "Grazie, Signorina." 
 
 He did not hold out his hand, but his eyes, now de- 
 voted entirely to the cigarettes, began to shine with 
 pleasure. Vere did not give him the presents at once. 
 She had something to explain first. 
 
 "We mustn't wake them," she said, pointing towards 
 the boat in which the men were sleeping. "Come a little 
 way with me." 
 
 She retreated a few steps from the sea, followed closely 
 by the eager boy. 
 
 "We sha'n't disturb them now," she said, stopping. 
 "Do you know why I've brought you these ?" 
 
 She stretched out her hands, with the dolce and the 
 cigarettes. 
 
 The boy threw his chin up again and half shut his eyes. 
 
 "No, Signorina." 
 
 "Because you did what I told you." 
 
 She spoke rather with the air of a little queen. 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Didn't you hear me call out to you from up there?" 
 she pointed to the cliff above their heads "when you 
 were sitting in the boat ? I called to you to go in after 
 the men." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why! Because I thought you were a lazy boy." 
 
 He laughed. All his brown face gave itself up to 
 laughter eyes, teeth, lips, cheeks, chin. His whole 
 body seemed to be laughing. The idea of his being 
 lazy seemed to delight his whole spirit. 
 
 "You would have been lazy if you hadn't done what I 
 told you," said Vere, emphatically, forcing her words 
 through his merriment with determination "You know 
 you would." 
 
 16
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I never heard you call, Signorina." 
 
 "You didn't?" 
 
 He shook his head several times, bent down, dipped 
 his fingers in the sea, put them to his lips: "I say it." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 There was a note of disappointment in her voice. She 
 felt dethroned. 
 
 "But then, you haven't earned these," she said, look- 
 ing at him almost with rebuke, "if you went in of your 
 own accord." 
 
 "I go in because it is my mestiere, Signorina," the 
 boy said, simply. "I go in by force." 
 
 He looked at her and then again at the cigarettes. His 
 expression said, "Can you refuse me?" There was a 
 quite definite and conscious attempt to cajole her to 
 generosity in his eyes, and in the pose he assumed. Vere 
 saw it, and knew that if there had been a mirror within 
 reach at that moment the boy would have been looking 
 into it, frankly admiring himself. 
 
 In Italy the narcissus blooms at all seasons of the 
 year. 
 
 She was charmed by the boy, for he did his luring well, 
 and she was susceptible to all that was naturally pict- 
 uresque. But a gay little spirit of resistance sprang up 
 like a flame and danced within her. 
 
 She let her hands fall to her sides. 
 
 "But you like going in?" 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "You enjoy diving?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and again used what seem- 
 ed with him a favorite expression. 
 
 "Signorina, I must enjoy it, by force." 
 
 "You do it wonderfully. Do you know that? You 
 do it better than the men." 
 
 Again the conscious look came into the boy's face and 
 body, as if his soul were faintly swaggering. 
 
 17
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "There is no one in the Bay who can dive better than 
 I can," he answered. "Giovannino thinks he can. Well, 
 let him think so. He would not dare to make a bet with 
 me." 
 
 "He would lose it if he did," said Vere. "I'm sure 
 he would. Just now you were under water nearly a 
 minute by my mother's watch." 
 
 "Where is the Signora?" said the boy, looking round. 
 
 "Why d'you ask?" 
 
 "Why I can stay under longer than that." 
 
 "Now, look here!" said the girl, eagerly. "Never 
 mind Madre! Go down once for me, won't you? Go 
 down once for me, and you shall have the dolce and two 
 packets of cigarettes." 
 
 "I don't want the dolce, Signorina; a dolce is for 
 women," he said, with the complete bluntness charac- 
 teristic of Southern Italians and of Sicilians. 
 
 "The cigarettes, then." 
 
 "Va bene. But the water is too shallow here." 
 
 "We'll take my boat." 
 
 She pointed to a small boat, white with a green line, 
 that was moored close to them. 
 
 "Va bene," said the boy again. 
 
 He rolled his white trousers up above his knees, strip- 
 ped off his blue jersey, leaving the thin vest that was 
 beneath it, folded the jersey neatly and laid it on the 
 stones, tightened his trousers at the back, then caught 
 hold of the rope by which Vere's boat was moored to the 
 shore and pulled the boat in. 
 
 Very carefully he helped Vere into it. 
 
 "I know a good place," he said, "where you can see 
 right down to the bottom." 
 
 Taking the oars he slowly paddled a little way out to 
 a deep clear pool of the sea. 
 
 "I'll go in here, Signorina." 
 
 He stood up straight, with his feet planted on each 
 
 18
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 side of the boat's prow, and glanced at the water in- 
 timately, as might a fish. Then he shot one more glance 
 at Vere and at the cigarettes, made the sign of the cross, 
 lifted his brown arms above his head, uttered a cry, and 
 dived cleanly below the surface, going down obliquely 
 till he was quite dim in the water. 
 
 Vere watched him with a deep attention. This feat 
 of the boy fascinated her. The water between them 
 made him look remote, delicate and unearthly neither 
 boy nor fish. His head, she could see, was almost touch- 
 ing the bottom. She fancied that he was actually 
 touching bottom with his hands. Yes, he was. Bending 
 low over the water she saw his brown fingers, stretched 
 out and well divided, promenading over the basin of the 
 sea as lightly and springily as the claws of a crab tip- 
 toeing to some hiding-place. Presently he let himself 
 down a little more, pressed his flat palms against the 
 ground, and with the impetus thus gained made his body 
 shoot back towards the surface feet foremost. Then 
 bringing his body up till it was in a straight line with his 
 feet, he swam slowly under water, curving first in this 
 direction then in that, with a lithe ease that was en- 
 chantingly graceful. Finally, he turned over on his back 
 and sank slowly down until he looked like a corpse lying 
 at the bottom of the sea. 
 
 Then Vere felt a sickness of fear steal over her, and 
 leaning over the sea till her face almost touched the water, 
 she cried out fiercely: 
 
 "Come up! Come up! Presto! Presto!" 
 
 As the boy had seemed to obey her when she cried out 
 to him from the summit of the cliff, so he seemed to obey 
 her now. 
 
 When her voice died down into the sea- depths he 
 rose from those depths, and she saw his eyes laugh- 
 ing, his lips laughing at her, freed from the strange 
 veil of the water, which had cast upon him a spec- 
 
 19
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 tral aspect, the likeness of a thing deserted by its 
 soul. 
 
 "Did you hear me that time?" Vere said, rather 
 eagerly. 
 
 The boy lifted his dark head from the water to shake 
 it, drew a long breath, trod water, then threw up his 
 chin with the touch of tongue against teeth which is the 
 Neapolitan negative. 
 
 "You didn't! Then why did you come up?" 
 
 He swam to the boat. 
 
 "It pleased me to come." 
 
 She looked doubtful. 
 
 " I believe you are birbante," she said, slowly. " I am 
 nearly sure you are." 
 
 The boy was just getting out, pulling himself up slowly 
 to the boat by his arms, with his wet hands grasping the 
 gunwale firmly. He looked at Vere, with the salt drops 
 running down his sunburnt face, and dripping from his 
 thick, matted hair to his strong neck and shoulders. 
 Again his whole face laughed, as, nimbly, he brought 
 his legs from the water and stood beside her. 
 
 ' ' B irbante , Signorina ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes. Are you from Naples?" 
 
 "I come from Mergellina, Signorina." 
 
 Vere looked at him half-doubtfully, but still with in- 
 nocent admiration. There was something perfectly 
 fearless and capable about him that attracted her. 
 
 He rowed in to shore. 
 
 "How old are you?"she asked. 
 
 "Sixteen years old, Signorina." 
 
 "I am sixteen, too." 
 
 They reached the islet, and Vere got out. The boy 
 followed her, fastened the boat, and moved away a few 
 steps. She wondered why, till she saw him stop in a sun- 
 patch and let the beams fall full upon him. 
 
 "You aren't afraid of catching cold?" she asked. 
 
 20
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He threw up his chin. His eyes went to the cigarettes. 
 
 "Yes," said Ver.e, in answer to the look, "you shall 
 have one. Here!" 
 
 She held out the packet. Very carefully and neatly 
 the boy, after holding his right hand for a moment to the 
 sun to get dry, drew out a cigarette. 
 
 "Oh, you want a match!" 
 
 He sprang away and ran lightly to the boat. Without 
 waking his companions he found a matchbox and lit the 
 cigarette. Then he came back, on the way stopping to 
 get into his jersey. 
 
 Vere sat down on a narrow seat let into the rock close 
 to the sun -patch. She was nursing the dolce on her 
 knee. 
 
 "You won't have it?" she asked. 
 
 He gave her his usual negative, again stepping full into 
 the sun. 
 
 "Well, then, I shall eat it. You say a dolce is for 
 women!" 
 
 "SI, Signorina," he answered, quite seriously. 
 
 She began to devour it slowly, while the boy drew the 
 cigarette smoke into his lungs voluptuously. 
 
 "And you are only sixteen?" she asked. 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 "As young as I am! But you look almost a man." 
 
 "Signorina, I have always worked. I am a man." 
 
 He squared his shoulders. She liked the determination, 
 the resolution in his face ; and she liked the face, too. He 
 was a very handsome boy, she thought, but somehow he 
 did not look quite Neapolitan. His eyes lacked the 
 round and staring impudence characteristic of many 
 Neapolitans she had seen. There was something at 
 times impassive in their gaze. In shape they were long, 
 and slightly depressed at the corners by the cheeks, 
 and they had full, almost heavy, lids. The features of the 
 boy were small and straight, and gave no promise of 
 
 21
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 eventual coarseness. He was splendidly made. When 
 Vere looked at him she thought of an arrow. Yet he was 
 very muscular, and before he dived she had noticed that 
 on his arms the biceps swelled up like smooth balls of 
 iron beneath the shining brown skin. 
 
 "What month were you born in ?" she asked. 
 
 "Signorina, I believe I was born in March. I believe 
 I was sixteen last March." 
 
 "Then I am older than you are!" 
 
 This seemed to the boy a matter of indifference, 
 though it was evidently exercising the girl beside him. 
 She had finished the dolce now, and he was smoking the 
 last fraction of an inch of the cigarette, economically 
 determined to waste none of it, even though he burnt 
 his fingers. 
 
 "Have another cigarette," Vere added, after a pause 
 during which she considered him carefully. "You can't 
 get anything more out of that one." 
 
 "Grazie, Signorina." 
 
 He took it eagerly. 
 
 "Do tell me your name, won't you?" Vere went on. 
 
 "Ruffo, Signorina." 
 
 "Ruffo that's a nice name. It sounds strong and 
 bold. And you live at Mergellina?" 
 
 "Si, Signorina. But I wasn't born there. I wasn't 
 born in Naples at all." 
 
 "Where were you born?" 
 
 "In America, Signorina, near New York. I am a 
 Sicilian." 
 
 "A Sicilian, are you!" 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 "I am a little bit Sicilian, too; only a little tiny bit 
 but still " 
 
 She waited to see the effect upon him. He looked at 
 her steadily with his long bright eyes. 
 
 "You are Sicilian, Signorina?" 
 
 32
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "My great-grandmother was." 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 His voice sounded incredulous. 
 
 "Don't you believe me?" she cried, rather hotly. 
 
 "Ma si, Signorina! only that's not very Sicilian, if the 
 rest is English. You are English, Signorina, aren't you ?" 
 
 "The rest of me is. Are you all Sicilian?" 
 
 "Signorina, my mother is Sicilian." 
 
 "And your father, too?" 
 
 The boy's face suddenly clouded. 
 
 "Signorina, my father is dead," he said, in a changed 
 voice. "Now I live with my mother and my step-father. 
 He Patrigno he is Neapolitan." 
 
 There was a movement in the boat. The boy looked 
 round. 
 
 " I must go back to the boat, Signorina," he said. 
 
 "Oh, must you?" Vere said. "What a pity! But 
 look, they are really still asleep." 
 
 "I must go back, Signorina," he protested. 
 
 "You want to sleep, too, perhaps?" 
 
 He seized the excuse. 
 
 "SI, Signorina. Being under the sea so much it 
 tires the head and the eyes. I want to sleep, too." 
 
 His face, full of life, denied his words, but Vere only 
 said: 
 
 "Here are the cigarettes." 
 
 "Grazie, Signorina." 
 
 "And I promised you another packet. Well, wait here 
 just here, d'you see? under the bridge, and I'll throw 
 it down, and you must catch it." 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 He took his stand on the spot she pointed out, and she 
 disappeared up the steps towards the house. 
 
 "Madre! madre!" 
 
 Hermione heard Vere's voice calling below a moment 
 later. 
 
 23
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 There was a quick step on the stairs, and the girl ran in. 
 
 "One more packet of cigarettes may I ? It's instead 
 of the dolce. Ruffo says only women eat sweet things." 
 
 "Ruffo!" 
 
 "Yes, that's his name. He's been diving for me. Yon 
 never saw anything like it ! And he's a Sicilian. Isn't it 
 odd? And sixteen just as I am. May I have the 
 cigarettes for him?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. In that drawer there's a whole box 
 of the ones Monsieur Emile likes." 
 
 "There would be ten cigarettes in a packet. I'll give 
 him ten." 
 
 She counted them swiftly out. 
 
 "There! And I'll make him catch them all, one by 
 one. It will be more fun than throwing only a packet. 
 Addio, mia bella Madre! Addi-io! Addi-io!" 
 
 And singing the words to the tune of "Addio, mia bella 
 Napoli," she flitted out of the room and down the stairs. 
 
 "Ruffo! Ruffo!" 
 
 A minute later she was leaning over the bridge to the 
 boy, who stood sentinel below. He looked up, and saw 
 her laughing face full of merry mischief, and prepared to 
 catch the packet she had promised him. 
 
 "Ruffo, I'm so sorry, but I can't find another packet of 
 cigarettes." 
 
 The boy's bright face changed, looked almost sad, but 
 he called up: 
 
 "Non fa niente, Signorina!" He stood still for a 
 moment, then made a gesture of salutation, and added; 
 "Thank you, Signorina. A rivederci!" 
 
 He moved to go to the boat, but Vere cried out, quickly: 
 
 "Wait, Ruffo! Can you catch well?" 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "Look out now!" 
 
 Her arm was thrust out over the bridge, and Ruffo, 
 
 M
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 staring up, saw a big cigarette a cigarette such as he 
 had never before seen in her small ringers. Quickly he 
 made a receptacle of his joined hands, his eyes sparkling 
 and his lips parted with happy anticipation. 
 
 "One!" 
 
 The cigarette fell and was caught. 
 
 "Two!" 
 
 A second fell. But this time Ruffo was unprepared, 
 and it dropped on the rock by his bare feet. 
 
 "Stupido!" laughed the girl. 
 
 "Ma, Signorina !" 
 
 "Three!" 
 
 It had become a game between them, and continued 
 to be a game until all the ten cigarettes had made their 
 journey through the air. 
 
 Vere would not let Ruffo know when a cigarette was 
 coming, but kept him on the alert, pretending, holding 
 it poised above him between finger and thumb until even 
 his eyes blinked from gazing upward; then dropping it 
 when she thought he was unprepared, or throwing it like 
 a missile. But she soon knew that she had found her 
 match in the boy. And when he caught the tenth and 
 last cigarette in his mouth she clapped her hands, and 
 cried out so enthusiastically that one of the men in the 
 boat heaved himself up from the bottom, and, choking 
 down a yawn, stared with heavy amazement at the 
 young virgin of the rocks, and uttered a "Che Diavolo!" 
 under his stiff mustache. 
 
 1 Vere saw his astonishment, and swiftly, with a parting 
 wave of her hand to Ruffo, she disappeared, leaving her 
 prote'ge' to run off gayly with his booty to his comrades of 
 the Sirena del Mare.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "I CAN see the boat, Vere," said Hermione, when the 
 girl came back, her eyes still gleaming with memories of 
 the fun of the cigarette game with Ruffo. 
 
 "Where, Madre?" 
 
 She sat down quickly beside her mother on the window- 
 seat, leaning against her confidentially and looking out 
 over the sea. Hermione put her arm round the girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "There! Don't you see?" She pointed. "It has 
 passed Casa Pantano." 
 
 "I see! yes, that is Gaspare, and Monsieur Emile in 
 the stern. They won't be late for lunch. I almost 
 wish they would, Madre." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I'm not a bit hungry. Ruffo wouldn't eat the dolce, 
 so I did." 
 
 "Ruffo! You seem to have made great friends with 
 that boy." 
 
 She did not speak rebukingly, but with a sort of tender 
 amusement. 
 
 "I really have," returned Vere. 
 
 She put her head against her mother's shoulder. 
 
 "Isn't this odd, Madre? Twice in the short time I've 
 known Ruffo, he's obeyed me. The first time he was in 
 the boat. I called out to him to dive in, and he did it 
 instantly. The second time he was under water, at the 
 very bottom of the sea. He looked as if he were dead, 
 and for a minute I felt frightened. So I called out to him 
 to come up, and he came up directly." 
 
 26
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But that only shows that he's a polite boy and does 
 what you wish." 
 
 "No.no. He didn't hear me either time. He had no 
 idea I had called. But each time I did, without hearing 
 me he had the sudden wish to do what I wanted. Now, 
 isn't that curious?" 
 
 She paused. 
 
 "Madre?" she added. 
 
 "You think you influenced him?" 
 
 "Don't you think I did?" 
 
 "Perhaps so. There's the sympathetic link of youth 
 between you. You are gloriously young, both of you, 
 little daughter. And youth turns naturally to youth, 
 though I'm afraid old age doesn't always turn naturally 
 to old age." 
 
 "What do you know about old age, Madre? You 
 haven't a gray hair." 
 
 She spoke with anxious encouragement. 
 
 "It's true. My hair declines to get gray." 
 
 "I don't believe you'll ever be gray." 
 
 "Probably not. But there's another grayness Life 
 behind one instead of before; the emotional " 
 
 She stopped herself. This was not for Vere. 
 
 "They're close in," she said, looking out of the window. 
 
 She waved her hand. The big man in the stern of the 
 boat took off his hat in reply, and waved his hand, too. 
 The rower pulled with the vivacity that comes to men 
 near the end of a task, and the boat shot into the Pool 
 of the Saint, where Ruffo was at that moment enjoying 
 his third cigarette. 
 
 "I'll run down and meet Monsieur Emile," said Vere. 
 
 And she disappeared as swiftly as she had come. 
 
 The big man who got out of the boat could not claim 
 
 Hermione's immunity from gray hairs. His beard was 
 
 lightly powdered with them, and though much of the 
 
 still thick hair on his head was brown, and his figure was 
 
 3 27
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 erect, and looked strong and athletic he seemed what 
 he was, a man of middle age, who had lived, and thought, 
 and observed much. His eyes had the peculiar expres- 
 sion of eyes that have seen very many and very various 
 sights. It was difficult to imagine them looking sur- 
 prised, impossible to imagine them not looking keenly in- 
 telligent. The vivacity of youth was no longer in them, 
 but the vividness of intellect, of an intellect almost fiercely 
 alive and tenacious of its life, was never absent from them. 
 
 As Artois got out, the boat's prow was being held by 
 the Sicilian, Gaspare, now a man of thirty-five, but still 
 young-looking. Many Sicilians grow old quickly hard 
 life wears them out. But Gaspare's fate had been easier 
 than that of most of his contemporaries and friends of 
 Marechiaro. Ever since the tragic death of the beloved 
 master, whom he still always spoke of as "mio Padrone," 
 he had been Hermione's faithful attendant and devoted 
 friend. Yes, she knew him to be that she wished him 
 to be that. Their stations in life might be different, 
 but they had come to sorrow together. They had suf- 
 fered together and been in sympathy while they suffered. 
 He had loved what she had loved, lost it when she had 
 lost it, wept for it when she had wept. 
 
 And he had been with her when she had waited for the 
 coming of the child. 
 
 Hermione really cared for three people: Gaspare was 
 one of them. He knew it. The other two were Vere 
 and Emile Artois. 
 
 "Vere," said Artois, taking her two hands closely in 
 his large hands, and gazing into her face with the kind, 
 even affectionate directness that she loved in him: "do 
 you know that to-day you are looking insolent?" 
 
 "Insolent!" said the girl. "How dare you!" 
 
 She tried to take her hands away. 
 
 "Insolently young," he said, keeping them authori 
 tatively. 
 
 28
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But I am young. What do you mean, Monsieur 
 Emile?" 
 
 " I ? It is your meaning I am searching for." 
 
 "I sha'n't let you find it. You are much too curious 
 about people. But I've been having a game this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "A game! Who was your playmate ?" 
 
 "Never mind." 
 
 But her bright eyes went for the fraction of a second 
 to Ruffo, who close by in the boat was lying at his ease, 
 his head thrown back, and one of the cigarettes between 
 his lips. 
 
 "What! That boy there ?" 
 
 "Nonsense! Come along! Madre has been sitting 
 at the window for ages looking out for the boat. Couldn't 
 you sail at all Gaspare?" 
 
 Artois had let go her hands, and now she turned to the 
 Sicilian. 
 
 "To Naples, Signorina, and nearly to the Antico 
 Giuseppone coming back." 
 
 ' ' But we had to do a lot of tacking, ' ' said Artois. ' ' Mon 
 Dieu! That boy is smoking one of my cigarettes! You 
 sacrilegious little creature! You have been robbing my 
 box!" 
 
 Gaspare's eyes followed Artois' to Ruffo, who was 
 watching them attentively, but who now looked sud- 
 denly sleepy. 
 
 "It belongs to Madre." 
 
 "It was bought for me." 
 
 "I like you better with a pipe. You are too big for 
 cigarettes. And besides, artists always smoke pipes." 
 
 "Allow me to forget that I try to be an artist when I 
 come to the island, Vere." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will," she said, with a pretty air of re- 
 lenting. "You poor thing, here you are a king incog- 
 nito, and we all treat you quite familiarly. I'll even 
 
 29
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 go first, regardless of etiquette." And she went off to 
 the steps that led upward to the house. 
 
 Artois followed her. As he went he said to Ruffo in 
 the Neapolitan dialect: 
 
 "It's a good cigarette, isn't it? You are in luck this 
 morning." 
 
 "Si, Signore," said the boy, smiling. "The Signorina 
 gave me ten." 
 
 And he blew out a happy cloud. 
 
 There was something in his welcoming readiness of 
 response, something in his look and voice, that seemed 
 to stir within the tenacious mind of Artois a quivering 
 chord of memory. 
 
 " I wonder if I have spoken to that boy in Naples ?" he 
 thought, as he mounted the steps behind Vere. 
 
 Hermione met him at the door of her room, and they 
 went in almost directly to lunch with Vere. When the 
 meal was over Vere disappeared, without saying why, 
 and Hermione and Artois returned to Hermione 's room 
 to have coffee. By this time the day was absolutely 
 windless, the sky had become nearly white, and the sea 
 was a pale gray, flecked here and there with patches of 
 white. 
 
 "This is like a June day of scirocco," said Artois, as 
 he lit his pipe with the air of a man thoroughly at home. 
 "I wonder if it will succeed in affecting Vere's spirits. 
 This morning, when I arrived, she looked wildly young. 
 But the day held still some blue then." 
 
 Hermione was settling herself slowly in a low chair near 
 the window that faced Capri. The curious, rather 
 ghastly light from the sea fell over her. 
 
 "Vere is very sensitive to almost all influences," she 
 said. "You know that, Emile." 
 
 "Yes," he said, throwing away the match he had been 
 using; "and the influence of this morning roused her to 
 joy. What was it?" 
 
 30 -
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "She was very excited watching a diver for frutti di 
 mare." 
 
 "A boy about seventeen or eighteen, black hair, 
 Arab eyes, bronze skin, a smile difficult to refuse, and a 
 figure almost as perfect as a Nubian's, but rather squarer 
 about the shoulders?" 
 
 "You have seen him, then?" 
 
 "Smoking ten of my special Khali Targa cigarettes, 
 with his bare toes cocked up, and one hand drooping into 
 the Saint's Pool." 
 
 Hermione smiled. 
 
 "My cigarettes! They're common property here," 
 she said. 
 
 "That boy can't be a pure-bred Neapolitan, surely. 
 And yet he speaks the language. There's no mistaking 
 the blow he gives to the last syllable of a sentence." 
 
 "He's a Sicilian, Vere says." 
 
 "Pure bred?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 ' ' I fancy I must have run across him somewhere in or 
 about Naples. It is he who made Vere, as I told her, 
 look so insolently young this morning." 
 
 "Ah, you noticed! I, too, thought I had never seen 
 her so full of the inner spirit of youth almost as he was 
 in Sicily." 
 
 "Yes," Artois said, gravely. "In some things she is 
 very much his daughter." 
 
 "In some things only?" asked Hermione. 
 
 "Don't you think so ? Don't you think she has much 
 of you in her also? I do." 
 
 "Has she? I don't know that I see it. I don't know 
 that I want to see it. I always look for him in Vere. 
 You see, I dreamed of having a boy. Vere is instead of 
 the boy I dreamed of, the boy who never came, who 
 will never come." 
 
 "My friend," said Artois, very seriously and gently, 
 
 3 1
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "are you still allowing your mind to dwell upon that old 
 imagination ? And with Vere before you, can you regard 
 her merely as a substitute, an understudy?" 
 
 An energy that was not free from passion suddenly 
 flamed up in Hermione. 
 
 "I love Vere," she said. "She is very close to me. 
 She knows it. She does not doubt me or my love." 
 
 "But," he quietly persisted, "you still allow your mind 
 to rove ungoverned among those dangerous ways of the 
 past?" 
 
 "Emile," she said, still speaking with vehemence, "it 
 may be very easy to a strong man like you to direct his 
 thoughts, to keep them out of one path and guide them 
 along another. It may be I don't know whether it is; 
 but I don't pretend to such strength. I don't believe 
 it is ever given to women. Perhaps even strength has 
 its sex I sometimes think so. I have my strength, be- 
 lieve me. But don't require of me the peculiar strength 
 that is male." 
 
 "The truth is that you love living in the past as the 
 Bedouin loves living in the desert." 
 
 "It was my oasis," she answered, simply. 
 
 "And all these years they have made no difference ?" 
 
 "Did you think they would? Did you think they 
 had?" 
 
 "I hoped so. I thought I had begun to think that 
 you lived again in Vere." 
 
 "Emile, you can always stand the truth, can't you? 
 Don't say you can't. That would hurt me horribly. 
 Perhaps you do not know how sometimes I mentally lean 
 on you. And I like to feel that if you knew the absolute 
 truth of me you would still look upon me with the same 
 kind, understanding eyes as now. Perhaps no one else 
 would. Would you, do you think?" 
 
 "I hope and believe I could," he said. "You do not 
 live in Vere. Is that it?" 
 
 32
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I Know it is considered the right, the perfectly nat- 
 ural thing that a mother, stricken as I have been, should 
 find in time perfect peace and contentment in her child. 
 Even you you spoke of 'living again.' It's the con- 
 secrated phrase, Emile, isn't it? I ought to be living 
 again in Vere. Well, I'm not doing that. With my 
 nature I could never do that. Is that horrible?" / 
 
 "Ma pauvre amie!" he said. 
 
 He bent down and touched her hand. 
 
 "I don't know," she said, more calmly, as if relieved, 
 but still with an undercurrent of passion, "whether I 
 could ever live again in the life of another. But if I did 
 it would be in the life of a man. I am not made to live 
 in a woman's life, really to live, giving out the force that 
 is in me. I know I'm a middle-aged woman to these 
 Italians here more than that, an old woman. But I'm 
 not a finished woman, and I never shall be till I die. 
 Vere is my child. I love her tenderly ; more than that 
 passionately. She has always been close to me, as you 
 know. But no, Emile, my relation to Vere, hers to me, 
 does not satisfy all my need of love, my power to love. 
 No, no, it doesn't. There's something in me that wants 
 more, much more than that. There's something in me 
 that I think only a son of his could have satisfied my 
 yearning. A son might have been Maurice come back 
 to me, come back in a different, beautiful, wonderfully 
 pure relation. I prayed for a son. I needed a son. 
 Don't misunderstand me, Emile; in a way a son could 
 never have been so close to me as Vere is, but I could 
 have lived in him as I can never live in Vere. I could 
 have lived in him almost as once I lived in Maurice. 
 And to-day I" 
 
 She got up suddenly from her chair, put her arms on 
 the window-frame, and leaned out to the strange, white 
 day. 
 
 "Emile," she said, in a moment, turning round to him, 
 
 33
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I want to get away, on to the sea. Will you row me 
 out, into the Grotto of Virgil?* It's so dreadfully white 
 here, white and ghastly. I can't talk naturally here. 
 And I should like to go on a little farther, now I've begun. 
 It would do me good to make a clean breast of it, dear 
 brother confessor. Shall we take the little boat and go ?" 
 
 "Of course," he said. 
 
 "I'll get a hat." 
 
 She was away for two or three minutes. During that 
 time Artois stood by the window that looked towards 
 Ischia. The stillness of the day was intense, and gave 
 to his mind a sensation of dream. Far off across the 
 gray-and-white waters, partially muffled in clouds that 
 almost resembled mist, the mountains of Ischia were 
 rather suggested, mysteriously indicated, than clearly 
 seen. The gray cliffs towards Bagnoli went down into 
 motionless water gray as they were, but of a different, 
 more pathetic shade. 
 
 There was a luminous whiteness in the sky that affected 
 the eyes, as snow does. 
 
 Artois, as he looked, thought this world looked very 
 old, a world arranged for the elderly to dwell in. Was it 
 not, therefore, an appropriate setting for him and for 
 Hermione? As this idea came into his mind it sent a 
 rather bitter smile to his lips, and Hermione, coming 
 in just then, saw the smile and said, 
 
 "What is it, Emile? Why are you smiling?" 
 
 "Perhaps I will tell you when we are on the sea," he 
 answered. 
 
 He looked at her. She had on a black hat, over which 
 a white veil was fastened. It was tied beneath her chin, 
 and hung down in a cloud over her breast. It made 
 him think of the strange misty clouds which brooded 
 about the breasts of the mountains of Ischia. 
 
 * The grotto described in this book is not really the Grotto of 
 Virgil, but it is often called so by the fishermen along the coast. 
 
 34
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Shall we go?" she said. 
 
 "Yes. What is Vere doing?" 
 
 "She is in her room." 
 
 "What is she doing there?" 
 
 "Reading, I suppose. She often shuts herself up. 
 She loves reading almost more than I do." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Hermione led the way down-stairs. When they were 
 outside, on the crest of the islet, the peculiar sickliness of 
 the weather struck them both more forcibly. 
 
 "This is the strangest scirocco effect I think I have 
 ever seen," said Artois. "It is as if nature were under 
 the influence of a drug, and had fallen into a morbid 
 dream, with eyes wide open, and pale, inert and folded 
 hands. I should like to see Naples to-day, and notice 
 if this weather has any effect upon that amazing popula- 
 tion. I wonder if my young friend, Marchese Isidoro 
 Panacci By-the-way, I haven't told you about him ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I must. But not now. We will continue our former 
 conversation. Where shall we find the boat, the small 
 one?" 
 
 ' ' Gaspare will bring it Gaspare ! Gaspare ! ' ' 
 
 "Signora!" cried a strong voice below. 
 
 "La piccola barca!" 
 
 "Va bene, Signora!" 
 
 They descended slowly. It would have been almost 
 impossible to do anything quickly on such a day. The 
 smallest movement, indeed, seemed almost an outrage, 
 likely to disturb the great white dreamer of the sea. When 
 they reached the foot of the cliff Gaspare was there, hold- 
 ing the little craft in which Vere had gone out with 
 Ruffo. 
 
 "Do you want me, Signora?" 
 
 "No, thank you, Gaspare. Don Emilio will row me. 
 We are only going a very little way." 
 
 35
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She stepped in. As Artois followed her he said to 
 Gaspare: 
 
 "Those fishermen have gone?" 
 
 "Five minutes ago, Signore. There they are!" 
 
 He pointed to a boat at some distance, moving slowly 
 in the direction of Posilipo. 
 
 "I have been talking with them. One says he is of 
 my country, a Sicilian." 
 
 "The boy?" 
 
 "Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak 
 Sicilian, and he has never been in Sicily, poveretto!" 
 
 Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there 
 was almost a hint of contempt. 
 
 "A rivederci, Signore," he added, pushing off the little 
 boat. 
 
 "A rivederci, Gaspare." 
 
 Artois took the oars and paddled very gently out, 
 keeping near to the cliffs of the opposite shore. 
 
 "Even San Francesco looks weary to-day," he said, 
 glancing across the pool at the Saint on his pedestal. 
 "I should not be surprised if, when we return, we find 
 that he has laid down his cross and is reclining like the 
 tired fishermen who come here in the night. Where 
 shall we go?" 
 
 "To the Grotto of Virgil." 
 
 "I wonder if Virgil was ever in his grotto? I wonder 
 if he ever came here on such a day of sirocco as this, and 
 felt that the world was very old, and he was even older 
 than the world?" 
 
 "Do you feel like that to-day?" 
 
 "I feel that this is a world suitable for the old, for 
 those who have white hairs to accord with the white 
 waters, and whose nights are the white nights of age." 
 
 "Was that why you were smiling so strangely just 
 now when I came in?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 36
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He rowed on softly. The boat slipped out of the Pool 
 of the Saint, and then they saw the Capo Coroglio and 
 the Island of Nisida with its fort. On their right, and 
 close to them, rose the weary-looking cliffs, honey- 
 combed with caverns, and seamed with fissures as an 
 old and haggard face is seamed with the wrinkles that 
 tell of many cares." 
 
 "Here is the grotto," said Hermione, almost directly. 
 "Row in gently." 
 
 He obeyed her and turned the boat, sending it in 
 under the mighty roof of rock. 
 
 A darkness fell upon them. They had a safe, en- 
 closed sensation in escaping for a moment from the 
 white day, almost as if they had escaped from a white 
 enemy. 
 
 Artois let the oars lie still in the water, keeping his 
 hands lightly upon them, and both Hermione and he 
 were silent for a few minutes, listening to the tiny sounds 
 made now and then by drops of moisture which fell from 
 the cavern roof softly into the almost silent sea. At last 
 Artois said: 
 
 "You are out of the whiteness now. This is a shad- 
 owed place like a confessional, where murmuring lips 
 tell to strangers the stories of their lives. I am not a 
 stranger, but tell me, my friend, about yourself and 
 Vere. Perhaps you scarcely know how deeply the 
 mother and child problem interests me that is, when 
 mother and child are two real forces, as you and Vere 
 are." 
 
 "Then you think Vere has force?" 
 
 "Do not you?" 
 
 "What kind of force?" 
 
 " You mean physical, intellectual, or moral ? Suppose 
 I say she has the force of charm!" 
 
 "Indeed she has that, as he had. That is one of the 
 attributes she derives from Maurice.'*
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Yes. He had a wonderful charm. And then, Vere 
 has passion." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "I am sure of it. Where does she get that from?" 
 
 "He was full of the passion of the South." 
 
 "I think Vere has a touch of Northern passion in her, 
 too, combined perhaps with the other. And that, I 
 think, she derives from you. Then I discern in Vere 
 intellectual force, immature, embryonic if you like, but 
 unmistakable." 
 
 "That does not come from me," Hermione said, sud- 
 denly, almost with bitterness. 
 
 "Why why will you be unnecessarily humiliated?" 
 Artois exclaimed. 
 
 His voice was confusedly echoed by the cavern, which 
 broke into faint, but deep mutterings. Hermione looked 
 up quickly to the mysterious vault which brooded above 
 them, and listened till the chaotic noises died away. 
 Then she said: 
 
 "Do you know what they remind me of?" 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "My efforts. Those efforts I made long ago to live 
 again in work." 
 
 "When you wrote?" 
 
 "Yes, when I tried to throw my mind and my heart 
 down upon paper. How strange it was! I had Vere 
 but she wasn't enough to still the ache. And I knew 
 what work can be, what a consolation, because I knew 
 you. And I stretched out my hands to it I stretched 
 out my soul. And it was no use; I wasn't made to be 
 a successful writer. When I spoke from my heart to 
 try and move men and save myself, my words were 
 seized, as yours were just now by the rock seized, and 
 broken, and flung back in confusion. They struck my 
 heart like stones. Emile, I'm one of those people who 
 can only do one thing: I can only feel." 
 
 38
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "It is true that you could never be an artist. Perhaps 
 you were made to be an inspiration." 
 
 "But that's not enough. The r61e of starter to those 
 who race I haven't the temperament to reconcile my- 
 self to that. It's not that I have in me a conceit which 
 demands to be fed. But I have in me a force that 
 clamors to exercise itself. Only when I was living on 
 Monte Amato with Maurice did I feel that that force 
 was being used as God meant it to be used." 
 
 "In loving?" 
 
 "In loving passionately something that was utterly- 
 worthy to be loved." 
 
 Artois was silent. He knew Hermione's mistake. 
 He knew what had never been told him: that Maurice 
 had been false to her for the love of the peasant girl 
 Maddalena. He knew that Maurice had been done to 
 death by the betrayed girl's father, Salvatore. And 
 Gaspare knew those things, too. But through all these 
 years these two men had so respected silence, the nobility 
 of it, the grand necessity of it in certain circumstances 
 of life, that they had never spoken to each other of the 
 black truth known to them both. Indeed, Artois be- 
 lieved that even now, after more than sixteen years, if 
 he ventured one word against the dead man Gaspare 
 would be ready to fly at his throat in defence of the 
 loved Padrone. For this divined and persistent loyalty 
 Artois had a sensat'on of absolute love. Between him 
 and Gaspare there must always be the barrier of a great 
 and mutual reserve. Yet that very reserve, because 
 there was something truly delicate, and truly noble in 
 it, was as a link of steel between them. They were 
 watchdogs of Hermione. They had been watchdogs 
 through all these years, guarding her from the knowledge 
 of a truth. And so well had they done her service that 
 now to-day she was able to say, with clasped hands and 
 the light of passion in her eyes: 
 
 39
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Something that was utterly worthy to be loved." 
 
 When Artois spoke again he said: 
 
 "And that force cannot be fully used in loving Vere?" 
 
 "No, Emile. Is that very horrible, very unnatural?" 
 
 "Why should it be?" 
 
 "I have tried I have tried for years, Emile, to make 
 Vere enough. I have even been false with myself. I 
 have said to myself that she was enough. I did that 
 after I knew that I could never produce work of any 
 value. When Vere was a baby I lived only for her. 
 Again, when she was beginning to grow up, I tried to 
 live, I did live only for her. And I remember I used to 
 say, I kept on saying to myself, 'This is enough for me. 
 I do not need any more than this. I have had my life. 
 I am now a middle-aged woman. I must live in my 
 child. This will be my satisfaction. This is my satis- 
 faction. This is using rightly and naturally all that 
 force I feel within me.' I kept on saying this. But 
 there is something within one which rises up and defies 
 a lie however beautiful the lie is, however noble it is. 
 And I think even a lie can sometimes be both. Don't 
 you, Emile?" 
 
 It almost seemed to him for a moment that she knew 
 his lie and Gaspare's. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I do think so." 
 
 "Well, that lie of mine it was defied. And it had no 
 more courage." 
 
 "I want you to tell me something," he said, quietly. 
 "I want you to tell me what has happened to-day?" 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 "Yes. Something has happened either to-day or very 
 recently I am sure of it that has stirred up within you 
 this feeling of acute dissatisfaction. It was always there. 
 But something has called it into the open. What has 
 done that?" 
 
 Hermione hesitated.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Perhaps you don't know," he said, 
 
 "I was wondering yes, I do know. I must be truth- 
 ful with myself with you. I do know. But it seems so 
 strange, so almost inexplicable, and even rather absurd." 
 
 "Truth often seems absurd." 
 
 "It was that boy, that diver for frutti di mare Ruffo." 
 
 "The boy with the Arab eyes?" 
 
 "Yes. Of course I have seen many boys full of life 
 and gayety and music. There are so many in Italy. 
 But well, I don't know perhaps it was partly Vere." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Vere was so interested in him. It may have been 
 that. Or perhaps it was something in his look and in 
 his voice when he was singing. I don't really know 
 what it was. But that boy made me feel more horri- 
 bly than I have ever felt before that Vere is not enough. 
 Emile, there is some hunger, so persistent, so peculiar, 
 so intense, that one feels as if it must be satisfied event- 
 ually, as if it were impossible for it not to be satisfied. 
 I think the human hunger for immortal life is like that, 
 and I think my hunger for a son is like that. I know 
 my hunger can never be satisfied. And yet it lives on 
 in me just as if it knew more than I know, as if it knew 
 that it could and must. After all these years I can't, 
 no, I can't reconcile myself to the fact that Maurice was 
 taken from me so utterly, that he died without stamping 
 himself upon a son. It seems as if it couldn't be. And 
 I feel to-day that I cannot bear that it is." v 
 
 There were tears standing in her eyes. She had spoken ' 
 with a force of feeling, with a depth of sincerity, that 
 startled Artois, intimately as he knew her. Till this 
 moment he had not quite realized the wonderful per- - 
 sistence of love in the hearts of certain women, and not 
 only the persistence of love's existence, but of its exist- 
 ence undiminished, unabated by time. 
 
 "How am I to bear it?" she said, as he did not speak. 
 
 41
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I cannot tell. I am not worthy to know. And be- 
 sides, I must say to you, Hermione, that one of the 
 greatest mysteries in human life, at any rate to me, is 
 this: how some human beings do bear the burdens laid 
 upon them. Christ bore His cross. But there has only- 
 been, since the beginning of things, one Christ, and it is 
 unthinkable that there can ever be another. But all 
 these who are not Christ, how is it they bear what they 
 do bear? It is easy to talk of bravery, the necessity for 
 it in life. It is always very easy to talk. The thing that 
 is impossible is to understand. How can you come to me 
 to help you, my friend? And suppose I were to try. 
 How could I try, except by saying that I think Vere is 
 very worthy to be loved with all your love?" 
 
 "You love Vere, don't you, Emile?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And I do. You don't doubt that ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "After all I have said, the way I have spoken, you 
 might." 
 
 "I do not doubt it for a moment." 
 
 "I wonder if there is any mother who would not, if I 
 spoke to her as I have spoken to you to-day?" 
 
 I think there is a great deal of untruth spoken of 
 mother's love, a great deal of misconception about it, 
 as there is about most very strange, and very wonderful 
 and beautiful things. But are you so sure that if your 
 husband had stamped himself upon a boy this force 
 within you could have been satisfied?" 
 
 "I have believed so." 
 
 She was silent. Then she added, quietly " I do believe 
 so." 
 
 He did not speak, but sat looking down at the sea, 
 which was full of dim color in the cave. 
 
 "I think you are doubting that it would have been 
 so?" she said, at last. 
 
 42
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Yes, that is true. I am doubting." 
 
 "I wonder why?" 
 
 "I cannot help feeling that there is passion in you, 
 such passion as could not be satisfied in any strict, 
 maternal relationship . ' ' 
 
 "But I am old, dear Emile," she said, very simply. 
 
 "When I was standing by that window, looking at the 
 mountains of Ischia, I was saying to myself, 'This is an 
 old, tired world, suitable for me and for you. We are 
 in our right environment to-day.' I was saying that, 
 Hermione, but was I believing it, really? I don't think 
 I was. And I am ten years older than you, and I have 
 been given a nature that was, I think, always older than 
 yours could ever be." 
 
 "I wonder if that is so." 
 
 She looked at him very directly, even searchingly, not 
 with eager curiosity, but with deep inquiry. 
 
 "You know, Emile," she added, "I tell you very 
 much, but you tell me very little. Not that I wish to 
 ask anything no. I respect all your reserve. And 
 about your work: you tell me all that. It is a great 
 thing in my life, your work. Perhaps you don't realize 
 how sometimes I live in the book that you are doing, 
 almost as if I were writing it myself. But your inner 
 life" 
 
 "But I have been frankness itself with you," said 
 Artois. "To no one have I ever said so much as to 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, I know, about many things. But about emo- 
 tion, love, not friendship, the other love do you get 
 on without that ? When you say your nature has always 
 been older than mine, do you mean that it has always 
 been harder to move by love, that it has had less need 
 of love?" 
 
 "I think so. For many years in my life I think that 
 work has filled the place love occupies in many, perhaps 
 4 43
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 in most men's lives. Everything comes second to work. 
 I know that, because if any one attempts to interfere 
 with my work, or to usurp any of the time that should 
 be given to it, any regard I may have for that person 
 turns at once to irritation, almost to hatred." 
 
 ' ' I have never done that ?' ' 
 
 "You no. Of course, I have been like other men. 
 When I was young well, Hermione, after all I am a 
 Frenchman, and though I am of Normandy, still I 
 passed many years in Paris, as you know." 
 
 "All that I understand. But the real thing? Such 
 as I have known?" 
 
 "I have never broken my heart for any one, though 
 I have known agitations. But even those were long 
 ago. And since I was thirty-five I have never felt really 
 dominated by any one. Before that time I occasionally 
 passed under the yoke, I believe, like other men. Why 
 do you fix your eyes on me like that ?" 
 
 "I was wondering if you could ever pass under the 
 yoke again.'' 
 
 "Honestly, I do not think so. I am not sure. When 
 can one be certain that one will never be, or do, this or 
 that? Surely," he smiled, "you are not afraid for 
 me?" 
 
 "I do not say that. But I think you have forces in 
 you not fully exercised even by your work." 
 
 "Possibly. But there the years do really step in and 
 count for something, even for much. There is no doubt 
 that as the years increase, the man who cares at all for 
 intellectual pleasures is able to care for them more, is 
 able to substitute them, without keen regret, without 
 wailing and gnashing of teeth, for certain other pleasures, 
 to which, perhaps, formerly he clung. That is why the 
 man who is mentally and bodily you know what I 
 mean?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 44
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Has such an immense advantage in years of decline 
 over the man who is merely a bodily man." 
 
 "I am sure that is true. But " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 ' ' The heart ? What about that ?" 
 
 "Perhaps there are some hearts that can fulfil them- 
 selves sufficiently in friendship." 
 
 As Artois said this his eyes rested upon Hermione with 
 an expression in them that revealed much that he never 
 spoke in words. She put out her hand, and took his, 
 and pressed it, holding hers over it upon the oar. 
 
 "Emile," she said, "sometimes you make me feel un- 
 worthy and ungrateful because because I still need, I 
 dare to need more than I have been given. Without 
 you I don't know how I should have faced it." 
 
 "Without me you would never have had to face it." 
 
 That was the cry that rose up perpetually in the heart 
 of Artois, the cry that Hermione must never hear. He 
 said to her now: 
 
 "Without you, Hermione, I should be dust in the dust 
 of Africa!" 
 
 "Perhaps we each owe something to the other," she 
 said. "It is blessed to have a debt to a friend." 
 
 "Would to God that I could pay all my debt to you!" 
 Artois exclaimed. 
 
 Again the cavern took up his voice and threw it back 
 to the sea in confused and hollow mutterings. They 
 both looked up, as if some one were above them, warn- 
 ing them or rebuking them. At that instant they had 
 the feeling that they were being watched. But there 
 was only the empty gray sea about them, and over their 
 heads the rugged, weary rock that had leaned over the 
 sea for countless years. 
 
 "Hark! ' said Artois, "it is telling me that my debt 
 to you can never be paid: only in one way could it be 
 partially discharged. If I could show you a path t 
 
 45
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 happiness, the happiness you long for, and need, the 
 passionate happiness of the heart that is giving where 
 it rejoices to give for your happiness must always lie in 
 generosity I should have partially paid my debt to you. 
 But that is impossible." 
 
 "I've made you sad to-day by my complaining," she 
 said, with self-rebuke ; "I'm sorry. You didn't realize ?" 
 
 " How it was with you ? No, not quite I thought you 
 were more at peace than you are." 
 
 "Till to-day I believe I was half deceived too." 
 
 "That singing boy, that what is his name?" 
 
 "Ruffo." 
 
 "That Ruffo, I should like to run a knife into him 
 under the left shoulder-blade. How dare he, a raga- 
 muffin from some hovel of Naples, make you know that 
 you are unhappy?" 
 
 "How strange it is what outside things, or people who 
 have no connection with us or with our lives, can do to 
 us unconsciously!" she said. "I have heard a hundred 
 boys sing on the Bay, seen a hundred rowing their boats 
 into the Pool and just this one touches some chord, 
 and all the strings of my soul quiver." 
 
 "Some people act upon us somewhat as nature does 
 sometimes. And Vere paid the boy. There is another 
 irony of unconsciousness. Vere, bone of your bone, 
 flesh of your flesh, rewards your pain-giver. How we 
 hide ourselves from those we love best and live with 
 most intimately! You, her mother, are a stranger to 
 Vere. Does not to-day prove it ?" 
 
 "Ah, but Vere is not a stranger to me. That is where 
 the mother has the advantage of the child." 
 
 Artois did not make any response to this remark. To 
 cover his silence, perhaps, he grasped the oars more 
 firmly and began to back the boat out of the cave. 
 Both felt that it was no longer necessary to stay in this 
 confessional of the rock. 
 
 46
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 As they came out under the gray ness of the sky, Her- 
 mione, with a change of tone, said: 
 
 "And your friend? The Marchese what is his 
 name?" 
 
 "Isidore Panacci." 
 
 "Tell me about him." 
 
 "He is a very perfect type of a complete Neapolitan 
 of his class. He has scarcely travelled at all, except in 
 Italy. Once he has been in Paris, where I met him, and 
 once to Lucerne for a fortnight. Both his father and 
 mother are Neapolitans. He is a charming fellow, 
 utterly unintellectual, but quite clever; shrewd, sharp 
 at reading character, marvellously able to take care of 
 himself, and hold his own with anybody. A cat to fall 
 on his feet! He is apparently born without any sense 
 of fear, and with a profound belief in destiny. He can 
 drive four-in-hand, swim for any number of hours with- 
 out tiring, ride well, as an Italian cavalry officer can 
 ride, and that is not badly. His accomplishments? He 
 can speak French abominably, and pick out all im- 
 aginable tunes on the piano, putting instinctively quite 
 tolerable basses. I don't think he ever reads anything, 
 except the Giorno and the Matti-no. He doesn't care for 
 politics, and likes cards, but apparently not too much. 
 They're no craze with him. He knows Naples inside 
 out, and is as frank as a child that has never been pun- 
 ished." 
 
 "I should think he must be decidedly attractive?" 
 
 "Oh, he is. One great attraction he has he appears 
 to have no sense at all that difference of age can be, a 
 barrier between two men. He is twenty-four, and I am 
 what I am. He is quite unaware that there is any gulf 
 between us. In every way he treats me as if I were 
 twenty-four." 
 
 "Is that refreshing or embarrassing?" 
 
 "I find it generally refreshing. His family accepts 
 
 47
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the situation with perfect naivete*. I am welcomed as 
 Doro's chum with all the good- will in the world." 
 
 Hermione could not help laughing, and Artois echoed 
 her laugh. 
 
 "Merely talking about him has made you look years 
 younger," she declared. "The influence of the day has 
 lifted from you." 
 
 "It would not have fallen upon Isidore, I think. 
 And yet he is full of sentiment. He is a curious instance 
 of a very common Neapolitan obsession." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "He is entirely obsessed by woman. His life centres 
 round woman. You observe I use the singular. I do 
 that because it is so much more plural than the plural 
 in this case. His life is passed in love-affairs, in a sort 
 of chaos of amours." 
 
 "How strange that is!" 
 
 "You think so, my friend?" 
 
 "Yes. I never can understand how human beings 
 can pass from love to love, as many of them do. I never 
 could understand it, even before I even before Sicily." 
 
 "You are not made to understand such a thing." 
 
 "But you do?" 
 
 "I? Well, perhaps. But the loves of men are not as 
 your love." 
 
 "Yet his was," she answered. "And he was a true 
 Southerner, despite his father." 
 
 "Yes, he was a true Southerner," Artois replied. 
 
 For once he was off his guard with her, and uttered 
 his real thought of Maurice, not without a touch of the 
 irony that was characteristic of him. 
 
 Immediately he had spoken he was aware of his indis- 
 cretion. But Hermione had not noticed it. He saw by 
 her eyes that she was far away in Sicily. And when the 
 boat slipped into the Saint's Pool, and Gaspare came to 
 the water's edge to hold the prow while they got out, she 
 
 48
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 rose from her seat slowly, and almost reluctantly, like 
 one disturbed in a dream that she would fain continue. 
 
 "Have you seen the Signorina, Gaspare?" she asked 
 him. "Has she been out?" 
 
 "No, Signora She is still in the house." 
 
 "Still reading!" said Artois. "Vere must be quite a 
 book- worm!" 
 
 "Will you stay to dinner, Emile?" 
 
 "Alas, I have promised the Marchesino Isidoro to dine 
 with him. Give me a cup of tea a la Russe, and one of 
 Ruffo's cigarettes, and then I must bid you adieu. I'll 
 take the boat to the Antico Giuseppone, and then get 
 another there as far as the gardens." 
 
 "One of Ruffo's cigarettes!" Hermione echoed, as they 
 went up the steps. "That boy seems to have made him- 
 self one of the family already." 
 
 "Yet I wish, as I said in the cave, that I had put a 
 knife into him under the left shoulder-blade before this 
 morning." 
 
 They spoke lightly. It seemed as if each desired for 
 the moment to get away from their mood in the confes- 
 sional of Virgil's Grotto, and from the sadness of the 
 white and silent day. 
 
 As to Ruffo, about whom they jested, he was in sight 
 of Naples, and not far from Mergellina, still rowing with 
 tireless young arms, and singing to "Bella Napoli," wfth 
 a strong resolve in his heart to return to the Saint's Pool 
 on the first opportunity and dive for more cigarettes.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AT the Antico Giuseppone, Artois left the boat from 
 the islet and, taking another, was rowed towards the 
 public gardens of Naples, whose trees were faintly visible 
 far off across the Bay. Usually he talked familiarly to 
 any Neapolitan with whom he found himself, but to-day 
 he was taciturn, and sat in the stern of the broad-bot- 
 tomed craft looking towards the city in silence while the 
 boatman plied his oars. The memory of his conversa- 
 tion with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil, of her man- 
 ner, the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice there, 
 gave him food for thought that was deep and serious. 
 
 Although Artois had an authoritative, and often an 
 ironical manner that frightened timid people, he was a 
 man capable of much emotion and of great loyalty. He 
 did not easily trust or easily love, but in those whose 
 worth he had thoroughly proved he had a confidence as 
 complete as that of a child. And where he placed his 
 complete confidence he placed also his affection. The 
 one went with the other almost as inevitably as the 
 wave goes with the wind. 
 
 In their discussion about the emotion of the heart 
 Artois had spoken the truth to Hermione. As he had 
 grown older he had felt the influence of women less. 
 The pleasures of sentiment had been gradually super- 
 seded in his nature or so at least he honestly believed 
 by the purely intellectual pleasures. More and more 
 completely and contentedly had he lived in his work, 
 and in the life of preparation for it. This life could 
 
 5
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 never be narrow, for Artois was a traveller, and studied 
 many lands. 
 
 In the years that had elapsed since the tragedy in 
 Sicily, when the husband of Hermione had met his death 
 suddenly in the sea, almost in sight of the home of the 
 girl he had betrayed, the fame of Artois had grown 
 steadily. And he was jealous of his fame almost as a 
 good woman is jealous of her honor. This jealousy had 
 led him to a certain selfishness of which he was quite 
 aware even to a certain hardness such as he had hinted 
 to Hermione. Those who strove, or seemed likely to 
 strive to interrupt him in his work, he pushed out of his 
 life. Even if they were charming women he got rid of 
 them. And the fact that he did so proved to him, and 
 not improbably to them, that he was more wrapped up 
 in the gratification of the mind than in the gratification 
 of the heart, or of the body. It was not that the charm 
 of charming women had ceased to please him, but it 
 seemed to have ceased really to fascinate him. 
 
 Long ago, before Hermione married, he had felt for 
 her a warm and intimate friendship. He had even been 
 jealous of Maurice. Without being at all in love, he had 
 cared enough for Hermione to be jealous. Before her 
 marriage he had looked forward in imagination down a 
 vista of long years, and had seen her with a husband, 
 then with children, always more definitely separated 
 from himself. 
 
 And he had seen himself exceptionally alone, even 
 almost miserably alone. 
 
 Then fate had spun tragedy into her web. He had 
 nearly died in Africa, and had been nursed back to life 
 by this friend of whom he had been jealous. And they 
 had gone together to Sicily, to the husband whose mem- 
 ory Hermione still adored. And then had followed 
 swiftly the murder, the murderer's departure to America, 
 saved by the silence of Gaspare, and the journey of the
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 bereaved woman to Italy, where Artois had left her and 
 returned to France. 
 
 Once more Artois had his friend, released from the 
 love of another man. But he wished it were not so. 
 Hermione's generosity met with a full response of gen- 
 erosity from him. All his egotism and selfishness 
 dropped from him then, shaken down like dead leaves 
 by the tempest of a genuine emotion. His knowledge 
 of her grief, his understanding of its depth, brought to 
 him a sorrow that was keen, and even exquisitely pain- 
 ful. For a long while he was preoccupied by an intense 
 desire to assuage it. He strove to do so by acting almost 
 in defiance of his nature, by fostering deception. From 
 the Abetone Hermoine had written him letters, human 
 documents the tale of the suffering of a woman's heart. 
 Many reserves she had from him and from every one. 
 The most intimate agony was for her alone, and she kept 
 it in her soul as the priest keeps the Sacred Host in its 
 tabernacle. But some of her grief she showed in her 
 letters, and some of her desire for comfort. And with- 
 out any definite intention, she indicated to her subtle 
 and devoted friend the only way in which he could 
 console her. 
 
 For once, driven by his emotion, he took that way. 
 
 He allowed Hermione to believe that he agreed with 
 her in the conception she had formed of her husband's 
 character and of her husband's love for her. It was 
 difficult for him to do this, for he had an almost cruel 
 passion for truth, and generally a clear insight into hu- 
 man character. Far less than many others would have 
 condemned did he, in his mind, condemn the man who 
 was dead for the sin against love that he had committed. 
 He had understood Maurice as Hermione had not under- 
 stood him, and knowledge is full of pardon. But though 
 he could pardon easily he could not easily pretend. By 
 pretending he sinned against himself, and helped his 
 
 52
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 friend some steps along the way to peace. He thought 
 he had helped her to go much farther along that way 
 than she had gone. And he thought that Vere had 
 helped her, too. 
 
 Now the hollow mutterings of the rock in Virgil's 
 Grotto seemed to be in his heart, as he realized how 
 permanent was the storm in Hermione's nature. Some- 
 thing for her he had done. And something much more, 
 no doubt Vere had done. But how little it all was! 
 
 Their helplessness gave to him a new understanding of 
 woman. 
 
 Hermione had allowed him great privileges, had 
 allowed him to protect her, had taken his advice. After 
 Vere was born she had wished to go back again to Sicily. 
 The house of the priest, where she had been so happy, 
 and so sad, drew her. She longed for it. She desired 
 to make it her home. He had fought against her in this 
 matter, and had been aided by Gaspare. 
 
 There had been a subtle understanding, never ex- 
 pressed, between the boy and him. 
 
 Artois had played upon her intellect, had appealed, 
 too, to her mother's heart. 
 
 He had not urged her to try to forget, but he had 
 urged her not morbidly to remember, not to cherish and 
 to foster the memory of the tragedy which had broken 
 her life. To go back to that tiny home, solitary in its 
 beautiful situation, in the changed circumstances which 
 were hers, would be, he told her, to court and to summon 
 sorrow. He was even cruel to be kind. When Her- 
 mione combated his view, assuring him that to her Monte 
 Amato was like a sacred place, a place hallowed by 
 memories of happiness, he recalled the despair in which 
 that happiness had ended. With all the force at his 
 command, and it was great, he drew the picture of the 
 life that would be in comparison with the life that had 
 been. And he told her finally that what she wished to 
 
 S3
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 do was morbid, was unworthy of her strength of char- 
 acter, was even wicked now that she was a mother. He 
 brought before her mind those widows who make a cult 
 of their dead. Would she be one of them ? Would she 
 steep a little child in such an atmosphere of memories, 
 casting a young and tender mind backward into a cruel 
 past instead of leading it forward into a joyous present ? 
 Maurice had been the very soul of happiness. Vere must 
 be linked with the sunbeams. With his utmost subtlety 
 Artois described and traced the effect upon a tiny and 
 sensitive child of a mother's influence, whether for good 
 or evil, until Hermione, who had a deep reverence for 
 his knowledge of all phases of human nature, at last, 
 almost in despite of the truth within her, of the interior 
 voice which said to her, "With you and Vere it would not 
 be so," caught alarm from his apparent alarm, drew dis- 
 trust of herself from his apparent distrust of her. 
 
 Gaspare, too, played his part. When Hermione spoke 
 to him of returning to the priest's house, almost wildly, 
 and with the hot energy that bursts so readily up in 
 Sicilians, he begged her not to go back to the maledetta 
 casa in which his Padrone's dead body had lain. As he 
 spoke a genuine fear of the cottage came upon him. All 
 the latent superstition that dwells in the contadino was 
 stirred as dust by a wind. In clouds it flew up about 
 his mind. Fear looked out of his great eyes. Dread 
 was eloquent in his gestures. And he, too, referred to 
 the child, to the povera piccola bambina. It would cast 
 ill-luck on the child to bring her up in a chamber of 
 death. Her saint would forsake her. She too would 
 die. The boy worked himself up into a fever. His face 
 was white. Drops of sweat stood on his forehead. 
 
 He had set out to be deceptive what he would have 
 called un poco birbante, and he had even deceived him- 
 self. He knew that it would be dangerous for his 
 Padrona to live again near Marechiaro. Any day a 
 
 54
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 chance scrap of gossip might reach her ears. In time 
 she would be certain almost to hear something of the 
 dead Padrone's close acquaintance with the dwellers in 
 the Casa delle Sirene. She would question him, perhaps. 
 She would suspect something. She would inquire. She 
 would search. She would find out the hideous truth. 
 It was this fear which made him argue on the same side 
 as Artois. But in doing so he caught another fear from 
 his own words. He became really natural, really truth- 
 ful in his fear. And she scarcely knew why Hermione 
 was even more governed by him than by Artois. He had 
 lived with them in the Casa del Prete, been an intimate 
 part of their life there. And he was Sicilian of the soil. 
 The boy had a real power to move, to dominate her, 
 which he did not then suspect. 
 
 Again and again he repeated those words, "La povera 
 bambina la povera piccola bambina." And at last Her- 
 mione was overcome. 
 
 "I won't go to Sicily," she said to Artois. "For if I 
 went there I could only go to Monte Amato. I won't go 
 until Vere is old enough to wish to go, to wish to see the 
 house where her father and I were happy." 
 
 And she had never gone back. For Artois had not 
 been satisfied with this early victory. 
 
 In returning from a tour in North Africa the following 
 spring, when Vere was nearly two years old, he had paid 
 a visit to Marechiaro, and, while there, had seen the 
 contadino from whom Hermione had rented, and still 
 rented, the house of the priest. The man was middle- 
 aged, ignorant but shrewd, and very greedy. Artois 
 made friends with him, and casually, over a glass of 
 moscato, talked about his affairs and the land question 
 in Sicily. The peasant became communicative and, of 
 course, loud in his complaining. His land yielded noth- 
 ing. The price of almonds had gone down. The lemon 
 crop had been ruined by the storms. As to the vines 
 
 55
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 they were all devoured by the phylloxera, and he had no 
 money to buy and plant vines from America. Artois 
 hinted that he received a good rent from the English 
 lady for the cottage on Monte Amato. The contadino 
 acknowledged that he received a fair price for the cot- 
 tage and the land about it; but the house, he declared, 
 would go to rack and ruin with no one ever in it, and 
 the land was lying idle, for the English lady would have 
 everything left exactly as it had been when she lived 
 there with her husband. Artois seized upon this hint 
 of what was in the peasant's mind, and bemoaned with 
 him his situation. The house ought to be occupied, the 
 land all about it, up to the very door, and behind upon 
 the sunny mountain-side, planted with American vines. 
 If it belonged to him that was what he would do plant 
 American vines, and when the years of yielding came, 
 give a good percentage on all the wine made and sold to 
 the man who had tended the vineyard. 
 
 The peasant's love of money awoke. He only let the 
 cottage to Hermione year by year, and had no contract 
 with her extending beyond a twelve-months' lease. Be- 
 fore Artois left Marechiaro the tender treachery was 
 arranged. When the year's lease was up, the contadino 
 wrote to her declining to renew it. She answered, pro- 
 testing, offering more money. But it was all in vain. 
 The man replied that he had already let the cottage and 
 the land around it to a grower of vines for a long term 
 of years, and that he was getting double the annual price 
 she offered. 
 
 Hermione was indignant and bitterly distressed. 
 When this letter reached her she was at Fiesole with 
 Vere in a villa which she had taken. She would proba- 
 bly have started at once for Sicily; but Vere was just 
 then ill with some infantile complaint, and could not be 
 left. Artois, who was in Rome, and had received from 
 her the news of this careiully arranged disaster, offered
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to go to Sicily on her behalf and actually went. He 
 returned to tell her that the house of the priest was 
 already occupied by contadini, and all the land up to 
 the very door in process of being dug up and planted 
 with vines. It was useless to make any further offer. 
 The thing was done. 
 
 Hermione said nothing, but Artois saw in her eyes 
 how keenly she was suffering, and turned his own eyes 
 away. He was only trying to preserve her from greater 
 unhappiness, the agony of ever rinding out the truth; 
 but he felt guilty at that moment, and as if he had been 
 cruel to the woman who roused all his tenderness, all his 
 protective instinct. 
 
 "I shall not go back to Marechiaro now," Hermione 
 said. "I shall not go back even to see the grave. I 
 could never feel that anything of his spirit lingered there. 
 But I did feel, I should have felt again, as if something 
 of him still loved that little house on the mountain, still 
 stayed among the oak-trees. It seemed to me that when 
 I took Vere to the Casa del Prete she would have learned 
 to know something of her father there that she could 
 never have learned to know in another place. But 
 now no, I shall not go back. If I did I should 
 even lose my memories, perhaps, and I could not bear 
 that." 
 
 And she had not returned. Gaspare went to Mare- 
 chiaro sometimes, to see his family and his friends. He 
 visited the grave and saw that it was properly kept. 
 But Hermione remained in Italy. For some time she 
 lived near Florence, first at Fiesole, later at Bellosguardo. 
 When the summer heat came she took a villa at the 
 Abetone. Or she spent some months with Vere beside 
 the sea. As the girl grew older she developed a passion 
 for the sea, and seemed to care little for the fascination 
 of the pine forests. Hermione, noting this, gave up 
 going to the Abetone and took a house by the sea for the 
 
 57
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 whole summer. Two years they were at Santa Mar- 
 gherita, one year at Sorrento. 
 
 Then, sailing one evening on the sea towards Bagnoli, 
 they saw the house on the islet beyond the Pool of San 
 Francesco. Vere was enchanted by it. 
 
 "To live in it," she exclaimed, "would be almost like 
 living in the sea!" 
 
 Hermione, too, was fascinated by its situation, the 
 loneliness, the wildness, yet the radiant cheerfulness of it. 
 She made inquiries, found that it was owned by a Nea- 
 politan who scarcely ever went there, and eventually 
 succeeded in getting it on a long lease. For two years 
 now she and Vere had spent the summer there. 
 
 Artois had noticed that since Hermione had been in the 
 Casa del Mare an old desire had begun to revive in her. 
 She spoke more frequently of Sicily. Often she stood 
 on the rock and looked across the sea, and he knew that 
 she was thinking of those beloved coasts of the Ionian 
 waters, of the blossoming almond-trees among the olives 
 and the rocks, of the scarlet geraniums glowing among 
 the thorny cactus, of the giant watercourses lead- 
 ing up into the mountains. A hunger was awake in 
 her, now that she had a home so near the enchanted 
 island. 
 
 He realized it. But he was no longer much afraid. 
 So many years had passed that even if Hermione re- 
 visited Marechiaro he believed there would be little or 
 no danger now of her ever learning the truth. It had 
 never been known in the village, and if it had been 
 supsected, all the suspicions must have long ago died 
 down. He had been successful in his protection. He 
 was thankful for that. It was the one thing he had been 
 able to do for the friend who had done so much for 
 him. 
 
 The tragedy had occurred because of him. Because 
 of him all knowledge of it had been kept from Hermione, 
 
 58
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and would now be kept from her forever because oi 
 him and Gaspare. 
 
 This he had been able to do. But how powerless he 
 was, and how powerless was Vere! 
 
 Now he looked vaguely at the villas of Posilipo, and 
 he realized this thoroughly. 
 
 Something for her he had done, and something Vere 
 had done. But how little it all was! 
 
 To-day a new light had been thrown upon Hermione, 
 and he realized what she was as he had never realized 
 it before. No, she was right. She could never live fully 
 in a girl child she was not made to do that. Why had 
 he ever thought, hoped that perhaps it might be so, that 
 perhaps Vere might some day completely and happily 
 fill her life ? Long ago he had encouraged her to work, 
 to write. Misled by her keen intelligence, her enthusi- 
 asm, her sincerity and vitality, by the passion that was 
 in her, the great heart, the power of feeling, the power 
 of criticising and inspiring another which she had freely 
 shown to him, Artois had believed as he had once said 
 to her in London that she might be an artist, but that 
 she preferred to be simply a woman. But he found it 
 was not so. Hermione had not the peculiar gift of the 
 writer. She could feel, but she could not arrange. She 
 could discern, but she could not expose. A flood of 
 words came to her, but not the inevitable word. She 
 could not take that exquisite leap from the known into 
 the unknown which genius can take with the certainty 
 of alighting on firm ground. In short, she was not 
 formed and endowed to be an artist. About such mat- 
 ters Artois knew only how to be sincere. He was sincere 
 with his friend, and she thanked him for being so. 
 
 One possible life was taken from Hermione, the life of 
 the artist who lives in the life of the work. 
 
 There remained the life in Vere. 
 
 To-day Artois knew from Hermior ' own lips that 
 * 59
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 she could not live completely in her child, and he felt 
 that he had been blind as men are often blind about 
 women, are blind because they are secretly selfish. The 
 man lives for himself, but he thinks it natural, even dis- 
 tinctively womanly, that women should live for others 
 for him, for some other man, for their children. What 
 man finds his life in his child? But the woman she 
 surely ought to, and without difficulty. Hermione had 
 been sincere to-day, and Artois knew his blindness, and 
 knew his secret selfishness. 
 
 The gray was lifting a little over Naples, the distant 
 shadowy form of Vesuvius was becoming clearer, more 
 firm in outline. But the boatman rowed slowly, in- 
 fluenced by the scirocco. 
 
 How, then, was Hermione to live? How was she to 
 find happiness or peace? It was a problem which he 
 debated with an ardor that had in it something of pas- 
 sion. And he began to wonder how it would have been 
 if he had acted differently, if he had allowed her to find 
 out what he suspected to be the exact truth of the dead 
 man. Long ago he had saved her from suffering. But 
 by doing so had he not dedicated her, not to a greater, 
 but to a longer suffering ? He might have defiled a beau- 
 tiful memory. He must have done so had he acted 
 differently. But if he had defiled it, might not Hermione 
 have been the subject of a great revulsion ? Horror can 
 kill, but it can also cure. It can surely root out love. 
 But from such a heart as Hermione 's? 
 
 Despite all his understanding of women, Artois felt 
 at a loss to-day. H . could not make up his mind what 
 would have been the effect upon Hermione if she had 
 learned that her hutband had betrayed her. 
 
 Presently he left that subject and came to Vere. 
 
 When he did this he was conscious at once of a change 
 within him. His tenderness and pity for Hermione were 
 replaced by anothei tenderness and pity. And these 
 
 60
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 were wholly for Vere. Hermione was suffering because 
 of Maurice. But Vere was surely suffering, subcon- 
 sciously, because of Hermione. 
 
 There were two links in the chain of suffering, that 
 between Maurice and Hermione, and that between Her- 
 mione and Vere. 
 
 For a moment he felt as if Vere were bereaved, were 
 motherless. The sensation passed directly he realized 
 the exaggeration in his mind. But he still felt as if the 
 girl were deprived of something which she ought to 
 possess, which, till now, he had thought she did possess. 
 It seemed to him that Vere stood quite outside of her 
 mother's life, instead of in it, in its centre, its core; and 
 he pitied the child, almost as he pitied other children 
 from time to time, children to whom their parents were 
 indifferent. And yet Hermione loved Vere, and Vere 
 could not know what he had only known completely to- 
 day that the mother often felt lonely with the child. 
 
 Vere did not know that, but surely some day she 
 would find it out. 
 
 Artois knew her character well, knew that she was 
 very sensitive, very passionate, quick to feel and quick 
 to understand. He discovered in her qualities inherited 
 both from her father and her mother, attributes both 
 English and Sicilian. In appearance she resembled her 
 father. She had "thrown back" to the Sicilian ancestor, 
 as he had. She had the Southern eyes, the Southern 
 grace, the Southern vivacity and warmth that had made 
 him so attractive. But Artois divined a certain stub- 
 bornness in Vere that had been lacking in the dead man, 
 a stubbornness that took its rise not in stupidity but in 
 a secret consciousness of force. 
 
 Vere, Artois thought, might be violent, but would 
 not be fickle. She had a loyalty in her that "vras Sicilian 
 in its fervor, a sense of gratitude such as the contadini 
 have, although by many it is denied to them; a quick 
 
 61
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and lively temper, but a disposition that responded to 
 joy, to brightness, to gayety, to sunlight, with a swift- 
 ness, almost a fierceness, that was entirely un-English. 
 
 Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, 
 could never have his gift of thoughtlessness. For she 
 had intellect, derived from Hermione, and an odd truth- 
 fulness that was certainly not Sicilian. Often there were 
 what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her sincerity. 
 The strains in her, united, made, he thought, a fascinat- 
 ing blend. But as yet she was undeveloped an inter- 
 esting, a charming child, but only a child. In many 
 ways she was young for her age. Highly intelligent, she 
 was anything rather than "knowing." Her innocence 
 was like clear water in a spring. The graciousness of 
 youth was hers to the full. 
 
 As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new 
 thing, of the wonderful beauty of such innocent youth. 
 
 It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet 
 that link in the chain did exist. Vere had not something 
 that surely she ought to have, and, without consciously 
 missing it, she must sometimes subtly, perhaps vaguely, 
 be aware that there was a lack in her life. Her mother 
 gave her great love But she was not to her mother 
 what a son would have been. And the love that is 
 mingled with regret has surely something shadowy in it. 
 
 Maurice Delarey had been as the embodiment of joy. 
 It was strange that from the fount of joy sorrow was 
 thrown up. But so it was. From him sorrow had 
 come. From him sorrow might still come, even for 
 Vere. 
 
 In the white and silent day Artois again felt the stir- 
 ring of intuition, as he had felt it long ago. But now he 
 roused himself, and resolutely, almost angrily, detached 
 his mind from its excursions towards the future. 
 
 "Do you often think of to-morrow?" he suddenly said 
 to the boatman, breaking from his silence. 
 
 62
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signore?" 
 
 "Do you often wonder what is going to happen to- 
 morrow, what you will do, whether you will be happy 
 or sad?" 
 
 The man threw up his head. 
 
 "No, Signore. Whatever comes is destiny. If I have 
 food to-day it is enough for me. Why should I bother 
 about to-morrow's maccheroni?" 
 
 Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the 
 platform of stone that projected beneath the wall of the 
 Marina. 
 
 As he stepped out he gave the boatman a generous 
 buonamano. 
 
 "You are quite right, comrade," he said. "It is the 
 greatest mistake in the world to bother about to-mor- 
 row's maccheroni."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THREE days after Artois' conversation with Hermione 
 in the Grotto of Virgil the Marchesino Isidore Panacci 
 came smiling into his friend's apartments in the Hotel 
 Royal des Etrangers. , He was smartly dressed in the 
 palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink 
 socks, brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected 
 by many young Neopolitans, and a round straw hat, 
 with a small brim, that was set slightly on the side of 
 his curly head. In his mouth was a cigarette, and in 
 his buttonhole a pink carnation. He took Artois' hand 
 with his left hand, squeezed it affectionately, mur- 
 mured "Caro Emilio," and sat down in an easy atti- 
 tude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on a table 
 near by. 
 
 It was quite evident that he had come for no special 
 reason. He had just dropped in, as he did whenever he 
 felt inclined, to gossip with "Caro Emilio," and it never 
 occurred to him that possibly he might be interrupting 
 an important piece of work. The Marechesino could not 
 realize work. He knew his friend published books. He 
 even saw him sometimes actually engaged in writing 
 them, pen in hand. But he was sure anybody would far 
 rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him play a valse 
 on the piano, or a bit of the "Boheine," than bend over 
 a table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed 
 him. He liked him. But it was not only that which 
 made him complaisant. Doro was a type, and a singu- 
 larly perfect one. 
 
 64
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an 
 arm-chair opposite to the sofa. 
 
 "Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish 
 just pulled out of the sea!" 
 
 The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also 
 shone in his round and boyish eyes. 
 
 "I have just come out of the sea. Papa and I have 
 been bathing at the Eldorado. We swam round the 
 Castello until we were opposite your windows, and sang 
 'Funiculi, funicula!' in the water, to serenade you. 
 Why didn't you hear us? Papa has a splendid voice, 
 almost like Tamagno's in the gramophone, when he 
 sings the 'Addio' from 'Otello.' Of course we kept 
 a little out at sea. Papa is so easily recognized by 
 his red mustaches. But still you might have heard 
 us." 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Then why didn't you come unto the balcony, amico 
 mio?" 
 
 "Because I thought you were street singers." 
 
 "Davvero? Papa would be angry. And he is in a 
 bad temper to-day anyhow." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I believe Gilda Mai is going to bring a causa 
 against Viviano. Of course he won't marry her, and 
 she never expected he could. Why, she used to be a 
 milliner in the Toledo. I remember it perfectly, and 
 now Sigismondo But it's really Gilda that has made 
 papa angry. You see, he has paid twice for me, once 
 four thousand lire, and the other time three thousand 
 five hundred. And then he has lost a lot at Lotto lately. 
 He has no luck. And then he, too, was in a row yester- 
 day evening." 
 
 "The Marchese?" 
 
 "Yes, in the Chiaia. He slapped Signora Merani's 
 face twice before every one." 
 
 65
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Diavolo! What! a lady?" 
 
 "Well, if you like to call her so," returned Doro, 
 negligently. "Her husband is an impiegato of the Post- 
 office, or something of the kind." 
 
 "But why should the Marchese slap her face in the 
 Chiaia?" 
 
 "Because she provoked him. They took a flat in the 
 house my father owns in the Strada Chiatamone. After 
 a time they got behind with the rent. He let them stay 
 on for six months without paying, and then he turned 
 them out. What should he do?" Doro began to ges- 
 ticulate. He held his right hand up on a level with his 
 face, with the fingers all drawn together and pressed 
 against the thumb, and moved it violently backwards 
 and forwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his 
 nose, then throwing it out towards Artois. " What else, 
 I say? Was he to give his beautiful rooms to them 
 for nothing? And she with a face like have you, I 
 ask you, Emilio, have you seen her teeth?" 
 
 " I have never seen the Signora in my life!" 
 
 "You have never seen her teeth? Dio mio!" He 
 opened his two hands, and, lifting his arms, shook them 
 loosely above his head, shutting his eyes for an instant 
 as if to ward off some dreadful vision. "They are like 
 the keys of a piano from Bordicelli's! Basta!" He 
 dropped his hands and opened his eyes. "Yesterday 
 papa was walking in the Chiaia. He met Signori Merani, 
 and she began to abuse him. She had a red parasol. 
 She shook it at him! She called him vigliacco papa, 
 a Panacci, dei Duchi di Vedrano! The parasol it was 
 a bright red, it infuriated papa. He told the Signora to 
 stop. She knows his temper. Every one in Naples 
 knows our tempers, every one! I, Viviano, even Sigis- 
 mondo, we are all the same, we are all exactly like papa. 
 If we are insulted we cannot control ourselves. You 
 know it, Emilio!" 
 
 66
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 i 
 
 "I am perfectly certain of it," said Artois. "I am 
 positive you none of you can." 
 
 "It does not matter whether it is a man or a woman. 
 We must do something with our hands. We have got 
 to. Papa told the Signora he should strike her at once 
 unless she put down the red parasol and was silent. 
 What did she do, the imbecile? She stuck out her face 
 like this," he thrust his face forward with the right 
 cheek turned towards Artois "and said, 'Strike me! 
 strike me!' Papa obeyed her. Poom! poom! He gave 
 her a smack on each cheek before every one. 'You want 
 education!' he said to her. 'And I shall give it you.' 
 And now she may bring a processo too. But did you 
 really think we were street singers?" He threw himself 
 back, took the cigarette from his mouth, and laughed. 
 Then he caught hold of his blond mustache with both 
 hands, gave it an upward twist, at the same time pouting 
 his big lips, and added: 
 
 "We shall bring a causa against you for that!" 
 
 "No, Doro, you and I must never quarrel. By the 
 way, though, I want to see you angry. Every one talks 
 of the Panacci temper, but when I am with you I always- 
 see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he is 
 as lively as a boy. Viviano " 
 
 "Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him 
 imitate a monkey from whom another monkey has 
 snatched a nut?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It is like this" 
 
 With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole 
 face into the likeness of an angry ape, hunching his 
 shoulders and uttering fierce simian cries. 
 
 "No, I can't do it." 
 
 With equal suddenness and self-possession he became 
 his smiling self again. 
 
 "Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the 
 
 67
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 monk looking the other way when he passes along the 
 Marina where the women are bathing in the summer! 
 He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you 
 come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of 
 laughing, and you know how religious she is. But then, 
 of course, men that does not matter. Religion is for 
 women, and they understand that quite well." 
 
 The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. 
 One virtue he had in the fullest abundance. He was 
 perfectly sincere with those whom he considered his 
 friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy 
 never occurred to him. 
 
 "Mamma would hate it if we were saints," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension 
 on that score," said Artois. 
 
 "No, I don't think so," returned the Marchesino, quite 
 seriously. 
 
 He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve 
 him. Occasionally it was fitful, and when summoned 
 by irony remained at a distance. 
 
 "It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry," 
 he continued, reverting to the remark of Artois; "you 
 ought to. Till you have seen a Panacci angry you do 
 not really know him. With you, of course, I could never 
 be angry never, never. You are my friend, my com- 
 rade. To you I tell everything." 
 
 A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. 
 Evidently a new thought had started into his active 
 mind, for his face suddenly changed, and became serious, 
 even sentimental. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Artois. 
 
 "To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl 
 Madonna! Emilio, she had a little nose that was per- 
 fect perfect. How she was simpatica! What a beau- 
 tiful girl!" 
 
 68
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 His whole face assumed a melting expression, and he 
 pursed his lips in the form of a kiss. 
 
 "She was in the sea, too?" asked Artois. 
 
 "No. If she had been! But I was with papa. It 
 was just after we had been serenading you. She had 
 heard us, I am sure, for she was laughing. I dived under 
 the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks for her.' 
 I did the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. 
 She never took her eyes from me. As to papa she 
 never glanced at him. Poor papa! He was angry. 
 She had her mother with her, I think a Signora, tall, 
 flat, ugly, but she was simpatica, too. She had nice 
 eyes, and when I did the seal she could not help laugh- 
 ing, though I think she was rather sad." 
 
 "What sort of boat were they in?" Artois asked, with 
 sudden interest. 
 
 "A white boat with a green line." 
 
 "And they were coming from the direction of Posi- 
 lipo?" 
 
 "Ma si! Emilio, do you know them? Do you know 
 the perfect little nose?" 
 
 The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of 
 his friend. 
 
 "I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother 
 she is flat as a Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice 
 eyes, sympathetic, intelligent. And the girl is a little 
 brown from the sun with eyes full of fun and fire, 
 dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet there is some- 
 thing English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not 
 cold. And when she laughs! Her teeth are not like 
 the keys of a piano from Bordicelli's. And she is full 
 of passion, of flame, of sentiment, as I am. And she is 
 young, perhaps sixteen. Do you know her? Present 
 me, Emilio! I have presented you to all my friends." 
 
 "Mio caro, you have made me your debtor for life." 
 
 "It isn't true!" 
 
 69
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Indeed it is time. But I do not know who these 
 ladies are. They may be Italians. They may be 
 tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have left Naples. 
 Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I 
 tell who they are?" 
 
 The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor van- 
 ished. His gesticulating hands fell to his sides. His 
 expressive face grew melancholy. 
 
 "Of course. How can you tell? Directly I was out 
 of the sea and dressed, I went to Santa Lucia. I ex- 
 amined every boat, but the white boat with the green 
 line was not there, Basta!" 
 
 He lit a fresh cigarette and was silent for a moment. 
 Then he said: 
 
 "Emilio caro, will you come out with me to-night?" 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 "In the boat. There will be a moon. We will dine 
 at the Antico Giuseppone." 
 
 "So far off as that?" Artois said, rather abruptly. 
 
 "Why not? To-day I hate the town. I want tran- 
 quillity. At the Antico Giuseppone there will be scarcely 
 any one. It is early in the season. And afterwards we 
 will fish for sarde, or saraglie. Take me away from 
 Naples, Emilio; take me away! For to-night, if I stay 
 well, I feel that I shall not be santo." 
 
 Artois burst into his big roaring laugh. 
 
 "And why do you want to be santo to-night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "The beautiful girl! I wish to keep her memory, if 
 only for one night." 
 
 "Very well, then. We will fish, and you shall be a 
 saint." 
 
 "Caro Emilio! Perhaps Viviano will come, too. But 
 I think he will be with Lidia. She is singing to-night 
 at the Teatro Nuovo. Be ready at half-past seven. I 
 will call for you. And now I shall leave you." 
 
 70
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He got up, went over to a mirror, carefully arranged 
 his tie, and put on his straw hat at exactly the most 
 impudent angle. 
 
 "I shall leave you to write your book while I meet 
 papa at the villa. Do you know why papa is so careful 
 to be always at the villa at four o'clock just now?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Nor does mamma! If she did! Povera mamma! 
 But she can always go to Mass. A rivederci, Emilio." 
 
 He moved his hat a little more to one side and went 
 out, swinging his walking-stick gently to and fro in a 
 manner that was pensive and almost sentimental.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE Marchesino Panacci was generally very sincere 
 with his friends, and the boyish expression in his eyes 
 was not altogether deceptive, for despite his wide knowl- 
 edge of certain aspects of life, not wholly admirable, 
 there was really something of the simplicity of a child 
 of a child that could be very naughty in his disposition. 
 But if he could be naive he could also be mischievous 
 and even subtle, and he was very swift in grasping a 
 situation, very sharp in reading character, very cunning 
 in the pursuit of his pleasure, very adroit in deception, 
 if he thought that publicity of pursuit would be likely 
 to lead to the frustration of his purpose. 
 
 He had seen at once that Artois either knew, or sus- 
 pected, who were the occupants of the white boat with 
 the green line; and he had also seen that, influenced 
 perhaps by one of those second thoughts which lead 
 men into caution, Artois desired to conceal his knowl- 
 edge, or suspicion. Instantly the Marchesino had, there- 
 fore, dropped the subject, and as instantly he had 
 devised a little plan to clear the matter up. 
 
 The Marchesino knew that when Artois had arrived 
 in Naples he had had no friends in the town or neighbor- 
 hood. But he also knew that recently an Englishwoman, 
 an old friend of the novelist, had come upon the scene, 
 that she was living somewhere not far off, and that 
 Artois had been to visit her once or twice by sea. Artois 
 had spoken of her very casually, and the Marchesino's 
 interest in her had not been awakened. He was not an 
 
 72
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 inquisitive man by nature, and was always very busy 
 with his own pursuit of pleasure. But he remembered 
 now that once he had seen his friend being rowed in the 
 direction of Posilipo, and that in the evening of the 
 same day Artois had mentioned having been to visit his 
 English friend. This fact had suggested to the Marche- 
 sino that if his suspicion were correct, and the ladies in 
 the white boat with the green line were this English 
 friend and a daughter, they probably lived in some villa 
 as easily reached by sea as by land. Such villas are more 
 numerous towards the point of the Capo di Posilipo than 
 nearer Naples, as the high road, after the Mergellina, 
 mounts the hill and diverges farther and farther from 
 the sea. The Antico Giuseppone is a small waterside 
 ristorante at the point of the Capo di Posilipo, a little 
 below the Villa Rosebery. 
 
 The Marchesino's suggestion of a dinner there that 
 evening had been prompted by the desire to draw his 
 friend into the neighborhood which he suspected to be 
 the neighborhood of his charmer of the sea. Once there 
 he might either find some pretext for making her ac- 
 quaintance through Artois if Artois did know her or, 
 if that were impossible, he might at least find out where 
 she lived. By the manner of Artois when the Antico 
 Giuseppone was mentioned, he knew at once that he was 
 playing his cards well. The occupants of the white boat 
 were known to the novelist. They did live somewhere 
 near the Antico Giuseppone. And certainly Artois had 
 no desire to bring about his the Marchesino's ac- 
 quaintance with them. 
 
 That this was so, neither surprised nor seriously vexed 
 the Marchesino. He knew a good deal of his friend's 
 character, knew that Artois, despite his geniality and 
 friendliness, was often reserved even with him. Dur- 
 ing their short intimacy he had certainly told Artois a 
 great deal more about his affairs with women than had 
 
 73
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 been told to him in return. This fact was borne in upon 
 him now. But he did not feel angry. A careless good- 
 nature was an essential part of his character. He did 
 not feel angry at his friend's secrecy, but he did feel 
 mischievous. His lively desire to know the girl with 
 "the perfect little nose " was backed up now by another 
 desire to teach "Caro Emilio" that it was better to 
 meet complete frankness with complete frankness. 
 
 He had strolled out of his friend's room pensively, 
 acting the melancholy youth who had lost all hope of 
 succeeding in his desire ; but directly the door was shut 
 his manner changed. Disregarding the lift, he ran 
 lightly down the stairs, made his way swiftly by the 
 revolving door into the street, crossed it, and walked 
 towards the harbor of Santa Lucia, where quantities of 
 pleasure-boats lie waiting for hire, and the boatmen are 
 gathered in knots smoking and gossiping, or are strolling 
 singly up and down near the water's edge, keeping a 
 sharp look-out for possible customers. 
 
 As the Marchesino turned on to the bridge that leads 
 towards Castel dell' Ovo one of these boatmen met him 
 and saluted him. 
 
 "Good-day, Giuseppe," said the Marchesino, address- 
 ing him familiarly with a broad Neapolitan accent. 
 
 "Good-day, Signorino Marchesino," replied the man. 
 "Do you want a boat ? I will take you for " 
 
 The Marchesino drew out his cigarette case. 
 
 "I don't want a boat. But perhaps you can tell me 
 something." 
 
 "What is it, Signorino Marchesino?" said the man, 
 looking eagerly at the cigarette case which was now open, 
 and which displayed two tempting rows of fat Egyptian 
 cigarettes reposing side by side. 
 
 "Do you know a boat white with a green line 
 which sometimes comes into the harbor from the di- 
 rection of Posilipo ? It was here this afternoon, or it 
 
 74
 
 passed here. I don't know whether it went on to the 
 Arsenal." 
 
 "White with a green line?" said the man. "That 
 might be who was there in it, Signorino Marchesino?" 
 
 "Two ladies, one old and one very young. The young 
 lady" 
 
 "Those must be the ladies from the island," inter- 
 rupted the man. "The English ladies who come in the 
 summer to the Casa del Mare as they call it, on the 
 island close to the Grotto of Virgilio by San Francesco's 
 Pool. They were here this afternoon, but they're gone 
 back. Their boat is white with a green line, Signorino 
 Marchesino." 
 
 "Grazie, Giuseppe," said the Marchesino, with an 
 immovable countenance. "Do you smoke cigarettes?" 
 
 "Signorino Marchesino, I do when I have any soldi to 
 buy them with." 
 
 "Take these." 
 
 The Marchesino emptied one side of his cigarette case 
 into the boatman's hand, called a hired carriage, and 
 drove off towards the Villa the horse going at a frantic 
 trot, while the coachman, holding a rein in each hand, 
 ejaculated, "A ah!" every ten seconds, in a voice that 
 was fiercely hortatory. 
 
 Artois, from his window, saw the carriage rattle past, 
 and saw his friend leaning back in it, with alert eyes, to 
 scan every woman passing by. He stood on the balcony 
 for a moment till the noise of the wheels on the stone 
 pavement died away. When he returned to his writing- 
 table the mood for work was gone. He sat down in his 
 chair. He took up his pen. But he found himself think- 
 ing of two people, the extraordinary difference between 
 whom was the cause of his now linking them together in 
 his mind. He found himself thinking of the Marchesino 
 and of Vere. 
 
 Not for a moment did he doubt the identity of the 
 6 75
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 two women in the white boat. They were Hermione 
 and Vere. The Marchesino had read him rightly, but 
 Artois was not aware of it. His friend had deceived 
 him, as almost any sharp-witted Neapolitan can deceive 
 even a clever forestiere. Certainly he did not particu- 
 larly wish to introduce his friend to Vere. Yet now he 
 was thinking of the two in connection, and not without 
 amusement. What would they be like together ? How 
 would Vere's divine innocence receive the amiable seduc- 
 tions of the Marchesino ? Artois, in fancy, could see his 
 friend Doro for once completely disarmed by a child. 
 Vere's innocence did not spring from folly, but was 
 backed up by excellent brains. It was that fact which 
 made it so beautiful. The innocence and the brains to- 
 gether might well read Doro a pretty little lesson. And 
 Vere after the lesson would she be changed? Would 
 she lose by giving, even if the gift were a lesson ? 
 
 Artois had certainly felt that his instinct told him not 
 to do what Doro wanted. He had been moved, he sup- 
 posed now, by a protective sentiment. Vere was de- 
 licious as she was. And Doro he was delightful as he 
 was. The girl was enchanting in her ignorance. The 
 youth to Artois the Marchesino seemed almost a boy, 
 indeed, often quite a boy was admirable in his pre- 
 cocity. He embodied Naples, its gay furberia, and yet 
 that was hardly the word perhaps rather one should 
 say its sunny naughtiness, its reckless devotion to life 
 purged of thought. And Vere what did she embody? 
 Not Sicily, though she was in some ways so Sicilian. 
 Not England; certainly not that! 
 
 Suddenly Artois was conscious that he knew Doro 
 much better than he knew Vere. He remembered the 
 statement of an Austrian psychologist, that men are far 
 more mysterious than women, and shook his head over 
 it now. He felt strongly the mystery that lay hidden 
 deep down in the innocence of Vere, in the innocence of 
 
 76
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 every girl-child of Vere's age who had brains, tempera- 
 ment and perfect purity. What a marvellous combina- 
 tion they made! He imagined the clear flame of them 
 burning in the night of the world of men. Vere must 
 be happy. 
 
 When he said this to himself he knew that, perhaps 
 for the first time, he was despairing of something that 
 he ardently desired. He was transferring a wish, that 
 was something like a prayer in the heart of one who had 
 seldom prayed. He was giving up hope for Hermione 
 and fastening hope on Vere. For a moment that seemed 
 like treachery, like an abandoning of Hermione. Since 
 their interview on the sea Artois had felt that, for Her- 
 mione, all possibility of real happiness was over. She 
 could not detach her love. It had been fastened irre- 
 vocably on Maurice. It was now fastened irrevocably 
 on Maurice's memory. Long ago, had she, while he was 
 alive, found out what he had done, her passion for him 
 might have died, and in the course of years she might 
 have been able to love again. But now it was surely 
 too late. She had lived with her memory too long. It 
 was her blessing to remember, to recall, how love had 
 blessed her life for a time. And if that memory were 
 desecrated now she would be as one wrecked in the storm 
 of life. Yet with that memory how she suffered! 
 
 What could he do for her ? His chivalry must exercise 
 itself. He must remain in the lists, if only to fight for 
 Hermione in Vere. And the Marchesino ? Artois seem- 
 ed to divine that he might be an enemy in certain cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 A warmth of sentiment, not very common in Artois, 
 generated within him by such thoughts as these, thoughts 
 that detained him from work, still glowed in his heart 
 when evening fell and the Marchesino came gayly in to 
 take him out upon the sea. 
 
 "There's a little wind, Emilio," he said, as they got 
 
 77
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 into the boat in the harbor of Santa Lucia; "we can sail 
 to the Antico Giuseppone. And after dinner we'll fish 
 for sarde. Isn't it warm ? One could sleep out on such 
 a night." 
 
 They had two men with them. When they got be- 
 yond the breakwater the sail was set, the Marchesino 
 took the helm, and the boat slipped through the smooth 
 sea, rounded the rocks on which the old fort stands to 
 stare at Capri, radiant now as a magic isle in the curiously 
 ethereal light of evening, and headed for the distant 
 point of land which hid Ischia from their eyes. The 
 freedom of the Bay of Naples was granted them the 
 freedom of the sea. As they ran out into the open 
 water, and Artois saw the round gray eyes of the Marche- 
 sino dancing to the merry music of a complete bodily 
 pleasure, he felt like a man escaping. He looked back 
 at the city almost as at a sad life over, and despite his 
 deep and persistent interest in men he understood the 
 joy of the hermit who casts them from him and escapes 
 into the wilds. The radiance of the Bay, one of the 
 most radiant of all the inlets of the sea, bold and glaring 
 in the brilliant daytime, becomes exquisitely delicate 
 towards night. Vesuvius, its fiery watcher, looks like 
 a kindly guardian, until perhaps the darkness shows the 
 flame upon its flanks, the flame bursting forth from the 
 mouth it opens to the sky; and the coast-line by Sor- 
 rento, the lifted crest of Capri, even the hill of Posilipo, 
 appear romantic and enticing, calling lands holding 
 wonderful pleasures for men, joys in their rocks and 
 trees, joys in their dim recesses, joys and soft realities 
 fulfilling every dream upon their coasts washed by the 
 whispering waves. 
 
 The eyes of the Marchesino were dancing with physical 
 pleasure. Artois wondered how much he felt the beauty 
 of the evening, and how. His friend evidently saw the 
 question in his eyes, for he said: 
 
 78
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "The man who knows not Naples knows not pleasure.*' 
 
 "Is that a Neapolitan saying?" asked Artois. 
 
 "Yes, and it is true. There is no town like Naples for 
 pleasure. Even your Paris, Emilio, with all its theatres, 
 its cocottes, its restaurants no, it is not Naples. No 
 wonder the forestieri come here. In Naples they are 
 free. They can do what they will. They know we shall 
 not mind. We are never shocked." 
 
 "And do you think we are easily shocked in Paris?" 
 
 "No, but it is not the same. You have not Vesuvius 
 there. You have not the sea, you have not the sun." 
 
 Artois began laughingly to protest against the last 
 statement, but the Marchesino would not have it. 
 
 "No, no, it shines I know that, but it is not the 
 sun we have here." 
 
 He spoke to the seamen in the Neapolitan dialect. 
 They were brown, muscular fellows. In their eyes were 
 the extraordinary boldness and directness of the sea. 
 Neither of them looked gay. Many of the Neapolitans 
 who are much upon the sea have serious, even grave 
 faces. These were intensely, almost overpoweringly 
 male. They seemed to partake of the essence of the 
 elements of nature, as if blood of the sea ran in their 
 veins, as if they were hot with the grim and inner fires 
 of the sun. When they spoke their faces showed a cer- 
 tain changefulness that denoted intelligence, but never 
 lost the look of force, of an almost tense masculinity 
 ready to battle, perpetually alive to hold its own. 
 
 The Marchesino was also very masculine, but in a 
 different way and more consciously than they were. 
 He was not cultured, but such civilization as he had 
 endowed him with a power to catch the moods of others 
 not possessed by these men, in whom persistence was 
 more visible than adroitness, unless indeed any question 
 of money was to the fore. 
 
 "We shall get to the Giuseppone by eight, Emilio," 
 
 79
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the Marchesino said, dropping his conversation with the 
 men, which had been about the best hour and place for 
 their fishing . ' ' Are you hungry ? ' ' 
 
 " I shall be," said Artois. "This wind brings an appe- 
 tite with it. How well you steer!" 
 
 The Marchesino nodded carelessly. 
 
 As the boat drew ever nearer to the point, running 
 swiftly before the light breeze, its occupants were silent. 
 Artois was watching the evening, with the eyes of a lover 
 of nature, but also with the eyes of one who takes notes. 
 The Marchesino seemed to be intent on his occupation 
 of pilot. As to the two sailors, they sat in the accus- 
 tomed calm and staring silence of seafaring men, with 
 wide eyes looking out over the element that ministered 
 to their wants. They saw it differently, perhaps, from 
 Artois, to whom it gave now an intense aesthetic pleasure, 
 differently from the Marchesino, to whom it was just a 
 path to possible excitement, possible gratification of a 
 new and dancing desire. They connected it with strange 
 superstitions, with gifts, with deprivations, with death. 
 Familiar and mysterious it was purely to them as to all 
 seamen, like a woman possessed whose soul is far away. 
 
 Just as the clocks of Posilipo were striking eight the 
 Marchesino steered the boat into the quay of the Antico 
 Guiseppone. 
 
 Although it was early in the season a few deal tables 
 were set out by the waterside, and a swarthy waiter, 
 with huge mustaches and a napkin over his arm, came 
 delicately over the stones to ask their wishes. 
 
 "Will you let me order dinner, Emilio?" said the 
 Marchesino: "I know what they do best here." 
 
 Artois agreed, and while the waiter shuffled to carry 
 out the Marchesino's directions the two friends strolled 
 near the edge of the sea. 
 
 The breeze had been kindly. Having served them 
 well it was now dying down to its repose, leaving the 
 
 80
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 evening that was near to night profoundly calm. As 
 Artois walked along the quay he felt the approach of 
 calm like the approach of a potentate, serene in the vast 
 consciousness of power. Peace was invading the sea, 
 irresistible peace. The night was at hand. Already 
 Naples uncoiled its chain of lamps along the Bay. In 
 the gardens of Posilipo the lights of the houses gleamed. 
 Opposite, but very far off across the sea, shone the tiny 
 flames of the houses of Portici, of Torre del Greco, of 
 Torre Annunziata, of Castellamare. Against the gath- 
 ering darkness Vesuvius belched slowly soft clouds of 
 rose-colored vapor, which went up like a menace into 
 the dim vault of the sky. The sea was without waves. 
 The boats by the wharf, where the road ascends past the 
 villa Rosebery to the village of Posilipo, scarcely moved. 
 Near them, in a group, lounging against the wall and 
 talking rapidly, stood the two sailors from Naples with 
 the boatmen of the Guiseppone. Oil lamps glimmered 
 upon two or three of the deal tables, round one of which 
 was gathered a party consisting of seven large women, 
 three children, and two very thin middle-aged men with 
 bright eyes, all of whom were eating oysters. Farther 
 on, from a small arbor that gave access to a fisherman's 
 house, which seemed to be constructed partially in a 
 cave of the rock, and which was gained by a steep and 
 crumbling stairway of stone, a mother called shrilly to 
 some half -naked little boys who were fishing with tiny 
 hand-nets in the sea. By the table which was destined 
 to the Marchesino and Artois three ambulant musicians 
 were hovering, holding in their broad and dirty hands 
 two shabby mandolins and a guitar. In the distance a 
 cook with a white cap on his head and bare arms was 
 visible, as he moved to and fro in the lighted kitchen of 
 the old ristorante, preparing a "zuppa di pesce" for the 
 gentlemen from Naples. 
 
 "Che bella notte!" said the Marchesino, suddenly.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 His voice sounded sentimental. He twisted his mus- 
 taches and added: 
 
 "Emilio, we ought to have brought two beautiful 
 women with us to-night. What are the moon and the 
 sea to men without beautiful women?" 
 
 "And the fishing?" said Artois. 
 
 "To the devil with the fishing," replied the young 
 man. "Ecco! our dinner is ready, with thanks to the 
 Madonna!" 
 
 They sat down, one on each side of the small table, 
 with a smoking lamp between them. 
 
 "I have ordered vino bianco," said the Marchesino, 
 who still looked sentimental. "Cameriere, take away 
 the lamp. Put it on the next table. Va bene. We are 
 going to have 'zuppa di pesce,' gamberi and veal cut- 
 lets. The wine is Capri. Now then," he added, with 
 sudden violence and the coarsest imaginable Neapoli- 
 tan accent, "if you fellows play 'Santa Lucia,' 'Napoli 
 Bella,' or 'Sole mio' you'll have my knife in you. I 
 am not an Inglese. I am a Neapolitan. Remember 
 that!" 
 
 He proved it with a string of gutter words and oaths, 
 at which the musicians smiled with pleasure. Then, 
 turning again to Artois, he continued: 
 
 " If one doesn't tell them they think one is an imbecile. 
 Emilio caro, do you not love to see the moon with a 
 beautiful girl?" 
 
 His curious assumption that Artois and he were con- 
 temporaries because they were friends, and his appar- 
 ently absolute blindness to the fact that a man of sixty 
 and a man of twenty-four are hardly likely to regard the 
 other sex with an exactly similar enthusiasm, always 
 secretly entertained the novelist, who made it his business 
 with this friend to be accommodating, and who seldom, if 
 ever, showed himself authoritative, or revealed any part 
 of his real inner self. 
 
 82
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Ma si!" he replied; "the night and the moon are 
 made for love." 
 
 "Everything is made for love," returned the Marche- 
 sino. "Take plenty of soaked bread, Emilio. They 
 know how to make this zuppa here. Everything is 
 made for love. Look! There is a boat coming with 
 women in it!" 
 
 At a short distance from the shore a rowing boat was 
 visible; and from it now came shrill sounds of very 
 common voices, followed by shouts of male laughter. 
 
 "Perhaps they are beautiful," said the Marchesino, 
 at once on the alert. 
 
 The boat drew in to the quay, and from it there 
 sprang, with much noise and many gesticulations, two 
 over-dressed women probably, indeed almost certainly, 
 canzonettiste and two large young men, whose brown 
 fingers and whose chests gleamed with false diamonds. 
 As they passed the table where the two friends were 
 sitting, the Marchesino raked the women with his bold 
 gray eyes. One of them was large and artificially blonde, 
 with a spreading bust, immense hips, a small waist, and 
 a quantity of pale dyed hair, on which was perched a 
 bright blue hat. The other was fiercely dark, with 
 masses of coarse black hair, big, blatant eyes that 
 looked quite black in the dim lamplight, and a figure 
 that suggested a self-conscious snake. Both were young. 
 They returned the Marchesino's stare with vigorous 
 impudence as they swung by. 
 
 ' ' What sympathetic creatures ! " he murmured. ' ' They 
 are two angels. I believe I have seen one of them at 
 the Margherita. What was her name Maria Leoni, I 
 fancy." 
 
 He looked enviously at the young men. The arrival 
 of the lobster distracted his attention for the moment; 
 but it was obvious that the appearance of these women 
 had increased the feeling of sentimentality already gen- 
 
 83
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 erated in him by the softness and stillness of the 
 night. 
 
 The three musicians, rendered greedy rather than 
 inspired by the presence of more clients, now began to 
 pluck a lively street tune from their instruments; and 
 the waiter, whose mustaches seemed if possible bigger 
 now that night was fully come, poured the white wine 
 into the glasses with the air of one making a libation. 
 
 As the Marchesino ate, he frequently looked towards 
 the party at the neighboring table. He was evidently 
 filled with envy of the two men whose jewels glittered 
 as they gesticulated with their big brown hands. But 
 presently their pleasure and success recalled to him 
 something which he had momentarily forgotten, the 
 reason why he had planned this expedition. He was 
 in pursuit. The recollection cheered him up, restored 
 to him the strength of his manhood, put him right with 
 himself. The envy and the almost sickly sentimentality 
 vanished from him, and he broke into the usual gay con- 
 versation which seldom failed him, either by day or 
 night. 
 
 It was past nine before they had finished their coffee. 
 The two boatmen had been regaled and had drunk a 
 bottle of wine, and the moon was rising and making the 
 oil lamps of the Giuseppone look pitiful. From the table 
 where the canzonettiste were established came peals of 
 laughter, which obviously upset the seven large and 
 respectable women who had been eating oysters, and 
 who now sat staring heavily at the gay revellers, while 
 the two thin middle-aged men with bright eyes began 
 to look furtively cheerful, and even rather younger than 
 they were. The musicians passed round a small leaden 
 tray for soldi, and the waiter brought the Marchesino 
 the bill, and looked inquiringly at Artois, aware that he 
 at least was not a Neapolitan. Artois gave him some- 
 thing and satisfied the musicians, while the Marchesino 
 
 84
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 disputed the bill, not because he minded paying, but 
 merely to prove that he was a Neapolitan and not an 
 imbecile. The matter was settled at last, and they 
 went towards the boat; the Marchesino casting many 
 backward glances towards the two angels, who, with 
 their lovers, were becoming riotous in their gayety as 
 the moon came up. 
 
 "Are we going out into the Bay?" said Artois, as they 
 stepped into the boat, and were pushed off. 
 
 "Where is the best fishing-ground?" asked the Marche- 
 sino of the elder of the two men. 
 
 "Towards the islet, Signorino Marchesino," he replied 
 at once, looking his interlocutor full in the face with 
 steady eyes, but remaining perfectly grave. 
 
 Artois glanced at the man sharply. For the first time 
 it occurred to him that possibly his friend had arranged 
 this expedition with a purpose other than that which 
 he had put forward. It was not the fisherman's voice 
 which had made Artois wonder, but the voice of the 
 Marchesino. 
 
 "There are generally plenty of sarde round the islet," 
 continued the fisherman, "but if the Signori would not 
 be too tired it would be best to stay out the night. We 
 shall get many more fish towards morning, and we can 
 run the boat into the Pool of San Francesco, and have 
 some sleep there if the Signori like. We others gen- 
 erally take a nap there, and go to work further on in the 
 night. But of course it is as the Signori prefer." 
 
 "They want to keep us out all night to get more pay," 
 said the Marchesino to Artois, in bad French. 
 
 He had divined the suspicion that had suddenly risen 
 up in his friend, and was resolved to lay it to rest, 
 without, however, abandoning his purpose, which had 
 become much more ardent with the coming of the 
 night. The voices of the laughing women were ring- 
 ing in his ears. He felt adventurous. The youth in
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 him was rioting, and he was longing to be gay, as the 
 men with those women were being gay. 
 
 "What do you think, Emilio caro?" he asked. 
 
 Then before Artois could reply, he said: 
 
 "After all, what do a few soldi matter? Who could 
 sleep in a room on such a night? It might be August, 
 when one bathes at midnight, and sings canzoni till 
 dawn. Let us do as he says. Let us rest in the what 
 is the pool ?" he asked of the fishermen, pretending not 
 to know the name. 
 
 "The pool of San Francesco, Signorino Marchesino." 
 
 "Pool of San Francesco. I remember now. That is 
 the place where all the fishermen along the coast towards 
 Nisida go to sleep. I have slept there many times when 
 I was a boy, and so has Viviano. To-night shall we do 
 as the fishermen, Emilio?" 
 
 There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes 
 for the moment looked so simple, though as eager, as a 
 child's. 
 
 "Anything you like, mon ami," said Artois. 
 
 He did not want to go to San Francesco's Pool with 
 the Marchesino, but he did not wish to seem reluctant 
 to go. And he said to himself now that his interior 
 hesitation was absurd. Night had fallen. By the time 
 they reached the Pool the inmates of the Casa del Mare 
 would probably be asleep. Even if they were not, what 
 did it matter? The boat would lie among the vessels 
 of the fishermen. The Marchesino and he would share 
 the fishermen's repose. And even if Hermione and Vere 
 should chance to be out of doors they would not see him, 
 or, if they did, would not recognize him in the night. 
 
 His slight uneasiness, prompted by a vague idea that 
 the Marchesino was secretly mischievous, had possibly 
 some plan in his mind connected with the islet, was 
 surely without foundation. 
 
 He told himself so as the fishermen laid hold of their 
 
 86
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 oars and set the boat's prow towards the point of land 
 which conceals the small harbor of the Villa Rosebery. 
 
 The shrill voices of the two singers died away from 
 their ears, but lingered in the memory of the Marchesino, 
 as the silence of the sea took the boat to itself, the sea 
 silence and the magic of the moon. 
 
 He turned his face towards the silver, beyond which, 
 hidden as yet, was the islet where dwelt the child he 
 meant to know.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ALTHOUGH Hermione had told Artois that she could 
 not find complete rest and happiness in her child, that 
 she could not live again in Vere fully and intensely as 
 she had lived once, as she still had it in her surely to 
 live, she and Vere were in a singularly close relationship. 
 They had never yet been separated for more than a few 
 days. Vere had not been to school, and much of her 
 education had been undertaken by her mother. In 
 Florence she had been to classes and lectures. She had 
 had lessons in languages, French, German, and Italian, 
 in music and drawing. But Hermione had been her 
 only permanent teacher, and until her sixteenth birth- 
 day she had never been enthusiastic about anything 
 without carrying her enthusiasm to her mother, for 
 sympathy, explanation, or encouragement. 
 
 Sorrow had not quenched the elan of Hermione 's 
 nature. What she had told Artois had been true she 
 was not a finished woman, nor would she ever be, so 
 long as she was alive and conscious. Her hunger for 
 love, her passionate remembrance of the past, her in- 
 capacity to sink herself in any one since her husband's 
 death, her persistent, though concealed, worship of his 
 memory, all these things proved her vitality. Artois 
 was right when he said that she was a force. There was 
 something in her that was red-hot, although she was now 
 a middle-aged woman. She needed much more than 
 most people, because she had much more than most 
 people have to give. 
 
 88
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Her failure to express herself in an art had been a 
 tragedy. From this tragedy she turned, not with bitter- 
 ness, but perhaps with an almost fiercer energy, to Vere. 
 Her intellect, released from fruitless toil, was running 
 loose demanding some employment. She sought that 
 employment in developing the powers of her child. Vere 
 was not specially studious. Such an out-of-door tem- 
 perament as hers could never belong to a bookworm or 
 a recluse. But she was naturally clever, as her father 
 had not been, and she was enthusiastic not only in pleas- 
 ure but in work. Long ago Hermione, trying with lov- 
 ing anxiety to educate her boyish husband, to make him 
 understand certain subtleties of her own, had found her- 
 self frustrated. When she made such attempts with 
 Vere she was met half way. The girl understood with 
 swiftness even those things with which she was not 
 specially in sympathy. Her father's mind had slipped 
 away, ever so gracefully, from all which it did not love. 
 Vere's could grasp even the unloved subject. There 
 was mental grit in her Artois knew it. In all her work 
 until her sixteenth year Vere had consulted her mother. 
 Nothing of her child till then was ever hidden from 
 Hermione, except those things which the human being 
 cannot reveal, and sometimes scarcely knows of. The 
 child drew very much from her mother, responded to her 
 enthusiasm, yet preserved instinctively, and quite with- 
 out self-consciousness, her own individuality. 
 
 Artois had noticed this, and this had led him to say 
 that Vere also was a force. 
 
 But when she was sixteen Vere woke up to something. 
 Until now no one but herself knew to what. Sometimes 
 she shut herself up alone in her room for long periods. 
 When she came out she looked lazy, her mother thought, 
 and she liked to go then to some nook of the rocks and 
 sit alone, or to push a boat out into the centre of the 
 Saint's Pool, and lie in it with her hands clasped behind 
 
 89
 
 her head looking up at the passing clouds or at the radi- 
 ance of the blue. 
 
 Hermione knew how fond Vere was of reading, and 
 supposed that this love was increasing as the child grew 
 older. She sometimes felt a little lonely, but she was 
 unselfish. Vere's freedom was quite innocent. She, the 
 mother, would not seek to interfere with it. Soon after 
 dinner on the evening of the Marchesino's expedition 
 with Artois, Vere had got up from the sofa, on which she 
 had been sitting with a book of Rossetti's poems in her 
 hand, had gone over to one of the windows, and had 
 stood for two or three minutes looking out over the sea. 
 Then she had turned round, come up to her mother and 
 kissed her tenderly more tenderly, Hermione thought, 
 even than usual. 
 
 "Good-night, Madre mia," she had said. 
 
 And then, without another word, she had gone swiftly 
 out of the room. 
 
 After Vere had gone the room seemed very silent. In 
 the evening, if they stayed in the house, they usually sat 
 in Hermione's room up-stairs. They had been sitting 
 there to-night. The shutters were not closed. The 
 window that faced the sea towards Capri was open. A 
 little moonlight began to mingle subtly with the light 
 from the two lamps, to make it whiter, cleaner, sugges- 
 tive of outdoor things and large spaces. Hermione had 
 been reading when Vere was reading. She did not read 
 now Vere was gone. Laying down her book she sat 
 listening to the silence, realizing the world without. 
 Almost at her feet was the sea, before her a wide-stretch- 
 ing expanse, behind her, confronted by the desolate rocks, 
 the hollow and mysterious caverns. In the night, the 
 Saint, unwearied, watched his Pool. Not very far off, 
 yet delightfully remote, lay Naples with its furious ac- 
 tivities, its gayeties, its intensities of sin, of misery, of 
 pleasure. In the Galleria, tourists from the hotels and 
 
 90
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 from the ships were wandering rather vaguely, watched 
 and followed by newspaper sellers, by touts, by greedy, 
 pale-faced boys, and old, worn-out men, all hungry for 
 money and indifferent how it was gained. Along the 
 Marina, with its huge serpent of lights, the street singers 
 and players were making their nightly pilgrimage, paus- 
 ing, wherever they saw a lighted window or a dark figure 
 on a balcony, to play and sing the tunes of which they 
 were weary long ago. On the wall, high above the sea, 
 were dotted the dilettante fishermen with their long rods 
 and lines. And below, before each stone staircase that 
 descended to the water, was a waiting boat, and in the 
 moonlight rose up the loud cry of "Barca! Barca!" to 
 attract the attention of any casual passer-by. 
 
 And here, on this more truly sea-like sea, distant from 
 the great crowd and from the thronging houses, the real 
 fishermen who live by the sea were alert and at work, or 
 were plunged in the quiet sleep that is a preparation for 
 long hours of nocturnal wakefulness. 
 
 Hermione thought of it all, was aware of it, felt it, as 
 she sat there opposite to the open window. Then she 
 looked over to her writing-table, on which stood a large 
 photograph of her dead husband, then to the sofa where 
 Vere had been. She saw the volume of Rossetti lying 
 beside the cushion that still showed a shallow dent where 
 the child's head had been resting. 
 
 And then she shut her eyes, and asked her imagination 
 to take her away for a moment, over the sea to Messina, 
 and along the curving shore, and up by winding paths to 
 a mountain, and into a little room in a tiny, whitewashed 
 house, not the house of the sea, but of the priest. It 
 still stood there, and the terrace was still before it. And 
 the olive-trees rustled, perhaps, just now in the wind be- 
 neath the stars. 
 
 Yes, she was there. Lucrezia and Gaspare were in 
 bed. But she and Maurice were sitting in the straw 
 7 91
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 chairs on each side of the table, facing the open French 
 window and the flight of shallow steps that led down to 
 the terrace. 
 
 Faintly she heard the whisper of the sea about the 
 islet, but she would not let it hinder her imagination: 
 she translated it by means of her imagination into the 
 whisper of the wind low down the're, in the ravine among 
 the trees. And that act made her think of the ravine, 
 seemed presently to set her in the ravine. She was 
 there in the night with Gaspare. They were hurrying 
 down towards the sea. He was behind her, and she 
 could hear his footsteps longing to go faster. But she 
 was breathless, her heart was beating, there was terror 
 in her soul. What was that ? A rattle of stones in the 
 darkness, and then an old voice muttering "Benedicite!" 
 
 She opened her eyes and moved suddenly, like one in- 
 tolerably stirred. What a foe the imagination can be 
 what a foe! She got up and went to the window. She 
 must drive away that memory of the ravine, of all that 
 followed after. Often she lingered with it, but to-night, 
 somehow, she could not, she dared not. She was less 
 brave than usual to-night. 
 
 She leaned out of the window. 
 
 "Am I a fool?" 
 
 That was what she was saying to herself. And she 
 was comparing herself now with other people, other 
 women. Did she know one who could not uproot an old 
 memory, who could suffer, and desire, and internally 
 weep, after more than sixteen years? 
 
 "I suppose it is preposterous." 
 
 She deliberately chose that ugly word to describe her 
 own condition of soul. But instantly it seemed to her 
 as if far down in that soul something rose up and an- 
 swered: 
 
 "No, it is not. It is beautiful. It is divine. It is 
 more it is due. He gave you the greatest gift. He gave 
 
 92
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 you what the whole world is always seeking; even in 
 blindness, even in ignorance, even in terrible vice. He 
 gave you love. How should you forget him?" 
 
 Far away on the sea that was faintly silvered by the 
 moon there was a black speck. It was, or seemed from 
 this distance to be, motionless. Hermione's eyes were 
 attracted to it, and again her imagination carried her to 
 Sicily. She stood on the shore by the inlet, she saw the 
 boat coming in from the open sea. Then it stopped 
 midway like that boat. 
 
 She heard Gaspare furiously weeping. 
 
 But the boat moved, and the sound that was in her 
 imagination died away, and she said to herself, "All that 
 was long ago." 
 
 The boat out there was no doubt occupied by Neapoli- 
 tan fishermen, and she was here on the islet in the Sea 
 of Naples, and Sicily was far away across the moonlit 
 waters. As to Gaspare she was sure he was not weep- 
 ing, faithful though he was to the memory of the dead 
 Padrone. 
 
 And Vere? Hermione wondered what Vere was 
 doing. She felt sure, though she did not know why, 
 that Vere had not gone to bed. She realized to-night 
 that her child was growing up rapidly, was passing from 
 the stage of childhood to the stage of girlhood, was on 
 the threshold of all the mysterious experiences that life 
 holds for those who have ardent temperaments and eager 
 interests, and passionate desires and fearless hearts. 
 
 To-night Hermione felt very strongly the difference 
 between the father and the daughter. There was a 
 gravity in Vere, a firmness, that Maurice had lacked. 
 Full of life and warmth as she was, she was not the pure 
 spirit of joy that he had been in those first days in Sicily. 
 She was not irresponsible. She was more keenly aware 
 of others, of just how they were feeling, of just how they 
 were thinking, than Maurice had been. 
 
 93
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Vere was very individual. 
 
 With that thought there came to Hermione a deeper 
 sense of loneliness. She was conscious now in this 
 moment, as she had never been conscious before, of the 
 independence of her child's character. The knowledge 
 of this independence seemed to come upon her suddenly 
 she could not tell why; and she saw Vere apart from 
 her, detached, like a column in a lonely place. 
 
 And she herself was not she also like a column in a 
 lonely place ? She turned back into the room, and saw 
 again the cushion on the sofa with the shallow dent where 
 the head of Vere had rested only a few minutes ago, and, 
 moved by a sudden impulse, she went over to the sofa, 
 sank down on it and pressed her head against the cushion 
 just where her child's head had been. She shut her eyes 
 and strove to think herself into Vere, and to call Vere's 
 mind into hers. She was driven by the tragic desire of 
 woman specially tragic in her case because frustrated 
 to be one with another individuality, to merge herself, 
 to be fused, to be no longer as a lonely column set in a 
 desert place. 
 
 Vere must not escape from her. She must accompany 
 her child step by step. She must not be left alone. She 
 had told Emile that she could not live again in Vere. 
 And that was true. Vere was not enough. But Vere 
 was very much. Without Vere, what would her life be ? 
 
 A wave of melancholy flowed over her to-night, a tide 
 come from she knew not where. Making an effort to 
 stem it, she recalled her happiness with Maurice after 
 that day of the Tarantella. How groundless had really 
 been her melancholy then! She had imagined him 
 escaping from her, but he had remained with her, and 
 loved her. He had been good to her until the end, tender 
 and faithful. If she had ever had a rival, that rival had 
 been Sicily. Always her imagination was her torturer. 
 
 Her failure in art had been a tragedy because of this. 
 
 94
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 If she could have set her imagination free in an art she 
 would have been far safer than she was. Emile Artois 
 was really lonelier than she, for he had not a child. But 
 his art surely saved him securely from her sense of desola- 
 tion. And then he was a man, and men must need far 
 less than women do. Hermione felt that it was so. 
 She thought of Emile in his most helpless moment, in that 
 period when he was ill in Kairouan before she came. 
 Even then she believed that he could not have felt quite 
 so much alone as she did now ; for men never long to be 
 taken care of as women do. And yet she was well, in this 
 tranquil house which was her own with Vere, her child, 
 and Gaspare, her devoted servant. 
 
 As mentally she recounted her benefits, the strength 
 there was in her arose, protesting. She called herself 
 harsh names: egoist, craven, faineant. But it was no use 
 to attack herself. In the deeps of her poor, eager, 
 passionate, hungry woman's nature something wept, and 
 needed, and could not be comforted, and could not be 
 schooled. It complained as one feeble, but really it must 
 be strong; for it was pitilessly persistent in its grieving. 
 It had a strange endurance. Life, the passing of the 
 years, could not change it, could not still it. Those 
 eternal hungers of which Hermione had spoken to Artois 
 they must have their meaning. Somewhere, surely, 
 there are the happy hunting-grounds, dreamed of by 
 the red man there are the Elysian Fields where the souls 
 that have longed and suffered will find the ultimate peace. 
 
 There came a tap at the door. 
 
 Hermione started up from the cushion against which 
 she had pressed her head, and opened her eyes, instinct- 
 ively laying her hand on Vere's volume of Rossetti, and 
 pretending to read it. 
 
 "Avanti!" she said. 
 
 The door opened and Gaspare appeared. Hermione 
 felt an immediate sensation of comfort. 
 
 95
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Gaspare," she said, "what is it ? I thought you were 
 in bed/' 
 
 "Ha bisogna Lei?" he said. 
 
 It was a most familiar phrase to Hermione. It had 
 been often on Gaspare's lips when he was a boy in Sicily, 
 and she had always loved it, feeling as if it sprang from 
 a nature pleasantly ready to do anything in her service. 
 But to-night it had an almost startling appropriateness, 
 breaking in as if in direct response to her gnawing hunger 
 of the heart. As she looked at Gaspare, standing by the 
 door in his dark-blue clothes, with an earnest expression 
 on his strong, handsome face, she felt as if he must have 
 come just then because he was conscious that she had so 
 much need of help and consolation. And she could not 
 answer "no" to his simple question. 
 
 "Come in, Gaspare," she said, "and shut the door. 
 I'm all alone. I should like to have a little talk with 
 you." 
 
 He obeyed her, shut the door gently, and came up to 
 her with the comfortable confidence of one safe in his 
 welcome, desired not merely as a servant but as a friend 
 by his Padrona. 
 
 "Did you want to say anything particular, Gaspare?" 
 Hermione asked him. "Here take a cigarette." 
 
 She gave him one. He took it gently, twitching his 
 nose as he did so. This was a little trick he had when he 
 was pleased. 
 
 "You can smoke it here, if you like." 
 
 "Grazie, Signora." 
 
 He lit it gravely and took a whiff. Then he said: 
 
 "The Signorina is outside." 
 
 "Is she?" 
 
 Hermione looked towards the window. 
 
 "It is a lovely night." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He took another whiff, and turned his great eyes here 
 
 96
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and there, looking about the room. Hermione began to 
 wonder what he had to say to her. She was certain that 
 he had come to her for some reason other than just to 
 ask if she had need of him. 
 
 "It does the Signorina good to get a breath of air 
 before she goes to bed," Hermione added, after a moment 
 of silence. "It makes her sleep." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He still stood calmly beside her, but now he looked 
 at her with the odd directness which had been charac- 
 teristic of him as a boy, and which he had not lost as a 
 man. 
 
 "The Signorina is getting quite big, Signora," he said. 
 ' ' Have you noticed ? Per Dio ! In Sicily, if the Signorina 
 was a Sicilian, the giovinotti would be asking to marry 
 her." 
 
 "Ah, but, Gaspare, the Signorina is not a Sicilian," 
 she said. "She is English, you know, and English girls 
 do not generally think of such things till they are much 
 older than Sicilians." 
 
 "But, Signora," said Gaspare, with the bluntness 
 which in him was never rudeness, but merely the sin- 
 cerity which he considered due to his Padrona due 
 also to himself, "my Padrone was like a real Sicilian, 
 and the Signorina is his daughter. She must be like a 
 Sicilian too, by force." 
 
 "Your Padrone, yes, he was a real Sicilian," Hermione 
 said, softly. "But, well, the Signorina has much more 
 English blood in her veins than Sicilian. She has only 
 a little Sicilian blood." 
 
 "But the Signorina thinks she is almost a Sicilian. 
 She wishes to be a Sicilian." 
 
 "How do you know that, Gaspare ?" she asked, smiling 
 a little at his firmness and persistence. 
 
 ' ' The Signorina said so the other day to the giovinotto 
 who had the cigarettea, Signora. I talked to him, and he 
 
 97
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 told me. He said the Signorina had said to him that she 
 was partly a Sicilian, and that he had said 'no,' that she 
 was English. And when he said that he said to me 
 the Signorina was quite angry. He could see that she 
 was angry by her face." 
 
 "I suppose that is the Sicilian blood, Gaspare. There 
 is some in the Signorina's veins, of course. And then, 
 you know, both her father and I loved your country. 
 I think the Signorina must often long to see Sicily." 
 
 "Does she say so?" asked Gaspare, looking rather less 
 calm. 
 
 "She has not lately. I think she is very happy here. 
 Don't you?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. But the Signorina is growing up now, 
 and she is a little Sicilian anyhow, Signora." 
 
 He paused, looking steadily at his Padrona. 
 
 "What is it, Gaspare? What do you want to say to 
 me?" 
 
 "Signora, perhaps you will say it is not my business, 
 but in my country we do not let girls go about by them- 
 selves after they are sixteen. We know it is better not. 
 Ecco!" 
 
 Hermione had some difficulty in not smiling. But she 
 knew that if she smiled he might be offended. So she 
 kept her countenance and said: 
 
 "What do you mean, Gaspare? The Signorina is 
 nearly always with me." 
 
 "No, Signora. The Signorina can go wherever 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 
 
 98
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 you and depend on you more than on almost any one. 
 But you must remember that I am English, and in Eng- 
 land, 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 fisher- 
 men. 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 fisher- 
 men?" she said. 
 
 "What do we know of the fishermen of Naples, Sig- 
 nora ? We are not Neapolitans. We are strangers here. 
 We do not know their habits. We do not know what 
 
 99
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 pre- 
 fer 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, Sfgnora. The Signorina is too good." 
 
 "She wbuld 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." 
 
 100
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 al- 
 ways, make his Padrona catch his mood; there was some- 
 thing 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 dif- 
 ferent 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 
 
 101
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 characteristic, as ardent, as determined sometimes, per- 
 haps as forceful even, but always with a child's mind be- 
 hind 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 sup- 
 posed 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 un- 
 easiness. It was vague. Had she been asked to ex- 
 plain 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 
 it, 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 clays ago. 
 
 Evidently Gaspare had been turning over the boy's 
 acquaintance with Vere in his mind all that time, dis- 
 approving 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 care- 
 less 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 ap- 
 pealed to her strongly, and she felt sure that Vere must 
 be still outside, somewhere under the moon. 
 
 102
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 gar- 
 den beyond. She extinguished the lamp. She went to 
 her bedroom to get a lace shawl, which she put over her 
 head and drew round her shoulders like a mantilla. Then 
 she looked into Vere's room, and found it empty. 
 
 A moment later she was on the terrace bathed in the 
 radiance of the moon.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VERB was outside under the stars. When she had 
 said good-night and had slipped away, it was with the 
 desire to be alone, to see no one, to speak with no one 
 till next morning. But the desires of the young change 
 quickly, and Vere's presently changed. 
 
 She came out of the house, and passing over the bridge 
 that connected together the two cliffs of which the islet 
 was composed, reached the limit of the islet. At the edge 
 of the precipice was a seat, and there she sat down. For 
 some time she rested motionless, absorbing the beauty 
 and the silence of the night. She was looking towards 
 Ischia. She wished to look that way, to forget all about 
 Naples, the great city which lay behind her. 
 
 Here were the ancient caves darkening with their 
 mystery the silver wonder of the sea. Here the venerable 
 shore stretched towards lands she did not know. They 
 called to the leaping desires of her heart as the city did 
 not call. They carried her away. 
 
 Often, from this seat, on dark and moonless nights, she 
 had watched the fishermen's torches flaring below her in 
 the blackness, and had thrilled at the mystery of their 
 occupation, and had imagined them lifting from the sea 
 strange and wonderful treasures, that must change the 
 current of their lives: pearls such as had never before 
 been given to the breasts of women, caskets that had 
 lain for years beneath the waters, bottles in which were 
 stoppered up magicians who, released, came forth in 
 smoke, as in the Eastern story. 
 
 104
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Once she had spoken of this last imagination to Gas- 
 pare, and had seen his face suddenly change and look 
 excited, vivid, and then sad. She had asked him why 
 he looked like that, and, after a moment of hesitation, he 
 had told her how, long ago, before she was born, his 
 Padrone had read to him such a tale as they lay together 
 upon a mountain side in Sicily. Vere had eagerly ques- 
 tioned him, and he, speaking with vehemence in the heat 
 of his recollection, had brought before her a picture of that 
 scene in his simple life ; had shown her how he* lay, and 
 how the Padrone lay, he listening, the Padrone, book in 
 hand, reading about the "mago africano." He had even 
 told Vere of their conversation afterwards, and how he 
 had said that he would always be free, that he would 
 never be "stoppered up," like the "mago africano." 
 And when she had wondered at his memory, growing still 
 more excited he had told her many other things of which 
 his Padrone and he had talked together, and had made 
 her feel the life of the past on Monte Amato as no cultured 
 person, she believed, could ever have made her feel it. 
 But when she had sought to question him about her 
 father's death he had become silent, and she had seen 
 that it would be impossible to make him obey her and 
 tell her all the details that she longed to know. 
 
 To-night Vere could see no fishermen at work. The 
 silver of the sea below her was unbroken by the black 
 forms of gliding boats, the silence was unbroken by call- 
 ing voices. And to-night she was glad that it was so; 
 for she was in the mood to be quite alone. As she sat 
 there very still she seemed to herself to be drawing nearer 
 to the sea, and drawing the sea to her. Indeed, she 
 was making some such imaginative attempt as her 
 mother was making in the house to become, in fancy at 
 least, one with something outside of her, to be fused with 
 the sea, as her mother desired to be fused with her. But 
 Vere's endeavor was not tragic, like her mother's, but
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 was almost tenderly happy. She thought she felt the sea 
 responding to her as she responded to the sea. And she 
 was very glad in that thought. 
 
 Presently she began to wonder about the fishermen. 
 
 How did they feel about the sea ? To her the sea was 
 romantic and personal. Was it romantic and persona) 
 to them? They were romantic to her because of theii 
 connection with the sea.which had imprinted upon them 
 something of itself, showed forth in them, by means of 
 them, something surely of its own character; but prob- 
 ably, almost certainly, she supposed, they were uncon- 
 scious of this. They lived by the sea. Perhaps they 
 thought of it as of a vast money-bag, into which they 
 dipped their hands to get enough to live by. Or per- 
 haps they thought of it as an enemy, against which they 
 lived in perpetual war, from which they wrung, as it were 
 at the sword's point, a poor and precarious booty. 
 
 As she sat thinking about this Vere began to change 
 in her desire, to wish there were some fishermen out to- 
 night about the islet, and that she could have speech of 
 them. She would like to find out from one of them how 
 they regarded the sea. 
 
 She smiled as she imagined a conversation between 
 herself and some strong, brown, wild Neapolitan, she 
 questioning and he replying. How he would misunder- 
 stand her! He would probably think her mad. And 
 yet sometimes the men of the sea in their roughness are 
 imaginative. They are superstitous. But a man no, 
 she could not question a man. Her mind went to the 
 boy diver, Ruffo. She had often thought about Ruffo 
 during the last three days. She had expected to see him 
 again. He had said nothing about returning to the islet, 
 but she had felt sure he would return, if only in the hope 
 of being given some more cigarettes. Boys in his position, 
 she knew well, do not get a present of Khali Targa ciga- 
 rettes every day of the week. How happy he had looked 
 
 1 06
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 when he was smoking them! She remembered exactly 
 the expression of his brown face now, as she sat watch- 
 ing the empty, moonlit sea. It was not greedy. It was 
 voluptuous. She remembered seeing somewhere a pict- 
 ure of some Sultan of the East reclining on a divan 
 and smoking a chibouk. She thought Ruffo had looked 
 rather like the Sultan, serenely secure of all earthly en- 
 joyment. At that moment the Pool of San Francesco 
 had stood to the boy for the Paradise of Mahomet. 
 
 But Ruffo had not come again. 
 
 Each morning Vere had listened for his voice, had 
 looked down upon the sea for his boat, but all in vain. 
 On the third day she had felt almost angry with him 
 unreasonably. But then she had remembered that he 
 was not his own master, not the owner of the boat. Of 
 course, he could not do what he liked. If he could well, 
 then he would have come back. She was positive of that. 
 
 If he ever did come back, she said to herself now, she 
 /vould question him about the sea. She would get at his 
 thoughts about the sea, at his feelings. She wondered 
 if they could possibly be at all like hers. It was unlikely, 
 she supposed. They two were so very different. And 
 yet ! 
 
 She smiled to herself again, imagining question and. 
 answer with Ruffo. He would not think her mad, even 
 if she puzzled him. They understood each other. Even 
 her mother had said that they seemed to be in sympathy. 
 And that was true. Difference of rank need not, indeed 
 cannot, destroy the magic chain if it exists, cannot pre- 
 vent its links from being forged. She knew that her 
 mother was in sympathy with Gaspare, and Gaspare with 
 her mother. So there was no reason why she should n^' 
 be in sympathy with Ruffo. 
 
 If he were here to-night she would begin at once to 
 talk to him about the sea. But of course he would 
 never come at night to the islet. 
 s 107
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Vere knew that the Neapolitan fisherman usually keep 
 each to his own special branch of the common profession. 
 By this time of night, no doubt, Ruffo was in his home 
 at the Mergellina, sitting in the midst of his family, or 
 was strolling with lively companions of his own age, or, 
 perhaps, was fast asleep in bed. 
 
 Vere felt that it would be horrible to go to bed on such 
 a night, to shut herself in from the moon and the sea. 
 The fishermen who slept in the shelter of the Saint's 
 Pool were enviable. They had the stars above them, the 
 waters about them, the gentle winds to caress them as 
 they lay in the very midst of romance. 
 
 She wondered whether there were any boats in the 
 Saint's Pool to-night. She had not been to see. A few 
 steps and she could look over. She got up and went 
 back to the bridge, treading softly because she was 
 thinking of repose. There she stopped and looked 
 down. She saw two boats on the far side of the Pool 
 almost at the feet of the Saint. The men in them must 
 be lying down, for Vere could see only the boats, look- 
 ing black, and filled with a confused blackness of sails 
 probably, and sleeping men. The rest of the pool was 
 empty, part of it bright with the radiance of the moon, 
 part of it shading away to the mysterious dimness of still 
 water at night under the lee of cliffs. 
 
 For some time the girl stood, watching. Just at that 
 moment her active brain almost ceased to work, stilled 
 by the reverie that is born of certain night visions. 
 Without those motionless boats the Pool of the Saint 
 would have been calm. With them, its stillness seemed 
 almost ineffably profound. The hint of life bound in the 
 cords of sleep, prisoner to rest, deepened Nature's im- 
 pression and sent Vere into reverie. There were no trees 
 here. No birds sang, for although it was the month of 
 the nightingales, none ever came to sing to San Francesco. 
 No insects chirped or hummed. All was stark and al- 
 
 108
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 most fearfully still as in a world abandoned ; and the light 
 fell on the old faces of the rocks faintly, as if it feared to 
 show the ravages made in them by the storms of the 
 long ages they had confronted and defied. 
 
 Vere had a sensation of sinking very slowly down into 
 a gulf, as she stood there, not falling, but sinking, down 
 into some world of quiet things, farther and farther down, 
 leaving all the sounds of life far up in light above her. 
 And descent was exquisite, easy and natural, and, indeed, 
 inevitable. Nothing called her from below. For where 
 she was going there were no voices. Yet she felt that at 
 last there would be something to receive her; mystical 
 stillness, mystical peace. 
 
 A silky sound far off checked that imaginative 
 descent that seemed so physical, first merely arrested it, 
 then, always silky, but growing louder, took her swiftly 
 and softly back to the summit she had left. Now she was 
 conscious again of herself and of the night. She was 
 listening. The sound that had broken her reverie was 
 the gentle sweep of big-bladed oars through the calm sea. 
 As she knew this she saw, away to the right, a black 
 shadow stealing across the silver waste beyond the islet. 
 It pushed its way to the water at her very feet, and chose 
 that as its anchorage. 
 
 The figure of the rower stood up straight and black 
 for a moment, looking lonely in the night. 
 
 Vere could not see his face, but she knew at once that 
 he was Ruffo. Her inclination was to bend down with 
 the soft cry of "Pescator!" which she had sent to him 
 on the sunny morning of their meeting. She checked it, 
 why she scarcely knew, in obedience to some imperious 
 prompting of her nature. But she kept her eyes on him. 
 And they were full of will. She was willing him not to 
 lie down in the bottom of the boat and sleep. She knew 
 that he and his companions must have come to the pool 
 at that hour to rest. There were three other men in the 
 
 109
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 boat. Two had been sitting on the gunwale of it, and 
 now lay down. The third, who was in the bows, ex- 
 changed some words with the rower, who replied. Vere 
 could hear the sound of their voices, but not what they 
 said. The conversation continued for two or three 
 minutes, while Ruffo was taking in the oars and laying 
 them one on each side of the boat. When he had done 
 this he stretched up his arms to their full length above 
 his head, and a loud noise of a prolonged yawn came up 
 to Vere, and nearly made her laugh. Long as it was, it 
 seemed to her to end abruptly. The arms dropped 
 down. 
 
 She felt sure he had seen her watching, and stayed quite 
 still, wondering what he was going to do. Perhaps he 
 would tell the other man. She found herself quickly 
 hoping that he would not. That she was there ought to 
 be their little secret. 
 
 All this that was passing through her mind was utterly 
 foreign to any coquetry. Vere had no more feeling of 
 sex in regard to Ruffo than she would have had if she 
 had been a boy herself. The sympathy she felt with him 
 was otherwise founded, deep down in mysteries beyond 
 the mysteries of sex. 
 
 Again Ruffo and the man who had not lain down 
 spoke together. But the man did not look up to Vere. 
 He must have looked if his attention had been drawn 
 to the fact that she was there a little spy upon the men 
 of the sea, considering them from her eminence. 
 
 Ruffo had not told. She was glad. 
 
 Presently the man moved from his place in the bows. 
 She saw him lift a leg to get over into the stern, treading 
 carefully in order not to trample on his sleeping com- 
 panions. Then his black figure seemed to shut up like 
 a telescope. He had become one with the dimness in the 
 boat, was no longer detached from it. Only Ruffo was 
 still detached. Was he going to sleep, too? 
 
 no
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 A certain tenseness came into Vere's body. She kept 
 her eyes, which she had opened very wide, fixed upon the 
 black figure. It remained standing. The head moved. 
 He was certainly looking up. She realized that he was 
 not sleepy, despite that yawn, that he would like to 
 speak to her to let her know that he knew she was there. 
 
 Perhaps he did not dare to or, not that, perhaps 
 fishermen's etiquette, already enshrined in his nature, 
 did not permit him to come ashore. The boat was so 
 close to the land that he could step on to it easily. 
 
 She leaned down. 
 
 "Pescator!" 
 
 It was scarcely more than a whisper. But the night 
 was so intensely still that he heard it. Or, if not that, he 
 felt it. His shadow so it seemed in the shadow of the 
 cliff flitted out of the boat and disappeared. 
 
 He was coming to have that talk about the sea.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "BuoNA sera, Signorina." 
 
 "Buona sera, Ruffo." 
 
 She did not feign surprise when he came up to her. 
 
 "So you fish at night?" she said. "I thought the 
 divers for frutti di mare did not do that." 
 
 "Signorina, I have been taken into the boat of Mandano 
 Giuseppe." 
 
 He spoke rather proudly, and evidently thought she 
 would know of whom he was telling her. "I fish for 
 sarde now." 
 
 "Is that better for you?" 
 
 "SI, Signorina, of course." 
 
 "I am glad of that." 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 He stood beside her quite at his ease. To-night he had 
 on a cap, but it was pushed well off his brow, and showed 
 plenty of his thick, dark hair. 
 
 "When did you see me?" she asked. 
 
 "Almost directly, Signorina." 
 
 "And what made you look tip?" 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "Why did you look up directly?" 
 
 "Non lo so, Signorina." 
 
 "I think it was because I made you feel that I was 
 there," she said. "I think you obey me without know- 
 ing it. You did the same the other day." 
 
 "Perhaps, Signorina." 
 
 "Have you smoked all the cigarettes?" 
 112
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She saw him smile, showing his teeth. 
 
 "Si, Signorina, long ago. I smoked them the same 
 day." 
 
 "You shouldn't. It is bad for a boy, and you are 
 younger than I am, you know." 
 
 The smile grew wider. 
 
 "What are you laughing at?" 
 
 "I don't know, Signorina." 
 
 "Do you think it is funny to be younger than I am?" 
 
 "Si, Signorina." 
 
 "I suppose you feel quite as if you were a man?" 
 
 " If I could not work as well as a man Giuseppe would 
 not have taken me into his boat. But of course with a 
 lady it is all different. A lady does not have to work. 
 Poor women get old very soon, Signorina." 
 
 "Your mother, is she old?" 
 
 "My mamma! I don't know. Yes, I suppose she is 
 rather old." 
 
 He seemed to be considering. 
 
 "Si, Signorina, my mamma is rather old. But then 
 she has had a lot of trouble, my poor mamma!" 
 
 "I am sorry. Is she like you ?" 
 
 "I don't know, Signorina; I have never thought about 
 it. What does it matter?" 
 
 "It may not matter, but such things are interesting 
 sometimes." 
 
 "Are they, Signorina?" 
 
 Then, evidently with a polite desire to please her and 
 carry on the conversation in the direction indicated by 
 her, he added: 
 
 "And are you like your Signora Madre, Signorina?" 
 
 Vere felt inclined to smile, but she answered, quite 
 seriously. 
 
 "I don't believe I am. My mother is very tall, much 
 taller than I am, and not so dark. My eyes are much 
 darker than hers and quite different."
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I think you have the eyes of a Sicilian, Signorina." 
 
 Again Vere was conscious of a simple effort on the part 
 of the boy to be gallant. And he had a good memory 
 too. He had not forgotten her three-days' -old claim to 
 Sicilian blood. The night mitigated the blunders of his 
 temperament, it seemed. Vere could not help being 
 pleased. There was something in her that ever turned 
 towards the Sicily she had never seen. And this boy 
 had not seen Sicily either. 
 
 "Isn't it odd that you and I have never seen Sicily?" 
 she said, "and that both our mothers have? And mine 
 is all English, you know." 
 
 "My mamma would be very glad to kiss the hand of 
 your Signora Mother," replied Ruffo. "I told her about 
 the kind ladies who gave me cigarettes, and that the 
 Signorina had never seen her father. When she heard 
 that the Signorina was born after her father was dead, 
 and that her father had died in Sicily, she said my poor 
 mamma! 'If ever I see the Signorina's mother, I shall 
 kiss her hand. She was a widow before she was a mother ; 
 may the Madonna comfort her.' My mamma spoke just 
 like that, Signorina. And then she cried for a long time. 
 But when Patrigno came in she stopped crying at once." 
 
 "Did she? Why was that?" 
 
 "I don't know, Signorina." 
 
 Vere was silent for a moment. Then she said: 
 
 "Is your Patrigno kind to you, Ruffo ?" 
 
 The boy looked at her, then swiftly looked away. 
 
 "Kind enough, Signorina," he answered. 
 
 Then they both kept silence. They were standing 
 side by side thus, looking down rather vaguely at the 
 Saint's Pool, when another boat floated gently into it, 
 going over to the far side, where already lay the two boats 
 at the feet of San Francesco. Vere saw it with indif- 
 ference. She was accustomed to the advent of the 
 fishermen at this hour. Ruffo stared at it for a moment 
 
 114
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 with a critical, inquiring gaze. The boat drew up near 
 the land and stopped. There was a faint murmur of 
 voices, then silence again. 
 
 The Marchesino had told the two sailors that they 
 could have an hour or two of sleep before beginning to 
 fish. 
 
 The men lay down, shut their eyes, and seemed to slbep 
 at once. But Artois and the Marchesino, lounging on a 
 pile of rugs deftly arranged in the bottom of the stern 
 of the boat, smoked their cigars in a silence laid upon 
 them by the night silence of the Pool. Neither of them 
 had as yet caught sight of the figures of Vere and Ruffo, 
 which were becoming more clearly relieved as the moon 
 rose and brought a larger world within the radiance of 
 its light. Artois was satisfied that the members of the 
 Casa del Mare were in bed. As they approached the 
 house he had seen no light from its windows. The 
 silence about the islet was profound, and gave him the 
 impression of being in the very heart of the night. And 
 this impression lasted, and so tricked his mind that he 
 forgot that the hour was not really late. He lay back, 
 lazily smoking his cigar, and drinking in the stark beauty 
 round about him, a beauty delicately and mysteriously 
 fashioned by the night, which, as by a miracle, had laid 
 hold of bareness and barren ugliness, and turned them 
 to its exquisite purposes, shrinking from no material in 
 its certainty of its own power to transform. 
 
 The Marchesino, too, lay back, with his great, gray 
 eyes staring about him. While the feelings of his friend 
 had moved towards satisfaction, his had undergone a 
 less pleasant change. His plan seemed to be going awry, 
 and he began to think of himself as of a fool. What had 
 he anticipated ? What had he expected of this expedi- 
 tion ? He had been , as usual , politely waiting on destiny. 
 He had come to the islet in the hope that Destiny would 
 meet him there and treat him with every kindness and
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hospitality, forestalling his desires. But lo! he was 
 abandoned in a boat among a lot of taciturn men, while 
 the object of all his thoughts and pains, his plots and 
 hopes, was, doubtless, hermetically sealed in the home on 
 the cliff above him. 
 
 Several Neapolitan words, familiar in street circles, 
 ran through his mind, but did not issue from his lips, 
 and his face remained perfectly calm almost seraphic 
 in expression. 
 
 Out of the corners of his eyes he stole a glance at ' ' caro 
 Emilio. ' ' He wished his friend would follow the example 
 of the men and go to sleep. He wanted to feel himself 
 alone in wakefulness and unobserved. For he was not 
 resigned to an empty fate. The voices of the laughing 
 women at the Antico Giuseppone still rang through his 
 memory. He was adventurous by nature. What he 
 would do if Emilio would cuily slumber he did not know. 
 But it was certain he would do something. The islet, 
 dark and distinct in outline beneath the moon, summoned 
 him. Was he a Neapolitan and not beneath her window ? 
 It was absurd. And he was not at all accustomed to 
 control himself or to fight his own impulses. For the 
 moment "caro Emilio" became "maledetto Emilio" in 
 his mind. Sleepless as Providence, Emilio reclined 
 there. A slightly distracted look came into the Mar- 
 chesino's eyes as he glanced away from his friend and 
 stared once more at the islet, which he longed so ar- 
 dently to invade. 
 
 This time he saw the figures of Vere and Ruffo above 
 him in the moonlight, which now sharply relieved them. 
 He gazed. And as he gazed they moved away from the 
 bridge, going towards the seat where Vere had been 
 before she had seen Ruffo. 
 
 Vere had on a white dress. 
 
 The heart of the Marchesino leaped. He was sure it 
 was the girl of the white boat. Then the inhabitants of 
 
 116
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the house on the islet were not asleep, were not even 
 in bed. They she at least, and that was all he cared 
 for were out enjoying the moon and the sea. How 
 favorable was the night! But who was with her? 
 
 The Marchesino had very keen eyes. And now he used 
 them with almost fierce intensity. But Ruffo was on 
 the far side of Vere. It was not possible to discern more 
 than that he was male, and taller than the girl in the 
 white dress. 
 
 Jealousy leaped up in the Marchesino, that quick and 
 almost frivolous jealousy which, in the Southerner, can 
 so easily deepen into the deadliness that leads to crime. 
 Not for a moment did he doubt that the man with Vere 
 was a lover. This was a blow which, somehow, he had 
 not expected. The girl in the white boat had looked en- 
 chantingly young. When he had played the seal for 
 her she had laughed like a child. He even he, who 
 believed in no one's simplicity, made sceptical by his own 
 naughtiness so early developed towards a fine maturity ! 
 had not expected anything like this. And these Eng- 
 lish, who pride themselves upon their propriety, their 
 stiffness, their cold respectability ! These English misses ! 
 
 "Ouf!" 
 
 It was out of the Marchesino 's mouth before he was 
 aware of it, an exclamation of cynical disgust. 
 
 "What's the matter, amico mio?" said Artois, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Niente!" said the Marchesino, recollecting himself. 
 "Are not you going to sleep ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Artois, throwing away his cigar end. "I 
 am. And you?" 
 
 "I too!" 
 
 The Marchesino was surprised by his friend's reply. 
 He did not understand the desire of Artois not to have 
 his sense of the romance of their situation broken in upon 
 by conversation just then. The romance of women was 
 
 117
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 not with Artois, but the romance of Nature was. He 
 wanted to keep it. And now he settled himself a little 
 lower in the boat, under the shadow of its side, and seemed 
 to be giving himself to sleep. 
 
 The Marchesino thanked the Madonna, and made his 
 little pretence of slumber too, but he kept his head above 
 the gunwale, leaning it on his arm with a supporting 
 cushion beneath ; and though he really did shut both his 
 eyes for a short time, to deceive caro Emilio, he very soon 
 opened them again, and gazed towards the islet. He 
 could not see the two figures 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 con- 
 tained three people instead of four. 
 
 118
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 guesse(x 
 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 Ar- 
 tois 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 
 
 119
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 out7 
 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 of two first. I found Doro 
 gone, and came to look for him." 
 
 There was still a faint embarrassment in his manner. 
 
 120
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 acquaint- 
 ance. 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. 
 
 121
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 inside, 
 and didn't wish" to show it. And he began trying to 
 talk. But as I didn't really know him after all, laugh- 
 ing at a man because he pretends to be a seal is scarcely 
 knowing him, is it, Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "No," he said, smiling at her smile. 
 
 "I said 'good-night' again in such a way that he had 
 to go." 
 
 "And so he went!" said Artois. 
 
 "Yes. Do you know him, Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "Yes. He came with me to-night." 
 
 A little look of penitence came into the girl's face. 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry." 
 
 -'Why should you be?" 
 
 122
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Well, he began saying something about knowing 
 friends of mine, or I didn't really listen very much, 
 because Ruffo was telling me about the sea and I 
 thought it was all nonsense. He was absurdly com- 
 plimentary first, you see! and so, when he began about 
 friends, I only said 'good-night' again. And and I'm 
 really afraid I turned my back upon him. And now he's 
 a friend of yours. Monsieur Emile! I am sorry!" 
 
 Already the Marchesino had had that lesson of which 
 Artois had thought in Naples. Artois laughed aloud. 
 
 "It doesn't matter, Vere. My friend is not too sen- 
 sitive." 
 
 "Buona sera, Signorina! Buona sera, Signora! Buon 
 riposo!" 
 
 It was Ruffo preparing to go, feeling that he scarcely 
 belonged to this company, although he looked in no way 
 shy, and had been smiling broadly at Vere's narrative 
 of the discomfiture of the Marchesino. 
 
 "Ruffo," said Hermione, "you must wait a moment." 
 
 "SI, Signora?" 
 
 "I am going to give you a few more cigarettes." 
 
 Vere sent a silent but brilliant "Thank you" to her 
 mother. They all walked towards the house. 
 
 Vere and her mother were in front, Artois and Ruffo 
 behind. Artois looked very closely and even curiously 
 at the boy. 
 
 "Have I ever seen you before ?" he asked, as they came 
 to the bridge. 
 
 "Signore?" 
 
 "Not the other morning. But have we ever met in 
 Naples?" 
 
 "I have seen you pass by sometimes at the Mergellina, 
 Signore." 
 
 "That must be it then!" Artois thought, "I have seen 
 you there without consciously noticing you." 
 
 "You live there?" he said. 
 
 9 123
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si, Signore ; I live with my mamma and my Patrigno." 
 
 "Your Patrigno," Artois said, merely to continue the 
 conversation. "Then your father is dead?" 
 
 "Si, Signore, my Babbo is dead." 
 
 They were on the plateau now, before the house. 
 
 "If you will wait a moment, Ruffo, I will fetch the 
 cigarettes," said Hermione. 
 
 "Let me go, Madre," said Vere, eagerly. 
 
 "Very well, dear." 
 
 The girl ran into the house. As she disappeared they 
 heard a quick step, and the Marchesino came hurrying 
 up from the sea. He took off his hat when he saw 
 Hermione, and stopped. 
 
 "I was looking for you, Emilio." 
 
 He kept his hat in his hand. Evidently he had re- 
 covered completely from his lesson. He looked gay and 
 handsome. Artois realized how very completely the 
 young rascal's desires were being fulfilled. But of course 
 the introduction must be made. He made it quietly. 
 
 "Marchese Isidore Panacci -Mrs. Delarey." 
 
 The Marchesino bent and kissed Hermione 's hand. 
 As he did so Vere came out of the house, her hands full 
 of Khali Targa cigarettes, her face eager at the thought 
 of giving pleasure to Ruffo. 
 
 "This is my daughter, Vere," Hermione said. "Vere, 
 this is the Marchese Isidore Panacci, a friend of Monsieur 
 Emile's." 
 
 The Marchesino went to kiss Vere's hand, but she said: 
 
 "I'm very sorry look!" 
 
 She showed him that they were full of cigarettes, and 
 so escaped from the little ceremony. For those watching 
 it was impossible to know whether she wished to avoid 
 the formal salutation of the young man's lips or not. 
 
 "Here, Ruffo!" she said. She went up to the boy. 
 "Put your hands together." 
 
 Ruffo gladly obeyed. He curved his brown hands 
 124
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 into a cup, and Vere filled this cup with the big cigarettes, 
 while Hermione, Artois, and the Marchesino looked on; 
 each one of them with a fixed attention which surely 
 the action scarcely merited. But there was something 
 about these two, Vere and the boy, which held the eyes 
 and the mind. 
 
 "Good -night, Ruffo. You must carry them to the 
 boat. They'll be crushed if you put them into your 
 trousers-pocket." 
 
 "Si, Signorina!" 
 
 He waited a moment. He wanted to salute them, but 
 did not know how to. That was evident. His expres^- 
 sive eyes, his whole face told it to them. 
 
 Artois suddenly set his lips together in his beard. For 
 an instant it seemed to him that the years had rolled 
 back, that he was in London, in Caminiti's restaurant, 
 that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the reverential ex- 
 pression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, 
 the boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he 
 stood there, wishing to do his devoir, to be polite, but 
 not knowing how to. 
 
 "Never mind, Ruffo." It was Vere's voice. "We 
 understand! or shall I?" A laughing look came into 
 her face. She went up to the boy and, with a delicious, 
 childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the 
 action from impertinence, she took his cap off. "There!" 
 She put it gently back on his dark hair. "Now you've 
 been polite to us. Buona notte!" 
 
 "Buona notte, Signorina." 
 
 The boy ran off, half laughing, and carrying carefully 
 the cigarettes in his hands still held together like a cup. 
 
 Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt some- 
 thing for Vere just then that he could hardly have ex- 
 plained, master though he was of the explanation of the 
 feelings of man. It seemed to him that all the purity, 
 and the beauty, and the whimsical unself consciousness, 
 
 125
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and the touchingness of youth that is divine, appeared 
 in that little, almost comic action of the girl. He loved 
 her for the action, because she was atye to perform it 
 just like that. And something in him suddenly adored 
 youth in a way that seemed new to his heart. 
 
 "Well," said Hermione, when RufTo had disappeared. 
 "Will you come in? I'm afraid all the servants are in 
 bed, but " 
 
 "No, indeed it is too late," Artois said. 
 
 Without being aware of it he spoke with an authority 
 that was almost stern. 
 
 "We must be off to our fishing," he added. "Good- 
 night. Good-night, Vere." 
 
 "Good-night, Signora." 
 
 The Marchesino bowed, with his hat in his hand. He 
 kissed Hermione's hand again, but he did not try to take 
 Vere's. 
 
 "Good-night," Hermione said. 
 
 A glance at Artois had told her much that he was 
 thinking. 
 
 "Good-night, Monsieur Emile," said Vere. "Good- 
 night, Marchese. Buona pesca!" 
 
 She turned and followed her mother into the house. 
 
 "Che simpatica!" 
 
 It was the Marchesino 's voice, breathing the words 
 through a sigh: "Che simpatica Signorina!" Then an 
 idea seemed to occur to him, and he looked at his friend 
 reproachfully. "And you knew the girl with the perfect 
 little nose, Emilio all the time you knew her!" 
 
 "And all the time you knew I knew her!" retorted 
 Artois. 
 
 They looked at each other in the eyes and burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 "Emilio, you are the devil! I will never forgive you. 
 You do not trust me." 
 
 "Caro amico, I do trust you always to fall in love 
 126
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 with every girl you meet. But " -and his voice changed 
 "the Signorina is a child. Remember that, Doro." 
 
 They were going down the steps to the sea. Almost 
 as Artois spoke they reached the bottom, and saw their 
 boat floating in the moonlight nearly in the centre of the 
 Pool. The Marchesino stood still. 
 
 "My dear Emilio," he said, staring at Artois with his 
 great round eyes, "you make me wonder whether you 
 know women." 
 
 Artois felt amused. 
 
 "Really?" he said. 
 . "Really! and yet you write books." 
 
 "Writing books does not always prove that one knows 
 much. But explain to me." 
 
 They began to stroll on the narrow space at the sea 
 edge. Close by lay the boat to which Ruffo belonged. 
 The boy was already in it, and they saw him strike a 
 match and light one of the cigarettes. Then he lay back 
 at his ease, smoking, and staring up at the moon. 
 
 "A girl of sixteen is not a child, and I am sure the 
 Signorina is sixteen. But that is not all. Emilio, you 
 do not know the Signorina." 
 
 Artois repressed a smile. The Marchesino was per- 
 fectly in earnest. 
 
 "And you do you know the Signorina?" Artois 
 asked. 
 
 "Certainly I know her," returned the Marchesino with 
 gravity. 
 
 They reached Ruffo's boat. As they did so, the Mar- 
 chesino glanced at it with a certain knowing impudence 
 that was peculiarly Neapolitan. 
 
 ' ' When I came to the top of the islet the Signorina was 
 with that boy," the Marchesino continued. 
 
 "Well?" said Artois. 
 
 "Oh, you need not be angry, Emilio caro." 
 
 "I am not angry," said Artois. 
 
 127
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ftor was he. It is useless to be angry with racial 
 characteristics, racial points of view. He knew that 
 well. The Marchesino stared at him. 
 
 "No, I see you are not." 
 
 "The Signorina was with that boy. She has talked to 
 him before. He has dived for her. He has sung for her! 
 She has given him cigarettes, taken from her mother's 
 box, with her mother's consent. Everything the Sig- 
 norina does her mother knows and approves of. You 
 saw the Signora send the Signorina for more cigarettes to 
 give the boy to-night. Ebbene?" 
 
 "Ebbene. They are English!" 
 
 And he laughed. 
 
 "Madre mia!" 
 
 He laughed again, seized his mustaches, twisted them, 
 and went on. 
 
 "They are English, but for all that the Signorina is a 
 woman. And as to that boy " 
 
 "Perhaps he is a man." 
 
 "Certainly he is. Dio mio, the boy at least is a 
 Neapolitan." 
 
 "No, he isn't." 
 
 "He is not?" 
 
 "He's a Sicilian." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I was here the other day when he was diving for 
 frutti di mare." 
 
 "I have seen him at the Mergellina ever since he was 
 a child." 
 
 "He says he is a Sicilian." 
 
 "Boys like that say anything if they can get something 
 by it. Perhaps he thought you liked the Sicilians better 
 than the Neapolitans. But anyhow Sicilian or Neapoli- 
 tan, it is all one! He is a Southerner, and at fifteen a 
 Southerner is already a man. I was." 
 
 "I know it. But you were proving to me that the 
 128
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Signorina is a woman. The fact that she, an English 
 girl, is good friends with that fisher boy does not prove 
 it." 
 
 "Ah, well!" 
 
 The Marchesino hesitated. 
 
 "I had seen the Signorina before I came to meet you 
 at the house." 
 
 "Had you?" 
 
 "Didn't you know it?" 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 "I knew she told you." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "She told you! she told you! She is birbante. She 
 is a woman, for she pretended as only a woman can pre- 
 tend." 
 
 "What did she pretend?" 
 
 "That she was not pleased at my coming, at my rind- 
 ing out where she lived, and seeking her. Why, Emilio, 
 even when I was in the sea, when I was doing the seal, 
 I could read the Signorina's character. She showed me 
 from the boat that she wanted me to come, that she 
 \vishedtoknowme. Ah, che simpatica! Che simpatica 
 ragazza!" 
 
 The Marchesino looked once more at Ruffo. 
 
 "Come here a minute!" he said, in a low voice, not 
 wishing to wake the still sleeping fishermen. 
 
 The boy jumped lightly out and came to them. When 
 he stood still the Marchesino said, in his broadest 
 Neapolitan: 
 
 "Now then, you tell me the truth! I'm a Neapolitan, 
 not a forestiere. You've seen me for years at the 
 Mergellina." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "You're a Napolitano." 
 
 "No, Signore. I am a Sicilian." 
 
 There was a sound of pride in the boy's voice. 
 
 129
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I am quite sure he speaks the truth," Artois said, in 
 French. 
 
 "Why do you come here?" asked the Marchesino. 
 
 "Signore, I come to fish." 
 
 "For cigarettes?" 
 
 "No, Signore, for sardc. Buona notte, Signore." 
 
 He turned away from them with decision, and went 
 back to his boat. 
 
 "He is a Sicilian," said Artois. "I would swear to it." 
 
 "Why? Hark at his accent." 
 
 "He is a Sicilian!" 
 
 "But why are you so sure?" 
 
 Artois only said : 
 
 "Are you going to fish?" 
 
 "Emilio, I cannot fish to-night. My soul is above 
 such work as fishing. It is indeed. Let us go back to 
 Naples." 
 
 "Va bene." 
 
 Artois was secretly glad. He, too, had no mind or 
 was it no heart ? for fishing that night, after the episode 
 of the islet. They hailed the sailors, who were really 
 asleep this time, and were soon far out on the path of the 
 moonlight setting their course towards Naples.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ON the following morning Hermione and Vere went 
 for an excursion to Capri. They were absent from the 
 island for three nights. When they returned they found 
 a card lying upon the table in the little hall ' ' Marchese 
 Isidore Panacci di Torno" and Gaspare told them that 
 it had been left by a Signore, who had called on the day 
 of their departure, and had seemed very disappointed to 
 hear that they were gone. 
 
 "I do not know this Signore," Gaspare added, rather 
 grimly. 
 
 Vere laughed, and suddenly made her eyes look very 
 round, and staring, and impudent. 
 
 "He's like that, Gaspare," she said. 
 
 "Vere!" said her mother. 
 
 Then she added to Gaspare: 
 
 "The Marchese is a friend of Don Emilio's. Ah! and 
 here is a letter from Don Emilio." 
 
 It was lying beside the Marchese's card with some other 
 letters. Hermione opened it first, and read that Artois 
 had been unexpectedly called away to Paris on business, 
 but intended to return to Naples as soon as possible, and 
 to spend the whole summer on the Bay. 
 
 ' ' I feel specially that this summer I should like to be 
 near you," he wrote. "I hope you wish it." 
 
 At the end of the letter there was an allusion to the 
 Marchesino, "that gay and admirably characteristic 
 Neapolitan product, the Toledo incarnate." 
 
 There was not a word of Vere.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Hermione read the letter aloud to Vere, who was stand- 
 ing beside her, evidently hoping to hear it. When she 
 had finished, Vere said: 
 
 "I am glad Monsieur Emile will be here all the sum- 
 mer." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But why specially this summer, Madre?" 
 
 "I am not sure what he means by that," Hermione 
 answered. 
 
 But she remembered the conversation in the Grotto 
 of Virgil, and wondered if her friend thought she needed 
 the comfort of his presence. 
 
 "Well, Madre?" 
 
 Vere's bright eyes were fixed upon her mother. 
 
 "Well, Vere? What is it?" 
 
 "Is there no message for me from Monsieur Emile ?" 
 
 "No, Vere." 
 
 "How forgetful of him! But never mind!" She 
 went up-stairs, looking disappointed. 
 
 Hermione re-read the letter. She wondered, perhaps 
 more than Vere, why there was no message for the child. 
 The child she was still calling Vere that in her mind, 
 even after the night conversation with Gaspare. Two 
 or three times she re-read that sentence, "I feel specially 
 that this summer I should like to be near you," and 
 considered it ; but she finally put the letter away with a 
 strong feeling that most of its meaning lay between the 
 lines, and that she had not, perhaps, the power to in- 
 terpret it. 
 
 Vere had said that Emile was forgetful. He might 
 be many things, but forgetful he was not. One of his 
 most characteristic qualities was his exceptionally sharp 
 consciousness of himself and of others. Hermione knew 
 that he was incapable of writing to her and forgetting 
 Vere while he was doing so. 
 
 She did not exactly know why, but the result upon her 
 132
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 of this letter was a certain sense of depression, a slight 
 and vague foreboding. And yet she was glad, she was 
 even thankful, to know that her friend was going to spend 
 the summer on the Bay. She blamed herself for her 
 melancholy, telling herself that there was nothing in the 
 words of Artois to make her sad. Yet she continued to 
 feel sad, to feel as if some grievous change were at hand, 
 as if she had returned to the island to confront some un- 
 toward fate. It was very absurd of her. She told her- 
 self that. 
 
 The excursion to Capri had been a cheerful -one. She 
 had enjoyed it. But all the time she had been watching 
 Vere, studying her, as she had not watched and studied 
 her before. Something had suddenly made her feel un- 
 accustomed to Vere. It might be the words of Gaspare, 
 the expression in the round eyes of the Marchesino, or 
 something new, or newly apparent, in Vere. She did 
 not know. But she did know that now the omission of 
 Artois to mention Vere in his letter seemed to add to the 
 novelty of the child for her. 
 
 That seemed strange, yet it was a fact. How absolute- 
 ly mysterious are many of the currents in our being, 
 Hermione thought. They flow far off in subterranean 
 channels, unseen by us, and scarcely ever realized, but 
 governing, carrying our lives along upon their deeps 
 towards the appointed end. 
 
 Gaspare saw that his Padrona was not quite as usual, 
 and looked at her with large-eyed inquiry, but did not at 
 first say anything. After tea, however, when Hermione 
 was sitting alone in the little garden with a book, he said 
 to her bluntly: 
 
 "Che ha Lei?" 
 
 Hermione put the book down in her lap. 
 
 "That is just what I don't know, Gaspare." 
 
 "Perhaps you are not well." 
 
 'But I believe I am, perfectly well. You know I am 
 133
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 always well. I never even have fever. And you have 
 that sometimes." 
 
 He continued to look at her searchingly. 
 
 "You have something." 
 
 He said it firmly, almost as if he were supplying her 
 with information which she needed and had lacked. 
 
 Hermione made a sound that was like a little laugh, 
 behind which there was no mirth. 
 
 "I don't know what it is." 
 
 Then, after a pause, she added that phrase which is so 
 often upon Sicilian lips: 
 
 "Ma forse e il destine." 
 
 Gaspare moved his head once as if in acquiescence. 
 
 "When we are young, Signora," he said, "we do what 
 we want, but we have to want it. And we think we are 
 very free. And when we are old we don't feel to want 
 anything, but we have to do things just the same. 
 Signora, we are not free. It is all destiny." 
 
 And again he moved his head solemnly, making his 
 liquid brown eyes look more enormous than usual. 
 
 "It is all destiny," Hermione repeated, almost 
 dreamily. 
 
 Just then she felt that it was so that each human 
 being, and she most of all, was in the grasp of an in- 
 flexible, of an almost fierce guide, who chose the paths, 
 and turned the feet of each traveller, reluctant or not, 
 into the path the will of the guide had selected. And 
 now, still dreamily, she wondered whether she would 
 ever try to rebel if the path selected for her were one 
 that she hated or feared, one that led into any horror of 
 darkness, or any horror of too great light. For light, 
 too, can be terrible, a sudden great light that shines piti- 
 lessly upon one's own soul. She was of those who 
 possess force and impulse, and she knew it. She knew, 
 too, that these are often rebellious. But to-day it 
 seemed to her that she might believe so much in destiny, 
 
 134
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 be so entirely certain of the inflexible purpose and power 
 of the guide, that her intellect might forbid her to rebel, 
 because of rebellion's fore-ordained inutility. Neverthe- 
 less, she supposed that if it was her instinct to rebel, she 
 would do so at the psychological moment, even against 
 the dictates of her intellect. 
 
 Gaspare remained beside her quietly. He often stood 
 near her after they had been talking together, and 
 calmly shared the silence with her. She liked that. It 
 gave her an impression of his perfect confidence in her, 
 his perfect ease in her company. 
 
 "Don't you ever think that you can put a knife into 
 Destiny, Gaspare," she asked him presently, using an 
 image he would be likely to understand, "as you might 
 put a knife into a man who tried to force you to do some- 
 thing you didn't wish to do?" 
 
 "Signora, what would be the use? The knife is no 
 good against Destiny, nor the revolver either. And I 
 have the permesso to carry one," he added, with a smile, 
 as if he realized that he was being whimsical. 
 
 "Well, then, we must just hope that Destiny will be 
 very kind to us, be a friend to us, a true comrade. I 
 shall hope that and so must you." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He realized that the conversation was finished, and 
 went quietly away. 
 
 Hermione kept the letter of Artois. When he came 
 back to the Bay she wanted to show it to him, to ask him 
 to read for her the meaning between its lines. She put 
 it away in her writing-table drawer, and then resolved 
 to forget the peculiar and disagreeable effect it had 
 made upon her. 
 
 A fortnight passed away before Artois' return. June 
 came in upon the Bay, bringing with it a more vivid life 
 in the environs of Naples. As the heat of the sun in- 
 creased the vitality of the human motes that danced in
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 its beams seemed to increase also, to become more 
 blatant, more persistent. The wild oleander was in 
 flower. The thorny cactus put forth upon the rim of its 
 grotesque leaves pale yellow blossoms to rival the red 
 geraniums that throng about it insolently in Italy. In 
 the streets of the city ragged boys ran by crying, ' ' Fra- 
 gole!" and holding aloft the shallow baskets in which the 
 rosy fruit made splashes of happy color. The carters 
 wore bright carnations above their dusty ears. The 
 children exposed their bare limbs to the sun, and were 
 proud when they were given morsels of ice wrapped up 
 in vine leaves to suck in the intervals of their endless 
 dances and their play. On the hill of Posilipo the 
 Venetian blinds of the houses, in the gardens clouded by 
 the rounded dusk of the great stone pines, were thrust 
 back, the windows were thrown open, the glad sun-rays 
 fell upon the cool paved floors, over which few feet had 
 trodden since the last summer died. Loud was the call 
 of "Aqua!" along the roads where there were buildings, 
 and all the lemons of Italy seemed to be set forth in 
 bowers to please the eyes with their sharp, yet soothing 
 color, and tempt the lips with their poignant juice. 
 Already in the Galleria, an "avviso" was prominently 
 displayed, stating that Ferdinando Bucci, the famous 
 maker of Sicilian ice-creams, had arrived from Palermo 
 for the season. In the Piazza, del Plebiscite, hundreds 
 of chairs were ranged before the bandstand, and before 
 the kiosk where the women sing on the nights of summer 
 near the Caffe Turco. The "Margherita" was shutting 
 up. The "Eldorado" was opening. And all along the 
 sea, from the vegetable gardens protected by brushwood 
 hedges on the outskirts of the city towards Portici, to the 
 balconies of the "Mascotte," under the hill of Posilipo, 
 the wooden bathing establishments were creeping out 
 into the shallow waters, and displaying proudly to the 
 passers-by above their names: " Stabilimento Elena," 
 
 136
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 " Stabilimento Donn' Anna," " Stabilimento delle Si- 
 rene," "II piccolo Paradise." 
 
 And all along the sea by night there was music. 
 
 From the Piazza, before the Palace the band of the 
 Caffe Gambrinus sent forth its lusty valses. The pos- 
 turing women of the wooden kiosk caught up the chain 
 of sound, and flung it on with their shrill voices down the 
 hill towards Santa Lucia, where, by the waterside and the 
 crowding white yachts, the itinerant musicians took it 
 into the keeping of their guitars, their mandolins, their 
 squeaky fiddles, and their hot and tremulous voices. 
 The "Valse Bleu," "Santa Lucia," "Addio, mia bella 
 Napoli," "La Frangese," "Sole Mio," "Marechiaro," 
 "Carolina," "La Ciociara"; with the chain of lights the 
 chain of songs was woven round the bay; from the 
 Eldorado, past the Hotel de Vesuve, the Hotel Royal, 
 the Victoria, to the tree-shaded alleys of the Villa 
 Nazionale, to the Mergellina, where the naked urchins of 
 the fisherfolk took their evening bath among the resting 
 boats, to the "Scoglio di Frisio," and upwards to the 
 Ristorante della Stella, and downwards again to the 
 Ristorante del Mare, and so away to the point, to the 
 Antico Giuseppone. 
 
 Long and brilliant was the chain of lamps, and long 
 and ardent was the chain of melodies melting one into the 
 other, and stretching to the wide darkness of the night 
 and to th3 great stillness of the sea. The night was alive 
 with music, with the voices that beat like hearts over- 
 charged with sentimental longings. 
 
 But at the point where stood the Antico Giuseppone 
 the lights and the songs died out. And beyond there 
 was the mystery, the stillness of the sea. 
 
 And there, beyond the chain of lights, the chain of 
 melodies, the islet lay in its delicate isolation; never- 
 theless, it, too, was surely not unaware of the coming of 
 summer. For even here, Nature ran up her flag to 
 
 137
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 honor her new festival. High up above the rock on the 
 mainland opposite there was a golden glory of ginestra, 
 the broom plant, an expanse of gold so brilliant, so 
 daring in these bare surroundings, that Vere said, when 
 she saw it: 
 
 "There is something cruel even in beauty, Madre. 
 Do you like successful audacity?" 
 
 "I think I used to when I was your age," said Her- 
 mione. "Anything audacious was attractive to me 
 then. But now I sometimes see through it too easily, 
 and want something quieter and a little more mys- 
 terious." 
 
 "The difference between the Marchesino and Monsieur 
 Emile?" said the girl, with a little laugh. 
 
 Hermione laughed, too. 
 
 "Do you think Monsieur Emile mysterious?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes certainly. Don't you?" 
 
 "I have known him so intimately for so many years." 
 
 "Well, but that does not change him. Does it?" 
 
 "No. But it may make him appear very different- 
 ly to me from the way in which he shows himself to 
 others." 
 
 "I think if I knew Monsieur Emile for centuries I 
 should always wonder about him." 
 
 "What is it in Emile that makes you wonder?" asked 
 her mother, with a real curiosity. 
 
 "The same thing that makes me wonder when I look 
 at a sleepy lion." 
 
 "You call Emile sleepy!" said Hermione. 
 
 "Oh, not his intellect, Madre! Of course that is 
 horribly, horribly wide awake." 
 
 And Vere ran off to her room, or the garden, or the 
 Saint's Pool who knew where ? leaving her mother to 
 say to herself, as she had already said to herself in these 
 last days of the growing summer, "When I said that to 
 
 138
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Emile, what a fool I was!" She was thinking of her 
 statement that there was nothing in her child that was 
 hidden from her. As if in answer to that statement, 
 Vere was unconsciously showing to her day by day the 
 folly of it. Emile had said nothing. Hermione re- 
 membered that, and realized that his silence had been 
 caused by his disagreement. But why had he not told 
 her she was mistaken? Perhaps because she had just 
 been laying bare to him the pain that was in her heart. 
 Her call had been for sympathy, not merely for truth. 
 She wondered whether she was a coward. Since they had 
 returned from Capri the season and Vere had surely 
 changed. Then, and always afterwards, Hermione 
 thought of those three days in Capri as a definite barrier, 
 a dividing line between two periods. Already, while in 
 Capri, she had begun to watch her child in a new way. 
 But that was, perhaps, because of an uneasiness, part- 
 ly nervous, within herself. In Capri she might have 
 been imagining. Now she was not imagining, she was 
 realizing. 
 
 Over the sea came to the islet the intensity of summer. 
 Their world was changing. And in this changing world 
 Vere was beginning to show forth more clearly than 
 before her movement onward whither? 
 
 As yet the girl herself was unconscious of her mother's 
 new watchfulness. She was happy in the coming of 
 summer, and in her happiness was quite at ease, like a 
 kitten that stretches itself luxuriously in the sun. To 
 Vere the world never seemed quite awake till the summer 
 came. Only in the hot sunshine did there glow the truth- 
 fulness and the fulness of life. She shared it with the 
 ginestra. She saw and felt a certain cruelty in the gold, 
 but she did not fear or condemn it, or wish it away. 
 For she was very young, and though she spoke of cruelty 
 she did not really understand it. In it there was force, 
 and force already appealed to the girl as few things did. 
 10 139
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 As, long ago, her father had gloried in the coming of 
 summer to the South, she gloried in it now. She looked 
 across the Pool of the Saint to the flood of yellow that 
 was like sunlight given a body upon the cliff opposite, 
 and her soul revelled within her, and her heart rose up 
 and danced, alone, and yet as if in a glad company of 
 dancers, all of whom were friends. Her brain, too, 
 sprang to the alert. The sun increased the feeling of 
 intelligence within her. 
 
 And then she thought of her room, of the hours she 
 passed shut in there, and she was torn by opposing 
 impulses. 
 
 But she told no one of them. Vere could keep her 
 secrets, although she was a girl. 
 
 How the sea welcomed the summer! To many this 
 home on the island would have seemed an arid, in- 
 hospitable place, desolate and lost amid a cruel world 
 of cliffs and waters. It was not so to Vere. For she 
 entered into the life of the sea. She knew all its 
 phases, as one may know all the moods of a person 
 loved. She knew when she would find it intensely calm, 
 at early morning and when the evening approached. 
 At a certain hour, with a curious regularity, the breeze 
 came, generally from Ischia, and turned it to vivacity. 
 A temper that was almost frivolous then possessed it, 
 and it broke into gayeties like a child's. The waves 
 were small, but they were impertinently lively. They 
 made a turmoil such as urchins make at play. Heedless 
 of reverence, but not consciously impious, they flung 
 themselves at the feet of San Francesco, casting up a 
 tiny tribute of spray into the sun. 
 
 Then Vere thought that the Saint looked down with 
 pleasure at them, as a good old man looks at a crowd of 
 laughing children who have run against him in the 
 street, remembering his own youth. For even the 
 Saints were young! And, after that, surely the waves 
 
 140
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 were a little less boisterous. She thought she noted a 
 greater calm. But perhaps it was only that the breeze 
 was dying down as the afternoon wore on. 
 
 She often sat and wondered which she loved best 
 the calm that lay upon the sea at dawn, or the calm that 
 was the prelude to the night. Silvery were these dawn? 
 of the summer days. Here and there the waters gleamed 
 like the scales of some lovely fish. Mysterious lights, 
 like those in the breast of the opal, shone in the breast 
 of the sea, stirred, surely travelled as if endowed with 
 life, then sank away to the far-off kingdoms that man 
 may never look on. Those dawns drew away the girl's 
 soul as if she were led by angels, or, like Peter, walked 
 upon the deep at some divine command. She felt that 
 though her body was on the islet the vital part of her, 
 the real "I," was free to roam across the great expanse 
 that lay flat and still and delicately mysterious to the 
 limits of eternity. 
 
 She had strange encounters there, the soul of her, as 
 she went towards the East. 
 
 The evening calm was different. There was, Vere 
 thought, less of heaven about it, but perhaps more of the 
 wonder of this world. And this made her feel as if she 
 had been nearer to heaven at her birth than she would 
 be at her death. She knew nothing of the defilements 
 of life. Her purity of mind was very perfect ; but, taking 
 a parable from Nature, she applied it imaginatively to 
 Man, and she saw him covered with dust because of his 
 journey through the world. Poor man! 
 
 And then she pitied herself too. But that passed. 
 For if the sea at evening held most of the wonder of this 
 world, it was worth the holding. Barely would she 
 substitute the heavenly mysteries for it. The fisher- 
 men's boats were dreams upon a dream. Each sail was 
 akin to a miracle. A voice that called across the water 
 from a distance brought tears to Vere's eyes when the 
 
 141
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 magic was at its fullest. For it seemed to mean all 
 things that were tender, all things that were wistful, all 
 things that trembled with hope that trembled with 
 love. 
 
 With summer Vere could give herself up to the sea, 
 and not only imaginatively but by a bodily act. 
 
 Every day, and sometimes twice a day, she put on her 
 bathing-dress in the Casa del Mare, threw a thin cloak 
 over her, and ran down to the edge of the sea, where 
 Gaspare was waiting with the boat. Hermione did not 
 bathe. It did not suit her now. And Gaspare was 
 Vere's invariable companion. He had superintended 
 her bathing when she was little. He had taught her to 
 swim. And with no one else would he ever trust his 
 Padroncina when she gave herself to the sea. Some- 
 times he would row her out to a reef of rocks in the open 
 water not many yards from the island, and she would 
 dive from them. Sometimes, if it was very hot, he would 
 take her to the Grotto of Virgil. Sometimes they went 
 far out to sea, and then, like her father in the Ionian Sea 
 before the Casa delle Sirene, Vere would swim away and 
 imagine that this was her mode of travel, that she was 
 journeying alone to some distant land, or that she had 
 been taken by the sea forever. 
 
 But very soon she would be sure to hear the soft splash 
 of oars following her, and, looking back, would see the 
 large, attentive eyes of the faithful Gaspare cautiously 
 watching her dark head. Then she would lift up one 
 hand, and call to him to go, and say she did not want 
 him, that she wished to be alone, smiling and yet im- 
 perious. He only followed quietly and inflexibly. She 
 would dive. She would swim under water. She would 
 swim her fastest, as if really anxious to escape him. It 
 was a game between them now. But always he was 
 there, intent upon her safety. 
 
 Vere did not know the memories within Gaspare that 
 
 142
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 made him such a guardian to the child of the Padrone he 
 had loved; but she loved him secretly for his watchful- 
 ness, even though now and then she longed to be quite 
 alone with the sea. And this she never was when 
 bathing, for Hermione had exacted a promise from her 
 not to go to bathe without Gaspare. In former days 
 Vere had once or twice begun to protest against this 
 prohibition, but something in her mother's eyes had 
 stopped her. And she had remembered: 
 
 "Father was drowned in the sea." 
 
 Then, understanding something of what was in her 
 mother's heart, she threw eager arms about her, and 
 anxiously promised to be good. 
 
 One afternoon of the summer, towards the middle of 
 June, she prolonged her bathe in the Grotto of Virgil 
 until Gaspare used his authority, and insisted on her 
 coming out of the water. 
 
 "One minute more, Gaspare! Only another minute!" 
 
 "Ma Signorina!" 
 
 She dived. She came up. 
 
 "Ma veramente Signorina!" 
 
 She dived again. 
 
 Gaspare waited. He was standing up in the boat with 
 the oars in his hands, ready to make a dash at his 
 Padroncina directly she reappeared, but she was wily, 
 and came up behind the boat with a shrill cry that 
 startled him. He looked round reproachfully over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Signorina," he said, turning the boat round, "you 
 are like a wicked baby to-day." 
 
 "What is it, Gaspare?" she asked, this time letting 
 him come towards her. 
 
 ' ' I say that you are like a wicked baby. And only 
 the other day I was saying to the Signora " 
 
 "What were you saying?" 
 
 She swam to the boat and got in. 
 
 143
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "What?" she repeated, sitting down on the gunwale, 
 while he began to row towards the islet. 
 
 "I was saying that you are nearly a woman now." 
 
 Vere seemed extraordinarily thin and young as she 
 sat there in her dripping bathing-dress, with her small, 
 bare feet distilling drops into the bottom of the boat, 
 and her two hands, looking drowned, holding lightly to 
 the wood on each side of her. Even Gaspare, as he 
 spoke, was struck by this, and by the intensely youthful 
 expression in the eyes that now regarded him curiously. 
 
 "Really, Gaspare?" 
 
 Vere asked the question quite seriously. 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 "A woman!" 
 
 She looked down, as if considering herself. Her wet 
 face had become thoughtful, and for a moment she said 
 nothing. 
 
 "And what did mother say?" she asked, looking up 
 again. "But I know. I am sure she laughed at you." 
 
 Gaspare looked rather offended. His expressive face, 
 which always showed what he was feeling, became al- 
 most stern, and he began to row faster than before. 
 
 "Why should the Signora laugh? Am I an im- 
 becile, Signorina?" 
 
 "You?" 
 
 She hastened to correct the impression she had made. 
 
 "Why, Gaspare, you are our Providence!" 
 
 "Va bene, but " 
 
 "I only meant that I am sure Madre wouldn't agree 
 with you. She thinks me quite a child. I know that." 
 
 She spoke with conviction, nodding her head. 
 
 "Perhaps the Signora does not see." 
 
 Vere smiled. 
 
 "Gaspare, I believe you are horribly sharp," she said. 
 " I often think you notice everything. You are birbante. 
 I am half afraid of you." 
 
 144
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Gaspare smiled, too. He had quite recovered his 
 good humor. It pleased him mightily to fancy he had 
 seen what the Padrona had not seen. 
 
 " I am a man, Signorina," he observed, quietly. "And 
 I do not speak till I know. Why should I ? And I was 
 at your baptism. When we came back to the house I 
 put rive lire on the bed to bring you luck, although you 
 were not a Catholic. But it is just the same. Your 
 Saint will take care of you." 
 
 "Well, but if I am almost a woman what then, 
 Gaspare?" 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "Mustn't I play about any more? Mustn't I do just 
 what I feel inclined to, as I did in the Grotto just now?" 
 
 "There is no harm in that, Signorina. I was only 
 joking then. But " 
 
 He hesitated, looking at her firmly with his unfaltering 
 gaze. 
 
 ' ' But what ? I believe you want to scold me about 
 something. I am sure you do." 
 
 "No, Signorina, never! But women cannot talk to 
 everybody, as children can. Nobody thinks anything 
 of what children say. People only laugh and say ' Ecco, 
 it's a baby talking.' But when we are older it is all 
 different. People pay attention to us. We are of more 
 importance then." 
 
 He did not mention Ruffo. He was too delicate to do 
 that, for instinctively he understood how childish his 
 Padroncina still was. And, at that moment, Vere did 
 not think of Ruffo. She wondered a little what Gaspare 
 was thinking. That there was some special thought be- 
 hind his words, prompting them, she knew. But she 
 did not ask him what it was, for already they were at the 
 islet, and she must run in, and put on her clothes. Gas- 
 pare put her cloak carefully over her shoulders, and she 
 hurried lightly up the steps and into her room. Her 
 
 MS
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mother was not in the house. She had gone to Naples 
 that day to see some poor people in whom she was in- 
 terested. So Vere was quite alone. She took off her 
 bathing-dress, and began to put on her things rather 
 slowly. Her whole body was deliciously lulled by its 
 long contact with the sea. She felt gloriously calm and 
 gloriously healthy just then, but her mind was working 
 vigorously though quietly. 
 
 A woman! The word sounded a little solemn and 
 heavy, and, somehow, dreadfully respectable. And 
 she thought of her recent behavior in the Grotto, and 
 laughed aloud. She was so very slim, too. The word 
 woman suggested to her some one more bulky than she 
 was. But all that was absurd, of course. She was think- 
 ing very frivolously to-day. 
 
 She put on her dress and fastened it. At the age of 
 sixteen she had put up her hair, but now it was still wet, 
 and she had left it streaming over her shoulders. In a 
 moment she was going out onto the cliff to let the sun 
 dry it thoroughly. The sun was so much better than 
 any towel. With her hair down she really looked like 
 a child, whatever Gaspare thought. She said that to 
 herself, standing for a moment before the glass. Vere 
 was almost as divinely free from self-consciousness as 
 her father had been. But the conversation in the 
 boat had made her think of herself very seriously, and 
 now she considered herself, not without keen interest. 
 
 "I am certainly not a wicked baby," she said to her- 
 self. "But I don't think I look at all like a woman." 
 
 Her dark eyes met the eyes in the glass and smiled. 
 
 "And yet I shall be seventeen quite soon. What 
 can have made Gaspare talk like that to Madre? I 
 wonder what he said exactly. And then that about 
 'women cannot talk to everybody as children can.' Now 
 what ?" 
 
 Ruffo came into her mind. 
 
 146
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Ah!" she said, aloud. 
 
 The figure in the glass made a little gesture. It threw 
 up its hand. 
 
 "That 'sit! That's it! Gaspare thinks " 
 
 ' ' Signorina ! Signorina ! ' ' 
 
 Gaspare's voice was speaking outside the door. And 
 now there came a firm knock. Vere turned round, rather 
 startled. She had been very much absorbed by her 
 colloquy. 
 
 "What is it, Gaspare?" 
 
 "Signorina, there's a boat coming in from Naples with 
 Don Emilio in it." 
 
 "Don Emilio! He's come back! Oh!" There was a 
 pause. Then she cried out, "Capital! Capital!" 
 
 She ran to the door and opened it. 
 
 , "Just think of Don Emilio's being back already, 
 Gaspare. But Madre! She will be sorry." 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "Why? What's the matter?" 
 
 "Are you coming like that?" 
 
 "What? Oh, you mean my hair?" 
 
 "Si, Signorina." 
 
 "Gaspare, you ought to have been a lady's maid! 
 Go and bring in Don Emilio to Madre's room. And 
 wait you're not to tell him Madre is away. Now 
 mind!" 
 
 "Va bene, Signorina." 
 
 He went away. 
 
 " Shall I put up my hair ?" 
 
 Vere went again to the glass, and stood considering 
 herself. 
 
 "For Monsieur Emile! No, it's too absurd! Gaspare 
 really is ... I sha'n't!" 
 
 And she ran out just as she was to meet Artois.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 
 
 WHEN she reached her mother's sitting-room Artois 
 was already there speaking to Gaspare by a window. 
 He turned rather quickly as Vere came in, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Vere! Why" 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, " Gaspare hasn't gone!" 
 
 A look almost of dread, half pretence but with some 
 reality in it, too, came into her face. 
 
 "Gaspare, forgive me! I was in such a hurry. And 
 it is only Don Emilio!" 
 
 Her voice was coaxing. Gaspare looked at his 
 Padroncina with an attempt at reprobation ; but his nose 
 twitched, and though he tried to compress his lips they 
 began to stretch themselves in a smile. 
 
 ' ' Signorina ! Signorina ! " he exclaimed . ' ' Madonna ! ' ' 
 
 On that exclamation he went out, trying to make 
 his back look condemnatory. 
 
 "Only Don Emilio!" Artois repeated. 
 
 Vere went to him, and took and held his hand for a 
 moment. 
 
 "Yes only! That's my little compliment. Madre 
 would say of you, 'He's such an old shoe!' Such com- 
 pliments come from the heart, you know." 
 
 She still held his hand. 
 
 "I should have to put my hair up for anybody else. 
 And Gaspare wanted me to for you." 
 
 Artois was looking rather grave and tired. She noticed 
 that now, and dropped his hand and moved towards a 
 bell. 
 
 148
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Tea!" she said, "all alone with me for a treat!" 
 
 "Isn't your mother in?" 
 
 "No. She's gone to Naples. I'm very, very sorry. 
 Make the best of it, Monsieur Emile, for the sake of n^y 
 amour propre. I said I was sorry but that was only 
 for you, and Madre." 
 
 Artois smiled. 
 
 "Is an old shoe a worthy object of gross flattery?" 
 he said. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then" 
 
 "Don't be cantankerous, and don't be subtle, because 
 I've been bathing." 
 
 "I notice that." 
 
 "And I feel so calm and delicious. Tea, please, 
 Giulia." 
 
 The plump, dark woman who had opened the door 
 smiled and retreated. 
 
 "So calm and so delicious, Monsieur Emile, and as if 
 I were made of friendliness from top to toe." 
 
 "The all-the-world feeling. I know." 
 
 He sat down, rather heavily. 
 
 ' ' You are tired. When did you come ?" 
 
 "I arrived this morning. It was hot travelling, and 
 I shared my compartment in the wagon-lit with a Ger- 
 man gentleman very far advanced in several unaesthetic 
 ailments. Basta! Thank Heaven for this. Calm and 
 delicious!" 
 
 His large, piercing eyes were fixed upon Vere. 
 
 "And about twelve," he added, "or twelve-and-a- 
 half." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you. I am not speaking of myself, though I 
 believe I am calm also." 
 
 "I am a woman practically." 
 
 "Practically?" 
 
 149
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Yes; isn't that the word people always put in when 
 they mean 'that's a lie ' ?" 
 
 "You mean you aren't a woman! This afternoon I 
 must agree with you." 
 
 "It's the sea! But just now, when you were coming, 
 I was looking at myself in the glass and saying, ' You're 
 a woman' solemnly, you know, as if it was a dreadful 
 truth." 
 
 Artois had sat down on a sofa. He leaned back now 
 with his hands behind his head. He still looked at Vere, 
 and, as he did so, he heard the faint whisper of the sea. 
 
 "Child of nature," he said "call yourself that. It 
 covers any age, and it's blessedly true." 
 
 Giulia came in at this moment with tea. She smiled 
 again broadly on Artois, and received and returned his 
 greeting with the comfortable and unembarrassed friend- 
 liness of the Italian race. As she went out she was still 
 smiling. 
 
 4 ' Addio to the German gentleman with the unaesthetic 
 ailments!" said Artois. 
 
 An almost boyish sensation of sheer happiness in- 
 vaded him. It made him feel splendidly untalkative. 
 And he felt for a moment, too, as if his intellect lay down 
 to sleep. 
 
 "Cara Giula!" he added, after a rapturous silence. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Carissima Giulia!" 
 
 "Yes, Giulia is " 
 
 44 They all are, and the island, and the house upon it, 
 and this clear yellow tea, and this brown toast, and this 
 butter from Lombardy. They all are." 
 
 "I believe you are feeling good all over, Monsieur 
 Emile." 
 
 "San Gennaro knows I am." 
 
 He drank some tea, and ate some toast, spreading the 
 butter upon it with voluptuous deliberation.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Then I'm sure he's pleased." 
 
 "Paris, hateful Paris!" 
 
 "Oh, but that's abusive. A person who feels good all 
 over should not say that." 
 
 "You are right, Vere. But when are you not right? 
 You ought always to wear your hair down, mon enfant, 
 and always to have just been bathing." 
 
 "And you ought always to have just been trav- 
 elling." 
 
 " It is true that a dreadful past can be a blessing as well 
 as a curse. It is profoundly true. Why have I never 
 realized that before?" 
 
 "If I am twelve and a half, I think you are about 
 about " 
 
 "For the love of the sea make it under twenty, Vere." 
 
 "Nineteen, then." 
 
 "Were you going to make it under twenty?" 
 
 "Yes, I was." 
 
 "I don't believe you. Yes, I do, I do! You are an 
 artist. You realize that truth is a question of feeling, 
 not a question of fact. You penetrate beneath the gray 
 hairs as the prosaic never do. This butter is delicious! 
 And to think that there have been moments when I 
 have feared butter, when I have kept an eye upon a 
 corpulent future. Give me some more, plenty more." 
 
 Vere stretched out her hand to the tea-table, but it 
 shook. She drew it back, and burst into a peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 "What are you laughing at?" said Artois, with bur- 
 lesque majesty. 
 
 "At you. What's the matter with you, Monsieur 
 Emile ? How can you be so foolish ?" 
 
 She lay back in her chair, with her hair streaming 
 about her, and her thin body quivered, as if the sense of 
 fun within her were striving to break through its prison 
 walls.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "This," said Artois, "this is sheer impertinence. I 
 venture to inquire for butter, and 
 
 "To inquire! One, two, three, four five pats of 
 butter right in front of you! And you inquire !" 
 
 Artois suddenly sent out a loud roar to join her child- 
 ish treble. 
 
 The tea had swept away his previous sensation of 
 fatigue, even the happy stolidity that had succeeded 
 it for an instant. He felt full of life and gayety, and 
 a challenging mental activity. A similar challenging 
 activity, he thought, shone in the eyes of the girl op- 
 posite to him. 
 
 "Thank God I can still be foolish!" he exclaimed. 
 "And thank God that there are people in the world de- 
 void of humor. My German friend was without humor. 
 Only that fact enabled me to endure his prodigious 
 collection of ailments. But for the heat I might even 
 have revelled in them. He was asthmatic, without 
 humor; dyspeptic, without humor. He had a bad cold 
 in the head, without humor, and got up into the top 
 berth with two rheumatic legs and a crick in the back, 
 without humor. Had he seen the fun of himself, the 
 fun would have meant much less to me." 
 
 "You cruel person!" 
 
 "There is often cruelty in humor perhaps not in 
 yours, though, yet." 
 
 "Why do you say yet, like that?" 
 
 "The hair is such a kindly veil that I doubt the exist- 
 ence of cruelty behind it." 
 
 He spoke with a sort of almost tender and paternal 
 gentleness. 
 
 "I don't believe you could ever be really cruel, Mon- 
 sieur Emile." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I think you are too intelligent." 
 
 "Why should that prevent me?" 
 
 IS 2
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Isn't cruelty stupid, unimaginative?" 
 
 "Often. But it can be brilliant, artful, intellectual, 
 full of imagination. It can be religious. It can be 
 passionate. It can be splendid. It can be almost 
 everything." 
 
 "Splendid!" 
 
 "Like Napoleon's cruelty to France. But why 
 should I educate you in abominable knowledge?" 
 
 "Oh," said the girl, thrusting forward her firm little 
 chin, "I have no faith in mere ignorance." 
 
 "Yet it does a great deal for those who are not 
 ignorant." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "It shows them how pretty, how beautiful even, some- 
 times, was the place from which they started for their 
 journey through the world." 
 
 Vere was silent for a moment. The sparkle of fun 
 had died out of her eyes, which had become dark with 
 the steadier fires of imagination. The strands of her 
 thick hair, falling down on each side of her oval face, 
 gave to it a whimsically mediaeval look, suggestive of 
 legend. Her long-fingered, delicate, but strong little 
 hands were clasped in her lap, and did not move. It 
 was evident that she was thinking deeply. 
 
 "I believe I know," she said, at last. "Yes, that was 
 my thought, or almost." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 She hesitated, looking at him, not altogether doubt- 
 fully, but with a shadow of reserve, which might easily, 
 he fancied, grow deeper, or fade entirely away. He saw 
 the resolve to speak come quietly into her mind. 
 
 "You know, Monsieur Emile, I love watching the sea," 
 she said, rather slowly and carefully. "Especially at 
 dawn, and in the evening before it is dark. And it al- 
 ways seems to me as if at dawn it is more heavenly than 
 it is after the day has happened, though it is so very 
 
 153
 
 lovely then. And sometimes that has made me feel that 
 our dawn is our most beautiful time as if we were near- 
 est the truth then. And, of course, that is when we are 
 most ignorant, isn't it ? So I suppose I have been think- 
 ing a little bit like you. Haven't I?" 
 
 She asked it, earnestly. Artois had never heard her 
 speak quite like this before, with a curious deliberation 
 that was nevertheless without self -consciousness. Be- 
 fore he could answer she added, abruptly, as if correcting, 
 or even almost condemning herself: 
 
 "I can put it much better than that. I have." 
 
 Artois leaned forward. Something, he did not quite 
 know what, made him feel suddenly a deep interest in 
 what Vere said -a strong curiosity even. 
 
 "You have put it much better?" he said. 
 
 Vere suddenly looked conscious. A faint wave of red 
 went over her face and down to her small neck. Her 
 hands moved and parted. She seemed half ashamed of 
 something for a minute. 
 
 "Madre doesn't know," she murmured, as if she were 
 giving him a reason for something. "It isn't interest- 
 ing," she added. "Except, of course, to me." 
 
 Artois was watching her. 
 
 "I think you really want to tell me," he said now. 
 
 "Oh yes, in a way I do. I have been half wanting to 
 for a long time but only half." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 She looked at him, but almost instantly looked down 
 again, with a sort of shyness he had never seen in her 
 before. And her eyes had been full of a strange and 
 beautiful sensitiveness. 
 
 "Never mind, Vere," he said, quickly, obedient to those 
 eyes, and responding to their delicate subtlety. "We all 
 have our righteous secrets, and should all respect the 
 righteous secrets of others." 
 
 "Yes, I think we should. And I know you would be 
 
 154
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the very last, at least Madre and you, to I think I'm 
 being rather absurd, really." The last words were said 
 with a sudden change of tone to determination, as if 
 Vere were taking herself to task. "I'm making a lot of 
 almost nothing. You see, if I am a woman, as Gaspare 
 is making out, I'm at any rate a very young one, am I 
 not?" 
 
 "The youngest that exists." 
 
 As he said that Artois thought, "Mon Dieu! If the 
 Marchesino could only see her now!" 
 
 "If humor is cruel, Monsieur Emile," Vere continued, 
 "you will laugh at me. For I am sure, if I tell you 
 and I know now I'm going to you will think this fuss is 
 as ridiculous as the German's cold in the head, and poor 
 legs, and all. I wrote that about the sea." 
 
 She said the last sentence with a sort of childish de- 
 fiance. 
 
 "Wait," said Artois. "Now I begin to understand." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "All those hours spent in your room. Your mother 
 thought you were reading." 
 
 "No," she said, still rather defiantly; "I've been writ- 
 ing that, and other things about the sea." 
 
 "How? In prose?" 
 
 "No. That's the worst of it, I suppose." 
 
 And again the faint wave of color went over her face 
 to her neck. 
 
 "Do you reallv feel so criminal? Then what ought I 
 to feel?" 
 
 "You? Now that is really cruel!" she cried, getting up 
 quickly, almost as if she meant to hurry away. 
 
 But she only stood there in front of him, near the 
 window. 
 
 "Never mind!" she said. "Only you remember that 
 Madre tried. She has never said much about it to me. 
 But now and then from just a word I know that she feeib 
 " J S5
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 bad, that she wishes very much she could do something. 
 Only the other day she said to me, ' We have the instinct, 
 men the vocabulary.' She was meaning that you had. 
 She even told me to ask you something that I had asked 
 her, and she said, 'I feel all the things that he can ex- 
 plain.' And there was something in her voice that 
 hurt me for her. And Madre is so clever. Isn't she 
 clever?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And if Madre can't do things, you can imagine that 
 I feel rather absurd now that I'm telling you." 
 
 "Yes, being just as you are, Vere, I can quite imagine 
 that you do. But we can have sweet feelings of ab- 
 surdity that only arise from something moral within us, 
 a moral delicacy. However, would you like me to look 
 at what you have been writing about the sea?" 
 
 "Yes, if you can do it quite seriously." 
 
 "I could not do it in any other way." 
 
 "Then thank you." 
 
 She went out of the room, not without a sort of simple 
 dignity that was utterly removed from conceit or pre- 
 tentiousness. 
 . What a strange end, this, to their laughter! 
 
 Vere was away several minutes, during which at first 
 Artois sat quite still, leaning back, with his great frame 
 stretched out, and his hands once more behind his head. 
 His intellect was certainly very much awake now, and he 
 was setting a guard upon it, to watch it carefully, lest 
 it should be ruthless, even with Vere. And was he not 
 setting also another guard to watch the softness of his 
 nature, lest it should betray him into foolish kindness ? 
 
 Yet, after a minute, he said to himself that he was 
 wasting his time in both these proceedings. For 
 Vere's eyes were surely a touchstone to discover hon- 
 est)''. There is something merciless in the purity of un- 
 tarnished youth. What can it not divine at moments ? 
 
 156
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Artois poured out another cup of tea and drank it, 
 considering the little funny situation. Vere and he with 
 a secret from Hermione shared between them! Vere 
 submitting verses to his judgment! He remembered 
 Hermione's half-concealed tragedy, which, of course, had 
 been patent to him in its uttermost nakedness. Even 
 Vere had guessed something of it. Do we ever really 
 hide anything from every one ? And yet each one breaths 
 mystery too. The assertive man is the last of fools. Of 
 that at least Artois just then felt certain. 
 
 If Vere should really have talent ! He did not expect 
 it, although he had said that there was intellectual force 
 in the girl. There was intellectual force in Hermione, 
 but she could not create. And Vere ! He smiled as he 
 thought of her rush into the room with her hair stream- 
 ing down, of her shrieks of laughter over his absurdity. 
 But she was full of changes. 
 
 The door opened, and Vere came in holding some man- 
 uscript in her hand. She had done up her hair while she 
 had been away. When Artois saw that he heaved him- 
 self up from the sofa. 
 
 "I must smoke," he said. 
 
 "Oh yes. I'll get the Khali Targas." 
 
 "No. I must have a pipe. And you prefer that, I 
 know." 
 
 "Generally, but you do look dreadfully as if you 
 meant business when you are smoking a pipe." 
 
 "I do mean business now." 
 
 He took his pipe from his pocket, filled it and lit it. 
 
 "Now then, Vere!" he said. 
 
 She came to sit down on the sofa. 
 
 He sat down beside her.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MORE than an hour had passed. To Vere it had seem- 
 ed like five minutes. Her cheeks were hotly flushed. 
 Her eyes shone. With hands that were slightly trem- 
 bling she gathered together her manuscripts, and care- 
 fully arranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of 
 ribbon round them, tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile 
 Artois, standing up, was knocking the shreds of tobacco 
 out of his pipe against the chimney-piece into his hand. 
 He carried them over to the window, dro'pped them out, 
 then stood for a minute looking at the sea. 
 
 "The evening calm is coming, Vere," he said, "bring- 
 ing with it the wonder of this world." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He heard a soft sigh behind him, and turned round. 
 
 "Why was that? Has dejection set in, then?" 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "You know the Latin saying: ' Festina lente' ? If you 
 want to understand how slowly you must hasten, look at 
 me." 
 
 He had been going to add, "Look at these gray hairs," 
 but he did not. Just then he felt suddenly an invincible 
 reluctance to call Vere's attention to the signs of age 
 apparent in him. 
 
 "I spoke to you about the admirable incentive of am- 
 bition," he continued, after a moment. "But you must 
 understand that I meant the ambition for perfection, 
 not at all the ambition for celebrity. The satisfaction of 
 the former may be a deep and exquisite joy the partial
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 satisfaction, for I suppose it can never be anything more 
 than that. But the satisfaction of the other will certainly 
 be Dead-sea fruit fruit of the sea unlike that brought 
 up by Ruffo, without lasting savor, without any real 
 value. One should never live for that." 
 
 The last words he spoke as if to himself, almost like 
 a warning addressed to himself. 
 
 "I don't believe I ever should," Vere said, quickly. 
 "I never thought of such a thing." 
 
 "The thought will come, though, inevitably." 
 
 "How dreadful it must be to know so much about 
 human nature as you do!" 
 
 "And yet how little I really know!" 
 
 There came up a distant cry from the sea. Vere 
 started. 
 
 "There is Madre! Of course, Monsieur Emile, I don't 
 want but you understand!" 
 
 She hurried out of the room, carrying the packet with 
 her. 
 
 Artois felt that the girl was strongly excited. She 
 was revealing more of herself to him, this little Vere 
 whom he had known, and not known, ever since she had 
 been a baby. The gradual revelation interested him in- 
 tensely so intensely that in him, too, there was excite- 
 ment now. So many truths go to make up the whqle 
 round truth of every human soul. Hermione saw some 
 of these truths of Vere, Gaspare others, perhaps; he again 
 others. And even Ruffo and the Marchesino he put 
 the Marchesino most definitely last even they saw still 
 other truths of Vere, he supposed. 
 
 To whom did she reveal the most ? The mother ought 
 to know most, and during the years of childhood had 
 doubtless known most. But those years were nearly 
 over. Certainly Vere was approaching, or was on, the 
 threshold of the second period of her life. 
 
 And she and he had a secret from Hermione. This 
 
 159
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 secret was a very innocent one. Still, of course.it had 
 the two attributes that belong to every secret: of drawing 
 together those who share it, of setting apart from them 
 those who know it not. And there was another secret, 
 too, connected with it, and known only to Artois: the 
 fact that the child, Vere, possessed the very small but 
 quite definite beginnings, the seed, as it were, of some- 
 thing that had been denied to the mother, Hermione. 
 
 "Emile, you have come back! I am glad!" 
 
 Hermione came into the room with her eager manner 
 and rather slow gait, holding out both her hands, her 
 hot face and prominent eyes showing forth with ardor the 
 sincerity of her surprise and pleasure. 
 
 "Gaspare told me. I nearly gave him a hug. You 
 know his sly look when he has something delightful up 
 his sleeve for one! Bless you!" 
 
 She shook both his hands. 
 
 "And I had come back in such bad spirits! But 
 now " 
 
 She took off her hat and put it on a table. 
 
 "Why were you in bad spirits, my friend?" 
 
 "I had been with Madame Alliani, seeing something of 
 the intense misery and wickedness of Naples. I have 
 seen a girl such a tragedy ! What devils men can be in 
 these Southern places! What hideous things they will 
 do under the pretence of being driven by love! But 
 no, don't let us spoil your arrival. Where is Vere? I 
 thought she was entertaining you." 
 
 "We have been having tea together. She has this 
 moment gone out of the room." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She seemed to expect some further explanation. As 
 he gave none she sat down. 
 
 "Wasn't she very surprised to see you?" 
 
 "I think she was. She had just been bathing, and 
 came running in with her hair all about her, looking like 
 
 160
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 an Undine with a dash of Sicilian blood in her. Here 
 she is!" 
 
 "Are you pleased, Madre? You poor, hot Madre!" 
 
 Vere sat down by her mother and put one arm round 
 her. Subtly she was trying to make up to her mother 
 for the little secret she was keeping from her for a 
 time. 
 
 "Are you very, very pleased?" 
 
 "Yes, I think I am." 
 
 "Think! You mischievous Madre!" 
 
 Hermione laughed. 
 
 "But I feel almost jealous of you two sitting here in the 
 cool, and having a quiet tea and a lovely talk while 
 Never mind. Here is my tea. And there's another 
 thing. Oh, Emile, I do wish I had known you would 
 arrive to-day!" 
 
 "Why specially?" 
 
 "I've committed an unusual crime. I've made ac- 
 tually an engagement for this evening." 
 
 Artois and Vere held up their hands in exaggerated 
 surprise. 
 
 "Are you mad, my dear Hermione?" asked Artois. 
 
 "I believe I am. It's dangerous to go to Naples. I 
 met a young man." 
 
 "The Marchesino!" cried Vere. "The Marchesino! 
 I see him in your eye, Madre." 
 
 "C'est cela!" said Artois, "and you mean to say !" 
 
 "That I accepted an invitation to dine with him to- 
 night, at nine, at the Scoglio di Frisio. There! Why- 
 did I? I have no idea. I was hot from a horrible vicolo. 
 He was cool from the sea. What chance had I against 
 him? And then he is through and through Neapolitan, 
 and gives no quarter to a woman, even when she is 'una 
 vecchia.'" 
 
 As she finished Hermione broke into a laugh, evidently 
 at some recollection. 
 
 161
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Doro made his eyes very round. I can see that," 
 said Artois. 
 
 "Like this!" cried Vere. 
 
 And suddenly there appeared in her face a reminiscence 
 of the face of the Marchesino. 
 
 "Vere, you must not! Some day you will do it by 
 accident when he is here." 
 
 "Is he coming here?" 
 
 "In a launch to fetch me us." 
 
 "Am I invited?" said Vere. "What fun!" 
 
 "I could not get out of it," Hermione said to Artois. 
 "But now I insist on your staying here till the Marche- 
 sino comes. Then he will ask you, and we shall be a 
 quartet." 
 
 "I will stay," said Artois, with a sudden return of his 
 authoritative manner. 
 
 "It seems that I am wofully ignorant of the Bay," 
 continued Hermione. "I have never dined at Frisio's. 
 Everybody goes there at least once. Everybody has 
 been there. Emperors, kings, queens, writers, singers, 
 politicians, generals -they all eat fish at Frisio's." 
 
 "It's true." 
 
 "You have done it?" 
 
 "Yes. The Padrone is worth knowing. He but 
 to-night you will know him. Yes, Frisio's is characteris- 
 tic. Vere will be amused." 
 
 With a light tone he hid a faint chagrin. 
 
 "What fun!" repeated Vere. "If I had diamonds I 
 should put them on." 
 
 She too was hiding something, one sentiment with 
 another very different. But her youth came to her aid, 
 and very soon the second excitement really took the 
 place of the first, and she was joyously alive to the 
 prospect of a novel gayety. 
 
 "I must not eat anything more," said Hermione. "I 
 believe the Marchesino is ordering something marvellous 
 
 162
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 for us, all the treasures of the sea. We must be up to the 
 mark. He really is a good fellow." 
 
 "Yes," said Artois. "He is. I have a genuine liking 
 for him." 
 
 He said it with obvious sincerity. 
 
 "I am going," said Vere. "I must think about 
 clothes. And I must undo my hair again and get Maria 
 to dry it thoroughly, or I shall look frightening." 
 
 She went out quickly, her eyes sparkling. 
 
 "Vere is delighted," said Hermione. 
 
 "Yes, indeed she is." 
 
 "And you are not. Would you rather avoid the 
 Marchesino to-night, Emile, and not come with us? 
 Perhaps I am selfish. I would so very much rather have 
 you with us." 
 
 "If Doro asks me I shall certainly come. It's true 
 that I wish you were not engaged to-night I should 
 have enjoyed a quiet evening here. But we shall have 
 many quiet, happy evenings together this summer, I 
 hope." 
 
 "I wonder if we shall?" said Hermione, slowly. 
 
 "You why?" 
 
 "I don't know. Oh, I am absurd, probably. One has 
 such strange ideas, houses based on sand, or on air, or 
 perhaps on nothing at all." 
 
 She got up, went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, 
 and took out of it a letter. 
 
 "Emile," she said, coming back to him with it in her 
 hand, "would you like to explain this to me?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 ' ' The letter I found from you when I came back from 
 Capri." 
 
 "But does it need explanation?" 
 
 " It seemed to me as if it did. Read it and see." 
 
 He took it from her, opened it and read it. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 163
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 " Isn't the real meaning between the lines ?" 
 
 "If it is, cannot you decipher it ?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't think so. Somehow it de- 
 pressed me. Perhaps it was my mood just then. Was 
 it?" 
 
 "Perhaps it was merely mine." 
 
 "But why 'I feel specially this summer I should like 
 to be near you'? What does that mean exactly?" 
 
 "I did feel that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't think I can tell you now. I am not sure that 
 I could even have told you at the time I wrote that 
 letter." 
 
 She took it from him and put it away again in the 
 drawer. 
 
 "Perhaps we shall both know later on," she said, 
 quietly. "I believe we shall." 
 
 He did not say anything. 
 
 "I saw that boy, Ruffo, this afternoon," she said, after 
 a moment of silence. 
 
 "Did you?" said Artois, with a change of tone, a 
 greater animation. "I forgot to ask Vere about him. 
 I suppose he has been to the island again while I have 
 been away?" 
 
 "Not once. Poor boy, I find he has been ill. He has 
 had fever. He was out to-day for the first time after it. 
 We met him close to Mergellina. He was in a boat, but 
 he looked very thin and pulled down. He seemed so de- 
 lighted to see me. I was quite touched." 
 
 "Hasn't Vere been wondering very much why he did 
 not come again?" 
 
 "She has never once mentioned him. Vere is a 
 strange child sometimes." 
 
 "But you haven't you spoken of him to her?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so." 
 
 " Vere's silence made you silent ?" 
 164
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I suppose so. I must tell her. She likes the boy 
 very much." 
 
 "What is it that attracts her to this boy, do you 
 think?" 
 
 The question was ordinary enough, but there was a 
 peculiar intonation in Artois' voice as he asked it, an 
 intonation that awakened surprise in Hermione. 
 
 "I don't know. He is an attractive boy." 
 
 "You think so too?" 
 
 "Why, yes. What do you mean, Emile?" 
 
 "I was only wondering. The sea breeds a great many 
 boys like Ruflo, you know. But they don't all get 
 Khali Targa cigarettes given to them, for all that." 
 
 "That's true. I have never seen Vere pay any par- 
 ticular attention to the fishermen who come to the island. 
 In a way she loves them all because they belong to the 
 sea, she loves them as a decor. But Ruflo is different. 
 I felt it myself." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 He looked at her, then looked out of the window and 
 pulled his beard slowly. 
 
 "Yes. In my case, perhaps, the interest was roused 
 partly by what Vere told me. The boy is a Sicilian, you 
 see, and just Vere's age. 
 
 " Vere's interest perhaps comes from the same reason." 
 
 "Very likely it does." 
 
 Hermione spoke the last words without conviction. 
 Perhaps they both felt that they were not talking very 
 frankly were not expressing their thoughts to each 
 other with their accustomed sincerity. At any rate, 
 Artois suddenly introduced another topic of conver- 
 sation, the reason of his hurried visit to Paris, and for 
 the next hour they discussed literary affairs with a grad- 
 ually increasing vivacity and open-heartedness. The 
 little difficulty between them of which both had been 
 sensitive and fully conscious passed away, and when 
 
 165
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 at length Hermione got up to go to her bedroom and 
 change her dress for the evening, there was no cloud 
 about them. 
 
 When Hermione hu,d gone Artois took up a book, but 
 he sat till the evening was falling and Giulia came 
 smiling to light the lamp, without reading a word of it. 
 Her entry roused him from his reverie, and he took out 
 his watch. It was already past eight. The Marchesino 
 would soon be coming. And then the dinner at Frisio's ! 
 
 He got up and moved about the room, picking up a 
 book here and there, glancing at some pages, then putting 
 it down. He felt restless and uneasy. 
 
 "I am tired from the journey," he thought. "Or 
 I wonder what the weather is this evening. The heat 
 seems to have become suffocating since Hermione went 
 away." 
 
 He went to one of the windows and looked out. Twi- 
 light was stealing over the sea, which was so calm that 
 it resembled a huge sheet of steel. The sky over the 
 island was clear. He turned and went to the opposite 
 window. Above Ischia there was a great blackness like 
 a pall. He stood looking at it for some minutes. His 
 erring thoughts, which wandered like things fatigued 
 that cannot rest, went to a mountain village in Sicily, 
 through which he had once ridden at night during a 
 terrific thunder-storm. In a sudden, fierce glare of 
 lightning he had seen upon the great door of a gaunt 
 Palazzo, which looked abandoned, a strip of black cloth. 
 Above it were the words, "Lutto in famiglia." 
 
 That was years ago. Yet now he saw again the palace 
 door, the strip of cloth soaked by the pouring rain, the 
 dreary, almost sinister words which he had read by 
 lightning: 
 
 "Lutto 'in famiglia." 
 
 He repeated them as he gazed at the blackness above 
 Ischia. 
 
 166
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Monsieur Emile!" 
 
 "Vere!" 
 
 The girl came towards him, a white contrast to what he 
 had been watching. 
 
 "I'm all ready. It seems so strange to be going out 
 to a sort of party. I've had such a bother with my 
 hair." 
 
 "You have conquered," he said. "Undine has dis- 
 appeared." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Come quite close to the lamp." 
 
 She came obediently. 
 
 "Vere transformed!" he said. "I have seen three 
 Veres to-day already. How many more will greet me 
 to-night?" 
 
 She laughed gently, standing quite still. Her dress 
 and her gloves were white, but she had on a small black 
 hat, very French, and at the back of her hair there was 
 a broad black ribbon tied in a big bow. This ribbon 
 marked her exact age clearly, he thought. 
 
 "This is a new frock, and my very smartest," she said; 
 "and you dared to abuse Paris!" 
 
 "Being a man. I must retract now. You are right, 
 we cannot do without it. But have you an um- 
 brella?" 
 
 "An umbrella?" 
 
 She moved and laughed again, much more gayly. 
 
 "I am serious. Come here and look at Ischia." 
 
 She went with him quickly to the window. 
 
 "That blackness does look wicked. But it's a long 
 way off." 
 
 "I think it is coming this way." 
 
 "Oh, but" and she went to the opposite window 
 "the sky is perfectly clear towards Naples. And look 
 how still the sea is." 
 
 "Too still. It is like steel." 
 
 167
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Hush! Listen!" 
 
 She held up her hand. They both heard a far-off 
 sound of busy panting on the sea. 
 
 "That must be the launch!" she said. 
 
 Her eyes were gay and expectant. It was evident that 
 she was in high spirits, that she was looking forward to 
 this unusual gayety. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Doesn't it sound in a hurry, as if the Marchesino was 
 terribly afraid of being late?" 
 
 "Get your umbrella, Vere, and a waterproof. You 
 will want them both." 
 
 At that moment Hermione came in. 
 
 "Madre, the launch is coming in a frightful hurry, 
 and Monsieur Emile says we must take umbrellas." 
 
 "Surely it isn't going to rain?" 
 
 "There is a thunder-storm coming up from Ischia, I 
 believe," said Artois. 
 
 "Then we will take our cloaks in case. It is fearfully 
 hot. I thought so when I was dressing. No doubt the 
 launch will have a cabin." 
 
 A siren hooted. 
 
 "That is the Marchesino saluting us!" cried Vere. 
 "Come along, Madre! Maria! Maria!" 
 
 She ran out, calling for the cloaks. 
 
 "Do you like Vere's frock, Emile?" said Hermione, as 
 they followed. 
 
 "Yes. She looks delicious but quite like a little 
 woman of the world." 
 
 "Ah, you like her best as the Island child. So do I. 
 Oh, Emile!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I can't help it. I hate Vere's growing up." 
 
 "Few things can remain unchanged for long. This 
 sea will be unrecognizable before we return." 
 
 Gaspare met them on the landing with solemn eyes. 
 
 168
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "There is going to be a great storm, Signora," he said. 
 "It is coming from Ischia." 
 
 "So Don Emilio thinks. But we will take wraps, and 
 we are going in a launch. It will be all right, Gaspare." 
 
 "Shall I come with you, Signora?" 
 
 "Well, Gaspare, you see it is the Marchese's launch " 
 
 "If you would like me to come, I will ask the Signer 
 Marchese." 
 
 "We'll see how much room there is." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He went down to receive the launch. 
 
 "Emile," Hermione said, as he disappeared, "can you 
 understand what a comfort to me Gaspare is? Ah, if 
 people knew how women love those who are ready to 
 protect them! It's quite absurd, but just because Gas- 
 pare said that, I'd fifty times rather have him with us 
 than go without him." 
 
 "I understand. I love your watch-dog, too." 
 
 She touched his arm. 
 
 "No one could ever understand the merits of a watch- 
 dog better than you. That's right, Maria; we shall be 
 safer with these." 
 
 The Marchesino stood at the foot of the cliff, bare- 
 headed, to receive them. He was in evening dress, what 
 he called "smoking," with a flower in his button-hole, and 
 a straw hat, and held a pair of white kid gloves in his 
 hand. He looked in rapturous spirits, but ceremonial. 
 When he caught sight of Artois on the steps behind 
 Hermione and Vere, however, he could not repress an 
 exclamation of "Emilio!" 
 
 He took Hermione's and Vere's hands, bowed over 
 them and kissed them. Then he turned to his friend. 
 
 "Caro Emilio! You are back! You must come with 
 us! You must dine at Frisio's." 
 
 "May I?" said Artois. 
 
 "You must. This is delightful. See, Madame," 
 
 169
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he added to Hermione, suddenly breaking into awful 
 French, "we have the English flag! Your Jack! Voila, 
 the great, the only Jack! I salute him! Let me help 
 you!" 
 
 As Hermione stepped into the launch she said: 
 
 "I see there is plenty of room. I wonder if you would 
 mind my taking my servant, Gaspare, to look after the 
 cloaks and umbrellas. It seems absurd, but he says a 
 storm is coming, and " 
 
 "A storm!" cried the Marchesino. "Of course your 
 Gaspare must come. Which is he?" 
 
 "There." 
 
 The Marchesino spoke to Gaspare in Italian, telling 
 him to join the two sailors in the stern of the launch. 
 A minute afterwards he went to him and gave him 
 some cigarettes. Then he brought from the cabin two 
 bouquets of flowers, and offered them to Hermione and 
 Vere, who, with Artois, were settling themselves in the 
 bows. The siren sounded. They were off, cutting swift- 
 ly through the oily sea. 
 
 "A storm, Signora! Cloaks and umbrellas!" said the 
 Marchesino, shooting a glance of trumph at "Caro 
 Emilio," whose presence to witness his success completed 
 his enjoyment of it. "But it is a perfect night. Look 
 at the sea. Signorina, let me put the cushion a little 
 higher behind you. It is not right. You are not per- 
 fectly comfortable. And everything must be perfect for 
 you to-night everything." He arranged the cushion 
 tenderly. "The weather, too! Why, where is the 
 storm?" 
 
 "Over Ischia," said Artois. 
 
 "It will stay there. Ischia! It is a volcano. Any- 
 thing terrible may happen there." 
 
 "And Vesuvius?" said Hermione, laughing. 
 
 The Marchesino threw up his chin. 
 
 "We are not going to Vesuvius I know Naples, 
 
 170
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Signora, and I promise you fine weather. We shall take 
 our coffee after dinner outside upon the terrace at the 
 one and only Frisio's." 
 
 He chattered on gayly. His eyes were always on Vere, 
 but he talked chiefly to Hermione, with the obvious in- 
 tention of fascinating the mother in order that she might 
 be favorably disposed towards him, and later on smile 
 indulgently upon his flirtation with the daughter. His 
 proceedings were carried on with a frankness that should 
 have been disarming, and that evidently did disarm 
 Hermione and Vere, who seemed to regard the Marchesino 
 as a very lively boy. But Artois was almost immediately 
 conscious of a secret irritation that threatened to spoil 
 his evening. 
 
 The Marchesino was triumphant. Emilio had wished 
 to prevent him from knowing these ladies. Why ? Evi- 
 dently because Emilio considered him dangerous. Now 
 he knew the ladies. He was actually their host. And 
 he meant to prove to Emilio how dangerous he could be. 
 His eyes shot a lively defiance at his friend, then melted 
 as they turned to Hermione, melted still more as they 
 gazed with unwinking sentimentality into the eyes of 
 Vere. He had no inward shyness to contend against, 
 and was perfectly at his ease; and Artois perceived that 
 his gayety and sheer animal spirits were communicating 
 themselves to his companions. Vere said little, but she 
 frequently laughed, and her face lit up with eager anima- 
 tion. And she, too, was quite at her ease. The direct, 
 and desirous, glances of the Marchesino did not upset her 
 innocent self-possession at all, although they began to 
 upset the self-possession of Artois. As he sat, gener- 
 ally in silence, listening to the frivolous and cheerful 
 chatter that never stopped, while the launch cut its 
 way through the solemn, steel-like sea towards the lights 
 of Posilipo, he felt that he was apart because he was 
 clever, as if his cleverness caused loneliness. 
 i 171
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They travelled fast. Soon the prow of the launch was 
 directed to a darkness that lay below, and to the right 
 of a line of brilliant lights that shone close to the sea ; and 
 a boy dressed in white, holding a swinging lantern, and 
 standing, like a statue, in a small niche of rock almost 
 flush with the water, hailed them, caught the gunwale of 
 the launch with one hand, and brought it close in to the 
 wall that towered above them. 
 
 "Do we get out here? But where do we go?" said 
 Hermione. 
 
 "There is a staircase. Let me " 
 
 The Marchesino was out in a moment and helped them 
 all to land. He called to the sailors that he would send 
 down food and wine to them and Gaspare. Then, 
 piloted by the boy with the lantern, they walked up 
 carefully through dark passages and over crumbling 
 stairs, turned to the left, and came out upon a small 
 terrace above the sea and facing the curving lamps of 
 Naples. Just beyond was a long restaurant, lined with 
 great windows on one side and with mirrors on the other, 
 and blazing with light. 
 
 "Ecco!" cried the Marchesino. "Ecco lo Scoglio di 
 Frisio! And here is the Padrone!" he added, as a small, 
 bright -eyed man, with a military figure and fierce 
 mustaches, came briskly forward to receive them.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE dinner, which was served at a table strewn with 
 red carnations close to an open window, was a gay one, 
 despite Artois. It could hardly have been otherwise 
 with a host so complacent, so attentive, so self-possessed, 
 so hilarious as the Marchesino. And the Padrone of the 
 restaurant warmly seconded the efforts of the giver of the 
 feast. He hovered perpetually, but always discreetly, 
 near, watchfully directing the middle-aged waiters in 
 their duties, smiling to show his teeth, stained with 
 tobacco juice, or drawing delicately close to relate anec- 
 dotes connected with the menu. 
 
 The soup, a "zuppa di pesce alia marinara" remark- 
 able for its beautiful red color, had been originally in- 
 vented by the chef of Frisio's for the ex-Queen Natalie 
 of Servia, who had deigned to come, heavily veiled, to 
 lunch at the Scoglio, and had finally thrown off her veil 
 and her incognito, and written her name in the visitors' 
 book for all to see. The Macaroni a I'lmperatrice had 
 been the favorite plat of the dead Empress Elizabeth of 
 Austria, who used to visit Frisio's day after day, and 
 who always demanded two things an eruption of Vesu- 
 vius and " Funiculi, funicula !" William Ewart Gladstone 
 had deigned to praise the "oeufs a la Gladstone," called 
 henceforth by his name, when he walked over from the 
 Villa Rendel to breakfast ; and the delicious punch served 
 before the dolce, and immediately after the " Polio pana- 
 to alia Frisio," had been lauded by the late Czar of all 
 the Russias, who was drinking a glass of it according 
 
 173
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to the solemn asservation of the Padrone when the 
 telegram announcing the assassination of his father was 
 put into his hand. 
 
 Names of very varied popular and great ones of the 
 earth floated about the table. Here, it appeared, Mario 
 Costa and Paolo Tosti had composed their most cele- 
 brated songs between one course and another. Here 
 Zola and Tolstoy had written. Here Sarah Bernhardt 
 had ordered a dozen bottles of famous old wine to be sent 
 to the Avenue Pereire from the cellars of Frisio, and had 
 fallen in love with a cat from Greece. Here Matilde 
 Serao had penned a lasting testimony to the marital 
 fidelity of her husband. 
 
 Everything everything had happened here, just here, 
 at Frisio's. 
 
 Seeing the amused interest of his guests, the Mar- 
 chesino encouraged the Padrone to talk, called for his 
 most noted wines, and demanded at dessert a jug of 
 Asti Spumante, wich snow in it, and strawberries floating 
 on the top. 
 
 "You approve of Frisio's, Signorina?" he said, bend- 
 ing towards Vere. "You do not find your evening 
 dull?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. A certain excitement was 
 noticeable in her gayety had been noticed by her mother 
 all through the evening. It was really due to the after- 
 noon's incident with Artois, succeeded by this un- 
 expected festival, in which the lively homage of the 
 Marchesino was mingled with the long procession of cel- 
 ebrated names introduced by the Padrone. Vere was 
 secretly strung up, had been strung up even before she 
 stepped into the launch. She felt very happy, but in her 
 happiness there was something feverish, which was not 
 customary to any mood of hers. She never drank wine, 
 and had taken none to-night, yet as the evening wore 
 on she was conscious of an effervescence, as if her brain
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 were full of winking bubbles such as rise to the surface of 
 champagne. 
 
 Her imagination was almost furiously alive ; and as the 
 Padrone talked, waving his hands and striking postures 
 like those of a military dictator, she saw the dead Em- 
 press, with her fan before her face, nodding her head to 
 the jig of "Funicull, funicula," while she watched the red 
 cloud from Vesuvius rising into the starry sky; she saw 
 Sarah Bernhardt taking the Greek cat upon her knee; 
 the newly made Czar reading the telegram with his glass 
 of punch beside him; Tosti tracing lines of music; Glad- 
 stone watching the sea; and finally the gaunt figure and 
 the long beard of Tolstoy bending over the book in which he 
 wrote clearly so many years ago, " VediNapoli e poi mori." 
 
 "Monsieur Emile, you must write in the wonderful 
 book of Frisio's," she exclaimed. 
 
 "We will all write, Signorina!" cried the Marchesino. 
 "Bring the book, Signor Masella!" 
 
 The Padrone hastened away to fetch it, but Vere shook 
 her head. 
 
 "No, no, we must not write! We are nobodies. 
 Monsieur Emile is a great man. Only he is worthy of 
 such a book. Isn't it so, Madre?" 
 
 Artois felt the color rising to his face at this unexpect- 
 ed remark of the girl. He had been distrait during the 
 dinner, certainly neither brilliant nor amusing, despite 
 his efforts to seem talkative and cheerful. A depression 
 had weighed upon him, as it had weighed upon him in the 
 launch during the voyage from the island. He had felt 
 as if he were apart, even almost as if he were de trop. Had 
 Vere noticed it ? Was that the reason of this sudden and 
 charming demonstration in his favor. 
 
 He looked across at her, longing to know. But she 
 was arguing gayly with the Marchesino, who continued 
 to insist that they must all write their names as a 
 souvenir of the occasion. 
 
 175
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "We are nobodies," she repeated. 
 
 "You dare to say that you are a nobody!" exclaimed 
 the young man, looking at her with ardent eyes. "Ah, 
 Signorina, you do wrong to drink no wine. In wine there 
 is truth, they say. But you you drink water, and then 
 you say these dreadful things that are not are not true. 
 Emilio" he suddenly appealed to Artois "would not 
 the Signorina honor any book by writing her name in it ? 
 I ask you if " 
 
 "Marchese, don't be ridiculous!" said Vere, with sud- 
 den petulance. ' ' Don't ask Monsieur Emile absurd ques- 
 tions!" 
 
 "But he thinks as I do. Emilio, is it not so? Is it 
 not an honor for any book to have the Signorina's name ?" 
 
 He spoke emphatically and looked really in earnest. 
 Artois felt as if he were listening to a silly boy who un- 
 derstood nothing. 
 
 "Let us all write our names," he said. "Here comes 
 the book." 
 
 The Padrone bore it proudly down between the mirrors 
 and the windows. 
 
 But Vere suddenly got up. 
 
 "I won't write my name," she said, sticking out her 
 chin with the little determined air that was sometimes 
 characteristic of her. ' ' I am going to see what Gaspare 
 and the sailors are doing." 
 
 And she walked quickly away towards the terrace. 
 
 The Marchesino sprang up in despair. 
 
 "Shall we all go, Madame ?" he said. "I have ordered 
 coffee. It will be brought in a moment to the terrace." 
 
 Hermione glanced at Artois. 
 
 "I will stay here for a little. I want to look at the 
 book," she said. "We will come in a moment. I don't 
 take coffee." 
 
 "Then we will be upon the terrace. A rivederci per 
 un momento pour un moment, Madame." 
 
 176
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He bowed over Hermione 's hand, and hurried away 
 after Vere. 
 
 The Padrone put his book very carefully down be- 
 tween Hermione and Artois, and left them with a mur- 
 mured apology that he had to look after another party 
 of guests which had just come into the restaurant. 
 
 " I thought you would be glad to get rid of those young 
 things for a minute," said Hermione, in explanation of 
 what she had done. 
 
 Artois did not reply, but turned over the leaves of the 
 book mechanically. 
 
 "Oh, here is Tolstoy's signature," he said, stopping. 
 
 Hermione drew her chair nearer. 
 
 "What a clear handwriting!" she said. 
 
 "Yes, isn't it? 'Vedi Napoli e poi mori." 1 
 
 "Where are you going to write?" 
 
 Pie was looking towards the outer room of the res- 
 taurant which led onto the terrace. 
 
 He turned the leaves. 
 
 "I? oh here is a space." 
 
 He took up a pen the Padrone had brought, dipped it 
 into the ink. 
 
 "What's the good?" he said, making a movement as 
 if to push the book away. 
 
 "No; do write." 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "I agree with Vere. Your name will add something 
 worth having to the book." 
 
 "Oh, well" 
 
 A rather bitter expression had come into his face. 
 
 "Dead-sea fruit!" he muttered. 
 
 But he bent, wrote something quickly, signed his name, 
 blotted and shut the book. Hermione had not been able 
 to see the sentence he had written. She did not ask 
 *vhat it was. 
 
 There was a noise of rather shuffling footsteps on the 
 
 177
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 paved floor of the room. Three musicians had come in. 
 They were shabbily dressed. One was very short, stout, 
 and quite blind, with a gaping mouth that had an odd 
 resemblance to an elephant's mouth when it lifts its 
 trunk and shows its rolling tongue. He smiled perpetu- 
 ally. The other two were thin and dreary, middle-aged, 
 and hopeless-looking. They stood not far from the table 
 and began to play on guitars, putting wrong harmonies 
 to a well-known Neapolitan tune, whose name Artois 
 could not recall. 
 
 "What a pity it is they never put the right bass!" said 
 Hermione. 
 
 "Yes. One would suppose they would hit it some- 
 times by mistake. But they seldom do." 
 
 Except for the thin and uncertain music the restaurant 
 was almost silent. The people who had just come in 
 were sitting down far away at the end of the long room. 
 Hermione and Artois were the only other visitors, now 
 that Vere and the Marchesino were outside on the terrace. 
 
 "Famous though it is, Frisio's does not draw the 
 crowd," said Hermione. 
 
 To-night she found it oddly difficult to talk to her 
 friend, although she had refused the Marchesino 's invita- 
 tion on purpose to do so. 
 
 "Perhaps people were afraid of the storm." 
 
 "Well, but it doesn't come." 
 
 "It is close," he said. " Don't you feel it ? I do." 
 
 His voice was heavy with melancholy, and made her 
 feel sad, even apprehensive. 
 
 "Where are the stars?" he added. 
 
 She followed his example and leaned out of the great 
 window. Not a star was visible in all the sky. 
 
 "You are right. It is coming. I feel it now. The 
 sea is like lead, and the sky, too. There is no sense of 
 freedom to-night , no out-of-doors feeling. And the water 
 is horribly calm." 
 
 178
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 As they both leaned out they heard, away to the left 
 at some distance, the voices of Vere and the Marche- 
 sino. 
 
 "I stayed because I thought I fancied all the chatter 
 was getting a little on your nerves, Emile," Hermione 
 said now. "They are so absurdly young, both of them. 
 Wasn't it so?" 
 
 "Am I so old that youth should get upon iny nerves ?" 
 he returned, with a creeping irritation, which, however, 
 he tried to keep out of his voice. 
 
 "No. But of course we can hardly enjoy nonsense 
 that might amuse them immensely. Vere is such a baby, 
 and your friend is a regular boy, in spite of his self- 
 assurance." 
 
 "Women often fancy men to be young in ways in 
 which they are not young," said Artois. "Panacci is 
 very much of a man, I can assure you." 
 
 "Panacci! I never heard you call him that before." 
 
 Her eager brown eyes went to his face curiously for a 
 moment. Artois saw that, and said, rather hastily: 
 
 "It's true that nearly every one calls him Doro." 
 
 Once more they heard the chattering voices, and then 
 a sound of laughter in the darkness. It made Hermione 
 smile, but Artois moved uneasily. Just then there came 
 to them from the sea, like a blow, a sudden puff of wind. 
 It hit their faces. 
 
 "Do you want to avoid the storm ?" Artois said. 
 
 "Yes. Do you think 
 
 "I am sure you can only avoid it by going at once. 
 Look!" 
 
 He pointed towards the sea. The blackness before 
 them was cut at some distance off by a long, level line 
 of white. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Hermione, peering out, 
 
 "Foam." 
 
 "Foam! But surely it can't be!" 
 
 179
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The wind struck them again. It was like a hot, almost 
 like a sweating hand, coarse and violent, and repugnant. 
 
 Hermione drew in. 
 
 "There is something disgusting in nature to-night," 
 she said "something that seems almost unnatural." 
 
 The blind man began to sing behind them. His 
 voice was soft and throaty. The phrasing was sickly. 
 Some notes trembled. As he sang he threw back his 
 head, stared with his sightless eyes at the ceiling, and 
 showed his tongue. The whole of his fat body swayed. 
 His face became scarlet. The two hopeless, middle-aged 
 men on either side of him stared into vacancy as, with 
 dirty hands on which the veins stood out, they played 
 wrong basses to the melody on their guitars. 
 
 Suddenly Hermione was seized with a sensation of 
 fear. 
 
 "Let us go. We had better go. Ah!" 
 
 She cried out. The wind, returning, had caught the 
 white table-cloth. It flew up towards her, then sank 
 down. 
 
 "What a fool I am!" she said. "I thought I didn't 
 know " 
 
 She felt that really it was something in Artois which 
 had upset her nerves, but she did not say so. In that 
 moment, when she was startled, she had instinctively 
 put out her hand towards him. But, as instinctively, she 
 drew it back without touching him. 
 
 "Oh, here is Gaspare!" she said. 
 
 An immense, a really ridiculous sense of relief came to 
 her as she saw Gaspare's sturdy legs marching deci- 
 sively towards them, his great eyes examining the row 
 of mirrors, the tables, the musicians, then settling com- 
 fortably upon his Padrona. Over his arms he carried 
 the cloaks, and his hands grasped the two umbrellas. 
 At that moment, if she had translated her impulse into 
 an action, Hermione would have given Gaspare a good 
 
 180
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hug just for being himself; for being always the same: 
 honest, watchful, perfectly fearless, perfectly natural, and 
 perfectly determined to take care of his Padrona and his 
 Padroncina. 
 
 Afterwards she remembered that she had found in his 
 presence relief from something that had distressed her in 
 her friend. 
 
 "Signora, the storm is coming. Look at the sea!" 
 said Gaspare. He pointed to the white line which was 
 advancing in the blackness. 
 
 "I told the Signorina, and that Signore " 
 
 A fierce flash of lightning zigzagged across the window- 
 space, and suddenly the sound of the wind was loud 
 upon the sea, and mingled with the growing murmur of 
 waves. 
 
 "Ecco!" said Gaspare. "Signora, you ought to start 
 at once. But the Signer Marchese " 
 
 The thunder followed. Hermione had been waiting 
 for it, and felt almost relieved when it came crashing 
 above the Scoglio di Frisio. 
 
 "The Signer Marchese, Gaspare?" she asked, putting 
 on the cloak he was holding for her. 
 
 ",He only laughs, Signora," said Gaspare, rather con- 
 temptuously. "The Signer Marchese thinks only of his 
 pleasure." 
 
 "Well, he must think of yours now," said Artois, de- 
 cisively, to Hermione. "You will have a rough voyage 
 to the island, even as it is." 
 
 They were walking towards the entrance. Hermione 
 had noticed the pronoun, and said, quietly: 
 
 "You will take a carriage to the hotel, or a tram?" 
 
 "The tram, I think. It passes the door here." 
 
 He glanced at her and added: 
 
 "I noticed that the cabin of the launch is very small, 
 and as Gaspare is with you " 
 
 "Oh, of course!" she said, quickly. " It would be ridic- 
 
 181
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ulous for you to come all the way back with us. Besides, 
 there is not room in the cabin." 
 
 She did not know why, but she felt guilty for a mo- 
 ment. Yet she had done nothing. 
 
 "There is the rain," said Artois. 
 
 They were just entering the outer room from which 
 the terrace opened. 
 
 "Vere!" called Hermione. 
 
 As she called the lightning flashed again, and showed 
 her Vere and the Marchesino running in from the dark- 
 ness. Vere was laughing, and looked more joyous than 
 before. 
 
 "Such a storm, Madrs! The sea is a mass of foam. 
 It's glorious! Hark at the fishermen!" 
 
 From the blackness below rose hoarse shouts and pro- 
 longed calls some near, some far. Faintly with them 
 mingled the quavering and throaty voice of the blind 
 man, now raised in "Santa Lucia." 
 
 "What are we going to do, Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "We must get home at once before it gets worse," said 
 Hermione. "Marchese, I am so sorry, but I am afraid 
 we must ask for the launch." 
 
 "But, madame, it is only a squall. By midnight it 
 will be all over. I promise you. I am a Neapolitan." 
 
 "Ah, but you promised that there would be no storm 
 at all." 
 
 "Sa-a-nta-a Lu-u-ci-i-a! Santa Lu-cia!" 
 
 The blind man sounded like one in agony. The 
 thunder crashed again just above him, as if it desired to 
 beat down his sickly voice. 
 
 Artois felt a sharp stab of neuralgia over his eyes. 
 
 Behind, in the restaurant, the waiters were running 
 over the pavement to shut the great windows. The rush 
 of the rain made a noise like quantities of silk rustling. 
 
 The Marchesino laughed, quite unabashed. His cheeks 
 were slightly flushed and his eye? shone. 
 
 182
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Could I tell the truth, Signora? You might have 
 refused to come. But now I speak the solemn truth. 
 By midnight " 
 
 "I'm afraid we really can't stay so late as that." 
 
 ' ' But there is a piano. I wiii. play valses. I will sing. " 
 He looked ardently at Vere, who was eagerly watching 
 the sea from the window. 
 
 "And we will dance, the Signorina and I." 
 
 Artois made a brusque movement towards the terrace, 
 muttering something about the launch. A glare of 
 lightning lit up the shore immediately below the terrace, 
 showing him the launch buffeted by the waves that were 
 now breaking over the sandy beach. There came a 
 summoning call from the sailors. 
 
 "If you do stay," Artois said to the Marchesino, 
 turning back to them, "you must send the launch 
 round to Mergellina. I don't believe it can stop 
 here." 
 
 "Well, but there are rocks, Caro Emilio. It is pro- 
 tected!" 
 
 "Not enough." 
 
 "Signora," said Gaspare, "we had better go. It 
 will only get worse. The sea is not too bad yet." 
 
 ' ' Come along ! ' ' Hermione cried , with decision . ' ' Come , 
 Vere! I'm very sorry, Marchese, but we must really get 
 back at once. Good-night, Emile! Gaspare, give me 
 your arm." 
 
 And she set off at once, clinging to Gaspare, who held 
 an open umbrella over her. 
 
 "Good -night, Vere!" said Artois. 
 
 The girl was looking at him with surprised eyes. 
 
 "You are going 
 
 "I shall take the tram." 
 
 "Oh of course. That is your quickest way." 
 
 ' ' Signorina the umbrella ! ' ' 
 
 The Marchesino was offering his arm to conduct Vere 
 
 183
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to the launch. He cast a challenging look of triumph 
 at Artois. 
 
 "I would come in the launch," Artois, said hastily. 
 "But Good-night!" 
 
 He turned away. 
 
 "A rivederci, Emilio!" called the Marchesino. 
 
 " derci!" 
 
 The last syllables only came back to them through the 
 wind and the rain. 
 
 "Take my arm, Signorina." 
 
 "Grazie, it is all right like this." 
 
 "Ma" 
 
 "I am quite covered, really, thank you." 
 
 She hurried on, smiling, but not taking his arm. She 
 knew how to be obstinate. 
 
 "Ma Signorina mais Mademoiselle " 
 
 "Gaspare! Is Madre all safe in the launch?" 
 
 Vere glided from under the Marchesino's umbrella and 
 sought the shade of Gaspare's. Behind, the Marchesino 
 was murmuring to himself Neapolitan street expressions. 
 
 "SI, Signorina." 
 
 Gaspare's face had suddenly lighted up. His Padron- 
 cina's little hand was holding tightly to his strong arm. 
 
 "Take care, Signorina. That is water!" 
 
 "Oh, I was nearly in. I thought 
 
 He almost lifted her into the launch, which was rising 
 and falling on the waves. 
 
 "Madre! What a night!" 
 
 Vere sank down on the narrow seat of the little cabin. 
 The Marchesino jumped aboard. The machine in the 
 stern throbbed. They rushed forward into the black- 
 ness of the impenetrable night, the white of the leaping 
 foam, the hissing of the rain, the roaring of the wind. 
 In a blurred and hasty vision the lights of Frisio's ran 
 before them, fell back into the storm like things de- 
 feated. Hermione fancied she discerned for a second the 
 
 184
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 blind man's scarlet face and open mouth, the Padrone at 
 a window waving a frantic adieu, having only just be- 
 come aware of their departure. But if it were so they 
 were gone before she knew gone into mystery, with 
 Emile and the world. 
 
 The Marchesino inserted himself reproachfully into 
 the cabin. He had turned up the collar of his "smok- 
 ing," and drawn the silk lapels forward over his soft shirt- 
 front. His white gloves were saturated. He came to 
 sit down by Vere. s 
 
 "Madame!" he said, reproachfully, "we should have 
 waited. The sea is too rough. Really, it is dangerous. 
 And the Signorina and I we could have danced together. ' ' 
 
 Hermione could not help laughing, though she did not 
 feel gay. 
 
 "I should not have danced," said Vere. "I could not. 
 I should have had to watch the storm." 
 
 She was peering out of the cabin window at the wild 
 foam that leaped up round the little craft and disap- 
 peared in the darkness. There was no sensation of fear 
 in her heart, only a passion of interest and an odd feeling 
 of triumph. 
 
 To dance with the Marchesino at the Scoglio di Frisio 
 would have been banal in comparison with this glorious 
 progress through the night in the teeth of opposing 
 elements. She envied Gaspare, who was outside with 
 the sailors, and whose form she could dimly see, a blur 
 against the blackness. She longed to take off her smart 
 little hat and her French frock, and be outside too, in the 
 wind and the rairi. 
 
 "It is ridiculous to be dressed like this!" she said, 
 quickly, taking off the glove she had put on her left hand. 
 "You poor Marchese!" 
 
 She looked at his damp "smoking," his soaking gloves 
 and deplorable expression, and could not repress a little 
 rush of laughter. 
 
 185
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 " Do forgive me ! Madre, I know I'm behaving shame- 
 fully, but we are all so hopelessly inappropriate. Your 
 diamond brooch, Madre! And your hat is all on one 
 side. Gaspare must have knocked it with the um- 
 brella. I am sure we all look like hens in a shower!" 
 
 She leaned back against the swaying side of the cabin 
 and laughed till the tears were in her eyes. The sudden 
 coming of the storm had increased the excitement that 
 had been already within her, created by the incidents of 
 the day. 
 
 "Vere!" said her mother, but smiling through the 
 protest. 
 
 The Marchesino showed his big white teeth. Every- 
 thing that Vere did seemed to develop his admiration for 
 her. He was delighted with this mood, and forgot his 
 disappointment. But there was a glint of wonder in his 
 eyes, and now he said: 
 
 "But the Signorina is not afraid! She does not cry 
 out! She does not call upon the Madonna and the 
 Saints! My mother, my sisters, if they were here " 
 
 The prow of the launch struck a wave which burst 
 over the bows, scattering spray to the roof of the cabin. 
 
 "But I like it, I love it!" said Vere. "Don't you? 
 don't you, Madre?" 
 
 Before Hermione could reply the Marchesino ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 "Signorina, in the breast of an angel you have the 
 heart of a lion! The sea will never harm you. How 
 could it ? It will treat you as it treats the Saint of 
 your pool, San Francesco. You know what the sailors 
 and the fishermen say ? In the wildest storms, when the 
 sea crashes upon the rocks, never, never does it touch 
 San Francesco. Never does it put out the lamp that 
 burns at San Francesco's feet." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard them say that," Vere said. 
 
 Suddenly her face had become serious. The romance 
 
 1 86
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 in the belief of the seamen had got hold of her, had 
 touched her. The compliment to herself she ignored. 
 Indeed, she had already forgotten it. 
 
 "Only the other night " she began. 
 
 But she stopped suddenly. 
 
 "You know," she said, changing to something else, 
 "that when the fishermen pass under San Francesco's 
 pedestal they bend down, and lift a little water from the 
 sea, and sprinkle it into the boat, and make the sign of 
 the cross. They call it 'acqua benedetta.' I love to 
 see them do that." 
 
 Another big wave struck the launch and made it 
 shiver. The Marchesino crossed himself, but quite 
 mechanically. He was intent on Vere. 
 
 "I wonder," the girl said, "whether to-night San 
 Francesco will not be beaten by the waves, whether 
 his light will be burning when we reach the island." 
 
 She paused, then she added, in a lower voice: 
 
 "I do hope it will don't you, Madre?" 
 
 "Yes, Vere," said her mother. 
 
 Something in her mother's voice made the girl look 
 up at her swiftly, then put a hand into hers, a hand that 
 was all sympathy. She felt that just then her mother's 
 imagination was almost, or quite, one with hers. The 
 lights of Naples were gone, swallowed by the blackness 
 of the storm. And the tiny light at the feet of the Saint, 
 of San Francesco, who protected the men of the sea, and 
 the boys Ruffo, too! would it greet them, star of the 
 sea to their pool, star of the sea to their island, their 
 Casa del Mare, when they had battled through the storm 
 to San Francesco's feet? 
 
 "I do hope it will." 
 
 Why did Hermione's heart echo Vere's words with such 
 a strenuous and sudden passion, such a deep desire? 
 She scarcely knew then. But she knew that she wanted 
 a light to be shining for her when she neared home- 
 's 187
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 longed for it, needed it specially that night. If San 
 Francesco's lamp were burning quietly amid the fury 
 of the sea in such a blackness as this about them well, 
 it would seem like an omen. She would take it as an 
 omen of happiness. 
 
 And if it were not burning ? 
 
 She, too, longed to be outside with Gaspare and the 
 sailors, staring into the darkness with eyes keen as those 
 of a seaman, looking for the light. Since Vere's last 
 words and her reply they had sat in silence. Even the 
 Marchesino's vivacity was suddenly abated, either by 
 the increasing violence of the storm or by the change 
 in Vere. It would have been difficult to say by which. 
 The lightning flashed. The thunder at moments seemed 
 to split the sky asunder as a charge of gunpowder splits 
 asunder a rock. The head wind rushed by, yet had never 
 passed them, but was forever coming furiously to meet 
 them. On the roof of the little cabin the rain made a 
 noise that was no longer like the rustle of silk, but was 
 like the crackle of musketry. 
 
 There was something oppressive, something even al- 
 most terrible, in being closely confined, shut in by low 
 roof and narrow walls from such sweeping turbulence, 
 such a clamor of wind and water and the sky. 
 
 Hermione looked at her diamond brooch, then at her 
 cloak. 
 
 Slowly she lifted her hand and began to button it. 
 
 Vere moved and began to button up hers. Hermione 
 glanced at her, and saw a watchful, shining, half- humor- 
 ous, half-passionate look in her eyes that could not be 
 mistaken. 
 
 She dropped her hands. 
 
 "No, Vere!" 
 
 "Yes, Madre! Yes, yes, yes!" 
 
 The Marchesino stared. 
 
 "No, I did not " 
 
 188
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You did! You did, Madre! It's no use! I under- 
 stood directly." 
 
 She began quickly to take off her hat. 
 
 "Marchese, we are going out." 
 
 "Vere, this is absurd." 
 
 "We are going outside, Marchese. Madre wants air." 
 
 The Marchesino, accustomed only to the habits and 
 customs of Neapolitan women, looked frankly as if he 
 thought Hermione mad. 
 
 "Poor Madre must have a breath of air." 
 
 " I will open the window, Signora!" 
 
 "And the rain all over her, and the thunder close above 
 her, and the sea in her face, the sea the sea!" 
 
 She clapped her hands. 
 
 ' ' Gasp are ! Gasp ar e ! " 
 
 She put her face to the glass. Gaspare, who was 
 standing up in the stern, with his hands holding fast to 
 the rail that edged the cabin roof, bent down till his 
 brown face was on a level with hers, and his big eyes were 
 staring inquiringly into her eyes. 
 
 "We are coming out." 
 
 On the other side of the glass Gaspare made violently 
 negative gestures. One word only came to those inside 
 the cabin through the uproar of the elements. 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "Signorina," said the Marchesino, "you cannot mean 
 it. But you will be washed off. And the water you 
 will be drowned. It cannot be." 
 
 "Marchese, look at Madre! If she stays inside an- 
 other minute she will be ill. She is stifling! Quickly! 
 Quickly!" 
 
 The Marchesino, whose sense of humor was not of a 
 kind to comprehend this freak of Vere's, was for once 
 really taken aback. There were two sliding doors to the 
 cabin, one opening into the bows of the launch, the other 
 into the stern. He got up, looking very grave and rather 
 
 189
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 confused, and opened the former. The wind rushed 
 in, carrying with it spray from the sea. At the same 
 moment there was a loud tapping on the glass behind 
 them. Vere looked round. Gaspare was crouching 
 down with his face against the pane. She put her ear to 
 the glass by his mouth. 
 
 "Signorina, you must not go into the bows," he called. 
 "If you will come out, come here, and I will take care 
 of you." 
 
 He knew Vere's love of the sea and understood her 
 desire. 
 
 "Go, Vere," said Hermione. 
 
 The Marchesino shut the door and stood by it, bend- 
 ing and looking doubtful. 
 
 ' ' I will stay here with the Marchese. I am really too 
 old to face such a tempest, and the Marchese has no coat. 
 He simply can't go." 
 
 "But, Signora, it does not matter! I am ready." 
 
 "Impossible. Your clothes would be ruined. Go 
 along, Vere! Turn up your collar." 
 
 She spoke almost as if to a boy, and like a gay boy 
 Vere obeyed her and slipped out to Gaspare. 
 
 "You really won't come, Madre?" 
 
 "No. But tell me if you see the light." 
 
 The girl nodded, and the door moved into its place, 
 shutting out the wind. 
 
 Then the Marchesino sat down and looked at his damp 
 patent-leather boots. 
 
 He really could not comprehend these English ladies. 
 That Vere was greatly attracted by him he thoroughly 
 believed. How could it be otherwise? Her liveliness 
 he considered direct encouragement. And then she had 
 gone out to the terrace after dinner, leaving her mother. 
 That was to make him follow her, of course. She wanted 
 to be alone with him. In a Neapolitan girl such con- 
 duct would have been a declaration. A Neapolitan 
 
 190
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mother would not have allowed them to sit together on 
 the terrace without a chaperon. But the English mother 
 had deliberately remained within and had kept Caro 
 Emilio with her. What could such conduct mean, if not 
 that the Signorina was in love with him, the Marchesino, 
 and that the Signorina's mamma was perfectly willing for 
 him to make love to her child ? 
 
 And yet and yet ? 
 
 There was something in Vere that puzzled him, that 
 had kept him strangely discreet upon the terrace, that 
 made him silent and thoughtful now. Had she been a 
 typical English girl he might have discerned something 
 of the truth of her. But Vere was lively, daring, pas- 
 sionate, and not without some traces of half -humorous 
 and wholly innocent coquetry. She was not at all what 
 the Neapolitan calls "a lump of snow to cool the wine." 
 In her innocence there was fire. That was what confused 
 the Marchesino. 
 
 He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone 
 out, and his round eyes became almost pathetic for a 
 moment. Then it occurred to him that perhaps this 
 exit was a second ruse, like Vere's departure to the ter- 
 race, and he made a movement as if to go out and brave 
 the storm. But Hermione stopped him decisively. 
 
 "No, Marchese," she said, "really I cannot let you 
 expose yourself to the rain and the sea in that airy 
 costume. I might be your mother." 
 
 "Signora, but you " 
 
 "No, compliments apart, I really might be, and you 
 must let me use a mother's authority. Till we reach 
 the island stay here and make the best of me." 
 
 Hermione had touched the right note. Metaphorically, 
 the Marchesino cast himself at her feet. With a gallant 
 assumption of undivided adoration he burst into con- 
 versation, and, though his eyes often wandered to the 
 blurred glass, against which pressed and swayed a black- 
 
 191
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ness that told of those outside, his sense of his duty as a 
 host gradually prevailed, and he and Hermione were 
 soon talking quite cheerfully together. 
 
 Vere had forgotten him as utterly as she had forgotten 
 Naples, swallowed up by the night. Just then only the 
 sea, the night, Gaspare, and the two sailors who were 
 managing the launch were real to her besides herself. 
 For a moment even her mother had ceased to exist in her 
 consciousness. As the sea swept the deck of the little 
 craft it swept her mind clear to make more room for 
 itself. 
 
 She stood by Gaspare, touching him, and clinging on, 
 as he did, to the rail. Impenetrably black was the night. 
 Only here and there, at distances she could not begin to 
 judge of, shone vaguely lights that seemed to dance and 
 fade and reappear like marsh lights in a world of mist. 
 Were they on sea or land? She could not tell and did 
 not ask. The sailors doubtless knew, but she respected 
 them and their duty too much to speak to them, though 
 she had given them a srnile as she came out to join them, 
 and had received two admiring salutes in reply. Gas- 
 pare, too, had smiled at her with a pleasure which swiftly 
 conquered the faint reproach in his eloquent eyes. He 
 liked his Padroncina's courage, liked the sailors of the 
 Signor Marchese to see it. He was soaked to the skin, 
 but he, too, was enjoying the adventure, a rare one on 
 this summer sea, which had slept through so many shin- 
 ing days and starry nights like a "bambino in dolce 
 letargo." 
 
 To-night it was awake, and woke up others, Vere's 
 nature and his. 
 
 "Where is the island, Gaspare?" cried Vere through 
 the wind to him. 
 
 "Chi lo sa, Signorina." 
 
 He waved one hand to the blackness before them. 
 
 "It must be there." 
 
 192
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She strained her eyes, then looked away towards where 
 the land must be. At a long distance across the leaping 
 foam she saw one light. As the boat rose and sank on 
 the crests and into the hollows of the waves the light 
 shone and faded, shone and faded. She guessed it to 
 be a light at the Antico Giuseppone. Despite the head 
 wind and the waves that met them the launch travelled 
 bravely, and soon the light was gone. She told herself 1 
 that it must have been at the Giuseppone, and that now 
 they had got beyond the point, and were opposite to the 
 harbor of the Villa Rosebery. But no lights greeted 
 them from the White Palazzo in the wood, or from the 
 smaller white house low down beside tr..? sea. And 
 again she looked straight forward. 
 
 Now she was intent on San Francesco. She was think- 
 ing of him, of the Pool, of the island. And she thrilled 
 with joy at the thought of the wonderful wildness of her 
 home. As they drew on towards it the waves were 
 bigger, the wind was stronger. Even on calm nights 
 there was always a breeze when one had passed the 
 Giuseppone going towards Ischia, and beyond the island 
 there was sometimes quite a lively sea. What would it 
 be to-night ? Her heart cried out for a crescendo. With- 
 in her, at that moment, was a desire like the motorist's 
 for speed. More! more! More wind! more sea! more 
 uproar from the elements ! 
 
 And San Francesco all alone in this terrific blackness! 
 Had he not been dashed from his pedestal by the waves ? 
 Was the light at his feet still burning? 
 
 "II Santo!" she said to Gaspare. 
 
 He bent his head till it was close to her lips. 
 
 "II Santo! What has become of him, Gaspare?" 
 
 "He will be there, Signorina." 
 
 So Gaspare, too, held to the belief of the seamen of the 
 Bay. He had confidence in the -obedience of the sea, 
 this sea that roared around them like a tyrant. Sud-
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 denly she had no doubt. It would be so. The saint 
 would be untouched. The light would still be burning. 
 She looked for it. And now she remembered her mother. 
 She must tell her mother directly she saw it. But all was 
 blackness still. 
 
 And the launch seemed weary, like a live thing whose 
 strength is ebbing, who strains and pants and struggles 
 gallantly, not losing heart but losing physical force. 
 Surely it was going slower. She laid one hand upon the 
 cabin roof as if in encouragement. Her heart was with 
 the launch, as the seaman's is with his boat when it re- 
 sists, surely for his sake consciously, the assault of the 
 great sea. 
 
 "Coraggio!" 
 
 She was murmuring the word. Gaspare looked at her. 
 And the word was in his eyes as it should be in all eyes 
 that look at youth. And the launch strove on. 
 
 "Coraggio! Coraggio!" 
 
 The spray was in her face. Her hair was wet with the 
 rain. Her French frock that was probably ruined! 
 But she knew that she had never felt more happy. And 
 now it was like a miracle! Suddenly out of the dark- 
 ness a second darkness shaped itself, a darkness that she 
 knew the island. And almost simultaneously there 
 shone out a little, steady light. 
 
 "Ecco il Santo!" 
 
 "Ecco! Ecco!" 
 
 Vere called out: "Madre! Madre!" 
 
 She bent down. 
 
 "Madre! The light is burning." 
 
 The sailors, too, bent down, right down to the water. 
 They caught at it with their hands, Gaspare, too. Vere 
 understood, and, kneeling on the gunwale, firmly in 
 Gaspare's grasp, she joined in their action. 
 
 She sprinkled the boat with the acqua benedetta and 
 made the sign of the cross. 
 
 194
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WHEN, the next day, Artois sat down at his table to 
 work he found it impossible to concentrate his mind. 
 The irritation of the previous evening had passed away. 
 He attributed it to the physical effect made upon him 
 by the disturbed atmosphere. Now the sun shone, the 
 sky was clear, the sea calm. He had just come out of an 
 ice-cold bath, had taken his coffee, and smoked one 
 cigarette. A quiet morning lay before him. Quiet? 
 
 He got up and went to the window. 
 
 On the wooden roof of the bath establishment op- 
 posite rows of towels, hung out to dry, were moving 
 listlessly to and fro in the soft breeze. Capri was almost 
 hidden by haze in the distance. In the sea, just below 
 him, several heads of swimmers moved. One boy was 
 "making death." He floated on his back with his eyes 
 closed and his arms extended. His body, giving itself 
 without resistance to every movement of the water, 
 looked corpselike and ghostly. 
 
 A companion shouted to him. He threw up his arms 
 suddenly and shouted a reply in the broadest Neapolitan, 
 then began to swim vigorously towards the slimy rocks at 
 the base of Castel dell' Ovo. Upon the wooden terrace 
 of the baths among green plants in pots stood three 
 women, probably friends of the proprietor. For though 
 it was already hot, the regular bathing season of Naples 
 had not yet begun and the baths were not completed. 
 Only in July, after the festa of the Madonna del Carmine, 
 do the Neapolitans give themselves heart and soul to the
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 sea. Artois knew this, and wondered idly what the 
 women were doing on the terrace. One had a dog. It 
 sat in the sun and began to cough. A long wagon on 
 two wheels went by, drawn by two mules and a thin 
 horse harnessed abreast. It was full of white stone. 
 The driver had bought some green stuff and flung it 
 down upon the white. He wore a handkerchief on his 
 head. His chest was bare. As he passed beneath the 
 window he sang a loud song that sounded Eastern, such 
 a song as the Spanish wagoners sing in Algeria, as they 
 set out by night on their long journeys towards the desert. 
 Upon a tiny platform of wood, fastened, to slanting 
 stakes which met together beneath it in a tripod, a stout 
 man in shirt and trousers, with black whiskers, was sitting 
 on a chair fishing with a rod and line. A boy sat beside 
 him dangling his legs over the water. At a little distance 
 a large fishing-smack, with sails set to catch the breeze 
 farther out in the Bay, was being laboriously rowed 
 towards the open sea by half-naked men, who shouted 
 as they toiled at the immense oars. 
 
 Artois wondered where they were going. Their skins 
 were a rich orange color. From a distance in the sun- 
 light they looked like men of gold. Their cries and their 
 fierce movements suggested some fantastic quest to lands 
 of mysterious tumult. 
 
 Artois wished that Vere could see them. 
 
 What were the inhabitants of the island doing? 
 
 To-day his mind was beyond his governance, and 
 roamed like a vagrant on a long, white road. Every- 
 thing that he saw below him in the calm radiance of the 
 morning pushed it from thought to thought. Yet none 
 of these thoughts were valuable. None seemed fully 
 formed. They resembled henids, things seen so far away 
 that one cannot tell what they are, but is only aware that 
 they exist and can attract attention. 
 
 He came out upon his balcony. As he did so he looked 
 
 196
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 down into the road, and saw a hired carriage drive up, 
 with Hermione in it. 
 
 She glanced up and saw him. 
 
 "May I come in for a minute?" 
 
 He nodded, smiling, and went out to meet her, glad 
 of this interruption. 
 
 They met at the door of the lift. As Hermione stepped 
 out she cast a rather anxious glance at her friend, a 
 glance that seemed to say that she was not quite certain 
 of her welcome. Artois' eyes reassured her. 
 
 "I feel guilty," she said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Coming at such an hour. Are you working?" 
 
 "No. I don't know why, but I am incapable of work. 
 I feel both lazy and restless, an unfruitful combination. 
 Perhaps something in me secretly knew that you were 
 coming." 
 
 "Then it is my fault." 
 
 They came into his sitting-room. It had four win- 
 dows, tw ) facing the sea, two looking on the road, and 
 the terraces and garden of the Hotel Hassler. The 
 room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It con- 
 tained a light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over 
 it, red-and-gold chairs, mirrors, a white marble mantel- 
 piece, a gray-and-pink sofa with a pink cushion. Only 
 the large writing-table, covered with manuscripts, letters, 
 and photographs in frames, said something individual 
 to the visitor. Hermione and Vere were among the 
 photographs. 
 
 Hermione sat down on the sofa. 
 
 "I have come to consult you about something, 
 Emile." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I really meant to ask you last night, but somehow 
 I couldn't." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 197
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I don't know. We I there seemed to be a sort of 
 barrier between us didn't there?" 
 
 "I was in a bad humor. I was tired after the journey, 
 and perhaps the weather upset me." 
 
 "It's all right one can't be always Well, this is 
 what I wanted to say. I alluded to it yesterday when 
 I told you about my visit to Naples with Madame 
 Alliani. Do you remember ?" 
 
 "You hinted you had seen, or heard of, some trag- 
 edy." 
 
 "Yes. I believe it is a quite ordinary one in Naples. 
 We went to visit a consumptive woman in one of those 
 narrow streets going uphill to the left of the Via Roma, 
 and while there by chance I heard of it. In the same 
 house as the sick woman there is a girl. Not many days 
 ago she was beautiful!" 
 
 ' ' Yes ? What has happened to her ? ' ' 
 
 "I'll tell you. Her name is Peppina. She is only 
 nineteen, but she has been one of those who are not given 
 a chance. She was left an orphan v^ery young and went 
 to live with an aunt. This aunt is a horrible old woman. 
 I believe they say she goes to the Galleria " 
 
 Hermione paused. 
 
 "I understand," said Artois. 
 
 "She is greedy, wicked, merciless. We had the story 
 from the woman we were visiting, a neighbor. This 
 aunt forced Peppina into sin. Her beauty, which must 
 have been extraordinary, naturally attracted attention 
 and turned people's heads. It seems to have driven one 
 man nearly mad. He is a fisherman, not young, and a 
 married man. It seems that he is notoriously violent 
 and jealous, and thoroughly unscrupulous. He is a 
 member of the Camorra, too. He pestered Peppina with 
 his attentions, coming day after day from Mergellina, 
 where he lives with his wife. One night he entered the 
 house and made a scene. Peppina refused finally to 
 
 198
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 receive his advances, and told him she hated him before 
 all the neighbors. He took out a razor and " 
 
 Hermione stopped. 
 
 "I understand," said Artois. "He disfigured her." 
 
 "Dreadfully." 
 
 "It is often done here. Sometimes a youth does it 
 simply to show that a girl is his property. But what is it 
 you wish to do for Peppina? I see you have a plan in 
 your head." 
 
 "I want to have her on the island." 
 
 "In what capacity?" 
 
 "As a servant. She can work. She is not a bad girl. 
 She has only well, Emile, the aunt only succeeded in 
 forcing one lover on her. That is the truth. He was 
 rich and bribed the aunt. But of course the neighbors 
 all know, and the population here has its virtues, but it 
 is not exactly a delicate population." 
 
 "Per Bacco!" 
 
 "And now that the poor girl is disfigured the aunt is 
 going to turn her out-of-doors. She says Peppina must 
 go and earn money for herself. Of course nobody will 
 take her. I want to. I have seen her, talked to her. 
 She would be so thankful. She is in despair. Think 
 of it! Nineteen, and all her beauty gone! Isn't it 
 devilish?" 
 
 "And the man?" 
 
 "Oh, they say he'll get scarcely anything, if anything. 
 Two or three months, perhaps. He is 'protected.' It 
 makes my blood boil." 
 
 Artois was silent, waiting for her to say more, to ask 
 questions. 
 
 "The only thing is Vere, Emile," she said. 
 
 "Vere?" 
 
 "Yes. You know how friendly she is with the ser- 
 vants. I like her to be. But of course till now they 
 have been all right so far as I know." 
 
 199
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You do well to add that proviso." 
 
 "Peppina would not wait on us. She would be in the 
 kitchen. Am I justified in taking her? Of course I 
 could help her with money. If I had not seen her, talked 
 to her, that is what I should have done, no doubt. But 
 she wants she wants everything, peace, a decent home, 
 pure air. I feel she wants the island?" 
 
 "And the other servants?" 
 
 "They need only know she was attacked. They need 
 not know her past history. But all that does not matter. 
 It is only the question of Vere that troubles me." 
 
 "You mean that you are not decided whether you 
 ought to bring into the house with Vere a girl who is 
 not as Vere is?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you want me to advise you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I can't do that, Hermione." 
 
 She looked at him almost as if she were startled. 
 
 "Why not? I always rely 
 
 "No, no. This is not a man's business, my business." 
 
 He spoke with an odd brusqueness, and there were 
 traces of agitation in his face. Hermione did not at all 
 understand what feeling was prompting him, but again, 
 as on the previous evening, she felt as if there were 
 a barrier between them very slight, perhaps, very 
 shadowy, but definite nevertheless. There was no longer 
 complete frankness in their relations. At moments her 
 friend seemed to be subtly dominated by some secret 
 irritation, or anxiety, which she did not comprehend. 
 She had been aware of it yesterday. She was aware of it 
 now. After his last exclamation she said nothing. 
 
 "You are going to this girl now?" he asked. 
 
 "I meant to. Yes, I shall go." 
 
 She sat still for a minute, looking down at the pink- 
 and-yellow carpet. 
 
 200
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "And what will you do?" 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "I think I shall take her to the island. I am almost 
 sure I shall. Emile, I don't believe in cowardice, and I 
 sometimes think I am inclined to be a coward about 
 Vere. She is growing up. She will be seventeen this 
 year, very soon. There are girls who marry at sixteen, 
 even English girls." 
 
 "That is true." 
 
 She could gather nothing from his tone; and now his 
 face was perfectly calm. 
 
 "My instinct is to keep Vere just as she is, to preserve 
 the loveliness of childhood in her as long as possible, to 
 keep away from her all knowledge of sin, sorrow, the 
 things that distract and torture the world. But I 
 mustn't be selfish about Vere. I mustn't keep her 
 wrapped in cotton wool. That is unwholesome. And, 
 after all, Vere must have her life apart from me. Last 
 night I realized that strongly." 
 
 "Last night?" 
 
 "Yes, from the way in which she treated the Marchese, 
 and later from something else. Last night Vere showed 
 two sides of a woman's nature the capacity to hold her 
 own, what is vulgarly called 'to keep her distance,' and 
 the capacity to be motherly." 
 
 "Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked 
 Artois, not without irony. 
 
 "No to Ruffo." 
 
 "That boy ? But where was he last night ?" 
 
 "When we got back to the island, and the launch had 
 gone off, Vere and I stood for a minute at the foot of the 
 steps to listen to the roaring of the sea. Vere loves the 
 sea." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 As he spoke he thought of something that Hermione 
 did not know. 
 
 201
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "The pool was protected, and under the lee of the 
 island it was comparatively calm. But the rain was 
 falling in torrents. There was one fishing-boat in the 
 pool, close to where we were, and as we were standing 
 and listening Vere said, suddenly, 'Madre, that's Ruffo's 
 boat!' I asked her how she knew because he has 
 changed into another boat lately she had told me that. 
 ' I saw his head,' she answered. ' He's there and he's not 
 asleep. Poor boy, in all this rain!' Ruffo has been ill 
 with fever, as I told you, and when Vere said that I re- 
 membered it at once." 
 
 "Had you told Vere yet?" interposed Artois. 
 
 "No. But I did then. Emile, she showed an agita- 
 tion that well, it was almost strange, I think. She 
 begged me to make him come into the house and spend 
 the night there, safe from the wind and the rain." 
 
 "And you did, of course?" 
 
 "Yes. He was looking very pale and shaky. The 
 men let him come. They were nice and sympathetic. 
 I think they are fond of the boy." 
 
 "Ruffo seems to know how to attract people to him." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And so Vere played the mother to Ruffo ?" 
 
 "Yes. I never saw that side of her before. She was 
 a woman then. Eventually Ruffo slept with Gaspare." 
 
 "And how did Gaspare accept the situation?" 
 
 "Better than I should have expected. I think he 
 likes Ruffo personally, though he is inclined to be sus- 
 picious and jealous of any strangers who come into our 
 lives. But I haven't had time to talk to him this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Is Ruffo still in the house?" 
 
 "Oh no. He went off in the boat. They came for 
 him about eight." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Artois went to the window and looked out. But now 
 
 202
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he saw nothing, although the three women were still 
 talking and gesticulating on the terrace of the bath- 
 house, more fishing-boats were being towed or rowed 
 out into the Bay, carts were passing by, and people were 
 strolling in the sun. 
 
 "You say that Vere showed agitation last night?" he 
 said, turning round after a moment. 
 
 "About Ruffo's illness? It really almost amounted 
 to that. But Vere was certainly excited. Didn't you 
 notice it?" 
 
 "I think she was." 
 
 "Emile," Hermione said, after an instant of hesitation, 
 "you remember my saying to you the other day that 
 Vere was not a stranger to me?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well." 
 
 "You said nothing I don't think you agreed. Well, 
 since that day only since then I have sometimes felt 
 that there is much in Vere that I do not understand, 
 much that is hidden from me. Has she changed lately ?" 
 
 "She is at an age when development seems sudden, 
 and is often striking, even startling." 
 
 "I don't know why, but -but I dread something," 
 Hermione said. "I feel as if no, I don't know what I 
 feel. But if Vere should ever drift away from me I don't 
 know how I could bear it. A boy one expects him to 
 go out into the world. But a girl! I want to keep 
 Vere. I must keep Vere. If anything else were to be 
 taken from me I don't think I could bear it." 
 
 "Vere loves you. Be sure of that." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Hermione got up. 
 
 "Well, you won't give me your advice?" 
 
 "No, Hermione." 
 
 He looked at her steadily. 
 
 "You must treat Vere as you think best, order her 
 life as you think right. In some things you do wisely 
 14 203
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to consult me. But in this you must rely on yourself. 
 Let your heart teach you. Do not ask questions of my 
 head." 
 
 "Your head!" she exclaimed. 
 
 There was a trace of disappointment, even of surprise, 
 in her voice. She looked at him as if she were going 
 to say more, but again she was disconcerted by some- 
 thing in his look, his attitude. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Emile." 
 
 "I will come with you to the lift." 
 
 He went with her and touched the electric bell. As 
 they waited for a moment he added: 
 
 "I should like to have an evening quietly on the 
 island." 
 
 "Come to-night, or whenever you like. Don't fix a 
 time. Come when the inclination whispers 'I want 
 to be with friends.'" 
 
 He pressed her hand. 
 
 "Shall I see Peppina?" 
 
 "Chi lo sa?" 
 
 "And Ruffo?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "The Marchesino, too, perhaps." 
 
 "No," said Artois, emphatically. "Disfigured girls 
 and fisher-boys as many as you like, but not the alta 
 aristocrazia Napoletana." 
 
 "But I thought" 
 
 "I like Doro, but I like him in his place." 
 
 "And his place?" 
 
 "Is not the island when I wish to be quiet there." 
 
 The lift descended. Artois went out once more 
 onto the balcony, and watched her get into the carriage 
 and drive away towards Naples. She did not look up 
 again. 
 
 "She has gone to fetch that girl Peppina," Artois said 
 to himself, "and I might have prevented it." 
 
 204
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He knew very well the reason why he had not in- 
 terfered. He had not interfered because he had wished 
 too much to interfere. The desire had been strong 
 enough to startle him, to warn him. 
 
 An islet! That suggests isolation. Like Hermione, 
 he wished to isolate Vere, to preserve her as she was in 
 character. He did not know when the wish had first 
 been consciously in his mind, but he knew that since he 
 had been consulted by Vere, since she had broken 
 through her reserve and submitted to him her poems, 
 unveiling for him alone what was really to her a holy 
 of holies, the wish had enormously increased. He told 
 himself that Vere was unique, and that he longed to keep 
 her unique, so that the talent he discerned in her might 
 remain unaffected. How great her talent was he did 
 not know. He would not know, perhaps, for a very long 
 time. But it was definite, it was intimate. It was 
 Vere's talent, no one else's. 
 
 He had made up his mind very soon about Hermione 's 
 incapacity to produce work of value. Although Vere 
 was such a child, so inexperienced, so innocent, so 
 cloistered, he knew at once that he dared not dash her 
 hopes. It was possible that she might eventually be- 
 come what her mother certainly could never be. 
 
 But she must not be interfered with. Her connec- 
 tion with the sea must not be severed. And people 
 were coming into her life Ruffo, the Marchesino, and 
 now this wounded girl Peppina. 
 
 Artois felt uneasy. He wished Hermione were less 
 generous-hearted, less impulsive. She looked on him as 
 a guide, a check. He knew that. But this time he 
 would not exercise his prerogative. Ruffo he did not 
 mind at least he thought he did not. The boy was a 
 sea creature. He might even be an inspiring force to 
 Vere. Something Artois had read had taught him that. 
 And Ruffo interested him, attracted him too. 
 
 205
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But he hated Vere's acquaintance with the Mar- 
 chesino. He knew that the Marchesino would make 
 love to her. And the knowledge was odious to him. 
 Let Vere be loved by the sea, but by no man as 
 yet. 
 
 And this girl, Peppina? 
 
 He thought of the horrors of Naples, of the things that 
 happen "behind the shutter," of the lives led by some 
 men and women, some boys and girls of the great city 
 beneath the watching volcano. He thought of evenings 
 he had spent in the Galleria. He saw before him an old 
 woman about whom he had often wondered. Always 
 at night, and often in the afternoon, she walked in the 
 Galleria. She was invariably alone. The first time he 
 had seen her he" had noticed her because she had a slight- 
 ly humped back. Her hair was snow white, and was 
 drawn away from her long, pale face and carefully ar- 
 ranged under a modest bonnet. She carried a small 
 umbrella and a tiny bag. Glancing at her casually, he 
 had supposed her to be a respectable widow of the bor- 
 ghese class. But then he had seen her again and again, 
 and by degrees he had come to believe that she was 
 something very different. And then one night in late 
 spring he had seen her in a new light dress with white 
 thread gloves. And she had noticed him watching her, 
 and had cast upon him a look that was unmistakable, 
 a look from the world "behind the shutter"; and he 
 had understood. Then she had followed him persist- 
 ently. When he sat before the "Gran caffe" sipping 
 his coffee and listening to the orchestra of women that 
 plays on the platform outside the caffe, she had passed 
 and repassed, always casting upon him that glance of 
 sinister understanding, of invitation, of dreary wicked- 
 ness that sought for, and believed that it had found, 
 an answering wickedness in him. 
 
 Terrible old woman! Peppina's aunt might well be 
 
 206
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 like that. And Peppina would sleep, perhaps to-night, 
 in the Casa del Mare, under the same roof as Vere. 
 
 He resolved to go that evening to the island, to see 
 Peppina, to see Vere. He wished, too, to have A little 
 talk with Gaspare about Ruffo. 
 
 The watch-dog instinct, which dwelt also in Gaspare, 
 was alive in him. 
 
 But to-day it was alive to do service for Vere, not for 
 Hermione. He knew that, and said to himself that it 
 was natural. For Hermione was a woman, with ex- 
 perience of life; but Vere was only upon the threshold 
 of the world. She needed protection more than Her- 
 mione. 
 
 Some time ago, when he was returning to Naples from 
 the island on an evening of scirocco, Artois had in thought 
 transferred certain hopes of his from Hermione to Vere. 
 He had said to himself that he must henceforth hope for 
 Hermione in Vere. 
 
 Now was he not transferring something else from the 
 mother to the child ?
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ARTOIS had intended to go that evening to the island. 
 But he did not fulfil his intention. When the sun began 
 to sink he threw a light coat over his arm and walked 
 down to the harbor of Santa Lucia. A boatman whom 
 he knew met him and said: 
 
 "Shall I take you to the island, Signore?" 
 
 Artois was there to take a boat. He meant to say 
 yes. Yet when the man spoke he answered no. The 
 fellow turned away and found another customer. Two 
 or three minutes later Artois saw his boat drawing out 
 to sea in the direction of Posilipo. It was a still even- 
 ing, and very clear after the storm of the preceding 
 night. Artois longed to be in that travelling boat, 
 longed to see the night come from the summit of the 
 island with Hermione and Vere. But he resisted the 
 sea, its wide peace, its subtle summons, called a car- 
 riage and drove to the Galleria. Arrived there, he took 
 his seat at a little table outside the "Gran Gaffe," or- 
 dered a small dinner, and, while he was eating it, watch- 
 ed the people strolling up and down, seeking among them 
 for a figure that he knew. 
 
 As the hour drew near for the music to begin, and the 
 girls dressed in white came out one by one to the plat- 
 form that, surrounded by a white railing edged with red 
 velvet, is built out beyond the caffe to face the crowd, 
 the number of promenaders increased, and many stood 
 still waiting for the first note, and debating the looks 
 of the players. Others thronged around Artois, taking 
 possession of the many little tables, and calling for ices, 
 
 208
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 lemon - water, syrups, and liqueurs. Priests, soldiers, 
 sailors, students, actors who assemble in the Galleria 
 to seek engagements newsboys, and youths whose 
 faces suggested that they were "ruffiani," mingled with 
 foreigners who had come from the hotels and from the 
 ships in the harbor, and whose demeanor was partly 
 curious and partly suspicious, as of one who longs to 
 probe the psychology of a thief while safely -guarding 
 his pockets. The buzz of voices, the tramp of feet, 
 gained a peculiar and vivid sonorousness from the high 
 and vaulted roof; and in the warm air, under the large 
 and winking electric lights, the perpetually moving fig- 
 ures looked strangely capricious, hungry, determined, 
 furtive, ardent, and intent. On their little stands the 
 electric fans whirred as they slowly revolved, casting an 
 artificial breeze upon pallid faces, and around the cen- 
 tral dome the angels with gilded wings lifted their right 
 arms as if pointing the unconscious multitude the diffi- 
 cult way to heaven. 
 
 A priest sat down with two companions at the table 
 next to Artois. He had a red cord round his shaggy 
 black hat. His face was like a parroquet's, with small, 
 beady eyes full of an unintellectual sharpness. His 
 plump body suggested this world, and his whole de- 
 meanor, the movements of his dimpled, dirty hands, 
 and of his protruding lips, the attitude of his extended 
 legs, the pose of his coarse shoulders, seemed hostile to 
 things mystical. He munched an ice, and swallowed 
 hasty draughts of iced water, talking the while with a 
 sort of gluttonous vivacity. Artois looked at him and 
 heard, with his imagination, the sound of the bell at the 
 Elevation, and saw the bowed heads of the crouching 
 worshippers. The irony of life, that is the deepest mys- 
 tery of life, came upon him like the wave of some Polar 
 sea. He looked up at the gilded angels, then dropped 
 his eyes and saw what he had come to see. 
 
 209
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Slowly threading her way through the increasing 
 throng, came the old woman whom he had watched so 
 often and by whom he had been watched. To-night she 
 had on her summer dress, a respectable, rather shiny 
 gown of grayish mauve, a bonnet edged with white rib- 
 bon, a pair of white thread gloves. She carried her lit- 
 tle bag and a small Japanese fan. Walking in a strange, 
 flat-footed way that was peculiar to her, and glancing 
 narrowly about her, yet keeping her head almost still, 
 she advanced towards the band -stand. As she came 
 opposite to Artois the orchestra of women struck up 
 the "Valse Noir," and the old woman stood still, im- 
 peded by the now dense crowd of listeners. While the 
 demurely sinister music ran its course, she remained ab- 
 solutely immobile. Artois watched her with a keen in- 
 terest. 
 
 It had come into his mind that she was the aunt of 
 Peppina, the disfigured girl, who perhaps to-night was 
 sleeping in the Casa del Mare with Vere. 
 
 Presently, attracted, no doubt, by his gaze, the old 
 woman looked across at Artois and met his eyes. In- 
 stantly a sour and malignant expression came into her 
 long, pale face, and she drew up a corner of her upper 
 lip, as a dog sometimes does, showing a tooth that was 
 like a menace. 
 
 She was secretly cursing Artois. 
 
 He knew why. Encouraged by his former observa- 
 tion of her, she had scented a client in him and had been 
 deceived, and this deception had bred within her an 
 acrid hatred of him. To-night he would chase away 
 tkat hatred. For he meant to speak to her. The old 
 woman looked away from him, holding her head down 
 as if in cold disdain. Artois read easily what was pass- 
 ing in her mind. She believed him wicked, but nervous 
 in his wickedness, desirous of her services but afraid to 
 invite them. And she held him in the uttermost con- 
 
 210
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 tempt. Well, to-night he would undeceive her on one 
 point at least. He kept his eyes upon her so firmly that 
 she looked at him again. This time he made a sign of 
 recognition, of understanding. She stared as if in sus- 
 picious amazement. He glanced towards the dome, 
 then at her once more. At this moment the waiter 
 came up. Artois paid his bill slowly and ostentatiously. 
 As he counted out the money upon the little tray he 
 looked up once, and saw the eyes in the long, pale face 
 of the venerable temptress glitter while they watched. 
 The music ceased, the crowd before the platform broke 
 up, and began quickly to melt away. Only the woman 
 waited, holding her little bag and her cheap Japanese 
 fan. 
 
 Artois drew out a cigar, lit it slowly, then got up, and 
 began to move out among the tables. 
 
 The priest looked after him, spoke rapidly to his com- 
 panions, and burst into a throaty laugh which was loud- 
 ly echoed. 
 
 "Maria Fortunata is in luck to-night!" said some one. 
 
 Then the band began again, the waiter came with 
 more ices, and the tall, long-bearded forestiere was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Without glancing at the woman, Artois strolled slow- 
 ly on. Many people looked at him, but none spoke to 
 him, for he was known now, as each stranger who stays 
 long in Naples is known, summed up, labelled, and 
 either ignored or pestered. The touts and the ruffiani 
 were aware that it was no use to pester the Frenchman, 
 and even the decrepit and indescribably seedy old men 
 who hover before the huge plate-glass windows of the 
 photograph shops, or linger near the entrance to the 
 cinematograph, never peeped at him out of the corners 
 of their bloodshot eyes or whispered a word of the white 
 slaves in his ear. 
 
 When he was beneath the dome, and could see the 
 
 211
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 light gleaming upon the wings of the pointing angels, 
 Artois seemed to be aware of an individual step among 
 the many feet behind him, a step soft, furtive, and ob- 
 stinate, that followed him like a fate's. He glanced up 
 at the angels. A melancholy and half-bitter smile came 
 to his lips. Then he turned to the right and made his 
 way still slowly towards the Via Roma, always crowded 
 from the early afternoon until late into the night. As 
 he went, as he pushed through the mob of standing men 
 at the entrance of the Galleria, and crossed the street to 
 the far side, from which innumerable narrow and evil- 
 looking alleys stretch away into the darkness up the 
 hill, the influence of the following old woman increased 
 upon him, casting upon him like a mist her hateful 
 eagerness. He desired to be rid of it, and, quickening 
 his walk, he turned into the first alley he came to, walked 
 a little way up it, until he was in comparative solitude 
 and obscurity, then stopped and abruptly turned. 
 
 The shiny, grayish mauve gown and the white- 
 trimmed bonnet were close to him. Between them he 
 faintly perceived a widely smiling face, and from this 
 face broke at once a sickly torrent of speech, half Nea- 
 politan dialect, half bastard French. 
 
 "Silenzio!" Artois said, sternly. 
 
 The old harridan stopped in surprise, showing her 
 tooth. 
 
 "What has become of Peppina?" 
 
 "Maria Santissima!" she ejaculated, moving back a 
 step in the darkness. 
 
 She paused. Then she said: 
 
 "You know Peppina!" 
 
 She came forward again, quite up to him, and peered 
 into his face, seeking there for an ugly truth which till 
 now had been hidden from her. 
 
 "What had you to do with Peppina?" 
 
 "Nothing. Tell me about her, and " 
 
 212
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat, and 
 showed her the edge of a little case containing paper 
 notes. The woman misunderstood him. He knew that 
 by her face, which for the moment was as a battle-field 
 on which lust fought with a desperate anger of disap- 
 pointment. Then cunning came to stop the battle. 
 
 "You have heard of Peppina, Signore? You have 
 never seen her?" 
 
 Artois played with her for a moment. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 Her smile widened. She put up her thin hands to her 
 hair, her bonnet, coquettishly. 
 
 "There is not a girl in Naples as beautiful as Peppina. 
 Mother of " 
 
 But the game was too loathsome with such a player. 
 
 "Beautiful! Macche!" 
 
 He laughed, made a gesture of pulling out a knife 
 and smashing his face with it. 
 
 "Beautiful! Per Dio!" 
 
 The coquetry, the cunning, dropped out of the long, 
 pale face. 
 
 "The Signore knows?" 
 
 "Ma si! All Naples knows." 
 
 The old woman's face became terrible. Her two 
 hands shot up, dropped, shot up again, imprecating, 
 cursing the world, the sky, the whole scheme of the 
 universe, it seemed. She chattered like an ape. Artois 
 soothed her with a ten-lire note/ 
 
 That night, when he went back to the hotel, he had 
 heard the aunt's version of Peppina, and knew that 
 which really he had known before that Hermione had 
 taken her to live on the island. 
 
 Hermione! What was she? An original, clever and 
 blind, great-hearted and unwise. An enthusiast, one 
 created to be carried away. 
 
 Never would she grow really old, never surely would 
 
 213
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the primal fires within her die down into the gray ashes 
 that litter so many of the hearths by which age sits, a 
 bleak, uncomely shadow. 
 
 And Peppina was on the island, a girl from the stews 
 of Naples; not wicked, perhaps, rather wronged, in- 
 jured by life nevertheless, the niece of that horror of 
 the Galleria. 
 
 He thought of Vere and shuddered. 
 
 Next day towards four o'clock the Marchesino strolled 
 into Artois' room, with a peculiarly impudent look of 
 knowledge upon his face. 
 
 "Buon giorno, Caro Emilio," he said. "Are you 
 busy?" 
 
 "Not specially." 
 
 "Will you come with me for a stroll in the Villa? 
 Will you come to see the gathering together of the 
 geese?" 
 
 "Che Diavolo! What's that?" 
 
 "This summer the Marchesa Pontini has organized a 
 sort of club, which meets in the Villa every day except 
 Sundays. Three days the meeting is in the morning, 
 three days in the afternoon. The silliest people of the 
 aristocracy belong to this club, and the Marchesa is the 
 mother goose. Ecco! Will you come, or or have you 
 some appointment ?" He smiled in his friend's face. 
 
 Artois wondered, but could not divine, what was at the 
 back of his mind. 
 
 "No, I had thought of going on the sea." 
 
 "Or to the Toledo, perhaps?" 
 
 The Marchesino laughed happily. 
 
 "The Toledo? Why should I go there?" 
 
 "Non lo so. Put on your chapeau and come. II fait 
 tres beau cet apres-midi." 
 
 Doro was very proud of his French, which made 
 Artois secretly shiver, and generally spoke it when he 
 was in specially good spirits, or was feeling unusually 
 
 214
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mischievous. As they walked along the sea -front a 
 moment later, he continued in Italian: 
 
 "You were not at the island yesterday, Emilio?" 
 
 "No. Were you?" 
 
 "I naturally called to know how the ladies were after 
 that terrible storm. What else could I do?" 
 
 "And how were they?" 
 
 "The Signora was in Naples, and of course the Sign- 
 orina could not have received me alone. But the saints 
 were with me, Emilio. I met her on the sea, quite by her- 
 self, on the sea of the Saint's Pool. She was lying back 
 in a little boat, with no hat on, her hands behind her 
 head so, and her eyes her beautiful eyes, Emilio, were 
 full of dreams, of dreams of the sea." 
 
 "How do you know that ?" said Artois, rather sharply. 
 
 "Cosa?" 
 
 "How do you know the Signorina was dreaming of 
 the sea? Did she did she tell you?" 
 
 "No, but I am sure. We walked together from the 
 boats. I told her she was an enchantress of the sea, the 
 spirit of the wave I told her!" 
 
 He spread out his hands, rejoicing in the remembrance 
 of his graceful compliments. 
 
 "The Signorina was delighted, but she could not stay 
 long. She had a slight headache and was a little tired 
 after the storm. But she would have liked to ask me 
 to the house. She was longing to. I could see that." 
 
 He seized his mustache. 
 
 "She turned her head away, trying to conceal from 
 me her desire, but " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Le donne! Le donne!" he happily exclaimed. 
 
 Artois found himself wondering why, until Doro had 
 made the acquaintance of the dwellers on the island, he 
 had never wished to smack his smooth, complacent 
 cheeks. 
 
 215
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They turned from the sea into the broad walk of the 
 Villa, and walked towards the kiosk. Near it, on the 
 small, green chairs, were some ladies swathed in gigantic 
 floating- veils, talking to two or three very smart young 
 men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned for- 
 ward eying them steadily with a determined yet rather 
 vacuous boldness that did not disconcert them. One 
 of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white check, was im- 
 mensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, 
 which was carried on with extreme vivacity in very 
 loud and not melodious voices. 
 
 "Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Mar- 
 chesino, touching Artois on the arm. "And that" he 
 pointed to the stout lady, who at this moment tossed 
 her head till her veil swung loose like a sail suddenly 
 deserted by the wind "is the goose - mother. Buona 
 sera, Marchesa! Buona sera molto piacere. Carlo, 
 buona sera a rivederci, Contessa! A questa sera." 
 
 He showed his splendid teeth in a fixed but winning 
 smile, and, hat in hand, went by, walking from his hips. 
 Then, replacing his hat on his head, he added to his 
 friend: 
 
 "The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa 
 d'Aosta will come one day, if only for a moment, to 
 smile upon the geese. But well, the Duchessa prefers 
 to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has 
 a heart. Let us sit here, Emilio." 
 
 They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino 
 locked at his pointed boots for a moment in silence, 
 pushing forward his under lip until his blond mustache 
 touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he began to 
 laugh, still looking before him. 
 
 "Emilio! Emilio!" 
 
 He shook his head repeatedly. 
 
 "Emilio mio! And that you should be asking me to 
 show you Naples! It is too good! C'est parfait!" 
 
 216
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The Marchesino turned towards Artois. 
 
 "And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, 
 the white-haired protectress of the strangers! Emilio 
 you might have come to me! But you do not trust me. 
 Ecco! You do not 
 
 Artois understood. 
 
 "You saw me last night?" 
 
 "Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know 
 that the Galleria is full but full of eyes?" 
 
 "Va bene! But you don't understand." 
 
 "Emilio!" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eye- 
 brows. His whole being seemed as if it were about to 
 mount ironically towards heaven. 
 
 "You don't understand. I repeat it." 
 
 Artois spoke quietly, but there was a sound in his 
 voice which caused his frivolous companion to stare at 
 him with an inquiry that was, for a moment, almost 
 sulky. 
 
 "You forget, Doro, how old I am." 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" 
 
 "You forget " 
 
 Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point 
 out the improbability of a man so mental, so known, 
 so travelled as he was, falling like a school-boy publicly 
 into a sordid adventure. But he stopped, realizing the 
 uselessness of such an explanation. And he could not 
 tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy 
 in a by-street with the old creature from behind the 
 shutter. 
 
 "You have made a mistake about me," he said. 
 "But it is of no consequence. Look! There is another 
 goose coming." 
 
 He pointed with his cane in the direction of the 
 chatterers near the kiosk. 
 
 "It is papa! It is papa!" 
 
 217
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Pardon! I did not recognize 
 
 The Marchesino got up. 
 
 "Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa it is 
 better than the Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present 
 you." 
 
 But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 "Not now," he said. "I have " 
 
 The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent com- 
 prehension at him, and touched his left hand in token 
 of farewell. 
 
 "I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. 
 A-ah! A-ah! May the writer's saint go with you! 
 Addio, mio caro!" 
 
 There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He 
 cocked his hat and strutted away towards the veils 
 and the piercing voices. Artois stared after him for a 
 moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and 
 leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He 
 was vexed at this little episode unreasonably vexed. 
 In his friend Doro he now discerned a possible ene- 
 my. An Italian who has trusted does not easily for- 
 give if he is not trusted in return. Artois was con- 
 scious of a dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No 
 doubt he could check it. Doro was essentially good- 
 tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an 
 exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was im- 
 possible to him, and as it was impossible he must allow 
 Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. He knew, of 
 course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in masculine 
 virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind 
 Doro's laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly 
 crew who cling to forbidden pleasures ? Why should he 
 feel sore, angry, almost insulted? 
 
 Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring 
 him the answer to his questionings. And he knew that
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 his vexation arose from the secret apprehension of a 
 future in which he would desire to stand between her 
 and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro 
 certain truths which are universal, not national. Such 
 truths would come ill from one whom the lectured held 
 unclean. 
 
 As he walked home to the hotel his vexation grew. 
 
 When he was once more in his room he remembered 
 his remark to Hermione, "We shall have many quiet, 
 happy evenings together this summer, I hope," and her 
 strange and doubtful reply. And because he felt himself 
 invaded by her doubts he resolved to set out for the 
 island. If he took a boat at once he could be there 
 between six and seven o'clock. 
 
 And perhaps he would see the new occupant of the 
 Casa del Mare. Perhaps he would see Peppina. 
 15
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "I HAVE come, you see," said Artois that evening, 
 as he entered Hermione's room, "to have the first of 
 our quiet, happy evenings, about which you were so 
 doubtful." 
 
 "Was I?" 
 
 She smiled at him from her seat between the big 
 windows. 
 
 Outside the door he had, almost with a sudden pas- 
 sion, dismissed the vague doubts and apprehensions 
 that beset him. He came with a definite brightness, a 
 strong intimacy, holding out his hands, intent really on 
 forcing Fate to weave her web in accordance with his 
 will. 
 
 "We women are full of little fears, even the bravest 
 of us. Chase mine away, Emile." 
 
 He sat down. 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Formless or almost. But perhaps that adds to the 
 uneasiness they inspire. To put them into words would 
 be impossible." 
 
 "Away with them!" 
 
 "Willingly." 
 
 Her eyes seemed to be asking him questions, to be 
 not quite satisfied, not quite sure of something. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 "I wonder if you have it in you to be angry with me." 
 
 "Make your confession." 
 
 220
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I have Peppina here." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "You knew?" 
 
 "I have known you as an impulsive for how many 
 years? Why should you change?" 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he 
 continued: 
 
 "Sometimes you remind me in spots, as it were of 
 George Sand." 
 
 She laughed, not quite without bitterness. 
 
 "In spots, indeed!" 
 
 "She described herself once in a book as having 'a 
 great facility ' for illusions, a blind benevolence of judg- 
 ment, a tenderness of heart that was inexhaustible " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Wait! From these qualities, she said, came hurry, 
 mistakes innumerable, heroic devotion to objects that were 
 worthless, much weakness, tremendous disappointments." 
 
 Hermione said nothing, but sat still looking grave. 
 
 "Well? don't you recognize something of yourself in 
 the catalogue, my friend?" 
 
 "Have I a great facility for illusions? Am I capable 
 of heroic devotion to worthless objects?" 
 
 Suddenly Artois remembered all he knew and she did 
 not know. 
 
 "At least you act hastily often," he said, evasively. 
 "And I think you are often so concentrated upon the 
 person who stands, perhaps suffering, immediately be- 
 fore you, that you forget who is on the right, who is on 
 the left." 
 
 "Emile, I asked your advice yesterday, and you 
 would not give it me." 
 
 "A fair hit!" he said. "And so Peppina is here. 
 How did the servants receive her?" 
 
 "I think they were rather surprised. Of course they 
 don't know the truth." 
 
 221
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "They will within shall we say twenty-four hours, 
 or less?" 
 
 "How can they? Peppina won't tell them." 
 
 "You are sure? And when Gaspare goes into Naples 
 to 'fare la spesa'?" 
 
 "I told Gaspare last night." 
 
 "That was wisdom. You understand your watch- 
 dog's character." 
 
 "You grant that Gaspare is not an instance of a 
 worthless object made the recipient of my heroic de- 
 votion?" 
 
 "Give him all you like," said Artois, with warmth. 
 "You will never repent of that. Was he angry when 
 you told him?" 
 
 "I think he was." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I heard him saying 'Testa della Madonna!' as he 
 was leaving me." 
 
 Artois could not help smiling. 
 
 "And Vere?" he said, looking directly at her. 
 
 "I have not told Vere anything about Peppina's 
 past," Hermione said, rather hastily. "I do not in- 
 tend to. I explained that Peppina had had a sad life 
 and had been attacked by a man who had fallen in love 
 with her, and for whom she didn't care." 
 
 "And Vere was all sympathy and pity?" said Artois, 
 gently. 
 
 "She didn't seem much interested, I thought. She 
 scarcely seemed to be listening. I don't believe she has 
 seen Peppina yet. When we arrived she was shut up 
 in her room." 
 
 As she spoke she was looking at him, and she saw a 
 slight change come over his face. 
 
 "Do you think ?" she began, and paused. "I 
 wonder if she was reading," she added, slowly, after a 
 moment. 
 
 222
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mother would not have allowed them to sit together on 
 the terrace without a chaperon. But the English mother 
 had deliberately remained within and had kept Caro 
 Emilio with her. What could such conduct mean, if not 
 that the Signorina was in love with him, the Marchesino, 
 and that the Signorina's mamma was perfectly willing for 
 him to make love to her child ? 
 
 And yet and yet ? 
 
 There was something in Vere that puzzled him, that 
 had kept him strangely discreet upon the terrace, that 
 made him silent and thoughtful now. Had she been a 
 typical English girl he might have discerned something 
 of the truth of her. But Vere was lively, daring, pas- 
 sionate, and not without some traces of half -humorous 
 and wholly innocent coquetry. She was not at all what 
 the Neapolitan calls "a lump of snow to cool the wine." 
 In her innocence there was fire. That was what confused 
 the Marchesino. 
 
 He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone 
 out, and his round eyes became almost pathetic for a 
 moment. Then it occurred to him that perhaps this 
 exit was a second ruse, like Vere's departure to the ter- 
 race, and he made a movement as if to go out and brave 
 the storm. But Hermione stopped him decisively. 
 
 "No, Marchese," she said, "really I cannot let you 
 expose yourself to the rain and the sea in that airy 
 costume. I might be your mother." 
 
 "Signora, but you " 
 
 "No, compliments apart, I really might be, and you 
 must let me use a mother's authority. Till we reach 
 the island stay here and make the best of me." 
 
 Hermione had touched the right note. Metaphorically, 
 the Marchesino cast himself at her feet. With a gallant 
 assumption of undivided adoration he burst into con- 
 versation, and, though his eyes often wandered to the 
 blurred glass, against which pressed and swayed a black- 
 
 191
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ness that told of those outside, his sense of his duty as a 
 host gradually prevailed, and he and Hermione were 
 soon talking quite cheerfully together. 
 
 Vere had forgotten him as utterly as she had forgotten 
 Naples, swallowed up by the night. Just then only the 
 sea, the night, Gaspare, and the two sailors who were 
 managing the launch were real to her besides herself. 
 For a moment even her mother had ceased to exist in her 
 consciousness. As the sea swept the deck of the little 
 craft it swept her mind clear to make more room for 
 itself. 
 
 She stood by Gaspare, touching him, and clinging on, 
 as he did, to the rail. Impenetrably black was the night. 
 Only here and there, at distances she could not begin to 
 judge of, shone vaguely lights that seemed to dance and 
 fade and reappear like marsh lights in a world of mist. 
 Were they on se'a or land? She could not tell and did 
 not ask. The sailors doubtless knew, but she respected 
 them and their duty too much to speak to them, though 
 she had given them a smile as she came out to join them, 
 and had received two admiring salutes in reply. Gas- 
 pare, too, had smiled at her with a pleasure which swiftly 
 conquered the faint reproach in his eloquent eyes. He 
 liked his Padroncina's courage, liked the sailors of the 
 Signer Marchese to see it. He was soaked to the skin, 
 but he, too, was enjoying the adventure, a rare one on 
 this summer sea, which had slept through so many shin- 
 ing days and starry nights like a "bambino in dolce 
 letargo." 
 
 To-night it was awake, and woke up others, Vere's 
 nature and his. 
 
 "Where is the island, Gaspare?" cried Vere through 
 the wind to him. 
 
 "Chi lo sa, Signorina." 
 
 He waved one hand to the blackness before them. 
 
 "It must be there." 
 
 192
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She strained her eyes, then looked away towards where 
 the land must be. At a long distance across the leaping 
 foam she saw one light. As the boat rose and sank on 
 the crests and into the hollows of the waves the light 
 shone and faded, shone and faded. She guessed it to 
 be a light at the Antico Giuseppone. Despite the head 
 wind and the waves that met them the launch travelled 
 bravely, and soon the light was gone. She told herself 
 that it must have been at the Giuseppone, and that now 
 they had got beyond the point, and were opposite to the 
 harbor of the Villa Rosebery. But no lights greeted 
 them from the White Palazzo in the wood, or from the 
 smaller white house low down beside tr.-^ sea. And 
 again she looked straight forward. 
 
 Now she was intent on San Francesco. She was think- 
 ing of him, of the Pool, of the island. And she thrilled 
 with joy at the thought of the wonderful wildness of her 
 home. As they drew on towards it the waves were 
 bigger, the wind was stronger. Even on calm nights 
 there was always a breeze when one had passed the 
 Giuseppone going towards Ischia, and beyond the island 
 there was sometimes quite a lively sea. What would it 
 be to-night ? Her heart cried out for a crescendo. With- 
 in her, at that moment, was a desire like the motorist's 
 for speed. More! more! More wind! more sea! more 
 uproar from the elements ! 
 
 And San Francesco all alone in this terrific blackness! 
 Had he not been dashed from his pedestal by the waves ? 
 Was the light at his feet still burning? 
 
 "II Santo!" she said to Gaspare. 
 
 He bent his head till it was close to her lips. 
 
 "II Santo! What has become of him, Gaspare?" 
 
 "He will be there, Signorina." 
 
 So Gaspare, too, held to the belief of the seamen of the 
 Bay. He had confidence in the obedience of the sea, 
 this sea that roared around them like a tyrant. Sud- 
 
 193
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 denly she had no doubt. It would be so. The saint 
 would be untouched. The light would still be burning. 
 She looked for it. And now she remembered her mother. 
 She must tell her mother directly she saw it. But all was 
 blackness still. N 
 
 And the launch seemed weary, like a live thing whose 
 strength is ebbing, who strains and pants and struggles 
 gallantly, not losing heart but losing physical force. 
 Surely it was going slower. She laid one hand upon the 
 cabin roof as if in encouragement. Her heart was with 
 the launch, as the seaman's is with his boat when it re- 
 sists, surely for his sake consciously, the assault of the 
 great sea. 
 
 "Coraggio!" 
 
 She was murmuring the word. Gaspare looked at her. 
 And the word was in his eyes as it should be in all eyes 
 that look at youth. And the launch strove on. 
 
 ' ' Coraggio ! Coraggio ! ' ' 
 
 The spray was in her face. Her hair was wet with the 
 rain. Her French frock that was probably ruined! 
 But she knew that she had never felt more happy. And 
 now it was like a miracle! Suddenly out of the dark- 
 ness a second darkness shaped itself, a darkness that she 
 knew the island. And almost simultaneously there 
 shone out a little, steady light. 
 
 "Ecco il Santo!" 
 
 "Ecco! Ecco!" 
 
 Vere called out: "Madre! Madre!" 
 
 She bent down. 
 
 "Madre! The light is burning." 
 
 The sailors, too, bent down, right down to the water. 
 They caught at it with their hands, Gaspare, too. Vere 
 understood, and, kneeling on the gunwale, firmly in 
 Gaspare's grasp, she joined in their action. 
 
 She sprinkled the boat with the acqua benedetta and 
 made the sign of the cross. 
 
 194
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 WHEN, the next day, Artois sat down at his table to 
 work he found it impossible to concentrate his mind. 
 The irritation of the previous evening had passed away. 
 He attributed it to the physical effect made upon him 
 by the disturbed atmosphere. Now the sun shone, the 
 sky was clear, the sea calm. He had just come out of an 
 ice-cold bath, had taken his coffee, and smoked one 
 cigarette. A quiet morning lay before him. Quiet? 
 
 He got up and went to the window. 
 
 On the wooden roof of the bath establishment op- 
 posite rows of towels, hung out to dry, were moving 
 listlessly to and fro in the soft breeze. Capri w>as almost 
 hidden by haze in the distance. In the sea, just below 
 him, several heads of swimmers moved. One boy was 
 "making death." He floated on his back with his eyes 
 closed and his arms extended. His body, giving itself 
 without resistance to every movement of the water, 
 looked corpselike and ghostly. 
 
 A companion shouted to him. He threw up his arms 
 suddenly and shouted a reply in the broadest Neapolitan, 
 then began to swim vigorously towards the slimy rocks at 
 the base of Castel dell' Ovo. Upon the wooden terrace 
 of the baths among green plants in pots stood three 
 women, probably friends of the proprietor. For though 
 it was already hot, the regular bathing season of Naples 
 had not yet begun and the baths were not completed. 
 Only in July, after the festa of the Madonna del Carmine, 
 do the Neapolitans give themselves heart and soul to the 
 
 195
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 sea. Artois knew this, and wondered idly -what the 
 women were doing on the terrace. One had a dog. It 
 sat in the sun and began to cough. A long wagon on 
 two wheels went by, drawn by two mules and a thin 
 horse harnessed abreast. It was full of white stone. 
 The driver had bought some green stuff and flung it 
 down upon the white. He wore a handkerchief on his 
 head. His chest was bare. As he passed beneath the 
 window he sang a loud song that sounded Eastern, such 
 a song as the Spanish wagoners sing in Algeria, as they 
 set out by night on their long journeys towards the desert. 
 Upon a tiny platform of wood, fastened to slanting 
 stakes which met together beneath it in a tripod, a stout 
 man in shirt and trousers, with black whiskers, was sitting 
 on a chair fishing with a rod and line. A boy sat beside 
 him dangling his legs over the water. At a little distance 
 a large fishing-smack, with sails set to catch the breeze 
 farther out in the Bay, was being laboriously rowed 
 towards the open sea by half -naked men, who shouted 
 as they toiled at the immense oars. 
 
 Artois wondered where they were going. Their skins 
 were a rich orange color. From a distance in the sun- 
 light they looked like men of gold. Their cries and their 
 fierce movements suggested some fantastic quest to lands 
 of mysterious tumult. 
 
 Artois wished that Vere could see them. 
 
 What were the inhabitants of the island doing ? 
 
 To-day his mind was beyond his governance, and 
 roamed like a vagrant on a long, white road. Every- 
 thing that he saw below him in the calm radiance of the 
 morning pushed it from thought to thought. Yet none 
 of these thoughts were valuable. None seemed fully 
 formed. They resembled henids, things seen so far away 
 that one cannot tell what they are, but is only aware that 
 they exist and can attract attention. 
 
 He came out upon his balcony. As he did so he looked 
 
 196
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 down into the road, and saw a hired carriage drive up, 
 with Hermione in it. 
 
 She glanced up and saw him. 
 
 "May I come in for a minute?" 
 
 He nodded, smiling, and went out to meet her, glad 
 of this interruption. 
 
 They met at the door of the lift. As Hermione stepped 
 out she cast a rather anxious glance at her friend, a 
 glance that seemed to say that she was not quite certain 
 of her welcome. Artois' eyes reassured her. 
 
 "I feel guilt)'," she said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Coming at such an hour. Are you working?" 
 
 "No. I don't know why, but I am incapable of work. 
 I feel both lazy and restless, an unfruitful combination. 
 Perhaps something in me secretly knew that you were 
 coming." 
 
 "Then it is my fault." 
 
 They came into his sitting-room. It had four win- 
 dows, tw3 facing the sea, two looking on the road, and 
 the terraces and garden of the Hotel Hassler. The 
 room scarcely suggested its present occupant. It con- 
 tained a light-yellow carpet with pink flowers strewn over 
 it, red-and-gold chairs, mirrors, a white marble mantel- 
 piece, a gray-and-pink sofa with a pink cushion. Only 
 the large writing-table, covered with manuscripts, letters, 
 and photographs in frames, said something individual 
 to the visitor. Hermione and Vere were among the 
 photographs. 
 
 Hermione sat down on the sofa. 
 
 "I have come to consult you about something, 
 Emile." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I really meant to ask you last night, but somehow 
 I couldn't." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 197
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I don't know. We I there seemed to be a sort of 
 barrier between us didn't there?" 
 
 ' ' I was in a bad humor. I was tired after the journey, 
 and perhaps the weather upset me." 
 
 "It's all right one can't be always Well, this is 
 what I wanted to say. I alluded to it yesterday when 
 I told you about my visit to Naples with Madame 
 Alliani. Do you remember?" 
 
 "You hinted you had seen, or heard of, some trag- 
 edy." 
 
 "Yes. I believe it is a quite ordinary one in Naples. 
 We went to visit a consumptive woman in one of those 
 narrow streets going uphill to the left of the Via Roma, 
 and while there by chance I heard of it. In the same 
 house as the sick woman there is a girl. Not many days 
 ago she was beautiful!" 
 
 "Yes ? What has happened to her ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you. Her name is Peppina. She is only 
 nineteen, but she has been one of those who are not given 
 a chance. She was left an orphan very young and went 
 to live with an aunt. This aunt is a horrible old woman. 
 I believe they say she goes to the Galleria " 
 
 Hermione paused. 
 
 "I understand," said Artois. 
 
 "She is greedy, wicked, merciless. We had the story 
 from the woman we were visiting, a neighbor. This 
 aunt forced Peppina into sin. Her beauty, which must 
 have been extraordinary, naturally attracted attention 
 and turned people's heads. It seems to have driven one 
 man nearly mad. He is a fisherman, not young, and a 
 married man. It seems that he is notoriously violent 
 and jealous, and thoroughly unscrupulous. He is a 
 member of the Camorra, too. He pestered Peppina with 
 his attentions, coming day after day from Mergellina, 
 where he lives with his wife. One night he entered the 
 house and made a scene. Peppina refused finally to 
 
 198
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 receive his advances, and told him she hated him before 
 all the neighbors. He took out a razor and " 
 
 Hermione stopped. 
 
 "I understand," said Artois. "He disfigured her." 
 
 "Dreadfully." 
 
 "It is often done here. Sometimes a youth does it 
 simply to show that a girl is his property. But what is it 
 you wish to do for Peppina? I see you have a plan in 
 your head." 
 
 "I want to have her on the island." 
 
 "In what capacity?" 
 
 "As a servant. She can work. She is not a bad girl. 
 She has only well, Emile, the aunt only succeeded in 
 forcing one lover on her. That is the truth. He was 
 rich and bribed the aunt. But of course the neighbors 
 all know, and ^the population here has its virtues, but it 
 is not exactly a delicate population." 
 
 "Per Bacco!" 
 
 "And now that the poor girl is disfigured the aunt is 
 going to turn her out-of-doors. She says Peppina must 
 go and earn money for herself. Of course nobody will 
 take her. -I want to. I have seen her, talked to her. 
 She would be so thankful. She is in despair. Think 
 of it! Nineteen, and all her beauty gone! Isn't it 
 devilish?" 
 
 "And the man?" 
 
 "Oh, they say he'll get scarcely anything, if anything. 
 Two or three months, perhaps. He is 'protected.' It 
 makes my blood boil." 
 
 Artois was silent, waiting for her to say more, to ask 
 questions. 
 
 "The only thing is Vere, Emile," she said. 
 
 "Vere?" 
 
 "Yes. You know how friendly she is with the ser- 
 vants. I like her to be. But of course till now they 
 have been all right so far as I know." 
 
 199
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You do well to add that proviso." 
 
 " Peppina would not wait on us. She would be in the 
 kitchen. Am I justified in taking her? Of course I 
 could help her with money. If I had not seen her, talked 
 to her, that is what I should have done, no doubt. But 
 she wants she wants everything, peace, a decent home, 
 pure air. I feel she wants the island?" 
 
 "And the other servants?" 
 
 "They need only know she was attacked. They need 
 not know her past history. But all that does not matter. 
 It is only the question of Vere that troubles me." 
 
 "You mean that you are not decided whether you 
 ought to bring into the house with Vere a girl who is 
 not as Vere is?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you want me to advise you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I can't do that, Hermione." 
 
 She looked at him almost as if she were startled. 
 
 "Why not? I always rely " 
 
 "No, no. This is not a man's business, my business." 
 
 He spoke with an odd brusqueness, and there were 
 traces of agitation in his face. Hermione did not at all 
 understand what feeling was prompting him, but again, 
 as on the previous evening, she felt as if there were 
 a barrier between them very slight, perhaps, very 
 shadowy, but definite nevertheless. There was no longer 
 complete frankness in their relations. At moments her 
 friend seemed to be subtly dominated by some secret 
 irritation, or anxiety, which she did not comprehend. 
 She had been aware of it yesterday. She was aware of it 
 now. After his last exclamation she said nothing. 
 
 "You are going to this girl now?" he asked. 
 
 "I meant to. Yes, I shall go." 
 
 She sat still for a minute, looking down at the pink- 
 and-yellow carpet. 
 
 200
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "And what will you do?" 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 "I think I shall take her to the island. I am almost 
 sure I shall. Emile, I don't believe in cowardice, and I 
 sometimes think I am inclined to be a coward about 
 Vere. She is growing up. She will be seventeen this 
 year, very soon. There are girls who marry at sixteen, 
 even English girls." 
 
 "That is true." 
 
 She could gather nothing from his tone; and now his 
 face was perfectly calm. 
 
 "My instinct is to keep Vere just as she is, to preserve 
 the loveliness of childhood in her as long as possible, to 
 keep away from her all knowledge of sin, sorrow, the 
 things that distract and torture the world. But I 
 mustn't be selfish about Vere. I mustn't keep her 
 wrapped in cotton wool. That is unwholesome. And, 
 after all, Vere must have her life apart from me. Last 
 night I realized that strongly." 
 
 "Last night ?" 
 
 "Yes, from the way in which she treated the Marchese, 
 and later from something else. Last night Vere showed 
 two sides of a woman's nature the capacity to hold her 
 own, what is vulgarly called 'to keep her distance,' and 
 the capacity to be motherly." 
 
 "Was Vere motherly to the Marchesino, then?" asked 
 Artois, not without irony. 
 
 "No to Ruffo." 
 
 "That boy ? But where was he last night ?" 
 
 "When we got back to the island, and the launch had 
 gone off, Vere and I stood for a minute at the foot of the 
 steps to listen to the roaring of the sea. Vere loves the 
 sea." 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 As he spoke he thought of something that Hermione 
 did not know. 
 
 201
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "The pool was protected, and under the lee of the 
 island it was comparatively calm. But the rain was 
 falling in torrents. There was one fishing-boat in the 
 pool, close to where we were, and as we were standing 
 and listening Vere said, suddenly, 'Madre, that's Ruffo's 
 boat!' I asked her how she knew because he has 
 changed into another boat lately she had told me that. 
 ' I saw his head,' she answered. ' He's there and he's not 
 asleep. Poor boy, in all this rain!' Ruffo has been ill 
 with fever, as I told you, and when Vere said that I re- 
 membered it at once." 
 
 "Had you told Vere yet?" interposed Artois. 
 
 "No. But I did then. Emile, she showed an agita- 
 tion that well, it was almost strange, I think. She 
 begged me to make him come into the house and spend 
 the night there, safe from the wind and the rain." 
 
 "And you did, of course?" 
 
 "Yes. He was looking very pale and shaky. The 
 men let him come. They were nice and sympathetic. 
 I think they are fond of the boy." 
 
 "Ruffo seems to know how to attract people to him." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And so Vere played the mother to Ruffo ?" 
 
 "Yes. I never saw that side of her before. She was 
 a woman then. Eventually Ruffo slept with Gaspare." 
 
 "And how did Gaspare accept the situation?" 
 
 "Better than I should have expected. I think he 
 likes Ruffo personally, though he is inclined to be sus- 
 picious and jealous of any strangers who come into our 
 lives. But I haven't had time to talk to him this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Is Ruffo still in the house?" 
 
 "Oh no. He went off in the boat. They came for 
 him about eight." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Artois went to the window and looked out. But now 
 
 202
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he saw nothing, although the three women were still 
 talking and gesticulating on the terrace of the bath- 
 house, more fishing-boats were being towed or rowed 
 out into the Bay, carts were passing by, and people were 
 strolling in the sun. 
 
 "You say that Vere showed agitation last night?" he 
 said, turning round after a moment. 
 
 "About Ruffo's illness? It really almost amounted 
 to that. But Vere was certainly excited. Didn't you 
 notice it?" 
 
 "I think she was." 
 
 "Emile," Hermione said, after an instant of hesitation, 
 "you remember my saying to you the other day that 
 Vere was not a stranger to me?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well." 
 
 "You said nothing I don't think you agreed. Well, 
 since that day only since then I have sometimes felt 
 that there is much in Vere that I do not understand, 
 much that is hidden from me. Has she changed lately?" 
 
 "She is at an age when development seems sudden, 
 and is often striking, even startling." 
 
 "I don't know why, but but I dread something," 
 Hermione said. "I feel as if no, I don't know what I 
 feel. But if Vere should ever drift away from me I don't 
 know how I could bear it. A boy one expects him to 
 go out into the world. But a girl! I want to keep 
 Vere. I must keep Vere. If anything else were to be 
 taken from me I don't think I could bear it." 
 
 "Vere loves you. Be sure of that." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Hermione got up. 
 
 "Well, you won't give me your advice?" 
 
 "No, Hermione." 
 
 He looked at her steadily. 
 
 "You must treat Vere as you think best, order her 
 life as you think right. In some things you do wisely 
 14 203
 
 to consult me. But in this you must rely on yourself. 
 Let your heart teach you. Do not ask questions of my 
 head." 
 
 "Your head!" she exclaimed. 
 
 There was a trace of disappointment, even of surprise, 
 in her voice. She looked at him as if she were going 
 to say more, but again she was disconcerted by some- 
 thing in his look, his attitude. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Emile." 
 
 "I will come with you to the lift." 
 
 He went with her and touched the electric bell. As 
 they waited for a moment he added: 
 
 "I should like to have an evening quietly on the 
 island." 
 
 "Come to-night, or whenever you like. Don't fix a 
 time. Come when the inclination whispers 'I want 
 to be with friends." 1 
 
 He pressed her hand. 
 
 "Shall I see Peppina?" 
 
 "Chilosa?" 
 
 "And Ruffo?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "The Marchesino, too, perhaps." 
 
 "No," said Artois, emphatically. "Disfigured girls 
 and fisher-boys as many as you like, but not the alta 
 aristocrazia Napoletana." 
 
 "But I thought" 
 
 "I like Doro, but I like him in his place." 
 
 "And his place?" 
 
 "Is not the island when I wish to be quiet there." 
 
 The lift descended. Artois went out once more 
 onto the balcony, and watched her get into the carriage 
 and drive away towards Naples. She did not look up 
 again. 
 
 "She has gone to fetch that girl Peppina," Artois said 
 to himself, "and I might have prevented it." 
 
 204
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He knew very well the reason why he had not in- 
 terfered. He had not interfered because he had wished 
 too much to interfere. The desire had been strong 
 enough to startle him, to warn him. 
 
 An islet! That suggests isolation. Like Hermione, 
 he wished to isolate Vere, to preserve her as she was in 
 character. He did not know when the wish had first 
 been consciously in his mind, but he knew that since he 
 had been consulted by Vere, since she had broken 
 through her reserve and submitted to him her poems, 
 unveiling for him alone what was really to her a holy 
 of holies, the wish had enormously increased. He told 
 himself that Vere was unique, and that he longed to keep 
 her unique, so that the talent he discerned in her might 
 remain unaffected. How great her talent was he did 
 not know. He would not know, perhaps, for a very long 
 time. But it was definite, it was intimate. It was 
 Vere's talent, no one else's. 
 
 He had made up his mind very soon about Hermi one's 
 incapacity to produce work of value. Although Vere 
 was such a child, so inexperienced, so innocent, so 
 cloistered, he knew at once that he dared not dash her 
 hopes. It was possible that she might eventually be- 
 come what her mother certainly could never be. 
 
 But she must not be interfered with. Her connec- 
 tion with the sea must not be severed. And people 
 were coming into her life Ruffo, the Marchesino, and 
 now this wounded girl Peppina. 
 
 Artois felt uneasy. He wished Hermione were less 
 generous-hearted, less impulsive. She looked on him as 
 a guide, a check. He knew that. But this time he 
 would not exercise his prerogative. Ruffo he did not 
 mind at least he thought he did not. The boy was a 
 sea creature. He might even be an inspiring force to 
 Vere. Something Artois had read had taught him that. 
 And Ruffo interested him, attracted him too. 
 
 205
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But he hated Vere's acquaintance with the Mar- 
 chesino. He knew that the Marchesino would make 
 love to her. And the knowledge was odious to him. 
 Let Vere be loved by the sea, but by no man as 
 yet. 
 
 And this girl, Peppina? 
 
 He thought of the horrors of Naples, of the things that 
 happen "behind the shutter," of the lives led by some 
 men and women, some boys and girls of the great city 
 beneath the watching volcano. He thought of evenings 
 he had spent in the Galleria. He saw before him an old 
 woman about whom he had often wondered. Always 
 at night, and often in the afternoon, she walked in the 
 Galleria. She was invariably alone. The first time he 
 had seen her he had noticed her because she had a slight- 
 ly humped back. Her hair was snow white, and was 
 drawn away from her long, pale face and carefully ar- 
 ranged under a modest bonnet. She carried a small 
 umbrella and a tiny bag. Glancing at her casually, he 
 had supposed her to be a respectable widow of the bor- 
 ghese class. But then he had seen her again and again, 
 and by degrees he had come to believe that she was 
 something very different. And then one night in late 
 spring he had seen her in a new light dress with white 
 thread gloves. And she had noticed him watching her, 
 and had cast upon him a look that was unmistakable, 
 a look from the world "behind the shutter"; and he 
 had understood. Then she had followed him persist- 
 ently. When he sat before the "Gran caffe" sipping 
 his coffee and listening to the orchestra of women that 
 plays on the platform outside the caffe, she had passed 
 and repassed, always casting upon him that glance of 
 sinister understanding, of invitation, of dreary wicked- 
 ness that sought for, and believed that it had found, 
 an answering wickedness in him. 
 
 Terrible old woman! Peppina's aunt might well be 
 
 206
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 like that. And Peppina would sleep, perhaps to-night, 
 in the Casa del Mare, under the same roof as Vere. 
 
 He resolved to go that evening to the island, to see 
 Peppina, to see Vere. He wished, too, to have A little 
 talk with Gaspare about Ruffo. 
 
 The watch-dog instinct, which dwelt also in Gaspare, 
 was alive in him. 
 
 But to-day it was alive to do service for Vere, not for 
 Hermione. He knew that, and said to himself that it 
 was natural. For Hermione was a woman, with ex- 
 perience of life; but Vere was only upon the threshold 
 of the world. She needed protection more than Her- 
 mione. 
 
 Some time ago, when he was returning to Naples from 
 the island on an evening of scirocco, Artois had in thought 
 transferred certain hopes of his from Hermione to Vere. 
 He had said to himself that he must henceforth hope for 
 Hermione in Vere. 
 
 Now was he not transferring something else from the 
 mother to the child ?
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ARTOIS had intended to go that evening to the island. 
 But he did not fulfil his intention. When the sun began 
 to sink he threw a light coat over his arm and walked 
 down to the harbor of Santa Lucia. A boatman whom 
 he knew met him and said: 
 
 "Shall I take you to the island, Signore?" 
 
 Artois was there to take a boat. He meant to say 
 yes. Yet when the man spoke he answered no. The 
 fellow turned away and found another customer. Two 
 or three minutes later Artois saw his boat drawing out 
 to sea in the direction of Posilipo. It was a still even- 
 ing, and very clear after the storm of the preceding 
 night. Artois longed to be in that travelling boat, 
 longed to see the night come from the summit of the 
 island with Hermione and Vere. But he resisted the 
 sea, its wide peace, its subtle summons, called a car- 
 riage and drove to the Galleria. Arrived there, he took 
 his seat at a little table outside the "Gran Gaffe," or- 
 dered a small dinner, and, while he was eating it, watch- 
 ed the people strolling up and down, seeking among them 
 for a figure that he knew. 
 
 As the hour drew near for the music to begin, and the 
 girls dressed in white came out one by one to the plat- 
 form that, surrounded by a white railing edged with red 
 velvet, is built out beyond the caffe to face the crowd, 
 the number of promenaders increased, and many stood 
 still waiting for the first note, and debating the looks 
 of the players. Others thronged around Artois, taking 
 possession of the many little tables, and calling for ices, 
 
 208
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 lemon - water, syrups, and liqueurs. Priests, soldiers, 
 sailors, students, actors who assemble in the Galleria 
 to seek engagements newsboys, and youths whose 
 faces suggested that they were "ruffiani," mingled with 
 foreigners who had come from the hotels and from the 
 ships in the harbor, and whose demeanor was partly 
 curious and partly suspicious, as of one who longs to 
 probe the psychology of a thief while safely guarding 
 his pockets. The buzz of voices, the tramp of feet, 
 gained a peculiar and vivid sonorousness from the high 
 and vaulted roof; and in the warm air, under the large 
 and winking electric lights, the perpetually moving fig- 
 ures looked strangely capricious, hungry, determined, 
 furtive, ardent, and intent. On their little stands the 
 electric fans whirred as they slowly revolved, casting an 
 artificial breeze upon pallid faces, and around the cen- 
 tral dome the angels with gilded wings lifted their right 
 arms as if pointing the unconscious multitude the diffi- 
 cult way to heaven. 
 
 A priest sat down with two companions at the table 
 next to Artois. He had a red cord round his shaggy 
 black hat. His face was like a parroquet's, with small, 
 beady eyes full of an unintellectual sharpness. His 
 plump body suggested this world, and his whole de- 
 meanor, the movements of his dimpled, dirty hands, 
 and of his protruding lips, the attitude of his extended 
 legs, the pose of his coarse shoulders, seemed hostile to 
 things mystical. He munched an ice, and swallowed 
 hasty draughts of iced water, talking the while with a 
 sort of gluttonous vivacity. Artois looked at him and 
 heard, with his imagination, the sound of the bell at the 
 Elevation, and saw the bowed heads of the crouching 
 worshippers. The irony of life, that is the deepest mys- 
 tery of life, came upon him like the wave of some Polar 
 sea. He looked up at the gilded angels, then dropped 
 his eyes and saw what he had come to see. 
 
 209
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Slowly threading her way through the increasing 
 throng, came the old woman whom he had watched so 
 often and by whom he had been watched. To-night she 
 had on her* summer dress, a respectable, rather shiny 
 gown of grayish mauve, a bonnet edged with white rib- 
 bon, a pair of white thread gloves. She carried her lit- 
 tle bag and a small Japanese fan. Walking in a strange, 
 flat-footed way that was peculiar to her, and glancing 
 narrowly about her, yet keeping her head almost still, 
 she advanced towards the band - stand. As she came 
 opposite to Artois the orchestra of women struck up 
 the "Valse Noir," and the old woman stood still, im- 
 peded by the now dense crowd of listeners. While the 
 demurely sinister music ran its course, she remained ab- 
 solutely immobile. Artois watched her with a keen in- 
 terest. 
 
 It had come into his mind that she was the aunt of 
 Peppina, the disfigured girl, who perhaps to-night was 
 sleeping in the Casa del Mare with Vere. 
 
 Presently, attracted, no doubt, by his gaze, the old 
 woman looked across at Artois and met his eyes. In- 
 stantly a sour and malignant expression came into her 
 long, pale face, and she drew up a corner of her upper 
 lip, as a dog sometimes does, showing a tooth that was 
 like a menace. 
 
 She was secretly cursing Artois. 
 
 He knew why. Encouraged by his former observa- 
 tion of her, she had scented a client in him and had been 
 deceived, and this deception had bred within her an 
 acrid hatred of him. To-night he would chase away 
 tkat hatred. For he meant to speak to her. The old 
 woman looked away from him, holding her head down 
 as if in cold disdain. Artois read easily what was pass- 
 ing in her mind. She believed him wicked, but nervous 
 in his wickedness, desirous of her services but afraid to 
 invite them. And she held him in the uttermost con- 
 
 210
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 tempt. Well, to-night he would undeceive her on- one 
 point at least. He kept his eyes upon her so firmly that 
 she looked at him again. This time he made a sign of 
 recognition, of understanding. She stared as if in sus- 
 picious amazement. He glanced towards the dome, 
 then at her once more. At this moment the waiter 
 came up. Artois paid his bill slowly and ostentatiously. 
 As he counted out the money upon the little tray he 
 looked up once, and saw the eyes in the long, pale face 
 of the venerable temptress glitter while they watched. 
 The music ceased, the crowd before the platform broke 
 up, and began quickly to melt away. Only the woman 
 waited, holding her little bag and her cheap Japanese 
 fan. 
 
 Artois drew out a cigar, lit it slowly, then got up, and 
 began to move out among the tables. 
 
 The priest looked after him, spoke rapidly to his com- 
 panions, and burst into a throaty laugh which was loud- 
 ly echoed. 
 
 "Maria Fortunata is in luck to-night!" said some one. 
 
 Then the band began again, the waiter came with 
 more ices, and the tall, long-bearded forestiere was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Without glancing at the woman, Artois strolled slow- 
 ly on. Many people looked at him, but none spoke to 
 him, for he was known now, as each stranger who stays 
 long in Naples is known, summed up, labelled, and 
 either ignored or pestered. The touts and the ruffiani 
 were aware that it was no use to pester the Frenchman, 
 and even the decrepit and indescribably seedy old men 
 who hover before the huge plate-glass windows of the 
 photograph shops, or linger near the entrance to the 
 cinematograph, never peeped at him out of the corners 
 of their bloodshot eyes or whispered a word of the white 
 slaves in his ear. 
 
 When he was beneath the dome, and could see the 
 
 211
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 light gleaming upon the wings of the pointing angels s 
 Artois seemed to be aware of an individual step among 
 the many feet behind him, a step soft, furtive, and ob- 
 stinate, that followed him like a fate's. He glanced up 
 at the angels. A melancholy and half-bitter smile came 
 to his lips. Then he turned to the right and made his 
 way still slowly towards the Via Roma, always crowded 
 from the early afternoon until late into the night. As 
 he went, as he pushed through the mob of standing men 
 at the entrance of the Galleria, and crossed the street to 
 the far side, from which innumerable narrow and evil- 
 looking alleys stretch away into the darkness up the 
 hill, the influence of the following old woman increased 
 upon him, casting upon him like a mist her hateful 
 eagerness. He desired to be rid of it, and, quickening 
 his walk, he turned into the first alley he came to, walked 
 a little way up it, until he was in comparative solitude 
 and obscurity, then stopped and abruptly turned. 
 
 The shiny, grayish mauve gown and the white- 
 trimmed bonnet were close to him. Between them he 
 faintly perceived a widely smiling face, and from this 
 face broke at once a sickly torrent of speech, half Nea- 
 politan dialect, half bastard French. 
 
 "Silenzio!" Artois said, sternly. 
 
 The old harridan stopped in surprise, showing her 
 tooth. 
 
 "What has become of Peppina?" 
 
 "Maria Santissima!" she ejaculated, moving back a 
 step in the darkness. 
 
 She paused. Then she said: 
 
 "You know Peppina!" 
 
 She came forward again, quite up to him, and peered 
 into his face, seeking there for an ugly truth which till 
 now had been hidden from her. 
 
 "What had you to do with Peppina?" 
 
 "Nothing. Tell me about her, and " 
 212
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat, and 
 showed her the edge of a little case containing paper 
 notes. The woman misunderstood him. He knew that 
 by her face, which for the moment was as a battle-field 
 on which lust fought with a desperate anger of disap- 
 pointment. Then cunning came to stop the battle. 
 
 "You have heard of Peppina, Signore? You have 
 never seen her?" 
 
 Artois played with her for a moment. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 Her smile widened. She put up her thin hands to her 
 hair, her bonnet, coquettishly. 
 
 "There is not a girl in Naples as beautiful as Peppina. 
 Mother of " 
 
 But the game was too loathsome with such a player. 
 
 "Beautiful! Macche!" 
 
 He laughed, made a gesture of pulling out a knife 
 and smashing his face with it. 
 
 "Beautiful! Per Dio!" 
 
 The coquetry, the cunning, dropped out of the long, 
 pale face. 
 
 "The Signore knows?" 
 
 "Ma si! All Naples knows." 
 
 The old woman's face became terrible. Her two 
 hands shot up, dropped, shot up again, imprecating, 
 cursing the world, the sky, the whole scheme of the 
 universe, it seemed. She chattered like an ape. Artois 
 soothed her with a ten-lire note. 
 
 That night, when he went back to the hotel, he had 
 heard the aunt's version of Peppina, and knew that 
 which really he had known before that Hermione had 
 taken her to live on the island. 
 
 Hermione! What was she? An original, clever and 
 blind, great-hearted and unwise. An enthusiast, one 
 created to be carried away. 
 
 Never would she grow really old, never surely would 
 
 213
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the primal fires within her die down into the gray ashes 
 that litter so many of the hearths by which age sits, a 
 bleak, uncomely shadow. 
 
 And Peppina was on the island, a girl from the stews 
 of Naples; not wicked, perhaps, rather wronged, in- 
 jured by life nevertheless, the niece of that horror of 
 the Galleria. 
 
 He thought of Vere and shuddered. 
 
 Next day towards four o'clock the Marchesino strolled 
 into Artois' room, with a peculiarly impudent look of 
 knowledge upon his face. 
 
 "Buon giorno, Caro Emilio," he said. "Are you 
 busy?" 
 
 "Not specially." 
 
 "Will you come with me for a stroll in the Villa? 
 Will you come to see the gathering together of the 
 geese?" 
 
 "Che Diavolo! What's that?" 
 
 "This summer the Marchesa Pontini has organized a 
 sort of club, which meets in the Villa every day except 
 Sundays. Three days the meeting is in the morning, 
 three days in the afternoon. The silliest people of the 
 aristocracy belong to this club, and the Marchesa is the 
 mother goose. Ecco! Will you come, or or have you 
 some appointment?" He smiled in his friend's face. 
 
 Artois wondered, but could not divine, what was at the 
 back of his mind. 
 
 "No, I had thought of going on the sea." 
 
 "Or to the Toledo, perhaps?" 
 
 The Marchesino laughed happily. 
 
 "The Toledo? Why should I go there?" 
 
 "Non lo so. Put on your chapeau and come. II fait 
 tres beau cet apres-midi." 
 
 Doro was very proud of his French, which made 
 Artois secretly shiver, and generally spoke it when he 
 was in specially good spirits, or was feeling unusually 
 
 214
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mischievous. As they walked along the sea -front a 
 moment later, he continued in Italian: 
 
 "You were not at the island yesterday, Emilio?" 
 
 "No. Were you?" 
 
 "I naturally called to know how the ladies were after 
 that terrible storm. What else could I do?" 
 
 ''And how were they?" 
 
 "The Signora was in Naples, and of course the Sign- 
 orina could not have received me alone. But the saints 
 were with me, Emilio. I met her on the sea, quite by her- 
 self, on the sea of the Saint's Pool. She was lying back 
 in a little boat, with no hat on, her hands behind her 
 head so, and her eyes her beautiful eyes, Emilio, were 
 full of dreams, of dreams of the sea." 
 
 "How do you know that ?" said Artois, rather sharply. 
 
 "Cosa?" 
 
 "How do you know the Signorina was dreaming of 
 the sea? Did she did she tell you?" 
 
 "No, but I am sure. We walked together from the 
 boats. I told her she was an enchantress of the sea, the 
 spirit of the wave I told her!" 
 
 He spread out his hands, rejoicing in the remembrance 
 of his graceful compliments. 
 
 "The Signorina was delighted, but she could not stay 
 long. She had a slight headache and was a little tired 
 after the storm. But she would have liked to ask me 
 to the house. She was longing to. I could see that." 
 
 He seized his mustache. 
 
 "She turned her head away, trying to conceal from 
 me her desire, but " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Le donne! Le donne!" he happily exclaimed. 
 
 Artois found himself wondering why, until Doro had 
 made the acquaintance of the dwellers on the island, he 
 had never wished to smack his smooth, complacent 
 cheeks. 
 
 215
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They turned from the sea into the broad walk of the 
 Villa, and walked towards the kiosk. Near it, on the 
 small, green chairs, were some ladies swathed in gigantic 
 floating- veils, talking to two or three very smart young 
 men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned for- 
 ward eying them steadily with a determined yet rather 
 vacuous boldness that did not disconcert them. One 
 of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white check, was im- 
 mensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, 
 which was carried on with extreme vivacity in very 
 loud and not melodious voices. 
 
 "Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Mar- 
 chesino, touching Artois on the arm. "And that" he 
 pointed to the stout lady, who at this moment tossed 
 her head till her veil swung loose like a sail suddenly 
 deserted by the wind "is the goose - mother. Buona 
 sera, Marchesa! Buona sera molto piacere. Carlo, 
 buona sera a rivederci, Contessa! A questa sera." 
 
 He showed his splendid teeth in a fixed but winning 
 smile, and, hat in hand, went by, walking from his hips. 
 Then, replacing his hat on his head, he added to his 
 friend: 
 
 "The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa 
 d'Aosta will come one day, if only for a moment, to 
 smile upon the geese. But well, the Duchessa prefers 
 to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has 
 a heart. Let us sit here, Emilio." 
 
 They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino 
 looked at his pointed boots for a moment in silence, 
 pushing forward his under lip until his blond mustache 
 touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he began to 
 laugh, still looking before him. 
 
 "Emilio! Emilio!" 
 
 He shook his head repeatedly. 
 
 "Emilio mio! And that you should be asking me to 
 show you Naples! It is too good! C'est parfait!" 
 
 216
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The Marchesino turned towards Artois. 
 
 "And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, 
 the white-haired protectress of the strangers! Emilio - 
 you might have come to me! But you do not trust me. 
 Ecco! You do not " 
 
 Artois understood. 
 
 "You saw me last night?" 
 
 "Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know 
 that the Galleria is full but full of eyes?" 
 
 "Va bene! But you don't understand." 
 
 "Emilio!" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eye- 
 brows. His whole being seemed as if it were about to 
 mount ironically towards heaven. 
 
 "You don't understand. I repeat it." 
 
 Artois spoke quietly, but there was a sound in his 
 voice which caused his frivolous companion to stare at 
 him with an inquiry that was, for a moment, almost 
 sulky. 
 
 "You forget, Doro, how old I am." 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" 
 
 "You forget " 
 
 Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point 
 out the improbability of a man so mental, so known, 
 so travelled as he was, falling like a school-boy publicly 
 into a sordid adventure. But he stopped, realizing the 
 uselessness of such an explanation. And he could not 
 tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy 
 in a by-street with the old creature from behind the 
 shutter. 
 
 "You have made a mistake about me," he said. 
 "But it is of no consequence. Look! There is another 
 goose coming." 
 
 He pointed with his cane in the direction of the 
 chatterers near the kiosk. 
 
 "It is papa! It is papa!" 
 
 217
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Pardon! I did not recognize 
 
 The Marchesino got up. 
 
 "Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa it is 
 better than the Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present 
 you." 
 
 But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 "Not now," he said. "I have" 
 
 The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent com- 
 prehension at him, and touched his left hand in token 
 of farewell. 
 
 "I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. 
 A-ah! A-ah! May the writer's saint go with you! 
 Addio, mio caro!" 
 
 There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He 
 cocked his hat and strutted away towards the veils 
 and the piercing voices. Artois stared after him for a 
 moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and 
 leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He 
 was vexed at this little episode unreasonably vexed. 
 In his friend Doro he now discerned a possible ene- 
 my. An Italian who has trusted does not easily for- 
 give if he is not trusted in return. Artois was con- 
 scious of a dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No 
 doubt he could check it. Doro was essentially good- 
 tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an 
 exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was im- 
 possible to him, and as it was impossible he must allow 
 Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. He knew, of 
 course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in masculine 
 virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind 
 Doro's laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly 
 crew who cling to forbidden pleasures ? Why should he 
 feel sore, angry, almost insulted? 
 
 Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring 
 him the answer to his questionings. And he knew that
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 his vexation arose from the secret apprehension of a 
 future in which he would desire to stand between her 
 and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro 
 certain truths which are universal, not national. Such 
 truths would come ill from one whom the lectured held 
 unclean. 
 
 As he walked home to the hotel his vexation grew. 
 
 When he was once more in his room he remembered 
 his remark to Hermione, "We shall have many quiet, 
 happy evenings together this summer, I hope," and her 
 strange and doubtful reply. And because he felt himself 
 invaded by her doubts he resolved to set out for the 
 island. If he took a boat at once he could be there 
 between six and seven o'clock. 
 
 And perhaps he would see the new occupant of the 
 Casa del Mare. Perhaps he would see Peppina. 
 
 is
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "I HAVE come, you see," said Artois that evening, 
 as he entered Hermione's room, "to have the first of 
 our quiet, happy evenings, about which you were so 
 doubtful." 
 
 "Was I?" 
 
 She smiled at him from her seat between the big 
 windows. 
 
 Outside the door he had, almost with a sudden pas- 
 sion, dismissed the vague doubts and apprehensions 
 that beset him. He came with a definite brightness, a 
 strong intimacy, holding out his hands, intent really on 
 forcing Fate to weave her web in accordance with his 
 will. 
 
 "We women are full of little fears, even the bravest 
 of us. Chase mine away, Emile." 
 
 He sat down. 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Formless or almost. But perhaps that adds to the 
 uneasiness they inspire. To put them into words would 
 be impossible." 
 
 "Away with them!" 
 
 "Willingly." 
 
 Her eyes seemed to be asking him questions, to be 
 not quite satisfied, not quite sure of something. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 " I wonder if you have it in you to be angry with me." 
 
 "Make your confession." 
 
 220
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I have Peppina here." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 4 'You knew?" 
 
 "I have known you as an impulsive for how many 
 years? Why should you change?" 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he 
 continued: 
 
 * ' Sometimes you remind me in spots, as it were of 
 George Sand." 
 
 She laughed, not quite without bitterness. 
 
 "In spots, indeed!" 
 
 "She described herself once in a book as having 'a 
 great facility ' for illusions, a blind benevolence of judg- 
 ment, a tenderness of heart that was inexhaustible " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Wait! From these qualities, she said, came hurry, 
 mistakes innumerable, heroic devotion to objects that were 
 worthless, much weakness, tremendous disappointments." 
 
 Hermione said nothing, but sat still looking grave. 
 
 "Well? don't you recognize something of yourself in 
 the catalogue, my friend?" 
 
 "Have I a great facility for illusions? Am I capable 
 of heroic devotion to worthless objects?" 
 
 Suddenly Artois remembered all he knew and she did 
 not know. 
 
 "At least you act hastily often," he said, evasively. 
 "And I think you are often so concentrated upon the 
 person who stands, perhaps suffering, immediately be- 
 fore you, that you forget who is on the right, who is on 
 the left." 
 
 "Emile, I asked your advice yesterday, and you 
 would not give it me." 
 
 "A fair hit!" he said. "And so Peppina is here. 
 How did the servants receive her?" 
 
 "I think they were rather surprised. Of course they 
 don't know the truth." 
 
 221
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "They will within shall we say twenty-four hours, 
 or less?" 
 
 "How can they? Peppina won't tell them." 
 
 "You are sure? And when Gaspare goes into Naples 
 to 'fare la spesa'?" 
 
 "I told Gaspare last night." 
 
 "That was wisdom. You understand your watch- 
 dog's character." 
 
 "You grant that Gaspare is not an instance of a 
 worthless object made the recipient of my heroic de- 
 votion?" 
 
 "Give him all you like," said Artois, with warmth. 
 "You will never repent of that. Was he angry when 
 you told him?" 
 
 "I think he was." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I heard him saying 'Testa della Madonna!' as he 
 was leaving me." 
 
 Artois could not help smiling. 
 
 "And Vere?" he said, looking directly at her. 
 
 "I have not told Vere anything about Peppina's 
 past," Hermione said, rather hastily. "I do not in- 
 tend to. I explained that Peppina had had a sad life 
 and had been attacked by a man who had fallen in love 
 with her, and for whom she didn't care." 
 
 "And Vere was all sympathy and pity?" said Artois, 
 gently. 
 
 "She didn't seem much interested, I thought. She 
 scarcely seemed to be listening. I don't believe she has 
 seen Peppina yet. When we arrived she was shut up 
 in her room." 
 
 As she spoke she was looking at him, and she saw a 
 slight change come over his face. 
 
 "Do you think ?" she began, and paused. "I 
 wonder if she was reading," she added, slowly, after a 
 moment.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 was stretched under the dwarf trees of the little gar- 
 den, in the shadow of the wall, resting profoundly after 
 the labors of the morning. In their respective rooms 
 Hermione and Vere were secluded behind shut doors. 
 Hermione was lying down, but not sleeping. Vere was 
 not lying down. Generally she slept at this time for an 
 hour. But to-day, perhaps because of her nap in fhe 
 cave, she had no desire for sleep. 
 
 She was thinking about her mother. And Hermione 
 was thinking of her. Each mind was working in the 
 midst of its desert space, its solitude eternal. 
 
 What was growing up between them, and why was it 
 growing ? 
 
 Hermione was beset by a strange sensation of im- 
 potence. She felt as if her child were drifting from her. 
 Was it her fault, or was it no one's, and inevitable? 
 Had Vere been able to divine certain feelings in her, the 
 mother, obscure pains of the soul that had travelled to 
 mind and heart? She did not think it possible. Nor 
 had it been possible for her to kill those pains, although 
 she had made her effort to conceal them. Long ago, 
 before she was married to Maurice, Emile had spoken to 
 them of jealousy. At the time she had not understood 
 it. She remembered thinking, even saying, that she 
 could not be jealous. 
 
 But then she had not had a child. 
 
 Lately she had realized that there were forces in her 
 of which she had not been aware. She had realized her 
 passion for her child. Was it strange that she had not 
 always known how deep and strong it was? Her 
 mutilated life was more vehemently centred upon Vere 
 than she had understood. Of Vere she could be jealous. 
 If Vere put any one before her, trusted any one more 
 than her, confided anything to another rather than to 
 her, she could be frightfully jealous. 
 
 Recently she had suspected she had imagined 
 
 255
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Restlessly she moved on her bed. A mosquito-cur- 
 tain protected it. She was glad of that, as if it kept out 
 prying eyes. For sometimes she was ashamed of the 
 vehemence within her. 
 
 She thought of her friend Emile, whom she had 
 dragged back from death. 
 
 He, too, had he not drifted a little from her in these 
 last days ? It seemed to her that it was so. She knew 
 that it was so. Women are so sure of certain things, 
 more almost than men are ever sure of anything. And 
 why should Vere have drifted, Emile have drifted, if 
 there were not some link between them some link be- 
 tween the child and the middle-aged man which they 
 would not have her know of? 
 
 Vere had told to Emile something that she had kept, 
 that she still kept from her mother. When Vere had 
 been shut up in her room she had not been reading. 
 Emile knew what it was that she did during those long 
 hours when she was alone. Emile knew that, and per- 
 haps other things of Vere that she, Hermione, did not 
 know, was not allowed to know. 
 
 Hermione, in their long intimacy, had learned to 
 read Artois more clearly, more certainly than he realized. 
 Although often impulsive, and seemingly unconscious 
 of the thoughts of others, she could be both sharply 
 observant and subtle, especially with those she loved. 
 She had noticed the difference between his manner when 
 first they spoke of Vere's hidden occupation and his man- 
 ner when last they spoke of it. In the interval he had 
 found out what it was, and that it was not reading. Of 
 that she was positive. She was positive also that he 
 did not wish her to suspect this. Vere must have told 
 him what it was. 
 
 It was characteristic of Hermione that at this mo- 
 ment she was free from any common curiosity as to 
 what it was that Vere did during those many hours 
 
 256
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 when she was shut up in her room. The thing that hurt 
 her, that seemed to humiliate her, was that Emile should 
 know what it was and not she, that Vere should have 
 told Emile and not told her. 
 
 As she lay there she cowered under the blow a mutual 
 silence can give, and something woke up in her, some- 
 thing fiery, something surely that could act with vio- 
 lence. It startled her, almost as a stranger rushing into 
 her room would have startled her. 
 
 For a moment she thought of her child and her loved 
 friend with a bitterness that was cruel. 
 
 How long had they shared their secret? She won- 
 dered, and began to consider the recent days, searching 
 their hours for those tiny incidents, those small reticences, 
 avoidances, that to women are revelations. When had 
 she first noticed a slight change in Emile's manner to 
 her? When had Vere and he first seemed a little more 
 intimate, a little more confidential than before ? When 
 had she, Hermione, first felt a little "out of it," not per- 
 fectly at ease with these two dear denizens of her life ? 
 
 Her mind fastened at once upon the day of the storm. 
 On the night of the storm, when she and Emile had been 
 left alone in the restaurant, she had felt almost afraid 
 of him. But before then, in the afternoon on the island, 
 there had been something. They had not been always 
 at ease. She had been conscious of trying to tide over 
 moments that were almost awkward once or twice, 
 only once or twice. But that was the day. Her wom- 
 an's instinct told her so. That was the day on which 
 Vere had told Emile the secret she had kept from her 
 mother. How excited Vere had been, almost feverishly 
 excited! And Emile had been very strange. When the 
 Marchesino and Vere went out upon the terrace, how 
 restless, how irritable he 
 
 Suddenly Hermione sat up in her bed. The heat, 
 the stillness, the white cage of the mosquito-net, the 
 
 257
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 silence had become intolerable to her. She pulled aside 
 the net. Yes, that was better. She felt more free. 
 She would lie down outside the net. But the pillow was 
 hot. She turned it, but its pressure against her cheek 
 almost maddened her, and she got up, went across the 
 room to the wash-hand stand and bathed her face with 
 cold water. Then she put some eau de Cologne on her 
 forehead, opened a drawer and drew out a fan, went 
 over to an arm-chair near the window and sat down 
 in it. 
 
 What had Emile written in the visitors' book at the 
 Scoglio di Frisio? With a strange abruptness, with a 
 flight that was instinctive as that of a homing pigeon, 
 Hermione's mind went to that book as to a book of 
 revelation. Just before he wrote he had been feeling 
 acutely something. She had been aware of that at 
 the time. He had not wanted to write. And then sud- 
 denly, almost violently, he had written and had closed 
 the book. 
 
 She longed to open that book now, at once, to read 
 what he had written. She felt as if it would tell her 
 very much. There was no reason why she should not 
 read it. The book was one that all might see, was kept 
 to be looked over by any chance visitor. She would go 
 one day, one evening, to the restaurant and see what 
 Emile had written. He would not mind. If she had 
 asked him that night of course he would have shown 
 her the words. But she had not asked him. She had 
 been almost afraid of things that night. She remem- 
 bered how the wind had blown up the white table-cloth, 
 her cold, momentary shiver of fear, her relief when she 
 had seen Gaspare walking sturdily into the room. 
 
 And now, at once, this thought of Gaspare brought to 
 her a sense of relief again, of relief so great, so sharp 
 piercing down into the very deep of her nature that 
 by it she was able to measure something, her inward 
 
 258
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 desolation at this moment. Yes, she clung to Gaspare, 
 because he was loyal, because he loved her, because he 
 had loved Maurice but also because she was terribly 
 alone. 
 
 Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a 
 time, really a time, when she had possessed one who be- 
 longed utterly to her, who lived only in and for her? 
 Was that possible? To-day, with a fierceness of one 
 starving, she fastened upon this memory, her memory, 
 hers only, shared by no one, never shared by living or 
 dead. That at least she had, and that could never be 
 taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped from 
 her, if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped 
 from her, the memory of her Sicilian was forever hers, 
 the memory of his love, his joy in their mutual life, his 
 last kiss. Long ago she had taken that kiss as a gift 
 made to two to her and to Vere unborn. To-day, al- 
 most savagely, she took it to herself, alone, herself 
 alone. Hers it was, hers only, no part of it Vere's. 
 
 That she had her memory, and Gaspare's loyal, 
 open-hearted devotion. He knew what she had suffered. 
 He loved her as he had loved his dead Padrone. He 
 would always protect her, put her first without hesita- 
 tion, conceal nothing from her that it was her right for 
 surely even the humblest, the least selfish, the least 
 grasping, surely all who love have their rights that it 
 was her right to know. 
 
 Her cheeks were burning. She felt like one who had 
 been making some physical exertion. 
 
 Deeply silent was the house. Her room was full of 
 shadows, yet full of the hidden presence of the sun. 
 There was a glory outside, against which she was pro- 
 tected. But inside, and against assaults that were in- 
 glorious, what protection had she ? Her own personality 
 must protect her, her own will, the determination, the 
 strength, the courage that belong to all who are worth 
 
 259
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 anything in the world. And she called upon herself. 
 And it seemed to her that there was no voice that an- 
 swered. 
 
 There was a hideous moment of drama. 
 
 She sat there quietly in her chair in the pretty room. 
 And she called again, and she listened and again there 
 was silence. 
 
 Then she was afraid. She had a strange and horrible 
 feeling that she was deserted by herself, by that which, 
 at least, had been herself and on which she had been 
 accustomed to rely. And what was left was surely ut- 
 terly incapable, full of the flabby wickedness that seems 
 to dwell in weakness. It seemed to her that if any one 
 who knew her well, if Vere, Emile, or even Gaspare, had 
 come into the room just then, the intruder would have 
 paused on the threshold amazed to see a stranger there. 
 She felt afraid to be seen and yet afraid to remain alone. 
 Should she do something definite, something defiant, to 
 prove to herself that she had will and could exercise it ? 
 
 She got up, resolved to go to Vere. When she was 
 there, with her child, she did not know what she was 
 going to do. She had said to Vere, " Keep your secrets." 
 What if she went now and humbled herself, explained to 
 the child quite simply and frankly a mother's jealousy, 
 a widow's loneliness, made her realize what she was in 
 a life from which the greatest thing had been ruthlessly 
 withdrawn? Vere would understand surely, and all 
 would be well. This shadow between them would pass 
 away. Hermione had her hand on the door. But she 
 did not open it. An imperious reserve, autocrat, tyrant, 
 rose up suddenly within her. She could never make 
 such a confession to Vere. She could never plead for 
 her child's confidence a confidence already given to 
 Emile, to a man. And now for the first time the com- 
 mon curiosity to which she had not yet fallen a victim 
 came upon her, flooded her. What was Vere's secret? 
 
 260
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 That it was innocent, probably even childish, Hermione 
 did not question even for a moment. But what was it ? 
 
 She heard a light step outside and drew back from the 
 door. The step passed on and died away down the 
 paved staircase. Vere had gone out to the terrace, the 
 garden, or the sea. 
 
 Hermione again moved for ward, then stopped abruptly. 
 Her face was suddenly flooded with red as she realized 
 what she had been going to do, she who had exclaimed 
 that every one has a right to their freedom. 
 
 For an instant she had meant to go to Vere's room, 
 to try to find out surreptitiously what Emile knew. 
 
 A moment later Vere, coming back swiftly for a pencil 
 she had forgotten, heard the sharp grating of a key in 
 the lock of her mother's door. 
 
 She ran on lightly, wondering why her mother was 
 locking herself in, and against whom.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 DURING the last days Artois had not been to the island; 
 nor had he seen the Marchesino. A sudden passion for 
 work had seized him. Since the night of Vere's meeting 
 with Peppina his brain had been in flood with thoughts. 
 Life often acts subtly upon the creative artist, repres- 
 sing or encouraging his instinct to bring forth, depres- 
 sing or exciting him when, perhaps, he expects it least. 
 The passing incidents of life frequently have their hid- 
 den, their unsuspected part in determining his activities. 
 So it was now with Artois. He had given an impetus 
 to Vere. That was natural, to be expected, considering 
 his knowledge and his fame, his great experience and 
 his understanding of men. But now Vere had given an 
 impetus to him and that was surely stranger. Since 
 the conversation among the shadows of the cave, after 
 the vision of the moving men of darkness and of fire, 
 since the sound of Peppina sobbing in the night, and the 
 sight of her passionate face lifted to show its gashed 
 cross to Vere, Artois' brain and heart had been alive with 
 a fury of energy that forcibly summoned him to work, 
 that held him working. He even felt within him some- 
 thing that was like a renewal of some part of his vanished 
 youth, and remembered old days of student life, nights 
 in the Quartier Latin, his de"but as a writer for the pa- 
 pers, the sensation of joy with which he saw his first 
 article in the Figaro, his dreams of fame, his hopes of 
 love, his baptism of sentiment. How he had worked in 
 those days and nights! How he had hunted experience 
 
 262
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 in the streets and the by-ways of the great city! How 
 passionate and yet how ruthless he had been, as artists 
 often are, governed not only by their quick emotions, 
 but also by the something watchful and dogged under- 
 neath, that will not be swept away, that is like a de- 
 tective hidden by a house door to spy out all the comers 
 in the night. Something, some breath from the former 
 days, swept over him again. In his ears there sounded 
 surely the cries of Paris, urging him to the assault of 
 the barricades of Fame. And he sat down, and he 
 worked with the vehement energy, with the pulsating 
 eagerness of one of "les jeunes." Hour after hour he 
 worked. He took coffee, and wrote through the night. 
 He slept when the dawn came, got up, and toiled again. 
 
 He shut out the real world and he forgot it until the 
 fit was past. And then he pushed away his paper, he laid 
 down his pen, he stretched himself, and he knew that his 
 great effort had tired him tremendously tremendously. 
 
 He looked at his right hand. It was cramped. As 
 he held it up he saw that it was shaking. He had drunk 
 a great deal of black coffee during those days, had drunk 
 it recklessly as in the days of youth, when he cared noth- 
 ing about health because he felt made of iron. 
 
 "Pf-f-f!" 
 
 And so there was Naples outside, the waters of the 
 Bay dancing in the sunshine of the bright summer after- 
 noon ; people bathing and shouting to one another from 
 the diving platforms and the cabins; people galloping 
 by in the little carriages to eat oysters at Posilipo. 
 Lazy, heedless, pleasure-loving wretches! He thought 
 of Doro as he looked at them. 
 
 He had given strict orders that he was not to be dis- 
 turbed while he was at work, unless Hermione came. 
 And he had not once been disturbed. Now he rang the 
 bell. An Italian waiter, with crooked eyes and a fair 
 beard, stepped softly in. 
 
 263
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Has any one been to see me ? Has any one asked foi 
 me lately?" he said. "Just go down, will you, and in- 
 quire of the concierge." 
 
 The waiter departed, and returned to say that no one 
 had been for the Signore. 
 
 "Not the Marchese Isidore Panacci?" 
 
 "The concierge says that no one has been, Signore." 
 
 "Va bene." 
 
 The man went out. 
 
 So Doro had not come even once! Perhaps he was 
 seriously offended. At their last parting in the Villa he 
 had shown a certain irony that had in it a hint of bitter- 
 ness. Artois did not know of the fisherman's informa- 
 tion, that Doro had guessed who was Vere's companion 
 that night upon the sea. He supposed that his friend 
 was angry because he believed himself distrusted. Well, 
 that could soon be put right. He thought of the Mar- 
 chesino now with lightness, as the worker who has just 
 made a great and prolonged effort is inclined to think 
 of the habitual idler. Doro was like a feather on the 
 warm wind of the South. He, Artois, was not in the 
 mood just then to bother about a feather. Still less was 
 he inclined for companionship. He wanted some hours 
 of complete rest out in the air, with gay and frivolous 
 scenes before his eyes. 
 
 He wanted to look on, but not to join in, the merry 
 life that was about him, and that for so long a time he 
 had almost violently ignored. 
 
 He resolved to take a carriage, drive slowly to Posi- 
 lipo, and eat his dinner there in some eyrie above the 
 sea; watching the pageant that unfolds itself on the 
 evenings of summer about the ristoranti and the osterie, 
 round the stalls of the vendors of Frutti di Mare, and 
 the piano-organs, to the accompaniment of which impu- 
 dent men sing love songs to the saucy, dark-eyed beauties 
 posed upon balconies, or gathered in knots upon the 
 
 264
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 little terraces that dominate the bathing establishments, 
 and the distant traffic of the Bay. His brain longed for 
 rest, but it longed also for the hum and the stir of men. 
 His heart lusted for the sight of pleasure, and must be 
 appeased. 
 
 Catching up his hat, almost with the hasty eager- 
 ness of a boy, he went down-stairs. On the opposite 
 side of the road was a smart little carriage in which 
 the coachman was asleep, with his legs cocked up 
 on the driver's seat, displaying a pair of startling 
 orange-and-black socks. By the socks Artois knew his 
 man. 
 
 "Pasqualino! Pasqualino!" he cried. 
 
 The coachman sprang up, showing a round, rosy face, 
 and a pair of shrewd, rather small dark eyes. 
 
 "Take me to Posilipo." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Pasqualino cracked his whip vigorously. 
 
 "Ah ah! Ah ah!" he cried to his gayly bedizened 
 little horse, who wore a long feather on his head, flanked 
 by bunches of artificial roses. 
 
 "Not too fast, Pasqualino. I am in no hurry. Keep 
 along by the sea." 
 
 The coachman let the reins go loose, and instantly the 
 little horse went slowly, as if all his spirit and agility 
 had suddenly been withdrawn from him. 
 
 "I have not seen you for several days, Signore. Have 
 you been ill?" 
 
 Pasqualino had turned quite round on his box, and 
 was facing his client. 
 
 "No, I've been working." 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 Pasqualino made a grimace, as he nearly always did 
 when he heard a rich Signore speak of working. 
 
 "And you ? You have been spending money as usual. 
 All your clothes are new." 
 
 265
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Pasqualino smiled, showing rows of splendid teeth 
 under his little twisted-up mustache. 
 
 "SI, Signore, all! And I have also new undercloth- 
 ing." 
 
 "Per Bacco!" 
 
 "Ecco, Signore!" 
 
 He pulled his trousers up to his knees, showing a pair 
 of pale-blue drawers. 
 
 "The suspenders they are new, Signore!" He drew 
 attention to the scarlet elastics that kept the orange- 
 and-black socks in place. "My boots!" He put his 
 feet up on the box that Artois might see his lemon- 
 colored boots, then unbuttoned and threw open his 
 waistcoat. "My shirt is new! My cravat is new! 
 Look at the pin!" He flourished his plump, brown, 
 and carefully washed hands. "I have a new ring." He 
 bent his head. "My hat is new." 
 
 Artois broke into a roar of laughter that seemed to 
 do him good after his days of work. 
 
 "You young dandy! And where do you get the 
 money?" 
 
 Pasqualino looked doleful and hung his head. 
 
 "Signore, I am in debt. But I say to myself, 'Thank 
 the Madonna, I have a rich and generous Padrone who 
 wishes his coachman to be chic. When he sees my 
 clothes he will be contented, and who knows what he 
 will do ?' " 
 
 "Per Bacco! And who is this rich and generous 
 Signore ?" 
 
 "Ma!" Pasqualino passionately flung out the ringed 
 hand that was not holding the reins "Ma! you, Sign- 
 ore." 
 
 "You young rascal! Turn round and attend to your 
 driving!" 
 
 But Artois laughed again. The impudent boyishness 
 of Pasqualino, and his childish passion for finery, were 
 
 266
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 refreshing, and seemed to belong to a young and thought- 
 less world. The sea-breeze was soft as silk, the after- 
 noon sunshine was delicately brilliant. The Bay looked 
 as it often does in summer like radiant liberty held in 
 happy arms, alluring, full of promises. And a physical 
 well-being invaded Artois such as he had not known 
 since the day when he had tea with Vere upon the island. 
 
 He had been shut in. Now the gates were thrown 
 open, and to what a brilliant world! He issued forth 
 into it with almost joyous expectation. 
 
 They went slowly, and presently drew near to the 
 Rotonda. Artois leaned a little forward and saw that 
 the fishermen were at work. They stood in lines upon 
 the pavement pulling at the immense nets which were 
 still a long way out at sea. When the carriage reached 
 them Artois told Pasqualino to draw up, and sat watch- 
 ing the work and the fierce energy of the workers. Half 
 naked, with arms and legs and chests that gleamed in 
 the sun like copper, they toiled, slanting backward, 
 one towards another, laughing, shouting, swearing with 
 a sort of almost angry joy. In their eyes there was a 
 carelessness that was wild, in their gestures a lack of 
 self-consciousness that was savage. But they looked 
 like creatures who must live forever. And to Artois, 
 sedentary for so long, the sight of them brought a feel- 
 ing almost of triumph, but also a sensation of envy. 
 Their vigor made him pine for movement. 
 
 "Drive on slowly, Pasqualino," he said. "I will fol- 
 low you on foot, and join you at the hill." 
 
 "Si Signore." 
 
 He got out, stood for a moment, then strolled on tow- 
 ards the Mergellina. As he approached this part of the 
 town, with its harbor and its population of fisherfolk, 
 the thought of Ruffo came into his mind. He remem- 
 bered that Ruffo lived here. Perhaps he might see the 
 boy this afternoon. 
 
 is 267
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 On the mole that serves as a slight barrier between 
 the open sea and the snug little harbor several boys 
 were fishing. Others were bathing, leaping into the 
 water with shouts from the rocks. Beyond, upon the 
 slope of dingy sand among the drawn -up boats, children 
 were playing, the girls generally separated from the 
 boys. Fishermen, in woollen shirts and white linen 
 trousers, sat smoking in the shadow of their craft, or 
 leaned muscular arms upon them, standing at ease, 
 staring into vacancy or calling to each other. On the 
 still water there was a perpetual movement of boats; 
 and from the distance came a dull but continuous up- 
 roar, the yells and the laughter of hundreds of bathers 
 at the Stabilimento di Bagni beyond the opposite limit 
 of the harbor. 
 
 Artois enjoyed the open-air gayety, the freedom of 
 the scene; and once again, as often before, found him- 
 self thinking that the out-door life, the life loosed from 
 formal restrictions, was the only one really and fully 
 worth living. There was a carelessness, a camaraderie 
 among these people that was of the essence of humanity. 
 Despite their frequent quarrels, their intrigues, their 
 betrayals, their vendettas, they hung together. There 
 was a true and vital companionship among them. 
 
 He passed on with deliberation, observing closely, 
 yet half -lazily for his brain was slack and needed rest 
 the different types about him, musing on the possibilities 
 of their lives, smiling at the gambols of the intent girls, 
 and the impudent frolics of the little boys who seemed 
 the very spawn of sand and sea and sun, till he had nearly 
 passed the harbor, and was opposite to the pathway that 
 leads down to the jetty, to the left of which lie the 
 steam-yachts. 
 
 At the entrance to this pathway there is always a 
 knot of people gathered about the shanty where the 
 seamen eat maccaroni and strange messes, and the 
 
 268
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 stands where shell-fish are exposed for sale. On the far 
 side of the tramway, beneath the tall houses which are 
 let out in rooms and apartments for families, there is 
 an open space, and here in summer are set out quantities 
 of strong tables, at which from noon till late into the 
 evening the people of Mergellina, and visitors of the 
 humbler classes from Naples, sit in merry throngs, eat- 
 ing, smoking, drinking coffee, syrups, and red and white 
 wine. 
 
 Artois stood still for a minute to watch them, to par- 
 take from a distance, and unknown to them, in their 
 boisterous gayety. He had lit a big cigar, and puffed 
 at it as his eyes roved from group to group, resting now 
 on a family party, now on a quartet of lovers, now on 
 two stout men obviously trying to drive a bargain with 
 vigorous rhetoric and emphatic gestures, now on an 
 elderly woman in a shawl spending an hour with her 
 soldier son in placid silence, now on some sailors from 
 a ship in the distant port by the arsenal bent over a 
 game of cards, or a party of workmen talking wages or 
 politics in their shirt - sleeves with flowers above their 
 ears. 
 
 What a row they made, these people! Their anima- 
 tion was almost like the animation of a nightmare. 
 Some were ugly, some looked wicked; others mischiev- 
 ous, sympathetic, coarse, artful, seductive, boldly de- 
 fiant or boisterously excited. But however much they 
 differed, in one quality they were nearly all alike. They 
 nearly all looked vivid. If they lacked anything, at 
 least it was not life. Even their sorrows should be 
 energetic. 
 
 As this thought came into his mind Artois' eyes 
 chanced to rest on two people sitting a little apart at a 
 table on which stood a coffee-cup, a thick glass half full 
 of red wine, and a couple of tumblers of water. One 
 was a woman, the other yes, the other was RufTo.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 When Artois realized this he kept his eyes upon them. 
 He forgot his interest in the crowd. 
 
 At first he could only see Ruffo's side-face. But the 
 woman was exactly opposite to him. 
 
 She was neatly dressed in some dark stuff, and wore 
 a thin shawl, purple in color, over her shoulders. She 
 looked middle-aged. Had she been an Englishwoman 
 Artois would have guessed her to be near fifty. But 
 as she was evidently a Southerner it was possible that 
 she was very much younger. Her figure was broad and 
 matronly. Her face, once probably quite pretty, was 
 lined, and had the battered and almost corrugated look 
 that the faces of Italian women of the lower classes 
 often reveal when the years begin to increase upon them. 
 The cheek-bones showed harshly in it, by the long and 
 dark eyes, which were surrounded by little puckers of 
 yellow flesh. But Artois' attention was held not by 
 this woman's quite ordinary appearance, but by her 
 manner. Like the people about her she was vivacious, 
 but her vivacity was tragic she had not come here to 
 be gay. Evidently she was in the excitement of some 
 great grief or passion. She was speaking vehemently 
 to Ruffo, gesticulating with her dark hands, on which 
 there were two or three cheap rings, catching at her 
 shawl, swaying her body, nodding her head, on which 
 the still black hair was piled in heavy masses. And 
 her face was distorted by an emotion that seemed of 
 sorrow and anger mingled. In her ears, pretty and al- 
 most delicate in contrast to the ruggedness of her face, 
 were large gold rings, such as Sicilian women often wear. 
 They swayed in response to her perpetual movements. 
 Artois watched her lips as they opened and shut, were 
 compressed or thrust forward, watched her white teeth 
 gleaming. She lifted her two hands, doubled into fists, 
 till they were on a level with her shoulders, shook them 
 vehemently, then dashed them down on the table. The 
 
 270
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 coffee-cup was overturned. She took no notice of it. 
 She was heedless of everything but the subject which 
 evidently obsessed her. 
 
 The boy, Ruffo, sat quite still listening to her. His 
 attitude was calm. Now and then he sipped his wine, 
 and presently he took from his pocket a cigarette, 
 lighted it carefully, and began to smoke. There was 
 something very boyish and happy-go-lucky in his atti- 
 tude and manner. Evidently, Artois thought, he was 
 very much at home with this middle-aged woman. 
 Probably her vehemence was to him an every-day affair. 
 She laid one hand on his arm and bent forward. He 
 slightly shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 
 She kept her hand on his arm, went on talking passion- 
 ately, and suddenly began to weep. Tears rushed out 
 of her eyes. Then the boy took her hand gently, 
 stroked it, and began to speak to her, always keeping 
 her hand in his. The woman, with a despairing move- 
 ment, laid her face down on the table, with her fore- 
 head touching the wood. Then she lifted it up. The 
 paroxysm seemed to have passed. She took out a 
 handkerchief from inside the bodice of her dress and 
 dried her eyes. Ruffo struck the table with his glass. 
 An attendant came. He paid the bill, and the woman 
 and he got up to go. As they did so Ruffo presented for 
 a moment his full face to Artois, and Artois swiftly com- 
 pared it with the face of the woman, and felt sure that 
 they were mother and son. 
 
 Artois moved on towards the hill of Posilipo, but 
 after taking a few steps turned to look back. The 
 woman and Ruffo had come into the road by the tram- 
 line. They stood there for a moment, talking. Then 
 Ruffo crossed over to the path, and the woman went 
 away slowly towards the Rotonda. Seeing Ruffo alone 
 Artois turned to go back, thinking to have a word with 
 the boy. But before he could reach him he saw a man 
 
 271
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 step out from behind the wooden shanty of the fisher- 
 men and join him. 
 
 This man was Gaspare. 
 
 Ruffo and Gaspare strolled slowly away towards the 
 jetty where the yachts lie, and presently disappeared. 
 
 Artois found Pasqualino waiting for him rather im- 
 patiently not far from the entrance to the Scoglio di 
 Frisio. 
 
 "I thought you were dead, Signore," he remarked, as 
 Artois came up. 
 
 "I was watching the people." 
 
 He got into the carriage. 
 
 "They are canaglia," said Pasqualino, with the pro- 
 found contempt of the Neapolitan coachman for those 
 who get their living by the sea. He lived at Fuori- 
 grotta, and thought Mergellina a place of outer darkness. 
 
 "I like them," returned Artois. 
 
 "You don't know them, Signore. I say they are 
 canaglia. Where shall I drive you?" 
 
 Artois hesitated, passing in mental review the various 
 ristoranti on the hill. 
 
 "Take me to the Ristorante della Stella," he said, at 
 length. 
 
 Pasqualino cracked his whip, and drove once more 
 merrily onward. 
 
 When Artois came to the ristorante, which is perched 
 high up on the side of the road farthest from the sea, 
 he had almost all the tables to choose from, as it was 
 still early in the evening, and in summer the Neapolitans 
 who frequent the more expensive restaurants usually 
 dine late. He sat down at a table in the open air close 
 to the railing, from which he could see a grand view of 
 the Bay, as well as all that was passing on the road 
 beneath, and ordered a dinner to be ready in half an 
 hour. He was in no hurry, and wanted to finish his cigar. 
 
 There was a constant traffic below. The tram - bell 
 
 272
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 sounded its reiterated signal to the crowds of dusty 
 pedestrians to clear the way. Donkeys toiled upward, 
 drawing carts loaded with vegetables and fruit. Ani- 
 mated young men, wearing tiny straw hats cocked im- 
 pertinently to one side, drove frantically by in light gigs 
 that looked like the skeletons of carriages, holding a 
 rein in each hand, pulling violently at their horses' 
 mouths, and shouting "Ah ah!" as if possessed of the 
 devil. Smart women made the evening " Passeggiata " 
 in landaus and low victorias, wearing flambcjant hats, 
 and gazing into the eyes of the watching men ranged 
 along the low wall on the sea-side with a cool steadiness 
 that was almost Oriental. Some of them were talking. 
 But by far the greater number leaned back almost im- 
 mobile against their cushions; and their pale faces 
 showed nothing but the languid consciousness of be- 
 ing observed and, perhaps, desired. Stout Neapolitan 
 fathers, with bulging eyes, immense brown cheeks, and 
 peppery mustaches, were promenading with their chil- 
 dren and little dogs, looking lavishly contented with 
 themselves. Young girls went primly past, holding 
 their narrow, well-dressed heads with a certain virginal 
 stiffness that was yet not devoid of grace, and casting 
 down eyes that were supposed not yet to be enlightened. 
 Their governesses and duennas accompanied them. 
 Barefooted brown children darted in and out, dodging 
 pedestrians and horses. Priests and black-robed stu- 
 dents chattered vivaciously. School-boys with peaked 
 caps hastened homeward. The orphans from Queen 
 Margherita's Home, higher up the hill, marched sturdily 
 through the dust to the sound of a boyish but desperately 
 martial music. It was a wonderfully vivid world, but the 
 eyes of Artois wandered away from it, over the terraces, 
 the houses, and the tree-tops. Their gaze dropped down 
 to the sea. Far off, Capri rose out of the light mist pro- 
 duced by the heat. And beyond was Sicily. 
 
 273
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Why had that woman, Ruffo's mother, wept just now? 
 What was her tragedy? he wondered. Accurately he 
 recalled her face, broad now, and seamed with the wrinkles 
 brought by trouble and the years. 
 
 He recalled, too, Ruffo's attitude as the boy listened 
 to her vehement, her almost violent harangue. How 
 boyish, how careless it had been yet not unkind or 
 even disrespectful; only wonderfully natural and won- 
 derfully young. 
 
 "He was the deathless boy." 
 
 Suddenly those words started into Artois' mind. Had 
 he read them somewhere? For a moment he won- 
 dered. Or had he heard them? They seemed to sug- 
 gest speech, a voice whose intonations he knew. His 
 mind was still fatigued by work, and would not be com- 
 manded by his will. Keeping his eyes fixed on the 
 ethereal outline of Capri, he strove to remember, to find 
 the book which had contained those words and given 
 them to his eyes, or the voice that had spoken them 
 and given them to his ears. 
 
 "He was the deathless boy." 
 
 A piano-organ struck up below him, a little way up 
 the hill to the right, and above its hard accompaniment 
 there rose a powerful tenor voice singing: 
 
 "Quanno fa notte 'nterra Mergellina, 
 
 Se sceta 'o mare e canta chiano chiano 
 Se 'fa chiu doce st 'aria d 'a marina, 
 Pure 'e serene cantano 'a luntano. 
 
 "Quanno fa notte 'nterra Mergellina " 
 
 The song must have struck forcibly upon some part of 
 his brain that was sleeping, must have summoned it to 
 activity. For instantly, ere the voice had sung the first 
 verse, he saw imaginatively a mountain top in Sicily, 
 evening light such as was then shining over and trans- 
 
 274
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 figuring Capri and a woman, Hermione. And he heard 
 her voice, very soft, with a strange depth and still- 
 ness in it, saying those words: "He was the deathless 
 boy." 
 
 Of course! How could he have forgotten? They 
 had been said of Maurice Delarey. And now idly, 
 strangely, he had recalled them as he thought of Ruffo's 
 young and careless attitude by the table of the ristorante 
 that afternoon. 
 
 The waiter, coming presently to bring the French 
 Signore the plate of oysters from Fusaro, which he had 
 ordered as the prelude to his dinner, was surprised by 
 the deep gravity of his face, and said: 
 
 "Don't you like 'A Mergellina,' Signore? We are all 
 mad about it. And it won the first prize at last year's 
 festa of Piedigrotta." 
 
 "Comment done?" exclaimed Artois, as if startled. 
 "What? no yes. I like it. It's a capital song. 
 Lemon? That's right and red pepper. Va bene!" 
 
 And he bent over his plate rather hurriedly and be- 
 gan to eat. 
 
 The piano-organ and the singing voice died away 
 down the hill, going towards Mergellina: 
 
 "E custa luna dint' 'essere e state 
 
 Lo vularria durmi, ma nun e cosa; 
 Me scentene d' 'o suonno 'e sti sarate, 
 
 O' Mare 'e Mergellina e 1' uocchie 'e Rosa." 
 
 But the effect, curious and surely unreasonable, of 
 the song remained. Often, while he ate, Artois turned 
 his eyes towards the mountain of Capri, and each time 
 that he did so he saw, beyond it and its circling sea, 
 Sicily, Monte Amato, the dying lights on Etna, the even- 
 ing star above its plume of smoke, the figure of a woman 
 set in the shadow of her sorrow, yet almost terribly 
 serene; and then another woman, sitting at a table, 
 
 275
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 vehemently talking, then bowing down her head pas- 
 sionately as if in angry grief. 
 
 When he had finished his dinner the sun had set, and 
 night had dropped down softly over the Bay. Capri 
 had disappeared. The long serpent of lights had un- 
 coiled itself along the sea. Down below, very far down, 
 ^here was the twang and the thin, acute whine of guitars 
 and mandolines, the throbbing cry of Southern voices. 
 The stars were out in a deep sky of bloomy purple. 
 There was no chill in the air, but a voluptuous, brood- 
 ing warmth, that shed over the city and the waters a 
 luxurious benediction, giving absolution, surely, to all 
 the sins, to all the riotous follies of the South. 
 
 Artois rested his arms on the balustrade. 
 
 The ristorante was nearly full now, gay with lights 
 and with a tempest of talk. The waiter came to ask 
 if the Signore would take coffee. 
 
 Artois hesitated a moment, then shook his head. He 
 realized that his nerves had been tried enough in these 
 last days and nights. He must let them rest for a 
 while. 
 
 The waiter went away, and he turned once more tow- 
 ards the sea. To-night he felt the wonder of Italy, of 
 this part of the land and of its people, as he had not 
 felt it before, in a new and, as it seemed to him, a mys- 
 terious way. A very modern man and, in his art, a 
 realist, to-night there was surely something very young 
 alert within him, something of vague sentimentality 
 that was like an echo from Byronic days. He felt over- 
 shadowed, but not unpleasantly, by a dim and exquisite 
 melancholy, in which he thought of nature and of hu- 
 man nature pathetically, linking them together; those 
 singing voices with the stars, the women who leaned on 
 balconies to listen with the sea that was murmuring 
 below them, the fishermen upon that sea with the deep 
 and marvellous sky that watched their labors. 
 
 276
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 In a beautiful and almost magical sadness he too was 
 one with the night, this night in Italy. It held him 
 softly in its arms. A golden sadness streamed from the 
 stars. The voices below expressed it. The fishermen's 
 torches in the Bay, those travelling lights that are as 
 the eyes of the South searching for charmed things in 
 secret places, lifted the sorrows of earth towards the 
 stars, and they were golden too. There was a joy even 
 in the tears wept on such a night as this. 
 
 He loved detail. It was, perhaps, his fault to love 
 it too much. But now he realized that the magician, 
 Night, knew better than he what were the qualities of 
 perfection. She had changed Naples into a diaper of 
 jewels sparkling softly in the void. He knew that be- 
 hind that lacework of jewels there were hotels, gaunt 
 and discolored houses full of poverty, shame, and 
 wickedness, galleries in which men hunted the things 
 that gratify their lusts, alleys infected with disease and 
 filth indescribable. He knew it, but he no longer felt 
 it. The glamour of the magician was upon him. Per- 
 haps behind the stars there were terrors, too. But who, 
 looking upon them, could believe it? Detail might 
 create a picture ; its withdrawal let in upon the soul the 
 spirit light of the true magic. 
 
 It was a mistake to search too much, to draw too near, 
 to seek always to see clearly. 
 
 The Night taught that in Italy, and many things not 
 to be clothed with words. 
 
 Reluctantly at last he lifted his arms from the balcony 
 rail and got up to leave the restaurant. He dreaded the 
 bustle of the street. As he came out into it he heard the 
 sharp "Ting! ting!" of a tram-bell higher up the hill, 
 and stepped aside to let the tram go by. Idly he looked 
 at it as it approached. He was still in the vague, the 
 almost sentimental mood that had come upon him with 
 the night. The tram came up level with him and slipped 
 
 277
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 slowly by. There was a number of people in it, but on 
 the last seat one woman sat alone. He saw her clearly 
 as she passed, and recognized Hermione. 
 
 She did not see him. She was looking straight be- 
 fore her. 
 
 "Ah-ah! Ah-ah!" 
 
 A shower of objurgations in the Neapolitan dialect 
 fell upon Artois from the box of a carriage coming up 
 the hill. He jumped back and gained the path. There 
 again he stood still. The sweet and half - melancholy 
 vagueness had quite left him now. The sight of his 
 friend had swept it away. Why was she going to Mer- 
 gellina at that hour ? And why did she look like that ? 
 
 And he thought of the expression he had seen on her 
 face as the tram slipped by, an expression surely of ex- 
 citement, but also a furtive expression. 
 
 Artois had seen Hermione in all her moods, and hers 
 was a very changeful face. But never before had he 
 seen her look furtive. Nor could he have conceived it 
 possible that she could look so. 
 
 Perhaps the lights had deceived him. And he had 
 only seen her for an instant. 
 
 But why was she going to Mergellina ? 
 
 Then suddenly it occurred to him that she might be 
 going to Naples, not to Mergellina at all. He knew no 
 reason why her destination should be Mergellina. He 
 began to walk down the hill rather quickly. Some hun- 
 dreds of yards below the Ristorante della Stella there 
 is a narrow flight of; steps between high walls and houses, 
 which leads eventually down to the sea at a point where 
 there are usually two or three boats waiting for hire. 
 Artois, when he started, had no intention of going to sea 
 that night, but when he reached the steps he paused, 
 and finally turned from the path and began to descend 
 them. 
 
 He had realized that he was really in pursuit, and 
 
 278
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 abruptly relinquished his purpose. Why should he 
 wish to interfere with an intention of Hermione's that 
 night ? 
 
 He would return to Naples by sea. 
 
 As he came in sight of the water there rose up to him 
 in a light tenor voice a melodious cry: 
 
 "Barca! Barca!" 
 
 He answered the call. 
 
 "Barca!" 
 
 The sailor who was below came gayly to meet him. 
 
 "It is a lovely night for the Signore. I could take 
 the Signore to Sorrento or to Capri to-night." 
 
 He held Artois by the right arm, gently assisting him 
 into the broad-bottomed boat. 
 
 "I only want to go to Naples." 
 
 "To which landing, Signore?" 
 
 "The Vittoria. But go quietly and keep near the 
 shore. Go round as near as you can to the Mergellina." 
 
 "Va bene, Signore." 
 
 They slipped out, with a delicious, liquid sound, upon 
 the moving silence of the sea.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HERMIONE was not going to Mergellina, but to the 
 Scoglio di Frisio. She had only come out of her room 
 late in the afternoon. During her seclusion there she 
 had once been disturbed by Gaspare, who had come to 
 ask her if she wanted him for anything, and, if not, 
 whether he might go over to Mergellina for the rest of 
 the afternoon to see some friends he had made there. 
 She told him he was free till night, and he went away 
 quickly, after one searching, wide-eyed glance at the 
 face of his Padrona. 
 
 When he had gone Hermione told herself that she was 
 glad he was away. If he had been on the island she 
 might have been tempted to take one of the boats, to 
 ask him to row her to the Scoglio that evening. But 
 now, of course, she would not go. It was true that she 
 could easily get a boatman from the village on the main- 
 land near by, but without Gaspare's companionship she 
 would not care to go. So that was settled. She would 
 think no more about it. She had tea with Vere, and 
 strove with all her might to be natural, to show no traces 
 in face or manner of the storm that had swept over her 
 that day. She hoped, she believed that she was success- 
 ful. But what a hateful, what an unnatural effort that 
 was! 
 
 A woman who is not at her ease in her own home with 
 her own girl where can she be at ease ? 
 
 It was really the reaction from that effort that sent 
 Hermione from the island that evening. She felt as if 
 
 280
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 she could not face another meal with Vere just then. 
 She felt transparent, as if Vere's eyes would be able to 
 see all that she must hide if they were together in the 
 evening. And she resolved to go away. She made 
 some excuse that she wished for a little change, that 
 she was fidgety and felt the confinement of the island. 
 
 "I think I'll go over to the village," she said, "and 
 walk up to the road and take the tram." 
 
 "Will you, Madre?" 
 
 Hermione saw in Vere's eyes that the girl was waiting 
 for something. 
 
 "I'll go by myself, Vere," she said. " I should be bad 
 company to-day. The black dog is at my heels." 
 
 She laughed, and added: 
 
 "If I am late in coming back, have dinner without 
 me." 
 
 "Very well, Madre." 
 
 Vere waited a moment; then, as if desiring to break 
 forcibly through the restraint that bound them, put out 
 her hand to her mother's and said: 
 
 "Why don't you go in to Naples and have dinner with 
 Monsieur Emile ? He would cheer you up, and it is 
 ages since we have seen him." 
 
 "Only two or three days. No. I won't disturb 
 Emile. He may be working." 
 
 Vere felt that somehow her eager suggestion had 
 deepened the constraint. She said no more, and Her- 
 mione presently crossed over to the mainland and began 
 her walk to the road that leads from Naples to Bagnoli. 
 
 Where was she going? What was she really about 
 to do? 
 
 Certainly she would not adopt the suggestion of Vere. 
 Emile was the last person whom she wished to see by 
 whom she wished to be seen just then. 
 
 The narrow path turned away from the sea into the 
 shadow of high banks. She walked very slowly, like 
 
 281
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 one out for a desultory stroll; a lizard slipped across 
 the warm earth in front of her, almost touching her foot, 
 climbed the bank swiftly, and vanished among the dry 
 leaves with a faint rustle. 
 
 She felt quite alone to-day in Italy, and far off, as if 
 she had no duties, no ties, as if she were one of those 
 solitary, drifting, middle - aged women who vaguely 
 haunt the beaten tracks of foreign lands. It was sultry 
 in this path away from the sea. She was sharply con- 
 scious of the change of climate, the inland sensation, the 
 falling away of the freedom from her, the freedom that 
 seems to exhale from wave and wind of the wave. 
 
 She walked on, meeting no one and still undecided 
 what to do. The thought of the Scoglio di Frisio re- 
 turned to her mind, was dismissed, returned again. She 
 might go and dine there quietly alone. Was she de- 
 ceiving herself, and had she really made up her mind to 
 go to the Scoglio before she left the island ? No, she had 
 come away mainly because she felt the need of solitude, 
 the difficulty of being with Vere just for this one night. 
 To-morrow it would be different. It should be different 
 to-morrow. 
 
 She saw a row of houses in the distance, houses of poor 
 people, and knew that she was nearing the road. Cloth.es 
 were hanging to dry. Children were playing at the edge 
 of a vineyard. Women were washing linen, men sitting 
 on the doorsteps mending nasse. As she went by she 
 nodded to them, and bade them "Buona sera." They 
 answered courteously, some with smiling faces, others 
 with grave and searching looks or so she thought. 
 
 The tunnel that runs beneath the road at the point 
 where this path joins it came in sight. And still Her- 
 mione did not know what she was going to do. As she 
 entered the tunnel she heard above her head the rumble 
 of a tram going towards Naples. This decided her. She 
 hurried on, turned to the right, and came out on the 
 
 282
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 highway before the little lonely ristorante that is set 
 here to command the view of vineyards and of sea. 
 
 The tram was already gliding away at some distance 
 down the road. 
 
 A solitary waiter came forward in his unsuitable black 
 into the dust to sympathize with the Signora, and to 
 suggest that she should take a seat and drink some lemon 
 water, or gazzosa, while waiting for the next tram. Or 
 would not the Signora dine in the upper room and watch 
 the tramontare del sole. It would be splendid this even- 
 ing. And he could promise her an excellent risotto, 
 sardines with pomidoro, and a bifteck such as certainly 
 she could not get in the restaurants of Naples. 
 
 "Very well," Hermione answered, quickly, "I will dine 
 here, but not directly in half an hour or three-quarters." 
 
 What Artois was doing at the Ristorante della Stella 
 she was doing at the Trattoria del Giardinetto. 
 
 She would dine quietly here, and then walk back to 
 the sea in the cool of the evening. 
 
 That was her decision. Yet when the evening fell, 
 and her bill was paid, she took the tram that was going 
 down to Naples, and passed presently before the eyes of 
 Artois. The coming of darkness had revived within her 
 much of the mood of the afternoon. She felt that she 
 could not go home without doing something definite, 
 and she resolved to go to the Scoglio di Frisio, have a 
 cup of coffee there, look through the visitors' book, and 
 then take a boat and return by night to the island. The 
 sea wind would cool her, would do her good. 
 
 Nothing told her when the eyes of her friend were for 
 an instant fixed upon her, when the mind of her friend 
 for a moment wondered at the strange, new look in her 
 face. She left the tram presently at the doorway above 
 which is Frisio's name, descended to the little terrace 
 from which Vere had run in laughing with the Mar- 
 chesino, and stood there for a moment hesitating. 
 ' 283
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The long restaurant was lit up, and from it came the 
 sound of music guitars, and a voice singing. She rec- 
 ognized the throaty tenor of the blind man raised in a 
 spurious and sickly rapture: 
 
 " Sa-anta-a Lu-u-ci-ia! Santa Luci a!" 
 
 It recalled her sharply to the night of the storm. For 
 a moment she felt again the strange, the unreasonable 
 sense of fear, indefinable but harsh, which had come 
 upon her then, as fear comes suddenly sometimes upon 
 a child. 
 
 Then she stepped into the restaurant. 
 
 As on the other night, there were but few people din- 
 ing there, and they were away at the far end of the big 
 room. Near them stood the musicians under a light 
 seedy, depressed; except the blind man, who lifted his 
 big head, rolled his tongue, and swelled and grew scarlet 
 in an effort to be impressive. 
 
 Hermione sat down at the first table. 
 
 For a moment no one saw her. She heard men s voices 
 talking loudly and gayly, the clatter of plates, the clink 
 of knives and forks. She looked round for the visitors' 
 book. If it were lying near she thought she would open 
 it, search for what Emile had written, and then slip 
 away at once unobserved. 
 
 There was a furtive spirit within her to-night. 
 
 But she could not see the book; so she sat still, lis- 
 tening to the blind man and gazing at the calm sea just 
 below her. A boat was waiting there. She could see 
 the cushions, which were white and looked ghastly in 
 the darkness, the dim form of the rower standing up to 
 search for clients. 
 
 "Barca! Barca!" 
 
 He had seen her. 
 
 She drew back a little. As she did so her chair made 
 a grating noise, and instantly the sharp ears of the 
 
 284
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Padrone caught a sound betokening the presence of a 
 new-comer in his restaurant. It might be a queen, an 
 empress! Who could tell? 
 
 With his stiff yet alert military gait, he at once came 
 marching down towards her, staring hard with his big, 
 bright eyes. When he saw who it was he threw up his 
 brown hands. 
 
 "The Signora of the storm!" he exclaimed. He 
 moved as if about to turn around. "I must tell " 
 
 But Hermione stopped him with a quick, decisive 
 gesture. 
 
 "One moment, Signore." 
 
 The Padrone approached aristocratically. 
 
 "The Marchese Isidoro Panacci is here dining with 
 friends, the Duca di " 
 
 "Yes, yes. But I am only here for a moment, so it 
 is not worth while to tell the Marchese." 
 
 "You are not going to dine, Signora! The food of 
 Frisio does not please you!" 
 
 He cast up his eyes in deep distress. 
 
 "Indeed it does. But I have dined. What I want is 
 a cup of coffee, and and a liqueur une fine. And may 
 I look over your wonderful visitors' book ? To tell the 
 truth, that is what I have come for, to see the marvellous 
 book. I hadn't enough time the other night. May I?" 
 
 The Padrone was appeased. He smiled graciously and 
 turned upon his heels. 
 
 "At once, Signora." 
 
 "And not a word to the Marchese! He is with 
 friends. I would rather not disturb him." 
 
 The Padrone threw up his chin and clicked his tongue 
 against his teeth. A shrewd, though not at all im- 
 pudent, expression had come into his face. A Signora 
 alone, at night, in a restaurant! He was a man of the 
 great world. He understood. What a mercy it was 
 to be "educate"! 
 
 285
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He came back again almost directly, bearing the book 
 as a sacristan might bear a black-letter Bible. 
 
 "Ecco, Signora." 
 
 With a superb gesture he placed it before her. 
 
 "The coffee, the fine. Attendez, Signora, pour un 
 petit momento." 
 
 He stood to see the effect of his French upon her. 
 She forced into her face a look of pious admiration, and 
 he at once departed. Hermione opened the book rather 
 furtively. She had the unpleasant sensation of doing 
 a surreptitious action, and she was an almost abnor- 
 mally straightforward woman by nature. The book was 
 large, and contained an immense number of inscriptions 
 and signatures in handwritings that varied as strangely 
 as do the characters of men. She turned the leaves 
 hastily. Where had Emile written? Not at the end 
 of the book. She remembered that his signature had 
 been followed by others, although she had not seen, or 
 tried to see, what he had written. Perhaps his name 
 was near Tolstoy's. They had read together Tolstoy's 
 Vedi Napoli e poi Mori, 
 
 But where was Tolstoy's name? 
 
 A waiter came with the coffee and the brandy. She 
 thanked him quickly, sipped the coffee without tasting 
 it, and continued the search. 
 
 The voice of the blind man died away. The guitars 
 ceased. 
 
 She started. She was afraid the musicians would 
 come down and gather round her. Why had she not 
 told the Padrone she wished to be quite alone? She 
 heard the shuffle of feet. They were coming. Feverish- 
 ly she turned the pages. Ah! here it was! She bent 
 down over the page. 
 
 " La conscience, c'est la quantit6 de science inne'e que 
 nous avons en nous. EMILE ARTOIS. 
 
 " Nuit d'orage. Juin." 
 
 286
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The guitars began a prelude. The blind man shifted 
 from one fat leg to another, cast up his sightless eyes, 
 protruded and drew in his tongue, coughed, spat 
 
 "Cameriere!" 
 
 Hermione struck upon the table sharply. She had 
 forgotten all about the Marchesino. She was full of the 
 desire to escape, to get away and be out on the sea. 
 
 "Cameriere!" 
 
 She called more loudly. 
 
 A middle-aged waiter came shuffling over the floor. 
 
 "The bill, please." 
 
 As she spoke she drank the brandy. 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He stood beside her. 
 
 "One coffee?" 
 
 "Si." 
 
 "One cognac?" 
 
 "Si, si." 
 
 The blind man burst into song. 
 
 "One fifty, Signora." 
 
 Hermione gave him a two-lire piece and got up to go. 
 
 "Signora buona sera! What a pleasure!" 
 
 The Marchesino stood before her, smiling, bowing. He 
 took her hand, bent over it, and kissed it. 
 
 "What a pleasure!" he repeated, glancing round. 
 "And you are alone? The Signorina is not here?" 
 
 He stared suspiciously towards the terrace. 
 
 "And our dear friend Emilio?" 
 
 "No, no. I am quite alone." 
 
 The blind man bawled, as if he wished to drown the 
 sound of speech. 
 
 "Please could you stop him, Marchese?" said Her- 
 mione. "I really give him this for me." 
 
 She gave the Marchese a lira. 
 
 "Signora, it isn't necessary. Silenzio! Silenzio! 
 P-sh-sh-sh!" 
 
 287
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He hissed sharply, almost furiously. The musicians 
 abruptly stopped, and the blind man made a gurgling 
 sound, as if he were swallowing the unfinished portion 
 of his song. 
 
 "No; please pay them." 
 
 "It's too much." 
 
 "Never mind." 
 
 The Marchese gave the lire to the blind man, and the 
 musicians went drearily out. 
 
 Then Hermione held out her hand at once. 
 
 "I must go now. It is late." 
 
 "You are going by sea, Signora?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I will accompany you." 
 
 "No, indeed. I couldn't think of it. You have 
 friends." 
 
 "They will understand. Have you your own boat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then of course I shall come with you." 
 
 But Hermione was firm. She knew that to-night the 
 company of this young man would be absolutely un- 
 bearable. 
 
 "Marchese, indeed I cannot I cannot allow it. We 
 Englishwomen are very independent, you know. But 
 you may call me a boat and take me down to it, as you 
 are so kind." 
 
 "With pleasure, Signora." 
 
 He went to the open window. At once the boatman's 
 cry rose up. 
 
 "Barca! barca!" 
 
 "That is Andrea's voice," said the Marchesino. "I 
 know him. Barca si!" 
 
 The boat began to glide in towards the land. 
 
 As they went out the Marchesino said: 
 
 "And how is the Signorina?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 288
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 " I have had a touch of fever, Signora, or I should have 
 come over to the island again. I stayed too long in the 
 sea the other day, or He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Hermione. "You are very pale 
 to-night." 
 
 For the first time she looked at him closely, and saw 
 that his face was white, and that his big and boyish eyes 
 held a tired and yet excited expression. 
 
 "It is nothing. It has passed. And our friend 
 Emilio ? How is he ?" 
 
 A hardness had come into his voice. Hermione no- 
 ticed it. 
 
 "We have not seen him lately. I suppose he has 
 been busy." 
 
 "Probably. Emilio has much to do in Naples," said 
 the Marchesino, with an unmistakable sneer. "Do al- 
 low me to escort you to the island, Signora." 
 
 They had reached the boat. Hermione shook her head 
 and stepped in at once. 
 
 "Then when may I come?" 
 
 "Whenever you like." 
 
 "To-morrow?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "At what time?" 
 
 Hermione suddenly remembered his hospitality and 
 felt that she ought to return it. 
 
 "Come to lunch half-past twelve. We shall be quite 
 alone." 
 
 "Signora, for loneliness with you and the Signorina I 
 would give up every friend I have ever had. I would 
 give up 
 
 "Half-past twelve, then, Marchese. Addio!" 
 
 "A rivederci, Signora! A demain! Andrea, take care 
 cf the Signora. Treat her as you would treat the Ma- 
 donna. Do you hear?" 
 
 The boatman grinned and took off his cap, and the 
 289
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 boat glided away across the path of yellow light that 
 was shed from the window of Frisio's. 
 
 Hermione leaned back against the white cushions. 
 She was thankful to escape. She felt tired and confused. 
 That dreadful music had distracted her, that and some- 
 thing else, her tricked expectation. She knew now that 
 she had been very foolish, perhaps even very fantastic. 
 She had felt so sure that Emile had written in that book 
 what ? 
 
 As the boat went softly on she asked herself exactly 
 what she had expected to find written there, and she 
 realized that her imagination had, as so often before, 
 been galloping like a frightened horse with the reins upon 
 its neck. And then she began to consider what he had 
 written. 
 
 "La conscience, c'est la quantite de science inne'e que 
 nous avons en nous." 
 
 She did not know the words. Were they his own or 
 another's? And had he written them simply because 
 they had chanced to come into his mind at the moment, 
 or because they expressed some underthought or feeling 
 that had surged up in him just then? She wished she 
 knew. 
 
 It was a fine saying, she thought, but for the moment 
 she was less interested in it than in Emile's mood, his 
 mind, when he had written it. She realized now, on 
 this calm of the sea, how absurd had been the thought 
 that a man so subtle as Emile would flagrantly reveal a 
 passing phase of his nature, a secret irritability, a jeal- 
 ousy, perhaps, or a sudden hatred in a sentence written 
 for any eyes that chose to see. But he might covertly 
 reveal himself to one who understood him well. 
 
 She sat still, trying to match her subtlety against his. 
 
 From the shore came sounds of changing music, low 
 down or falling to them from the illuminated heights 
 where people were making merry in the night. Now 
 
 290
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and then a boat passed them. In one, young men were 
 singing, and interrupting their song to shout with 
 laughter. Here and there a fisherman's torch glided 
 like a great fire-fly above the oily darkness of the sea. 
 The distant trees of the gardens climbing up the hill 
 made an ebony blackness beneath the stars, a black- 
 ness that suggested impenetrable beauty that lay deep 
 down with hidden face. And the lights dispersed among 
 them, gaining significance by their solitude, seemed to 
 summon adventurous or romantic spirits to come to 
 them by secret paths and learn their revelation. Over 
 the sea lay a delicate warmth, not tropical, not enervat- 
 ing, but softly inspiring. And beyond the circling lamps 
 of Naples Vesuvius lit up the firmament with a torrent 
 of rose-colored fire that glowed and died, and glowed 
 again, constantly as beats a heart. 
 
 And to Hermione came a melancholy devoid of all 
 violence, soft almost as the warmth upon this sea, quiet 
 as the resignation of the fatalistic East. She felt herself 
 for a moment such a tiny, dark thing caught in the 
 meshes of the great net of the Universe, this Universe 
 that she could never understand. What could she do ? 
 She must just sink down upon the breast of mystery, let 
 it take her, hold her, do with her what it would. 
 
 Her subtlety against Emile's! She smiled to herself in 
 the dark. What a combat of midgets! She seemed to 
 see two marionettes battling in the desert. 
 
 And yet and yet! She remembered a saying of 
 Flaubert's, that man is like a nomad journeying on a 
 camel through the desert; and he is the nomad, and the 
 camel and the desert. 
 
 How true that was, for even now, as she felt herself 
 to be nothing, she felt herself to be tremendous. 
 
 She heard the sound of oars from the darkness before 
 them, and saw the dim outline of a boat, then the eyes of 
 Emile looking straight into hers. 
 
 2OI
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Emile!" 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 His face was gone. But yielding to her impulse she 
 made Andrea stop, and, turning round, saw that the 
 other boat had also stopped a little way from hers. It 
 began to back, and in a moment was level with them. 
 
 "Emile! How strange to meet you! Have you 
 haven't been to the island?" 
 
 "No. I was tired. I have been working very hard. 
 I dined quietly at Posilipo." 
 
 He did not ask her where she had been. 
 
 "Yes. I think you look tired," she said. He did not 
 speak, and she added: "I felt restless, so I took the tram 
 from the Trattoria del Giardinetto as far as the Scoglio 
 di Frisio, and am going back, as you see, by boat." 
 
 "It is exquisite on the sea to-night," he said. 
 
 "Yes, exquisite; it makes one sad." 
 
 She remembered all she had been through that day, 
 as she looked at his powerful face. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "It makes one sad." 
 
 For a moment she felt that they were again in perfect 
 sympathy, as they used to be. Their sadness, born of 
 the dreaming hour, united them. 
 
 "Come soon to the island, dear Emile," she said, sud- 
 denly and with the impulsiveness that was part of her, 
 forgetting all her jealousy and all her shadowy fears. 
 "I have missed you." 
 
 He noticed that she ruled out Vere in that sentence; 
 but the warmth of her voice stirred warmth in him, and 
 he answered: 
 
 "Let me come to-morrow." 
 
 "Do do!" 
 
 "In the morning, to lunch, and to spend a long day." 
 
 Suddenly she remembered the Marchesino and the 
 sound of his voice when he had spoken of his friend. 
 
 "Lunch?" she said. 
 
 292
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Instantly he caught her hesitation, her dubiety. 
 
 "It isn't convenient, perhaps?" 
 
 "Perfectly, only only the Marchesino is coming." 
 
 ' ' To-morrow ? To lunch ?' ' 
 
 The hardness of the Marchesino's voice was echoed 
 now in the voice of Artois. There was antagonism be- 
 tween these men. Hermione realized it. 
 
 "Yes. I invited him this evening." 
 
 There was a slight pause. Then Artois said: 
 
 "I'll come some other day, Hermione. Well, my 
 friend, au revoir, and bon voyage to the island." 
 
 His voice had suddenly become cold, and he signed 
 to his boatman. 
 
 "Avanti!" 
 
 The boat slipped away and was lost in the darkness. 
 
 Hermione had said nothing. Once again why, she 
 did not know her friend had made her feel guilty. 
 
 Andrea, the boatman, still paused. Now she saw him 
 staring into her face, and she felt like a woman publicly 
 deserted, almost humiliated. 
 
 "Avanti, Andrea!" she said. 
 
 Her voice trembled as she spoke. 
 
 He bent to his oars and rowed on. 
 
 And man is the nomad, and the camel and the 
 desert. 
 
 Yes, she carried the desert within her, and she was 
 wandering in it alone. She saw herself, a poor, starved, 
 shrinking figure, travelling through a vast, a burning, a 
 waterless expanse, with an iron sky above her, a brazen 
 land beneath. She was in rags, barefoot, like the poor- 
 est nomad of them all. 
 
 But even the poorest nomad carries something. 
 
 Against her breast, to her heart, she clasped a mem- 
 ory the sacred memory of him who had loved her, who 
 had taken her to be his, who had given her himself.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THAT night when Hermione drew near to the island 
 she saw the Saint's light shining, and remembered how, 
 in the storm, she had longed for it how, when she had 
 seen it above the roaring sea, she had felt that it was a 
 good omen. To-night it meant nothing to her. It was 
 just a lamp lit, as a lamp might be lit in a street, to give 
 illumination in darkness to any one who passed. She 
 wondered why she had thought of it so strangely. 
 
 Gaspare met her at the landing. She noticed at once 
 a suppressed excitement in his manner. He looked at 
 Andrea keenly and suspiciously. 
 
 "How late you are, Signora!" 
 
 He put out his strong arm to help her to the land. 
 
 "Am I, Gaspare? Yes, I suppose I am you ought 
 all to be in bed." 
 
 "I should not go to bed while you were out, Signora." 
 
 Again she linked Gaspare with her memory, saw the 
 nomad not quite alone on the journey. 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "Have you been to Naples, Signora?" 
 
 "No only to" 
 
 "To Mergellina?" 
 
 He interrupted her almost sharply. 
 
 "No, to the Scoglio di Frisio. Pay the boatman this, 
 Gaspare. Good -night, Andrea." 
 
 "Good -night, Signora." 
 
 Gaspare handed the man his money, and at once the 
 boat set out on its return to Posilipo. 
 
 294
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Hermione stood at the water's edge watching its de- 
 parture. It passed below the Saint, and the gleam of his 
 light fell upon it for a moment. In the gleam the black 
 figure of Andrea was visible stooping to the water. He 
 was making the fishermen's sign of the Cross. The cross 
 on Peppina's face was it an enemy of the Cross that 
 carried with it San Francesco's blessing? Vere's imag- 
 ination! She turned to go up to the house. 
 
 "Is the Signorina in bed yet, Gaspare?" 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 ' ' Where is she ? Still out ? " 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "Did she think I was lost?" 
 
 "Signora, the Signorina is on the cliff with RufEo." 
 
 "With Ruffo?" 
 
 They were going up the steps. 
 
 "Si, Signora. We have all been together." 
 
 Hermione guessed that Gaspare had been playing 
 chaperon, and loved him for it. 
 
 "And you heard the boat coming from the cliff?" 
 
 "I saw it pass under the Saint's light, Signora. I did 
 not hear it." 
 
 "Well, but it might have been a fisherman's boat." 
 
 "Si, Signora. And it might have been your boat." 
 
 The logic of this faithful watcher was unanswerable. 
 They came up to the house. 
 
 "I think I'll go and see Ruffo," said Hermione. 
 
 She was close to the door of the house, Gaspare stood im- 
 mediately before her. He did not move now, but he said: 
 
 " I can go and tell the Signorina you are here, Signora, 
 She will come at once." 
 
 Again Hermione noticed a curious, almost dogged, 
 excitement in his manner. It recalled to her a night of 
 years ago when he had stood on a terrace beside her in 
 the darkness and had said: "I will go down to the sea. 
 Signora, let me go down to the sea!" 
 
 295
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "There's nothing the matter, is there, Gaspare?" she 
 said, quickly. "Nothing wrong?" 
 
 "Signora, of course not! What should there be?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "I will fetch the Signorina." 
 
 On that night, years ago, she had battled with Gas- 
 pare. He had been forced to yield to her. Now she 
 yielded to him. 
 
 "Very well," she answered. "Go and tell the Signo- 
 rina I am here." 
 
 She turned and went into the house and up to the 
 sitting-room. Vere did not come immediately. To her 
 mother it seemed as if she was a very long time coming ; 
 but at last her light step fell on the stairs, and she en- 
 tered quickly. 
 
 "Madre! How late you are! Where have you been ?" 
 
 "Am I late? I dined at the little restaurant at the 
 top of the hill where the tram passes." 
 
 "There? But you haven't been there all this time?" 
 
 "No. Afterwards I took the tram to Posilipo and 
 came home by boat. And what have you been doing?" 
 
 "Oh, all sorts of things what I always do. Just now 
 I've been with Ruffo." 
 
 "Gaspare told me he was here." 
 
 "Yes. We've been having a talk." 
 
 Hermione waited for Vere to say something more, 
 but she was silent. She stood near the window looking 
 out, and the expression on her face had become rather 
 vague, as if her mind had gone on a. journey. 
 
 " Well," said the mother at last, "and what does Ruffo 
 say for himself, Vere?" 
 
 "Ruffo? Oh, I don't know." 
 
 She paused, then added: 
 
 ' ' I think he has rather a hard time, do you know, Madre ?" 
 
 Hermione had taken off her hat. She laid it on a 
 table and sat down. She was feeling tired. 
 
 296
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But generally he looks so gay, so strong. Don't 
 vou remember that first day you saw him?" 
 
 "Ah then!" 
 
 "Of course, when he had fever " 
 
 "No, it isn't that. Any one might be ill. I think he 
 has things at home to make him unhappy sometimes." 
 
 "Has he been telling you so?" 
 
 "Oh, he doesn't complain," Verc said, quickly, and 
 almost with a touch of heat. "A boy like that couldn't 
 whine, you know, Madre. But one can understand 
 things without hearing them said. There is some trouble. 
 I don't know what it is exactly. But I think his step- 
 father his Patrigno, as he calls him must have got 
 into some bother, or done something horrible. Ruffo 
 seemed to want to tell me, and yet not to want to tell 
 me. And, of course, I couldn't ask. I think he'll tell 
 me to-morrow, perhaps." 
 
 "Is he coming here to-morrow?" 
 
 "Oh, in summer I think he comes nearly every night." 
 
 "But you haven't said anything about him just 
 lately." 
 
 "No. Because he hasn't landed till to-night since 
 the night of the storm." 
 
 "I wonder why?" said Hermione. 
 
 She was interested; but she still felt tired, and the 
 fatigue crept into her voice. 
 
 "So do I," Vere said. "He had a reason, I'm sure. 
 You're tired, Madre, so I'll go to bed. Good-night." 
 
 She came to her mother and kissed her. Moved by a 
 sudden overwhelming impulse of tenderness, and need 
 of tenderness, Hermione put her arms round the child's 
 slim body. But even as she did so she remembered 
 Vere's secret, shared with Emile and not with her. She 
 could not abruptly loose her arms without surprising her 
 child. But they seemed to her to stiffen, against her 
 will, and her embrace was surely mechanical. She won- 
 
 297
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 dered if Vere noticed this, but she did not look into her 
 eyes to see. 
 
 "Good-night, Vere." 
 
 "Good -night." 
 
 Vere was at the door when Hermione remembered her 
 two meetings of that evening. 
 
 "By-the-way," she said, "I met the Marchesino to- 
 night. He was at the Scoglio di Frisio." 
 
 "Was he?" 
 
 "And afterwards on the sea I met Emile." 
 
 "Monsieur Emile! Then he isn't quite dead!" 
 
 "There was a sound almost of irritation in Vere's 
 voice. 
 
 "He has been working very hard." 
 
 "Oh, I see." 
 
 Her voice had softened. 
 
 "The Marchesino is coming here to lunch to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, Madre!" 
 
 "Does he bore you? I had to ask him to something 
 after accepting his dinner, Vere." 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course. The Marchese is all right." 
 
 She stood by the door with her bright, expressive eyes 
 fixed on her mother. Her dark hair had been a little 
 roughened by the breeze from Ischia, and stuck up just 
 above the forehead, giving to her face an odd, almost a 
 boyish look. 
 
 "What is it, Vere?" 
 
 "And when is Monsieur Emile coming? Didn't he 
 say?" 
 
 "No. He suggested to-morrow, but when I told him 
 the Marchese was coming he said he wouldn't." 
 
 As Hermione said this she looked very steadily at her 
 child. Vere's eyes did not fall, but met hers simply, 
 fearlessly, yet not quite childishly. 
 
 "I don't wonder," she said. "To tell the truth, 
 Madre, I can't see how a man like the Marchesino could 
 
 298
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 interest a man like Monsieur Emile at any rate, for 
 long. Well " She gave a little sigh, throwing up her 
 pretty chin. "A letto si va!" 
 
 And she vanished. 
 
 When she had gone Hermione thought she too would 
 go to bed. She was very tired. She ought to go. Yet 
 now she suddenly felt reluctant to go, and as if the doings 
 of the day for her were not yet over. And, besides, she 
 was not going to sleep well. That was certain. The 
 dry, the almost sandy sensation of insomnia was upon 
 her. What was the matter with Gaspare to-night ? Per- 
 haps he had had a quarrel with some one at Mergellina. 
 He had a strong temper as well as a loyal heart. 
 
 Hermione went to a window. The breeze from Ischia 
 touched her. She opened her lips, shut her eyes, drank 
 it in. It would be delicious to spend the whole night 
 upon the sea, like Ruffo. Had he gone yet ? or was he 
 in the boat asleep, perhaps in the Saint's Pool? How 
 interested Vere was in all the doings of that boy how 
 innocently, charmingly interested! 
 
 Hermione stood by the window for two or three min- 
 utes, then went out of the room, down the stairs, to the 
 front door of the house. It was already locked. Yet 
 Gaspare had not come up to say good-night to her. And 
 he always did that before he went to bed. She unlocked 
 the door, went out, shut it behind her, and stood still. 
 
 How strangely beautiful and touching the faint noise 
 of the sea round the island was at night, atid how full of 
 meaning not quite to be divined! It came upon her 
 heart like the whisper of a world trying to tell its secret 
 to the darkness. What depths, what subtleties, what 
 unfailing revelations of beauty, and surely, too, of love, 
 there were in Nature! And yet in Nature what terrible 
 indifference there was: a powerful, an almost terrific 
 inattention, like that of the sphinx that gazes at what 
 men cannot see. Hermione moved away from the house. 
 
 ao 299
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She walked to the brow of the island and sat down on 
 the seat that Vere was fond of. Presently she would go 
 to the bridge and look over into the Pool and listen for 
 the voices of fishermen. She sat there for some time 
 gaining a certain peace, losing something of her feeling 
 of weary excitement and desolation under the stars. At 
 last she thought that sleep might come if she went to 
 bed. But before doing so she made her way to the bridge 
 and leaned on the rail, looking down into the Pool. 
 
 It was very dark, but she saw the shadowy shape of a 
 fishing -boat lying close to the rock. She stood and 
 watched it, and presently she lost herself in a thicket of 
 night thoughts, and forgot where she was and why she 
 had come there. She was recalled by hearing a very 
 faint voice singing, scarcely more than humming, be- 
 neath her. 
 
 "Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' Estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 
 Gil occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 It was the same song that Artois had heard that day 
 as he leaned on the balcony of the Ristorante della Stella. 
 But this singer of it sang the Italian words, and not the 
 dialetto. The song that wins the prize at the Piedigrotta 
 Festival is on the lips of every one in Naples. In houses, 
 in streets, in the harbor, in every piazza, and upon the 
 sea it is heard incessantly. 
 
 And now Ruffo was singing it softly and rather proud- 
 ly in the Italian, to attract the attention of the dark 
 figure he saw above him. He was not certain who it was, 
 but he thought it was the mother of the Signorina, and 
 he did not exactly know why he wished her to find 
 out that he was there, squatting on the dry rock with 
 his back against the cliff wall. The ladies of the Casa 
 del Mare had been very kind to him, and to-night he 
 
 300
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 was not very happy, and vaguely he longed for sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Hermione listened to the pretty, tripping words, the 
 happy, youthful words. And Ruffo sang them again, 
 still very softly. 
 
 "Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1" Estate " 
 
 And the poor nomad wandering in the desert? But 
 she had known the rapture of youth, the sweet white 
 moons of summer in the South. She had known them 
 long ago for a little while, and therefore she knew them 
 while she lived. A woman's heart is tenacious, and 
 wide as the world, when it contains that world which is 
 the memory of something perfect that gave it satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 Dear, happy, lovable youth that can sing to itself like 
 that in the deep night! Like that once Maurice, her 
 sacred possession of youth, sang. She felt a rush of 
 tenderness for Ruffo, just because he was so young, and 
 sang and brought back to her the piercing truth of the 
 everlasting renewal that goes hand in hand with the 
 everlasting passing away. 
 
 "Ruffo! Ruffo!" 
 
 Almost as Vere had once called "Pescator!" she called. 
 And as Ruffo had once come running up to Vere he came 
 now to Vere's mother. 
 
 ' ' Good-evening, Ruffo. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Good-evening, Signora. ' ' 
 
 She was looking at the boy as at a mystery which yet 
 she could understand. And he looked at her simply, 
 with a sort of fearless gentleness, and readiness to receive 
 the kindness which he knew dwelt in her for him to take. 
 
 "Are you better?" 
 
 301
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si, Signora, much better. The fever has gone. I 
 am strong, you know." 
 
 "You are so young." 
 
 She could not help saying it, and her eyes were tender 
 just then. 
 
 "3i, Signora, I am very young." 
 
 His simple voice almost made her laugh, stirred in her 
 that sweet humor which has its dwelling at the core of 
 the heart. 
 
 "Young and happy," she said. 
 
 And as she said it she remembered Vere's words that 
 evening: "I think he has rather a hard time." 
 
 "At least, I hope you are happy, RuflEo," she added. 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He looked at her. She was not sure which he meant, 
 whether his assent was to her hope or to the fact of his 
 happiness. She wondered which it was. 
 
 "Young people ought to be happy," she said. 
 
 "Ought they, Signora?" 
 
 "You like your life, don't you? You like the sea?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. I could not live away from the sea. 
 If I could not see the sea every day I don't know what 
 I should do." 
 
 "I love it, too." 
 
 "The Signorina loves the sea." 
 
 He had ignored her love for it and seized on Vere's. 
 She thought that was very characteristic of his youth. 
 
 "Yes. She loves being here. You talked to her to- 
 night, didn't you?" 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "And to Gaspare?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. And this afternoon, too. Gaspare was 
 at Mergellina this afternoon." 
 
 "And you met there, did you?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. I had been with my mamma, and when 
 T left my mamma poveretta I met Gaspare." 
 
 302
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I hope your mother is well." 
 
 " Signora, she is not very well just now. She is a little 
 sad just now." 
 
 Hermione felt that the boy had some trouble which, 
 perhaps, he would like to tell her. Perhaps some in- 
 stinct made him know that she felt tender towards him, 
 very tender that night. 
 
 "I am sorry for that," she said "very sorry." 
 
 "Si, Signora. There is trouble in our house." 
 
 "What is it, Ruffo?" 
 
 The boy hesitated to answer. He moved his bare feet 
 on the bridge and looked down towards the boat. Her- 
 mione did not press him, said nothing. 
 
 "Signora," Ruffo said, at last, coming to a decision, 
 "my Patrigno is not a good man. He makes my mam- 
 ma jealous. He goes after others." 
 
 It was the old story of the South, then! Hermione 
 knew something of the persistent infidelities of Nea- 
 politan men. Poor women who had to suffer them! 
 
 " I am sorry for your mother," she said, gently. "That 
 must be very hard." 
 
 "Si, Signora, it is hard. My mamma was very un- 
 happy to-day. She put her head on the table, and she 
 cried. But that was because my Patrigno is put in prison. " 
 
 " In prison! What has he done ?" 
 
 Ruffo looked at her, and she saw that the simple ex- 
 pression had gone out of his eyes. 
 
 "Signora, I thought perhaps you knew." 
 
 "I? But I have never seen your step-father." 
 
 "No, Signora. But but you have that girl here in 
 your house." 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 Suddenly, almost while she was speaking, Hermione 
 understood. 
 
 "Peppina!" she said. "It was your Patrigno who 
 wounded Peppina?" 
 
 303
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 There was a silence between them. Then Hermione 
 said, gently: 
 
 "I am very sorry for your poor mother, Ruffo very 
 sorry. Tell me, can she manage? About money, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 "It was not so much the money she was crying about, 
 Signora. But, of course, while Patrigno is in prison he 
 cannot earn money for her. I shall give her my money. 
 But my mamma does not like all the neighbors knowing 
 about that girl. It is a shame for her." 
 
 "Yes, of course it is. It is very hard." 
 
 She thought a moment. Then she said: 
 
 " It must be horrible horrible !" 
 
 She spoke with all the vehemence of her nature. Again, 
 as long ago, when she knelt before a mountain shrine in 
 the night, she had put herself imaginatively in the place 
 of a woman, this time in the place of Ruffo's mother. 
 She had realized how she would have felt if her husband, 
 her "man," had ever been faithless to her. 
 
 Ruffo looked at her almost in surprise. 
 
 "I wish I could see your poor mother, Ruffo," she 
 said. "I would go to see her, only well, you see, I 
 have Peppina here, and " 
 
 She broke off. Perhaps the boy would not understand 
 what she considered the awkwardness of the situation. 
 She did not quite know how these people regarded cer- 
 tain things. 
 
 "Wait here a moment, Ruffo," she said. "I am going 
 to give you something for your mother. I won't be a 
 moment." 
 
 "Grazie, Signora." 
 
 Hermione went away to the house. The perfect nat- 
 uralness and simplicity of the boy appealed to her. She 
 was pleased, too, that he had not told all this to Vere. 
 It showed a true feeling of delicacy. And she was sure 
 
 34
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he was a good son. She went up to her room, got two 
 ten-lira notes, and went quickly back to Ruffo, who was 
 standing upon the bridge. 
 
 "There, Ruffo," she said, giving them to him. "These 
 are for your mother." 
 
 The boy's brown face flushed, and into his eyes there 
 came an expression of almost melting gentleness. 
 
 "Oh, Signora!" he said. 
 
 And there was a note of protest in his voice. 
 
 "Take them to her, Ruffo. And and I want you to 
 promise me something. Will you?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. I will do anything anything for you." 
 
 Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Be very, very kind to your poor mother, Ruffo." 
 
 "Signora, I always am good for my poor mamma." 
 
 He spoke with warm eagerness. 
 
 "I am sure you are. But just now, when she is sad, 
 be very good to her." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 She took her hand from the boy's shoulder. He bent 
 to kiss her hand, and again, as he was lifting up his 
 head, she saw that melting look in his eyes. This 
 time it was unmingled with amazement, and it startled 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, Ruffo!" she said, and stopped, staring at him in 
 the darkness. 
 
 "Signora! What is it? What have you?" 
 
 "Nothing. Good-night, Ruffo." 
 
 "Good-night, Signora." 
 
 He took off his cap and ran down to the boat. Her- 
 mione leaned over the railing, bending down to see the 
 boy reappear below. When he came he looked like a 
 shadow. From this shadow there rose a voice singing 
 very softly. 
 
 "Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1* Estate " 
 305
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The shadow went over to the boat, and the voice died 
 away. 
 
 "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 Hermione still was bending down. And she formed 
 the last words with lips that trembled a little. 
 
 "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 Then she said: "Maurice Maurice!" 
 
 And then she stood trembling. 
 
 Yes, it was Maurice whom she had seen again for an 
 instant in the melting look of Ruffo's face. She felt 
 frightened in the dark. Maurice when he kissed her 
 for the last time, had looked at her like that. It could 
 not be fancy. It was not. 
 
 Was this the very first time she had noticed in Ruffo 
 a likeness to her dead husband ? She asked herself if it 
 was. Yes. She had never or had there been some- 
 thing? Not in the face, perhaps. But the voice? 
 Ruffo's singing? His attitude as he stood up in the 
 boat? Had there not been something? She remem- 
 bered her conversation with Artois in the cave. She had 
 said to him that she did not know why the boy, 
 Ruffo, had made her feel, had stirred up within her 
 slumbering desires, slumbering yearnings. 
 
 "I have heard a hundred boys sing on the Bay and 
 just this one touches some chord, and all the strings of 
 my soul quiver." 
 
 She had said that. 
 
 Then there was something in the boy, something not 
 merely fleeting like that look of gentleness something 
 permanent, subtle, that resembled Maurice. 
 
 Now she no longer felt frightened, but she had a pas- 
 sionate wish to go down to the boat, to see Ruffo again., 
 to be with him again, now that she was awake to this 
 
 306
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 strange, and perhaps only faint, imitation by another of 
 the one whom she had lost. No not imitation; this 
 fragmentary reproduction of some characteristic, some 
 
 She lifted herself up from the railing. And now she 
 knew that her eyes were wet. She wiped them with her 
 handkerchief, drew a deep breath, and went back to the 
 house. She felt for the handle of the door, and, when she 
 found it, opened the door, went in, and shut it rather 
 heavily, then locked it. As she bent down to push home 
 the bolt at the bottom a voice called out: 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 She was startled and turned quickly. 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 He stood before her half dressed, with his hair over 
 his eyes, and a revolver in his hand. 
 
 "Signora! It is you!" 
 
 "Si. What did you think? That it was a rob- 
 ber?" 
 
 Gaspare looked at her almost sternly, went to the 
 door, bent down and bolted it, then he said: 
 
 "Signora, I heard a noise in the house a few minuses 
 ago. I listened, but I heard nothing more. Still, I 
 thought it best to get up. I had just put on my clothes 
 when again I heard a noise at the door. I myself had 
 locked it for the night. What should I think?" 
 
 "I was outside. I came back for something. That 
 was what you heard. Then I went out again." 
 
 "Si." 
 
 He stood there staring at her in a way that seemed, 
 she fancied, to rebuke her. She knew that he wished to 
 know why she had gone out so late, returned to the 
 house, then gone out once more. 
 
 "Come up-stairs for a minute, Gaspare," she said. "I 
 want to speak to you." 
 
 He looked less stern, but still unlike himself. 
 
 "Si, Signora. Shall I put on my jacket?" 
 
 307
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "No, no, never mind. Come like that." 
 
 She went up-stairs, treading softly, lest she might 
 disturb Vere. He followed. When they were in her 
 sitting-room she said: 
 
 "Gaspare, why did you go to bed without coming to 
 say good-night to me?" 
 
 He looked rather confused. 
 
 "Did I forget, Signora? I was tired. Forgive me." 
 
 "I don't know whether you forgot. But you never 
 came." 
 
 As Hermione spoke, suddenly she felt as if Gaspare, 
 too, were going, perhaps, to drift from her. She looked 
 at him with an almost sharp intensity which hardened 
 her whole face. Was he, too, being insincere with her, 
 he whom she trusted so implicitly? 
 
 "Did you forget, Gaspare?" she said. 
 
 "Signora," he repeated, with a certain, almost ugly 
 doggedness, "I was tired. Forgive me." 
 
 She felt sure that he had chosen deliberately not to 
 come to her for the evening salutation. It was a trifle, 
 yet to-night it hurt her. For a moment she was silent, 
 and he was silent, looking down at the floor. Then she 
 opened her lips to dismiss him. She intended to say a 
 curt "Good-night"; but no she could not let Gas- 
 pare retreat from her behind impenetrable walls of ob- 
 stinate reserve. And she did know his nature through 
 and through. If he was odd to-night, unlike himself, 
 there was some reason for it ; and it could not be a rea- 
 son that, known to her, would make her think badly of 
 him. She was certain of that. 
 
 "Never mind, Gaspare," she said, gently. "But I 
 like you to come and say good-night to me. I am ac- 
 customed to that, and I miss it if you don't come." 
 
 "Si, Signora," he said, in a very low voice. 
 
 Tie turned a little away from her, and made a small 
 noise with his nose as if he had a cold. 
 
 308
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Gaspare," she said, with an impulse to be frank, "I 
 saw Ruffo to-night." 
 
 He turned round quickly. She saw moisture in his 
 eyes, but they were shining almost fiercely. 
 
 "He told me something about his Patrigno. Did you 
 know it?" 
 
 "His Patrigno and Peppina?" 
 
 Hermione nodded. 
 
 "Si Signora; Ruffo told me." 
 
 "I gave the boy something for his mother." 
 
 "His mother why?" 
 
 There was quick suspicion in Gaspare's voice. 
 
 "Poor woman ! Because of all this trouble. Her hus- 
 band is in prison." 
 
 "Lo so. But he will soon be out again. He is 'pro- 
 tected.'" 
 
 "Who protects him?" 
 
 But Gaspare evaded the answer, and substituted some- 
 thing that was almost a rebuke. 
 
 "Signora," he said, bluntly, "if I were you I would 
 not have anything to do with these people. Ruffo's 
 Patrigno is a bad man. Better leave them alone." 
 
 "But, Ruffo?" 
 
 "Signora?" 
 
 "You like him, don't you?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. There is no harm in him." 
 
 "And the poor mother?" 
 
 "I am not friends with his mother, Signora. I do 
 not want to be." 
 
 Hermione was surprised by his harshness l 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "There are people at Mergellina who are bad people," 
 he said. "We are not Neapolitan. We had better keep 
 to ourselves. You have too much heart, Signora, a great 
 deal too much heart, and you do not always know what 
 people are." 
 
 39
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Do you think I ought not to have given Ruffo that 
 money for his mother?" Hermione asked, almost meekly. 
 
 "Si, Signora. It is not for you to give his mother 
 money. It is not for you." 
 
 "Well, Gaspare, it's done now." 
 
 "Si, it's done now." 
 
 "You don't think Ruffo bad, do you?" 
 
 After a pause, Gaspare answered: 
 
 "No, Signora. Ruffo is not bad." 
 
 Hermione hesitated. She wanted to ask Gaspare 
 something, but she was not sure that the opportunity 
 was a good one. He was odd to-night. His temper 
 had surely been upset. Perhaps it would be better to 
 wait. She decided not to speak of what was in her mind. 
 
 "Well, Gaspare, good-night," she said. 
 
 ' ' Good-night , Signora. ' ' 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "You see, after all, you have had to say good-night 
 to me!" 
 
 "Signora," he answered, earnestly, "even if I do not 
 come to say good-night to you always, I shall stay with 
 you till death." 
 
 Again he made the little noise with his nose, as he 
 turned away and went out of the room. 
 
 That night, ere she got into bed, Hermione called down 
 on that faithful watch-dog's dark head a blessing, the 
 best that heaven contained for him. Then she put out 
 the light, and lay awake so long that when a boat came 
 round the cliff from the Saint's Pool to the open sea, in 
 the hour before the dawn, she heard the soft splash of 
 the oars in the water and the sound of a boy's voice 
 singing. 
 
 "Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' Estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 
 Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 310
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She lifted herself up on her pillow and listened lis- 
 tened until across the sea, going towards the dawn, the 
 song was lost. 
 
 "Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 When the voice was near, had not Maurice seemed 
 near to her ? And when it died away, did not he fade 
 with it fade until the Ionian waters took him ? 
 
 She sat up in the darkness until long after the song 
 was hushed. But she heard it still in the whisper of the 
 sea.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE Marchesino had really been unwell, as he had told 
 Hermione. The Panacci disposition, of which he had 
 once spoken to Artois, was certainly not a calm one, and 
 Isidore was, perhaps, the most excitable member of an 
 abundantly excitable family. Although changeable, he 
 was vehement. He knew not the meaning of the word 
 patience, and had always been accustomed to get what 
 he wanted exactly when he wanted it. Delay in the 
 gratification of his desires, opposition to his demands, 
 rendered him as indignant as if he were a spoiled child 
 unable to understand the fixed position and function of 
 the moon. And since the night of his vain singing along 
 the shore to Nisida he had been ill with fever, brought 
 on by jealousy and disappointment, brought on partly 
 also by the busy workings of a heated imagination which 
 painted his friend Emilio in colors of inky black. 
 
 The Marchesino had not the faintest doubt that Artois 
 was in love with Vere. He believed this not from any 
 evidence of his eyes, for, even now, in not very lucid 
 moments, he could not recall any occasion on which he 
 had seen Emilio paying court to the pretty English girl. 
 But, then, he had only seen them together twice on the 
 night of his first visit to the island and on the night of 
 the storm. It was the general conduct of his friend that 
 convinced him, conduct in connection not with Vere, 
 but with himself apart from that one occasion when 
 Emilio must have lain hidden with Vere among the shad- 
 ows of the Grotto of Virgil. He had been deceived by 
 
 312
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Emilio. He had thought of him as an intellectual, who 
 was also a bon vivant and interested in Neapolitan life. 
 But he had not thought of him as a libertine. Yet that 
 was what he certainly was. The interview with Maria 
 Fortunata in the alley beyond the Via Roma had quite 
 convinced the Marchesino, He had no objection what- 
 ever to loose conduct, but he had a contempt for hypoc* 
 risy which was strong and genuine. He had trusted 
 Emilio. Now he distrusted him, and was ready to see 
 subtlety, deceit, and guile in all his undertakings. 
 
 Emilio had been trying to play with him. Emilio 
 looked upon him as a boy who knew nothing of the world. 
 The difference in their respective ages, so long ignored 
 by him, now glared perpetually upon the Marchesino, 
 even roused within him a certain condemnatory some- 
 thing that was almost akin to moral sense, a rare enough 
 bird in Naples. He said to himself that Emilio was a 
 wicked old man, "un vecchio briccone." The delights 
 of sin were the prerogative of youth. Abruptly this il- 
 luminating fact swam, like a new comet, within the 
 ken of the Marchesino. He towered towards heights of 
 virtuous indignation. As he lay upon his fevered pillow, 
 drinking a tisane prepared by his anxious mamma, he 
 understood the inner beauty of settling down for the 
 old; and white-haired age, still intent upon having its 
 fling, appeared to him so truly pitiable and disgusting 
 that he could almost have wept for Emilio had he not 
 feared to make himself more feverish by such an act of 
 enlightened friendship. 
 
 And this sense and appreciation of the true morality, 
 ravishing in its utter novelty for the young barbarian, 
 was cherished by the Marchesino until he began almost 
 to swell with virtue, and to start on stilts to heaven, big 
 with the message that wickedness was for the young and 
 must not be meddled with by any one over thirty the 
 age at which, till now, he had always proposed to him- 
 
 313
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 self to marry some rich girl and settle down to the rigid 
 asceticism of Neapolitan wedded life. 
 
 And as the Marchesino had lain in bed tingling with 
 morality, so did he get up and issue forth to the world, 
 and even set sail upon the following day for the island. 
 Morality was thick upon him, as upon that "briccone," 
 Emilio, something else was thick. About mediaeval 
 chivalry he knew precisely nothing. Yet, as the white 
 wings of his pretty yacht caught the light breeze of 
 morning, he felt like a most virtuous knight sans peur 
 et sans reproche. He even felt like a steady -going person 
 with a mission. 
 
 But he wished he thoroughly understood the English 
 nation. Towards the English he felt friendly, as do most 
 Italians; but he knew little of them, except that they 
 were very rich, lived in a perpetual fog, and were "un 
 poco pazzi." But the question was how mad in other 
 words, how different from Neapolitans they were! He 
 wished he knew. It would make things easier for him 
 in his campaign against Emilio. 
 
 Till he met the ladies of the island he had never said 
 a hundred words to any English person. The Neapolitan 
 aristocracy is a very conservative body, and by no means 
 disposed to cosmopolitanism. To the Panacci Villa at 
 Capodimonte came only Italians, except Emilio. The 
 Marchesino had inquired of Emilio if his mother should 
 call upon the Signora Delarey, but Artois, knowing Her- 
 mione's hatred of social formalities, had hastened to say 
 that it was not necessary, that it would even be a sur- 
 prising departure from the English fashion of life, which 
 ordained some knowledge of each other by the ladies of 
 two families, or at least some formal introduction by a 
 mutual woman friend, before an acquaintance could be 
 properly cemented. Hitherto the Marchesino had felt 
 quite at ease with his new friends. But hitherto he had 
 been, as it were, merely at play with them. The inter- 
 
 3U
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 lude of fever had changed his views and enlarged his con- 
 sciousness. And Emilio was no longer at hand to be ex- 
 planatory if desired. 
 
 The Marchesino wished very much that he thoroughly 
 understood the inner workings of the minds of English 
 ladies. 
 
 How mad were the English? How mad exactly, for 
 instance, was the Signora Delarey? And how mad 
 exactly was the Signorina? It would be very valuable 
 to know. He realized that his accurate knowledge of 
 Neapolitan women, hitherto considered by him as 
 amply sufficient to conduct him without a false step 
 through all the intricacies of the world feminine, might 
 not serve him perfectly with the ladies of the island. 
 His fever had, it seemed, struck a little blow on his self- 
 confidence, and rendered him so feeble as to be almost 
 thoughtful. 
 
 And then, what exactly did he want? To discomfit 
 Emilio utterly? That, of course, did not need saying, 
 even to himself. And afterwards? There were two 
 perpendicular lines above his eyebrows as the boat drew 
 near to the island. 
 
 But when he came into the little drawing-room, where 
 Hermione was waiting to receive him, he looked young 
 and debonair, though still pale from his recent touch of 
 illness. 
 
 Vere was secretly irritated by his coming. Her inter- 
 view with Peppina had opened her eyes to many things, 
 among others to a good deal that was latent in the Mar- 
 chesino. She could never again meet him, or any mar> 
 of his type, with the complete and masterful simplicity 
 of ignorant childhood that can innocently coquet by in- 
 stinct, that can manage by heredity from Eve, but that 
 does not understand thoroughly, either, what it is doing 
 r jr why it is doing it. 
 
 Vere was not in the mood for the Marchesino.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She had been working, and she had been dreaming, 
 and she wanted to have another talk with Monsieur 
 Emile. Pretty, delicate, yet strong-fibred ambitions 
 were stirring within her, and the curious passion to use 
 life as a material, but not all of life that presented itself 
 to her. With the desire to use that might be greedy 
 irose the fastidious prerogative of rejection. 
 
 And that very morning, mentally, Vere had rejected 
 the Marchesino as something not interesting in life, some- 
 thing that was only lively, like the very shallow stream. 
 What a bore it would be having to entertain him, to listen 
 to his compliments, to avoid his glances, to pretend to 
 be at ease with him. 
 
 For Vere felt now that she would no longer be quite 
 at ease in his company. 
 
 Through her Venetian blinds she saw his boat come 
 into the Pool's tranquillity, and in a leisurely manner 
 prepared herself to go down and greet him. 
 
 "But Madre can have him for a little first," she said 
 to herself, as she looked into the glass to see that her 
 hair was presentable. "Madre asked him to come. I 
 didn't. I shall have nothing to say to him." 
 
 She had quite forgotten her eagerness on the night of 
 the storm, when she heard the cry of the siren that be- 
 tokened his approach. Again she looked in the glass 
 and gave a pat to her hair. And just as she was doing 
 it she thought of that day after the bathe, when Gaspare 
 had come to tell her that Monsieur Emile was waiting 
 for her. She had run down, then, just as she was, and 
 now 
 
 "Mamma mia! Am I getting vain!" she said to her- 
 self. 
 
 And she turned from the glass, and reluctantly went 
 to meet their guest. 
 
 She had said to herself that it was a bore having the 
 Marchesino to lunch, that he was uninteresting, frivolous, 
 
 316
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 empty-headed. But directly she set eyes upon him, as 
 he stood in the drawing-room by her mother, she felt a 
 change in him. What had happened to him? She 
 could not tell. But she was conscious that he seemed 
 much more definite, much more of a personage, than he 
 had seemed to her before. Even his face looked differ- 
 ent, though paler, stronger. She was aware of surprise. 
 
 The Marchesino, too, though much less instinctively 
 observant than Vere, noted a change in her. She looked 
 more developed, more grown up. And he said to him- 
 self: 
 
 "When I told Emile she was a woman I was right." 
 
 Their meeting was rather grave and formal, even a 
 little stiff. The Marchesino paid Vere two or three com- 
 pliments, and she inquired perfunctorily after his health, 
 and expressed regret for his slight illness. 
 
 "It was only a chill, Signorina. It was nothing." 
 
 "Perhaps you caught it that night," Vere said. 
 
 " What night, Signorina? " 
 
 Vere had been thinking of the night when he sang for 
 her in vain. Suddenly remembering how she and Mon- 
 sieur Emile had lain in hiding and slipped surreptitiously 
 home under cover of the darkness, she flushed and said: 
 
 "The night of the storm you got wet, didn't you?" 
 
 "But that was long ago, Signorina," he answered, 
 looking steadily at her, with an expression that was 
 searching and almost hard. 
 
 Had he guessed her inadvertence ? She feared so, and 
 felt rather guilty, and glad when Giulia came in to an- 
 nounce that lunch was ready. 
 
 Hermione, when they sat down, feeling a certain con- 
 straint, but not knowing what it sprang from, came to 
 the rescue with an effort. She was really disinclined for 
 talk, and was perpetually remembering that the presence 
 of the Marchesino had prevented Emile from coming to 
 spend a long day. But she remembered also her guest's
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hospitality at Frisio's, and her social instinct defied her 
 natural reluctance to be lively. She said to herself that 
 she was rapidly developing into a fogey, and must rigor- 
 ously combat the grievous tendency. By a sheer exer- 
 tion of will-power she drove herself into a different, and 
 conversational, mood. The Marchesino politely respond- 
 ed. He was perfectly self-possessed, but he was not 
 light-hearted. The unusual effort of being thoughtful 
 had, perhaps, distressed or even outraged his brain. 
 And the worst of it was that he was still thinking for 
 him quite profoundly. 
 
 However, they talked about risofto, they talked about 
 Vesuvius, they spoke of the delights of summer in the 
 South and of the advantages of living on an island. 
 
 "Does it not bore you, Signora, having the sea all 
 round?" asked the Marchesino. "Do you not feel in a 
 prison and that you cannot escape?" 
 
 "We don't want to escape, do we, Madre?" said Vere, 
 quickly, before Hermione could answer. 
 
 "I am very fond of the island, certainly," said Her- 
 mione. "Still, of course, we are rather isolated here." 
 
 She was thinking of what she had said to Artois that 
 perhaps her instinct to shut out the world was morbid, 
 was bad for Vere. The girl at once caught the sound of 
 hesitation in her mother's voice. 
 
 "Madre!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say 
 that you are tired of our island life ?" 
 
 "I do not say that. And you, Vere?" 
 
 "I love being here. I dread the thought of the 
 autumn." 
 
 "In what month do you go away, Signora?" asked the 
 Marchesino. 
 
 "By the end of October we shall have made our flitting, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "You will come in to Naples for the winter?" 
 
 Hermione hesitated. Then she said:
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I almost think I shall take my daughter to Rome. 
 What do you say, Vere?" 
 
 The girl's face had become grave, even almost troubled. 
 
 "I can't look forward in this weather," she said. "I 
 think it's almost wicked to. Oh, let us live in the mo- 
 ment, Madre, and pretend it will be always summer, and 
 that we shall always be living in our Casa del Mare!" 
 
 There was a sound of eager youth in her voice as she 
 spoke, and her eyes suddenly shone. The Marchesino 
 looked at her with an admiration he did not try to con- 
 ceal. 
 
 "You love the sea, Signorina?" he asked. 
 
 But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she 
 feared that he might destroy its completeness by trying 
 to share it. 
 
 "Oh yes," she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gas- 
 pare, Monsieur Emile everybody." 
 
 It was the first time the name of Artois had been 
 mentioned among them that day. The Marchesino's 
 full red lips tightened over his large white teeth. 
 
 " I have not seen Signer Emilio for some days," he said. 
 
 "Nor have we," said Vere, with a touch of childish 
 discontent. 
 
 He looked at her closely. 
 
 Emilio he knew all about Emilio. But the Signorina ? 
 What were her feelings towards the " vecchio briccone " ? 
 He did not understand the .situation, because he did not 
 understand precisely the nature of the madness of the 
 English. Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio an 
 Italian, he would have felt on sure ground. But in Eng- 
 land, so he had heard, there is a fantastic, cold, sexless 
 something called friendship that can exist between un- 
 related man and woman. 
 
 "Don Emilio writes much," he said, with less than his 
 usual alacrity. "When one goes to see him he has al' 
 ways a pen in his hand." 
 
 3*9
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He tried to speak of Emilio with complete detachment, 
 but could not resist adding: 
 
 "When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot 
 be forever running to and fro. One gets tired, I suppose." 
 
 There was marked satire in the accent with which he 
 said the last words. And the shrug of his shoulders was 
 an almost audible "What can I know of that?" 
 
 "Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, 
 not because he has a tired body," said Vere, with sudden 
 warmth. 
 
 Her mother was looking at her earnestly. 
 
 "Oh, Signorina, I do not mean But for a man to be 
 always shut up," began the Marchesino, "it is not life." 
 
 "You don't understand, Marchese. One can live in a 
 little room with the door shut as one can never live " 
 
 Abruptly she stopped. A flush ran over her face and 
 down to her neck. Hermione turned away her eyes. 
 But they had read Vere's secret. She knew what her 
 child was doing in those hours of seclusion. And she re- 
 membered her own passionate attempts to stave off de- 
 spair by work. She remembered her own failure. 
 
 "Poor little Vere!" That was her first thought. 
 "But what is Emile doing?" That was the second. He 
 had discouraged her. He had told her the truth. What 
 was he telling Vere ? A flood of bitter curiosity seemed 
 to rise in her, drowning many things. 
 
 "What I like is life, Signorina," said the Marchesino. 
 "Driving, riding, swimming, sport, fencing, being with 
 beautiful ladies that is life." 
 
 "Yes, of course, that is life," she said. 
 
 What was the good of trying to explain to him the in- 
 ner life ? He had no imagination. 
 
 Her youth made her very drastic, very sweeping, in her 
 secret mental assertions. 
 
 She labelled the Marchesino "Philistine," and popped 
 him into his drawer. 
 
 320
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Lunch was over, and they got up. 
 
 "Are you afraid of the heat out-of-doors, Marchese?" 
 Hermione asked, "or shall we have coffee in the garden? 
 There is a trellis and we shall be out of the sun." 
 
 "Signora, I am delighted to go out." 
 
 He got his straw hat, and they went into the tiny gar- 
 den and sat down on basket-work chairs under a trellis, 
 set in the shadow of some fig-trees. Giulia brought them 
 coffee, and the Marchesino lighted a cigarette. 
 
 He said to himself that he had never been in love be- 
 fore. 
 
 Vere wore a white dress. She had no hat on, but held 
 rather carelessly over her small, dark head a red parasol. 
 It was evident that she was not afraid even of the mid- 
 day sun. That 'new look in her face, soft womanhood 
 at the windows gazing at a world more fully, if more 
 sadly, understood, fascinated him, sent the blood up to 
 his head. There was a great change in her. To-day 
 she knew what before she had not known. 
 
 As he stared at Vere with adoring eyes suddenly there 
 came into his mind the question: "Who has taught her?" 
 
 And then he thought of the night when all in vain he 
 had sung upon the sea, while the Signorina and "un 
 Signore" were hidden somewhere near him. 
 
 The blood sang in his head, and something seemed to 
 expand in his brain, to press violently against his tem- 
 ples, as if striving to force its way out. He put down 
 his coffee-cup, and the two perpendicular lines appeared 
 above his eyebrows, giving him an odd look, cruel and 
 rather catlike. 
 
 "If Emilio " 
 
 At that moment he longed to put a knife into his 
 friend. 
 
 But he was not sure. He only suspected. 
 
 Hermione's role in this summer existence puzzled him 
 exceedingly. The natural supposition in a Neapolitan 
 
 321
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 would, of course, have been that Artois was her lover 
 But when the Marchesino looked at Hermione's eyes he 
 could not tell. 
 
 What did it all mean ? He felt furious at being puz- 
 zled, as if he were deliberately duped. 
 
 "Your cigarette has gone out, Marchese," said Her- 
 mione. "Have another." 
 
 The young man started. 
 
 "It's nothing." 
 
 "Vere, run in and get the Marchese a Khali Targa." 
 
 The girl got up quickly. 
 
 "No, no! I cannot permit I have another here." 
 
 He opened his case. It was empty. 
 
 Vere laughed. 
 
 "You see!" 
 
 She went off before he could say another word, and 
 the Marchesino was alone for a moment with Her- 
 mione. 
 
 "You are fortunate, Signora, in having such a daugh- 
 ter," he said, with a sigh that was boyish. 
 
 "Yes," Hermione said. 
 
 That bitter curiosity was still with her, and her voice 
 sounded listless, almost cold. The Marchesino looked 
 up. Ah! Was there something here that he could 
 understand? Something really feminine? A creeping 
 jealousy? He was on the qui vive at once. 
 
 "And such a good friend as Don Emilio," he added. 
 "You have known Emilio for a long time, Signora?" 
 
 "Oh yes, for a very long time." 
 
 "He is a strange man," said the Marchesino, with 
 rather elaborate carelessness. 
 
 "Do you think so? In what way?" 
 
 "He likes to know, but he does not like to be known." 
 
 There was a great deal of truth in the remark. Its 
 acuteness surprised Hermione, who thought the Mar- 
 chesino quick witted but very superficial. 
 
 322
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "As he is a writer, I suppose he has to study people a 
 good deal," she said, quietly. 
 
 "-I do not think I can understand these great people. 
 I think they are too grand for me." 
 
 "Oh, but Emile likes you very much. He told me so." 
 
 "It is very good of him," said the Marchesino, pulling 
 at his mustaches. 
 
 He was longing to warn Hermione against Emilio to 
 hint that Emilio was not to be trusted. He believed that 
 Hermione must be very blind, very unfitted to look after 
 a lovely daughter. But when he glanced at her face he 
 did not quite know how to hint what was in his mind. 
 And just then Vere came back and the opportunity was 
 gone. She held out a box to the Marchesino. As he 
 thanked her and took a cigarette he tried to look into 
 her eyes. But she would not let him. And when he 
 struck his match she returned once more to the house, 
 carrying the box with her. Her movement was so swift 
 and unexpected that Hermione had not time to speak 
 before she was gone. 
 
 "But" 
 
 "I should not smoke another, Signora," said the Mar- 
 chesino, quickly. 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "Still, Vere might have left the box. She is inhos- 
 pitable to-day." 
 
 Hermione spoke lightly. 
 
 "Oh, it is bad for cigarettes to lie in the sun. It ruins 
 them." 
 
 "But you should have filled your case. You must do 
 it before you go." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 His head was buzzing again. The touch of fever had 
 really weakened him. He knew it now. Never gifted 
 with much self-control, he felt to-day that, with a very 
 
 323
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 slight incentive, he might lose his head. The new at- 
 mosphere which Vere diffused around her excited him 
 strangely. He was certain that she was able to under- 
 stand something of what he was feeling, that on the night 
 of the storm she would not have been able to understand. 
 Again he thought of Emilio, and moved restlessly in his 
 chair, looking sideways at Hermione, then dropping his 
 eyes. Vere did not come back. 
 
 Hermione exerted herself to talk, but the task became 
 really a difficult one, for the Marchesino looked per- 
 petually towards the house, and so far forgot himself as 
 to show scarcely even a wavering interest in anything 
 his hostess said. As the minutes ran by a hot sensation 
 of anger began to overcome him. A spot of red appeared 
 on each cheek. 
 
 Suddenly he got up. 
 
 "Signora, you will want to make the siesta. I must 
 not keep you longer." 
 
 "No, really; I love sitting out in the garden, and you 
 will find the glare of the sun intolerable if you go so 
 early." 
 
 "On the sea there is always a breeze. Indeed, I must 
 not detain you. All our ladies sleep after the colazione 
 until the bathing hour. Do not you?" 
 
 "Yes, we lie down. But to-day " 
 
 "You must not break the habit. It is a necessity. 
 My boat will be ready, and I must thank you for a de- 
 lightful entertainment." 
 
 His round eyes were fierce, but he commanded his 
 voice. 
 
 "A rive" 
 
 "I will come with you to the house if you really will 
 not stay a little longer." 
 
 "Perhaps I may come again?" he said, quickly, with 
 a sudden hardness, a fighting sound in his voice. "One 
 evening in the cool. Or do I bore you?" 
 
 324
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "No; do come." 
 
 Hermione felt rather guilty, as if they had been in- 
 hospitable, she and Vere; though, indeed, only Vere 
 was in fault. 
 
 "Come and dine one night, and I shall ask Don Emilio." 
 
 As she spoke she looked steadily at her guest. 
 
 "He was good enough to introduce us to each other, 
 wasn't he?" she added. "We must all have an even- 
 ing together, as we did at Frisio's." 
 
 The Marchesino bowed. 
 
 "With pleasure, Signora." 
 
 They came into the house. 
 
 As they did so Peppina came down the stairs. When 
 she saw them she murmured a respectful salutation and 
 passed quickly by, averting her wounded cheek. Almost 
 immediately behind her was Vere. The Marchesino 
 looked openly amazed for a moment, then even confused. 
 He stared first at Hermione, then at Vere. 
 
 "I am sorry, Madre; I was kept for a moment," the 
 girl said. "Are you coming up-stairs?" 
 
 "The Marchese says he must go, Vere. He is deter- 
 mined not to deprive us of our siesta." 
 
 "One needs to sleep at his hour in the hot weather," 
 said the Marchesino. 
 
 The expression of wonder and confusion was still upon 
 his face, and he spoke slowly. 
 
 "Good-bye, Marchese,"' Vere said, holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 He took it and bowed over it and let it go. The girl 
 turned and ran lightly up-stairs. 
 
 Directly she was gone the Marchesino said to Her- 
 mione: 
 
 "Pardon me, Signora, I I 
 
 He hesitated. His self-possession seemed to have de- 
 serted him for the moment. He looked at Hermione 
 swiftly, searchingly, then dropped his eyes. 
 
 325
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "What is it, Marchese?" she asked, wondering what 
 was the matter with him. 
 
 He still hesitated. Evidently he was much disturbed. 
 At last he said again: 
 
 "Pardon me, Signora. I as you know, I am Nea- 
 politan. I have always lived in Naples." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "I know Naples like my pocket 
 
 He broke off. 
 
 Hermione waited for him to go on. She had no idea 
 what was coming. 
 
 "Yes?" she said, at length to help him. 
 
 "Excuse me, Signora! But that girl that girl who 
 passed by just now 
 
 "My servant, Peppina." 
 
 He stared at her. 
 
 "Your servant, Signora?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know what she is, where she comes from? 
 But no, it is impossible." 
 
 "I know all about Peppina, Marchese," Hermione re- 
 plied, quietly. 
 
 "Truly? Ah!" 
 
 His large round eyes were still fixedly staring at her. 
 
 "Good-bye, Signora!" he said. "Thank you for a very 
 charming colazione. And I shall look forward with all 
 my heart to the evening you have kindly suggested." 
 
 ' ' I shall write directly I have arranged with Don Emilio. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you! Thank you! A rivederci, Signora." 
 
 He cast upon her one more gravely staring look, and 
 was gone. 
 
 When he was outside and alone, he threw up his hands 
 and talked to himself for a moment, uttering many ex- 
 clamations. In truth, he was utterly amazed. Maria 
 Fortunata had spread abroad diligently the fame of her 
 niece's beauty, and the Marchesino, like the rest of the 
 
 326
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 gay young men of Naples, had known of an4 had mis- 
 judged her. He had read in the papers of the violence 
 done to her, and had at once dismissed her from his 
 mind with a murmured "Povera Ragazza!" 
 
 She was no longer beautiful. 
 
 And now he discovered her living as a servant with 
 the ladies of the island. Who could have put her there ? 
 He thought of Emilio's colloquy with Maria Fortunata. 
 But the Signora? A mother? What did it all mean? 
 Even the madness of the English could scarcely be so 
 pronounced as to make such a proceeding as this quite 
 a commonplace manifestation of the national life and 
 eccentricity. He could not believe that. 
 
 He stepped into his boat. As the sailors rowed it out 
 from the Pool the wind had gone down and the sails 
 were useless he looked earnestly up to the windows of 
 the Casa del Mare, longing to pierce its secrets. 
 
 What was Emilio in that house ? A lover, a friend, a 
 bad genius ? And the Signora ? What was she ? 
 
 The Marchesino was no believer in the virtue of wom- 
 en. But the lack of beauty in Hermione, and her age, 
 rendered him very doubtful as to her role in the life on 
 the island. Vere's gay simplicity had jumped to the eyes. 
 But now she, too, was become something of a mystery. 
 
 He traced it all to Emilio, and was hot with a curiosity 
 that was linked closely with his passion. 
 
 Should he go to see Emilio ? He considered the ques- 
 tion and resolved not to do so. He would try to be 
 patient until the night of the dinner on the island. He 
 would be birbante, would play the fox, as Emilio surely 
 had done. The Panacci temper should find out that one 
 member of the family could control it, when such control 
 served his purpose. 
 
 He was on fire with a lust for action as he made his 
 resolutions. Vere's coolness to him, even avoidance of 
 him, had struck hammer-like blows upon his amour 
 
 3 2 7
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 propre. He saw her now yes, he saw her coming 
 down the stairs behind Peppina. Had they been to- 
 gether? Did they talk together, the cold, the prudish 
 Signorina Inglese so he called Vere now in his anger 
 and the former decoy of Maria Fortunata ? 
 
 And then a horrible conception of Emilio's role in all 
 this darted into his mind, and for a moment he thought 
 of Hermione as a blind innocent, like his subservient 
 mother, of Vere as a preordained victim. Then the blood 
 coursed through his veins like fire, and he felt as if he 
 could no longer sit still in the boat. 
 
 "Avanti! avanti!" he cried to the sailors. "Dio 
 mio! There is enough breeze to sail. Run up the sail! 
 Madonna Santissima! We shall not be to Naples till it 
 is night. Avanti! avanti!" 
 
 Then he lay back, crossed his arms behind his head, 
 and, with an effort, closed his eyes. 
 
 He was determined to be calm, not to let himself go. 
 He put his fingers on his pulse. 
 
 "That cursed fever! I believe it is coming back," he 
 said to himself. 
 
 He wondered how soon the Signora would arrange 
 that dinner on the island. He did not feel as if he could 
 wait long without seeing Vere again. But would it ever 
 be possible to see her alone ? Emilio saw her alone. His 
 white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her 
 out upon the sea. 
 
 The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. 
 Surely it was fluttering very strangely. Like many 
 young Italians, he was a mixture of fearlessness and 
 weakness, of boldness and childishness. 
 
 "I must go to mamma! I must have medicine the 
 doctor," he thought, anxiously. "There is something 
 wrong with me. Perhaps I have been looked on by the 
 evil eye." 
 
 And down he went to the bottom of a gulf of depression. 
 
 328
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 HERMIONE was very thankful that the Marchesino had 
 gone. She felt that the lunch had been a failure, and 
 was sorry. But she had done her best. Vere and the 
 young man himself had frustrated her, she thought. It 
 was a bore having to entertain any one in the hot 
 weather. As she went up-stairs she said to herself that 
 her guest's addio had been the final fiasco of an unfortu- 
 nate morning. Evidently he knew something of Pep- 
 pina, and had been shocked to find the girl in the house. 
 Emile had told her Hermione that she was an im- 
 pulsive. Had she acted foolishly in taking Peppina? 
 She had been governed in the matter by her heart, in 
 which dwelt pity and a passion for justice. Surely the 
 sense of compassion, the love of fair dealing could not 
 lead one far astray. And yet, since Peppina had been 
 on the island the peace of the life there had been less- 
 ened. Emile had become a little different, Vere too. 
 And even Gaspare was there not some change in him ? 
 
 She thought of Giulia's assertion that the disfigured 
 girl had the evil eye. 
 
 She had laughed at the idea, and had spoken very 
 seriously to Giulia, telling her that she was not to com- 
 municate her foolish suspicion to the other servants. 
 But certainly the joy of their life in this House of the 
 Sea was not what it had been. And even Vere had had 
 forebodings with which Peppina had been connected. 
 Perhaps the air of Italy, this clear, this radiant atmos- 
 phere which seemed created to be the environment of
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 happiness, contained some subtle poison that was work- 
 ing in them all, turning them from cool reason. 
 
 She thought of Emile, calling up before her his big 
 frame, his powerful face with the steady eyes. And a 
 wave of depression went over her, as she understood 
 how very much she had relied on him since the death 
 of Maurice. Without him she would indeed have been 
 a derelict. 
 
 Again that bitter flood of curiosity welled up in her. 
 She wondered where Vere was, but she did not go to the 
 girl's room. Instead, she went to her own sitting-room. 
 Yesterday she had been restless. She had felt driven. 
 To-day she felt even worse. But to-day she knew what 
 yesterday she had not known Vere's solitary occupa- 
 tion. Why had not Vere told her, confided in her? It 
 was a very simple matter. The only reason why it now 
 assumed an importance to her was because it had been 
 so carefully concealed. Why had not Vere told her all 
 about it, as she told her other little matters of their 
 island life, freely, without even a thought of hesitation? 
 
 She sought the reason of this departure which was 
 paining her. But at first she did not find it. 
 
 Perhaps Vere wanted to give her a surprise. For a 
 moment her heart grew lighter. Vere might be prepar- 
 ing something to please or astonish her mother, and 
 Emile might be in the secret, might be assisting in some 
 way. But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been 
 followed too long. And then Emile had not always 
 known what it was. He had only known lately. 
 
 Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she 
 lay in the little boat in the shadow cast by the cliffs 
 over the Saint's Pool they were the prelude to work; 
 imaginative, creative perhaps. 
 
 And Vere was not seventeen. 
 
 Hermione smiled to herself rather bitterly, thinking 
 of the ignorance, of the inevitable folly of youth. The 
 
 33
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 child, no doubt, had dreams of fame. What clever, what 
 imaginative and energetic child has not such dreams at 
 some period or other? How absurd we all are, think- 
 ing to climb to the stars almost as soon as we can see 
 them! 
 
 And then the smile died away from Hermione *s lips 
 as the great tenderness of the mother within her was 
 moved by the thought of the disappointments that come 
 with greater knowledge of life. Vere would suffer when 
 she learned the truth, when she knew the meaning of 
 failure. 
 
 Quite simply and naturally Hermione was including 
 her child inevitably within the circle of her own disaster. 
 , If Emile knew, why did he not tell Vere what he had 
 told her mother? 
 
 But Emile had surely shown much greater interest in 
 Vere just lately than ever before ? 
 
 Was Emile helping Vere in what she was doing ? But 
 if he was, then he must believe in Vere's capacity to do 
 something that was worth doing. 
 
 Hermione knew the almost terrible sincerity of Artois 
 in the things of the intellect, his clear, unwavering judg- 
 ment, his ruthless truthfulness. Nothing would ever 
 turn him from that. Nothing, unless he 
 
 Her face became suddenly scarlet, then pale. A mon- 
 strous idea had spung up in her mind, an idea so mon- 
 strous that she strove to thrust it away violently, with- 
 out even contemplating it. Why had Vere not told her? 
 There must be some good and sufficient reason. Vehe- 
 mently to escape from that monstrous idea she sought 
 it. Why had everything else in her child been revealed 
 to her, only this one thing been hidden from her? 
 
 She searched the past, Vere and herself in that past. 
 And now, despite her emotion, her full intelligence was 
 roused up and at work. And presently she remembered 
 that Emile and Vere shared the knowledge of her own
 
 desire to create, and her utter failure to succeed in crea- 
 tion. Emile knew the whole naked truth of that. Vere 
 did not. But Vere knew something. Could that mutual 
 knowledge be the reason of this mutual secrecy? As 
 women often do, Hermione had leaped into the very core 
 of the heart of the truth, had leaped out of the void, 
 guided by some strange instinct never alive in man. But, 
 as women very seldom do, she shrank away from the 
 place she had gained. Instead of triumphing, she was 
 afraid. She remembered how often her imagination had 
 betrayed her, how it had created phantoms, had ruined 
 for her the lagging hours. Again and again she had said 
 to herself, "I will beware of it." Now she accused it of 
 playing her false once more, of running wild. Sharply, 
 she pulled herself up. She was assuming things. That 
 was her great fault, to assume that things were that 
 which perhaps they were not. 
 
 How often Emile had told her not to trust her imag- 
 ination! She would heed him now. She knew nothing. 
 She did not even know for certain that Vere's flush, 
 Vere's abrupt hesitation at lunch, were a betrayal of 
 the child's secret. 
 
 But that she would find out. 
 
 Again the fierce curiosity besieged and took possession 
 of her. After all, she was a mother. A mother had 
 rights. Surely she had a right to know what another 
 knew of her child. 
 
 "I will ask Vere," she said to herself. 
 
 Once before she had said to herself that she would do 
 that, and she had not done it. She had felt that to do 
 it would be a humiliation. But now she was resolved 
 to do it, for she knew more of her own condition and was 
 more afraid of herself. She began to feel like one who 
 has undergone a prolonged strain of work, who believes 
 that it has not been too great and has been capably sup- 
 ported, and who suddenly is aware of a yielding, of a 
 
 332
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 downward and outward movement, like a wide and 
 spreading disintegration, in which brain, nerves, the 
 whole body are involved. 
 
 Yet what had been the strain that she had been sup- 
 porting, that now suddenly she began to feel too much ? 
 The strain of a loss. Time should have eased it. But 
 had Time eased it, or only lengthened the period during 
 which she had been forced to carry her load? People 
 ought to get accustomed to things. She knew that it 
 is supposed by many that the human body, the human 
 mind, the human heart can get accustomed by which 
 is apparently meant can cease passionately and in- 
 stinctively to strive to repel can get accustomed to 
 anything. Well, she could not. Never could she get 
 accustomed to the loss of love, of man's love. The 
 whole world might proclaim its proverbs. For her they 
 had no truth. For her and for how many other silent 
 women! 
 
 And now suddenly she felt that for years she had been 
 struggling, and that the struggle had told upon her far 
 more than she had ever suspected. Nothing must be 
 added to her burden or she would sink down. The dust 
 would cover her. She would be as nothing or she 
 would be as something terrible, nameless. 
 
 She must ask Vere, do what she had said to herself 
 that she would not do. Unless she had the -complete 
 confidence of her child she could not continue to do 
 without the cherishing love she had lost. She saw her- 
 self a cripple, something maimed. Hitherto she had 
 been supported by blessed human crutches: by Vere, 
 Emile, Gaspare. How heavily she had leaned upon 
 them! She knew that now. How heavily she must 
 still lean if she were to continue on her way. And a 
 fierce, an almost savage something, desperate and there- 
 fore arbitrary, said within her: 
 
 "I will keep the little that I have: I will I will." 
 333
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "The little !" Had she said that ? It was wicked of 
 her to say that. But she had had the wonderful thing. 
 She had held for a brief time the magic of the world 
 within the hollow of her hands, within the shadow of 
 her heart. And the others? Children slip from their 
 parents' lives into the arms of another whose call means 
 more to them than the voices of those who made them 
 love. Friends drift away, scarcely knowing why, di- 
 vided from each other by the innumerable channels that 
 branch from the main stream of existence. Even a 
 faithful servant cannot be more than a friend. 
 
 There is one thing that is great, whose greatness makes 
 the smallness of all the other things. And so Hermione 
 said, "the little that I have," and there was truth in it. 
 And there was as vital a truth in the fact of her whole 
 nature recognizing that little's enormous value to her. 
 Not for a moment did she underrate her possession. In- 
 deed, she had to fight against the tendency to exag- 
 geration. Her intellect said to her that, in being so 
 deeply moved by such a thing as the concealment from 
 her by Vere of something innocent of which Emile 
 knew, she was making a water drop into an ocean. Her 
 intellect said that. But her heart said no. 
 
 And the voice of her intellect sank away like the frailest 
 echo that ever raised its spectral imitation of a reality. 
 And the voice of her heart rang out till it filled her world. 
 
 And so the argument was over. 
 
 She thought she heard a step below, and looked out 
 of the window into the sunshine. 
 
 Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and 
 he was smoking a cigarette. He was dressed in white 
 linen, without a coat, and had a white linen hat on his 
 head. He stood near the house, apparently looking 
 out to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione 
 watched him. The sight of him reminded her of another 
 question she wished to ask. 
 
 334
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white 
 trousers. With the other he held the cigarette. Her- 
 mione saw the wreaths of pale smoke curling up and 
 evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemed 
 full of joyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand 
 forgot to do its work. The cigarette, only half smoked, 
 went out, and he stood there as if plunged in profound 
 thought. Hermione wondered what he was thinking about. 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 She said it softly. Evidently he did not hear. 
 
 ' ' Gaspare ! Gaspare ! ' ' 
 
 Each time she spoke a little louder, but still he took 
 no notice. 
 
 She leaned farther out and called: 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 This time he heard and started violently, dropped the 
 cigarette, then, without looking up, bent down slowly, 
 recovered it, and turned round. 
 
 "Signora?" 
 
 The sun shone full on his upturned face, showing to 
 Hermione the dogged look which sometimes came to it 
 when anything startled him. 
 
 "I made you jump." 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 "But I did. What were you thinking about?" 
 
 "Nothing, Signora. Why are you not asleep?" 
 
 He spoke almost as if she injured him by being awake. 
 
 "I couldn't sleep to-day. What are you going to do 
 this afternoon?" 
 
 "I don't know, Signora. Do you wish me to do any- 
 thing for you?" 
 
 "Well" 
 
 She had a wish to clear things up, to force her life, the 
 lives of those few she cared for, out of mystery into a 
 clear light. She had a desire to chastise thought by 
 strong, bracing action. 
 
 335
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I rather want to send a note to Don Emilio." 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 His voice did not sound pleased. 
 
 "It is too hot to row all the way to Naples. Couldn't 
 you go to the village and take the tram to the hotel 
 if I write the note?" 
 
 "If you like, Signora." 
 
 "Or would it be less bother to row as far as Mergel- 
 lina, and take a tram or carriage from there?" 
 
 "I can do that, Signora." 
 
 He sounded a little more cheerful. 
 
 "I think I'll write the note, Gaspare, then. And you 
 might take it some time whenever you like. You 
 might come and fetch it in five minutes." 
 
 "Very well, Signora." 
 
 He moved away, and she went to her writing-table. 
 She sat down, and slowly, with a good deal of hesitation 
 and thought, she wrote part of a letter asking Emile to 
 come to dine whenever he liked at the island. And now 
 came the difficulty. She knew Emile did not want to 
 meet the Marchesino there. Yet she was going to ask 
 them to meet each other. She had told the Marchesino 
 so. Should she tell Emile ? Perhaps, if she did, he would 
 refuse to come. But she could never lay even the 
 smallest trap for a friend. So she wrote on, asking 
 Emile to let her know the night he would come, as she 
 had promised to invite the Marchesino to meet him. 
 
 "Be a good friend and do this for me," she ended, 
 "even if it bores you. The Marchese lunched here alone 
 with us to-day, and it was a fiasco. I think we were 
 very inhospitable, and I want to wipe away the recol- 
 lection of our dulness from his mind. Gaspare will 
 bring me your answer." 
 
 At the bottom she wrote "Hermione." But just as 
 she was going to seal the letter in its envelope she took 
 it out, and added, "Delarey" to her Christian name. 
 
 336
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Hermione Delarey." She looked at the words for 
 a long time before she rang the bell for Gaspare. 
 
 When she gave him the letter, "Are you going by 
 Mergellina?" she asked him. 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 He stood beside her for a moment ; then, as she said 
 nothing more, turned to go out. 
 
 "Gaspare, wait one minute," she said, quickly. 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "I meant to ask you last night, but well, we spoke 
 of other things, and it was so late. Have you ever 
 noticed anything about that boy, Ruffo, anything at 
 all, that surprised you?" 
 
 "Surprised me, Signora?" 
 
 "Surprised you, or reminded you of anything?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Signora." 
 
 Gaspare's voice was hard and cold. He looked stead- 
 ily at Hermione, as a man of strong character some- 
 times looks when he wishes to turn his eyes away from 
 the glance of another, but will not, because of his man- 
 hood. 
 
 Hermione hesitated to go on, but something drove her 
 to be more explicit. 
 
 "Have you never noticed in Ruffo a likeness to to 
 your Padrone ?" she said, slowly. 
 
 "My Padrone!" 
 
 Gaspare's great eyes dropped before hers, and he 
 stood looking on the floor. She saw a deep flush cover 
 his brown skin. 
 
 "I am sure you have noticed it, Gaspare," she said. 
 " I can see you have. Why did you not tell me ?" 
 
 At that moment she felt angry with herself and al- 
 most angry with him. Had he noticed this strange, 
 this subtle resemblance between the fisher-boy and the 
 dead man at once, long before she had? Had he been 
 swifter to see such a thing than she ? 
 
 337
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "What do you mean, Signora? What are you talk- 
 ing about?" 
 
 He looked ugly. 
 
 "How can a fisher-boy, a nothing from Mergellina, 
 look like my Padrone ?" 
 
 Now he lifted his eyes, and they were fierce or so 
 she thought. 
 
 "Signora, how can you say such a thing?" 
 
 "Gaspare?" she exclaimed, astonished at his sudden 
 vehemence. 
 
 "Signora scusi! But but there will never be an- 
 other like my Padrone." 
 
 He opened the door and went quickly out of the 
 room, and when the door shut it was as if an iron door 
 shut upon a furnace. 
 
 Hermione stood looking at this door. She drew a 
 long breath. 
 
 "But he has seen it!" she said, aloud. "He has seen 
 it." 
 
 And Emile ? 
 
 Had she been a blind woman, she who had so loved 
 the beauty that was dust ? She thought of Vere and 
 Ruffo standing together, so youthful, so happy in their 
 simple, casual intercourse. 
 
 It was as if Vere had been mysteriously drawn to this 
 boy because of his resemblance to the father she had 
 never seen. 
 
 Vere! Little Vere! 
 
 Again the mother's tenderness welled up in Hermione 's 
 heart, this time sweeping away the reluctance to be 
 humble. 
 
 " I will go to Vere now." 
 
 She went to the door, as she had gone to it the pre- 
 vious day. But this time she did not hesitate to open it. 
 A strong impulse swept her along, and she came to her 
 child's room eagerly. 
 
 338
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Vere!" 
 
 She knocked at the door. 
 
 "Vere! May I come in?" 
 
 She knocked again. There was no answer. 
 
 Then she opened the door and went in. Possibly 
 Vere was sleeping. The mosquito-net was drawn round 
 the bed, but Hermione saw that her child was not behind 
 it. Vere had gone out somewhere. 
 
 The mother went to the big window which looked out 
 upon the sea. The green Venetian blind was drawn. 
 She pushed up one of its flaps and bent to look through. 
 Below, a little way out on the calm water, she saw Vere's 
 boat rocking softly in obedience to the small movement 
 that is never absent from the sea. The white awning 
 was stretched above the stern-seats, and under it lay 
 Vere in her white linen dress, her small head, not pro- 
 tected by a hat, supported by a cushion. She lay quite 
 still, one arm on the gunwale of the boat, the other 
 against her side. Hermione could not see whether her 
 eyes were shut or open. 
 
 The mother watched her for a long time through the 
 blind. 
 
 How much of power was enclosed in that young figure 
 that lay so stiH, so perfectly at ease, cradled on the great 
 sea, warmed and cherished by the tempered fires of 
 the sun! How much of power to lift up and to cast 
 down, to be secret, to create sorrow, to be merciful! 
 Wonderful, terrible human power! 
 
 The watching mother felt just then that she was in 
 the hands of the child. 
 
 "Now it's the child's turn." 
 
 Surely Vere must be asleep. Such absolute stillness 
 must mean temporary withdrawal of consciousness. 
 
 Just as Hermione was thinking this, Vere's left hand 
 moved. The girl lifted it up to her face, and gently and 
 repeatedly rubbed her eyebrow. 
 
 339
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Hermione dropped the flap of the blind. The little, 
 oddly natural movement had suddenly made her feel 
 that it was not right to be watching Vere when the child 
 must suppose herself to be unobserved and quite alone 
 with the sea. 
 
 As she came away from the window she glanced quick- 
 ly round the room, and upon a small writing-table at 
 the foot of the bed she saw a number of sheets of paper 
 lying loose, with a piece of ribbon beside them. They 
 had evidently been taken out of the writing-table drawer, 
 which was partially open, and which, as Hermione could 
 see, contained other sheets of a similar kind. Hermione 
 looked, and then at once looked away. She passed the 
 table and reached the door. When she was there she 
 glanced again at the sheets of paper. They were cov- 
 ered with writing. They drew, they fascinated her eyes, 
 and she stood still, with her hand resting on the door- 
 handle. As a rule it would have seemed perfectly nat- 
 ural to her to read anything that Vere had left lying 
 about, either in her own room or anywhere else. Until 
 just lately her child had never had, or dreamed of having, 
 any secret from her. Never had Vere received a letter 
 that her mother had not seen. Secrets simply did not 
 exist between them secrets, that is, of .the child from 
 the mother. 
 
 But it was not so now. And that was why those 
 sheets of paper drew and held the mother's eyes. 
 
 She had, of course, a perfect right to read them. Or 
 had she she who had said to Vere, "Keep your secrets " ? 
 In those words had she not deliberately relinquished 
 such a right ? She stood there thinking, recalling those 
 words, debating within herself this question and surely 
 with much less than her usual great honesty. 
 
 Emile, she was sure, had read the writing upon those 
 sheets of paper. 
 
 She did not know exactly why she was certain of this 
 340
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 but she was certain, absolutely certain. She remem- 
 bered the long-ago days, when she had submitted to him 
 similar sheets. What Emile had read surely she might 
 read. Again that intense and bitter curiosity mingled 
 with something else, a strange, new jealousy in which 
 it was rooted. She felt as if Vere, this child whom she 
 had loved and cared for, had done her a cruel wrong, 
 had barred her out from the life in which she had always 
 been till now the best loved, the most absolutely trusted 
 dweller. Why should she not take that which she ought 
 to have been given? 
 
 Again she was conscious of that painful, that piteous 
 sensation of one who is yielding under a strain that has 
 been too prolonged. Something surely collapsed within 
 her, something of the part of her being that was moral. 
 She was no longer a free woman in that moment. She 
 was governed. Or so she felt, perhaps deceiving herself. 
 
 She went swiftly and softly over to the table and bent 
 over the sheets. 
 
 At first she stood. Then she sat down. She took up 
 the paper, handled it, held it close to her eyes. 
 
 Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every 
 one begins by being a poet. Hermione smiled, almost 
 laughed aloud. Poor little Vere with her poor little 
 secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother, 
 that sense of wrong. But she read on and on. And 
 her face was very grave, even earnest. And presently 
 she started and her hand shook. 
 
 She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's 
 handwriting, and on the margin was written, "Monsieur 
 Emile 's idea." 
 
 So there had been a conference, and Emile was advis- 
 ing Vere. 
 
 Hermione 's hand shook so violently that she could not 
 go on reading for a moment, and she laid the paper 
 down. She felt like one who has suddenly unmasked 
 
 34i
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for her in- 
 tellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaim- 
 ed it. 
 
 Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in 
 vain for her to waste her time in creative work, that she 
 had not the necessary gift for it. And now he was 
 secretly assisting her own child a child of sixteen to 
 do what he had told her, the mother, not to do. Why 
 was he doing this? 
 
 Again the monstrous idea that she had forcibly dis- 
 missed from her mind that day returned to Hermione. 
 There is one thing that sometimes blinds the most clear- 
 sighted men, so that they cannot perceive truth. 
 
 But Hermione again bent over the sheets of paper, 
 this time seeking for a weapon against the idea which 
 assailed her. On several pages she found emendations, 
 excisions, on one a whole verse completely changed. 
 And on the margins were pencilled "Monsieur Emile 's 
 suggestion"; "Monsieur E.'s advice"; and once "These 
 two lines invented by Monsieur Emile." 
 
 When had Vere and Emile had the opportunity for 
 this long and secret discussion? On the day of the 
 storm they had been together alone. They had had tea 
 together alone. And on the night Emile dined on the 
 island they had been out in the boat together for a long 
 time. All this must have been talked over then. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 She read on. Had Vere talent? Did her child pos- 
 sess what she had longed for, and had been denied ? She 
 strove to read critically, but she was too excited, too 
 moved to do so. All necessary calm was gone. She 
 was painfully upset. The words moved before her eyes, 
 running upward in irregular lines that resembled creep- 
 ing things, and she saw rings of light, yellow in the mid- 
 dle and edged with pale blue. 
 
 She pushed away the sheets of paper, got up and went 
 342
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 again to the window. She must look at Vere once more, 
 look at her with this new knowledge, look at her criti- 
 cally, with a piercing scrutiny. And she bent down as 
 before, and moved a section of the blind, pushing it up. 
 
 There was no boat beneath her on the sea. 
 
 She dropped the blind sharply, and all the blood in 
 her body seemed to make a simultaneous movement 
 away from the region of the heart. 
 
 Vere was perhaps already in the house, running lightly 
 up to the room. She would come in and find her mother 
 there. She would guess what her mother had been 
 doing. 
 
 Hermione did not hesitate. She crossed the room 
 swiftly, opened the door, and went out. She reached her 
 own room without meeting Vere. But she had not been 
 in it for more than a minute and a half when she heard 
 Vere come up-stairs, the sound of her door open and 
 shut. 
 
 Hermione cleared her throat. She felt the need of 
 doing something physical. Then she pulled up her 
 blinds and let the hot sun stream in upon her. 
 
 She felt dark just then black. 
 
 In a moment she found that she was perspiring. The 
 sun was fierce that, of course, must be the reason. But 
 she would not shut the sun out. She must have light 
 around her, although there was none within her. 
 
 She was thankful she had escaped in time. If she 
 had not, if Vere had run into the room and found her 
 there, she was sure she would have frightened her child 
 by some strange outburst. She would have said or done 
 something she did not at all know what that would 
 perhaps have altered their relations irrevocably. For, 
 in that moment, the sense of self-control, of being her- 
 self so she put it had been withdrawn from her. 
 
 She would regain it, no doubt. She was even now 
 regaining it. Already she was able to say to herself 
 
 343
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 that she was not seeing things in their true proportions, 
 that some sudden crisis of the nerves, due perhaps to 
 some purely physical cause, had plunged her into a folly 
 of feeling from which she would soon escape entirely. 
 She was by nature emotional and unguarded: therefore 
 specially likely to be the victim in mind of any bodily ill. 
 
 And then she was not accustomed to be unwell. Her 
 strength of body was remarkable. Very seldom had 
 she felt weak. 
 
 She remembered one night, long ago in Sicily, when an 
 awful bodily weakness had overtaken her. But that had 
 been caused by dread. The mind had reacted upon the 
 body. Now, she was sure of it, body had reacted on mind. 
 
 Yet she had not been ill. 
 
 She felt unequal to the battle of pros and cons that 
 was raging within her. 
 
 "I'll be quiet," she thought. "I'll read." 
 
 And she took up a book. 
 
 She read steadily for an hour, understanding thor- 
 oughly all she read, and wondering how she had ever 
 fancied she cared about reading. Then she laid the 
 book down and looked at the clock. It was nearly four. 
 Tea would perhaps refresh her. And after tea? She 
 had loved the island, but to-day she felt almost as if it 
 were a prison. What was there to be done ? She found 
 herself wondering for the first time how she had man- 
 aged to "get through" week after week there. And in 
 a moment her wonder made her realize the inward change 
 in her, the distance that now divided her from Vere, the 
 gulf that lay between them. 
 
 A day with a stranger may seem long, but a month 
 with a friend how short! To live with Vere had been 
 like living with a part of herself. But now what would 
 it be like ? And when Emile came, and they three were 
 together ? 
 
 When Hermione contemplated that reunion, she felt 
 344
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 that it would be to her intolerable. And yet she desired 
 it. For she wanted to know something, and she was 
 certain that if she, Vere, and Emile could be together, 
 without any fourth person, she would know it. 
 
 A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing 
 action, she had resolved to ask Emile to meet the Mar- 
 chesino. She had felt as if that meeting would clear the 
 air, would drive out the faint mystery which seemed to 
 be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly 
 friends, were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted 
 to restore things to their former footing, or to make the 
 enmity come out into the open, to understand it thorough- 
 ly, and to know if she and Vere had any part in it. Her 
 desire had been to throw open windows and let in light. 
 
 But now things were changed. She understood, she 
 knew more. And she wanted to be alone with Emile 
 and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she would understand 
 everything. 
 
 She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was 
 changed. The fire had died down in her, and she felt 
 almost sluggish, although still restless. The monstrous 
 idea had come to her again. She did not vehemently 
 repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. 
 But now she meant to be a watcher. Before she took 
 up her book and began to read she had been, perhaps, 
 almost hysterical, had been plunged in a welter of emo- 
 tion in which reason was drowned, had not been herself. 
 
 But now she felt that she was herself. 
 
 There was something that she wished to know, some- 
 thing that the knowledge she had gained in her child's 
 room that day suggested as a possibility. 
 
 She regretted her note to Emile. Why had not she 
 asked him to come alone, to-morrow, or even to-night 
 yes, to-night? 
 
 If she could only be with him and Vere for a few min- 
 utes to-night! 
 
 345
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 WHEN Artois received Hermione's letter he asked who 
 had brought it, and obtained from the waiter a fairly 
 accurate description of Gaspare. 
 
 "Please ask him to come up," he said. "I want to 
 speak to him." 
 
 Two or three minutes later there was a knock at the 
 door and Gaspare walked in, with a large-eyed inquiring 
 look. 
 
 "Good-day, Gaspare. You've never seen my quar- 
 ters before, I think," said Artois, cordially. 
 
 "No, Signore. What a beautiful room!" 
 
 "You're not in a great hurry, are you?" 
 
 "No, Signore." 
 
 "Then smoke a cigar, and I'll write an answer to this 
 letter." 
 
 "Thank you, Signore." 
 
 Artois gave him a cigar, and sat down to answer the 
 letter, while Gaspare went out on to the balcony and 
 stood looking at the bathers who were diving from the 
 high wooden platform of the bath establishment over the 
 way. When Artois had finished writing he joined Gaspare . 
 He had a great wish that day to break down a reserve 
 he had respected for many years, but he knew Gaspare's 
 determined character, his power of obstinate, of dogged 
 silence. Gaspare's will had been strong when he was a 
 boy. The passing of the years had certainly not weak- 
 ened it. Nevertheless, Artois was moved to make the 
 attempt which he foresaw would probably end in failure. 
 
 346
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He gave Gaspare the letter, and said: 
 
 "Don't go for a moment. I want to have a little 
 talk with you." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Gaspare put the letter into the inner pocket of his 
 jacket, and stood looking at Artois, holding the cigar 
 in his left hand. In all these years Artois had never 
 found out whether Gaspare liked him or not. He wished 
 now that he knew. 
 
 "Gaspare," he said, "I think you know that I have a 
 great regard for your Padrona." 
 
 "Si, Signore. I know it." 
 
 The words sounded rather cold. 
 
 "She has had a great deal of sorrow to bear." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "One does not wish that she should be disturbed in 
 any way that any fresh trouble should come into her 
 life." 
 
 Gaspare's eyes were always fixed steadily upon Artois, 
 who, as he spoke the last words, fancied he saw come 
 into them an expression that was almost severely ironical. 
 It vanished at once as Gaspare said: 
 
 "No, Signore." 
 
 Artois felt the iron of this faithful servant's impene- 
 trable reserve, but he continued very quietly and com- 
 posedly: 
 
 "You have always stood between the Padrona and 
 trouble whenever you could. You always will I am 
 sure of that." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Do you think there is any danger to the Signora's 
 happiness here?" 
 
 "Here, Signore?" 
 
 Gaspare's emphasis seemed to imply where they were 
 just then standing. Artois was surprised, then for a 
 moment almost relieved. Apparently Gaspare had no 
 3 347
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 thought in common with the strange, the perhaps fan- 
 tastic thought that had been in his own mind. 
 
 "Here no!" he said, with a smile. "Only you and 
 I are here, and we shall not make the Signora unhappy." 
 
 "Chi lo sa?" returned Gaspare. 
 
 And again that ironical expression was in his eyes. 
 
 "By here I meant here in Naples, where we all are 
 or on the island, for instance." 
 
 "Signore, in this life there is trouble for all." 
 
 "But some troubles, some disasters can be avoided." 
 
 "It's possible." 
 
 "Gaspare" Artois looked at him steadily, search- 
 ingly even, and spoke very gravely "I respect you for 
 your discretion of many years. But if you know of any 
 trouble, any danger that is near to the Signora, and 
 against which I could help you to protect her, I hope 
 you will trust me and tell me. I think you ought to do 
 that." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Signore." 
 
 "Are you quite sure, Gaspare? Are you quite sure 
 that no one comes to the island who might make the 
 Signora very unhappy?" 
 
 Gaspare had dropped his eyes. Now he lifted them, 
 and looked Artois straight in the face. 
 
 "No, Signore, I am not sure of that," he said. 
 
 There was nothing rude in his voice, but there was 
 something stern. Artois felt as if a strong, determined 
 man stood in his path and blocked the way. But why ? 
 Surely they were at cross purposes. The working of 
 Gaspare's mind was not clear to him. 
 
 After a moment of silence, he said: 
 
 "What I mean is this. Do you think it would be a 
 good thing if the Signora left the island?" 
 
 "Left the island, Signore?" 
 
 "Yes, and went away from Naples altogether." 
 
 "The Signorina would never let the Padrona go. The 
 348
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Signorina loves the island and my Padrona loves the 
 Signorina." 
 
 "But the Signorina would not be selfish. If it was 
 best for her mother to go 
 
 "The Signorina would not think it was best; she 
 would never think it was best to leave the island." 
 
 "But what I want to know, Gaspare, is whether you 
 think it would be best for them to leave the island. 
 That's what I want to know and you haven't told me." 
 
 "I am a servant, Signore. I cannot tell such things." 
 
 "You are a servant yes. But you are also a friend. 
 And I think nobody could tell better than you." 
 
 "I am sure the Signora will not leave the island till 
 October, Signore. She says we are all to stay until the 
 end of October." 
 
 "And now it's July." 
 
 "Si, Signore. Now it's July." 
 
 In saying the last words Gaspare's voice sounded 
 fatalistic, and Artois believed that he caught an echo 
 of a deep-down thought of his own. With all his vir- 
 tues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit of the East 
 that dwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, brood- 
 ing over a nature however fine, prevents action, a spirit 
 that says to a man, "This is ordained. This is destiny. 
 This is to be." 
 
 "Gaspare," Artois said, strong in this conviction, "I 
 have heard you say, 'e il destine.' But you know we 
 can often get away from things if we are quick-witted." 
 
 "Some things, Signore." 
 
 "Most things, perhaps. Don't you trust me?" 
 
 "Signore!" 
 
 "Don't you think, after all these years, you can trust 
 me?" 
 
 "Signore, I respect you as I respect my father." 
 
 "Well, Gaspare, remember this. The Signora has had 
 trouble enough in her life. We must keep out any more." 
 
 349
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare 
 my Padrona. Thank you for the cigar, Signore. I 
 ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellina for the 
 boat." 
 
 "To Mergellina?" 
 
 Again Artois looked at him searchingly. 
 
 "Si, Signore; I left the boat at Mergellina. It is very 
 hot to row all the way here." 
 
 "Yes. A rivederci, Gaspare. Perhaps I shall sail 
 round to the island to-night after dinner. But I'm not 
 sure. So you need not say I am coming." 
 
 "A rivederci, Signore." 
 
 When Gaspare had gone, Artois said to himself, "He 
 does not trust me." 
 
 Artois was surprised to realize how hurt he felt at 
 Gaspare's attitude towards him that day. Till now 
 their mutual reserve had surely linked them together. 
 Their silence had been a bond. But there was a change, 
 and the bond seemed suddenly loosened. 
 
 "Damn the difference between the nations!" Artois 
 thought. "How can we grasp the different points of 
 view ? How can even the cleverest of us read clearly in 
 others of a different race from our own?" 
 
 He felt frustrated, as he had sometimes felt frustrated 
 by Orientals. And he knew an anger of the brain as well 
 as an anger of the heart. But this anger roused him, 
 and he resolved to do something from which till now 
 he had instinctively shrunk, strong-willed man though 
 he was. If Gaspare would not help him he would act 
 for himself. Possibly the suspicion, the fear that beset 
 him was groundless. He had put it away from him more 
 than once, had said that it was absurd, that his pro- 
 fession of an imaginative writer rendered him, perhaps, 
 more liable to strange fancies than were other men, that 
 it encouraged him to seek instinctively for drama, and 
 that what a man instinctively and perpetually seeks he 
 
 35
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 will often imagine that he has found. Now he would 
 try to prove what was the truth. 
 
 He had written to Hermione saying that he would be 
 glad to dine with her on any evening that suited the 
 Marchesino, that he had no engagements. Why she 
 wished him to meet the Marchesino he did not know. 
 No doubt she had some woman's reason. The one she 
 gave was hardly enough, and he divined another beneath 
 it. Certainly he did not love Doro on the island, but 
 perhaps it was as well that they should meet there once, 
 and get over their little antagonism, an antagonism that 
 Artois thought of as almost childish. Life was not long 
 enough for quarrels with boys like Doro. Artois had 
 refused Hermione 's invitation on the sea abruptly. He 
 had felt irritated for the moment, because he had for the 
 moment been unusually expansive, and her announce- 
 ment that Doro was to be there had fallen upon him like 
 a cold douche. And then he had been nervous, highly 
 strung from overwork. Now he was calm, and could 
 look at things as they were. And if he noticed anything 
 leading him to suppose that the Marchesino was likely 
 to try to abuse Hermione's hospitality he meant to have 
 it out with him. He would speak plainly and explain 
 the English point of view. Doro would no doubt attack 
 him on the ground of his interview with Maria Fortunata. 
 He did not care. Somehow his present preoccupation 
 with Hermione's fate, increased by the visit of Gaspare, 
 rendered his irritation against the Marchesino less keen 
 than it had been. But he thought he would probably 
 visit the island to-night after another visit which he 
 intended to pay. He could not start at once. He must 
 give Gaspare time to take the boat and row off. For his 
 first visit was to Mergellina. 
 
 After waiting an hour he started on foot, keeping along 
 by the sea, as he did not wish to meet acquaintances, and 
 was likely to meet them in the Villa. As he drew near
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to Mergellina he felt a great and growing reluctance to 
 do what he had come to do, to make inquiries into a cer- 
 tain matter; and he believed that this reluctance, awake 
 within him although perhaps he had scarcely been aware 
 of it, had kept him inactive during many days. Yet he 
 was not sure of this. He was not sure when a faint sus- 
 picion had first been born in his mind. Even now he 
 said to himself that what he meant to do, if explained 
 to the ordinary man, would probably seem to him ridicu- 
 lous, that the ordinary man would say, "What a wild 
 idea! Your imagination runs riot." But he thought 
 of certain subtle things which had seemed like indica- 
 tions, like shadowy pointing fingers; of a look in Gas- 
 pare's eyes when they had met his a hard, defiant look 
 that seemed shutting him out from something ; of a look 
 in another face one night under the moon; of some words 
 spoken in a cave with a passion that had reached his 
 heart; of two children strangely at ease in each other's 
 society. And again the thought pricked him, "Is not 
 everything possible even that?" All through his life 
 he had sought truth with persistence, sometimes almost 
 with cruelty, yet now he was conscious of timidity, al- 
 most of cowardice as if he feared to seek it. 
 
 Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in 
 Sicily. Then he had been afraid, not for himself but 
 for another. To-day again the protective instinct was 
 alive in him. It was that instinct which made him 
 afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to 
 his first intention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. 
 No safety can be in ignorance for a strong man. He 
 must know. Then he can act. 
 
 When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for 
 Ruffo, but he could not see the boy. He had never in- 
 quired Ruffo's second name. He might make a guess at it. 
 Should he ? He looked at a group of fishermen who were 
 talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. 
 
 352
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 One of them had a handsome face bronzed by the sun, 
 frank hazel eyes, a mouth oddly sensitive for one of his 
 class. His woollen shirt, wide open, showed a medal 
 resting on his broad chest, one of those amulets that are 
 said to protect the fishermen from the dangers of the sea. 
 Artois resolved to ask this man the question he wished, 
 yet feared to put to some one. Afterwards he wondered 
 why he had picked out this man. Perhaps it was be- 
 cause he looked happy. 
 
 Artois caught the man's eye. 
 
 "You want a boat, Signore?" 
 
 With a quick movement the fellow was beside him on 
 the other side of the wall. 
 
 "I'll take your boat perhaps this evening." 
 
 "At what hour, Signore?" 
 
 "We'll see. But first perhaps you can tell me some- 
 thing." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "You live here at Mergellina?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Do you know any one called called Buonavista?" 
 
 The eyes of Artois were fixed on the man's face. 
 
 "Buonavista si, Signore." 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 "Ma si, Signore," said the man, looking at Artois 
 with a sudden flash of surprise. "The family Buona- 
 vista, I have known it all my life." 
 
 "The family? Oh, then there are many of them?" 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "Enrico Buonavista has made many children, and is 
 proud of it, I can tell you. He has ten his father be- 
 fore him 
 
 "Then they are Neapolitans?" 
 
 "Neapolitans! No, Signore. They are from Mergellina. " 
 
 Artois smiled. The tension which had surprised the 
 sailor had left his face. 
 
 353
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I understand. But there is no Sicilian here called 
 Buonavista?" 
 
 "A Sicilian, Signore? I never heard of one. Are 
 there Buonavistas in Sicily?" 
 
 "I have met with the name there once. But perhaps 
 you can tell me of a boy, one of the fishermen, called 
 Ruffo?" 
 
 "Ruffo Scarla? You mean Ruffo Scarla, who fishes 
 with Giuseppe Mandano Giuseppe, Signore?" 
 
 "It may be. A young fellow, a Sicilian by birth, I 
 believe." 
 
 "II Siciliano! SI, Signore. We call him that, but 
 he has never been in Sicily, and was born in America." 
 
 "That's the boy." 
 
 "Do you want him, Signore? But he is not here to- 
 day. He is at sea to-day." 
 
 "I did want to speak to him." 
 
 "But he is not a boatman, Signore. He does not go 
 with the travellers. He is a fisherman." 
 
 "Yes. Do you know his mother?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "What is her name?" 
 
 "Bernari, Signore. She is married to Antonio Ber- 
 nari, who is in prison." 
 
 "In prison? What's he been doing?" 
 
 "He is always after the girls, Signore. And now he 
 has put a knife into one." 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Diavolo! He is jealous. He has not been tried yet, 
 perhaps he never will be. His wife has gone into Naples 
 to-day to see him." 
 
 "Oh, she's away?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "And her name, her Christian name? It's Maria, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "No, Signore, Maddalena Maddalena Bernari." 
 
 354
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Artois said nothing for a minute. Then he added: 
 
 "I suppose there are plenty of Maddalenas here in 
 Mergellina?" 
 
 The man laughed. 
 
 "SI, Signore. Marias and Maddalenas you find them 
 everywhere. Why, my own mamma is Maddalena, and 
 my wife is Maria, and so is my sister." 
 
 "Exactly. And your name ? I want it, so that when 
 next I take a boat here I can ask for yours." 
 
 "Fabiano, Signore, Lari Fabiano, and my boat is the 
 Stella del Mare" 
 
 "Thank you, Fabiano." 
 
 Artois put a lira into his hand. 
 
 "I shall take the Star of the Sea very soon." 
 
 "This evening, Signore; it will be fine for sailing this 
 evening." 
 
 " If not this evening, another day. Arivederci, Fabiano. " 
 
 "A rivederci, Signore. Buon passeggio." 
 
 The man went back to his companions, and, as Artois 
 walked on began talking eagerly to them, and pointing 
 after the stranger. 
 
 Artois did not know what he would do later on in the 
 evening, but he had decided on the immediate future. 
 He would walk up the hill to the village of Posilipo, 
 then turn down to the left, past the entrance to the Villa 
 Rosebery, and go to the Antico Giuseppone, where he 
 would dine by the waterside. It was quiet there, he 
 knew; and he could have a cutlet and a zampaglione, a 
 cup of coffee and a cigar, and sit and watch the night 
 fall. And when it had fallen? Well, he would not be 
 far from the island, nor very far from Naples, and he 
 could decide then what to do. 
 
 He followed out this plan, and arrived at the Giusep- 
 pone at evening. As he came down the road between 
 the big buildings near the waterside he saw in the dis- 
 tance a small group of boys and men lounging by the 
 
 355
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 three or four boats that lie at the quay, and feared to 
 find, perhaps, a bustle and noise of people round the 
 corner at the ristorante. But when he turned the corner 
 and came to the little tables that were set out in the 
 open air, he was glad to see only two men who were 
 bending over their plates of fish soup. He glanced at 
 them, almost without noticing them, so preoccupied was 
 he with his thoughts, sat down at an adjoining table 
 and ordered his simple meal. While it was being got 
 ready he looked out over the sea. 
 
 The two men near him conversed occasionally in low 
 voices. He paid no heed to them. Only when he had 
 dined slowly and was sipping his black coffee did they 
 attract his attention. He heard one of them say to the 
 other in French: 
 
 ' ' What am I to do ? It would be terrible for me ! 
 How am I to prevent it from happening?" 
 
 His companion replied: 
 
 "I thought you had been wandering all the winter 
 in the desert." 
 
 "I have. What has that to do with it?" 
 
 "Have you not learned its lesson?" 
 
 "What lesson?" 
 
 "The lesson of resignation, of obedience to the thing 
 that must be." 
 
 Artois looked towards the last speaker and saw that 
 he was an Oriental, and that he was very old. His 
 companion was a young Frenchman. 
 
 "What do those do who have not learned ?" continued 
 the Oriental. "They seek, do they not? They rebel, 
 they fight, they try to avoid things, they try to bring 
 things about. They lift up their hands to disperse the 
 grains of the sand-storm. They lift up their voices to 
 be heard by the wind from the South. They stretch 
 forth their hands to gather the mirage into their bosom. 
 They follow the drum that is beaten among the dunes. 
 
 356
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They are afraid of life because they know it has two 
 kinds of gifts; and one they snatch at, and one they 
 would refuse. And they are afraid still more of the 
 door that all must enter, Sultan and Nomad he who 
 has washed himself and made the threefold pilgrimage, 
 and he who is a leper and is eaten by flies. So it is. 
 And nevertheless all that is to come must come, and all 
 that is to go must go at the time appointed ; just as the 
 cloud falls and lifts at the time appointed, and the wind 
 blows and fails, and Ramadan is here and is over." 
 
 As he ceased from speaking he got up from his chair, 
 and, followed by the young Frenchman, he passed in 
 front of Artois, went down to the waterside, stepped 
 into a boat, and was rowed away into the gathering 
 shadows of night. 
 
 Artois sat very still for a time. Then he, too, got 
 into a boat and was rowed away across the calm water 
 to the island. 
 
 He found Hermione sitting alone, without a lamp, on 
 the terrace, meditating, perhaps, beneath the stars. 
 When she saw him she got up quickly, and a strained 
 look of excitement came into her face. 
 
 "You have come!" 
 
 "Yes. You are you surprised? Did you wish to 
 be alone?" 
 
 "No. Will you have some coffee?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I dined at the Giuseppone. I had it there." 
 
 He glanced round. 
 
 "Are you looking for Vere? She is out on the cliff, I 
 suppose. Shall we go to her?" 
 
 He was struck by her nervous uneasiness. And he 
 thought of the words of the old Oriental, which had 
 made upon him a profound impression, perhaps because 
 they had seemed spoken, not to the young Frenchman, 
 but in answer to unuttered thoughts of his own. 
 
 357
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Let us sit here for a minute," he said. 
 
 Hermione sat down again in silence. They talked 
 for a little while about trifling things. And then Artois 
 was moved to tell her of the conversation he had that 
 evening overheard, to repeat to her, almost word for 
 word, what the old Oriental had said. When he had 
 finished Hermione was silent for a minute. Then she 
 moved her chair and said, in an unsteady voice: 
 
 "I don't think I should ever learn the lesson of the 
 desert. Perhaps only those who belong to it can learn 
 from it." 
 
 "If it is so it is sad for the others." 
 
 "Let us go and find Vere," she said. 
 
 "Are you sure she is on the cliff?" he asked, as they 
 passed out by the front door. 
 
 "I think so. I am almost certain she is." 
 
 They went forward, and almost immediately heard a 
 murmur of voices. 
 
 "Vere is with some one," said Artois. 
 
 "It must be Ruffo. It is Ruffo." 
 
 She stood still. Artois stood still beside her. The 
 night was windless. Voices travelled through the dream- 
 ing silence. 
 
 "Don't be afraid. Sing it to me." 
 
 Vere's voice was speaking. Then a boy's voice rang 
 out in the song of Mergellina. The obedient voice was 
 soft and very young, though manly. And it sounded 
 as if it sang only for one person, who was very near. 
 Yet it was impersonal. It asked nothing from, it told 
 nothing to, that person. Simply, and very naturally, 
 it just gave to the night a very simple and a very natural 
 song. 
 
 "Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' Estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 
 Gli occhi di Rosa e jl mar di Mergellina." 
 
 358
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 As Artois listened he felt as if he learned what he had 
 not been able to learn that day at Mergellina. Strange 
 as this thing was if indeed it was he felt that it must 
 be, that it was ordained to be, it and all that might 
 follow from it. He even felt almost that Hermione 
 must already know it, have divined it, as if, therefore, 
 any effort to hide it from her must be fruitless, or even 
 contemptible, as if indeed all effort to conceal truth of 
 whatever kind was contemptible. 
 
 The words of the Oriental had sunk deep into his 
 soul. 
 
 When, the song was over he turned resolutely away. 
 He felt that those children should not be disturbed. 
 Hermione hesitated for a moment. Then she fell in 
 with his caprice. At the house door he bade her good- 
 bye. She scarcely answered. And he left her standing 
 there alone in the still night.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 HER unrest was greater than ever, and the desire that 
 consumed her remained ungratified, although Emile had 
 come to the island as if in obedience to her fierce mental 
 summons. But she had not seen him even for a,moment 
 with Vere. Why had she let him go ? When would he 
 come again? She might ask him to come for a long 
 day, or she might get Vere to ask him. 
 
 Vere must surely be longing to have a talk with her 
 secret mentor, with her admirer and inspirer. And then 
 Hermione remembered how often she had encouraged 
 Emile, how they had discussed his work together, how 
 he had claimed her sympathy in difficult moments, how 
 by her enthusiasm she had even inspired him so at 
 least he had told her. And now he was fulfilling in her 
 child's life an office akin to hers in his life. 
 
 The knowledge made her feel desolate, driven out. 
 Yes, she felt as if this secret shared by child and friend 
 had expelled her from their lives. Was that unreason- 
 able? She wished to be reasonable, to be calm. 
 
 Calm! She thought of the old Oriental, and of 
 his theory of resignation. Surely it was not for her, 
 that theory. She was of different blood. She did not 
 issue from the loins of the immutable East. And yet 
 how much better it was to be resigned, to sit enthroned 
 above the chances of life, to have conquered fate by 
 absolute submission to its decrees ! 
 
 Why was her heart so youthful in her middle-aged 
 body? Why did it still instinctively clamor for sym- 
 
 360
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 pathy, like a child's? Why could she be so easily and 
 so cruelly wounded ? It was weak. It was contempti- 
 ble. She hated herself. But she could only be the 
 thing she at that moment hated. 
 
 Her surreptitious act of the afternoon seemed to have 
 altered her irrevocably, to have twisted her out of shape 
 yet she could not wish it undone, the knowledge gained 
 by it withheld. She had needed to know what Emile 
 knew, and chance had led her to learn it, as she had 
 learned it, with her eyes instead of from the lips of her 
 child. 
 
 She wondered what Vere would have said if she had 
 been asked to reveal the secret. She would never know 
 that now. But there were other things that she felt she 
 must know: why Vere had never told her and some- 
 thing else. 
 
 Her act of that day had twisted her out of shape. 
 She was awry, and she felt that she must continue to 
 be as she was, that her fearless honesty was no longer 
 needed by her, could no longer rightly serve her in the 
 new circumstances that others had created for her. 
 They had been secret. She could not be open. She 
 was constrained to watch, to conceal to be awry, in 
 fact. 
 
 Yet she felt guilty even while she said this to herself, 
 guilty and ashamed, and then doubtful. She doubted 
 her new capacity to be furtive. She could watch, but 
 she did not know whether she could watch without show- 
 ing what she was doing. And Emile was terribly ob- 
 servant. 
 
 This thought, of his subtlety and her desire to conceal, 
 made her suddenly realize their altered relations with 
 a vividness that frightened her. Where was the beau- 
 tiful friendship that had been the comfort, the prop of 
 her bereaved life? It seemed already to have sunk 
 away into the past. She wondered what was in store for 
 
 361
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 her, if there were new sorrows being forged for her 
 in the cruel smithy of the great Ruler, sorrows that 
 would hang like chains about her till she could go no 
 farther. The Egyptian had said: "What is to come will 
 come, and what is to go will go, at the time appointed." 
 And Vere had said she felt as if perhaps there was a 
 cross that must be borne by some one on the island, by 
 "one of us." Was she, Hermione, picked out to bear 
 that cross? Surely God mistook the measure of her 
 strength. If He had He would soon know how feeble 
 she was. When Maurice had died, somehow she had en- 
 dured it. She had staggered under the weight laid upon 
 her, but she had upheld it. But now she was much older, 
 and she felt as if suffering, instead of strengthening, had 
 weakened her character, as if she had not much "fight" 
 left in her. 
 
 "I don't believe I could endure another great sorrow," 
 she said to herself. "I'm sure I couldn't." 
 
 Just then Vere came in to bid her good-night. 
 
 "Good-night, Vere," Hermione said. 
 
 She kissed the girl gently on the forehead, and the 
 touch of the cool skin suddenly made her long to sob, 
 and to say many things. She took her lips away. 
 
 "Emile has been here," she said. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile!" 
 
 Vere looked round. 
 
 "But" 
 
 "He has gone." 
 
 "Gone! But I haven't seen him!" 
 
 Her voice sounded thoroughly surprised. 
 
 "He only stayed five minutes or so." 
 
 "Oh, Madre, I wish I had known!" 
 
 There was a touch of reproach in Vere's tone, and 
 there was something so transparently natural, so trans- 
 parently innocent and girlish in her disappointment, 
 that it told her mother something she was glad to know. 
 
 362
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Not that she had doubted it but she was glad to 
 know. 
 
 "We came to look for you." 
 
 "Well, but I was only on the cliff, where I always go. 
 I was there having a little talk with Ruffo." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "And you never called me, Madre!" Vere looked 
 openly hurt. "Why didn't you?" 
 
 In truth, Hermione hardly knew. Surely it had been 
 Emile who had led them away from the singing voice 
 of Ruffo. 
 
 "Ruffo was singing." 
 
 "A song about Mergellina. Did you hear it? I do 
 like it and the way he sings it." 
 
 The annoyance had gone from her face at the thought 
 of the song. 
 
 "And when he sings he looks so careless and gay. 
 Did you listen?" 
 
 "Yes, for a moment, and then we went away. I think 
 it was Emile who made us go. He didn't want to dis- 
 turb you, I think." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 Vere's face softened. Again Hermione felt a creep- 
 ing jealousy at her heart. Vere had surely been annoyed 
 with her, but now she knew that it was Emile who had 
 not wished to disturb the tete-b-tete on the cliff she did 
 not mind. She even looked as if she were almost 
 touched. Could the mother be wrong where the mere 
 friend was right ? She felt, when Vere spoke and her 
 expression changed, the secret understanding from which 
 she was excluded. 
 
 "What is the matter, Madre?" 
 
 "The matter! Nothing. Why?" 
 
 "You looked so odd for a minute. I thought " 
 
 But she did not express what she had thought, for 
 Hermione interrupted her by saying: 
 a * 3 6 3
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "We must get Emile to come for a long day. I wish 
 you would write him a note to-morrow morning, Vere. 
 Write for me and ask him to come on Thursday. I have 
 a lot to do in the morning. Will you save me the 
 trouble?" She tried to speak, carelessly. "I've a long 
 letter to oend to Evelyn Townley," she added. 
 
 "Of course, Madre. And I'll tell Monsieur Emile all 
 I think of him for neglecting us as he has. Ah! But 1 
 remember; he's been working." 
 
 "Yes, he's been working; and one must forgive every- 
 thing to the worker, mustn't one?" 
 
 "To such a worker as Monsieur Emile is, yes. I do 
 wish you'd let me read his books, Madre." 
 
 For a moment Hermione hesitated, looking at her 
 child. 
 
 " Why are you so anxious to read them all of a sud- 
 den?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, I'm growing up and and I understand things 
 I used not to understand." 
 
 Her eyes fell for a moment before her mother's, and 
 there was a silence, in which the mother felt some truth 
 withheld. Vere looked up again. 
 
 ' ' And I want to appreciate Monsieur Emile properly 
 as you do, Madre. It seems almost ridiculous to know 
 him so well, and not to know him really at all." 
 
 "But you do know him really." 
 
 "I'm sure he puts most of his real self into his work." 
 
 Hermione remembered her conception of Emile Artois 
 long ago, when she only knew him through two books; 
 that she had believed him to be cruel, that she had 
 thought her nature must be in opposition to his. Vere 
 did not know that side of "Monsieur Emile." 
 
 "Vere, it is true you are growing up," she said, speak- 
 ing rather slowly, as if to give herself time for something. 
 "Perhaps I was wrong the other day in what I said. 
 You may read Emile's books if you like." 
 
 3 6 4
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Madre!" 
 
 Vere's face flushed with eager pleasure. 
 
 "Thank you, Madre!" 
 
 She went up to bed radiant. 
 
 When she had gone Hermione stood where she was. 
 She had just done a thing that was mean, or at least she 
 had done a thing from a mean, a despicable motive. She 
 knew it as the door shut behind her child, and she was 
 frightened of herself. Never before had she been gov- 
 erned by so contemptible a feeling as that which had 
 just prompted her. If Emile ever knew, or even sus- 
 pected what it was, she felt that she could never look 
 into his face again with clear, unfaltering eyes. "What 
 madness was upon her? What change was working 
 within her? Revulsion came, and with it the desire to 
 combat at once, strongly, the new, the hateful self which 
 had frightened her. 
 
 She hastened after Vere, and in a moment was knock- 
 ing at the child's door. 
 
 "Who's there? Who is it?" 
 
 "Vere!" called the mother. 
 
 As she called she tried the door, and found it locked. 
 
 "Madre! It's you!" 
 
 "Yes. May I come in?" 
 
 "One tiny moment." 
 
 The voice within sounded surely a little startled and 
 uneven, certainly not welcoming. There was a pause. 
 Hermione heard the rustling of paper, then a drawer 
 shut sharply. 
 
 Vere was hiding away her poems! 
 
 When Hermione understood that, she felt the strong, 
 good impulse suddenly shrivel within her, and a bitter 
 jealousy take its place. Vere came to the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 "Oh, come in, Madre! What is it?" she asked. 
 
 In her bright eyes there was the look of one unex- 
 365
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 pectedly disturbed. Hermione glanced quickly at the 
 writing-table. 
 
 "You you weren't writing my note to Monsieur 
 Emile?" she said. 
 
 She stepped into the room. She wished she could 
 force Vere to tell her about the poems, but without ask 
 ing. She felt as if she could not continue in her present 
 condition, excluded from Vere's confidence. Yet she 
 knew now that she could never plead for it. 
 
 "No, Madre. I can do it to-morrow." 
 
 Vere looked and sounded surprised, and the mother 
 felt more than ever like an intruder. Yet something 
 dogged kept her there. 
 
 "Are you tired, Vere?" she asked. 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 "Then let us have a little talk." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Vere shut the door. Hermione knew by the way she 
 shut it that she wanted to be alone, to go on with her 
 secret occupation. She came back slowly to her mother, 
 who was sitting on a chair by the bedside. Hermione 
 took her hand, and Vere pushed up the edge of the 
 mosquito-curtain and sat down on the bed. 
 
 "About those books of Emile's " Hermione began. 
 
 "Oh, Madre, you're not going to But you've 
 promised ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I may?" 
 
 "Why should you wish to read such books? They 
 will probably make you sad, and and they may even 
 make you afraid of Emile." 
 
 "Afraid! Why?" 
 
 "I remember long ago, before I knew him, I had a 
 very wrong conception of him, gained from his books." 
 
 "Oh, but I know him beforehand. That makes all the 
 difference." . 
 
 366
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "A man like Emile has many sides." 
 
 "I think we all have, Madre. Don't you?" 
 
 Vere looked straight at her mother. Hermione felt 
 that a moment had come in which, perhaps, she could 
 force the telling of that truth which already she knew. 
 
 "I suppose so, Vere; but we need not surely keep any 
 side hidden from those we love, those who are nearest 
 to us." 
 
 Vere looked a little doubtful even, for a moment, 
 slightly confused. 
 
 "N o?" she said. 
 
 She seemed to consider something. Then she added: 
 
 "But I think it depends. If something in us might 
 give pain to any one we love, I think we ought to try to 
 hide that. I am sure we ought." 
 
 Hermione felt that each of them was thinking of the 
 same thing, even speaking of it without mentioning it. 
 But whereas she knew that Vere was doing so, Vere 
 could not know that she was. So Vere was at a disad- 
 vantage. Vere's last words had opened the mother's 
 eyes. What she had guessed was true. This secret of 
 the poems was kept from her because of her own attempt 
 to create and its failure. Abruptly she wondered if Vere 
 and Emile had ever talked that failure over. At the 
 mere thought of such a conversation her whole body 
 tingled. She got up from her chair. 
 
 "Well, good-night, Vere," she said. 
 
 And she left the room, leaving her child amazed. 
 
 Vere did not understand why her mother had come, 
 nor why, having come, she abruptly went away. There 
 was something the matter with her mother. She had 
 felt that for some time. She was more conscious than 
 ever of it now. Around her mother there was an atmos- 
 phere of uneasiness in which she felt herself involved. 
 And she was vaguely conscious of the new distance be- 
 tween them, a distance daily growing wider. Now and 
 
 367
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 then, lately, she had felt almost uncomfortable with her 
 mother, in the sitting-room when she was saying good- 
 night, and just now when she sat on the bed. Youth is 
 terribly quick to feel hostility, however subtle. The 
 thought that her mother could be hostile to her had 
 never entered Vere's head. Nevertheless, the mother's 
 faint and creeping hostility for at times Hermione's 
 feeling was really that, though she would doubtless have 
 denied it even to herself disagreeably affected the child. 
 
 "What can be the matter with Madre?" she thought. 
 
 She went over to the writing-table, where she had 
 hastily shut up her poems on hearing the knock at the 
 door, but she did not take them out again. Instead, she 
 sat down and wrote the note to Monsieur Emile. As she 
 wrote the sense of mystery, of uneasiness, departed from 
 her, chased away, perhaps, by the memory of Monsieur 
 Emile 's kindness to her and warm encouragement, by 
 the thought of having a long talk with him again, of 
 showing him certain corrections and developments car- 
 ried out by her since she had seen him. The sympathy 
 of the big man meant a great deal to her, more even than 
 he was aware of. It lifted up her eager young heart. 
 It sent the blood coursing through her veins with a new 
 and ardent strength. Hermione's enthusiasm had been 
 inherited by Vere, and with it something else that gave 
 it a peculiar vitality, a power of lasting the secret con- 
 sciousness of talent. 
 
 Now, as she wrote her letter, she forgot all her un- 
 easiness, and her pen flew. 
 
 At last she signed her name "Vere." 
 
 She was just going to put the letter into its envelope 
 when something struck her, and she paused. Then she 
 added: 
 
 "P.S. Just now Madre gave me leave to read your 
 books."
 
 THE words of the old Oriental lingered in the mind 
 of Artois. He was by nature more fatalistic than 
 Hermione, and moreover he knew what she did not. 
 Long ago he had striven against a fate. With the help 
 of Gaspare he had conquered it or so he had believed 
 till now. But now he asked himself whether he had not 
 only delayed its coming. If his suspicion were well 
 founded, and since his last visit to the island he felt 
 as if it must be, then surely all he had done with 
 Gaspare would be in vain at the last. 
 
 If his suspicion were well founded, then certain things 
 are ordained. They have to happen for some reason, 
 known only to the hidden Intelligence that fashions each 
 man's character, that develops it in joy or grief, that 
 makes it glad with feasting, or forces it to feed upon the 
 bread of tears. 
 
 Did Gaspare know? If the truth were what Artois 
 suspected, and Gaspare did know it, what would Gas- 
 pare do ? 
 
 That was a problem which interested Artois intensely. 
 
 The Sicilian often said of a thing "E il Destino." Yet 
 Artois believed that for his beloved Padrona he would 
 fight to the death. He, Artois, would leave this fight 
 against destiny to the Sicilian. For him the Oriental's 
 philosophy; for him resignation to the inevitable, what- 
 ever it might be. 
 
 He said to himself that to do more than he had 
 3 6 9
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 already done to ward off the assaults of truth would be 
 impious. Perhaps he ought never to have done any- 
 thing. Perhaps it would have been far better to have 
 let the wave sweep over Hermione long ago. Perhaps 
 even in that fight of his there had been secret selfishness, 
 the desire that she should not know how by his cry from 
 Africa her happy life had been destroyed. And perhaps 
 he was to be punished some day for that. 
 
 He did not know. But he felt, after all these years, 
 that if to that hermitage of the sea Fate had really 
 found the way he must let things take their course. 
 And it seemed to him as if the old Oriental had been 
 mysteriously appointed to come near him just at that 
 moment, to make him feel that this was so. The 
 Oriental had been like a messenger sent to him out of that 
 East which he loved, which he had studied, but from 
 which, perhaps, he had not learned enough. 
 
 Vere's letter came. He read it with eagerness and 
 pleasure till he came to the postcript. But that startled 
 him. He knew Vere had never read his books. He 
 thought her far too young to read them. Till lately he 
 had almost a contempt for those who write with one 
 eye on "la jeune fille." Now he could conceive writing 
 with a new pleasure something that Vere might read. 
 But those books of his! Why had Hermione suddenly 
 given that permission ? He remembered Peppina. Vere 
 must have told her mother of the scene with Peppina, 
 and how her eyes had been opened to certain truths of 
 life, how she had passed from girlhood to womanhood 
 through that gate of knowledge. And Hermione must 
 have thought that it was useless to strive to keep Vere 
 back. 
 
 But did he wish Vere to read all that he had written ? 
 
 On Thursday he went over to the island with mingled 
 eagerness and reluctance. That little home in the sea, 
 
 37
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 washed by blue waters, roofed by blue skies, sun-kissed 
 and star-kissed by day and night, drew and repelled him. 
 There was the gr^,ciousness of youth there, of youth and 
 promise ; but there was tragedy there, too, in the heart 
 of Hermione, and in Peppina, typified by the cross upon 
 her cheek. And does not like draw like ? 
 
 For a moment he saw the little island with a great 
 cloud above it. But when he landed and met Vere he 
 felt the summer, and knew that the sky was clear. 
 
 Hermione was not on the island, Vere told him. She 
 had left many apologies, and would be home for lunch. 
 She had had to go in to Naples to see the dentist. A 
 tooth had troubled her in the night. She had gone by 
 tram. As Vere explained Artois had a moment of sur- 
 prise, a moment of suspicion even of vexation. But it 
 passed when Vere said: 
 
 "I'm afraid poor Madre suffered a great deal. She 
 looked dreadful this morning, as if she hadn't slept all 
 night." 
 
 "Poveretta!" said Artois. 
 
 He looked earnestly at Vere. This was the first time 
 they had met since the revelation of Peppina. What the 
 Marchesino had seen Artois saw more plainly, felt more 
 strongly than the young Neapolitan had felt. But he 
 looked at Vere, too, in search of something else, thinking 
 of Ruffo, trying to probe into the depth of human mys- 
 teries, to find the secret spring that carried child to child. 
 
 "What do you want, Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "I want to know how the work goes," he answered, 
 smiling. 
 
 She flushed a little. 
 
 "And I want to tell you something," he added. "My 
 talk with you roused me up. Vere, you set me working 
 as I have not worked for a long while." 
 
 A lively pleasure showed in her face. 
 
 "Is that really true? But then I must be careful, or 
 
 371
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 you will never come to see us any more. You will al- 
 ways be shut up in the hotel writing." 
 
 They mounted the cliff together arfd, without ques- 
 tion or reply, as by a mutual instinct, turned towards 
 the seat that faced Ischia, clear to-day, yet romantic 
 with the mystery of heat. When they had sat down 
 Vere added: 
 
 "And besides, of course I know that it is Madre who 
 encourages you when you are depressed about your work. 
 I have heard you say so often." 
 
 "Your mother has done a great deal for me," said 
 Artois, seriously "far more than she will ever know." 
 
 There was a sound of deep, surely of eternal feeling in 
 his voice, which suddenly touched the girl to the quick. 
 
 "I like to hear you say that like that," she said, 
 softly. "I think Madre does a great deal for us all." 
 
 If Hermione could have heard them her torn heart 
 might perhaps have ceased to bleed. It had been difficult 
 for her to do what she had done to leave the island that 
 morning. She had done it to discipline her nature, as 
 Passionists scourge themselves by night before the altar. 
 She had left Emile alone with Vere simply because she 
 hated to do it. 
 
 The rising up of jealousy in her heart had frightened 
 her. All night she had lain awake feeling this new and 
 terrible emanation from her soul, conscious of this 
 monster that lifted up its head and thrust it forth out 
 of the darkness. 
 
 But one merit she had. She was frank with herself. 
 She named the monster before she strove to fight it, to 
 beat it back into the darkness from which is was emerg- 
 ing. 
 
 She was jealous, doubly jealous. The monopolizing 
 instinct of strong-natured and deeply affectionate women 
 was fiercely alive in her. Always, no doubt, she had 
 had it. Long ago, when first she was in Sicily alone, 
 
 372
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 she had dreamed of a love in the South far away from 
 the world. When she married she had carried her 
 Mercury to the exquisite isolation of Monte Amato. 
 And when that love was taken from her, and her child 
 came and was at the age of blossom, she had brought 
 her child to this isle, this hermitage of the sea. Emile, 
 too, her one great friend, she had never wished to share 
 him. She had never cared much to meet him in society. 
 Her instinct was to have him to herself, to be with him 
 alone in unfrequented places. She was greedy or she 
 was timid. Which was it? Perhaps she lacked self- 
 confidence, belief in her own attractive power. Life in 
 the world is a fight. Women fight for their lovers, fight 
 for their friends, with other women: those many women 
 who are born thieves, who are never happy unless they 
 are taking from their sisters the possessions those sisters 
 care for most. Hermione could never have fought with 
 other women for the love or the friendship of a man. 
 Her instinct, perhaps, was to carry her treasure out of 
 all danger into the wilderness. 
 
 Two treasures she had Vere her child, Emile her 
 friend. And now she was jealous of each with the 
 other. And the enormous difference in their ages made 
 her jealousy seem the more degrading. Nevertheless, 
 she could not feel that it was unnatural. By a mutual 
 act they had excluded her from their lives, had with- 
 drawn from her their confidence while giving it to each 
 other. And their reason for doing this she was sure 
 of it now was her own failure to do something in the 
 world of art. 
 
 She was jealous of Vere because of that confidence 
 given to Emile, and of Emile because of his secret advice 
 and help to Vere advice and help which he had not 
 given to the mother, because he had plainly seen that 
 to do so would be useless. 
 
 And when she remembered this Hermione was jealous, 
 
 373
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 too, of the talent Vere must have, a talent she had longed 
 for, but which had been denied to her. For even if 
 Emile . . . and then again came the most hateful suspi- 
 cion of all but Emile could not lie about the things of 
 art. 
 
 Had they spoken together of her failure ? Again and 
 again she asked herself the question. They must have 
 spoken. They had spoken. She could almost hear 
 their words words of regret or of pity. "We must not 
 hurt her. We must keep it from her. We must temper 
 the wind to the shorn lamb." The elderly man and the 
 child had read together the secret of her suffering, had 
 understood together the tragedy of her failure. To the 
 extremes of life, youth and age, she had appeared an 
 object of pity. 
 
 And then she thought of her dead husband's rever- 
 ence of her intellect, boyish admiration to her mental 
 gifts; and an agony of longing for his love swept over 
 her again, and she felt that he was the only person who 
 had been able to love her really, and that now he was 
 gone there was no one. 
 
 At that moment she forgot Gaspare. Her sense of 
 being abandoned, and of being humiliated, swept out 
 many things from her memory. Only Maurice had 
 loved her really. Only he had set her on high, where 
 even the humblest woman longs to be set by some one. 
 Only he had thought her better, braver, more worship- 
 ful, more lovable, than any other woman. Such love, 
 without bringing conceit to the creature loved, gives 
 power, creates much of what it believes in. The lack 
 of any such love seems to withdraw the little power 
 that there is. 
 
 Hermione, feeling in this humiliation of the imagina- 
 tion that she was less than nothing, clung desperately 
 to the memory of him who had thought her much. The 
 dividing years were gone. With a strange, a beautiful 
 
 374
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and terrible freshness, the days of her love came back. 
 She saw Maurice's eyes looking at her with that simple, 
 almost reverent admiration which she had smiled at and 
 adored. 
 
 And she gripped her memory. She clung to it fe- 
 verishly as she had never clung to it before. She told 
 herself that she would live in it as in a house of shelter. 
 For there was the desolate wind outside. 
 
 And she thought much of Ruffo, and with a strange 
 desire to be with him, to search for the look she loved 
 in him. For a moment with him she had seemed to see 
 her Mercury in the flesh. She must watch for his re- 
 turn. 
 
 When the morning came she began her fight. She 
 made her excuse, and left the morning free for Emile 
 to be with Vere. 
 
 Two dreary hours she spent in Naples. The buzzing 
 city affected her like a nightmare. Coming back through 
 Mergellina, she eagerly looked for Ruffo. But she did 
 not see him. Nor had she seen him in the early morning, 
 when she passed by the harbor where the yachts were 
 lying in the sun. 
 
 Gaspare came with the boat to take her over from the 
 nearest village to the island. 
 
 " Don Emilio has come ?" she asked him, as she stepped 
 into the boat. 
 
 " SI, Signora. He has been on the island a long 
 time." 
 
 Gaspare sat down facing his Padrona and took the 
 oars. As he rowed the boat out past the ruined " Palace 
 of the Spirits" he looked at Hermione, and it seemed to 
 her that his eyes pitied her. 
 
 Could Gaspare see what she was feeling, her humilia- 
 tion, her secret jealousy? She felt as if she were made 
 of glass. But she returned his gaze almost sternly, and 
 said: 
 
 375
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "What's the matter, Gaspare? Why do you look at 
 me like that?" 
 
 "Signora!" 
 
 He seemed startled, and slightly reddened, then looked 
 hurt and almost sulky. 
 
 "May I not look at you, Signora?" he asked, rather 
 defiantly. "Have I the evil eye?" 
 
 "No no, Gaspare! Only only you looked at me 
 as if something were the matter. Do I look ill?" 
 
 She asked the question with a forced lightness, with a 
 smile. He answered, bluntly: 
 
 "Si, Signora. You look very ill." 
 
 She put up her hand to her face instinctively, as if to 
 feel whether his words were true. 
 
 "But I'm perfectly well," she said. 
 
 "You look very ill, Signora," he returned. 
 
 "I'm a little bit tired, perhaps." 
 
 He said no more, and rowed steadily on for a while. 
 But presently she found him looking gravely at her 
 again. 
 
 "Signora," he began, "the Signorina loves the island." 
 
 "Yes, Gaspare." 
 
 "Do you love it?" 
 
 The question startled her. Had he read her thoughts 
 in the last days? 
 
 "Don't you think I love it?" she asked. 
 
 "You go away from it very often, Signora." 
 
 "But I must occasionally go in to Naples!" she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "Well, but mustn't I?" 
 
 "Non lo so, Signora. Perhaps we have been here long 
 enough. Perhaps we had better go away from here." 
 
 He spoke slowly, and with something less than his 
 usual firmness, as if in his mind there was uncertainty, 
 some indecision or some conflict of desires. 
 
 37 6
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Do you want to go away?" she said. 
 
 "It is not for me to want, Signora." 
 
 " I don't think the Signorina would like to go, Gaspare. 
 She hates the idea of leaving the island." 
 
 "The Signorina is not every one," he returned. 
 
 Habitually blunt as Gaspare was, Hermione had never 
 before heard him speak of Vere like this, not with the 
 least impertinence, but with a certain roughness. To-day 
 it did not hurt her. Nor, indeed, could it ever have hurt 
 her, coming from one so proven as Gaspare. But to-day 
 it even warmed her, for it made her feel that some one 
 was thinking exclusively of her was putting her first. 
 She longed for some expression of affection from some 
 one. She felt that she was starving for it. And this 
 feeling made her say: 
 
 "How do you mean, Gaspare?" 
 
 "Signora, it is for you to say whether we shall go 
 away or stay here." 
 
 "You you put me first, Gaspare?" 
 
 She was ashamed of herself for saying it. But she had 
 to say it. 
 
 "First, Signora? Of course you are first." 
 
 He looked genuinely surprised. 
 
 "Are you not the Padrona?" he added. "It is for 
 you to command." 
 
 "Yes. But I don't quite mean that." 
 
 She stopped. But she had to go on: 
 
 "I mean, would you rather do what I wanted than 
 what any one else wanted?" 
 
 "SI, Signora much rather." 
 
 There was more in his voice than in his words. 
 
 "Thank you, Gaspare," she said. 
 
 "Signora," he said, "if you think we had better leave 
 the island, let us leave it. Let us go away." 
 
 "Well, but I have never said I wished to go. I am " 
 she paused. "I have been very contented to be here." 
 
 377
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Vabene, Signora." 
 
 When they reached the island Hermione felt nervous 
 almost as if she were to meet strangers who were critical, 
 who would appraise her and be ready to despise her. 
 She told herself that she was mad to feel like that; but 
 when she thought of Emile and Vere talking of her fail- 
 ure of their secret combined action to keep from her 
 the knowledge of the effort of the child that seemed 
 just then to her a successful rivalry concealed she could 
 not dismiss the feeling. 
 
 She dreaded to meet Emile and Vere. 
 
 "I wonder where they are," she said, as she got out. 
 "Perhaps they are on the cliff, or out in the little boat. 
 I'll go into the house." 
 
 "Signora, I will go to the seat and see if they are 
 there." 
 
 "Oh, don't bother " she began. 
 
 But he ran off, springing up the steps with a strong 
 agility, like that of a boy. 
 
 She hurried after him and went into the house. After 
 what he had said in the boat she wished to look at her- 
 self in the glass, to see if there was anything strange or 
 painful, anything that might rouse surprise, in her ap- 
 pearance. She gained her bedroom, and went at once 
 to the mirror. 
 
 Hermione was not by nature at all a self-conscious 
 woman. She knew that she was plain, and had some- 
 times, very simply, regretted it. But she did not gen- 
 erally think about her appearance, and very seldom 
 now wondered what others were thinking of it. When 
 Maurice had been with her she had often indeed secretly 
 compared her ugliness with his beauty. But a great 
 love breeds many regrets as well as many joys. And 
 that was long ago. It was years since she had looked 
 at herself in the glass with any keen feminine anxiety, 
 any tremor of fear, or any cruel self-criticism. But now 
 
 378
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 she stood for a long time before the glass, quite still, 
 looking at her reflection with wide, almost with staring, 
 eyes. 
 
 It was true what Gaspare said. She saw that she was 
 looking ill, very different from her usual strong self. 
 There was not a thread of white in her thick hair, and 
 this fact, combined with the eagerness of her expression, 
 the strong vivacity and intelligence that normally shone 
 in her eyes, deceived many people as to her age. But 
 to-day her face was strained, haggard, and feverish. 
 Under the brown tint that the sunrays had given to her 
 complexion there seemed to lurk a sickly white, which 
 was most markedly suggested at the corners of the 
 mouth. The cheek-bones seemed unusually prominent. 
 And the eyes held surely a depth of uneasiness, of 
 
 Hermiohe approached her face to the mirror till it 
 almost touched the glass. The reflected eyes drew hers. 
 She gazed into them with a scrutiny into which she seem- 
 ed to be pouring her whole force, both of soul and body. 
 She was trying to look at her natxire, to see its shape, 
 its color, its expression, so that she might judge of what 
 it was capable whether for good or evil. The eyes 
 into which she looked both helped her and frustrated 
 her. They told her much too much. And yet they 
 baffled her. When she would know all, they seemed 
 to substitute themselves for that which she saw through 
 them, and she found herself noticing their size, their prom- 
 inence, the exact shade of their brown hue. And the 
 quick human creature behind them was hidden from her. 
 
 But Gaspare was right. She did look ill. Emile would 
 notice it directly. 
 
 She washed her face with cold water, then dried it 
 almost cruelly with a rough towel. Having done this, 
 she did not look again into the glass, but went at once 
 down-stairs. As she came into the drawing-room she 
 heard voices in the garden. She stood still and listened. 
 '5 379
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They were the voices of Vere and Emile talking tirelessly. 
 She could not hear what they said. Had she been able 
 to hear it she would not have listened. She could only 
 hear the sound made by their voices, that noise by which 
 human beings strive to explain, or to conceal, what they 
 really are. They were talking seriously. She heard 
 no sounds of laughter. Vere was saying most. It 
 seemed to Hermione that Vere never talked so much 
 and so eagerly to her, with such a ceaseless vivacity. 
 And there was surely an intimate sound in her voice, a 
 sound of being warmly at ease, as if she spoke in an 
 atmosphere of ardent sympathy. 
 
 Again the jealousy came in Hermione, acute, fierce, 
 and travelling like a needle being moved steadily, point 
 downwards, through a network of quivering nerves. 
 
 "Vere!" she called out. "Vere! Emile!" 
 
 Was her voice odd, startling? 
 
 They did not hear her. Emile was speaking now. 
 She heard the deep, booming sound of his powerful voice, 
 that seemed expressive of strength and will. 
 
 "Vere! Emile!" 
 
 As she called again she went towards the window. 
 She felt passionately excited. The excitement had come 
 suddenly to her when they had not heard her first call 
 
 "Emile! Emile!" she repeated. "Emile!" 
 
 "Madre!" 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 Both voices sounded startled. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 Vere appeared at the window, looking frightened. 
 
 "Hermione, what is it?" 
 
 Emile was there beside her. And he, too, looked anx- 
 ious, almost alarmed. 
 
 "I only wanted to let you know I had come back," 
 said Hermione, crushing down her excitement and forc- 
 ing herself to smile. 
 
 380
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But why did you call like that?" 
 
 Vere spoke. 
 
 "Like what? What do you mean, figlia mia?" 
 
 "It sounded " 
 
 She stopped and looked at Artois. 
 
 "It frightened me. And you, Monsieur Emile?" 
 
 "I, too, was afraid for a moment that something un- 
 pleasant had happened." 
 
 "You nervous people! Isn't it lunch-time?" 
 
 As they looked at her she felt they had been talking 
 about her, about her failure. And she felt, too, as if 
 they must be able to see in her eyes that she knew the 
 secret Vere had wished to keep from her and thought 
 she did not know. Emile had given her a glance of in- 
 tense scrutiny, and the eyes of her child still questioned 
 her with a sort of bright and searching eagerness. 
 
 "You make me feel as if I were with detectives," she 
 said, laughing, but uneasily. "There's really nothing 
 the matter." 
 
 "And your tooth, Madre? Is it better?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well. I am perfectly well. Let us go 
 in." 
 
 Hermione had said to herself that if she could see 
 Emile and Vere together, without any third person, she 
 would know something that she felt she must know. 
 When she was with them she meant to be a watcher. 
 And now her whole being was strung to attention. But 
 it seemed to her that for some reason they, too, were 
 on the alert, and so were not quite natural. And she 
 could not be sure of certain things unless the atmosphere 
 was normal. So she said to herself now, though before 
 she had had the inimitable confidence of woman in cer- 
 tain detective instincts claimed by the whole sex. At 
 one moment the thing she feared and her whole being 
 recoiled from the thought of it with a shaking disgust- 
 the thing she feared seemed to her fact. Then some-
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 thing occurred to make her distrust herself. And she 
 felt that betraying imagination of hers at work, obscur- 
 ing all issues, tricking her, punishing her. 
 
 And when the meal was over she did not know at all. 
 And she felt as if she had perhaps been deliberately 
 baffled not, of course, by Vere, of whose attitude she 
 was not, and never had been, doubtful, but by Emile. 
 
 When they got up from the table Vere said: 
 
 "I'm going to take the siesta." 
 
 "You look remarkably wide awake, Vere," Artois said, 
 smiling. 
 
 "But I'm going to, because I've had you all to myself 
 the whole morning. Now it's Madre's turn. Isn't it, 
 Madre?" 
 
 The girl's remark showed her sense of their complete 
 triple intimacy, but it emphasized to Hermione her own 
 cruel sense of being in the wilderness. And she even 
 felt vexed that it should be supposed she wanted Emile 's 
 company. Nevertheless, she restrained herself from 
 making any disclaimer. Vere went up-stairs, and she 
 and Artois went out and sat down under the trellis. 
 But with the removal of Vere a protection and safety- 
 valve seemed to be removed, and neither Hermione nor 
 Emile could for a moment continue the conversation. 
 Again a sense of humiliation, of being mindless, nothing, 
 in the eyes of Artois came to Hermione, diminishing all 
 her powers. She was never a conceited, but she had 
 often been a self-reliant woman. Now she felt a hum- 
 bleness such as she knew no one should ever feel a 
 humbleness that was contemptible, that felt itself in- 
 capable, unworthy of notice. She tried to resist it, 
 but when she thought of this man, her friend, talking 
 over her failure with her child, in whom he must surely 
 believe, she could not. She felt "Vere can talk to Emile 
 better than I can. She interests him more than I." 
 And then her years seemed to gather round her and 
 
 382
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 whip her. She shrank beneath the thongs of age. which 
 had not even brought to her those gifts of the mind with 
 which it often partially replaces the bodily gifts and 
 graces it is so eager to remove. 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 "Yes.Emile." 
 
 She turned slowly in her chair, forcing herself to face 
 him. 
 
 "Are you sure you are not feeling ill?" 
 
 "Quite sure. Did you have a pleasant morning with 
 Vere?" 
 
 "Yes. Oh" he sat forward in his chair -"she told 
 me something that rather surprised me that you had 
 told her she might read my books." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Hermione 's voice was rather hard. 
 
 "Well, I never meant them for 'la jeune fille.'" 
 
 "You consider Vere " 
 
 "Is she not?" 
 
 She felt he was condemning her secretly for her per- 
 mission to Vere. What would he think if he knew her 
 under-reason for giving it? 
 
 "You don't wish Vere to read your books, then?" 
 
 "No. And I ventured to tell her so." 
 
 Hermione felt hot. 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "She said she would not read them." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 She looked up and met his eyes, and was sure she read 
 condemnation in them. 
 
 "After I had told Vere " she began. 
 
 She was about to defend herself, to tell him how she 
 had gone to Vere's room intending to withdraw the per- 
 mission given; but suddenly she realized clearly that 
 she, a mother, was being secretly taken to task by a 
 man for her conduct to her child. 
 
 383
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 That was intolerable. 
 
 And Vere had yielded to Emile's prohibition, though 
 she had eagerly resisted her mother's attempt to re- 
 treat from the promise made. That was more intol- 
 erable. 
 
 She sat still without saying anything. Her knees were 
 trembling under her thin summer gown. Artois felt 
 something of her agitation, perhaps, for he said, with a 
 kind of hesitating diffidence, very rare in him: 
 
 "Of course, my friend, I would not interfere between 
 you and Vere, only, as I was concerned, as they were 
 my own writings that were in question " He broke 
 off. "You won't misunderstand my motives?" he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 He was more conscious that she was feeling something 
 acutely. 
 
 "I feel that I perfectly understand why you gave the 
 permission at this particular moment," he continued, 
 anxious to excuse her to herself and to himself. 
 
 "Why?" Hermione said, sharply. 
 
 "Wasn't it because of Peppina?" 
 
 "Peppina?" 
 
 "Yes; didn't you " 
 
 He looked into her face and saw at once that he had 
 made a false step, that Vere had not told her mother of 
 Peppina's outburst. 
 
 "Didn't I what?" 
 
 He still looked at her. 
 
 "What?" she repeated. "What has Peppina to do 
 with it?" 
 
 "Nothing. Only don't you remember what you 
 said to me about not keeping Vere in cotton- wool ?" 
 
 She knew that he was deceiving her. A hopeless, 
 desperate feeling of being in the dark rushed over her. 
 What was friendship without complete sincerity? Noth- 
 
 384
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ing less than nothing. She felt as if her whole body 
 stiffened with a proud reserve to meet the reserve with 
 which he treated her. And she felt as if her friend of 
 years, the friend whose life she had perhaps saved in 
 Africa, had turned in that moment into a stranger, or 
 or even into an enemy. For this furtive withdrawal 
 from their beautiful and open intimacy was like an 
 act of hostility. She was almost dazed for an instant. 
 Then her brain worked with feverish activity. What 
 had Emile meant ? Her permission to Vere was con- 
 nected in his mind with Peppina. He must know some- 
 thing about Vere and Peppina that she did not know. 
 She looked at him, and her face, usually so sensitive, so 
 receptive, so warmly benign when it was turned to his, 
 was hard and cold. 
 
 "Emile," she said, "what was it you meant about 
 Peppina? I think I have a right to know. I brought 
 her into the house. Why should Peppina have anything 
 to do with my giving Vere permission to read your 
 books?" 
 
 Artois' instinct was not to tell what Vere had not told, 
 and therefore had not wished to be known. Yet he 
 hated to shuffle with Hermione. He chose a middle 
 course. 
 
 "My friend," he said, quietly, but with determination, 
 "I made a mistake. I was following foolishly a wrong 
 track. Let us say no more about it. But do not be 
 angry with me about the books. I think my motive in 
 speaking as I did to Vere was probably partly a selfish 
 one. It is not only that I wish Vere to be as she is for 
 as long a time as possible, but that I well, don't think 
 me a great coward if I say that I almost dread her dis- 
 covery of all the cruel knowledge that is mine, and that I 
 have, perhaps wrongly, brought to the attention of the 
 world." 
 
 Hermione was amazed. 
 
 385
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You regret having written your books!" she said. 
 
 "I don't know I don't know. But I think the 
 happy confidence, the sweet respect of youth, makes 
 one regret a thousand things. Don't you, Hermione? 
 Don't you think youth is often the most terrible tutor 
 age can have?" 
 
 She thought of Ruffo singing, "Oh, dolce luna bi- 
 anca de 1' Estate" and suddenly she felt that she 
 could not stay any longer with Artois just then. She 
 got up. 
 
 "I don't feel very well," she said. 
 
 Artois sprang up and came towards her with a face 
 full of concern. But she drew back. 
 
 "I didn't sleep last night and then going into 
 Naples I'll go to my room and lie down. I'll keep 
 quiet. Vere will look after you. I'll be down at tea." 
 
 She went away before he could say or do anything. 
 For some time he was alone. Then Vere came. Her- 
 mione had not told her of this episode, and she had 
 only come because she thought the pretended siesta 
 had lasted long enough. When Artois told her about 
 her mother, she wanted to run away at once, and see 
 what was the matter see if she could do something. 
 But Artois stopped her. 
 
 "I should leave her to rest," he said. "I I feel sure 
 she wishes to be alone." 
 
 Vere was looking at him while he spoke, and her face 
 caught the gravity of his, reflected it for a moment, then 
 showed an uneasiness that deepened into fear. She 
 laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile, what is the matter with Madre?" 
 
 "Only a headache, I fancy. She did not sleep last 
 night, and " 
 
 "No, no: the real matter, Monsieur Emile." 
 
 "What do you mean, Vere?" 
 
 The girl looked excited. Her own words had revealed 
 
 386
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to her a feeling of which till then she had only been 
 vaguely aware. 
 
 "Madre has seemed different lately," she said "been 
 different. I am sure she has. What is it?" 
 
 As the girl spoke, and looked keenly at him with her 
 bright, searching eyes, a thought came, like a flash, upon 
 Artois a thought that almost frightened him. He 
 could not tell it to Vere, and almost immediately he 
 thrust it away from his mind. But Vere had seen 
 that something had come to him. 
 
 "You know what it is!" she said. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Monsieur Emile!" 
 
 Her voice was full of reproach. 
 
 "Vere, I am telling you the truth," he said, earnestly. 
 "If there is anything serious troubling your mother 
 I do not know what it is. She has sorrows, of course. 
 You know that." 
 
 ' ' This is something fresh , ' ' the girl said . She thrust for- 
 ward her little chin decisively. ' ' This is something new. ' ' 
 
 "It cannot be that," Artois said to himself. "It 
 cannot be that." 
 
 To Vere he said: "Sleeplessness is terribly distressing." 
 
 "Well but only one night." 
 
 "Perhaps there have been others." 
 
 In reply Vere said: 
 
 "Monsieur Emile, you remember this morning, when 
 we were in the garden, and mother called?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "D'you know, the way she called made me feel 
 frightened?" 
 
 "We were so busy talking that the sudden sound 
 startled us." 
 
 "No, it wasn't that." 
 
 "But when we came your mother was smiling she 
 was perfectly well. You let your imagination " 
 
 387
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "No, Monsieur Emile, indeed I don't." 
 
 He did not try any more to remove her impression. 
 He saw that to do so would be quite useless. 
 
 "I should like to speak to Gaspare," Vere said, after 
 a moment's thought. 
 
 "Gaspare! Why?" 
 
 "Perhaps you will laugh at me! But I often think 
 Gaspare understands Madre better than any of us, 
 Monsieur Emile." 
 
 "Gaspare has been with your mother a very long time." 
 
 "Yes, and in his way he is very clever. Haven't you 
 noticed it?" 
 
 Artois did not answer this. But he said: 
 
 "Follow your instincts, Vere. I don't think they 
 will often lead you wrong." 
 
 At tea-time Hermione came from her bedroom look- 
 ing calm and smiling. There was something deliberate 
 about her serenity, and her eyes were tired, but she said 
 the little rest had done her good. Vere instinctively felt 
 that her mother did not wish to be observed, or to have 
 any fuss made about her condition, and Artois took 
 Vere's cue. When tea was over, Artois said: 
 
 "Well, I suppose I ought to be going." 
 
 "Oh no," Hermione said. "We asked you for a long 
 day. That means dinner." 
 
 The cordiality in her voice sounded determined, and 
 therefore formal. Artois felt chilled. For a moment 
 he looked at her doubtfully. 
 
 "Well, but, Hermione, you aren't feeling very well." 
 
 "I am much better now. Do stay. I shall rest, and 
 Vere will take care of you." 
 
 It struck him for the first time that she was becoming 
 very ready to substitute Vere for herself as his com- 
 panion. He wondered if he had really offended or hurt 
 her in any way. He even wondered for a moment 
 whether she was not pleased at his spending the summer 
 
 388
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 in Naples whether, for some reason, she had wished, 
 and still wished, to be alone with Vere. 
 
 "Perhaps Vere will get sick of looking after an an 
 old man," he said. 
 
 "You are not an old man, Monsieur Emile. Don't 
 tout!" 
 
 "Tout?" 
 
 "Yes, for compliments about your youth. You meant 
 me, you meant us both, to say how young you are." 
 
 She spoke gayly, laughingly, but he felt she was 
 cleverly and secretly trying to smooth things out, to 
 cover up the difficulty that had intruded itself into their 
 generally natural and simple relations. 
 
 "And your mother says nothing," said Artois, trying 
 to fall in with her desire, and to restore their wonted 
 liveliness. "Don't you look upon me as almost a boy, 
 Hermione?" 
 
 "I think sometimes you seem wonderfully young," 
 she said. 
 
 Her voice suggested that she wished to please him, 
 but also that she meant what she said. Yet Artois had 
 never felt his age more acutely than when she finished 
 speaking. 
 
 "I am a poor companion for Vere," he said, almost 
 bitterly. "She ought to be with friends of her own age." 
 
 "You mean that I am a poor companion for you, 
 Monsieur Emile. I often feel how good you are to put 
 up with me in the way you do." 
 
 The gayety had gone from her now, and she spoke 
 with an earnestness that seemed to him wonderfully 
 gracious. He looked at her, and his eyes thanked her 
 gently. 
 
 "Take Emile out in the boat, Vere," Hermione said, 
 "while I read a book till dinner-time." 
 
 At that moment she longed for them to be gone. 
 Vere looked at her mother, then said: 
 
 389
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Come along, Monsieur Emile. I'm sorry for you, 
 but Madre wants rest." 
 
 She led the way out of the room. 
 
 Hermione was on the sofa. Before he followed Vere, 
 Artois went up to her and said: 
 
 "You are sure you won't come out with us, my friend ? 
 Perhaps the air on the sea would do you good." 
 
 "No, thank you, Emile; I really think I had better 
 stay quietly here." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 He hesitated for a moment, then he went out and left 
 her. But she had seen a question in his eyes. 
 
 When he had gone, Hermione took up a book, and 
 read for a little while, always listening for the sound of 
 oars. She was not sure Vere and Emile would go out 
 in the boat, but she thought they would. If they came 
 out to the open sea beyond the island it was possible 
 that she might hear them. Presently, as she did not 
 hear them, she got up. She wanted to satisfy herself 
 that they were at sea. Going to the window she looked 
 out. But she saw no boat, only the great plain of the 
 radiant waters. They made her feel alone why, she 
 did not know then. But it was really something of the 
 same feeling which had come to her long ago during her 
 first visit to Sicily. In the contemplation of beauty she 
 knew the need of love, knew it with an intimacy that 
 was cruel. 
 
 She came away from the window and went to the 
 terrace. From there she could not see the boat. Fi- 
 nally she went to the small pavilion that overlooked the 
 Saint's Pool. Leaning over the parapet, she perceived 
 the little white boat just starting around the cliff towards 
 the Grotto of Virgil. Vere was rowing. Hermione 
 saw her thin figure, so impregnated with the narrow 
 charm of youth, bending backward and forward to the 
 oars, Emile 's big form leaning against the cushions as 
 
 390
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 if at case. From the dripping oars came twinkling lines 
 of light, that rayed out and spread like the opened sticks 
 of a fan upon the sea. Hugging the shore, the boat 
 slipped out of sight. 
 
 "Suppose they had gone forever gone out of my 
 life!" 
 
 Hermione said that to herself. She fancied she still 
 could see the faint commotion in the water that told 
 where the boat had passed. Now it was turning into 
 the Grotto of Virgil. She felt sure of that. It was 
 entering the shadows where she had shown to Emile 
 not long ago the very depths of her heart. 
 
 How could she have done that ? She grew hot as she 
 thought of it. In her new and bitter reserve she hated 
 to think of his possession that could never be taken 
 from him, the knowledge of her hidden despair, her 
 hidden need of love. And by that sensation of hatred 
 of his knowledge she measured the gulf between them. 
 When had come the very first narrow fissure she scarcely 
 knew. But she knew how to-day the gulf had widened. 
 
 That permission of hers to Vere to read Emile's books! 
 And Emile's authority governing her child, substituted 
 surely for hers! The gulf had been made wider by her 
 learning that episode; and the fact that secretly she felt 
 her permission ought never to have been given caused 
 her the more bitterness. Vere had yielded to Emile 
 because he had been in the right. Instinctively her 
 child had known which of the two with whom she had to 
 deal was swayed by an evil mood, and which was think- 
 ing rightly, only for her. 
 
 Could Vere see into her mother's heart? 
 
 Hermione had a moment of panic. Then she laughed 
 at her folly. 
 
 And she thought of Peppina, of that other secret 
 which certainly existed, but which she had never sus- 
 pected till that day.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The boat was gone, and she knew where. She went 
 hack into the house and rang the bell. Giulia came. 
 
 "Oh, Giulia," Hermione said, "will you please ask 
 Peppina to come to my sitting-room. I want to speak 
 to her for a moment." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 Giulia looked at her Padrona, then added: 
 
 "Signora, I am sure I was right. I am sure that girl 
 has the evil eye." 
 
 "Giulia, what nonsense! I have told you often that 
 such ideas are silly. Peppina has no power to do us 
 harm. Poor girl, we ought to pity her." 
 
 Giulia's fat face was very grave and quite unconvinced. 
 
 "Signora, since she is here the island is not the same. 
 The Signorina is not the same, you are not the same, 
 the French Signore is not the same. Even Gaspare is 
 different. One cannot speak with him now. Trouble 
 is with us all, Signora." 
 
 Hermione shook her head impatiently. But when 
 Giulia was gone she thought of her words about Gaspare. 
 Words, even the simplest, spoken just before some great 
 moment of a life, some high triumph, or deep catastrophe, 
 stick with resolution in the memory. Lucrezia had once 
 said of Gaspare on the terrace before the Casa del Prete: 
 "One cannot speak with him to-day." And she had 
 added: "He is terrible to-day." That was on the even- 
 ing of the night on which Maurice's dead body was found. 
 Often since then Hermione had thought that Gaspare 
 had seemed to have a prevision of the disaster that was 
 approaching. 
 
 And now Giulia said of him: "One cannot speak with 
 him now." 
 
 The same words. Was Gaspare as a stormy petrel? 
 
 There came a knock at the door of the sitting-room, 
 to which Hermione had gone to wait for the coming of 
 Peppina. 
 
 392
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Come in." 
 
 The door opened and the disfigured girl entered, look- 
 ing anxious. 
 
 "Come in, Peppina. It's all right. I only want to 
 speak to you for a moment." 
 
 Hermione spoke kindly, but Peppina still looked 
 nervous. 
 
 "Si, Signora," she murmured. 
 
 And she remained standing near the door, looking down. 
 
 "Peppina," Hermione said, "I'm going to ask you 
 something, and I want you to tell me the truth without 
 being afraid." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "You remember, when I took you, I told you not to 
 say anything to my daughter, the Sinorina, about your 
 past life, your aunt, and and all you had gone through. 
 Have you said anything?" 
 
 Peppina looked more frightened. 
 
 "Signora," she began. "Madonna! It was not my 
 fault, it was not my fault!" 
 
 She raised her voice, and began to gesticulate. 
 
 "Hush, Peppina! Now don't be afraid of me." 
 
 "You are my preserver, Signora! My saint has for- 
 gotten me, but you 
 
 "I will not leave you to the streets. You must trust 
 me. And now tell me quietly what have you told the 
 Signorina?" 
 
 And presently Peppina was induced to be truthful, 
 and Hermione knew of the outburst in the night, and 
 that "the foreign Signore" had known of it from the 
 moment of its happening. 
 
 "The Signorina was so kind, Signora, that I forgot. 
 I told her all! I told her all I told her " 
 
 Once Peppina had begun to be truthful she could not 
 stop. She recalled or seemed to the very words she 
 had spoken to Vere, all the details of her narration. 
 
 393
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "And the foreign Signore? Was he there, too?" 
 Hermione asked, at the end. 
 
 "No, Signora. He went away. The Signorina told 
 him to go away and leave us." 
 
 Hermione dismissed Peppina quietly. 
 
 "Please don't say anything about this conversation, 
 Peppina," she said, as the agitated girl prepared to go. 
 "Try to obey me this time, will you?" 
 
 She spoke very kindly but very firmly. 
 
 "May the Madonna take out my tongue if I speak, 
 Signora!" Peppina raised her hand. 
 
 As she was going out Hermione stared at the cross 
 upon her cheek.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ARTOIS stayed to dine. The falling of night deepened 
 Hermione's impression of the gulf which was now be- 
 tween them, and which she was sure he knew of. When 
 darkness comes to intimacy it seems to make that in- 
 timacy more perfect. Now surely it caused reserve, 
 restraint, to be more complete. The two secrets which 
 Hermione now knew, but which were still cherished as 
 secrets by Vere and Artois, stood up between the mother 
 and her child and friend, inexorably dividing them. 
 
 Hermione was strung up to a sort of nervous strength 
 that was full of determination. She had herself in 
 hand, like a woman of the world who faces society with 
 the resolution to deceive it. While Vere and Artois 
 had been out in the boat she had schooled herself. She 
 felt more competent to be the watcher of events. She 
 even felt calmer, for knowledge increased almost always 
 brings an undercurrent of increased tranquillity, be- 
 cause of the sense of greater power that it produces in 
 the mind. She looked better. She talked more easily. 
 
 When dinner was over they went as usual to the gar- 
 den, and when they were there Hermione referred to 
 the projected meeting with the Marchesino. 
 
 "I made a promise," she said. "I must keep it." 
 
 "Of course," said Artois. "But it seems to me that 
 I am always being entertained, and that I am inhospitable 
 I do nothing in return. I have a proposal to make. 
 Monday will be the sixteenth of July, the festa of the 
 Madonna del Carmine Santa Maria del Carmine. It is 
 one of the prettiest of the year, they tell me. Why 
 *6 395
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 should not you and Vere come to dine at the Hotel, or 
 in the Galleria, with me ? I will ask Panacci to join us, 
 and we will all go on afterwards to see the illuminations, 
 and the fireworks, and the sending up of the fire-bal- 
 loons. What do you say?" 
 
 "Would you like it, Vere?" 
 
 "Immensely, Madre." 
 
 She spoke quietly, but she looked pleased at the idea. 
 
 "Won't the crowd be very bad, though?" asked Her- 
 mione. 
 
 "I'll get tickets for the enclosure in the Piazza. We 
 shall have seats there. And you can bring Gaspare, if 
 you like. Then you will have three cavaliers." 
 
 "Yes, I should like Gaspare to come," said Hermione. 
 
 There was a sound of warmth in her hitherto rather 
 cold voice when she said that. 
 
 "How you rely on Gaspare!" Artois said, almost as 
 if with a momentary touch of vexation. 
 
 "Indeed I do," Hermione answered. 
 
 Their eyes met, surely almost with hostility. 
 
 "Madre knows how Gaspare adores her," said Vere, 
 gently. "If there were any danger he'd never hesitate. 
 He'd save Madre if he left every other human being in 
 the world to perish miserably including me." 
 
 "Vere!" 
 
 "You know quite well he would, Madre." 
 
 They talked a little more. Presently Vere seemed to be 
 feeling restless. Artois noticed it, and watched her. Once 
 or twice she got up, without apparent reason. She pulled 
 at the branches of the fig-trees. She gathered a flower. 
 She moved away, and leaned upon the wall. Finally, 
 when her mother and Artois had fallen into conversation 
 about some new book, she slipped very quietly away. 
 
 Hermione and Artois continued their conversation, 
 though without much animation. At length, however, 
 some remark of Hermione led Artois to speak of the 
 
 396
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 book he was writing. Very often and very openly in 
 the days gone by she had discussed with him his work. 
 Now, feeling the barrier between them, he fancied that 
 perhaps it might be removed most easily by such an- 
 other discussion. And this notion of his was not any 
 proof of want of subtlety on his part. Without know- 
 ing why, Hermione felt a lack of self-confidence, a dis- 
 tressing, an almost unnatural humbleness to-day. He 
 partially divined the feeling. Possibly it sprang from 
 their difference of opinion on the propriety of Vere's 
 reading his books. He thought it might be so. And 
 he wanted to oust Hermione gently from her low stool 
 and to show her himself seated there. Filled with this 
 idea, he began to ask her advice about the task upon 
 which she was engaged. He explained the progress he 
 had made during the days when he was absent from the 
 island and shut perpetually in his room. She listened 
 in perfect silence. 
 
 They were sitting near each other, but not close to- 
 gether, for Vere had been between them. It was dark 
 under the fig-trees. They could see each other's faces, 
 but not quite clearly. There was a small breeze which 
 made the trees move, and the leaves rustled faintly now 
 and then, making a tiny noise which joined the furtive 
 noise of the sea, not far below them. 
 
 Artois talked on. As his thoughts became more con- 
 centrated upon his book he grew warmer. Having al- 
 ways had Hermione 's eager, even enthusiastic sympathy 
 and encouragement in his work, he believed himself to 
 have them now. And in his manner, in his tone, even 
 sometimes in his choice of words, he plainly showed that 
 he assumed them. But presently, glancing across at 
 Hermione, he was surprised by the expression on her 
 face. It seemed to him as if a face of stone had suddenly 
 looked bitterly satirical. He was so astonished that the 
 words stopped upon his lips. 
 
 397
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Go on, Emile," she said, "I am listening." 
 
 The expression which had startled him was gone. Had 
 it ever been ? Perhaps he had been deceived by the 
 darkness. Perhaps the moving leaves had thrown their 
 little shadows across her features. He said to himself 
 that it must be so that his friend, Hermione, could 
 never have looked like that. Yet he was chilled. And 
 he remembered her passing by in the tram at Posilipo, 
 and how he had stood for a moment and watched her, 
 and seen upon her face a furtive look that he had never 
 seen there before, and that had seemed to contradict 
 her whole nature as he knew it. 
 
 Did he know it? 
 
 Never before had he asked himself this question. He 
 asked it now. Was there living in Hermione some one 
 whom he did not know, with whom he had had no deal- 
 ings, had exchanged no thoughts, had spoken no words? 
 
 "Go on, Emile," she said again. 
 
 But he could not. For once his brain was clouded, 
 and he felt confused. He had completely lost the thread 
 of his thoughts. 
 
 "I can't," he said, abruptly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I've forgotten. I've not thoroughly worked the 
 thing out. Another time. Besides besides, I'm sure 
 I bore you with my eternal talk about my work. You've 
 been such a kind, such a sympathetic friend and en- 
 courage r that " 
 
 He broke off, thinking of that face. Was is possible 
 that through all these years Hermione had been playing 
 a part with him, had been pretending to admire his 
 talent, to care for what he was doing, when really she 
 had been bored by it? Had the whole thing been a 
 weariness to her, endured perhaps because she liked him 
 as a man ? The thought cut him to the very quick, 
 seared his self-respect, struck a blow at his pride which 
 
 398
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 made it quiver, and struck surely also a blow at some- 
 thing else. 
 
 His life during all these years what would it have 
 been without Hermione's friendship? Was he to learn 
 that now ? 
 
 He looked at her. Now her face was almost as usual, 
 only less animated than he had seen it. 
 
 "Your work could never bore me. You know it," 
 she said. 
 
 The real Hermione sounded in her voice when she said 
 that, for the eternal woman deep down in her had heard 
 the sound almost of helplessness in his voice, had felt the 
 leaning of his nature, strong though it was, on her, and 
 had responded instantly, inevitably, almost passionately. 
 But then came the thought of his secret intercourse with 
 Vere. She saw in the dark words: "Monsieur Emile's 
 idea." "Monsieur Emile's suggestion." She remem- 
 bered how Artois had told her that she. could never be 
 an artist. And again the intensely bitter feeling of satire, 
 that had set in her face the expression which had startled 
 him, returned, twisting, warping her whole nature. 
 
 "I am to encourage you you who have told me that 
 I can do nothing!" 
 
 That was what she had been feeling. And, as by a 
 search-light, she had seen surely for a moment the whole 
 great and undying selfishness of man, exactly as it was. 
 And she had seen surely, also, the ministering world of 
 women gathered round about it, feeding it, lest it should 
 fail and be no more. And she had seen herself among 
 them! 
 
 "Where can Vere have gone to?" he said. 
 
 There had been a pause. Neither knew how long it 
 had lasted. 
 
 "I should not wonder if she is on the cliff," said Her- 
 mione. "She often goes there at his hour. She goes 
 to meet Ruffo." 
 
 399
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The name switched the mind of Artois on to a new 
 and profoundly interesting train of thought. 
 
 "Ruffo," he began, slowly. "And you think it 
 wise ?" 
 
 He stopped. To-night he no longer dared frankly to 
 speak all his mind to Hermione. 
 
 "I was at Mergellina the other day," he said. "And 
 I saw Ruffo with his mother." 
 
 "Did you? What is she like?" 
 
 "Oh, like many middle-aged women of the South, 
 rather broad and battered-looking, and probably much 
 older in appearance than in years." 
 
 "Poor woman! She has been through a great deal." 
 
 Her voice was quite genuine now. And Artois said 
 to himself that the faint suspicion he had had was ill- 
 founded. 
 
 "Do you know anything about her?" 
 
 "Oh yes. I had a talk with Ruffo the other night. 
 And he told me several things." 
 
 Each time Hermione mentioned Ruffe's name it 
 seemed to Artois that her voice softened, almost that 
 she gave the word a caress. He longed to ask her some- 
 thing, but he was afraid to. 
 
 He would try not to interfere with Fate. But he 
 would not hasten its coming if it were coming. And he 
 knew nothing. Perhaps the anxious suspicion which had 
 taken up its abode in his mind, and which, without defi- 
 nite reason, seemed gradually changing into a conviction, 
 was erroneous. Perhaps some day he would laugh at 
 himself, and say to himself, "I was mad to dream of 
 such a thing." 
 
 "Those women often have a bad time," he said. 
 
 "Few women do not, I sometimes think." 
 
 He said nothing, and she went on rather hastily, as 
 if wishing to cover her last words. 
 
 "Ruffo told me something that I did not know about 
 400
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Peppina. His step-father was the man who cut that 
 cross on Peppina 's face." 
 
 "Perdio!" said Artois. 
 
 He used the Italian exclamation at that moment 
 quite naturally. Suddenly he wished more than ever 
 before that Hermione had not taken Peppina to live on 
 the island. 
 
 "Hermione," he said, "I wish you had not Peppina 
 here." 
 
 "Still because of Vere?" she said. 
 
 And now she was looking at him steadily. 
 
 "I feel that she comes from another world, that she 
 had better keep away from yours. I feel as if misfort- 
 une attended her." 
 
 "It is odd. Even the servants say she has the evil 
 eye. But, if she has, it is too late now. Peppina has 
 looked upon us all." 
 
 "Perhaps that old Eastern was right." Artois could 
 not help saying it. "Perhaps all that is to be is ordained 
 long beforehand. Do you think that, Hermione?" 
 
 "I have sometimes thought it, when I have been de- 
 pressed. I have sometimes said to myself, 'E il des- 
 tino!'" 
 
 She remembered at that moment her feeling on the 
 day when she returned from the expedition with Vere 
 to Capri that perhaps she had returned to the island 
 to confront some grievous fate. Had Artois such a 
 thought, such a prevision? Suddenly she felt fright- 
 ened, like a child when, at night, it passes the open door 
 of a room that is dark. 
 
 She moved and got up from her chair. Like the child, 
 when it rushes on and away, she felt in her panic the 
 necessity of physical activity. 
 
 Artois followed her example. He was glad to move. 
 
 "Shall we go and see what Vere is doing?" he said. 
 
 "If you like. I feel sure she is with Ruffo." 
 401
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 They went towards the house. Artois felt a deep 
 curiosity, which filled his whole being, to know what 
 Hermione's exact feeling towards Ruffo was. 
 
 "Don't you think," he said, "that perhaps it is a little 
 dangerous to allow Vere to be so much with a boy from 
 Mergellina?" 
 
 " Oh no." 
 
 In her tone there was the calm of absolute certainty. 
 
 "Well, but we don't know so very much about him." 
 
 "Do you think two instincts could be at fault?" 
 
 "Two instincts?" 
 
 ' ' Vere 's and mine ? ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps not. Then your instinct " 
 
 He waited. He was passionately interested. 
 
 " Ruffo is all right," Hermione answered. 
 
 It seemed to him as if she had deliberately used that 
 bluff expression to punish his almost mystical curiosity. 
 Was she warding him off consciously? 
 
 They passed through the house and came out on its 
 farther side, but they did not go immediately to the 
 cliff top. Both of them felt certain the two children 
 must be there, and both of them, perhaps, were held 
 back for a moment by a mutual desire not to disturb 
 their innocent confidences. They stood upon the bridge, 
 therefore, looking down into the dimness of the Pool. 
 From the water silence seemed to float up to them, al- 
 most visibly, like a lovely, delicate mist silence, and 
 the tenderness of night, embracing their distresses. 
 
 The satire died out of Hermione's poor, tormented 
 heart. And Artois for a moment forgot the terrible face 
 half seen in the darkness of the trees. 
 
 "There is the boat. He is here." 
 
 Hermione spoke in a low voice, pointing to the shad- 
 owy form of a boat upon the Pool. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Artois gazed at the boat. Was it indeed a Fate that 
 
 402
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 came by night to the island softly across the sea, ferried 
 by the ignorant hands of men? He longed to know. 
 And Hermione longed to know something, too: whether 
 Artois had ever seen the strange likeness she had seen, 
 whether Maurice had ever seemed to gaze for a moment 
 at him out of the eyes of Ruffo. But to-night she could 
 not ask him that. They were too far away from each 
 other. And because of the gulf between them her 
 memory had suddenly become far more sacred, far more 
 necessary to her even, than it had been before. 
 
 It had been a solace, a beautiful solace. But now it 
 was much more than that now it was surely her sal- 
 vation. 
 
 As she felt that, a deep longing filled her heart to look 
 again on Ruffo's face, to search again for the expression 
 that sent back the years. But she wished to do that 
 without witnesses, to be alone with the boy, as she had 
 been alone with him that night upon the bridge. And 
 suddenly she was impatient of Vere's intercourse with 
 him. Vere could not know what that tender look 
 meant, if it came. For she had never seen her father's 
 face. 
 
 "Let us go to the cliff," Hermione said, moved by this 
 new feeling of impatience. 
 
 She meant to interrupt the children, to get rid of Vere 
 and Emile, and have Ruffo to herself for a moment. 
 Just then she felt as if he were nearer, far nearer, to her 
 than they were: they who kept things from her, who 
 spoke of her secretly, pitying her. 
 
 And again that evening she came into acute antago- 
 nism with her friend. For the instinct was still alive 
 in him not to interrupt the children. The strange sus- 
 picion that had been born and that lived within him 
 gathered strength, caused him to feel almost as if they 
 might be upon holy ground, those two so full of youth, 
 who talked together in the night ; as if they knew mys- 
 
 403
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 teriously things that were hidden from their elders, 
 from those wiser, yet far less full of the wisdom that is 
 eternal, the wisdom of instinct, than themselves. There 
 is always something sacred about children. And he 
 had never lost the sense of it amid the dust of his worldly 
 knowledge. But about these children, about them or 
 within them, there floated, perhaps, something that was 
 mystic, something that was awful and must not be dis- 
 turbed. Hermione did not feel it. How could she? 
 He himself had withheld from her for many years the 
 only knowledge that could have made her share his 
 present feeling. He could tell her nothing. Yet he 
 could not conceal his intense reluctance to go to that 
 seat upon the cliff. 
 
 "But it's delicious here. I love the Pool at night, 
 don't you? Look at the Saint's light, how quietly it 
 shines!" 
 
 She took her hands from the rail. His attempt at de- 
 tention irritated her whole being. She looked at the 
 light. On the night of the storm she had felt as if it 
 shone exclusively for her. That feeling was dead. San 
 Francesco watched, perhaps, over the fishermen. He 
 did not watch over her. 
 
 And yet that night she, too, had made the sign of the 
 cross when she knew that the light was shining. 
 
 She did not answer Artois* remark, and he continued, 
 always for the children's sake, and for the sake of what 
 he seemed to divine secretly at work in them: 
 
 "This Pool is a place apart, I think. The Saint has 
 given his benediction to it." 
 
 He was speaking at random to keep Hermione there. 
 And yet his words seemed chosen by some one for him 
 to say. 
 
 "Surely good must come to the island over that water- 
 way." 
 
 "You think so!" 
 
 404
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Her stress upon the pronoun made him reply: 
 
 "Hermione, you do not think me the typical French- 
 man of this century, who furiously denies over a glass of 
 absinthe the existence of the Creator of the world?" 
 
 "No. But I scarcely thought you believed in the 
 efficacy of a plaster Saint." 
 
 "Not of the plaster no. But don't you think it pos- 
 sible that truth, emanating from certain regions and 
 affecting the souls of men, might move them uncon- 
 sciously to embody it in symbol ? What if this Pool were 
 blessed, and men, feeling that it was blessed, put San 
 Francesco here with his visible benediction ?" 
 
 He said to himself that he was playing with his imagi- 
 nation, as sometimes he played with words, half-sen- 
 suously and half-JEsthetically; yet he felt to-night as if 
 within him there was something that might believe far 
 more than he had ever suspected it would be possible for 
 him to believe. 
 
 And that, too, seemed to have come to him from the 
 hidden children who were so near. 
 
 "I don't feel at all as if the Pool were blessed," said 
 Hermione. She sighed. 
 
 "Let us go to the cliff," she said, again, this time with 
 a strong impatience. 
 
 He could not, of course, resist her desire, so they 
 moved away, and mounted to the summit of the island. 
 
 The children were there. They could just see them 
 in the darkness, Vere seated upon the wooden bench, 
 Ruffo standing beside her. Their forms looked like 
 shadows, but from the shadows voices came. 
 
 When he saw them, Artois stood still. Hennione was 
 going on. He put his hand upon her arm to stop her. 
 She sent an almost sharp inquiry to him with her eyes. 
 
 "Don't you think," he said "don't you think it is a 
 pity to disturb them?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 405
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "They seem so happy together." 
 
 He glanced at her for sympathy, but she gave him 
 none. 
 
 "Am I to have nothing ?" she thought. And a passion 
 of secret anger woke up in her. "Am I to have nothing 
 at all? May I not even speak to this boy, in whom I 
 have seen Maurice for a moment because if I do I may 
 disturb some childish gossip?" 
 
 Her eyes gave to Artois a fierce rebuke. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Hermione," he said, hastily. 
 "Of course if you really want to talk to Ruffo " 
 
 "I don't think Vere will mind," she said. 
 
 Her lips were actually trembling, but her voice was 
 calm. 
 
 They walked forward. 
 
 When they were close to the children they both saw 
 there was a third figure on the cliff. Gaspare was at a 
 little distance. Hermione could see the red point of his 
 cigarette gleaming. 
 
 "Gaspare's there, too," she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why is he there?" Artois thought. 
 
 And again there woke up in him an intense curiosity 
 about Gaspare. 
 
 Ruffo had seen them, and now he took off his cap. 
 And Vere turned her head and got up from the seat. 
 
 Neither the girl nor the boy gave any explanation of 
 their being together. Evidently they did not think it 
 necessary to do so. Hermione was the first to speak. 
 
 "Good-evening, Ruffo," she said. 
 
 Artois noticed a peculiar kindness and gentleness in 
 her voice when she spoke to the boy, a sound apart, that 
 surely did not come into her voice even when it spoke to 
 Vere. 
 
 "Good-evening, Signora." He stood with his cap in 
 his hand. "I have been telling the Signorina what you 
 
 406
 
 SHE WAS JUST GOING TO TURN AWAY WHEN RUFFO BENT 
 DOWN TO KISS HER HAND"
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 have done for my poor mamma, Signora. I did not tell 
 her before because I thought she knew. But she did not 
 know." 
 
 Vere was looking at her mother with a shining of affec- 
 tion in her eyes. 
 
 At this moment Gaspare came up slowly, with a care- 
 less walk. 
 
 Artois watched him. 
 
 "About the little money, you mean?" said Hermione, 
 rather hastily. 
 
 "Si, Signora. When I gave it to my poor mamma 
 she cried again. But that was because you were so kind. 
 And she said to me, 'Ruffo, why should a strange lady 
 be so kind to me ? Why should a strange lady think 
 about me?' she said. 'Ruffino,' she said, 'it must be 
 Santa Maddalena who has sent her here to be good to 
 me.' My poor mamma!" 
 
 "The Signora does not want to be bothered' with all 
 this!" It was Gaspare who had spoken, roughly, and 
 who now pushed in between Ruffo and those who were 
 listening to his simple narrative. 
 
 Ruffo looked surprised, but submissive. Evidently 
 he respected Gaspare, and the two understood each 
 other. And though Gaspare's words were harsh, his 
 eyes, as they looked at Ruffo, seemed to contradict them. 
 Nevertheless, there was excitement, a strung-up look in 
 his face. 
 
 "Gaspare!" said Vere. 
 
 Her eyes shot fire. 
 
 "Signorina?" 
 
 "Madre does like to hear what Ruffo has to say. 
 Don't you, Madre?" 
 
 Gaspare looked unmoved. His whole face was full 
 of a dogged obstinacy. Yet he did not forget himself. 
 There was nothing rude in his manner as he said, before 
 Hermione could reply: 
 
 407
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signorina, the Signora does not know Ruffo's moth- 
 er, so such things cannot interest her. Is it not so, 
 Signora?" 
 
 Hermione was still governed by the desire to be alone 
 for a little while with Ruffo, and the sensation of intense 
 reserve a reserve that seemed even partially physical 
 that she felt towards Artois made her dislike Ruffo's 
 public exhibition of a gratitude that, expressed in pri- 
 vate, would have been sweet to her. Instead, therefore, 
 of agreeing with Vere, she said, in rather an off-hand way: 
 
 "It's all right, Ruffo. Thank you very much. But 
 we must not keep Don Emilio listening to my supposed 
 good deeds forever. So that's enough." 
 
 Vere reddened. Evidently she felt snubbed. She 
 said nothing, but she shot a glance of eager sympathy at 
 Ruffo, who stood very simply looking at Hermione with 
 a sort of manly deference, as if all that she said, or wished, 
 must certainly be right. Then she moved quietly away, 
 pressing her lips rather firmly together, and went slowly 
 towards the house. After a moment's hesitation, Artois 
 followed her. Hermione remained by Ruffo, and Gas- 
 pare stayed doggedly with his Padrona. 
 
 Hermione wished he would go. She could not under- 
 stand his exact feeling about the fisher-boy's odd little 
 intimacy with them. Her instinct told her that secretly 
 he was fond of Ruffo. Yet sometimes he seemed to be 
 hostile to him, to be suspicious of him, as of some one 
 who might bring them harm. Or, perhaps, he felt it his 
 duty to be on guard against all strangers who approached 
 them. She knew well his fixed belief that she and Vere 
 depended entirely on him, felt always perfectly safe 
 when he was near. And she liked to have him near 
 but not just at this moment. Yet she did not feel that 
 she could ask him to go. 
 
 "Thank you very much for your gratitude, Ruffo," 
 she said. "You mustn't think " 
 
 408
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She glanced at Gaspare. 
 
 "I didn't want to stop you," she continued, trying to 
 steer an even course. "But it's a very little thing. I 
 hope your mother is getting on pretty well. She must 
 have courage." 
 
 As she said the last sentence she thought it came that 
 night oddly from her lips. 
 
 Gaspare moved as if he felt impatient, and suddenly 
 Hermione knew an anger akin to Vere's, an anger she 
 had scarcely ever felt against Gaspare. 
 
 She did not show it at first, but went on with a sort 
 of forced calmness and deliberation, a touch even per- 
 haps of obstinacy that was meant for Gaspare. 
 
 "I am interested in your mother, you know, although 
 I have not seen her. Tell me how she is." 
 
 Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but something held 
 him silent; and as he listened to Ruffo's carefully de- 
 tailed reply, delivered with the perfect naturalness of 
 one sure of the genuine interest taken in his concerns 
 by his auditors, his large eyes travelled from the face of 
 the boy to the face of his Padrona with a deep and rest- 
 less curiosity. He seemed to inquire something of Ruffo, 
 something of Hermione, and then, at the last, surely 
 something of himself. But when Ruffo had finished, he 
 said, brusquely: 
 
 "Signora, it is getting very late. Will not Don 
 Emilio be going? He will want to say good-night, and 
 I must help him with the boat." 
 
 "Run and see if Don Emilio is in a hurry, Gaspare. 
 If he is I'll come." 
 
 Gaspare looked at her, hesitating. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she exclaimed, her secret irrita- 
 tion suddenly getting the upper hand in her nature. 
 "Are you afraid that Ruffo will hurt me?" 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 As Vere had reddened, he reddened, and he looked with 
 409
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 deep reproach at his Padrona. That look went to Her- 
 mione's heart; she thought, "Am I going to quarrel with 
 the one true and absolutely loyal friend I have?" She 
 remembered Vere's words in the garden about Gaspare's 
 devotion to her, a devotion which she felt like a warmth 
 round about her life. 
 
 "I'll come with you, Gaspare," she said, with a re- 
 vulsion of feeling. "Good-night, Ruffo." 
 
 "Good-night, Signora." 
 
 "Perhaps we shall see you to-morrow." 
 J She was just going to turn away when Ruffo bent down 
 to kiss her hand. Since she had given charity to his 
 mother it was evident that his feeling for her had 
 changed. The Sicilian in him rose up to honor her like 
 a Padrona. 
 
 "Signora," he said, letting go her hand. "Benedicite 
 e buon riposo." 
 
 He was being a little whimsical, was showing to her 
 and to Gaspare that he knew how to be a Sicilian. And 
 now he looked from one to the other to see how they 
 took his salutation: looked gently, confidentially, with 
 a smile dawning in his eyes under the deference and the 
 boyish affection and gratitude. 
 
 And again it seemed to Hermione for a moment that 
 Maurice stood there before her in the night. Her im- 
 pulse was to catch Gaspare's arm, to say to him, "Look! 
 Don't you see your Padrone?" 
 
 She did not do this, but she did turn impulsively to 
 Gaspare. And as she turned she saw tears start into 
 his eyes. The blood rushed to his temples, his forehead. 
 He put up his hand to his face. 
 
 "Signora," he said, "are you not coming?" 
 
 He cleared his throat violently. "I have taken a 
 cold," he muttered. 
 
 He caught hold of his throat with his left hand, and 
 again cleared his throat. 
 
 410
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 i 
 
 "Madre di Dio!" 
 
 He spoke very roughly. 
 
 But his roughness did not hurt Hermione; for sud- 
 denly she felt far less lonely and deserted. Gaspare had 
 seen what she had seen she knew it. 
 
 As they went back to the house it Deemed to her thai- 
 she and Gaspare talked together. 
 
 And yet they spoke no words.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 NEITHER Artois nor the Marchesino visited the imnd 
 during the days that elapsed before the Festa of the 
 Madonna del Carmine. But Artois wrote to tell Her- 
 mione that the Marchesino had accepted his invitation, 
 and that he hoped she and Vere would be at the H6tel 
 des Strangers punctually by eight o'clock on the night 
 of the sixteenth. He wrote cordially, but a little for- 
 mally, and did not add any gossip or any remarks about 
 his work to the few sentences connected with the pro- 
 jected expedition. And Hermione replied as briefly to his 
 note. Usually, when she wrote to Artois, her pen flew, 
 and eager thoughts, born of the thought of him, floated 
 into her mind. But this time it was not so. The ener- 
 gies of her mind in connection with his mind were surely 
 failing. As she put the note into its envelope she had 
 the feeling of one who had been trying to "make" con- 
 versation with an acquaintance, and who had not been 
 successful, and she found herself almost dreading to talk 
 with Emile. 
 
 Yet for years her talks with him had been her greatest 
 pleasure, outside of her intercourse with Vere and her 
 relations with Gaspare. 
 
 The change that had come over their friendship, like 
 a mist over the sea, was subtle, yet startling in its com- 
 pleteness. She wondered if she saw and felt this mist 
 as definitely as she did, if he regretted the fair prospect 
 it had blotted out, if he marvelled at its coming. 
 
 He was so acute that he must be aware of the droop- 
 
 412
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ing of their intimacy. To what could he attribute it? 
 And would he care to fight against the change? 
 
 She remembered the days when she had nursed him 
 in Kairouan. She felt again the hot dry atmosphere. 
 She heard the ceaseless buzzing of the flies. How pale 
 his face had been, how weak his body! He had returned 
 to the weakness of a child. He had depended upon her. 
 That fact, that he had for a time utterly depended upon 
 her, had forged a new link in their friendship, the strong- 
 est link of all. At least she had felt it to be so. For 
 she was very much of a woman, and full of a secret 
 motherliness. 
 
 But perhaps he had forgotten all that. 
 
 In these days she often felt as if she did not under- 
 stand men at all, as if their natures were hidden from 
 her, and perhaps, of necessity, from all women. 
 
 "We can't understand each other." 
 
 She often said that to herself, and partly to comfort 
 herself a little. She did not want to be only one of a 
 class of women from whom men's natures were hidden. 
 
 And yet it was not true. 
 
 For Maurice, at least, she had understood. She had 
 not feared his gayeties, his boyish love of pleasure, his 
 passion for the sun, his joy in the peasant life, his al- 
 most fierce happiness in the life of the body. She had 
 feared nothing in him, because she had felt that she 
 understood him thoroughly. She had read the gay 
 innocence of his temperament rightly, and so she had 
 never tried to hold him back from his pleasures, to keep 
 him always with her, as many women would have done. 
 
 And she clung to the memory of her understanding of 
 Maurice as she faced the mist that had swept up softly 
 and silently over that sea and sky which had been clear. 
 He had been simple. There was nothing to dread in 
 cleverness, in complexity. One got lost in a nature 
 that was full of winding paths. Just then, and for the 
 
 413
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 time, she forgot her love of, even her passion for, mental 
 things. The beauty of the straight white road appealed 
 to her. She saw it leading one onward to the glory of 
 the sun. 
 
 Vere and she did not see very much of each other dur- 
 ing those days. They met, of course, at meals, and often 
 for a few minutes at other times. But it seemed as if 
 each tacitly, and almost instinctively, sought to avoid 
 any prolonged intercourse with the other. Hermione 
 was a great deal in her sitting-room, reading, or pretend- 
 ing to read. And Vere made several long expeditions 
 upon the sea in the sailing -boat with Gaspare and a 
 boy from the nearest village, who was hired as an extra 
 hand. 
 
 Hermione had a strange feeling of desertion sometimes, 
 when the white sail of the boat faded on the blue and 
 she saw the empty sea. She would watch the boat go 
 out, standing at a window and looking through the 
 blinds. The sailor-boy pulled at the oars. Vere was at 
 the helm, Gaspare busy with the ropes. They passed 
 quite close beneath her. She saw Vere's bright and 
 eager face looking the way they were going, anticipating 
 the voyage; Gaspare's brown hands moving swiftly and 
 deftly. She saw the sail run up, the boat bend over. 
 The oars were laid in their places now. The boat went 
 faster through the water. The forms in it dwindled. 
 Was that Vere's head, or Gaspare's? Who was that 
 standing up? The fisher-boy? What were they now, 
 they and the boat that held them ? Only a white sail on 
 the blue, going towards the sun. 
 
 And how deep was the silence that fell about the 
 house, how deep and hollow! She saw her life then 
 like a cavern that was empty. No waters flowed into 
 it. No lights played in its recesses. No sounds echoed 
 through it. 
 
 She looked up into the blue, and remembered her 
 4M
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 thought, that Maurice had been taken by the blue. 
 Hark! Was there not in the air the thin sound of a reed 
 flute playing a tarantella? She shut her eyes, and saw 
 the gray rocks of Sicily. But the blue was too vast. 
 Maurice was lost in it, lost to her forever. And she gazed 
 up into it again, with the effort to travel through it, to 
 go on and on and on. And it seemed as if her soul ached 
 from that journey. 
 
 The sail had dipped down below the horizon. She 
 let fall the blind. She sat down in the silence. 
 
 Vere was greatly perplexed about her mother. One 
 day in the boat she followed her instinct and spoke to 
 Gaspare about her. Hermione and she between them 
 had taught Gaspare some English. He understood it 
 fairly well, and could speak it, though not correctly, and 
 he was very proud of his knowledge. Because of the 
 fisher-boy, Vere said what she had to say slowly in Eng- 
 lish. Gaspare listened with the grave look of learning 
 that betokened his secret sensation of being glorified by 
 his capacities. But when he grasped the exact meaning 
 of his Padroncina's words, his expression changed. He 
 shook his head vigorously. 
 
 ' ' Not true !" he said. ' ' Not true ! No matter there 
 is not no matter with my Padrona." 
 
 "But Gaspare " 
 
 Vere protested, explained, strong in her conviction of 
 the change in her mother. 
 
 But Gaspare would not have it. With energetic gest- 
 ures he affirmed that his Padrona was just as usual. 
 But Vere surprised a look in his eyes which told her he 
 was watching her to see if he deceived her. Then she 
 realized that for some reason of his own Gaspare did not 
 wish her to know that he had seen the change, wished 
 also to detach her observation from her mother. 
 
 She wondered why this was. 
 
 Her busy mind could not arrive at any conclusion in
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the matter, but she knew her mother was secretly sad. 
 And she knew that she and her mother were no longer 
 at ease with each other. This pained her, and the pain 
 was beginning to increase. Sometimes she felt as if her 
 mother disliked something in her, and did not choose 
 to say so, and was irritated by the silence that she kept. 
 But what could it be ? She searched among her doings 
 carefully. Had she failed in any way in her conduct tow- 
 ards her mother? Had she been lacking in anything? 
 Certainly she had not been lacking in love. And her 
 knowledge of that seemed simply to exclude any possi- 
 bility of serious shortcomings. And her mother ? 
 
 Vere remembered how her mother had once longed to 
 have a son, how she had felt certain she was going to 
 have a son. Could it be that? Could her mother be 
 dogged by that disappointment? She felt chilled to 
 the heart at that idea. Her warm nature protested 
 against it. The love she gave to her mother was so 
 complete that it had always assumed the completeness 
 of that which it was given in return. But it might be 
 so, Vere supposed. It was possible. She pondered 
 over this deeply, and when she was with her mother 
 watched for signs that might confirm or dispel her 
 fears. And thus she opposed to the mother's new 
 watchfulness the watchfulness of the child. And Her- 
 mione noticed it, and wondered whether Vere had any 
 suspicion of the surreptitious reading of her poems. 
 
 But that was scarcely possible. 
 
 Hermione had not said a word to Vere of her discov- 
 ery that Peppina had done what she had been told not 
 to do related the story of her fate. Almost all delicate- 
 minded mothers and daughters find certain subjects 
 difficult, if not impossible of discussion, even when an 
 apparent necessity of their discussion arrives in the 
 course of life. The present reserve between Hermione 
 and Vere rendered even the idea of any plain speaking 
 
 416
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 about the revelation of Peppina quite insupportable 
 to the mother. She could only pretend to ignore that 
 it had ever been made. And this she did. But now 
 that she knew of it she felt very acutely the difference 
 it had made in Vere. That difference was owing to 
 her own impulsive action. And Emile knew the whole 
 truth. She understood now what he had been going 
 to say about Peppina and Vere when they had talked 
 about the books. 
 
 He did condemn her in his heart. He thought she 
 was not a neglectful, but a mistaken mother. He 
 thought her so impulsive as to be dangerous, perhaps, 
 even to those she loved best. Almost she divined that 
 curious desire of his to protect Vere against her. And 
 yet without her impulsive nature he himself might long 
 ago have died. 
 
 She coiild not help at this time dwelling secretly on 
 one or two actions of hers, could not help saying to her- 
 self now and then: "I have been some good in the world. 
 I am capable of unselfishness sometimes. I did leave 
 my happiness for Emile 's sake, because I had a great 
 ideal of friendship and was determined to live up to it. 
 My impulses are not always crazy and ridiculous." 
 
 She did this, she was obliged to do it, to prevent the 
 feeling of impotence from overwhelming her. She had 
 to do it to give herself strength to get up out of the dust. 
 The human creature dares not say to itself, "You are 
 nothing." And now Hermione, feeling the withdrawal 
 from her of her friend, believing in the withdrawal from 
 her of her child, spoke to herself, pleading her own 
 cause to her own soul against invisible detractors. 
 
 One visitor the island had at this time. Each evening, 
 when the darkness fell, the boat of Ruffo's employer 
 glided into the Pool of San Francesco. And the boy 
 always came ashore while his companions slept. Since 
 Hermione had been charitable to his mother, and since
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he had explained to her about his Patrigno and Peppina, 
 he evidently had something of the ready feeling that 
 springs up in Sicilians in whom real interest has been 
 shown the feeling of partly belonging to his benefactor. 
 There is something dog-like in this feeling. And it is 
 touching and attractive because of the animalism of its 
 frankness and simplicity. And as the dog who has been 
 kindly, tenderly treated has no hesitation in claiming 
 attention with a paw, or in laying its muzzle upon the 
 knee of its benefactor, so Ruffo had no hesitation in 
 relating to Hermione all the little intimate incidents 
 of his daily life, in crediting her with an active interest 
 in his concerns. There was no conceit in this, only a 
 very complete boyish simplicity. 
 
 Hermione found in this new attitude of Ruffo 's a 
 curious solace for the sudden loneliness of soul that 
 had come upon her. Originally Ruffo 's chief friendship 
 had obviously been for Vere, but now Vere, seeing her 
 mother's new and deep interest in the boy, gave way a 
 little to it, yet without doing anything ostentatious, or 
 showing any pique. Simply she would stay in the 
 garden, or on the terrace, later than usual, till after 
 Rtiffo was sure to be at the island, and let her mother 
 stroll to the cliff top. Or, if she were there with him 
 first, she would soon make an excuse to go away, and 
 casually tell her mother that he was there alone or with 
 Gaspare. And all this was done so naturally that Her- 
 mione did not know it was deliberate, but merely fan- 
 cied that perhaps Vere's first enthusiasm for the fisher- 
 boy was wearing off, that it had been a child's sudden 
 fancy, and that it was lightly passing away. 
 
 Vere rather wondered at her mother's liking for Ruffo, 
 although she herself had found him so attractive, and 
 had drawn her mother's attention to his handsome face 
 and bold, yet simple bearing. She wondered, because 
 she. felt in it something peculiar, a sort of heat and 
 
 418
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 anxiety, a restlessness, a watchfulness; attributes which 
 sprang from the observation of that resemblance to the 
 dead man which drew her mother to Ruffo, but of which 
 her mother had never spoken to her. 
 
 Nor did Hermione speak of it again to Gaspare. He 
 had almost angrily denied it, but since the night of 
 Artois' visit she knew that he had seen it, been startled, 
 moved by it, almost as she had been. 
 
 She knew that quite well. Yet Gaspare puzzled her. 
 He had become moody, nervous, and full of changes. 
 She seemed to discern sometimes a latent excitement in 
 him. His temper was uneven. Giulia had said that 
 one could not speak with him. Since that day she had 
 grumbled about him again, but discreetly, with a cer- 
 tain vagueness. For all the servants thoroughly ap- 
 preciated his special position in the household as the 
 "cameriere di confidenza" of the Padrona. One thing 
 which drew Hermione's special attention was his ex- 
 traordinary watchfulness of her. When they were to- 
 gether she frequently surprised him looking at her with 
 a sort of penetrating and almost severe scrutiny which 
 startled her. Once or twice, indeed, she showed that 
 she was startled. 
 
 "What's the matter, Gaspare?" she said, one day 
 "Do I look ill again?" 
 
 For she had remembered his looking at her in the 
 boat. 
 
 "No, Signora," he answered, this time, quickly. "You 
 are not looking ill to-day." 
 
 And he moved off, as if anxious to avoid further ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 Another time she thought that there was something 
 wrong with her dress, or her hair, and said so. 
 
 "Is there anything wrong with me?" she exclaimed. 
 "What is it?" And she instinctively glanced down at 
 her gown, and put up her hands to her head. 
 
 419
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 And this time he had turned it off with a laugh, and 
 had said: 
 
 "Signora, you are like the Signorina! Once she told 
 me I was I was" he shook his head "I forget the 
 word. But I am sure it was something that a man 
 could never be. Per dio!" 
 
 And then he had gone off into a rambling conversation 
 that had led Hermione's attention far away from the 
 starting-point of their talk. 
 
 Vere, too, noticed the variations of his demeanor. 
 
 "Gaspare was very 'jumpy' to-day in the boat," she 
 said, one evening, after returning from a sail; "I won- 
 der what's the matter with him. Do you think he can 
 be in love, Madre?" 
 
 "I don't know. But he is fidanzato, Vere, with a girl 
 in Marechiaro, you remember?" 
 
 "Yes, but that lasts forever. When I speak of it he 
 always says: 'There is plenty of time, Signorina. If 
 one marries in a hurry, one makes two faces ugly!' I 
 should think the girl must be sick of waiting." 
 
 Hermione was sure that there was some very definite 
 reason for Gaspare's curious behavior, but she could not 
 imagine what it was. That it was not anything to do 
 with his health she had speedily ascertained. Any small 
 discipline of Providence in the guise of a cold in the 
 head, or a pain in the stomach, despatched him prompt- 
 ly to the depths. But he had told her that he was per- 
 fectly well and "made of iron," when she had questioned 
 him on the subject. 
 
 She supposed time would elucidate the mystery, and 
 meanwhile she knew it was no use troubling about it. 
 Years had taught her that when Gaspare chose to be 
 silent not heaven nor earth could make him speak. 
 
 Although Vere could not know why Ruffo attracted 
 her mother, Hermione knew that Gaspare must under- 
 stand, at any rate partially, why she cared so much to 
 
 420
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 be with him. During the days between the last visit 
 of Artois and the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine 
 her acquaintance with the boy had progressed so rapidly 
 that sometimes she found herself wondering what the 
 days had been like before she knew him, the evenings 
 before his boat slipped into the Saint's Pool, and his 
 light feet ran up from the water's edge to the cliff top. 
 Possibly, had Ruffo come into her life when she was com- 
 paratively happy and at ease, she would never have 
 drawn so closely to him, despite the resemblance that 
 stirred her to the heart. But he came when she was 
 feeling specially lonely and sad; and when he, too, was 
 in trouble. Both wanted sympathy. Hermione gave 
 Ruffo hers in full measure. She could not ask for his. 
 But giving had always been her pleasure. It was her 
 pleasure now. And she drew happiness from the ob- 
 vious and growing affection of the boy. Perfectly nat- 
 ural at all times, he kept back little from the kind lady 
 of the island. He told her the smallest details of his 
 daily life, his simple hopes and fears, his friendships 
 and quarrels, his relations with the other fishermen of 
 Mergellina, his intentions in the present, his ambitions 
 for the future. Some day he hoped to be the Padrone 
 of a boat of his own. That seemed to be the ultimate 
 aim of his life. Hermione smiled as she heard it, and 
 saw his eyes shining with the excitement of anticipa- 
 tion. When he spoke the word "Padrone," his little 
 form seemed to expand with authority and conscious 
 pride. He squared his shoulders. He looked almost 
 a man. The pleasures of command dressed all his per- 
 son, as flags dress a ship on a festival day. He stood 
 before Hermione a boy exuberant. 
 
 And she thought of Maurice bounding down the 
 mountain-side to the fishing, and rousing the night with 
 his "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao, Morettina bella Ciao!" 
 
 But Ruffo was sometimes reserved. Hermione could 
 
 421
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 not make him speak of his father. All she knew of him 
 was that he was dead. Sometimes she gave Ruffo good 
 advice. She divined the dangers of Naples for a lad 
 with the blood bounding in his veins, and she dwelt 
 upon the pride of man's strength, and how he should be 
 careful to preserve it, and not dissipate it before it came 
 to maturity. She did not speak very plainly, but Ruffo 
 understood, and answered her with the unconscious 
 frankness that is characteristic of the people of the South. 
 And at the end of his remarks he added: 
 
 "Don Gaspare has talked to me about that. Don Gas- 
 pare knows much, Signora." 
 
 He spoke with deep respect. Hermione was surprised 
 by this little revelation. Was Gaspare secretly watching 
 over this boy? Did he concern himself seriously with 
 Ruffo's fate ? She longed to question Gaspare. But 
 she knew that to do so would be useless. Even with her 
 Gaspare would only speak freely of things when he 
 chose. At other times he was calmly mute. He wrap- 
 ped himself in a cloud. She wondered whether he had 
 ever given Ruffo any hints or instructions as to suitable 
 conduct when with her. 
 
 Although Ruffo was so frank and garrulous about 
 most things, she noticed that if she began to speak of 
 his mother or his Patrigno, his manner changed, and he 
 became uncommunicative. Was this owing to Gaspare's 
 rather rough rebuke upon the cliff before Artois and Vere ? 
 Or had Gaspare emphasized that by further directions 
 when alone with Ruffo? She tried deftly to find out, 
 but the boy baffled her. But perhaps he was delicate 
 about money, unlike Neapolitans, and feared that if 
 he talked too much of his mother the lady of the island 
 would think he was "making misery," was hoping for 
 another twenty francs. As to his Patrigno, the fact 
 that Peppina was living on the island made that subject 
 rather a difficult one. Nevertheless, Hermione could 
 
 422
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 not help suspecting that Gaspare had told the boy not 
 to bother her with any family troubles. 
 
 She had not offered him money again. The giving 
 of the twenty francs had been a .sudden impulse to help 
 a suffering woman, less because she was probably in 
 poverty than because she was undoubtedly made un- 
 happy by her husband. Since she had suffered at the 
 hands of death, Hermione felt very pitiful for women. 
 She wonld gladly have gone to see Ruffo's mother, 
 have striven to help her more, both materially and 
 morally. But as to a visit Pcppina seemed to bar the 
 way. And as to more money help she remembered 
 Gaspare's warning. Perhaps he knew something of the 
 mother that she did not know. Perhaps the mother 
 was an objectionable, or even a wicked woman. 
 
 But when she looked at Ruffo she could not believe 
 that. And then several times he had spoken with great 
 affection of his mother. 
 
 She left things as they were, taking her cue from the 
 boy in despite of her desire. And here, as in some other 
 directions, she was secretly governed by Gaspare. 
 
 Only sometimes did she see in Ruffo's face the look 
 that had drawn her to him. The resemblance to Mau- 
 rice was startling, but it was nearly always fleeting. 
 She could not tell when it was coming, nor retain it when 
 it came. But she noticed that it was generally when 
 Ruffo was moved by affection, by a sudden sympathy, 
 by a warm and deferent impulse that the look came 
 in him. And again she thought of the beautiful obe- 
 dience that springs directly from love, of Merctiry 
 poised for flight to the gods, his mission happily ac- 
 complished. 
 
 She wondered if Artois had ever thought of it when 
 he was with Ruffo. But she felt now that she could 
 never ask him. 
 
 And, indeed, she cherished her knowledge, her recog- 
 423
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 nition, as something almost sacred, silently shared with 
 Gaspare. 
 
 To no one could that look mean what it meant to her. 
 To no other heart could it make the same appeal. 
 
 And so in those few days between Hermione and the 
 fisher-boy a firm friendship was established. 
 
 And to Hermione this friendship came like a small 
 ray of brightly golden light, falling gently in a place that 
 was very dark.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WHEN the Marchesino received the invitation of Artois 
 to dine with him and the ladies from the island on the 
 night of the Festa of the Madonna del Carmine he was 
 again ill in bed with fever. But nevertheless he returned 
 an immediate acceptance. Then he called in the family 
 doctor, and violently demanded to be made well, "per- 
 fectly well," by the evening of the sixteenth. The 
 doctor, who guessed at once that some amorous ad- 
 venture was on foot, promised to do his best, and so 
 ingeniously plied his patient with drugs and potions that 
 on the sixteenth Doro was out of bed, and busily doing 
 gymnastics to test his strength for the coming campaign. 
 
 Artois' invitation had surprised him. He had lost 
 all faith in his friend, and at first almost suspected an 
 ambush. Emilio had not invited him out of love that 
 was certain. But perhaps the ladies of the island had 
 desired his presence, his escort. He was a Neapolitan. 
 He knew the ways of the city. That was probably the 
 truth. They wanted him, and Emilio had been obliged 
 to ask him. 
 
 He saw his opportunity. His fever, coming at such a 
 time, had almost maddened him, and during the days of 
 forced inaction the Panacci temper had been vigorously 
 displayed in the home circle. As he lay in bed his im- 
 agination ran riot. The day and the night were filled 
 with thoughts and dreams of Vere. And always Emilio 
 was near her, presiding over her doings with a false 
 imitation of the paternal manner. 
 
 42$
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But now at the last the Marchesino saw his oppor- 
 tunity to strike a blow at Emilio. Every year of his 
 life since he was a child he had been to the festa in honor 
 of the Madonna del Carmine. He knew the crowds that 
 assembled under the prison walls and beneath Nuvolo's 
 tall belfry, the crowds that overflowed into the gaunt 
 Square of the Mercato and streamed down the avenues 
 of fire into the narrow side streets. In those crowds it 
 would be easy to get lost. Emilio, when he heard his 
 friend's voice singing, had hidden with the Signorina 
 in the darkness of a cave. He might be alone with the 
 Signorina when he would. The English ladies trusted 
 his white hairs. Or the English ladies did not care for 
 the convenances. Since he had found Peppina in the 
 Casa del Mare, the Marchesino did not know what to 
 think of its Padrona. And now he was too reckless to 
 care. He only knew that he was in love, and that cir- 
 cumstances so far had fought against him. He only 
 knew that he had been tricked, and that he meant to 
 trick Emilio in return. His anxiety to revenge himself 
 on Emilio was quite as keen as his desire to be alone with 
 Vere. The natural devilry of his temperament, a boy's 
 devilry, not really wicked, but compounded of sen- 
 suality, vanity, the passion for conquest, and the de- 
 termination to hold his own against other males and to 
 shine in his world's esteem, was augmented by abstinence 
 from his usual life. The few days in the house seemed 
 to him a lifetime already wasted. He meant to make up 
 for it, and he did not care at whose expense, so long as 
 some of the debt was paid by Emilio. 
 
 On the sixteenth he issued forth into life again in a 
 mood that was dangerous. The fever that had aban- 
 doned his body was raging in his mind. He was in the 
 temper which had governed his papa on the day of the 
 slapping of Signora Merani's face in the Chiaia. 
 
 The Marchesino always thought a great deal about 
 
 426
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 his personal appearance, but his toilet on the night of the 
 sixteenth was unusually prolonged. On several matters 
 connected with it he was undecided. Should he wear a 
 waistcoat of white pique or one of black silk ? Should he 
 put on a white tie, or a black? And what about rings? 
 
 He loved jewelry, as do most Neapolitans, both male 
 and female, and had quantities of gaudy rings, studs, 
 sleeve-links, and waistcoat buttons. In his present mood 
 he was inclined to adorn himself with as many of them 
 as possible. But he was not sure whether the English 
 liked diamonds and rubies on a man. He hesitated long, 
 made many changes, and looked many times in the 
 glass. At last he decided on a black tie, a white waist- 
 coat with pearl buttons, a pearl shirt-stud surrounded 
 with diamonds, pearl and diamond sleeve-links, and 
 only three rings a gold snake, a seal ring, and a ring 
 set with turquoises. This was a modest toilet, suited, 
 surely, to the taste of the English, which he remembered 
 to have heard of as sober. 
 
 He stood long before the mirror when he was ready, 
 and had poured over his handkerchief a libation of 
 "Rose d' amour." 
 
 Certainly he was a fine-looking fellow his natural 
 sincerity obliged him to acknowledge it. Possibly his 
 nose stuck out too much to balance perfectly the low 
 forehead and the rather square chin. Possibly his cheek- 
 bones were too prominent. But what of that ? Women 
 always looked at a man's figure, his eyes, his teeth, his 
 mustaches. And he had a splendid figure, enormous 
 gray eyes, large and perfectly even white teeth between 
 lips that were very full and very red, and blond mus- 
 taches whose turned-up points were like a cry of victory. 
 
 He drew himself up from the hips, enlarged his eyes 
 by opening them exaggeratedly, stretched his lips till 
 his teeth were well exposed, and vehemently twisted 
 the ends of his mustaches. 
 .3 4 2 7
 
 Yes, he was a very handsome fellow, and boyish - 
 looking, too but not too boyish. 
 
 It really was absurd of Emilio to think of cutting him 
 out with a girl Emilio, an old man, all beard and brains! 
 As if any living woman really cared for brains! Imper- 
 tinence, gayety, agility, muscle that was what women 
 loved in men. And he had all they wanted. 
 
 He rilled his case with cigarettes, slipped on a very 
 smart fawn-colored coat, cocked a small-brimmed black 
 bowler hat over his left ear, picked up a pair of white 
 gloves and a cane surmounted by a bunch of golden 
 grapes, and hurried down-stairs, humming "Lili Kangy," 
 the "canzonetta birichina" that was then the rage in 
 Naples. 
 
 The dinner was to be at the Hotel des Etrangers. On 
 consideration, Artois had decided against the Galleria. 
 He had thought of those who wander there, of Peppina's 
 aunt, of certain others. And then he had thought of 
 Vere. And his decision was quickly taken. When the 
 Marchesino arrived, Artois was alone in his sitting-room. 
 The two men looked into each other's eyes as they met, 
 and Artois saw at once that Doro was in a state of sup- 
 pressed excitement and not in a gentle mood. Although 
 Doro generally seemed full of good-humor, and readiness 
 to please and to be pleased, he could look very cruel. 
 And when, in rare moments, he did so, his face seemed 
 almost to change its shape: the cheek-bones to become 
 more salient, the nose sharper, the eyes catlike, the 
 large but well -shaped mouth venomous instead of 
 passionate. He looked older and also commoner direct- 
 ly his insouciance departed from him, and one could 
 divine a great deal of primitive savagery beneath his 
 lively grace and boyish charm. 
 
 But to-night, directly he spoke to Artois, his natural 
 humor seemed to return. He explained his illness, 
 which accounted for his not having come as usual to see 
 
 428
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 his friend, and drew a humorous picture of a Panacci in 
 a bed surrounded by terror-stricken nurses. 
 
 "And you, Emilio, what have you been doing?" he 
 concluded. 
 
 "Working," said Artois. 
 
 He pointed to his writing-table, on which lay a pile 
 of manuscript. 
 
 The Marchesino glanced at it carelessly, but the two 
 vertical lines suddenly appeared in his forehead just 
 above the inside corners of his eyes. 
 
 "Work! work!" he said. "You make me feel quite 
 guilty, amico mio. I live for happiness, for love. But 
 you you live for duty." 
 
 He put his arm through his friend's with a laugh, and 
 drew him towards the balcony. 
 
 "Nevertheless," he added, "even you have your 
 moments of pleasure, haven't you?" 
 
 He pressed Artois' arm gently, but in the touch of his 
 ringers there was something that seemed to hint a long- 
 ing to close them violently and cause a shudder of pain. 
 
 "Even you have moments when the brain goes to 
 sleep and and the body wakes up. Eh, Emilio? 
 Isn't it true?" 
 
 "My dear Doro, when have I claimed to be unlike 
 other men?" 
 
 "No, no! But you workers inspire reverence, you 
 know. We, who do not work, we see your pale faces, 
 your earnest eyes, and we think mon Dieu, Emilio! 
 we think you are saints. And then, if, by chance, one 
 evening we go to the Galleria, and find it is not so, that 
 you are like ourselves, we are glad." 
 
 He began to laugh. 
 
 "We are glad; we feel no longer at a disadvantage." 
 
 Again he pressed Artois' arm gently. 
 
 "But, amico mio, you are deceptive, you workers," 
 he said. "You take us all in. We are children beside
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 you, we who say all we feel, who show when we hate 
 and when we love. We are babies. If I ever want to 
 become really birbante, I shall become a worker." 
 
 He spoke always lightly, laughingly; but Artois un- 
 derstood the malice at his heart, and hesitated for a 
 moment whether to challenge it quietly and firmly, cr 
 whether laughingly to accept the sly imputations of 
 secrecy, of hypocrisy, in a "not-worth-while" temper, 
 If things developed and Artois felt that they must 
 with such a protagonist as the Marchesino a situation 
 might arise in which Doro's enmity must come out into 
 the open and be dealt with drastically. Till then was 
 it not best to ignore it, to fall in with his apparent 
 frivolity ? Before Artois could decide for his natural 
 temper and an under-sense of prudence and contempt 
 pulled different ways the Marchesino suddenly re- 
 leased his arm, leaned over the balcony rail, and looked 
 eagerly down the road. A carriage had just rattled up 
 from the harbor of Santa Lucia only a few yards away. 
 
 "Ecco!" he exclaimed. "Ecco! But but who is 
 with them?" 
 
 "Only Gaspare," replied Artois. 
 
 "Gaspare! That servant who came to the Guisep- 
 pone ? Oh, no doubt he has rowed the ladies over and 
 will return to the boat?" 
 
 "No, I think not. I think the Signora will bring him 
 to the Carmine." 
 
 "Why?" said the Marchesino, sharply. 
 
 4 ' Why not ? He is a strong fellow, and might be useful 
 in a crowd." 
 
 "Are not we strong? Are not we useful?" 
 
 "My dear Doro, what's the matter?" 
 
 " Niente niente !" 
 
 He tugged at his mustaches. 
 
 "Only I think the Signora might trust to us." 
 
 ''Tell her so, if you like. Here she is." 
 430
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 At this moment the door opened and Hermione came 
 in, followed by Vere. 
 
 As Artois went to welcome them he was aware of a 
 strange mixture of sensations, which made these two 
 dear and close friends, these intimates of his life, seem 
 almost new. He was acutely conscious of the mist of 
 which Hermione had thought. He wondered about her, 
 as she about him. He saw again that face in the night 
 under the trellis. He heard the voice that had called 
 to him and Vere in the garden. And he knew that 
 enmity, mysterious yet definite, might arise even be- 
 tween Hermione and him; that even they two inex- 
 orably under the law that has made all human beings 
 separate entities, and incapable of perfect fusion 
 might be victims of misunderstanding, of ignorance of 
 the absolute truth of personality. Even now he was 
 companioned by the sudden and horrible doubt which 
 had attacked him in the garden: that perhaps she had 
 been always playing a part when she had seemed to 
 be deeply interested in his work, that perhaps there was 
 within her some one whom he did not know, had never 
 even caught a glimpse of until lately, once when she 
 was in the tram going to the Scoglio di Frisio, and once 
 the last time they had met. And yet this was the 
 woman who had nursed him in Africa and this was the 
 woman against whose impulsive actions he had had the 
 instinct to protect Vere the Hermione Delarey whom 
 he had known for so many years. 
 
 Never before had he looked at Hermione quite as he 
 looked at her to-night. His sense of her strangeness 
 woke up in him something that was ill at ease, doubtful, 
 almost even suspicious, but also something that was 
 quivering with interest. 
 
 For years this woman had been to him "dear Her- 
 mione," "ma pauvre amie," comrade, sympathizer, 
 nurse, mother of Vere.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Now what else was she? A human creature with a 
 heart and brain capable of mystery; a soul with room 
 in it for secret things; a temple whose outside he had 
 seen, but whose god, perhaps, he had never seen. 
 
 And Vere was involved in her mother's strangeness, 
 and had her own strangeness too. Of that he had been 
 conscious before to-night. For Vere was being formed. 
 The plastic fingers were at work about her, moulding 
 her into what she must be as a woman. 
 
 But Hermione! She had been a woman so long. 
 
 Perhaps, too, she was standing on the brink of a 
 precipice. That suspicion, that fear, not to be banished 
 by action, added to the curiosity, as about an unknown 
 land, that she aroused. 
 
 And the new and vital sense of Hermione 's strangeness 
 which was alive in Artois was met by a feeling in her 
 that was akin to it, only of the feminine sex. 
 
 Their eyes encountered like eyes that say, "What are 
 you?" 
 
 After swift greeting they went down-stairs to dine in 
 the public room. As there were but few people in the 
 house, the large dining-room was not in use, and their 
 table was laid in the small restaurant that looks out on 
 the Marina, and was placed close to the window. 
 
 "At last we are repeating our partie carree of the 
 Giuseppone," said Artois, as they sat down. 
 
 He felt that as host he must release himself from sub- 
 tleties and under-feelings,must stamp down his conscious- 
 ness of secret inquiries and of desires or hatreds half- 
 concealed. He spoke cheerfully, even conventionally. 
 
 "Yes, but without the storm," said Hermione, in the 
 same tone. "There is no feeling of electricity in the air 
 to-night." 
 
 Even while she spoke she felt as if she were telling a 
 lie which was obvious to them all. And she could not 
 help glancing hastily round. She met the large round 
 
 43 2
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 eyes of the Marchesiho, eyes without subtlety though 
 often expressive. 
 
 "No, Signora," he said, smiling at her, rather obvious- 
 ly to captivate her by the sudden vision of his superb 
 teeth "La Bruna is safe to-night." 
 
 "La Bruna?" 
 
 "The Madonna del Carmine." 
 
 They talked of the coming festa. 
 
 Vere was rather quiet, much less vehement in appear- 
 ance and lively in manner than she had been at the 
 Marchesino's dinner. Artois thought she looked defi- 
 nitely older than she had then, though even then she 
 had played quite well the part of a little woman of the 
 world. There was something subdued in her eyes to- 
 night which touched him, because it made him imagine 
 Vere sad. He wondered if she were still troubled about 
 her mother, if she had fulfilled her intention and asked 
 Gaspare what he thought. And he longed to ask her, 
 to know what Gaspare had said. The remembrance of 
 Gaspare made him say to Hermione: 
 
 "I gave orders that Gaspare was to have a meal here. 
 Did they tell you?" 
 
 "Yes. He has gone to the servants' room." 
 
 The Marchesino's face changed. 
 
 "Your Gaspare seems indispensable, Signora," he said 
 to Hermione in his lightest, most boyish manner a man- 
 ner that the determination in his eyes contradicted rather 
 crudely. "Do you take him everywhere, like a little dog ?" 
 
 "I often take him but not like a little dog, Marchese," 
 Hermione said, quietly. 
 
 "Signora, I did not mean Here, in Naples, we use 
 that expression for anything, or any one, we like to have 
 always with us." 
 
 "I see. Well, call Gaspare a watch-dog if you like," 
 she answered, with a smile; "he watches over me care- 
 fully." 
 
 433
 
 "A watch-dog, Signora! But do you like to be watch- 
 ed? Is it not unpleasant?" 
 
 He was speaking now to get rid of the impression his 
 first remark had evidently made upon her. 
 
 "I think it depends how," she replied. "If Gaspare 
 watches me it is only to protect me I am sure of that." 
 
 "But, Signora, do you not trust Don Emilio, do you 
 not trust me, to be your watch-dogs to-night at the 
 festa ?" 
 
 There was a little pressure in his voice, but he still 
 preserved his light and boyish manner. And now he 
 turned to Vere. 
 
 "Speak for us, Signorina! Tell the Signora that we 
 will take care of her to-night, that there is no need of the 
 faithful Gaspare." 
 
 Vere looked at him gravely. She had wondered a little 
 why her mother had brought Gaspare, why, at least, she 
 had not left him free till they returned to the boat at 
 Santa Lucia. But her mother wanted him to come 
 with them, and that was enough for her. She opened 
 her lips, and Artois thought she was going to snub her 
 companion. But perhaps she suddenly changed her 
 mind, for she only said: 
 
 "Who would trust you, Marchese?" 
 
 She met his eyes with a sort of child's impertinence. 
 She had abruptly become the Vere of the Scoglio di 
 Frisio. 
 
 "Who would take you for a watch-dog?" 
 
 ' ' Ma Signorina ! ' ' 
 
 "As a seal yes, you are all very well! But " 
 
 The young man was immediately in the seventh 
 Heaven. The Signorina remembered his feats in the 
 water. All his self-confidence returned, all his former 
 certainty that the Signorina was secretly devoted to him. 
 His days of doubt and fury were forgotten. His jealousy 
 Of Emilio vanished in a cloud of happy contempt for the 
 
 434
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 disabilities of age, and he began to talk to Vere with a 
 vivacity that was truly Neapolitan. When the Mar- 
 chesino was joyous he had charm, the charm that ema- 
 nates from the bounding life that flows in the veins of 
 youth. Even the Puritan feels, and fears, the grace that 
 is Pagan. The Marchesino had a Pagan grace. And 
 now it returned to him and fell about him like a gar- 
 ment, clothing body and soul. And Vere seemed to 
 respond to it. She began to chatter, too. She talked 
 half -serious nonsense. She bantered her gay companion 
 lightly, flicking him with little whips of sarcasm that did 
 not hurt, but only urged him on. The humor of a festa 
 night began to flow from these two. 
 
 And again, instead of infecting Artois, it seemed to set 
 him apart, to rebuke silently his gifts, his fame to tell 
 him that they were useless, that they could do nothing 
 for him. 
 
 The Marchesino was not troubled with an intellect. 
 Yet with what ease he found words to play with the 
 words of Vere! His Latin vivacity seemed a perfect 
 substitute for thought, for imagination, for every sub- 
 tlety. He bubbled like champagne. And when cham- 
 pagne winks and foams at the edge of the shining glass, 
 do the young think of, or care for, the sober gravity, 
 the lingering bouquet of claret, even if it be Chateau 
 Margaux ? 
 
 As Artois half listened to the young people, while he 
 talked quietly with Hermione, playing the host with 
 discretion, he felt the peculiar cruelty which ordains 
 that the weapons of youth, even if taken up and used 
 by age with vigor and competence, shall be only reeds 
 in those hands whose lines tell of the life behind. 
 
 Yet how Vere and he had laughed together on the 
 day of his return from Paris! One gust of such mutual 
 laughter is worth how many days of earnest talk! 
 
 Vere was gleaming with fun to-night. 
 
 435
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The waiters, as they went softly about tne table, 
 looked at her with kind eyes. Secretly they were en- 
 joying her gayety because it was so pretty. Her merri- 
 ment was as airy as the flight of a bird. 
 
 The Marchesino was entranced. Did she care for 
 that? 
 
 Artois wondered secretly, and was not sure. He 
 had a theory that all women like to feel their power over 
 men. Few men have not this theory. But there was 
 in Vere something immensely independent, that seemed 
 without sex, and that hinted at a reserve not vestal, 
 but very pure too pure, perhaps, to desire an empire 
 which is founded certainly upon desire. 
 
 And the Marchesino was essentially and completely 
 the young animal; not the heavy, sleek, and self -con- 
 tented young animal that the northern countries breed, 
 but the frolicsome, playful, fiery young animal that has 
 been many times warmed by the sun. 
 
 Hermione felt that Artois' mood to-night echoed his 
 mood at Frisio's, and suddenly she thought once more 
 of the visitors' book and of what he had written there, 
 surely in a moment of almost heated impulse. And as 
 she thought of it she was moved to speak of her thought. 
 She had so many secret reserves from Emile now that 
 this one she could dispense with. 
 
 "You remember that night when I met you on the 
 sea?" she said to him. 
 
 He looked away from Vere and answered: 
 
 "Yes. What about it?" 
 
 "When I was at the Scoglio di Frisio I looked again 
 over that wonderful visitors' book." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 "Yes. And I saw what you had written." 
 
 Their eyes met. She wondered if by the expression 
 in hers he divined why she had made that expedition, 
 moved by what expectation, by what curiosity. She 
 
 43 <?
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 could tell nothing by his face, which was calm and 
 inscrutable. 
 
 After an instant's pause he said: 
 
 "Do you know from whom those words come?" 
 
 "No. Are they your own?" 
 
 "Victor Hugo's. Do you like them?" 
 
 But her eyes were asking him a question, and he 
 saw it. 
 
 "What is it?" he said. 
 
 "Why did you write them?" she said. 
 
 "I had to write something. You made me." 
 
 "Vere suggested it first." 
 
 He looked again at Vere, but only for a moment. 
 She was laughing at something the Marchesino was 
 saying. 
 
 "Did she ? Oh! Take some of that salade a la Russe. 
 I gave the chef the recipe for it. Did she?" 
 
 "Don't you remember?" 
 
 "Those words were in my head. I put them down." 
 
 "Are you fond of them?" 
 
 Her restless curiosity was still quite unsatisfied. 
 
 "I don't know. But one has puzzled about con- 
 science. Hasn't one?" 
 
 He glanced at the Marchesino, who was bending for- 
 ward to Vere, and illustrating something he was telling 
 her by curious undulating gestures with both hands 
 that suggested a flight. 
 
 "At least some of us have," he continued. "And 
 some never have, and never will." 
 
 Hermione understood the comment on their fellow- 
 guest. 
 
 "Do you think that saying explains it satisfactorily?" 
 she said. 
 
 "I believe sometimes we know a great deal more than 
 we know we know," he answered. "That sounds like 
 some nonsense game with words, but it's the best way 
 
 437
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 to put it. Conscience seems to speak out of the silence. 
 But there may be some one in the prompter's box 
 our secret knowledge." 
 
 "But is it knowledge of ourselves, or of others?" 
 
 "Which do you think ?" 
 
 "Of ourselves, I suppose. I think we generally know 
 far less of others than we believe ourselves to know." 
 
 She expressed his thought of her earlier in the evening. 
 
 "Probably. And nevertheless we may know things 
 of them that we are not aware we know till after we 
 have instinctively acted on our knowledge." 
 
 Their eyes met again. Hermione felt in that moment 
 as if he knew why she had given Vere the permission to 
 read his books. 
 
 But still she did not know whether he had written 
 that sentence in the book at Frisio's carelessly, or 
 prompted by some violent impulse to express a secret 
 thought or feeling of the moment. 
 
 "Things good or evil?" she said, slowly. 
 
 "Perhaps both." 
 
 The Marchesino burst into a laugh. He leaned back 
 in his chair, shaking his head, and holding the table with 
 his two hands. His white teeth gleamed. 
 
 "What is the joke?" asked Artois. 
 
 Vere turned her head. 
 
 "Oh, nothing. It's too silly. I can't imagine why 
 the Marchesino is so much amused by it." 
 
 Artois felt shut out. But when Vere and he had 
 laughed over the tea-table in a blessed community of 
 happy foolishness, who could have understood their 
 mirth ? He remembered how he had pitied the imagined 
 outsider. 
 
 He turned again to Hermione, but such conversation 
 as theirs, and indeed all serious conversation, now seemed 
 to him heavy, portentous, almost ludicrous. The young 
 alone knew how to deal with life, chasing it as a child 
 
 438
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 chases a colored air-ball, and when it would sink, and 
 fail and be inert, sending it with a gay blow soaring once 
 more towards the blue. 
 
 Perhaps Hermione had a similar thought, or perhaps 
 she knew of it in him. At any rate, for a moment she 
 had nothing to say. Nor had he. And so, tacitly ex- 
 cluded, as it seemed, from the merriment of the young 
 ones, the two elders remained looking towards each 
 other in silence, sunk in a joint exile. 
 
 Presently Artois began to fidget with his bread. He 
 pulled out some of the crumb from his roll, and pressed 
 it softly between his large fingers, and scattered the tiny 
 fragments mechanically over the table-cloth near his plate. 
 Hermione watched his moving hand. The Marchesino 
 was talking now. He was telling Vere about a paper- 
 chase at Capodimonte, which had started from the Royal 
 Palace. His vivacity, his excitement made a paper-chase 
 seem one of the most brilliant and remarkable events in 
 a brilliant and remarkable world. He had been the hare. 
 And such a hare! Since hares were first created and 
 placed in the Garden of Eden there had been none like 
 unto him. He told of his cunning exploits. 
 
 The fingers of Artois moved faster. Hermione glanced 
 at his face. Its massiveness looked heavy. The large 
 eyes were fixed upon the table-cloth. His hand just 
 then was more expressive. And as she glanced at it 
 again something very pitiful awoke in her, something 
 pitiful for him and for herself. She felt that very often 
 lately she had misunderstood him she had been con- 
 fused about him. But now, in this moment, she under- 
 stood him perfectly. 
 
 He pulled some more crumb out of his roll. 
 
 She was fascinated by his hand. Much as it had 
 written, it had never written more clearly on paper than 
 it was writing now. 
 
 But suddenly she felt as if she could not look at it any 
 439
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 more, as if it was intolerable to look at it. And she 
 turned towards the open window. 
 
 "What is it?" Artois asked her. "Is there too much 
 air for you?" 
 
 "Oh no. It isn't that. I was only thinking what a 
 quantity of people pass by, and wondering where they 
 were all going, and what they were all thinking and 
 hoping. I don't know why they should have come into 
 my head just then. I suppose it will soon be time for us 
 to start for the festa." 
 
 "Yes. We'll have coffee in my sitting-room when 
 they are ready." He looked again at Vere and the 
 Marchesino. 
 
 "Have we all finished? I thought we would go and 
 have coffee up-stairs. What do you say, Vere?" 
 
 He spoke cheerfully. 
 
 "Yes; do let us." 
 
 They all got up. As Hermione and Vere moved 
 towards the door Artois leaned out of the window for a 
 moment. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid. There will be no storm to- 
 night, Emilio!" said the Marchesino, gayly almost 
 satirically. 
 
 "No it's quite fine." 
 
 Artois drew in. " We ought to have a perfect even- 
 ing," he added, quietly.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 "How are we going to drive to the Carmine?" said 
 Artois to Hermione, when she had taken her cloak and 
 was ready to go down. 
 
 "We must have two carriages." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Vere and I will go in one, with Gaspare on the box, 
 and you and the Marchese can follow in the other." 
 
 "Signora," said the Marchesino, drawing on his white 
 gloves, "you still do not trust us? You are still de- 
 termined to take the watch-dog? It is cruel of you. 
 It shows a great want of faith in Emilio and in me." 
 
 "Gaspare must come." 
 
 The Marchesino said no more, only shrugged his 
 shoulders with an air of humorous resignation which 
 hid a real chagrin. He knew how watchful a Sicilian 
 can be, how unyielding in attention to his mistresses, 
 if he thinks they need protection. 
 
 But perhaps this Gaspare was to be bribed. 
 
 Instinctively the Marchesino put his hand into his 
 waistcoat- pocket, and began to feel the money there. 
 
 Yes, there was a gold piece. 
 
 "Come, Panacci!" 
 
 Emilio 's hand touched his shoulder, and he followed 
 the ladies out of the room. 
 
 Emilio had called him "Panacci." That sounded 
 almost like a declaration of war. Well, he was ready. 
 At dinner his had been the triumph, and Emilio knew it. 
 He meant his triumph to be a greater one before the 
 
 441
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 evening was over. The reappearance of the gay child 
 in Vere, grafted upon the comprehending woman whom 
 he had seen looking out of her eyes on the day of his last 
 visit to the island, had put the finishing touch to the 
 amorous madness of the Marchesino. He deemed Vere 
 an accomplished coquette. He believed that her cruelty 
 on the night of his serenade, that her coldness and 
 avoidance of him on the day of the lunch, were means 
 devised to increase his ardor. She had been using 
 Emilio merely as an instrument. He had been a weapon 
 in her girlish hands. That was the suitable fate of the 
 old usefulness. 
 
 The Marchesino was in a fever of anticipation. Possi- 
 bly Vere would play into his hands when they got to the 
 festa. If not, he must manage things for himself. The 
 Signora, of course, would make Emilio her escort. Vere 
 would naturally fall to him, the Marchesino. 
 
 But there was the fifth this Gaspare. 
 
 When they came out to the pavement the Marchesino 
 cast a searching glance at the Sicilian, who was taking 
 the cloaks, while the two carriages which had been 
 summoned by the hotel porter were rattling up from the 
 opposite side of the way. Gaspare had saluted him, but 
 did not look at him again. When Hermione and Vere 
 were in the first carriage, Gaspare sprang on to the box 
 as a matter of course. The Marchesino went to tell the 
 coachman which way to drive to the Carmine. When he 
 had finished he looked at Gaspare and said: 
 
 "There will be a big crowd. Take care the Signora 
 does not get hurt in it." 
 
 He laid a slight emphasis on the word "Signora," and 
 put his hand significantly into his waistcoat-pocket. 
 
 Gaspare regarded him calmly. 
 
 "Va bene, Signer Marchese," he replied. "I will take 
 care of the Signora and the Signorina." 
 
 The Marchesino turned away and jumped into the 
 
 442
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 second carriage with Emilio, realizing angrily that his 
 gold piece would avail him nothing. 
 
 As they drove off Artois drew out some small square 
 bits of paper. 
 
 "Here's your ticket for the enclosure," he said, giving 
 one to the Marchesino. 
 
 "Grazie. But we must walk about. We must show 
 the ladies the fun in the Mercato. It is very dull to stay 
 all the evening in the enclosure." 
 
 "We will do whatever they like, of course." 
 
 "Keep close to the other carriage! Do you hear?" 
 roared the Marchesino to the coachman. 
 
 The man jerked his head, cracked his whip, pulled 
 at his horse's mouth. They shot forward at a tre- 
 mendous pace, keeping close by the sea at first, then 
 turning to the left up the hill towards the Piazza del 
 Plebiscito. The Marchesino crossed his legs, folded his 
 arms, and instinctively assumed the devil-may-care look 
 characteristic of the young Neapolitan when driving 
 through his city. 
 
 "Emilio," he said, after a moment, looking at Artois 
 out of the corners of his eyes without moving his head, 
 "when I was at the island the other day, do you know 
 whom I saw in the house?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A girl of the town. A bad girl. You understand ?" 
 
 "Do you mean a girl with a wounded cheek?" 
 
 "Yes. How can the Signora have her there?" 
 
 "The Signora knows all about her," said Artois, 
 dryly. 
 
 "She thinks so!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "If the Signora really knew, could she take such a 
 girl to live with the Signorina?" 
 
 The conversation was rapidly becoming insupportable 
 to Artois. 
 
 '<> 443
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "This is not our affair," he said. 
 
 "I do not say it is. But still, as I am a Neapolitan, 
 I think it a pity that some one does not explain to the 
 Signora how impossible " 
 
 "Caro mio!" Artois exclaimed, unable to endure his 
 companion's obvious inclination to pose as a protector 
 of Vere's innocence, "English ladies do not care to be 
 governed. They are not like your charming women. 
 They are independent and do as they choose. You had 
 much better not bother your head about what happens 
 on the island. Very soon the Signora may be leaving it 
 and going away from Naples." 
 
 "Davvero?" 
 
 The Marchesino turned right round in the little carriage, 
 forgetting his pose. 
 
 "Davvero? No. I don't believe it. You play with 
 me. You wish to frighten me." 
 
 "To frighten you! I don't understand what you 
 mean. What can it matter to you? You scarcely 
 know these ladies." 
 
 The Marchesino pursed his lips together. But he 
 only said, "Si, si." He did not mean to quarrel with 
 Emilio yet. To do so might complicate matters with 
 the ladies. 
 
 As they entered the Via del Popolo, and drew near 
 to the Piazza, di Masaniello, his excitement increased, 
 stirred by the sight of the crowds of people, who were all 
 streaming in the same direction past the iron rails of the 
 port, beyond which, above the long and ghostly sheds 
 that skirt the sea, rose the tapering masts of vessels lying 
 at anchor. Plans buzzed in his head. He called upon 
 all his shrewdness, all his trickiness of the South. He 
 had little doubt of his capacity to out-manceuvre Emilio 
 and the Signora. And if the Signorina were favorable 
 to him, he believed that he might even get the better of 
 Gaspare, in whom he divined a watchful hostility. But 
 
 444
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 would the Signorina help him? He could not tell. How 
 can one ever tell what a girl will do at a given moment ? 
 
 With a jerk the carriage drew up beneath the walls of 
 the prison that frowns upon the Piazza di Masaniello, 
 and the Marchesino roused himself to the battle and 
 sprang out. The hum of the great crowd already as- 
 sembled, the brilliance of the ilhiminations that lit up 
 the houses, Nuvolo's tower, the facade of the Church of 
 the Carmine, and the adjoining monastery, the loud 
 music of the band that was stationed in the Kosk before 
 the enclosure, stirred his young blood. As he went 
 quickly to help Hermione and Vere, he shot a glance 
 almost of contempt at the gray hairs of Emilio, who was 
 getting out of the carriage slowly. Artois saw the glance 
 and understood it. For a moment he stood still. Then 
 he paid the coachman and moved on, encompassed by 
 the masses of people who were struggling gayly towards 
 the centre of the Square, intent upon seeing the big doll 
 that was enthroned there dressed as Masaniello. 
 
 "We had better go into the enclosure. Don't you 
 think so?" he said to Hermione. 
 
 "If you like. I am ready for anything." 
 
 "We can walk about afterwards. Perhaps the crush 
 will be less when the fire-balloon has gone up." 
 
 The Marchesino said nothing, and they gained the 
 enclosure, where rows of little chairs stood on the short 
 grass that edges the side of the prison that looks upon 
 the Piazza. Gaspare, who on such occasions was full 
 of energy and singularly adroit, found them good places 
 in a moment. 
 
 "Ecco, Signora! Ecco, Signorina!" 
 
 "Madre, may I stand on my chair?" 
 
 "Of course, Signorina. Look! Others are standing!" 
 
 Gaspare helped his Padroncina up, then took his place 
 beside her, and stood like a sentinel. Artois had never 
 liked him better than at that moment. Hermione, who 
 
 445;
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 looked rather tired, sat down on her chair. The loud 
 music of the band, the lines of fire that brought the dis- 
 colored houses into sharp relief, and that showed her 
 with a distinctness that was fanciful and lurid the 
 moving faces of hundreds of strangers, the dull roar of 
 voices, and the heat that flowed from the human bodies, 
 seemed to mingle, to become concrete, to lie upon her 
 spirit like a weight. Artois stood by her, leaning on his 
 stick and watching the crowd with his steady eyes. The 
 Marchesino was looking up at Vere, standing in a position 
 that seemed to indicate a longing that she should rest 
 her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "You will fall, Signorina!" he said. "Be careful. 
 Let me " 
 
 "I am quite safe." 
 
 But she dropped one hand to the shoulder of Gaspare. 
 
 The Marchesino moved, almost as if he were about to 
 go away. Then he lit a cigarette and spoke to Her- 
 mione. 
 
 "You look tired, Signora. You feel the heat. It is 
 much fresher outside, when one is walking. Here, under 
 the prison walls, it is always like a furnace in summer. 
 It is unwholesome. It puts one into a fever." 
 
 Hermione looked at him, and saw a red spot burning 
 on each side of his face near his cheek-bones. 
 
 "Perhaps it would be better to walk," she said, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 Her inclination was for movement, for her fatigue was 
 combined with a sensation of great restlessness. 
 
 "What do you say, Vere?" she added. 
 
 "Oh, I should love to go among the people and see 
 everything," she answered, eagerly. 
 
 The Marchesino's brow cleared. 
 
 "Let us go, Emilio! You hear what the Signorina 
 says." 
 
 "Very well," said Artois. 
 
 446
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 His voice was reluctant, even cold. Vere glanced at 
 him quickly. 
 
 "Would you rather stay here, Monsieur Emile?" she 
 said. 
 
 "No, Vere, no. Let us go and see the fun." 
 
 He smiled at her. 
 
 "We must keep close together," he added, looking at 
 the Marchesino. "The crowd is tremendous." 
 
 "But they are all in good humor," he answered, care- 
 lessly. "We Neapolitans, we are very gay, that is true, 
 but we do not forget our manners when we have a festa. 
 There is nothing to fear. This is the best way out. We 
 must cross the Mercato. The illuminations of the streets 
 beyond are always magnificent. The Signorina shall 
 walk down paths of fire, but she shall not be burned." 
 
 He led the way with Vere, going in front to disarm 
 the suspicion which he saw plainly lurking in Emilio's 
 eyes. Artois followed with Hermione, and Gaspare came 
 last. The exit from the enclosure was difficult, as many 
 people were pouring in through the narrow opening, and 
 others, massed together outside the wooden barrier, 
 were gazing at the seated women within ; but at length 
 they reached the end of the Piazza, and caught a glimpse 
 of the Masaniello doll, which faced a portrait of the 
 Madonna del Carmine framed in fire. Beyond, to the 
 right, above the heads of the excited multitude, rose the 
 pale-pink globe of the fire-balloon, and as for a moment 
 they stood still to look at it the band struck up a so- 
 norous march, the balloon moved sideways, swayed, 
 heeled over slightly like a sailing - yacht catching the 
 breeze beyond the harbor bar, recovered itself, and lifted 
 its blazing car above the gesticulating arms of the 
 people. A long murmur followed it as it glided gently 
 away, skirting the prodigious belfry with the apparent 
 precaution of a living thing that longed for, and sought, 
 the dim freedom of the sky. The children instinctively 
 
 447
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 stretched out their arms to it. All faces were lifted 
 towards the stars, as if a common aspiration at that 
 moment infected the throng, a universal, though passing 
 desire to be free of the earth, to mount, to travel, to be 
 lost in the great spaces that encircle terrestrial things. 
 At the doors of the trattorie the people, who had for- 
 saken their snails, stood to gaze, many of them holding 
 glasses of white wine in their hands. The spighe arrosto, 
 the watermelons, were for a moment forgotten on the 
 stalls of their vendors, who ceased from shouting to the 
 passers-by. There was a silence in which was almost 
 audible the human wish for wings. Presently the 
 balloon, caught by some vagrant current of air, began 
 to travel abruptly, and more swiftly, sideways, passing 
 over the city towards its centre. At once the crowd 
 moved in the same direction. Aspiration was gone. 
 A violence of children took its place, and the instinct to 
 follow where the blazing toy led. The silence was 
 broken. People called and gesticulated, laughed and 
 chattered. Then the balloon caught fire from the 
 brazier beneath it. A mass of flames shot up. A roar 
 broke from the crowd and it pressed more fiercely on- 
 ward, each unit of it longing to see where the wreck 
 would fall. Already the flames were sinking towards 
 the city. 
 
 "Where are Vere and the Marchesino?" 
 
 Hermione had spoken. Artois, whose imagination 
 had been fascinated by the instincts of the crowd, and 
 whose intellect had been chained to watchfulness during 
 its strange excitement, looked sharply round. 
 
 "Vere isn't she here?" 
 
 He saw at once that she was gone. But he saw, too, 
 that Gaspare was no longer with them. The watch- 
 dog had been more faithful than he. 
 
 "They must be close by," he added. "The sudden 
 movement separated us, no doubt." 
 
 448
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Yes. Gaspare has vanished too!" 
 
 "With them," Artois said. 
 
 He spoke with an emphasis that was almost violent. 
 
 "But you didn't see " began Hermione. 
 
 "Don't you know Gaspare yet?" he asked. 
 
 Their eyes met. She was startled by the expression 
 in his. 
 
 "You don't think " she began. 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 "I think Gaspare knows his Southerner," Artois 
 replied. "We must look for them. They are certain 
 to have gone with the crowd." 
 
 They followed the people into the Mercato. The 
 burning balloon dropped down and disappeared. 
 
 "It had fallen into the Rettifilo!" cried a young man 
 close to them. 
 
 "Macche!" exclaimed his companion. 
 
 "I will bet you five lire " 
 
 He gesticulated furiously. 
 
 "We shall never find them," Hermione said. 
 
 "We will try to find them." 
 
 His voice startled her now, as his eyes had startled 
 her. A man in the crowd pressed against her roughly. 
 Instinctively she caught hold of Artois' arm. 
 
 "Yes, you had better take it," he said. 
 
 "Oh, it was only " 
 
 "No, take it." 
 
 And he drew her hand under his arm. 
 
 The number of people in the Mercato was immense, 
 but it was possible to walk on steadily, though slowly. 
 Now that the balloon had vanished the crowd had for- 
 gotten it, and was devoting itself eagerly to the pleasures 
 of the fair. In the tall and barrack-like houses candles 
 gleamed in honor of Masaniello. The streets that led 
 away towards the city's heart were decorated with 
 arches of little lamps, with columns and chains of lights, 
 
 449
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and the pedestrians passing through them looked 
 strangely black in this great frame of fire. From the 
 Piazza, before the Carmine the first rocket rose, and, 
 exploding, showered its golden rain upon the picture of 
 the Virgin. 
 
 "Perhaps they have gone back into the Piazza." 
 
 Hermione spoke after a long silence, during which 
 they had searched in vain. Artois stood still and looked 
 down at her. His face was very stern. 
 
 "We sha'n't find them," he said. 
 
 "In this crowd, of course, it is difficult, but " 
 
 "We sha'n't find them." 
 
 "At any rate, Gaspare is with them." 
 
 "How do we know that?" 
 
 The expression in his face frightened her. 
 
 "But you said you were sure " 
 
 "Panacci was too clever for us; he may have been too 
 clever for Gaspare." 
 
 Hermione was silent for a moment. Then she said: 
 
 "You surely don't think the Marchese is wicked?" 
 
 "He is young, he is Neapolitan, and to-night he is 
 mad. Vere has made him mad." 
 
 "But Vere was only gay at dinner as any child " 
 
 "Don't think I am blaming Vere. If she has fascina- 
 tion, she cannot help it." 
 
 "What shall we do?" 
 
 "Will you let me put you into a cab? Will you wait 
 in my room at the hotel until I come back with Vere ? 
 I can search for her better alone. I will find her -if she 
 is here." 
 
 Their eyes met steadily as he finished speaking, and he 
 saw, or thought he saw, in hers a creeping menace, as 
 if she had the intention to attack or to defy him. 
 
 "I am Vere's mother," she said. 
 
 "Let me take you to a cab, Hermione." 
 
 He spoke coldly, inexorably. This moment of en- 
 
 45
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 forced inactivity was a very difficult one for him. And 
 the violence that was blazing within him made him fear 
 that if Hermione did not yield to his wish he might lose 
 his self-control. 
 
 "You can do nothing," he added. 
 
 Her eyes left his, her lips quivered. Then she said: 
 
 "Take me, then." 
 
 She did not look at him again until she was in a cab 
 and Artois had told the driver to go to the Hdtel Royal. 
 Then she glanced at him with a strange expression of 
 acute self -consciousness which he had never before seen 
 on her face. 
 
 "You don't believe that that there is any danger to 
 Vere?" she said, in a low voice. "You cannot believe 
 that." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 She leaned forward, and her face changed. 
 
 "Go and bring her back to me." 
 
 The cabman drove off, and Artois was lost in the 
 crowd. 
 
 He never knew how long his search lasted, how long 
 he heard the swish and the bang of rockets, the vehement 
 music of the band, the cries and laughter of the people, 
 the sound of footsteps as if a world were starting on some 
 pilgrimage; how long he saw the dazzling avenues of 
 fire stretching away into the city's heart; how long he 
 looked at the faces of strangers, seeking Vere's face. 
 He was excessively conscious of almost everything except 
 of time. It might have been two hours later, or much 
 less, when he felt a hand upon his arm, turned round, 
 and saw Gaspare beside him. 
 
 "Whe>re is the Signora?" 
 
 "Gone to the hotel. And the Signorina?" 
 
 Gaspare looked at Artois with a sort of heavy gloom, 
 then looked down to the ground. 
 
 "You have lost her?" 
 
 451
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si." 
 
 There was a dulness of fatalism in his voice. 
 
 Artois did not reproach him. 
 
 "Did you lose them when the balloon went up?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Macche! It was not the balloon!" Gaspare said, 
 fiercely. 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 Artois felt suddenly that Gaspare had some perfect 
 excuse for his inattention. 
 
 "Some one spoke to me. When I when I had 
 finished the Signorina and that Signore were gone." 
 
 "Some one spoke to you. Who was it?" 
 
 "It was Ruffo." 
 
 Artois stared at Gaspare. 
 
 "Ruffo! Was he alone?" 
 
 "No, Signore." 
 
 "Who was with him?" 
 
 "His mother was with him." 
 
 "His mother. Did you speak to her?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 There was a silence between them. It was broken by 
 a sound of bells. 
 
 "Signore, it is midnight." 
 
 Artois drew out his watch quickly. The hands point- 
 ed to twelve o'clock. The crowd was growing thinner, 
 was surely melting away. 
 
 "We had better go to the hotel," Artois said. "Per- 
 haps they are there. If they are not there 
 
 He did not finish the sentence. They found a cab 
 and drove swiftly towards the Marina. All the time the 
 little carriage rattled over the stony streets Artois ex- 
 pected Gaspare to speak to him, to tell him more, to 
 tell him something tremendous. He felt as if the Sicilian 
 were beset by an imperious need to break a long reserve. 
 But, if it were so, this reserve was too strong for its 
 
 452
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 enemy. Gaspare's lips were closed. He did not say a 
 word till the cabman drew up before the hotel. 
 
 As Artois got out he knew that he was terribly ex- 
 cited. The hall was almost dark, and the night con- 
 cierge came from his little room on the right of the 
 door to turn on the light and accompany Artois to the 
 lift. 
 
 "There is a lady waiting in your room, Signore," he 
 said. 
 
 Artois, who was walking quickly towards the lift, 
 stopped. He looked at Gaspare. 
 
 "A lady!" he said. 
 
 "Shall I go back to the Piazza,, Signore?" 
 
 He half turned towards the swing door. 
 
 "Wait a minute. Come up-stairs first and see the 
 Signora." 
 
 The lift ascended. As Artois opened the door of his 
 sitting-room he heard a woman's dress rustle, and 
 Hermione stood before them. 
 
 "Vere?" she said. 
 
 She laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 There was a sound of reproach in her voice. She 
 took her hand away from Artois. 
 
 "Gaspare?" she repeated, interrogatively. 
 
 "Signora!" he answered, doggedly. 
 
 He did not lift his eyes to hers. 
 
 "You have lost the Signorina?" 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 He attempted no excuse, he expressed no regret. 
 
 "Gaspare!" Hermione said. 
 
 Suddenly Artois put his hand on Gaspare's shoulder. 
 He said nothing, but his touch told the Sicilian much 
 told him how he was understood, how he was respected, 
 by this man who had shared his silence. 
 
 "We thought they might be here," Artois said. 
 453
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "They are not here." 
 
 Her voice was almost hard, almost rebuking. She 
 was still standing in the door-space. 
 
 "I will go back and look again, Signora." 
 
 "SI," she said. 
 
 She turned back into the room. Artois held out his 
 hand to Gaspare: 
 
 "Signore?" 
 
 Gaspare looked surprised, hesitating, then moved. 
 He took the out-stretched hand, grasped it violently, 
 and went away. 
 
 Artois shut the sitting-room door and went towards 
 Hermione. 
 
 "You are staying?" she said. 
 
 By her intonation he could not tell whether she was 
 glad or almost angrily astonished. 
 
 "They may come here immediately," he said. "I 
 wish to see Panacci when he comes." 
 
 She looked at him quickly. 
 
 " It must be an accident," she said. " I can't I won't 
 believe that no one could hurt Vere." 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "No one could hurt Vere," she repeated. 
 
 He went out on to the balcony and stood there for 
 two or three minutes, looking down at the sea and at the 
 empty road. She did not follow him, but sat down upon 
 the sofa near the writing-table. Presently he turned 
 round. 
 
 "Gaspare has gone." 
 
 "It would have been better if he had never come!" 
 
 "Hermione," he said, "has it come to this, that I 
 must defend Gaspare to you?" 
 
 "I think Gaspare might have kept with Vere, ought to 
 have kept with Vere." 
 
 Artois felt a burning desire to make Hermione under- 
 stand the Sicilian, but he only said, gently: 
 
 454
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Some day, perhaps, you will know Gaspare's charac- 
 ter better, you will understand all this." 
 
 "I can't understand it now. But oh, if Vere No, 
 that's impossible, impossible!" 
 
 She spoke with intense vehemence. 
 
 "Some things cannot happen," she exclaimed, with a 
 force that seemed to be commanding destiny. 
 
 Artois said nothing. And his apparent calm seemed 
 to punish her, almost as if he struck her with a whip. 
 
 "Why don't you speak?" she said. 
 
 She felt almost confused by his silence. 
 
 He went out again to the balcony, leaned on the 
 railing and looked over. She felt that he was listening 
 with his whole nature for the sound of wheels. She felt 
 that she heard him listening, that she heard him de- 
 manding the sound. And as she looked at his dark 
 figure, beyond which she saw the vagueness of night 
 and some stars, she was conscious of the life in him as she 
 had never been conscious of it before, she was conscious 
 of all his manhood terribly awake. 
 
 That was for Vere. 
 
 A quarter of an hour went by. Artois remained al- 
 ways on the balcony, and scarcely moved. Hermione 
 watched him, and tried to learn a lesson; tried to realize 
 without bitterness and horror that in the heart of man 
 everything has been planted, and that therefore nothing 
 which grows there should cause too great amazement, 
 too great condemnation, or the absolute withdrawal of 
 pity; tried to face someth'ng which must completely 
 change her life, sweeping away more than mere illu- 
 sions, sweeping away a long reverence which had been 
 well founded, and which she had kept very secret in her 
 heart, replacing its vital substance with a pale shadow 
 of compassion. 
 
 She watched him, and she listened for the sound of 
 wheels, until at last she could bear it no longer. 
 
 455
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Emile, what are we to do? What can we do?" she 
 said, desperately. 
 
 "Hush! "he said. 
 
 He held up his hand. They both listened and heard 
 far off the noise of a carriage rapidly approaching. He 
 looked over into the road. The carriage rattled up. 
 She heard it stop, and saw him bend down. Then sud- 
 denly he drew himself up, turned, and came into the 
 room. 
 
 "They have come," he said. 
 
 He went to the door and opened it, and stood by it. 
 
 And his face was terrible.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Two minutes later there was the sound of steps coming 
 quickly down the uncarpeted corridor, and Vere entered, 
 followed, but not closely, by the Marchesino. Vere went 
 up at once to her mother, without even glancing at 
 Artois. 
 
 "I am so sorry, Madre," she said, quietly. "But 
 but it was not my fault." 
 
 The Marchesino had paused near the door, as if doubt- 
 ful of Vere's intentions. Now he approached Hermione, 
 pulling off his white gloves. 
 
 "Signora," he said, in a hard and steady voice, but 
 smiling boyishly, "I fear I am the guilty one. When 
 the balloon went up we were separated from you by the 
 crowd, and could not find you again immediately. The 
 Signorina wished to go back to the enclosure. Unfort- 
 unately I had lost the tickets, so that we should not have 
 been readmitted. Under these circumstances I thought 
 the best thing was to show the Signorina the illumina- 
 tions, and then to come straight back to the hotel. I 
 hope you have not been distressed. The Signorina was 
 of course perfectly safe with me." 
 
 "Thank you, Marchese," said Hermione, coldly. 
 "Emile, what are we to do about Gaspare?" 
 
 "Gaspare?" asked Vere. 
 
 "He has gone back to the Piazza, to searcn for you 
 again." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She flushed, turned away, and went up to the window. 
 457
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 There she hesitated, and finally stepped out on to the 
 balcony. 
 
 "You had better spend the night in the hotel," said 
 Artois. 
 
 "But we have nothing!" 
 
 "The housemaid can find you what is necessary in the 
 morning." 
 
 "As to our clothes that doesn't matter. Perhaps it 
 will be the best plan." 
 
 Artois rang the bell. They waited in silence till the 
 night porter came. 
 
 "Can you give these two ladies rooms for the night?" 
 said Artois. "It is too late for them to go home by 
 boat, and their servant has not come back yet." 
 
 "Yes, sir. The ladies can have two very good rooms." 
 
 "Good-night, Emile," said Hermione. "Good-night, 
 Marchese. Vere!" 
 
 Vere came in from the balcony. 
 
 "We are going to sleep here, Vere. Come!" 
 
 She went out. 
 
 "Good-night, Monsieur Emile," Vere said to Artois, 
 without looking at him. 
 
 She followed her mother without saying another 
 word. 
 
 Artois looked after them as they went down the 
 corridor, watched Vere's thin and girlish figure until she 
 turned the corner near the staircase, walking slowly 
 and, he thought, as if she were tired and depressed. 
 During this moment he was trying to get hold of his own 
 violence, to make sure of his self-control. When the 
 sound of the footsteps had died completely away he 
 drew back into the room and shut the door. 
 
 The Marchesino was standing near the window. When 
 he saw the face of Artois he sat down in an arm-chair and 
 put his hat on the floor. 
 
 "You don't mind if I stay for a few minutes, Emilio?" 
 458
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 he said. "Have you anything to drink? I am thirsty 
 after all this walking in the crowd." 
 
 Artois brought him some Nocera and lemons. 
 
 "Do you want brandy, whiskey?" 
 
 "No, no. Grazie." 
 
 He poured out the Nocera gently, and began carefully 
 to squeeze some lemon -juice into it, holding the fruit 
 lightly in his strong fingers, and watching the drops fall 
 with a quiet attention. 
 
 "Where have you been to-night?" 
 
 The Marchesino looked up. 
 
 "In the Piazza di Masaniello." 
 
 "Where have you been?" 
 
 " I tell you the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two 
 streets to see the illuminations. What's the matter, 
 caro mio? Are you angry because we lost you in the 
 crowd?" 
 
 "You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left 
 the hotel to-night." 
 
 " Not at all, amico mio. Not at all." 
 
 His voice hardened again, the furrows appeared on his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Now you are lying," said Artois. 
 
 The Marchesino got up and stood in front of Artois. 
 The ugly, cat-like look had come into his face, changing 
 it from its usual boyish impudence to a hardness that 
 suggested age. At that moment he looked much older 
 than he was. 
 
 "Be careful, Emilio!" he said. "I am Neapolitan, 
 and I do not allow myself to be insulted." 
 
 His gray eyes contracted. 
 
 "You did not mean to get lost with the Signorina?" 
 said Artois. 
 
 "One leaves such things to destiny." 
 
 "Destiny! Well, to-night it is your destiny to go out 
 of the Signorina 's life forever." 
 3 o 459
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "How dare you command me? How dare you speak 
 for these ladies?" 
 
 Suddenly Artois went quite white, and laid his hand 
 on the Marchesino's arm. 
 
 ' ' Where have you been ? What have you been doing 
 all this time?" he said. 
 
 Questions blazed in his eyes. His hand closed more 
 firmly on the Marchesino. 
 
 "Where did you take that child? What did you say 
 to her? What did you dare to say?" 
 
 "I! And you?" said the Marchesino, sharply. 
 
 He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. 
 "And you you!" he repeated. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes you! What have you said to her? Where 
 have you taken her? I at least am young. My blood 
 speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate. I know 
 what I am, what I want; I show it; I say it; I am 
 sincere. I I am ready to go naked into the sun before 
 the whole world, and say, 'There! There! This is 
 Isidoro Panacci; and he is this and this and this! 
 Like it or hate it that does not matter! It is not his 
 fault. He is like that. He is made like that. He is 
 meant to be like that, and he is that he is that!' Do 
 you hear? That is what I am ready to do. But you 
 you ! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!" 
 
 He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the 
 ceiling and shook his head sharply from side to side. 
 Then he slapped his hands gently and repeatedly against 
 his knees, and a prim and almost venerable look came 
 into his mobile face. 
 
 "The great worker! The man of intellect! The man 
 who is above the follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who 
 loves a beautiful girl, and who is proud of loving her, 
 and who shows that he loves her, that he wants her, that 
 he wishes to take her! Stand still! " he suddenly hissed 
 
 460
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 out the words. "The man with the white hairs who 
 might have had many children of his own, but who pre- 
 fers to play papa caro papa, Babbo bello! to the child 
 of another on a certain little island. Ah, buon Dio! 
 The wonderful writer, respected and admired by all; 
 by whose side the little Isidore seems only a small boy 
 from college, about whom nobody need bother! How 
 he is loved, and how he is trusted on the island! No- 
 body must come there but he and those whom he wishes. 
 He is to order, to arrange all. The little Isidore he 
 must not come there. He must not know the ladies. 
 He is nothing; but he is wicked. He loves pleasure. 
 He loves beautiful girls! Wicked, wicked Isidore ! 
 Keep him out! Keep him away! But the great writer 
 with the white hairs everything is allowed to him 
 because he is Caro Papa. He may teach the Signorina. 
 He may be alone with her. He may take her out at 
 night in the boat." His cheeks were stained with red 
 and his eyes glittered. "And when the voice of that 
 wicked little Isidore is heard Quick! quick! To the 
 cave! Let us escape! Let us hide where it is dark, and 
 he will never find us! Let us make him think we are at 
 Nisida! Hush! the boat is passing. He is deceived! 
 He will search all night till he is tired! Ah ah ah! 
 That is good! And now back to the island quick! 
 before he finds out!" He thrust out his arm towards 
 Artois. "And that is my friend!" he exclaimed. "He 
 who calls himself the friend of the little wicked Isidore. 
 P f !" He turned his head and spat on to the balcony. 
 "Gran Dio ! And this white-haired Babbo ! He steals 
 into the Galleria at night to meet Maria Fortunata! He 
 puts a girl of the town to live with the Signorina upon 
 the island, to teach her " 
 
 "Stop!" said Artois. 
 
 "I will not stop!" said the Marchesino, furiously. 
 "To teach the Signorina all the " 
 
 461
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Artois lifted his hand. 
 
 "Do you want me to strike you on the mouth?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Strike me!" 
 
 Artois looked at him with a steadiness that seemed to 
 pierce. 
 
 "Then take care, Panacci. You are losing your 
 head." 
 
 "And you have lost yours!" cried the Marchesino. 
 "You, with your white hairs, you are mad. You are 
 mad about the 'child.' You play papa, and all the 
 time you are mad, and you think nobody sees it. But 
 every one sees it, every one knows it. Every one knows 
 that you are madly in love with the Signorina." 
 
 Artois had stepped back. 
 
 "I in love!" he said. 
 
 His voice was contemptuous, but his face had become 
 flushed, and his hands suddenly clinched themselves. 
 
 "What! you play the hypocrite even with yourself! 
 Ah, we Neapolitans, we may be shocking; but at least 
 we are sincere! You do not know? then I will tell you. 
 You love the Signorina madly, and you hate me because 
 you are jealous of me -because I am young and you are 
 old. I know it; the Signora knows it; that Sicilian 
 Gaspare he knows it! And now you you know it!" 
 
 He suddenly flung himself down on the sofa that was 
 behind him. Perspiration was running down his face, 
 and even his hands were wet with it. 
 
 Artois said nothing, but stood where he was, looking 
 at the Marchesino, as if he were waiting for something 
 more which must inevitably come. The Marchesino 
 took out his handkerchief, passed it several times quickly 
 over his lips, then rolled it up into a ball and shut it up 
 in his left hand. 
 
 "I am young and you are old," he said. "And that 
 is all the matter. You hate me, not because you think 
 
 462
 
 I am wicked and might do the Signorina harm, but 
 because I am young. You try to keep the Signorina 
 from me because I am young. You do not dare to let 
 her know what youth is, really, really to know, really, 
 really to feel. Because, if once she did know, if once she 
 did feel, if she touched the fire" he struck his hand 
 down on his breast "she would be carried away, she 
 would be gone from you forever. You think, 'Now 
 she looks up to me! She reverences me! She admires 
 me! She worships me as a great man!' And if once, 
 only once she touched the fire ah!" he flung out both 
 his arms with a wide gesture, opened his mouth, then 
 shut it, showing his teeth like an animal. "Away would 
 go everything everything. She would forget your 
 talent, she would forget your fame, she would forget 
 your thoughts, your books, she would forget you, do you 
 hear? all, all of you. She would remember only that 
 you are old and she is young, and that, because of that, 
 she is not for you. And then" his voice dropped, be- 
 came cold and serious and deadly, like the voice of one 
 proclaiming a stark truth "and then, if she under- 
 stood you, what you feel, and what you wish, and how 
 you think of her she would hate you! How she would 
 hate you!" 
 
 He stopped abruptly, staring at Artois, who said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Is it not true?" he said. 
 
 He got up, taking his hat and stick from the floor. 
 
 "You do not know! Well think! And you will 
 know that it is true. A rivederci, Emilio!" 
 
 His manner had suddenly become almost calm. He 
 turned away and went towards the door. When he 
 reached it he added: 
 
 "To-morrow I shall ask the Signora to allow me to 
 marry the Signorina." 
 
 Then he went out. 
 
 463
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The gilt clock on the marble table beneath the mirror 
 struck the half -hour after one. Artois looked at it and 
 at his watch, comparing them. The action was me- 
 chanical, and unaccompanied by any thought connected 
 with it. When he put his watch back into his pocket he 
 did not know whether its hands pointed to half-past 
 one or not. He carried a light chair on to the balcony, 
 and sat down there, crossing his legs, and leaning one 
 arm on the rail. 
 
 "If she touched the fire." Those words of the Mar- 
 chesino remained in the mind of Artois why, he did 
 not know. He saw before him a vision of a girl and 
 of a flame. The flame aspired towards the girl, but the 
 girl hesitated, drew back then waited. 
 
 What had happened during the hours of the Festa? 
 Artois did not know. The Marchesino had told him 
 nothing, except that he Artois was madly in love 
 with Vere. Monstrous absurdity! What trivial non- 
 sense men talked in moments of anger, when they de- 
 sired to wound! 
 
 And to-morrow the Marchesino would ask Vere to 
 marry him. Of course Vere would refuse. She had 
 no feeling for him. She would tell him so. He would 
 be obliged to understand that for once he could not have 
 his own way. He would go out of Vere's life, abruptly, 
 as he had come into it. 
 
 He would go. That was certain. But others would 
 come into Vere's life. Fire would spring up round 
 about her, the fire of the love of men for a girl who has 
 fire within her, the fire of the love of youth for youth. 
 
 Youth! Artois was not by nature a sentimentalist 
 and he was not a fool. He knew how to accept the 
 inevitable things life cruelly brings to men, without 
 futile struggling, without contemptible pretence. Quite 
 calmly, quite serenely, he had accepted the snows of 
 middle age. He had not secretly groaned or cursed, 
 
 464
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 railed against destiny, striven to defy it by travesty, as 
 do many men. He had thought himself to be "above" 
 all that until lately. But now, as he thought of the 
 fire, he was conscious of an immense sadness that had 
 in it something of passion, or a regret that was, for a 
 moment, desperate, bitter, that seared, that tortured, 
 that was scarcely to be endured. It is terrible to realize 
 that one is at a permanent disadvantage, which time 
 can only increase. And just then Artois felt that there 
 was nothing, that there could never be anything, to 
 compensate any human being for the loss of youth. 
 
 lie began to wonder about the people of the island. 
 The Marchesino had spoken with a strange assurance. 
 He had dared to say: 
 
 ' ' You love the Signorina. I know it ; the Signora knows 
 it ; Gaspare he knows it. And now you you know it." 
 
 Was it possible that his deep interest in Vere, his 
 paternal delight in her talent, in her growing charm, 
 in her grace and sweetness, could have been mistaken 
 for something else, for the desire of man for woman? 
 Vere had certainly never for a moment misunderstood 
 him. That he knew as surely as he knew that he was 
 alive. But Gaspare and Hermione? He fell into 
 deep thought, and presently he was shaken by an emo- 
 tion that was partly disgust and partly anxiety. He got 
 up from his chair and looked out into the night. The 
 weather was exquisitely still, the sky absolutely clear. 
 The sea was like the calm that dwells surely in the breast 
 of God. Naples was sleeping in the silence. But he 
 was terribly awake, and it began to seem to him as if 
 he had, perhaps, slept lately, slept too long. He was a 
 lover of truth, and believed himself to be a discerner of 
 it. The Marchesino was but a thoughtless, passionate 
 boy, headstrong, Pagan, careless of intellect, and im- 
 mensely physical. Yet it was possible that he had been 
 enabled to see a truth which Artois had neither seen 
 
 465
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 nor suspected. Artois began to believe it possible, as 
 he remembered many details of the conduct of Hermi- 
 one and of Gaspare in these last summer days. There 
 had been something of condemnation sometimes in the 
 Sicilian's eyes as they looked into his. He had won- 
 dered what it meant. Had it meant that? And that 
 night in the garden with Hermione 
 
 With all his force and fixity of purpose he fastened 
 his mind upon Hermione, letting Gaspare go. 
 
 If what the Marchesino had asserted were true 
 not that but if Hermione had believed it to be true, 
 much in her conduct that had puzzled Artois was made 
 plain. Could she have thought that ? Had she thought 
 it? And if she had ? Always he was looking out to 
 the stars, and to the ineffable calm of the sea. But now 
 their piercing brightness, and its large repose, only 
 threw into a sort of blatant relief in his mind its con- 
 sciousness of the tumult of humanity. He saw Hermione 
 involved in that tumult, and he saw himself. And Vere ? 
 
 Was it possible that in certain circumstances Vere 
 might hate him? It was strange that to-night Artois 
 found himself for the first time considering the Marche- 
 sino seriously, not as a boy, but as a man who perhaps 
 knew something of the world and of character better 
 than he did. The Marchesino had said: 
 
 "If she understood you how she would hate you." 
 
 But surely Vere and he understood each other very well. 
 
 He looked out over the sea steadily, as he wished, as 
 he meant, to look now at himself, into his own heart and 
 nature, into his own life. Upon the sea, to the right and 
 far off, a light was moving near the blackness of the 
 breakwater. It was the torch of a fisherman one of 
 those eyes of the South of which Artois had thought. 
 His eyes became fascinated by it, and he watched it 
 with intensity. Sometimes it was still. Then it trav- 
 elled gently onward, coming towards him. Then it 
 
 466
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 stopped again. Fire the fire of youth. He thought 
 of the torch as that; as youth with its hot strength, its 
 beautiful eagerness, its intense desires, its spark-like 
 hopes, moving without fear amid the dark mysteries of 
 the world and of life; seeking treasure in the blackness, 
 the treasure of an answering soul, of a completing nature, 
 of the desired and desirous heart, seeking its complement 
 of love the other fire. 
 
 He looked far over the sea. But there was no other 
 fire upon it. 
 
 And still the light came on. 
 
 And now he thought of it as Vere. 
 
 She was almost a child, but already her fire was being 
 sought, longed for. And she knew it, and must be 
 searching, too, perhaps without definite consciousness 
 of what she was doing, instinctively. She was search- 
 ing there in the blackness, and in her quest she was 
 approaching him. But where he stood it was all dark. 
 There was no flame lifting itself up that could draw her 
 flame to it. The fire that was approaching would pass 
 before him, would go on, exploring the night, would 
 vanish away from his eyes. Elsewhere it would seek 
 the fire it needed, the fire it would surely find at last. 
 
 And so it was. The torch came on, passed softly by, 
 slipped from his sight beneath the bridge of Castel dell' 
 Uovo. 
 
 When it had gone Artois felt strangely deserted and 
 alone, strangely unreconciled with life. And he remem- 
 bered his conversation with Hermione in Virgil's Grotto; 
 how he had spoken like one who scarcely needed love, 
 having ambition and having work to do, and being no 
 longer young. 
 
 To-night he felt that every one needs love first that 
 all the other human needs come after that great necessity. 
 He had thought himself a man full of self-knowledge, 
 full of knowledge of others. But he had not known 
 
 467
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 himself. Perhaps even now the real man was hiding 
 somewhere, far down, shrinking away for fear of being 
 known, for fear of being dragged up into the light. 
 
 He sought for this man, almost with violence. 
 
 A weariness lay beneath his violence to-night, a phys- 
 ical fatigue such as he sometimes felt after work. It 
 had been produced, no doubt, by the secret anger he 
 had so long controlled, the secret but intense curiosity 
 which was not yet satisfied, and which still haunted 
 him and tortured him. This curiosity he now strove 
 to expel from his mind, telling himself that he had no 
 right to it. He had wished to preserve Vere just as 
 she was, to keep her from all outside influences. And 
 now he asked the real man why he had wished it ? Had 
 it been merely the desire of the literary godfather to 
 cherish a pretty and promising talent ? Or had some- 
 thing of the jealous spirit so brutally proclaimed to 
 him that night by the Marchesino really entered into 
 the desire ? This torturing curiosity to know what had 
 happened at the Festa surely betrayed the existence of 
 some such spirit. 
 
 He must get rid of it. 
 
 He began to walk slowly up and down the little bal- 
 cony, turning every instant like a beast in its cage. It 
 seemed to him that the real man had indeed lain in hid- 
 ing, but that he was coming forth reluctantly into the light. 
 
 Possibly he had been drifting without knowing it 
 towards some nameless folly. He was not sure. To- 
 night he felt uncertain of himself and of everything, 
 almost like an ignorant child facing the world. And 
 he felt almost afraid of himself. Was it possible that 
 he, holding within him so much of knowledge, so much 
 of pride, could ever draw near to a crazy absurdity, a 
 thing that the whole world would laugh at and despise ? 
 Had he drawn near to it ? Was he near it now ? 
 
 He thought of all his recent intercourse with Vere, 
 468
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 going back mentally to the day in spring when he ar- 
 rived in Naples. He followed the record day by day 
 until he reached that afternoon when he had returned 
 from Paris, when he came to the island to find Vere 
 alone, when she read to him her poems. Very pitilessly, 
 despite the excitement still raging within him, he exam- 
 ined that day, that night, recalling every incident, re- 
 calling every feeling the incidents of those hours had 
 elicited from his heart. He remembered how vexed 
 he had been when Hermione told him of the engagement 
 for the evening. He remembered the moments after 
 the dinner, his sensation of loneliness when he listened 
 to the gay conversation of Vere and the Marchesino, his 
 almost irritable anxiety when she had left the restaurant 
 and gone out to the terrace in the darkness. He had 
 felt angry with Panacci then. Had he not always felt 
 angry with Panacci for intruding into the island life ? 
 
 He followed the record of his intercourse with Vere 
 until he reached the Festa of that night, until he reached 
 the moment in which he was pacing the tiny balcony 
 while the night wore on towards dawn. 
 
 That was the record of himself with Vere. 
 
 He began to think of Hermione. How had all this 
 that he had just been telling over in his mind affected 
 her? What had she been thinking of it feeling about 
 it? And Gaspare? 
 
 Even now Artois did not understand himself, did not 
 know whither his steps might have tended had not the 
 brutality of the Marchesino roused him abruptly to this 
 self-examination, this self -consideration. He did not 
 fully understand himself, and he wondered very much 
 how Hermione and the Sicilian had understood him 
 judged him. 
 
 Artois had a firm belief in the right instincts of sen- 
 sitive but untutored natures, especially when linked 
 with strong hearts capable of deep love and long fidelity. 
 
 469
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He did not think that Gaspare would easily misread the 
 character or the desires of one whom he knew well. 
 Hermione might. She was tremendously emotional and 
 impulsive, and might be carried away into error. But 
 there was a steadiness in Gaspare which was impressive, 
 which could not be ignored. 
 
 Artois wondered very much what Gaspare had thought. 
 
 There was a tap at the door, and Gaspare came in, hold- 
 ing his soft hat in his hand, and looking tragic and very 
 hot and tired. 
 
 "Oh, Gaspare!" said Artois, coming in from the bal- 
 cony, "they have come back." 
 
 "Lo so, Signore." 
 
 "And they are sleeping here for the night." 
 
 "SI, Signore." 
 
 Gaspare looked at him as if inquiring something of 
 him. 
 
 "Sit down a minute," said Artois, "and have some- 
 thing to drink. You must spend the night here, too. 
 The porter will give you a bed." 
 
 "Grazie, Signore." 
 
 Gaspare sat down by the table, and Artois gave him 
 some Nocera and lemon-juice. He would not have 
 brandy or whiskey, though he would not have refused 
 wine had it been offered to him. 
 
 "Where have you been?" Artois asked him. 
 
 "Signore, I have been all over the Piazza di Masaniello 
 and the Mercato. I have been through all the streets 
 near by. I have been down by the harbor. And the 
 Signorina?" 
 
 He stared at Artois searchingly above his glass. His 
 face was covered with perspiration. 
 
 "I only saw her for a moment. She went to bed 
 almost immediately." 
 
 "And that Signore?" 
 
 "He has gone home." 
 
 470
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Gaspare was silent for a minute. Then he said: 
 
 " If I had met that Signore " He lifted his right hand, 
 which was lying on the table, and moved it towards his 
 belt. 
 
 He sighed, and again looked hard at Artois. 
 
 "It is better that I did not meet him," he said, with 
 naive conviction. "It is much better. The Signorina 
 is not for him." 
 
 Artois was sitting opposite to him, with the table be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "The Signorina is not for him," repeated Gaspare, 
 with a dogged emphasis. 
 
 His large eyes were full of a sort of cloudy rebuke and 
 watchfulness. And as he met them Artois felt that he 
 knew what Gaspare had thought. He longed to say, 
 ''You are wrong. It is not so. It was never so." But 
 he only said: 
 
 "The Signor Marchese will know that to-morrow." 
 
 And as he spoke the words he was conscious of an 
 immense sensation of relief which startled him. He was 
 too glad when he thought of the final dismissal of the 
 Marchesino. 
 
 Gaspare nodded his head and put his glass to his lips. 
 When he set it down again it was empty. He moved to 
 get up, but Artois detained him. 
 
 "And so you met Ruffo to-night?" he said. 
 
 Gaspare's expression completely changed. Instead of 
 the almost cruel watcher, he became the one who felt that 
 he was watched. 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Just when the balloon went up?" 
 
 "Si, Signore. They were beside me in the crowd." 
 
 "Was he alone with his mother?" 
 
 "Si, Signore. Quite alone." 
 
 "Gaspare, I have seen Ruffo's mother." 
 
 Gaspare looked startled.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Truly, Signore?" 
 
 "Yes. I saw her with him one day at the Mergellina. 
 She was crying." 
 
 "Perhaps she is unhappy. Her husband is in prison." 
 
 "Because of Peppina." 
 
 "Si." 
 
 "And to-night you spoke to her for the first time ?" 
 
 Artois laid a strong emphasis on the final words. 
 
 "Signore, I had never met her with Ruffo before." 
 
 The two men looked steadily at each other. A ques- 
 tion that could not be evaded, a question that would 
 break like a hammer upon a mutual silence of years, was 
 almost upon Artois' lips. Perhaps Gaspare saw it, for 
 he got up with determination. 
 
 " I am going to bed now, Signore. I am tired. Buona 
 notte, Signore." 
 
 He took up his hat and went out. 
 
 Artois had not asked his question. But he felt that 
 it was answered. 
 
 Gaspare knew. And he knew. 
 
 And Hermione did Fate intend that she should 
 know?
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing. To-day he felt a self -consciousness that was un- 
 usual 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. Gas- 
 pare's tragic humor cast a cloud about his mistresses. He 
 had met them in the morning with a look of heavy, al- 
 most 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, Signorina. I did not look at the hour." 
 
 She looked away from him and out to sea. 
 
 473
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 sit- 
 ting alone in her room writing some letters, Gaspare ap- 
 peared with an angry and suspicious face. 
 
 "Signora/' he said, "that Signore is here." 
 
 ' ' What Signore ? The Marchese ! ' ' 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 474
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Gaspare was watching his Padrona's face, and sud- 
 denly 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, Signer 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 min- 
 utes 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 
 ** 475
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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. 
 A.nd probably at this consultation his the Marchesino's 
 fate had been decided. 
 
 By Emilio ? 
 
 At that moment the Marchesino actively, even furious- 
 ly, 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. 
 
 1 ' Good-afternoon , Signora. ' ' 
 
 Hermione sat down. He followed her example. 
 
 "I don't know why you wish to see me, after yester- 
 day, 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 
 476
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 im- 
 pulse 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 im- 
 pulse 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. 
 
 477
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 daugh- 
 ter, and you will see whether it is you or I who under- 
 stands her best." 
 
 "Very well, Marchese." 
 
 Hermione rang the bell. It was answered by Gaspare. 
 478
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Gaspare," said Hermione, "please go to the Sign- 
 orina, 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 exam- 
 ple. 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 be- 
 trayed 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 stupid. Si, Signora, you think 
 me a stupid boy. And I am not that. And I will show 
 you." He drew his fingers together, and bent towards 
 
 479
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 under- 
 stood all that was against me " 
 
 "Marchese !" 
 
 "Signora, pardon me! You have spoken, the Sign- 
 orina 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 everyone. 
 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 
 
 480
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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, per- 
 haps 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 " 
 
 481
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 be- 
 trayed 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 Signer 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. 
 
 "Signor 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 stand- 
 ing in a watchful attitude, almost like one about to spring. 
 
 "Stay there!" he said, loudly, making a violent, 
 threatening gesture with his arm. 
 
 Gaspare stood where he was with a smile upon his face. 
 
 482
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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."
 
 THE ghostly day sank into a ghostly night that laid 
 pale hands upon the island, holding it closely, softly, in 
 a hypnotic grasp, bidding it surely rest, it and those 
 who dwelled there with all the dreaming hours. A mist 
 hung over the sea, and the heat did not go with day, 
 but stayed to greet the darkness and the strange, enor- 
 mous silence that lay upon the waters. In the Casa del 
 Mare the atmosphere was almost suffocating, although 
 every window was wide open. The servants went about 
 their duties leaden-footed, drooping, their Latin vivacity 
 quenched as by a spell. Vere was mute. It seemed, 
 since the episode of the Carmine, as if her normal spirit 
 had been withdrawn, as if a dumb, evasive personality 
 replaced it. The impression made upon Hermione was 
 that the real Vere had sunk far down in her child, out 
 of sight and hearing, out of reach, beyond pursuit, to a 
 depth where none could follow, where the soul enjoyed 
 the safety of utter isolation. 
 
 Hermione did not wish to pursue this anchorite. She 
 did not wish to draw near to Vere that evening. To 
 do so would have been impossible to her, even had Vere 
 been willing to come to her. Since the brutal outburst 
 of the Marchesino, she, too, had felt the desire, the ne- 
 cessity, of a desert place, where she could sit alone and 
 realize the bareness of her world. 
 
 In that outburst of passion the Marchesino had gath- 
 ered together and hurled at her beliefs that had surely 
 been her own, but that she had striven to avoid, that 
 
 484
 
 she had beaten back as spectres and unreal, that she 
 had even denied, tricking, or trying to trick, her terrible 
 sense of truth. His brutality had made the delicacy in 
 her crouch and sicken. It had been almost intolerable 
 to her to see her friend, Emile, thus driven out into the 
 open, like one naked, to be laughed at, condemned, held 
 up, that the wild folly, the almost insane absurdity of 
 his secret self might be seen and understood even by the 
 blind, the determined in stupidity. 
 
 She had always had a great reverence for her friend, 
 which had been mingled with he: love for him, giving it 
 its character. Was that reverence to be torn utterly 
 away? Had it already been cast to the winds? 
 
 Poor Emile! 
 
 In the first moments after the departure of the Mar- 
 chesino she pitied Emile intensely with all her heart of 
 woman. If this thing were true, how he must have suf- 
 fered, how he must still be suffering not only in his 
 heart, but in his mind! His sense of pride, his self- 
 respect, his passion for complete independence, his me- 
 ticulous consciousness of the fitness of things, of what 
 could be and of what was impossible all must be lying 
 in the dust. She could almost have wept for him then. 
 
 But another feeling succeeded this sense of pity, a 
 sensation of outrage that grew within her and became 
 almost ungovernable. She had her independence too, 
 her pride, her self-respect. And now she saw them in 
 dust that Emile had surely heaped about them. A 
 storm of almost hard anger shook her. She tasted an 
 acrid bitterness that seemed to impregnate her, to turn 
 the mainspring of her life to gall. She heard the violent 
 voice of the young Neapolitan saying: "He is master, 
 he is master, he has always been master here!" And 
 she tried to look back over her life, and to see how things 
 had been. And, shaken still by this storm of anger, she 
 felt as if it were true, as if she had allowed Artois to 
 
 485
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 take her life in his hands and to shape it according to 
 his will, as if he had been governing her although she 
 had not known it. He had been the dominant person- 
 ality in their mutual friendship. His had been the call- 
 ing voice, hers the obedient voice that answered. Only 
 once had she risen to a strong act, an act that brought 
 great change with it, and that he had been hostile to. 
 That was when she had married Maurice. 
 
 And she had left Maurice for Artois. From Africa 
 had come the calling, dominant voice. And even in her 
 Garden of Paradise she had heard it. And even from 
 her Garden of Paradise she had obeyed it. For the first 
 time she saw that act of renunciation as the average man 
 or woman would probably see it; as an extraordinary, 
 quixotic act, to be wondered at blankly, or, perhaps, 
 to be almost angrily condemned. She stood away from 
 her own impulsive, enthusiastic nature, and stared at it 
 critically as even her friends had often stared and 
 realized that it was unusual, perhaps extravagant, per- 
 haps sometimes preposterous. This readiness to sacrifice 
 was it not rather slavish than regally loyal ? This for- 
 getfulness of personal joy, this burnt-offering of person- 
 ality was it not contemptible? Could such actions 
 bring into being the respect of others, the respect of any 
 man? Had Emile respected her for rushing to Africa? 
 Or had he, perhaps, then and through all these years, 
 simply wondered how she could have done such a thing ? 
 
 And Maurice Maurice? Oh, what had he thought? 
 How had he looked upon that action ? 
 
 Often and often in lonely hours she had longed to go 
 down into the grave, or to go up into the blue, to drag 
 the body, the soul, the heart she loved back to her. She 
 had been rent by a desire that had made her limbs shud- 
 der, or that had flushed her whole body with red, and 
 set her temples beating. The longing of heart and flesh 
 had been so vehement that it had seemed to her as if 
 
 486
 
 they must compel, or cease to be. Now, again, she de- 
 sired to compel Maurice to come to her from his far, 
 distant place, but in order that she might make him un- 
 derstand what he had perhaps died misunderstanding; 
 why she had left him to go to Artois, exactly how she 
 had felt, how desperately sad to abandon the Garden of 
 Paradise, how torn by fear lest the perfect days were 
 forever at an end, how intensely desirous to take him 
 with her. Perhaps he had felt cruelly jealous! Perhaps 
 that was why he had not offered to go with her at once. 
 Yes, she believed that now. She saw her action, she 
 saw her preceding decision as others had seen it, as no 
 doubt Maurice had seen it, as perhaps even Artois had 
 seen it. Why had she not more fully explained her- 
 self? Why had she instinctively felt that because her 
 nature was as it was, and because she was bravely fol- 
 lowing it, every one must understand her? Oh, to be 
 completely understood! If she could call Maurice back 
 for one moment, and just make him see her as she had 
 been then: loyal to her friend, and through and through 
 passionately loyal to him! If she could! If she could! 
 
 She had left Maurice, the one being who had utterly 
 belonged to her, to go to Artois. She had lost the few 
 remaining days in which she could have been supremely 
 happy. She had come back to have a few short hours 
 devoid of calm, chilled sometimes by the strangeness that 
 had intruded itself between her and Maurice, to have 
 one kiss in which surely at last misunderstanding was 
 lost and perfect love was found. And then that ' ' some- 
 thing" in the water! And then the gulf. 
 
 In that gulf she had not been quite alone. The friend 
 whom she had carried away from Africa and death had 
 been with her. He had been closely in her life ever 
 since. And now 
 
 She heard the Marchesino's voice: "I see what he is, 
 what he wants, I see all all that is in his mind and heart. 
 
 487
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 I see, I have always seen, that he loves the Signorina, 
 that he loves her madly." 
 
 Vere! 
 
 Hermione sickened. Emile and Vere in that relation! 
 
 The storm of anger was not spent yet. Would it ever 
 be spent? Something within her, the something, per- 
 haps, that felt rejected, strove to reject in its turn, did 
 surely reject. Pride burned in her like a fire that 
 cruelly illumines night, shining upon the destruction it 
 is compassing. 
 
 The terrible sense of outrage that gripped her soul and 
 body her body because Vere was bone of her bone, 
 flesh of her flesh seemed to be forcibly changing her 
 nature, as cruel hands, prompted by murder in a heart, 
 change form, change beauty in the effort to destroy. 
 
 That evening Hermione felt herself being literally de- 
 faced by this sensation of outrage within her, a sensation 
 which she was powerless to expel. 
 
 She found herself praying to God that Artois might 
 not come to the island that night. And yet, while she 
 prayed, she felt that he was coming. 
 
 She dined with Vere, in almost complete silence try- 
 ing to love this dear child as she had always loved her, 
 even in certain evil moments of an irresistible jealousy. 
 But she felt immensely far from Vere, distant from her as 
 one who does not love from one who loves; yet hideously 
 near, too, like one caught in the tangle of an enforced 
 intimacy rooted in a past which the present denies and 
 rejects. Directly dinner was over they parted, driven 
 by the mutual desire to be alone. 
 
 And then Hermione waited for that against which she 
 had prayed. 
 
 Artois would come to the island that night. Useless 
 to pray! He was coming. She felt that he was on the 
 sea, environed by this strange mist that hung to-night 
 over the waters. She felt that he was coming to Vere. 
 
 488
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She had gone to Africa to save him in order that he 
 might fall in love with her then unborn child. 
 
 Monstrosities, the monstrosities that are in life, deny 
 them, beat them back, close our eyes to them as we will, 
 rose up around her in the hot stillness. She felt haunted, 
 terrified. She was forcibly changed, and now all the 
 world was changing about her. 
 
 She must have relief. She could not sit there among 
 spectres waiting for the sound of oars that would tell 
 her Vere's lover had come to the island. How could she 
 detach herself for a moment from this horror? 
 
 She thought of Ruffo. 
 
 As the thought came to her she got up and went out 
 of the house. 
 
 Only when she was out-of-doors did she fully realize 
 the strangeness of the night. The heat of it was flaccid. 
 The island seemed to swim in a fatigued and breathless 
 atmosphere. The mist that hung about it was like the 
 mist in a vapor-bath. 
 
 Below the vague sea lay a thing exhausted, motion- 
 less, perhaps fainting in the dark. And in this heat and 
 stillness there was no presage, no thrill, however subtle, 
 of a coming change, of storm. Rather there was the 
 deadness of eternity, as if this swoon would last forever, 
 neither developing into life, nor deepening into death. 
 
 Hermione had left the house feverishly, yearning to 
 escape from her company of spectres, yearning to escape 
 from the sensation of ruthless hands defacing her. As 
 she passed the door-sill it was only with difficulty that 
 she suppressed a cry of "Ruffo!" a cry for help. But 
 when the night took her she no longer had any wish to 
 disturb it by a sound. She was penetrated at once by 
 an atmosphere of fatality. Her pace changed. She 
 moved on slowly, almost furtively. She felt inclined to 
 creep. 
 
 Would Ruffo be at the island to-night ? Would Artois 
 
 489
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 really come? It seemed unlikely, almost impossible. 
 But if Ruffo were there, if Artois came, it would be 
 fatality. That she was there was fatality. 
 
 She walked always slowly, always furtively, to the 
 crest of the cliff. 
 
 She stood there. She listened. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 She felt as if she were quite alone on the island. She 
 could scarcely believe that Vere, that Gaspare, that the 
 servants were there among them Peppina with her cross. 
 
 They said Peppina had the evil eye. Had she per- 
 haps cast a spell to-night? 
 
 Hermione did not smile at such an imagination as she 
 dismissed it. 
 
 She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did 
 not feel as if Ruffo could ever stand with her in the em- 
 brace of such a night, he, a boy, with bright hopes and 
 eager longings, he the happy singer of the song of Mer- 
 gellina. 
 
 And yet, when in a moment she found him standing 
 by her side, she accepted his presence as a thing in- 
 evitable. 
 
 It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they 
 two should stand together that night, speak together 
 as now they were about to speak. 
 
 "Signora, buona sera." 
 
 "Buona sera, Ruffo." 
 
 "The Signorina is not here to-night?" 
 
 "I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to- 
 night." 
 
 "The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora." 
 
 "You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?" 
 
 "Ma si, Signora." 
 
 "Did we tell you we were going? I had forgotten." 
 
 "It was not that, Signora. But I saw the Signorina 
 at the Festa. Did not Don Gaspare tell you?" 
 
 490
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?" 
 She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her 
 under the influence of the night. But already she felt a 
 slight yet decided sense of relief, almost of peace. She 
 drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very close to him, 
 she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in it 
 the expression that she loved. 
 "Did he see you, Ruffo?" 
 
 "Ma si, Signora. I was with my poor mamma." 
 "Your mother! I wish I had met her!" 
 "SI, Signora. I was with my mamma in the Piazza 
 of Masaniello. We had been eating snails, Signora, and 
 afterwards watermelon, and we had each had a glass 
 of white wine. And I was feeling very happy, because 
 my poor mamma had heard good news." 
 "What was that?" 
 
 "To-morrow my Patrigno is to be let out of prison." 
 "So soon! But I thought he had not been tried." 
 "No, Signora. But he is to be let out now. Perhaps 
 he will be put back again. But now he is let out be- 
 cause " he hesitated "because well, Signora, he has 
 rich friends, he has friends who are powerful for him. 
 And so he is let out just now." 
 "I understand." 
 
 "Well, Signora, and after the white wine we were 
 feeling happy, and we were going to see everything: the 
 Madonna, and Masaniello, and the fireworks, and the fire- 
 balloon. Did you see the fire-balloon, Signora?" 
 "Yes, Ruffo. It was very pretty." 
 His simple talk soothed her. He was so young, so 
 happy, so free from the hideous complexities of life; no 
 child of tragedy, but the son surely of a love that had 
 been gay and utterly contented. 
 
 "SI, Signora! Per dio, Signora, it was wonderful! 
 It was just before the fire -balloon went up, Signora, 
 that I saw the Signorina with the Neapolitan Signorino. 
 
 3* 4QI
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 And close behind them was Don Gaspare. I said to 
 my mamma, 'Mamma, ecco the beautiful Signorina of 
 the island!' My mamma was excited, Signora. She 
 held on to my arm, and she said: 'RufFmo,' she said, 
 ' show her to me. Where is she ?' my mamma said, Sign- 
 ora. 'And is the Signora Madre with her?' Just then, 
 Signora, the people moved, and all of a sudden there we 
 were, my mamma and I, right in front of Don Gaspare." 
 
 Ruffo stopped, and Hermione saw a change, a gravity, 
 come into his bright face. 
 
 "Well, Ruffo?" she said, wondering what was coming. 
 
 "I said to my mamma, Signora, 'Mamma, this is Don 
 Gaspare of the island.' Signora, my mamma looked at 
 Don Gaspare for a minute. Her face was quite funny. 
 She looked white, Signora, my mamma looked white, 
 almost like the man at the circus who comes in with the 
 dog to make us laugh. And Don Gaspare, too, he 
 looked" Ruffo paused, then used a word beloved of 
 Sicilians who wish to be impressive "he looked mysteri- 
 ous, Signora. Don Gaspare looked mysterious." 
 
 ' ' Mysterious ? Gaspare ? ' ' 
 
 " Si, Signora, he did. And he looked almost white, 
 too, but not like my mamma. And then my mamma 
 said, 'Gaspare!' just like that, Signora, and put out her 
 hand so. And Don Gaspare's face got red and hot. 
 And then for a minute they spoke together, Signora, 
 and I could not hear what they said. For Don Gaspare 
 stood with his back so that I should not hear. And then 
 the balloon went sideways and the people ran, and I 
 did not see Don Gaspare any more. And after that, 
 Signora, my mamma was crying all the time. And she 
 would not tell me anything. I only heard her say: 'To 
 think of its being Gaspare! To think of its being Gas- 
 pare on the island!' And when we got home she said 
 to me, 'Ruffo,' she said, 'has Gaspare ever said you were 
 like somebody?' What is it, Signora?" 
 
 492
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Nothing, Ruffo. Go on." 
 
 "But" 
 
 "Go on, Ruffo." 
 
 "'Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?' 
 my mamma said." 
 
 "And you what did you say?" 
 
 "I said, 'No,' Signora. And that is true. Don Gas- 
 pare has never said I was like somebody." 
 
 The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. 
 He stood quietly by Hermione, waiting for her to speak 
 in her turn. For a moment she said nothing. Then she 
 put her hand on Ruffe's arm. 
 
 "Whom do you think your mother meant when she 
 said 'somebody,' Ruffo?" 
 
 "Signora, I do not know." 
 
 "But surely didn't you ask whom she meant?" 
 
 "No, Signora. I told my mamma Don Gaspare had 
 never said that. She was crying. And so I did not 
 say anything more." 
 
 Hermione still held his arm for a moment. Then her 
 hand dropped down. 
 
 Ruffo was looking at her steadily with his bright and 
 searching eyes. 
 
 "Signora, do you know what she meant?" 
 
 "I! How can I tell, Ruffo? I have never seen your 
 mother. How can I know what she meant?" 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 Again there was a silence. Then Hermione said: 
 
 "I should like to see your mother, Ruffo." 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 "I must see her." 
 
 Hermione said the last words in a low and withdrawn 
 voice, like one speaking to herself. As she spoke she 
 was gazing at the boy beside her, and in her eyes there 
 was a mystery a mystery almost like that of the 
 night. 
 
 493
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Ruffo," she added, in a moment, "I want you to 
 promise me something." 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "Don't speak to any one about the little talk we 
 have had to-night. Don't say anything, even to Gas- 
 pare." 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 For a short time they remained together talking of 
 other things. Hermione spoke only enough to encour- 
 age Ruffo. And always she was watching him. But 
 to-night she did not see the look she longed for, the look 
 that made Maurice stand before her. Only she dis- 
 cerned, or -believed she discerned, a definite physical 
 resemblance in the boy to the dead man, a certain re- 
 semblance of outline, a likeness surely in the poise of 
 the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in 
 a trait that suggested ardor about the full yet delicate 
 lips. Why had she never noticed these things before? 
 Had she been quite blind? Or was she now imagina- 
 tive? Was she deceiving herself? 
 
 "Good-night, Ruffo," she said, at last. 
 
 He took off his cap and stood bareheaded. 
 
 "Good-night, Signora." 
 
 He put back the cap on his dark hair with a free and 
 graceful gesture. 
 
 Was not that, too, Maurice? 
 
 "A rivederci, Signora." 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 Hermione stood alone in the fatal night. She had 
 forgotten Vere. She had forgotten Artois. The words 
 of Ruffo had led her on another step in the journey it 
 was ordained that she should make. She felt the under- 
 things. It seemed to her that she heard in the night 
 the dull murmuring of the undercurrents, that carry 
 through wayward, or terrible, channels the wind-driven 
 bark of life. What could it mean, this encounter just 
 
 494
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 described to her: this pain, this emotion of a woman, 
 her strange question to her son? And Gaspare's agita- 
 tion, his pallor, his "mysterious" face, the colloquy that 
 Ruffo was not allowed to hear! 
 
 What did it mean? That woman's question that 
 question! 
 
 "What is it? What am I near?" Ruffo "s mother 
 knew Gaspare, must have known him intimately in the 
 past. When? Surely long ago in Sicily; for Ruffo was 
 sixteen, and Hermione felt sure knew, in fact that 
 till they came to the island Gaspare had never seen 
 Ruffo. 
 
 That woman's question! 
 
 Hermione went slowly to the bench and sat down by 
 the edge of the cliff. 
 
 What could it possibly mean? 
 
 Could it mean that this woman, Ruffo's mother, had 
 once known Maurice, known him well enough to see in 
 her son the resemblance to him? 
 
 But then 
 
 Hermione, as sometimes happened, having reached 
 truth instinctively and with a sure swiftness, turned to 
 retreat from it. She had lost confidence in herself. She 
 feared her own impulses. Now, abruptly, she told her- 
 self that this idea was wholly extravagant. Ruffo prob- 
 ably resembled some one else whom his mother and Gas- 
 pare knew. That was far more likely. That must be 
 the truth. 
 
 But again she seemed to hear in the night the dull 
 murmurings of those undercurrents. And many, many 
 times she recurred mentally to that weeping woman's 
 question to her son that question about Gaspare. 
 
 Gaspare he had been strange, disturbed lately. Her- 
 mione had noticed it; so had the servants. There had 
 been in the Casa del Mare an oppressive atmosphere 
 created by the mentality of some of its inhabitants. 
 
 495
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Even she, on that day when she had returned from 
 Capri, had felt a sensation of returning to meet some 
 grievous talc. 
 
 She remembered Artois now, recalling his letter which 
 she had found that day. 
 
 Gaspare and Artois did they both suspect, or both 
 know, something which they had been concealing from 
 her? 
 
 Suddenly she began to feel frightened. Yet she did 
 not form in her mind any definite conception of what 
 such a mutual secret might be. She simply began to 
 feel frightened, almost like a child. 
 
 She said to herself that this brooding night, with its 
 dumbness, its heat, its vaporous mystery, was affecting 
 her spirit. And she got up from the bench, and began 
 to walk very slowly towards the house. 
 
 When she did this she suddenly felt sure that while 
 she had been on the crest of the cliff Artois had arrived 
 at the island, that he was now with Vere in the house. 
 She knew that it was so. 
 
 And again there rushed upon her that sensation of 
 outrage, of being defaced, and of approaching a dwelling 
 in which things monstrous had taken up their abode. 
 
 She came to the bridge and paused by the rail. She 
 felt a sort of horror of the Casa del Mare in which Artois 
 was surely sitting alone or with Vere? With Vere. 
 For otherwise he would have come up to the cliff. 
 
 She leaned over the rail. She looked into the Pool. 
 One boat was there just below her, the boat to which 
 Ruffo belonged. Was there another? She glanced to 
 the right. Yes; there lay by the rock a pleasure-boat 
 from Naples. 
 
 Artois had come in that. 
 
 She looked again at the other boat, searching its 
 shadowy blackness for the form of Ruffo. She longed 
 that he might be awake. She longed that he might 
 
 496
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 N 
 
 sing, in his happy voice, of the happy summer nights, of 
 the sweet white moons that light the Southern summer 
 nights, of the bright eyes of Rosa, of the sea of Mergel- 
 lina. But from the boat there rose no voice, and the 
 mist hung heavily over the silent Pool. 
 
 Then Hermione lifted her eyes and looked across the 
 Pool, seeking the little light of San Francesco. Only 
 the darkness and the mist confronted her. She saw no 
 light and she trembled like one to whom the omens 
 are hostile. 
 
 She trembled and hid her face for a moment. Then 
 she turned and went up into the house.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 WHEN Hermione reached the door of the Casa del 
 Mare she did not go in immediately, but waited on the 
 step. The door was open. There was a dim lamp burn- 
 ing in the little hall, which was scarcely more than a 
 passage. She looked up and saw a light shining from 
 the window of her sitting-room. She listened; there 
 was no sound of voices. 
 
 They were not in there. 
 
 She was trying to crush down her sense of outrage, to 
 feel calm before she entered the house. 
 
 Perhaps they had gone into the garden. The night 
 was terribly hot. They would prefer to be out-of-doors. 
 Vere loved the garden. Or they might be on the ter- 
 race. 
 
 She stepped into the hall and went to the servants' 
 staircase. Now she heard voices, a laugh. 
 
 "Giulia!" she called. 
 
 The voices stopped talking, but it was Gaspare who 
 came in answer to her call. She looked down to him. 
 
 "Don't come up, Gaspare. Where is the Signorina?" 
 
 "The Signorina is on the terrace, Signora with Don 
 Emilio." 
 
 He looked up at her very seriously in the gloom. She 
 thought of that meeting at the Festa, and longed to 
 wring from Gaspare his secret. 
 
 "Don Emilio is here?" 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 "How long ago did he come?" 
 498
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "About half an hour, I think, Signora." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "Don Emilio told me not to bother you, Signora^ 
 that he would just sit and wait." 
 
 "I see. And the Signorina?" 
 
 "I did not tell her, either. She was in the garden 
 alone, but I have heard her talking on the terrace with 
 the Signore. Are you ill, Signora?" 
 
 "No. All right, Gaspare!" 
 
 She moved away. His large, staring eyes followed 
 her till she disappeared in the passage. The passage 
 was not long, but it seemed to Hermione as if a multi- 
 tude of impressions, of thoughts, of fears, of determina- 
 tions rushed through her heart and brain while she 
 walked down it and into the room that opened to the 
 terrace. This room was dark. 
 
 As she entered it she expected to hear the voices from 
 outside. But she heard nothing. 
 
 They were not on the terrace, then! 
 
 She again stood still. Her heart was beating violently, 
 and she felt violent all over, thrilling with violence like 
 one on the edge of some outburst. 
 
 She looked towards the French window. Through its 
 high space she saw the wan night outside, a sort of thin 
 paleness resting against the blackness in which she was 
 hidden. And as her eyes became accustomed to their 
 environment she perceived that the pallor without was 
 impinged upon by two shadowy darknesses. Very faint 
 they were, scarcely relieved against the night, very still 
 and dumb two shadowy darknesses, Emile and Vere 
 sitting together in silence. 
 
 When Hermione understood this she remained where 
 she was, trying to subdue even her breathing. Why 
 were they not talking? What did this mutual silence, 
 this mutual immobility mean ? She was only a few feet 
 from them. Yet she could not hear a human sound, 
 
 499
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 even the slightest. There was something unnatural, 
 but also tremendously impressive to her in their silence. 
 She felt as if it signified something unusual, something 
 of high vitality. She felt as if it had succeeded some 
 speech that was exceptional, and that had laid its spell, 
 of joy or sorrow, upon both their spirits. 
 
 And she felt much more afraid, and also much more 
 alone, than she would have felt had she found them 
 talking. 
 
 Presently, as the silence continued, she moved softly 
 back into the passage. She went down it a little way, 
 then returned, walking briskly and loudly. In this ac- 
 tion her secret violence was at play. When she came 
 to the room she grasped the door-handle with a force 
 that hurt her hand. She went in, shut the door sharply 
 behind her, and without any pause came out upon the 
 terrace. 
 
 "Emile!" 
 
 "Yes," he said, getting up from his garden-chair 
 quickly. 
 
 "Gaspare told me you were here." 
 
 "I have been here about half an hour." 
 
 She had not given him her hand. She did not give it. 
 
 *' I didn't hear you talking to Vere, so I wondered 
 I almost thought " 
 
 "That I had gone without seeing you? Oh no. It 
 isn't very late. You don't want to get rid of me at 
 once?" 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 His manner or so it seemed to her was strangely 
 uneasy and formal, and she thought his face looked 
 drawn, almost tortured. But the light was very dim. 
 She could not be sure of that. 
 
 Vere had said nothing, had not moved from her seat. 
 
 There was a third chair. As Hermione took it and 
 drew it slightly forward, she looked towards Vere, and 
 
 500
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 thought that she was sitting in a very strange position. 
 
 In the darkness it seemed to the mother as if her child's 
 
 body were almost crouching in its chair, as if the head 
 
 were drooping, as if 
 
 "Vere! Is anything the matter with you?" 
 Suddenly, as if struck sharply, Vere sprang up and 
 
 passed into the darkness of the house, leaving a sound 
 
 that was like a mingled exclamation and a sob behind 
 
 her. 
 
 "Emile!" 
 
 "Emile!" 
 
 "Hermione?" 
 
 "What is the matter with Vere? What have you 
 been doing to Vere?" 
 
 "I!" 
 
 "Yes, you! No one else is here." 
 
 Hermione's violent, almost furious agitation was audi- 
 ble in her voice. 
 
 "I should never wish to hurt Vere you know that." 
 
 His voice sounded as if he were deeply moved. 
 
 "I must Vere! Vere!" 
 
 She moved towards the house. But Artois stepped 
 forward swiftly, laid a hand on her arm, and stopped 
 her. 
 
 "No, leave Vere alone to-night!" he said. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "She wishes to be alone to-night." 
 
 "But I find her here with you." 
 
 There was a harsh bitterness of suspicion, of doubt, 
 in her tone that he ought surely to have resented. But 
 he did not resent it. 
 
 "I was sitting on the terrace," he said, gently. "Vere 
 came in from the garden. Naturally she stayed to en- 
 tertain me till you were here." 
 
 "And directly I come she rushes away into the house!"
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Perhaps there was something may have occurred 
 to upset her." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 Her voice was imperious. 
 
 "You must tell me what it was!" she said, as he was 
 silent. 
 
 "Hermione, my friend, let us sit down. Let us at 
 any rate be with each other as we always have been 
 till now." 
 
 He was almost pleading with her, but she did not feel 
 her hardness melting. Nevertheless she sat down. 
 
 "Now tell me what it was." 
 
 "I don't think I can do that, Hermione." 
 
 "I am her mother. I have a right to know. I have 
 a right to know everything about my child's life." 
 
 In those words, and in the way they were spoken, 
 Hermione's bitter jealousy about the two secrets kept 
 from her, but shared by Artois, rushed out into the 
 light. 
 
 "I am sure there is nothing in Vere's life that might 
 not be told to the whole world without shame; and yet 
 there may be many things that an innocent girl would 
 not care to tell to any one." 
 
 "But if things are told they should be told to the 
 mother. The mother comes first." 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "The mother comes first!" she repeated, almost fierce- 
 ly. "And you ought to know it. You do know it!" 
 
 "You do come first with Vere." 
 
 " If I did, Vere would confide in me rather than in any 
 one else." 
 
 As Hermione said this, all the long-contained bitter- 
 ness caused by Vere's exclusion of her from the knowl- 
 edge that had been freely given to Artois brimmed up 
 suddenly in her heart, overflowed boundaries, seemed 
 to inundate her whole being. 
 
 502
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I do not come first," she said. 
 
 Her voice trembled, almost broke. 
 
 "You know that I do not come first. You have just 
 told me a lie." 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 His voice was startled. 
 
 "You know it perfectly well. You have known it for 
 a long time." 
 
 Hot tears were in her eyes, were about to fall. With 
 a crude gesture, almost like that of a man, she put up 
 her hands to brush them away. 
 
 "You have known it, you have known it, but you try 
 to keep me in the dark." 
 
 Suddenly she was horribly conscious of the darkness 
 of the night in which they were together, of the dark- 
 ness of the world. 
 
 "You love to keep me in the dark, in prison. It is 
 cruel, it is wicked of you." 
 
 "But Hermione " 
 
 "Take care, Emile, take care or I shall hate you for 
 keeping me in the dark." 
 
 Her passionate words applied only to the later events 
 in which Vere was concerned. But his mind rushed 
 back to Sicily, and suddenly there came to his memory 
 some words he had once read, he did not know when, 
 or where: 
 
 "The spirit that resteth upon a lie is a spirit in prison." 
 
 As he remembered them he felt guilty, guilty before 
 Hermione. He saw her as a spirit confined for years in 
 a prison to which his action had condemned her. Yes, 
 she was in the dark. She was in an airless place. She 
 was deprived of the true liberty, that great freedom 
 which is the accurate knowledge of the essential truths 
 of our own individual lives. From his mind in that 
 moment the cause of Hermione 's outburst, Vere and her 
 childish secrets, were driven out by a greater thing that 
 
 503
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 came upon it like a strong and mighty wind the mem- 
 ory of that lie, in which he had enclosed his friend's life 
 for years, that lie on which her spirit had rested, on 
 which it was resting still. And his sense of truth did 
 not permit him to try to refute her accusation. Indeed, 
 he was filled with a desire that nearly conquered him 
 there and then, brutally, clearly, nakedly, to pour forth 
 to his friend all the truth, to say to her: 
 
 "You have a strong, a fiery spirit, a spirit that hates 
 the dark, that hates imprisonment, a spirit that can 
 surely endure, like the eagle, to gaze steadfastly into 
 the terrible glory of the sun. Then come out of the 
 darkness, come out of your prison. I put you there 
 let me bring you forth. This is the truth listen! hear 
 it! it is this it is this and this!" 
 
 This desire nearly conquered him. Perhaps it would 
 have conquered him but for an occurrence that, sim- 
 ple though it was, changed the atmosphere in which 
 their souls were immersed, brought in upon them an- 
 other world with the feeling of other lives than their 
 own. 
 
 The boat to which Ruffo belonged, going out of the 
 Pool to the fishing, passed at this moment slowly upon 
 the sea beneath the terrace, and from the misty dark- 
 ness his happy voice came up to them in the song of 
 Mergellina which he loved: 
 
 " Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' Estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina: 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 
 GK occhi di Rosa e i1 mar di Mergellina." 
 
 Dark was the night, moonless, shrouded in the mist. 
 But his boy's heart defied it, laughed at the sorrowful 
 truths of life, set the sweet white moon in the sky, cov- 
 ered the sea with her silver. Artois turned towards the 
 song and stood still. But Hermione, as if physically
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 compelled towards it, moved away down the terrace, 
 following in the direction in which the boat was going. 
 
 As she passed Artois he saw tears running down her 
 cheeks. And he said to himself: 
 
 "No, I cannot tell her; I can never tell her. If she is 
 to be told, let Ruffo tell her. Let Ruffo make her under- 
 stand. Let Ruffo lift her up from the lie on which I 
 have made her rest, and lead her out of prison." 
 
 As this thought came to him a deep tenderness tow- 
 ards Hermione flooded his heart. He stood where he 
 was. Far off he still heard Ruffo 's voice drifting away 
 in the mist out to the great sea. And he saw the vague 
 form of Hermione leaning down over the terrace wall, 
 towards the sea, the song, and Ruffo. 
 
 How intensely strange, how mysterious, how subtle 
 was the influence housed within the body of that sing- 
 ing boy, that fisher-boy, which, like an issuing fluid, or 
 escaping vapor, or perfume, had stirred and attracted 
 the childish heart of Vere, had summoned and now held 
 fast the deep heart of Hermione. 
 
 Just then Artois felt as if in the night he was walking 
 with the Eternities, as if that song, now fading away 
 across the sea, came even from them. We do not die. 
 For in that song to which Hermione bent down the 
 dead man lived when that boy's voice sang it. In that 
 boat, now vanishing upon the sea, the dead man held 
 an oar. In that warm young heart of Ruffo the dead 
 man moved, and spoke spoke to his child, Vere, whom 
 he had never seen, spoke to his wife, Hermione, whom he 
 had deceived, yet whom he had loved. 
 
 Then let him let the dead man himself speak out 
 of that temple which he had created in a moment of law- 
 less passion, out of that son whom he had made to live 
 by the action which had brought upon him death. 
 
 Ruffo all was in the hands of Ruffo, to whom Her- 
 mione, weeping, bent for consolation. 
 
 55
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The song died away. Yet Hermione did not move, 
 but still leaned over the sea. She scarcely knew where 
 she was. The soul of her, the suffering soul, was voyag- 
 ing through the mist with Ruffo, was voyaging through 
 the mist and through the night with her Sicilian and 
 all the perfect past. It seemed to her at that moment 
 that she had lost Vere in the dark, that she had lost 
 Emile in the dark, that even Gaspare was drifting from 
 her in a mist of secrecy which he did not intend that 
 she should penetrate. 
 
 There was only Ruffo left. 
 
 He had no secrets. He threw no darkness round him 
 and those who loved him. In his happy, innocent song 
 was his happy, innocent soul. 
 
 She listened, she leaned down, almost she stretched 
 out her arms towards the sea. And in that moment 
 she knew in her mind and she felt in her heart that 
 Ruffo was very near to her, that he meant very much 
 to her, even that she loved him.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ARTOIS left the island that night without speaking to 
 Hermione. He waited a long time. But she did not 
 move to come to him. And he did not dare to go to her. 
 He did not dare! In all their long friendship never be- 
 fore had his spirit bent before, or retreated as if in fear 
 from Hermione's. To-night he was conscious that in 
 her fierce anger, and afterwards in her tears, she had 
 emancipated herself from him. He was conscious of 
 her force as he had never been conscious of it before. 
 Something within him almost abdicated to her intensity. 
 And at last he turned and went softly away from the 
 terrace. He descended to the sea. He left the island. 
 
 Were they any longer friends ? 
 
 As the boat gave itself to the mist he wondered. It 
 had come to this, then that he did not know whether 
 Hermione and he were any longer friends. Almost im- 
 perceptibly, with movement so minute that it had 
 seemed like immobility, they had been drifting apart 
 through these days and nights of the summer. And now 
 abruptly the gulf appeared between them. 
 
 He felt just then that they could never more be friends, 
 that their old happy camaraderie could never be re- 
 established. 
 
 That they could ever be enemies was unthinkable. 
 Even in Hermione's bitterness and anger Artois felt her 
 deep affection. In her cry, "Take care, Emile, or I shall 
 hate you for keeping me in the dark!" he heard only the 
 hatred that is the other side of love. 
 
 S3 507
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But could they ever be comrades again ? And if they 
 could not, what could they be? 
 
 As the boat slipped on, under the Saint's light, which 
 was burning although the mist had hidden it from Her- 
 mione's searching eyes, and out to the open sea, Artois 
 heard again her fierce exclamation. It blended with 
 Vere's sob. He looked up and saw the faint lights of the 
 Casa del Mare fading from him in the night. And an 
 immense sadness, mingled with an immense, but chaotic, 
 longing invaded him. He felt horribly lonely, and he 
 felt a strange, new desire for the nearness to him of life. 
 He yearned to feel life close to him, pulsing with a 
 rhythm to which the rhythm of his being answered. He 
 yearned for that strange and exquisite satisfaction, com- 
 pounded of mystery and wonder, and thrilling with some- 
 thing akin to pain, that is called forth in the human 
 being who feels another human being centring all its 
 highest faculties, its strongest powers, its deepest hopes 
 in him. He desired intensely, as he had never desired 
 before, true communion with another, that mingling of 
 bodies, hearts, and spirits, that is the greatest proof of 
 God to man. 
 
 The lights of the Casa del Mare were lost to his eyes 
 in the night. He looked for them still. He strained his 
 eyes to see them. But the powerful night would not 
 yield up its prey. 
 
 And now, in the darkness and with Hermione's last 
 words ringing in his ears, he felt almost overwhelmed by 
 the solitariness of his life in the world of lives. 
 
 That day, before he came to the island, he had met 
 himself face to face like a man meeting his double. He 
 had stripped himself bare. He had sear hed himself for 
 the truth. Remembering all the Marchesino had said, 
 he had demanded of his heart the truth, uncertain 
 whether it would save or slay him. It had not slain him. 
 When the colloquy was over he was still upright. 
 
 508
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But he had realized as never before the delicate poise 
 of human nature, set, without wings, on a peak with 
 gulfs about it. Had he not looked in time, and with 
 clear, steadfast eyes, might he not have fallen? 
 
 His affection for Vere was perfectly pure, was the love 
 of a man without desire for a gracious and charming 
 child. It still was that. He knew it for that by the 
 wave of disgust that went over him when his imagination, 
 prompted by the Marchesino's brutality, set pictures be- 
 fore him of himself in other relations with Vere. The 
 real man in him recoiled so swiftly, so uncontrollably, 
 that he was reassured as to his own condition. And yet 
 he found much to condemn, something to be contemptu- 
 ous of, something almost to weep over that desire to 
 establish a monopoly that almost sickly regret for his 
 vanished youth, that bitterness against the community 
 to which all young things instinctively belong, whatever 
 their differences of intellect, temperament, and feeling. 
 
 Could he have fallen? 
 
 Even now he did not absolutely know whether such 
 a decadence might have been possible to him or not. 
 But that now it would not be possible he felt that he 
 did know. 
 
 Age could never complete youth, and Vere must be 
 complete. He had desired to make her gift for song 
 complete. He could never desire to mutilate her life. 
 Had he not said to himself one day, as his boat glided 
 past the sloping gardens of Posilipo, "Vere must be 
 happy." 
 
 Yet that evening he had made her unhappy. 
 
 He had come to the island from his self-examination 
 strong in the determination to be really himself, no long- 
 er half self -deceived and so deceiving. He had gone out 
 upon the terrace, and waited there. But when Vere had 
 come to join him, he had not been able to be natural. 
 In his desire to rehabilitate himself thoroughly and swift- 
 
 509
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ly in his own opinion he must have been almost harsh to 
 the child. She had approached him a little doubtfully. 
 She had needed specially just then to be met with even 
 more than the usual friendship. Artois had seen in her 
 face, in her expressive eyes, a plea not for forgiveness 
 there was no need of that, but for compassion, an appeal 
 to him to ignore and yet to sympathize, that was ex- 
 quisitely young and winning. But, because of his self- 
 examination, and because he was feeding acutely, he 
 had been abrupt, cold, changed in his manner. They 
 had sat down together in the dark, and after some un- 
 easy conversation, Vere, perhaps eager to make things 
 easier between herself and "Monsieur Emile," had 
 brought up the subject of her poems with a sort of anx- 
 ious simplicity, and a touch of timidity that yet was 
 confidential. And Artois, still recoiling secretly from 
 that which might possibly have become a folly but could 
 never have been anything more, had told Vere plainly 
 and almost sternly that she must go on her literary 
 path unaided, unadvised by him. 
 
 "I was glad to advise you at the beginning, Vere," 
 he had said, finally; " but now I must leave you to your- 
 self to work out your own salvation. You have talent. 
 Trust it. Trust yourself. Do not lean on any one, least 
 of all on me." 
 
 "No, Monsieur Emile," she had answered. 
 
 Those were the last words exchanged between them 
 before Hermione came and questioned Vere. And only 
 when Vere slipped into the house, leaving that sound of 
 pain behind her, did Artois realize how cruel he must 
 have seemed in his desire quickly to set things right. 
 
 He realized that; but, subtle though he was, he did 
 not understand the inmost and root-cause of Vere's loss 
 of self-control. 
 
 Vere was feeling bitterly ashamed, had been bending 
 under this sense of undeserved shame, ever since the
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Marchesino's stratagem on the preceding night. Al- 
 though she was gay and fearless, she was exquisitely 
 sensitive. Peppina's confession had roused her maiden- 
 hood to a theoretical knowledge of certain things in life, 
 of certain cruel phases of man's selfishness and lust which, 
 till then, she had never envisaged. The Marchesino's 
 madness had carried her one step further. She had not 
 actually looked into the abyss. But she had felt her- 
 self near to something that she hated even more than 
 she feared it. And she had returned to the hotel full 
 of a shrinking delicacy, not to be explained, intense as 
 snow, which had made the meeting with her mother and 
 Artois a torture to her, which had sealed her lips to 
 silence that night, which had made her half apology to 
 Gaspare in the morning a secret agony, which had even 
 set a flush on her face when she looked at San Francesco. 
 The abrupt change in Monsieur Emile's demeanor tow- 
 ards her made her feel as if she were despised by him 
 because she had been the victim of the Marchesino's 
 trick. Or perhaps Monsieur Emile completely misun- 
 derstood her; perhaps he thought perhaps he dared to 
 think, that she had helped the Marchesino in his ma- 
 noeuvre. 
 
 Vere felt almost crucified, but was too proud to speak 
 of the pain and bitterness within her. Only when her 
 mother came out upon the terrace did she suddenly feel 
 that she could bear no more. 
 
 That night, directly she was in her room, she locked 
 her door. She was afraid that her mother might follow 
 her, to ask what was the matter. 
 
 But Hermione did not come. She, too, wished to be 
 alone that night. She, too, felt that she could not be 
 looked at by searching eyes that night. 
 
 She did not know when Artois left the terrace. Long 
 after Ruffo's song had died away she still leaned over 
 the sea, following his boat with her desirous heart. 
 
 5"
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Artois, too, was on the sea. She did not know it. She 
 was, almost desperately, seeking a refuge in the past. 
 The present failed her. That was her feeling. Then 
 she would cling to the past. And in that song, prompted 
 now by her always eager imagination, she seemed to 
 hear it. For she was almost fiercely, feverishly, begin- 
 ning to find resemblances in Ruffo to Maurice. At first 
 she had noticed none, although she had been strangely 
 attracted by the boy. Then she had seen that look, 
 fleeting but vivid, that seemed for a moment to bring 
 Maurice before her. Then, on the cliff, she had dis- 
 cerned a likeness of line, a definite similarity of features. 
 And now was not that voice like Maurice's ? Had it 
 not his wonderful thrill of youth in it, that sound of the 
 love of life, which wakes all the pulses of the body and 
 stirs all the depths of the heart ? 
 
 " Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' estate " 
 
 The voice upon the sea was singing always the song of 
 Mergellina. But to Hermione it began to seem that the 
 song was changing to another song, and that the voice 
 that was dying away across the shrouded water was 
 sinking into the shadows of a ravine upon a mountain- 
 side. 
 
 "Ciao, Ciao, Ciao, 
 Morettina bella, ciao " 
 
 Maurice was going to the fishing under the sweet 
 white moon of Sicily. And she she was no longer 
 leaning down from the terrace of the Casa del Mare, but 
 from the terrace of the House of the Priest. 
 
 " Prima di partire 
 Un bacio ti voglio da!" 
 
 That kiss, which he had given her before he had gone 
 away from her forever! She seemed to feel it on her 
 
 5 12
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 lips again, and she shut her eyes, giving herself up to a 
 passion of the imagination. 
 
 When she opened them again she felt exhausted and 
 terribly alone. Maurice had gone down into the ravine. 
 He was never coming back. Ruffo was taken by the 
 mists and by the night. She lifted herself up from the 
 balustrade and looked round, remembering suddenly that 
 she had left Artois upon the terrace. He had disap- 
 peared silently, without a word of good-bye. 
 
 And now, seeing the deserted terrace, she recollected 
 her fierce attack upon Artois, she remembered how she 
 had stood in the black room watching the two dark- 
 nesses outside, listening to their silence. And she re- 
 membered her conversation with Ruffo. 
 
 Actualities rushed back upon her memory. She felt 
 as if she heard them coming like an army to the assault. 
 Her brain was crowded with jostling thoughts, her heart 
 with jostling feelings and with fears. She was like one 
 trying to find a safe path through a black troop of threat- 
 ening secrets. What had happened that night between 
 Vere and Emile? Why had Vere fled? Why had she 
 wept? And the previous night with the Marchesino 
 Vere had not spoken of it to her mother. Hermione had 
 found it impossible to ask her child for any details. There 
 was a secret too. And there were the two secrets, 
 which now she knew, but which Vere and Artois thought 
 were unknown to her still. And then that mystery 
 of which Ruffo had innocently spoken that night. 
 
 As Hermione, moving in imagination through the black 
 and threatening troop, came to that last secret, she was 
 again assailed by a curious, and horrible, sensation of 
 apprehension. She again felt very little and very help- 
 less, like a child. 
 
 She moved away from the balustrade and turned tow- 
 ards the house. Above, in her sitting-room, the light 
 still shone. The other windows on this side of the Casa
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 del Mare were dark. She felt that she must go to that 
 light quickly, and she hastened in, went cautiously 
 though now almost panic-stricken through the black 
 room with the French windows, and came into the dimly 
 lighted passage that led to the front door. 
 
 Gaspare was there locking up. She came to him. 
 
 "Good-night, Gaspare," she said, stopping. 
 
 "Good-night, Signora," he answered, slightly turning 
 his head, but not looking into her face. 
 
 Hermione turned to go up-stairs. She went up two or 
 three steps. She heard a bolt shot into its place below 
 her, and she stopped again. To-night she felt for the 
 first time almost afraid of Gaspare. She trusted him as 
 she had always trusted him completely. Yet that 
 trust was mingled with this new and dreadful sensation 
 of fear bred of her conviction that he held some secret 
 from her in his breast. Indeed, it was her trust in Gas- 
 pare which made her fear so keen. As she stood on the 
 staircase she knew that. If Gaspare kept things, kept 
 anything from her that at all concerned her life, it must 
 be because he was faithfully trying to save her from some 
 pain or misery. 
 
 But perhaps she was led away by her depression of 
 to-night. Perhaps this mystery was her own creation, 
 and he would be quite willing to explain, to clear it away 
 with a word. 
 
 "Gaspare," she said, "have you finished locking up?" 
 
 "Not quite, Signora. I have the front of the house 
 to do." 
 
 "Of course. Well, when you have finished come up 
 to my room for a minute, will you?" 
 
 "Va bene, Signora." 
 
 Was there reluctance in his voice ? She thought there 
 was. She went up-stairs and waited in her sitting-room. 
 It seemed to her that Gaspare was a very long time lock- 
 ing up. She leaned out of the window that overlooked
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the terrace to hear if he was shutting the French win- 
 dows. When she did so she saw him faintly below, 
 standing by the balustrade. She watched him, wonder- 
 ing what he was doing, till at last she could not be 
 patient any longer. 
 
 "Gaspare!" she called out. 
 
 He started violently. 
 
 "I am coming, Signora." 
 
 "I am waiting for you." 
 
 "A moment, Signora!" 
 
 Yes, his voice was reluctant; but he went at once tow- 
 ards the house and disappeared. Directly afterwards 
 she heard the windows being shut and barred, then a 
 step coming rather slowly up the staircase. 
 
 "Che vuole, Signora?" 
 
 How many times she had heard that phrase from Gas- 
 pare's lips! How many times in reply she had expressed 
 some simple desire! To-night she found a difficulty in 
 answering that blunt question. There was so much that 
 she wished, wanted wide and terrible want filled her 
 heart. 
 
 "Che vuole?" he repeated. 
 
 As she heard it a second time, suddenly Hermione 
 knew that for the moment she was entirely dominated 
 by Ruffo and that which concerned, which was connected 
 with him. The fisher-boy had assumed an abrupt and 
 vast importance in her life. 
 
 "Gaspare," she said, "you know me pretty well by 
 this time, don't you?" 
 
 "Know you, Signora! Of course I know you!" He 
 gazed at her, then added, "Who should know you, 
 Signora, if I do not?" 
 
 "That is just what I mean, Gaspare. I wonder I 
 wonder " She broke off. "Do you understand, Gas- 
 pare, how important you are to me, how necessary you 
 are to me?"
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 An expressive look that was full of gentleness dawned 
 in his big eyes. 
 
 "SI, Signora, I understand." 
 
 "And I think you ought to understand my charactei 
 by this time." She looked at him earnestly. "But I 
 sometimes wonder I mean lately I sometimes wonder 
 whether you do quite understand me." 
 
 "Why, Signora?" 
 
 "Do you know what I like best from the people who 
 are near me, who live with me?" 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Affection, Signora. You like to be cared for, Signo- 
 ra." 
 
 She felt tears rising again in her eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I love affection. But there's something else, 
 too. I love to be trusted. I'm not curious. I hate to 
 pry into people's affairs. But I love to feel that I am 
 trusted, that those I trust and care for would never keep 
 me in the dark " 
 
 She thought again of Emile and of the night and her 
 outburst. 
 
 "The dark, Signora?" 
 
 "Don't you understand what I mean? When you 
 are in the dark you can't see anything. You can't see 
 the things you ought to see." 
 
 "You are not in the dark, Signora." 
 
 He spoke rather stupidly, and looked towards the 
 lamp, as if he misunderstood her explanation. But she 
 knew his quickness of mind too well to be deceived. 
 
 "Gaspare," she said, "I don't know whether you are 
 going to be frank with me, but I am going to be frank 
 with you. Sit down for a minute, and please shut the 
 door first." 
 
 He looked at her, looked down, hesitated, then went 
 slowly to the door and shut it softly. Hermione was 
 
 516
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 sitting on the sofa when he turned. He came back and 
 stood beside her. 
 
 "Si, Signora?" 
 
 "I'd rather you sat too, Gaspare." 
 
 He took his seat on a hard chair. His face had 
 changed. Generally it was what is called "an open 
 face." Now it looked the opposite to that. When she 
 glanced at him, almost furtively, Hermione was once 
 more assailed by fear. She began to speak quickly, with 
 determination, to combat her fear. 
 
 "Gaspare, I may be wrong, but for some time I have 
 felt now and then as if you and I were not quite as we 
 used to be together, as if well, now and then it seems 
 to me as if there was a wall, and I was on one side of the 
 wall and you were on the other. I don't like that feel- 
 ing, after having you with me so long. I don't like it, 
 and I want to get rid of it." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 "Si, Signora," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 He was now looking at the floor. His arms were rest- 
 ing on his knees, and his hands hung down touching each 
 other. 
 
 "It seems to me that I never noticed this thing be- 
 tween us until until Ruffo came to the island." 
 
 "Ruffo?" 
 
 "Yes, Gaspare, Ruffo." 
 
 She spoke with increasing energy and determination, 
 still combating her still formless fear. And because of 
 this interior combat her manner and voice were not 
 quite natural, though she strove to keep them so, know- 
 ing well how swiftly a Sicilian will catch the infection of 
 a strange mood, will be puzzled by it, be made obstinate, 
 even dogged by it. 
 
 ' ' I am sure that all this I mean that this has some- 
 thing to do with Ruffo." 
 
 Gaspare said nothing.
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I know you like Ruffo, Gaspare. I believe you like 
 him very much. Don't you?" 
 
 "Signora, Ruffo has never done me any harm." 
 
 "Ruffo is very fond of you." 
 
 She saw Gaspare redden. 
 
 "He respects and admires you more than other peo- 
 ple. I have noticed that." 
 
 Gaspare cleared his throat but did not look up or 
 make any remark. 
 
 "Both the Signorina and I like Ruffo, too. We feel 
 at least I feel I feel as if he had become one of the 
 family." 
 
 Gaspare looked up quickly and his eyes were surely 
 fierce. 
 
 "One of the family!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Hermione wondered if he were jealous. 
 
 "I don't mean that I put him with you, Gaspare. 
 No but he seems to me quite a friend. Tell me do 
 you know anything against Ruffo?" 
 
 "Non, Signora." 
 
 It came very slowly from his lips. 
 
 "Absolutely nothing?" 
 
 "Signora, I don't know anything bad of Ruffo." 
 
 "I felt sure not. Don't you like his coming to the 
 island?" 
 
 Gaspare's face was still flushed. 
 
 "Signora, it is nothing to do with me." 
 
 A sort of dull anger seemed to be creeping into his 
 voice, an accent of defiance that he was trying to con- 
 trol. Hermione noticed it, and it brought her to a re- 
 solve that, till now, she had avoided. Her secret fear 
 had prompted her to delay, to a gradual method of 
 arriving at the truth. Now she sat forward, clasping 
 her hands together hard, and speaking quickly: 
 
 "Gaspare, I feel sure that you noticed long ago some- 
 thing very strange in Ruffo. Perhaps you noticed it
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 almost at once. I believe you did. It is this. Ruffo 
 has an extraordinary look in his face sometimes, a look 
 of of your dead Padrone. I didn't see it for some time, 
 but I think you saw it directly. Did you? Did you, 
 Gaspare?" 
 
 There was no answer. Gaspare only cleared his 
 throat again more violently. Hermione waited for a 
 minute. Then, understanding that he was not going to 
 answer, she went on: 
 
 "You have seen it we have both noticed it. Now I 
 want to tell you something something that happened 
 to-night." 
 
 Gaspare started, looked up quickly, darted at his Pa- 
 drona a searching glance of inquiry. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. 
 
 "Niente!" 
 
 He kept his eyes on her, staring with a tremendous 
 directness that was essentially southern. And she re- 
 turned his gaze. 
 
 "I was with Ruffo this evening. We talked, and he 
 told me that he met you at the Festa last night. He 
 told me, too, that he was with his mother." 
 
 She waited, to give him a chance of speaking, of fore- 
 stalling any question. But he only stared at her with 
 dilated eyes. 
 
 "He told me that you knew his mother, and that his 
 mother knew you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Of course, there is no reason. What surprised me 
 rather" she was speaking more slowly now, and more 
 unevenly "was this " 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 Gaspare's voice was loud. He lifted up his hands and 
 laid them heavily on his knees. 
 
 "SI?" he repeated. 
 
 "After you had spoken with her, she cried, Ruffo 's
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 mother cried, Gaspare. And she said, 'To think of its 
 being Gaspare on the island!'" 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 A look that was surely a look of fear came into his 
 face, rendering it new to Hermione. Never before had 
 she seen such an expression or had she once long 
 ago one night in Sicily ? 
 
 "That isn't all. Ruffo took his mother home, and 
 when they got home she said to him this, ' Has Gaspare 
 ever said you were like somebody ?' " 
 
 Gaspare said nothing. 
 
 "Did you hear; Gaspare?" 
 
 "SI, Signora." 
 
 "Gaspare, it seems to me" Hermione was speaking 
 now very slowly, like one shaping a thought in her mind 
 while she spoke "it seems to me strange that you and 
 Ruffo 's mother should have known each other so well 
 long before Ruffo was born, and that she should cry be- 
 cause she met you at the Festa, and that afterwards 
 she should ask Ruffo that." 
 
 "Strange?" 
 
 The fear that had been formless was increasing now 
 in Hermione, and surely it was beginning at last to 
 take a form, but as yet only a form that was vague and 
 shadowy. 
 
 "Yes. I think it very strange. Did you" an in- 
 tense curiosity was alive in her now "did you know 
 Ruffo 's mother in Sicily?" 
 
 "Signora, it does not matter where I knew her." 
 
 "Why should she say that?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "'Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?'" 
 
 "I have never said Ruffo was like anybody!" Gaspare 
 exclaimed, with sudden and intense violence. "May 
 the Madonna let me diemay I die" he held up his 
 
 520
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 arms "may I die to-morrow if I have ever said Ruffo 
 was like anybody!" 
 
 He got up from his chair. His face was red in patches, 
 like the face of a man stricken with fever. 
 
 "Gaspare, I know that; but what could this woman 
 have meant?" 
 
 "Madonna! How should I know? Signora, how can 
 I tell what a woman like that means ? Such women have 
 no sense, they talk, they gossip ah, ah, ah, ah!" he 
 imitated the voice of a woman of the people "they 
 are always on the door-step, their tongues are always 
 going. Dio mio! Who is to say what they mean, or 
 what nonsense goes through their heads?" 
 
 Hermione got up and laid her hand heavily on his 
 arm. 
 
 "I believe you know of whom Ruffo's mother spoke, 
 Gaspare. Tell me this did Ruffo's mother ever know 
 your Padrone?" 
 
 She looked straight into his eyes. It seemed to her 
 as if, for the first time, there came from them to her a 
 look that had something in it of dislike. This look 
 struck her to a terrible melancholy, yet she met it firmly, 
 almost fiercely, with a glance that fought it, that strove 
 to beat it back. And with a steady voice she repeated 
 the question he had not answered. 
 
 "Did Ruffo's mother ever know your Padrone?" 
 
 Gaspare moved his lips, passing his tongue over them. 
 His eyes fell. He moved his arm, trying to shift it from 
 his Padrona's hand. Her fingers closed on it more 
 tenaciously. 
 
 "Gaspare, I order you to tell me." 
 
 "Signora," he said, "such things are not in my ser- 
 vice. I am here to work, not to answer questions." 
 
 He spoke quietly now, heavily, and moved his feet on 
 the carpet. 
 
 "You disobey me?" 
 
 521
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signora, I shall always obey all your orders as a 
 servant." 
 
 "And as a friend, Gaspare, as a friend! You are my 
 friend, aren't you?" 
 
 Her voice had suddenly changed, and in answer to it 
 his face changed. He looked into her face, and his eyes 
 were full of a lustrous softness that was like a gentle and 
 warm caress. 
 
 "Signora, you know what I am for you. Then leave 
 me alone, Signora." He spoke solemnly. "You ought 
 to trust me, Signora, you ought to trust me." 
 
 "I do trust you. But you do you trust me?" 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 "In everything?" 
 
 "Signora, I trust you; I have always trusted you." 
 
 "And my courage do you trust that?" 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "I don't think you do, Gaspare." 
 
 Suddenly she felt that he was right not to trust it. 
 Again she felt beset by fear, and as if she had nothing 
 within her that was strong enough to stand up in further 
 combat against the assaults of the world and of destiny. 
 The desire to know all, to probe this mystery, abruptly 
 left her, was replaced by an almost frantic wish to be 
 always ignorant, if only that ignorance saved her from 
 any fresh sorrow or terror. 
 
 "Never mind," she said. "You needn't answer. I 
 don't want What does it all matter? It's it's all 
 so long ago." 
 
 Having got hold of that phrase, she clung to it as if 
 for comfort. 
 
 "It's all so long ago," she repeated. "Years and 
 years ago. We've forgotten it. We've forgotten Sicily, 
 Gaspare. Why should we think of it or trouble about 
 it any more? Good-night, Gaspare." 
 
 She smiled at him, but her face was drawn and looked old. 
 522
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Buona notte, Signora." 
 
 He did not smile, but gazed at her with earnest gentle- 
 ness, and still with that lustrous look in his eyes, full of 
 tenderness and protection. 
 
 "Buon riposo, Signora." 
 
 He went away, surely relieved to go. At the door he 
 said again: 
 
 "Buon riposo." 
 
 The door was shut. 
 
 "Buon riposo!" 
 
 Hermione repeated the words to herself. 
 
 "Riposo!" 
 
 The very thought of repose was like the most bitter 
 irony. She walked up and down the room. To-night 
 there was no stability in her. She was shaken, lacer- 
 ated mentally, by sharply changing moods that rushed 
 through her, one chasing another. Scarcely had Gas- 
 pare gone before she longed to call him back, to force 
 him to speak, to explain everything to her. The fear 
 that cringed was suddenly replaced by the fear that 
 rushes forward blindly, intent only on getting rid of un- 
 certainty even at the cost of death. Soldiers know that 
 fear. It has given men to bayonet points. 
 
 Now it increased rapidly within Hermione. She was 
 devoured by a terror that was acutely nervous, that 
 gnawed her body as well as her soul. 
 
 Gaspare had known Ruffo's mother in Sicily. And 
 Maurice he had known Ruffo 's mother. He must have 
 known her. But when? How had he got to know 
 her? 
 
 Hermione stood still. 
 
 "It must have been when I was in Africa!" 
 
 A hundred details of her husband's conduct, from the 
 moment of his return from the fair till the last kiss he 
 had given her before he went away down the side of 
 Monte Amato, flashed through her mind. And each one 
 
 34 5 2 3
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 seemed to burn her mind as a spark, touching flesh, 
 burns the flesh. 
 
 "It was when I was in Africa!" 
 
 She went to the window and leaned out into the night 
 over the misty sea. Her lips moved. She was repeat- 
 ing to herself again and again: 
 
 "To-morrow I'll go to Mergellina! To-morrow I'll 
 go to Mergellina!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 HERMIONE did not sleep at all that night. When the 
 dawn came she got up and looked out over the sea. The 
 mist had vanished with the darkness. The vaporous 
 heat was replaced by a delicate freshness that embraced 
 the South as dew embraces a rose. On the as yet pale 
 waters, full of varying shades of gray, slate color, ethereal 
 mauve, very faint pink and white, were dotted many 
 fishing-boats. Hermione looked at them with her tired 
 eyes. Ruffo's boat was no doubt among them. There 
 was one only a few hundred yards beyond the rocks from 
 which Vere sometimes bathed. Perhaps that was his. 
 
 Ruffo's boat! Ruffo! 
 
 She put her elbows on the sill of the window and rested 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 Her eyes felt very dry, like sand she thought, and her 
 mind felt dry too, as if insomnia was withering it up. 
 She opened her lips to breathe in the salt freshness of 
 the morning. 
 
 Upon Anacapri a woolly white cloud lay lightly. The 
 distant coast, where dreams Sorrento, was becoming 
 clearer every moment. 
 
 Often and often in the summer-time had Hermione 
 been invaded by the radiant cheerfulness of the Bay of 
 Naples. She knew no sea that had its special gift of 
 magical gayety and stirring hopefulness, its laughing 
 Pagan appeal to all the light things of the soul. It 
 woke even the weary heart to holiday when, in the sum- 
 mer, it glittered and danced in the sun, whispering or
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 calling with a tender or bold vivacity along its lovely 
 coast. 
 
 Out of this morning beauty, refined and exquisitely 
 gentle, would rise presently that livelier Pagan spirit. 
 It was not hers. She was no Pagan. But she had loved 
 it, and she had, or thought she had, been able to under- 
 stand it. 
 
 All that was long ago. 
 
 Now, as she leaned out, her soul felt old and haggard, 
 and the contact with the youth and freshness of the 
 morning emphasized its inability to be influenced any 
 more by youthful wonders, by the graciousness and in- 
 spiration that are the gifts of dawn. 
 
 Was that Ruffe's boat? 
 
 Her mind was dwelling on Ruffo, but mechanically, 
 heavily, like a thing with feet of lead, unable to lift it- 
 self once it had dropped down upon a surface. 
 
 All the night her brain had been busy. Now it did 
 not slumber, but it brooded, like the mist that had so 
 lately left the sea. It brooded upon the thought of 
 Ruffo. 
 
 The light grew. Over the mountains the sky spread 
 scarlet banners. The sea took, with a quiet readiness 
 that was happily submissive, its burnished gift of gold. 
 The gray was lost in gold. 
 
 And Hermione watched, and drank in the delicate 
 air, but caught nothing of the delicate spirit of the 
 dawn. 
 
 Presently the boat that lay not far beyond the rocks 
 moved. A little black figure stood up in it, swayed to 
 and fro, plying tiny oars. The boat diminished. It 
 was leaving the fishing-ground. It was going towards 
 Mergellina. 
 
 "To-day I am going to Mergellina." 
 
 Hermione said that to herself as she watched the boat 
 till it disappeared in the shining gold that was making 
 
 526
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 a rapture of the sea. She said it, but the words seemed 
 to have little meaning, the fact which they conveyed to 
 be unimportant to her. 
 
 And she leaned out of the window, with a weary and 
 inexpressive face, while the gold spread ever more wide- 
 ly over the sea, and the Pagan spirit surely stirred from 
 its brief repose to greet the brilliant day. 
 
 Presently she became aware of a boat approaching the 
 island from the direction of Mergellina. She saw it first 
 when it was a long distance off, and watched it idly as it 
 drew near. It looked black against the gold, till it was 
 off the Villa Pantano. But then, or soon after, she saw 
 that it was white. It was making straight for the island, 
 propelled by vigorous arms. 
 
 Now she thought it looked like one of the island boats. 
 Could Vere have got up and gone out so early with Gas- 
 pare ? 
 
 She drew back, lifted her face from her hands, and 
 stood straight up against the curtain of the window. In 
 a moment she heard the sound of oars in the water, and 
 saw that the boat was from the island, and that Gaspare 
 was in it alone. He looked up, saw her, and raised his 
 cap, but with a rather reluctant gesture that scarcely in- 
 dicated satisfaction or a happy readiness to greet her. 
 She hesitated, then called out to him. 
 
 "Good-morning, Gaspare." 
 
 "Good-morning, Signora." 
 
 "How early you are up!" 
 
 "And you, too, Signora." 
 
 "Couldn't you sleep?" 
 
 "Signora, I never want much sleep." 
 
 "Where have you been?" 
 
 "I have been for a row, Signora." 
 
 He lifted his cap again and began to row in. "/he 
 boat disappeared into the Saint's Pool. 
 
 "He has been to Mergellina." 
 52?
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The mind of Hermione was awake again. The sight 
 of Gaspare had lifted those feet of lead. Once more she 
 was in flight. 
 
 Arabs can often read the thoughts of those whom 
 they know. In many Sicilians there is some Arab blood, 
 and sometimes Hermione had felt that Gaspare knew 
 well intentions of hers which she had never hinted to 
 him. Now she was sure that in the night he had divined 
 her determination to go to Mergellina, to see the mother 
 of Ruffo, to ask her for the truth which Gaspare had re- 
 fused to tell. He had divined this, and he had gone to 
 Mergellina before her. Why ? 
 
 She was fully roused now. She felt like one in a con- 
 flict. Was there, then, to be a battle between herself 
 and Gaspare, a battle over this hidden truth? 
 
 Now she felt that it was vital to her to know this 
 truth. Yet when her mind, or her tormented heart, 
 was surely on the verge of its statement, was or seemed 
 to be about to say to her, "Perhaps it is that!" or 
 "It is that!" something within her, housed deep down 
 in her, refused to listen, refused to hear, revolted from 
 what it did not acknowledge the existence of. 
 
 Paradox alone could hint the condition of her mind 
 just then. She was in the thrall of fear, but, had she 
 been questioned, would not have allowed that she was 
 afraid. 
 
 Afterwards she never rightly knew what was the 
 truth of her during this period of her life. 
 
 There was to be a conflict 'between her and Gaspare. 
 
 She came from the window, took a bath, and dressed. 
 When she had finished she looked in the glass. Her face 
 was calm, but set and grim. She had not known she 
 could look like that. She hated her face, her expression, 
 and she came away from the glass feeling almost afraid 
 of herself. 
 
 At breakfast she and Vere always met. The table was 
 528
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 laid out-of-doors in the little garden or on the terrace if 
 the weather was fine, in the dining-room if it was bad. 
 This morning Hermione saw the glimmer of the white 
 cloth near the fig-tree. She wondered if Vere was there, 
 and longed to plead a headache and to have her coffee 
 in her bedroom. Nevertheless, she went down resolved 
 to govern herself. 
 
 In the garden she found Giulia smiling and putting 
 down the silver coffee-pot in quite a bower of roses. 
 Vere was not visible. 
 
 Hermione exchanged a good-morning with Giulia and 
 sat down. The servant's smiling face brought her a 
 mingled feeling of relief and wonder. The pungent 
 smell of the coffee, conquering the soft scent of the many 
 roses, pinned her mind abruptly down to the simple 
 realities and animal pleasures and necessities of life. 
 She made a strong effort to be quite normal, to think of 
 the moment, to live for it. The morning was fresh and 
 lovely; the warmth of the sun, the tonic vivacity of the 
 air from the sea, caressed and quickened her blood. 
 
 The minute garden was secluded. A world that seem- 
 ed at peace, a world of rocks and waters far from the 
 roar of traffic, the uneasy hum of men, lay around 
 her. 
 
 Surely the moment was sweet, was peaceful. She 
 would live in it. 
 
 Vere came slowly from the house, and at once Her- 
 mione's newly made and not yet carried out resolution 
 crumbled into dust. She forgot the sun, the sea, the 
 peaceful situation and all material things. She was con- 
 fronted by the painful drama of the island life ! Vere 
 with her secrets, Emile with his, Gaspare fighting to 
 keep her, his Padrona, still in mystery. And she was 
 confronted by her own passions, those hosts of armed 
 men that have their dwelling in every powerful nature. 
 
 Vere came up listlessly. 
 
 529
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Good-morning, Madre," she said. 
 
 She kissed her mother's cheek with cold lips. 
 
 "What lovely roses!" 
 
 She smelled them and sat down in her place facing the 
 sea-wall. 
 
 "Yes, aren't they?" 
 
 "And such a heavenly morning after the mist! What 
 are we going to do to-day?" 
 
 Hermione gave her her coffee, and the little dry tap 
 of a spoon on an egg-shell was heard in the stillness of the 
 garden. 
 
 "Well, I I am going across to take the tram." 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Naples again? I'm tired of Naples." 
 
 There was in her voice a sound that suggested rather 
 hatred than lassitude. 
 
 "I don't know that I shall go as far as Naples. I am 
 going to Mergellina." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Vere did not ask her what she was going to do there. 
 She showed no special interest, no curiosity. 
 
 "What will you do, Vere?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 She glanced round. Hermione saw that her usually 
 bright eyes were dull and lack-lustre. 
 
 " I don't know what I shall do." 
 
 She sighed and began to eat her egg slowly, as if she 
 had no appetite. 
 
 "Did you sleep well, Vere?" 
 
 "Not very well, Madre." 
 
 "Are you tired of the island?" 
 
 Vere looked up as if startled. 
 
 "Oh no! at least" she paused "No, I don't believe 
 I could ever be really that. I love the island." 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 530
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Sometimes some days one doesn't know exactly 
 what to do." 
 
 "Well, but you always seem occupied." Hermione 
 spoke with slow meaning, not unkindly, but with a sig- 
 nificance she hardly meant to put into her voice, yet 
 could not keep out of it. "You always manage to find 
 something to do." 
 
 Suddenly Vere's eyes filled with tears. She bent down 
 her head and went on eating. Again she heard Mon- 
 sieur Emile's harsh words. They seemed to have changed 
 her world. She felt despised. At that moment she 
 hated the Marchesino with a fiery hatred. 
 
 Hermione was not able to put her arm round her 
 child quickly, to ask her what was the matter, to kiss 
 her tears away, or to bid them flow quietly, openly, 
 while Vere rested against her, secure that the sorrow 
 was understood, was shared. She could only pretend 
 not to see, while she thought of the two shadows in the 
 garden last night. 
 
 What could have happened between Emile and Vere? 
 What had been said, done, to cause that cry of pain, 
 those tears? Was it possible that Emile had let Vere 
 see plainly his his ? But here Hermione stopped. 
 Not even in her own mind, for herself alone, could she 
 summon up certain spectres. 
 
 She went on eating her breakfast, and pretending not 
 to notice that Vere was troubled. Presently Vere spoke 
 again. 
 
 "Would you like me to come with you to Mergellina, 
 Madre ?" she said. 
 
 Her voice was rather uneven, almost trembling. 
 
 "Oh no, Vere!" 
 
 Hermione spoke hastily, abruptly, strongly conscious 
 of the impossibility of taking Vere with her. Directly 
 she had said the words she realized that they must have 
 fallen on Vere like a blow. She realized this still more
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 when she looked quickly up and saw that Vere's face was 
 scarlet. 
 
 "I don't mean that I shouldn't like to have you with 
 me, Vere," she added, hurriedly. "But " 
 ' "It's all right, Madre. Well, I've finished. I think 
 I shall go out a little in my boat." 
 
 She went away, half humming, half singing the tune 
 of the Mergellina song. 
 
 Hermione put down her cup. She had not finished 
 her coffee, but she knew she could not finish it. Life 
 seemed at that moment utterly intolerable to her. She 
 felt desperate, as a nature does that is forced back 
 upon itself by circumstances, that is forced to be, or to 
 appear to be, traitor to itself. And in her desperation 
 action presented itself to her as imperatively necessary 
 necessary as air is to one suffocating. 
 
 She got up. She would start at once for Mergellina. 
 As she went up-stairs she remembered that she did not 
 know where Ruffo's mother lived, what she was like, 
 even what her name was. The boy had always spoken 
 of her as "Mia Mamma." They dwelt at Mergellina. 
 That was all she knew. 
 
 She did not choose to ask Gaspare anything. She 
 would go alone, and find out somehow for herself where 
 Ruffo lived. She would ask the fishermen. Or perhaps 
 she would come across Ruffo. Probably he had gone 
 home by this time from the fishing. 
 
 Quickly, energetically she got ready. 
 
 Just before she left her room she saw Vere pass slowly 
 by upon the sea, rowing a little way out alone, as she 
 often did in the calm summer weather. Vere had a book, 
 and almost directly she laid the oars in their places side 
 by side, went into the stern, sat down under the awning, 
 and began apparently to read. Hermione watched 
 her for two or three minutes. She looked very lonely; 
 and moved by an impulse to try to erase the impression 
 
 53 2
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 made on her by the abrupt exclamation at the breakfast- 
 table, the mother leaned out and hailed the child. 
 
 "Good-bye, Vere! I am just starting!" she cried out, 
 trying to make her voice cheerful and ordinary. 
 
 Vere looked up for a second. 
 
 "Good-bye!" 
 
 She bent her head and returned to her book. 
 
 Hermione felt chilled. 
 
 She went down and met Giulia in the passage. 
 
 "Giulia, is Gaspare anywhere about? I want to cross 
 to the mainland. I am going to take the tram." 
 
 "Signora, are you going to Naples? Maria says 
 
 "I can't do any commissions, because I shall probably 
 not go beyond Mergellina. Find Gaspare, will you?" 
 
 Giulia went away and Hermione descended to the 
 Saint's Pool. She waited there two or three minutes. 
 Then Gaspare appeared above. 
 
 "You want the boat, Signora ?" 
 
 "Yes, Gaspare." 
 
 He leaped down the steps and stood beside her. 
 
 "Where do you want to go?" 
 
 She hesitated. Then she looked him straight in the 
 face and said: 
 
 "To Mergellina." 
 
 He met her eyes without flinching. His face was quite 
 calm. 
 
 "Shall I row you there, Signora?" 
 
 "I meant to go to the village, and walk up and take 
 the tram." 
 
 "As you like, Signora. But I can easily row you 
 there." 
 
 "Aren't you tired after being out so early this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "No, Signora." 
 
 "Did you go far?" 
 
 "Not so very far, Signora." 
 533
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Hermione hesitated. She knew Gaspare had been to 
 Mergellina. She knew he had been to see Ruffo's mother. 
 If that were so her journey would probably be in vain. 
 In their conflict Gaspare had struck the first blow. Could 
 anything be gained by her going? 
 
 Gaspare saw, and perhaps read accurately, her hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 "It will get very hot to-day, Signora," he said, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 His words decided Hermione. If obstacles were to be 
 put in her way she would overleap them. At all costs 
 she would emerge from the darkness in which she was 
 walking. A heat of anger rushed over her. She felt as 
 if Gaspare, and perhaps Artois, were treating her like a 
 child. 
 
 "I must go to Mergellina, Gaspare," she said. "And 
 I shall go by tram. Please row me to the village." 
 
 "Va bene, Signora," he answered. 
 
 He went to pull in the boat.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 WHEN Hermione got out of the boat in the little 
 harbor of the village on the mainland Gaspare said 
 again: 
 
 "I could easily row you to Mergellina, Signora. I am 
 not a bit tired." 
 
 She looked at him as he stood with his hand on the 
 prow of the boat. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, show- 
 ing his strong arms. There was something brave, some- 
 thing "safe" so she called it to herself in his whole 
 appearance which had always appealed to her nature. 
 How she longed at that moment to be quite at ease with 
 him! Why would he not trust her completely? Per- 
 haps in her glance just then she showed her thought, her 
 desire. Gaspare's eyes fell before hers. 
 
 "I think I'll take the tram," she said, "unless r ' 
 
 She was still looking at him, longing for him to speak. 
 But he said nothing. At that moment a fisherman ran 
 down the steps from the village and came over the sand 
 to greet them. 
 
 "Good-bye, Gaspare," she said. "Don't waik of 
 course. Giovanni can row me back." 
 
 The fisherman smiled, but Gaspare said: 
 
 "I can come for you, Signora. You will not be >e<Jr 
 long, will you? You will be back for colazione?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "I will come for you, Signora." 
 
 Again she looked at him, and felt his deep loyalty to 
 her, his strong and almost doglike affection. An' 
 
 535
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ing them, she was seized once more by fear. The thing 
 Gaspare hid from her must be something terrible. 
 
 "Thank you, Gaspare." 
 
 "A rivederci, Signora." 
 
 Was there not a sound of pleading in his voice, a long- 
 ing to retain her ? She would not heed it. But she gave 
 him a very gentle look as she turned to walk up the 
 hill. 
 
 At the top, by the Trattoria del Giardinetto, she had 
 to wait for several minutes before the tram came. She 
 remembered her solitary dinner there on the evening 
 when she had gone to the Scoglio di Frisio to look at the 
 visitor's book. She had felt lonely then in the soft light 
 of the fading day. She felt far more lonely now in the 
 brilliant sunshine of morning. And for an instant she 
 saw herself travelling steadily along a straight road, 
 from which she could not diverge. She passed mile- 
 stone after milestone. And now, not far off, she saw in 
 the distance a great darkness in which the road ended. 
 And the darkness was the ultimate loneliness which can 
 encompass on earth the human spirit. 
 
 The tram -bell sounded. She lifted her head mechani- 
 cally. A moment later she was rushing down towards 
 Naples. Before the tram reached the harbor of Mergel- 
 lina, on the hill opposite the Donn' Anna, Hermione got 
 out. Something within her desired delay; there was 
 plenty of time. She would walk a little way among the 
 lively people who were streaming to the Stabilimenti to 
 have their morning dip. 
 
 In the tram she had scarcely thought at all. She had 
 given herself to the air, to speed, to vision. Now, at 
 once, with physical action came an anxiety, a restless- 
 ness, that seemed to her very physical too. Her body 
 felt ill, she thought, though she knew there was nothing 
 the matter with her. All through her life her health 
 had been robust. Never yet had she completely ' ' broken 
 
 536
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 down." She told herself that her body was perfectly 
 well. 
 
 But she was afraid. That was the truth. And to 
 feel fear was specially hateful to her, because she ab- 
 horred cowardice, and was inclined to despise all timidity 
 as springing from weakness of character. 
 
 She dreaded reaching Mergellina. She dreaded seeing 
 this woman, Ruffo's mother. And Ruffo? Did she 
 dread seeing him? 
 
 She fought against her fear. Whatever might befall 
 her she would remain herself, essentially separate from 
 all other beings and from events, secure of the tremen- 
 dous solitude that is the property of every human being 
 on earth. 
 
 "Pain, misery, horror, come from within, not from 
 without." She said that to herself steadily. "I am free 
 so long as I choose, so long as I have the courage to 
 choose, to be free." 
 
 And saying that, and never once allowing her mind to 
 state frankly any fear, she came down to the harbor of 
 Mergellina. 
 
 The harbor and its environs looked immensely gay in 
 the brilliant sunshine. Life was at play here, even at 
 its busiest. The very workers sang as if their work were 
 play. Boats went in and out on the water. Children 
 paddled in the shallow sea, pushing hand-nets along the 
 sand. From the rocks boys were bathing. Their shouts 
 travelled to the road where the fishermen were talking 
 with intensity, as they leaned against the wall hot with 
 the splendid sun. 
 
 Hermione looked for Ruffo's face among all these sun- 
 browned faces, for his bright eyes among all the spar- 
 kling eyes of these children of the sea. 
 
 But she could not see him. She walked along the 
 wall slowly. 
 
 " Ruffo Ruffo Ruffo!" 
 
 537
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She was summoning him with her mind. 
 
 Perhaps he was among those bathing boys. She 
 looked across the harbor to the rocks, and saw the brown 
 body of one shoot through the shining air and disappear 
 with a splash into the sea. 
 
 Perhaps that boy was he how far away from her 
 loneliness, her sadness, and her dread! 
 
 She began to despair of finding him. 
 
 "Barca! Barca!" 
 
 She had reached the steps now near the Savoy Hotel. 
 A happy-looking boatman, with hazel eyes and a sensi- 
 tive mouth, hailed her from the water. It was Fabiano 
 Lari, to whom Artois had once spoken, waiting for cus- 
 tom in his boat the Stella del Mare. 
 
 Hermione was attracted to the man, as Artois had 
 been, and she resolved to find out from him, if possible, 
 where Ruffo's mother lived. She went down the steps. 
 The man immediately brought his boat right in. 
 
 "No," she said, "I don't want the boat." 
 
 Fabiano looked a little disappointed. 
 
 "I am looking for some one who lives here, a Sicilian 
 boy called Ruffo." 
 
 "Ruffo Scarla, Signora? The Sicilian?" 
 
 "That must be he. Do you know him?" 
 
 "Si, Signora, I know Ruffo very well. He was here 
 this morning. But I don't know where he is now." He 
 looked round. "He may have gone home, Signora." 
 
 "Do you know where he lives?" 
 
 "Si, Signora. It is near where I live. It's near the 
 Grotto." 
 
 ' ' Could you possibly leave your boat and take me there ?' ' 
 
 "Si, Signora! A moment, Signora." 
 
 Quickly he signed to a boy who was standing close 
 by watching them. The boy ran down to the boat. 
 Fabiano spoke to him in dialect. He got into the boat, 
 while Fabiano jumped ashore. 
 
 538
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signora, I am ready. We go this way." 
 
 They walked along together. 
 
 Fabiano was as frank and simple as a child, and be- 
 gan at once to talk. Hermione was glad of that, still 
 more glad that he talked of himself, his family, the life 
 and affairs of a boatman. She listened sympathetically, 
 occasionally putting in a word, till suddenly Fabiano 
 said: 
 
 "Antonio Bernari will be out to-day. I suppose you 
 know that, Signora?" 
 
 "Antonio Bernari! Who is he? I never heard of 
 him." 
 
 Fabiano looked surprised. 
 
 "But he is Ruffo's Patrigno. He is the husband of 
 Maddalena." 
 
 Hermione stood still on the pavement. She did not 
 know why for a moment. Her mind seemed to need a 
 motionless body in which to work. It was surely grop- 
 ing after something, eagerly, feverishly, yet blindly. 
 
 Fabiano paused beside her. 
 
 "Signora," he said, staring at her in surprise, "are 
 you tired? Are you not well?" 
 
 "I'm quite well. But wait a minute. Yes, I do want 
 to rest for a minute." 
 
 She dared not move lest she should interfere with that 
 mental search. Fabiano 's words had sent her mind 
 sharply to Sicily. 
 
 Maddalena! 
 
 She was sure she had known, or heard of, some girl 
 in Sicily called Maddalena, some girl or some woman. 
 She thought of the servant in the Casa del Prete, Lucrezia. 
 Had she any sister, any relation called Maddalena ? Or 
 had Gaspare ? 
 
 Suddenly Hermione seemed to be on the little terrace 
 above the ravine with Maurice and Artois. She seemed 
 to feel the heat of noon in summer. Gaspare was there, 
 539
 
 too. She saw his sullen face. She saw him looking ugly. 
 She heard him say: 
 
 "Salvatore and Maddalena, Signora." 
 
 Why had he said that ? In answer to what question ? 
 
 And then, in a flash, she remembered everything. It 
 was she who had spoken first. She had asked him who 
 lived in the House of the Sirens. 
 
 "Salvatore and Maddalena." 
 
 And afterwards Maurice had said something. Her 
 mind went in search, seized its prey. 
 
 "They're quite friends of ours. We saw them at the 
 fair only yesterday." 
 
 Maurice had said that. She could hear his voice say- 
 ing it. 
 
 "I'm rested now." 
 
 She was speaking to Fabiano. They were walking on 
 again among the chattering people. They had come to 
 the wooden station where the tram-lines converge. 
 
 "Is it this way?" 
 
 "Si, Signora, quite near the Grotto. Take care, 
 Signora." 
 
 " It's all right. Thank you." 
 
 They had crossed now and were walking up the street 
 that leads directly to the tunnel, whose mouth confronted 
 them in the distance. Hermione felt as if they were 
 going to enter it, were going to walk down it to that great 
 darkness which seemed to wait for her, to beckon her. 
 But presently Fabiano turned to the right, and they 
 came into a street leading up the hill, and stopped almost 
 immediately before a tall house. 
 
 "Antonio and Maddalena live here, Signora." 
 
 "And Ruffo," she said, as if correcting him. 
 
 "Ruffo! Si, Signora, of course." 
 
 Hermione looked at the house. It was evidently let 
 out in rooms to people who were comparatively poor; 
 not very poor, not in any destitution, but who made 
 
 540
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 a modest livelihood, and could pay their fourteen or 
 fifteen lire a month for a lodging. She divined by its 
 aspect that every room was occupied. For the building 
 teemed with life, and echoed with the sound of calling, 
 or screaming, voices. The inhabitants were surely all 
 of them in a flurry of furious activity. Children were 
 playing before and upon the door-step, which was flanked 
 by an open shop, whose interior revealed with a blatant 
 sincerity a rummage of mysterious edibles fruit, vege- 
 tables, strings of strange objects that looked poisonous, 
 fungi, and other delights. Above, from several windows, 
 women leaned out, talking violently to one another. Two 
 were holding babies, who testified their new-born sense 
 of life by screaming shrilly. Across other window-spaces 
 heads passed to and fro, denoting the continuous move- 
 ment of those within. People in the street called to peo- 
 ple in the house, and the latter shouted in answer, with 
 that absolute lack of self-consciousness and disregard of 
 the opinions of others which is the hall-mark of the true 
 Neapolitan. From the corner came the rumble and the 
 bell notes of the trams going to and coming from the 
 tunnel that leads to Fuorigrotta. And from every di- 
 rection rose the vehement street calls of ambulant ven- 
 ders of the necessaries of Neapolitan life. 
 
 "Ruffo lives here!" said Hermione. 
 
 She could hardly believe it. So unsuitable seemed 
 such a dwelling to that bright-eyed child of the sea, 
 whom she had always seen surrounded by the wide airs 
 and the waters. 
 
 "Si, Signora. They are on the third floor. Shall I 
 take you up?" 
 
 Hermione hesitated. Should she go up alone ? 
 
 "Please show me the way," she said, deciding. 
 
 Fabiano preceded her up a dirty stone staircase, dark 
 and full of noises, till they came to the third floor. 
 
 "It is here, Signora!"
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He knocked loudly on a door. It was opened very 
 quickly, as if by some one who was on the watch, ex- 
 pectant of an arrival. 
 
 "Chi e?" cried a female voice. 
 
 And, almost simultaneously, a woman appeared with 
 eyes that stared in inquiry. 
 
 By these eyes, their shape, and the long, level brows 
 above them, Hermione knew that this woman must be 
 Ruffo's mother. 
 
 "Good-morning, Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano, 
 heartily. 
 
 "Good-morning," said the woman, directing her eyes 
 with a strange and pertinacious scrutiny to Hermione, 
 who stood behind him. "I thought perhaps it was " 
 
 She stopped. Behind, in the doorway, appeared the 
 head of a young woman, covered with blue-black hair, 
 then the questioning face of an old woman with a skin 
 like yellow parchment. 
 
 "Don Antonio?" 
 
 She nodded, keeping her long, Arab eyes on Hermione. 
 
 "No. Are you expecting him so early?" 
 
 "He may come at any time. Chi lo sa?" 
 
 She shrugged her broad, graceless shoulders. 
 
 "It isn't he! It isn't Antonio!" bleated a pale and 
 disappointed voice, with a peculiarly irritating timbre. 
 
 It was the voice of the old woman, who now darted 
 over Maddalena Bernari's shoulder a hostile glance at 
 Hermione. 
 
 "Madonna Santissima!" baaed the woman with the 
 blue-black hair. "Perhaps he will not be let out to- 
 day!" 
 
 The old woman began to cry feebly, yet angrily. 
 
 "Courage, Madre Teresa!" said Fabiano. "Antonio 
 will be here to-day for a certainty. Every one knows it. 
 His friends" he raised a big brown hand significantly 
 "his friends have managed well for him." 
 
 542
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si! si! It is true!" said the black-haired woman, 
 nodding her large head, and gesticulating towards Madre 
 Teresa. "He will be here to-day. Antonio will be here." 
 
 They all stared at Hermione, suddenly forgetting their 
 personal and private affairs. 
 
 "Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano, "here is a signora 
 who knows Ruffo. I met her at the Mergellina, and she 
 asked me to show her the way here." 
 
 "Ruffo is out," said Maddalena, always keeping her 
 eyes on Hermione. 
 
 "May I come in and speak to you?" said Hermione. 
 
 Maddalena looked doubtful, yet curious. 
 
 "My son is in the sea, Signora. He is bathing at the 
 Marina." 
 
 Hermione thought of the brown body she had seen 
 falling through the shining air, of the gay splash as it 
 entered the water. 
 
 ' ' I know your son so well that I should like to know 
 his mother," she said. 
 
 Fabiano by this time had moved aside, and the two 
 women were confronting each other in the doorway. 
 Behind Maddalena the two other women stared and 
 listened with all their might, giving their whole atten- 
 tion to this unexpected scene. 
 
 "Are you the Signora of the island?" asked Madda- 
 lena. 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "Let the Signora in, Donna Maddalena," said Fabiano. 
 "She is tired and wants to rest." 
 
 Without saying anything Maddalena moved her broad 
 body from the doorway, leaving enough space for Her- 
 mione to enter. 
 
 "Thank you," said Hermione to Fabiano, giving him 
 a couple of lire. 
 
 "Grazie, Signora. I will wait down-stairs to take you 
 back." 
 
 543
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He went off before she had time to tell him that was 
 not necessary. 
 
 Hermione walked into Ruffo's home. 
 
 There were two rooms, one opening into the other. 
 The latter was a kitchen, the former the sleeping-room. 
 Hermione looked quickly round it, and her eyes fell at 
 once upon a large green parrot, which was sitting at the 
 end of the board on which, supported by trestles of iron, 
 the huge bed of Maddalena and her husband was laid. 
 At present this bed was rolled up, and in consequence 
 towered to a considerable height. The parrot looked 
 at Hermione coldly, with round, observant eyes whose 
 pupils kept contracting and expanding with a monoto- 
 nous regularity. She felt as if it had a soul that was 
 frigidly ironic. Its pertinacious glance chilled and re- 
 pelled her, and she fancied it was reflected in the faces 
 of the women round her. 
 
 "Can I speak to you alone for a few minutes?" she 
 asked Maddalena. 
 
 Maddalena turned to the two women and spoke to 
 them loudly in dialect. They replied. The old woman 
 spoke at great length. She seemed always angry and 
 always upon the verge of tears. Over her shoulders she 
 wore a black shawl, and as she talked she kept fidgeting 
 with it, pulling it first to one side, then to the other, or 
 dragging at it with her thin and crooked yellow fingers. 
 The parrot watched her steadily. Her hideous voice 
 played upon Hermione 's nerves till they felt raw. At 
 length, looking back, as she walked, with bloodshot eyes, 
 she went into the kitchen, followed by the young woman. 
 They began talking together in sibilant whispers, like 
 people conspiring. 
 
 After a moment of apparent hesitation Maddalena 
 gave her visitor a chair. 
 
 "Thank you," Hermione said, taking it. 
 
 She looked round the room again. It was clean and 
 544
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 well kept, but humbly furnished. Ruffo's bed was rolled 
 up in a corner. On the walls were some shields of post- 
 cards and photographs, such as the poor Italians love, 
 deftly enough arranged and fastened together by some 
 mysterious not apparent means. Many of the post- 
 cards were American. Near two small flags, American 
 and Italian, fastened crosswise above the head of the 
 big bed, was a portrait of Maria Addolorata, under which 
 burned a tiny light. A palm, blessed, and fashioned like 
 a dagger with a cross for the hilt, was nailed above it, 
 with a coral charm to protect the household against the 
 evil eye. And a little to the right of it was a small 
 object which Hermione saw and wondered at without 
 understanding why it should be there, or what was its 
 use a Fattura delta morte (death-charm), in the form 
 of a green lemon pierced with many nails. This hung by 
 a bit of string to a nail projecting from the wall. 
 
 From the death-charm Hermione turned her eyes to 
 Maddalena. 
 
 She saw a woman who was surely not very much 
 younger than herself, with a broad and spreading figure, 
 wide hips, plump though small-boned arms, heavy shoul- 
 ders. The face that, perhaps yes, that, certainly 
 must have been once pretty. Very pretty ? Hermione 
 looked searchingly at it until she saw Maddalena's eyes 
 drop before hers suddenly, as if embarrassed. She must 
 say something. But now that she was here she felt a 
 difficulty in opening a conversation, an intense reluctance 
 to speak to this woman into whose house she had almost 
 forced her way. With the son she was strangely inti- 
 mate. From the mother she felt separated by a gulf. 
 
 And that fear of hers ? 
 
 She looked again round the room. Had that fear in- 
 creased or diminished ? Her eyes fell on Maria Addolo- 
 rata, then on the Fattura delta morte. She did not 
 know why, but she was moved to speak about it. 
 
 545
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You have nice rooms here," she said. 
 
 "Si, Signora." 
 
 Maddalena had rather a harsh voice. She spoke po- 
 litely, but inexpressively. 
 
 "What a curious thing that is on the wall!" 
 
 "Signora?" 
 
 "It's a lemon, isn't it? With nails stuck through it ?" 
 
 Maddalena's broad face grew a dusky red. 
 
 "That is nothing, Signora!" she said, hastily. 
 
 She looked greatly disturbed, suddenly went over to 
 the bed, unhooked the string from the nail, and put the 
 death-charm into her pocket. As she came back she 
 looked at Hermione with defiance in her eyes. 
 
 The gulf between them had widened. 
 
 From the kitchen came the persistent sound of whis- 
 pering voices. The green parrot turned sideways on 
 the board beyond the pile of rolled - up mattresses, 
 and looked, with one round eye, steadfastly at Her- 
 mione. 
 
 An almost intolerable sensation of desertion swept 
 over her. She felt as if every one hated her. 
 
 "Would you mind shutting that door?" she said to 
 Maddalena, pointing towards the kitchen. 
 
 The sound of whispers ceased. The women within 
 were listening. 
 
 "Signora, we always keep it open." 
 
 " But I have something to say to you that I wish to say 
 in private." 
 
 "Si!" 
 
 The exclamation was suspicious. The voice sounded 
 harsher than before. In the kitchen the silence seemed 
 to increase, to thrill with anxious curiosity. 
 
 "Please shut that door." 
 
 It was like an order. Maddalena obeyed it, despite 
 a cataract of words from the old woman that voiced 
 indignant protest. 
 
 546
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "And do sit down, won't you? I don't like to sit 
 while you are standing." 
 
 "Signora, I 
 
 "Please do sit down." 
 
 Hermione's voice began to show her acute nervous 
 agitation. Maddalena stared, then took another chair 
 from its place against the wall, and sat down at some 
 distance from Hermione. She folded her plump hands 
 in her lap. Seated, she looked bigger, more graceless, 
 than before. But Hermione saw that she was not real- 
 ly middle-aged. Hard life and trouble doubtless had 
 combined to destroy her youth and beauty early, to 
 coarsen the outlines, to plant the many wrinkles that 
 spread from the corners of her eyes and lips to 
 her temples and her heavy, dusky cheeks. She was 
 now a typical woman of the people. Hermione 
 tried to see her as a girl, long ago years and years 
 ago. 
 
 "I know your son Ruffo very well," she said. 
 
 Maddalena's face softened. 
 
 "Si, Signora. He has told me of you." 
 
 Suddenly she seemed to recollect something. 
 
 " I have never Signora, thank you for the money," 
 she said. 
 
 The harshness was withdrawn from her voice as she 
 spoke now, and in her abrupt gentleness she looked much 
 younger than before. Hermione divined in that moment 
 her vanished beauty. It seemed suddenly to be un- 
 veiled by her tenderness. 
 
 "I heard you were in trouble." 
 
 "Si, Signora great trouble." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth worked. 
 As if moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she thrust 
 one hand into her dress, drew out the death-charm, and 
 contemplated it, at the same time muttering some words 
 that Hermione did not understand. Her face became 
 
 547
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 full of hatred. Holding up the charm, and lifting her 
 head, she exclaimed: 
 
 "Those who bring trouble shall have trouble!" 
 
 While she spoke she looked straight before her, and 
 her voice became harsh again, seemed to proclaim to 
 the world unalterable destiny. 
 
 "Yes," said Hermione, in a low voice. 
 
 Maddalena hid the death-charm once more with a 
 movement that was surreptitious. 
 
 "Yes," Hermione said again, gazing into Maddalena's 
 still beautiful eyes. "And you have trouble!" 
 
 Maddalena looked afraid, like an ignorant person whose 
 tragic superstition is proved true by an assailing fact. 
 
 "Signora!" 
 
 "You have trouble in your house. Have you ever 
 brought trouble to any one? Have you?" 
 
 Maddalena stared at her with dilated eyes, but made 
 no answer. 
 
 "Tell me something." Hermione leaned forward. 
 "You know my servant, Gaspare?" 
 
 Maddalena was silent. 
 
 "You know Gaspare. Did you know him in Sicily?" 
 
 "Sicily?" Her face and her voice had become stupid. 
 "Sicily?" she repeated. 
 
 The parrot shifted on the board, lifted its left claw, 
 and craned its head forward in the direction of the two 
 women. The tram-bell sounded its reiterated appeal. 
 
 "Yes, in Sicily. You are a Sicilian?" 
 
 "Who says so?" 
 
 "Your son is a Sicilian. At the port they call him 
 'II Siciliano.'" 
 
 "Do they?" 
 
 Her intellect seemed to be collapsing. She looked al- 
 most bovine. 
 
 Hermione's excitement began to be complicated by a 
 feeling of hot anger. 
 
 548
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But don't you know it? You must know it!" 
 
 The parrot shuffled slowly along the board, coming near- 
 er to them, and bowing its head obsequiously. Hermione 
 could not help watching its movements with a strained 
 attention. Its presence distracted her. She had a long- 
 ing to take it up and wring its neck. Yet she loved birds. 
 
 "You must know it!" she repeated, no longer looking 
 at Maddalena. 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 All ignorance and all stupidity were surely enshrined 
 in that word thus said. 
 
 "Where did you know Gaspare?" 
 
 "Who says I know Gaspare?" 
 
 The way in which she pronounced his name revealed 
 to Hermione a former intimacy between them. 
 
 "Ruffo says so." 
 
 The parrot was quite at the edge of the board now, 
 listening apparently with cold intensity to every word 
 that was being said. And Hermione felt that behind 
 the kitchen door the two women were straining their 
 ears to catch the conversation. Was the whole world 
 listening? Was the whole world coldly, cruelly intent 
 upon her painful effort to come out of darkness into 
 perhaps a greater darkness? 
 
 "Ruffo says so. Ruffo told me so." 
 
 "Boys say anything." 
 
 "Do you mean it is not true ?" 
 
 Maddalena's face was now almost devoid of expression. 
 She had set her knees wide apart and planted her hands 
 on them. 
 
 "Do you mean that?" repeated Hermione. 
 
 "Boys" 
 
 "I know it is true. You knew Gaspare in Sicily. 
 You come from Marechiaro." 
 
 At the mention of the last word light broke into Mad- 
 dalena's face. 
 
 549
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You are from Marechiaro. Have you ever seen me 
 before? Do you remember me?" 
 
 Maddalena shook her head. 
 
 "And I I don't remember you. But you are from 
 Marechiaro. You must be." 
 
 Maddalena shook her head again. 
 
 "You are not?" 
 
 Hermione looked into the long Arab eyes, searching 
 for a lie. She met a gaze that was steady but dull, al- 
 most like that of a sulky child, and for a moment she 
 felt as if this woman was only a great child, heavy, 
 ignorant, but solemnly determined, a child that had 
 learned its lesson and was bent on repeating it word for 
 word. 
 
 "Did Gaspare come here early this morning to see 
 you?" she asked, with sudden vehemence. 
 
 Maddalena was obviously startled. Her face flushed. 
 
 "Why should he come?" she said, almost angrily. 
 
 "That is what I want you to tell me." 
 
 Maddalena was silent. She shifted uneasily in her 
 chair, which creaked under her weight, and twisted her 
 full lips sideways. Her whole body looked half-sleepily 
 apprehensive. The parrot watched her with supreme 
 attention. Suddenly Hermione felt that she could no 
 longer bear this struggle, that she could no longer con- 
 tinue in darkness, that she must have full light. The 
 contemplation of this stolid ignorance that yet knew 
 how much? confronting her like a featureless wall al- 
 most maddened her. 
 
 "Who are you?" she said. "What have you had to 
 do with my life ?" 
 
 Maddalena looked at her and looked away, bending 
 her head sideways till her plump neck was like a thing 
 deformed. 
 
 "What have you had to do with my life ? What have 
 you to do with it now ? I want to know!" She stood up. 
 
 55
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I must know. You must tell me! Do you hear?" 
 She bent down. She was standing almost over Mad- 
 dalena. "You must tell me!" 
 
 There was again a silence through which presently 
 the tram-bell sounded. Maddalena's face had become 
 heavily expressionless, almost like a face of stone. And 
 Hermione, looking down at this face, felt a moment of 
 impotent despair that was succeeded by a fierce, ener- 
 getic impulse. 
 
 "Then," she said "then I'll tell you!" 
 
 Maddalena looked up. 
 
 "Yes, I'll tell you." 
 
 Hermione paused. She had begun to tremble. She 
 put one hand down to the back of the chair, grasping 
 it tightly as if to steady herself. 
 
 "I'll tell you." 
 
 What ? What was she going to tell ? 
 
 That first evening in Sicily just before they went in 
 to bed Maurice had looked down over the terrace 
 wall to the sea. He had seen a light far down by 
 the sea. 
 
 It was the light in the House of the Sirens. 
 
 "You once lived in Sicily. You once lived in the Casa 
 delle Sirene, beyond the old wall, beyond the inlet. You 
 were there when we were in Sicily, when Gaspare was 
 with us as our servant." 
 
 Maddalena's lips parted. Her mouth began to gape. 
 It was obvious that she was afraid. 
 
 "You you knew Gaspare. You knew you knew 
 my husband, the Signore of the Casa del Prete on Monte 
 Amato. You knew him. Do you remember?" 
 
 Maddalena only stared up at her with a sort of heavy 
 apprehension, sitting widely in her chair, with her feet 
 apart and her hands always resting on her knees. 
 
 "It was in the summer-time She was again in 
 Sicily. She was tracing out a story. It was almost as
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 if she saw words and read them from a book. "There 
 were no forestieri in Sicily. They had all gone. Only 
 we were there An expression so faint that it was 
 like a fleeting shadow passed over Maddalena's face, the 
 fleeting shadow of something that denied. "Ah, yes! 
 Till I went away, you mean! I went to Africa. Did 
 you know it then ? But before I went before " She 
 was thinking, she was burrowing deep down into the 
 past, stirring the heap of memories that lay like drifted 
 leaves. "They used to go at least they went once 
 down to the sea. One night they went to the fishing. 
 And they slept out all night. They slept in the caves. 
 Ah, you know that? You remember that night!" 
 
 The trembling that shook her body was reflected in 
 her voice, which became tremulous. She heard the tram- 
 bell ringing. She saw the green parrot listening on its 
 board. And yet she was in Sicily, and saw the line of 
 the coast between Messina and Cattaro, the Isle of the 
 Sirens, the lakelike sea of the inlet between it and the 
 shore. 
 
 "I see that you remember it. You saw them there. 
 They they didn't tell me!" 
 
 As she said the last words she felt that she was enter- 
 ing the great darkness. Maurice and Gaspare she had 
 trusted them with all her nature. And they had they 
 failed her? Was that possible? 
 
 "They didn't tell me," she repeated, piteously, speak- 
 ing now only for herself and to her own soul. "They 
 didn't tell me!" 
 
 Maddalena shook her head like one in sympathy or 
 agreement. But Hermione did not see the movement. 
 She no longer saw Maddalena. She saw only herself, 
 and those two, whom she had trusted so completely, and 
 who had not told her. 
 
 What had they not told her ? 
 
 And then she was in Africa, beside the bed of Artois, 
 552
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ministering to him in the torrid heat, driving away the 
 flies from his white face. 
 
 What had been done in the Garden of Paradise while 
 she had been in exile ? 
 
 She turned suddenly sick. Her body felt ashamed, 
 denied. A shutter seemed to be sharply drawn across 
 her eyes, blotting out life. Her head was full of sea- 
 like noises. 
 
 Presently, from among these noises, one detached it- 
 self, pushed itself, as it were, forward to attract forcibly 
 her attention the sound of a boy's voice. 
 
 ' ' Signora ! Signora ! ' ' 
 
 "Signora!" 
 
 A hand touched her, gripped her. 
 
 "Signora!" 
 
 The shutter was sharply drawn back from her eyes, 
 and she saw Ruffo. He stood before her, gazing at her. 
 His hair, wet from the sea, was plastered down upon 
 his brown forehead as his hair had been when, in the 
 night, they drew him from the sea. 
 
 She saw Ruffo in that moment as if for the first time. 
 
 And she knew. Ruffo had told her.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 HERMIONE was outside in the street, hearing the cries 
 of the ambulant sellers, the calls of women and children, 
 the tinkling bells and the rumble of the trams, and the 
 voice of Fabiano Lari speaking was it to her? 
 
 "Signora, did you see him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is glad to be out of prison. He is gay, but he 
 looks wicked." 
 
 She did not understand what he meant. She walked 
 on and came into the road that leads to the tunnel. She 
 turned mechanically towards the tunnel, drawn by its 
 darkness. 
 
 "But, Signora, this is not the way! This is the way 
 to Fuorigrotta!" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 She went towards the sea. She was thinking of the 
 green parrot expanding and contracting the pupils of 
 its round, ironic eyes. 
 
 "Was Maddalena 'pleased to see him? Was Donna 
 Teresa pleased?" 
 
 Hermione stood still. 
 
 "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "Signora! About Antonio Bernari, who has just 
 come home from prison! Didn't you see him? But you 
 were there in the house!" 
 
 "Oh yes, I saw him. A rivederci!" 
 
 "Ma" 
 
 "A rivederci!" 
 
 554
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She felt in her purse, found a coin, and gave it to him. 
 Then she walked on. She did not see him any more. 
 She did not know what became of him. 
 
 Of course she had seen the return of Antonio Bernari. 
 She remembered now. As Ruffo stood before her with 
 the wet hair on his forehead there had come a shrill cry 
 from the old woman in the kitchen: a cry that was 
 hideous and yet almost beautiful, so full it was of joy. 
 Then from the kitchen the two women had rushed in, 
 gesticulating, ejaculating, their faces convulsed with ex- 
 citement. They had seized Maddalena, Ruffo. One of 
 them the old woman, she thought had even clutched 
 at Hermione's arm. The room had been full of cries. 
 
 "Ecco! Antonio!" 
 
 "Antonio is coming!" 
 
 "I have seen Antonio!" 
 
 "He is pale! He is white like death!" 
 
 "Mamma mia! But he is thin!" 
 
 "Ecco! Ecco! He comes! Here he is! Here is An- 
 tonio!" 
 
 And then the door had been opened, and on the sill a 
 big, broad-shouldered man had appeared, followed by 
 several other evil-looking though smiling men. And all 
 the women had hurried to them. There had been shrill 
 cries, a babel of voices, a noise of kisses. 
 
 And Ruffo ! Where had he been ? What had he done ? 
 
 Hermione only knew that she had heard a rough voice 
 saying: 
 
 "Sangue del Diavolo! Let me alone! Give me a 
 glass of wine! Basta! basta!" 
 
 And then she went out in the street, thinking of the 
 green parrot and hearing the cries of the sellers, the 
 tram-bells, and Fabiano's questioning voice. 
 
 Now she continued her walk towards the harbor of 
 Mergellina alone. The thought of the green parrot ob- 
 sessed her mind. 
 
 36 555
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She saw it before her on its board, with the rolled-up 
 bed towering behind it. Now it was motionless only 
 the pupils of its eyes moved. Now it lifted its claw, 
 bowed its head, shuffled along the board to hear their 
 conversation better. 
 
 She saw it with- extreme distinctness, and now she 
 saw also on the wall of the room near it the "Fattura 
 della Morte " the green lemon with the nails stuck 
 through it, like nails driven into a cross. 
 
 Vaguely the word "crucifixion" went through her 
 mind. Many people, many women, had surely been 
 crucified since the greatest tragedy the world had ever 
 known. What had they felt, they who were only hu- 
 man, they who could not see the face of the Father, 
 who could some of them, perhaps only hope that there 
 was a Father ? What had they felt ? Perhaps scarcely 
 anything. Perhaps merely a sensation of numbness, as 
 if their whole bodies, and their minds, too, were under 
 the influence of a great injection of cocaine. Her 
 thoughts again returned to the parrot. She wondered 
 where it had been bought, whether it had come with 
 Antonio from America. 
 
 Presently she reached the tramway station and stood 
 still. She had to go back to the "Trattoria del Giar- 
 dinetto." She must take a tram here, one of those on 
 which was written in big letters, "Capo di Posilipo." 
 No, not that! That did not go far enough. The other 
 one what was written upon it? Something "Sette 
 Settembre." She looked for the words " Sette Settembre." 
 
 Tram after tram came up, paused, passed on. But 
 she did not see those words on any of them. She be- 
 gan to think of the sea, of the brown body of the bathing 
 boy which she had seen shoot through the air and dis- 
 appear into the shining water before she had gone to 
 that house where the green parrot was. She would go 
 down to the sea, to the harbor. 
 
 556
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She threaded her way across the broad space, going in 
 and out among the trams and the waiting people. Then 
 she went down a road not far from the Grand Hotel and 
 came to the Marina. 
 
 There were boys bathing still from the breakwater of 
 the rocks. And still they were shouting. She stood by 
 the wall and watched them, resting her hands on the 
 stone. 
 
 How hot the stone was! Gaspare had been right. It 
 was going to be a glorious day, one of the tremendous 
 days of summer. 
 
 The nails driven through the green lemon like nails 
 driven through a cross Peppina the cross cut on Pep- 
 pina's cheek. 
 
 That broad-shouldered man who had come in at the 
 door had cut that cross on Peppina's cheek. 
 
 Was it true that Peppina had the evil eye? Had it 
 been a fatal day for the Casa del Mare when she had 
 been allowed to cross its threshold? Vere had said 
 something what was it ? about Peppina and her cross. 
 Oh yes! That Peppina's cross seemed like a sign, a 
 warning come into the house on the island, that it seemed 
 to say, "There is a cross to be borne by some one here, 
 by one of us!" 
 
 And the fishermen's sign of the cross under the light of 
 San Francesco? 
 
 Surely there had been many warnings in her life. 
 They had been given to her, but she had not heeded 
 them. 
 
 She saw a brown body shoot through the air from the 
 rocks and disappear into the shining sea. Was it Ruffo ? 
 With an effort she remembered that she had left Ruffo 
 in the tall house, in the room where the green parrot was. 
 
 She walked on slowly till she came to the place where 
 Artois had seen Ruffo with his mother. A number of 
 tables were set out, but there were few people sitting at 
 
 557
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 them. She felt tired. She crossed the road, went to a 
 table, and sat down. A waiter came up and asked her 
 what she would have. 
 
 "Acqua fresca," she said. 
 
 He looked surprised. 
 
 "Oh then wine, vermouth anything!" 
 
 He looked more surprised. 
 
 "Will you have vermouth, Signora?" 
 
 "Yes, yes vermouth." 
 
 He brought her vermouth and iced water. She mixed 
 them together and drank. But she was not conscious of 
 tasting anything. For a considerable time she sat there. 
 People passed her. The trams rushed by. On several 
 of them were printed the words she had looked for in 
 vain at the station. But she did not notice them. 
 
 During this time she did not feel unhappy. Seldom 
 had she felt calmer, more at rest, more able to be still. 
 She had no desire to do anything. It seemed to her 
 that she would be quite satisfied to sit where she was 
 in the sun forever. 
 
 While she sat there she was always thinking, but 
 vaguely, slowly, lethargically. And her thoughts re- 
 iterated themselves, were like recurring fragments of 
 dreams, and were curiously linked together. The green 
 parrot she always connected with the death-charm, be- 
 cause the latter had once been green. Whenever the 
 one presented itself to her mind it was immediately 
 followed by the other. The shawl at which the old 
 woman's yellow fingers had perpetually pulled led her 
 mind to the thought of the tunnel, because she imagined 
 that the latter must eventually end in blackness, and 
 the shawl was black. She knew, of course, really that 
 the tunnel was lit from end to end by electricity. But 
 her mind arbitrarily put aside this knowledge. It did 
 not belong to her strange mood, the mood of one drawing 
 near to the verge either of some abominable collapse or 
 
 SS8
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 of some terrible activity. Occasionally, she thought of 
 Ruffo; but always as one of the brown boys bathing 
 from the rocks beyond the harbor, shouting, laughing, 
 triumphant in his glorious youth. And when the link 
 was, as it were, just beginning to form itself from the 
 thought -shape of youth to another thought -shape, her 
 mind stopped short in that progress, recoiled, like a 
 creature recoiling from a precipice it has not seen but 
 has divined in the dark. She sipped the vermouth and 
 the iced water, and stared at the drops chasing each 
 other down the clouded glass. And for a time she was 
 not conscious where she was, and heard none of the 
 noises round about her. 
 
 "Quanno fa notte 'nterra Mergellina, 
 Se sceta 'o mare e canta chiano, chiano, 
 Si fa chiu doce st' aria d 'a Marina, 
 Pure 'e serene cantano 'a luntano. 
 Quanno fa notte 'nterra Mergellina, 
 E custa luna dint' 'essere e state 
 Lo vularria durmi, ma nun e cosa; 
 Me scetene d' 'o suonno 'e sti sarate, 
 O' Mare, 'e Mergellina, e 1' uocchie 'e Rosa!" 
 
 It was the song of Mergellina, sung at some distance 
 off in dialect, by a tenor voice to the accompaniment of 
 a piano-organ. Hermione ceased from gazing at the 
 drops on the glass, looked up, listened. 
 
 The song came nearer. The tenor voice was hard, 
 strident, sang lustily but inexpressively in the glaring 
 sunshine. And the dialect made the song seem different, 
 almost new. Its charm seemed to have evaporated. 
 Yet she remembered vaguely that it had charmed her. 
 She sought for the charm, striving feebly to recapture it. 
 
 "E custa luna dint' 'essere e state " 
 
 The piano-organ hurt her, the hard voice hurt her. 
 It sounded cruel and greedy. But the song once it had 
 
 559
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 appealed to her. Once she had leaned down to hear it, 
 she had leaned down over the misty sea, her soul had 
 followed it out over the sea. 
 
 " Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1' estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la Marina: 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate 
 
 Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 Those were the real words. And what voice had sung 
 them? 
 
 And then, suddenly, her brain worked once more with 
 its natural swiftness and vivacity, her imagination and 
 her heart awaked. She was again alive. She saw the 
 people. She heard the sounds about her. She felt the 
 scorching heat of the sun. But in it she was conscious 
 also of the opposite of day, of the opposite of heat. At 
 that moment she had a double consciousness. For she 
 felt the salt coolness of the night around the lonely 
 island. And she heard not only the street singer, but 
 Ruffo in his boat. 
 
 Ruffo in his boat. 
 
 Suddenly she could not see anything. Her sight was 
 drowned by tears. She got up at once. She felt for 
 her purse, found it, opened it, felt for money, found some 
 coins, laid them down on the table, and began to walk. 
 She was driven by fear, the fear of falling down in the 
 sun in the sight of all men, and crying, sobbing, with her 
 face against the ground. She heard a shout. Some one 
 gave her a violent push, thrusting her forward. She 
 stumbled, recovered herself. A passer-by had saved her 
 from a tram. She did not know it. She did not look 
 at him or thank him. He went away, swearing at the 
 English. Where was she going? 
 
 She must go home. She must go to the island. She 
 must go to Vere, to Gaspare, to Emile to her life. 
 
 Her body and soul revolted from the thought, her out- 
 560
 
 raged body and her outraged soul, which were just be- 
 ginning to feel their outrage, as flesh and nerves begin 
 to feel pain after an operation when the effect of the 
 anaesthetic gradually fades away. 
 
 She was walking up the hill and still crying. 
 
 She met a boy of the people, swarthy, with impudent 
 black eyes, tangled hair, and a big, pouting mouth, above 
 which a premature mustache showed like a smudge. He 
 looked into her face and began to laugh. She saw his 
 white teeth, and her tears rushed back to their sources. 
 At once her eyes were dry. And, almost at once, she 
 thought, her heart became hard as stone, and she felt 
 self-control like iron within her. 
 
 That boy of the people should be the last human being 
 to laugh at her. 
 
 She saw a tram stop. It went to the "Trattoria del 
 Giardinetto." She got in, and sat down next to two 
 thin English ladies, who held guide-books in their hands, 
 and whose pointed features looked piteously inquiring. 
 
 "Excuse me, but do you know this neighborhood?" 
 
 She was being addressed. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That is fortunate we do not. Perhaps you will 
 kindly tell us something about it. Is it far to Bag- 
 noli?" 
 
 "Not very far." 
 
 "And when you get there ?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" 
 
 "When you get there, is there much to see?" 
 
 "Not so very much." 
 
 "Can one lunch there?" 
 
 "No doubt." 
 
 "Yes. But I mean, what sort of lunch? Can one get 
 anything clean and wholesome, such as you get in Eng- 
 land?" 
 
 "It would be Italian food."
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 " Oh, dear! Fanny, this lady says we can only get 
 Italian food at Bagnoli!" 
 
 "Tcha! Tcha!" 
 
 "But perhaps excuse me, but do you think we could 
 get a good cup of tea there? We might manage with 
 that tea and some boiled eggs. Don't you think so, 
 Fanny ? Could we get a cup of 
 
 The tram stopped. Hermione had pulled the cord 
 that made the bell sound. She paid and got down. 
 The tram carried away the English ladies, their pointed 
 features red with surprise and indignation. 
 
 Hermione again began to walk, but almost directly 
 she saw a wandering carriage and hailed the driver. 
 
 "Carrozza!" 
 
 She got in. 
 
 "Put me down at the 'Trattoria del Giardinetto.'" 
 
 "Si, Signora but how much are you going to give 
 me? I can't take you for less than 
 
 "Anything five lire drive on at once." 
 
 The man drove on, grinning. 
 
 Presently Hermione was walking through the short 
 tunnel that leads to the path descending between vine- 
 yards to the sea. She must take a boat to the island. 
 She must go back to the island. Where else could she 
 go ? If Vere had not been there she might but Vere was 
 there. It was inevitable. She must return to the island. 
 
 She stood still in the path, between the high banks. 
 
 Her body was demanding not to be forced by the will 
 to go to the island. 
 
 "I must go back to the island." 
 
 She walked on very slowly till she could see the shin- 
 ing water over the sloping, vine-covered land. The sight 
 of the water reminded her that Gaspare would be wait- 
 ing for her on the sand below the village. When she re- 
 membered that she stopped again. Then she turned 
 round, and began to walk back towards the highroad. 
 
 562
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Gaspare was waiting. If she went down to the sand 
 she would have to meet his great intent eyes, those watch- 
 ful eyes full of questions. He would read her. He 
 would see in a moment that she knew. And he would 
 see more than that! He would see that she was hating 
 him. The hatred was only dawning, struggling up in 
 her tangled heart. But it existed it was there. And 
 he would see that it was there. 
 
 She walked back till she reached the tunnel under the 
 highroad. But she did not pass through it. She could 
 not face the highroad with its traffic. Perhaps the Eng- 
 lish ladies would be coming back. Perhaps She 
 turned again and presently sat down on a bank, and 
 looked at the dry and wrinkled ground. Nobody went 
 by. The lizards ran about near her feet. She sat there 
 over an hour, scarcely moving, with the sun beating 
 upon her head. 
 
 Then she got up and walked fast, and with a firm 
 step, towards the village and the sea. 
 
 The village is only a tiny hamlet, ending in a small 
 trattoria with a rough terrace above the sea, overlook- 
 ing a strip of sand where a few boats lie. As Hermione 
 came to the steps that lead down to the terrace she 
 stood still and looked over the wall on her left. The 
 boat from the island was at anchor there, floating mo- 
 tionless on the still water. Gaspare was not in it, but 
 was lying stretched on his back on the sand, with his 
 white linen hat over his face. 
 
 He lay like one dead. 
 
 She stood and watched him, as she might have watched 
 a corpse of some one she had cared for but who was 
 gone from her forever. 
 
 Perhaps he was not asleep, for almost directly he be- 
 came aware of her observation, sat up, and uncovered his 
 face, turning towards her and looking up. Already, and 
 from this distance, she could see a fierce inquiry in his eyes. 
 
 563
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She made a determined effort and waved her hand. 
 
 Gaspare sprang to his feet, took out his watch, looked 
 at it, then went and fetched the boat. 
 
 His action the taking out of the watch reminded 
 Hermione of time. She looked at her watch. It was 
 half-past two. On the island they lunched at half-past 
 twelve. Gaspare must have been waiting for hours. 
 What did it matter? 
 
 She made another determined effort and went down 
 the remaining steps to the beach. 
 
 Gaspare should not know that she knew. She was 
 resolved upon that, concentrated upon that. Continual- 
 ly she saw in front of her the pouting mouth, the white 
 teeth of the boy who had laughed at her in the street. 
 There should be no more crying, no more visible despair. 
 No one should see any difference in her. All the time 
 that she had been sitting still in the sun upon the bank 
 she had been fiercely schooling herself in an act new to 
 her the act of deception. She had not faced the truth 
 that to-day she knew. She had not faced the ruin 
 that its knowledge had made of all that had been 
 sacred and lovely in her life. She had fastened 
 her whole force fanatically upon that one idea, that 
 one decision and the effort that was the corollary 
 of it. 
 
 "There shall be no difference in me. No one is to 
 know that anything has happened." 
 
 At that moment she was a fanatic. And she looked 
 like one as she came down upon the sand. 
 
 "I'm afraid I'm rather late Gaspare." 
 
 It was difficult to her to say his name. But she said 
 it firmly. 
 
 "Signora, it is nearly three o'clock." 
 
 "Half -past two. No, I can get in all right." 
 
 He had put out his arm to help her into the boat. 
 But she could not touch him. She knew that. She 
 
 564
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 felt that she would rather die at the moment than touch 
 or be touched by him. 
 
 "You might take away your arm." 
 
 He dropped his arm at once. 
 
 Had she already betrayed herself ? 
 
 She got into the boat and he pushed off. 
 
 Usually he sat, when he was rowing, so that he might 
 keep his face towards her. But to-day he stood up to 
 row, turning his back to her. And this change of con- 
 duct made her say to herself again: 
 
 "Have I betrayed myself already?" 
 
 Fiercely she resolved to be and to do the impossible. 
 It was the only chance. For Gaspare was difficult to 
 deceive. 
 
 "Gaspare!" she said. 
 
 "Si, Signora," he replied, without turning his head. 
 
 "Can't you row sitting down?" 
 
 "If you like, Signora." 
 
 "We can talk better then." 
 
 "Va bene, Signora." 
 
 He turned round and sat down. 
 
 The boat was at this moment just off the "Palace of 
 the Spirits." Hermione saw its shattered walls cruelly 
 lit up by the blazing sun, its gaping window-spaces like 
 eye-sockets, sightless, staring, horribly suggestive of ruin 
 and despair. 
 
 She was like that. Gaspare was looking at her. Gas- 
 pare must know that she was like that. 
 
 But she was a fanatic just then, and she smiled at him 
 with a resolution that had in it something almost brutal, 
 something the opposite of what she was, of the sum of 
 her. 
 
 "I forgot the time. It is so lovely to-day. It was 
 so gay at Mergellina." 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 "I sat for a long time watching the boats, and the 
 565
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 boys bathing, and listening to the music. They sang 
 'A Merge llina.'" 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
 "And I went to visit Ruffo's mother." 
 
 Gaspare made no response. He looked down now as 
 he plied his oars. 
 
 "She seems a nice woman. I I dare say she was quite 
 pretty once." 
 
 The voice that was speaking now was the voice of a 
 fanatic. 
 
 "I am sure she must have been pretty." 
 "Chilosa?" 
 
 "If one looks carefully one can see the traces. But, 
 of course , now 
 
 She stopped abruptly. It was impossible for her to 
 go on. She was passionately trying to imagine what 
 that spreading, graceless woman, with her fat hands 
 resting on her knees set wide apart, was like once was 
 like nearly seventeen years ago. Was she ever pretty, 
 beautiful? Never could she have been intelligent 
 never, never. Then she must have been beautiful. For, 
 otherwise Hermione's drawn face was flooded with 
 scarlet. 
 
 " If if it's easier to you to row standing up, Gaspare," 
 she almost stammered, "never mind about sitting down." 
 
 "I think it is easier, Signora." 
 
 He got up, and once more turned his back upon her. 
 
 They did not speak again until they reached the island. 
 
 Hermione watched his strong body swinging to and 
 fro with every stroke, and wondered if he felt the terrible 
 change in her feeling for him a change that a few hours 
 ago she would have thought utterly impossible. 
 
 She wondered if Gaspare knew that she was hating him. 
 
 He was alive and, therefore, to be hated. For surely 
 we cannot hate the dust ! 
 
 566
 
 HE TURNED AND GAZED AFTER HER AS SHE WENT UP 
 THE STEPS"
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 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 fero- 
 cious in their tragic gloom, we re 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 tor- 
 mented. He did not analyze he only knew, he only 
 
 567
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 felt. And he suffered horribly. How had his Padrona 
 been able to look at him like that ?' 
 
 The moisture came thickly in 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 faith- 
 ful 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 Madda- 
 lena, 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 hastily 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?" 
 
 568
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 awe- 
 struck. 
 
 "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 min- 
 utes, 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. 
 
 569
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 Padron- 
 cina 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 
 570
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 re- 
 membered many small mysteries in the recent conduct 
 of her mother, many moments when she had been sur- 
 prised, 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 any- 
 thing was the matter. But .she had seen in his eyes that 
 he was acting a part that he wished to detach her ob- 
 servation 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." 
 37 i
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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: 
 
 " DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE, Please come to the island at once. 
 Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. 
 But Madre is No, I can't put it. Oh, do come please 
 please come! VERB. 
 
 "Come the quickest way." 
 
 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." 
 572
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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 Mon- 
 astery 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 Her- 
 mione 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. 
 
 "Theje is a note for Monsieur!" 
 
 He took it from the hall porter. 
 
 573
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "No, I'll walk up-stairs." 
 
 He had seen that 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. 
 
 "DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE, Please come to the island at o'nce. 
 Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. 
 But Madre is No, I can't put it. Oh, do come please 
 please come! VERB. 
 
 "Come the quickest way." 
 
 "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. 
 
 574
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 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: 
 
 "lo ti voglio dare 
 Un soldato Bersagliere, 
 
 lo ti voglio dare 
 Un soldato Bersagliere. 
 
 Soldato Bersagliere 
 lo non lo voglio no! 
 lo non lo voglio no!" 
 
 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 radi- 
 ant, 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 knowl- 
 
 575
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 edge. 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, per- 
 haps, 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 fail 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 was 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?" 
 
 576
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "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 man 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 would 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. 
 
 577
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The gesture was followed by a crash. 
 
 The green Venetian blind had fallen, hiding the win- 
 dow, 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."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THERE was no one at the foot of the cliff. Artois got 
 out of the boat and stood for a moment, hesitating 
 whether to keep Giovanni or to dismiss him. 
 
 "I can stay, Signore," said the man. "You will want 
 some one to row you back." 
 
 "No, Giovanni. I can get Gaspare to put me ashore. 
 You had better be off." 
 
 "Va bene, Signore," he replied, looking disappointed. 
 
 The Signora of the Casa del Mare was always very 
 hospitable to such fishermen as she knew. Giovanni 
 wanted to seek out Gaspare, to have a cigarette. But he 
 obediently jumped into the boat and rowed off into the 
 darkness, while Artois went up the steps towards the 
 house. 
 
 A cold feeling of dread encompassed him. He still 
 saw, imaginatively, that stranger at the window, that 
 falling movement, that frantic gesture, the descending 
 blind that brought to Hermione's bedroom a greater 
 obscurity. And he remembered Hermione's face in the 
 garden, half seen by him once in shadows, with surely a 
 strange and terrible smile upon it a smile that had 
 made him wonder if he had ever really known her. 
 
 He came out on the plateau before the front door. 
 The door was shut, but as he went to open it it was 
 opened from within, and Gaspare stood before him in 
 the twilight, with the dark passage for background. 
 
 Gaspare looked at Artois in silence. 
 
 "Gaspare," Artois said, "I came home from San 
 579
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Martino. I found a note from the Signorina, begging 
 me to come here at once." 
 
 "Lo so, Signore." 
 
 "I have come. What has what is it ? Where is the 
 Signorina?" 
 
 Gaspare stood in the middle of the narrow doorway. 
 
 "The Signorina is in the garden." 
 
 "Waiting for me ?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 He moved to enter the house ; but Gaspare stood still 
 where he was. 
 
 "Signore," he said. 
 
 Artois stopped at the door-sill. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "What are you going to do here?" 
 
 At last Gaspare was frankly the watch-dog guarding 
 the sacred house. His Padrona had cast upon him a 
 look of hatred. Yet he was guarding the sacred house 
 and her within it. Deep in the blood of him was the 
 sense that, even hating him, she belonged to him and he 
 to her. 
 
 And his Padroncina had trusted him, had clung to 
 him that day. 
 
 "What are you going to do here?" 
 
 "If there is trouble here, I want to help." 
 
 "How can you help, Signore?" 
 
 "First tell me there is great trouble?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "And you know what it is? You know what caused 
 it?" 
 
 "No one has told me." 
 
 " But you know what it is ?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Does the Signorina doesn't know?" 
 
 "No, Signore." 
 
 580
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He paused, then added: 
 
 "The Signorina is not to know what it is." 
 
 "You do not think I shall tell her?" 
 
 " Signore, how can I tell what you will do here ? How 
 can I tell what you are here ?" 
 
 For a moment Artois felt deeply wounded wounded 
 to the quick. He had not supposed it was possible for 
 any one to hurt him so much with a few quiet words. 
 Anger rose in him, an anger such as the furious at- 
 tack of the Marchesino had never brought to the 
 birth. 
 
 "You can say that!" he exclaimed. "You can say 
 that, after Sicily!" 
 
 Gaspare's face changed, softened for an instant, then 
 grew stern again. 
 
 "That was long ago, Signore. It was all different in 
 Sicily!" 
 
 His eyes filled with tears, yet his face remained stern. 
 But Artois was seized again, as when he walked in the 
 golden air between the vineyards and heard the peasants 
 singing, by an intense desire to bring happiness to the 
 unhappy, especially and above all to one unhappy wom- 
 an. To-night his intellect was subordinate to his heart, 
 his pride of intellect was lost in feeling, in an emotion 
 that the simplest might have understood and shared: 
 the longing to be of use, to comfort, to pour balm into 
 the terrible wound of one who had been his friend such 
 a friend as only a certain type of woman can be to a 
 certain type of man. 
 
 "Gaspare," he said, "you and I we helped the Sign- 
 ora once, we helped her in Sicily." 
 
 Gaspare looked away from him, and did not answer. 
 
 "Perhaps we can help her now. Perhaps only we can 
 help her. Let me into the house, Gaspare. I shall do 
 nothing here to make your Padrona sad." 
 
 Gaspare looked at him again, looked into his eyes, then
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 moved aside, giving room for him to enter. As soon as 
 he was in the passage Gaspare shut the door. 
 
 "I am sorry, Sign ore; the lamp is not lighted." 
 
 Artois felt at once an unusual atmosphere in the 
 house, an atmosphere not of confusion but of mystery, 
 of secret curiosity, of brooding apprehension. At the 
 foot of the servants' staircase he heard a remote sound 
 of whispering, which emphasized the otherwise com- 
 plete silence of this familiar dwelling, suddenly become 
 unfamiliar to him unfamiliar and almost dreadful. 
 
 "I had better go into the garden." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Gaspare looked down the servants' staircase and hissed 
 sharply: 
 
 "Sh! S-s-sh!" 
 
 "The Signora ?" asked Artois, as Gaspare came to 
 him softly. 
 
 "The Signora is always in her room. She is shut up 
 in her room." 
 
 "I saw the Signora just now, at the window," Artois 
 said, in an undervoice. 
 
 "You saw the Signora?" 
 
 Gaspare looked at him with sudden eagerness mingled 
 with a flaming anxiety. 
 
 "From the boat. She came to the window and let 
 down the blind." 
 
 Gaspare did not ask anything. They went on to the 
 terrace above the sea. 
 
 "I will tell the Signorina you have come, Signore." 
 
 "Sha'n't I go down?" 
 
 "I had better go and tell her." 
 
 He spoke with conviction. Artois did not dispute his 
 judgment. He went away, always softly. Artois stood 
 still on the terrace. The twilight was spreading itself 
 over the sea, like a veil dropping over a face. The house 
 was dark behind him. In that darkness Hermione was 
 
 582
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hidden, the Hermione who was a stranger to him, the 
 Hermione into whose heart and soul he was no longer 
 allowed to look. Upon Monte Amato at evening she 
 had, very simply, showed to him the truth of her great 
 sorrow. 
 
 Now he saw the face at the window, the falling blind. 
 Between then and now what a gulf fixed! 
 
 Vere came from the garden followed by Gaspare. Her 
 eyes were wide with terror. The eyelids were red. She 
 had been weeping. She almost ran to Artois, as a child 
 runs to refuge. Never before had he felt so acutely the 
 childishness that still lingered in this little Vere of the 
 island lingered unaffected, untouched by recent events. 
 Thank God for that! In that moment the Marchesino 
 was forgiven; and Artois did he not perhaps also in 
 that moment forgive himself ? 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Emile I thought you wouldn't come!" 
 
 There was the open reproach of a child in her voice. 
 She seized his hand. 
 
 "Has Gaspare told you?" She turned her head tow- 
 ards Gaspare. "Something terrible has happened to 
 Madre. Monsieur Emile, do you know what it is?" 
 
 She was looking at him with an intense scrutiny. 
 
 "Gaspare is hiding something from me " 
 
 Gaspare stood there and said nothing. 
 
 " something that perhaps you know." 
 
 Gaspare looked at Artois, and Artois felt now that 
 the watch-dog trusted him. He returned the Sicilian's 
 glance, and Gaspare moved away, went to the rail of the 
 terrace, and looked down over the sea. 
 
 "Do you know? Do you know anything anything 
 dreadful about Madre that you have never told me ?" 
 
 "Vere, don't be frightened." 
 
 "Ah, but you haven't been here! You weren't here 
 when " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 583
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Her terror infected him. 
 
 "Madre came back. She had been to Mergellina all 
 alone. She was away such a long time. When she came 
 back I was in my room. I didn't know. I didn't hear 
 the boat. But my door was open, and presently I heard 
 some one come up-stairs and go into the boudoir. It 
 was Madre. I know her step. I know it was Madre '/' 
 
 She reiterated her assertion, as if she anticipated that 
 he was going to dispute it. 
 
 "She stayed in the boudoir only a very little while 
 only a few minutes. Oh, Monsieur Emile, but " 
 
 "Vere! What do you mean? Did what happened 
 there in the boudoir?" 
 
 He was reading from her face. 
 
 "She went Madre went in there to " 
 
 She stopped and swallowed. 
 
 "Madre took father's photograph the one on the 
 writing-table and tore it to pieces. And the frame 
 that was all bent and nearly broken. Father's photo- 
 graph, that she loves so much!" 
 
 Artois said nothing. At that moment it was as if he 
 entered suddenly into Hermione's heart, and knew every 
 feeling there. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile is she is Madre ill?" 
 
 She began to tremble once more, as she had trembled 
 when she came to fetch Gaspare from the nook of the 
 cliff beside the Saint's Pool. 
 
 "Not as you mean, Vere." 
 
 "You are sure? You are certain?" 
 
 "Not in that way?" 
 
 "But then I heard Madre come out and go to her 
 bedroom. I didn't hear whether she locked the door. I 
 only heard it shut. But Gaspare says he knows it is 
 locked. Two or three minutes after the door was shut 
 I heard I heard " 
 
 "Don't be afraid. Tell me if I ought to know." 
 584
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Those words voiced a deep and delicate reluctance 
 which was beginning to invade him. Yet he wished to 
 help Vere, to release this child from the thrall of a terror 
 which could only be conquered if it were expressed. 
 
 "Tell me," he added, slowly. 
 
 "I heard Madre Monsieur Emile, it was hardly cry- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Don't. You needn't tell me any more." 
 
 "Gaspare heard it too. It went on for a long, long 
 time. We Gaspare made the servants keep down- 
 stairs. And then then it stopped. And we have heard 
 nothing ever since. And I I have been waiting for 
 you to come, because Madre cares for you." 
 
 Artois put his hand down quickly upon Vere's right 
 hand. 
 
 "I am glad you sent for me, Vere. I am glad you 
 think that. Come and sit down on the bench." 
 
 He drew her down beside him. He felt that he was 
 with a child whom he must comfort. Gaspare stood al- 
 ways looking down over the rail of the terrace to the sea. 
 
 "Vere!" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Emile." 
 
 "Your mother is not ill, as you thought feared. 
 But to-day she has had, she must have had, a great 
 shock." 
 
 "But at Mergellina?" 
 
 "Only that could account for what you have just 
 told me." 
 
 "But I don't understand. She only went to Mergel- 
 lina." 
 
 "Did you see her before she went there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Was she as usual?" 
 
 "I don't think she was. I think Madre has been 
 changing nearly all this summer. That is why I am so 
 afraid. You know she has been changing." 
 
 585
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He was silent. The difficulty of the situation was 
 great. He did not know how to resolve it. 
 
 "You have seen the change, Monsieur Emile!" 
 
 He did not deny it. He did not know what to do or 
 say. For of that change, although perhaps now he 
 partly understood it, he could never speak to Vere or to 
 any one. 
 
 "It has made me so unhappy," Vere said, with a break 
 in her voice. 
 
 And he had said to himself: "Vere must be happy!" 
 At that moment he and his intellect seemed to him less 
 than a handful of dust. 
 
 "But this change of to-day is different," he said, slow- 
 ly. "Your mother has had a dreadful shock." 
 
 "At Mergellina?" 
 
 "It must have been there." 
 
 "But what could it be? We scarcely ever go there. 
 We don't know any one there oh, except Ruffo." 
 
 Her eyes, keen and bright with youth, even though 
 they had been crying, were fixed upon his face while she 
 was speaking, and she saw a sudden conscious look in 
 his eyes, a movement of his lips he drew them sharply 
 together, as if seized by a spasm. 
 
 "Ruffo!" she repeated. "Has it something to do 
 with Ruffo?" 
 
 There was a profound perplexity in her face, but the 
 fear in it was less. 
 
 "Something to do with Ruffo?" she repeated. 
 
 Suddenly she moved, she got up. And all the fear 
 had come back to her face, with something added to it, 
 something intensely personal. 
 
 "Do you mean is Ruffo dead?" she whispered. 
 
 A voice rose up from the sea singing a sad little song. 
 Vere turned towards the sea. All her body relaxed. The 
 voice passed on. The sad little song passed under the 
 cliff, to the Saint's Pool and the lee of the island. 
 
 586
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur Emile," she said, "why don't you 
 tell me?" 
 
 She swayed. He put his arm quickly behind her. 
 
 "No, no! It's all right. That was Ruffo!" 
 
 And she smiled. 
 
 At that moment Artois longed to tell her the truth. 
 To do so would surely be to do something that was 
 beautiful. But he dared not he had no right. 
 
 A bell rang in the house, loudly, persistently, tearing 
 its silence. Gaspare turned angrily from the rail, with 
 an expression of apprehension on his face. 
 
 Giulia was summoning the household to dinner. 
 
 "Perhaps perhaps Madre will come down," Vere 
 whispered. 
 
 Gaspare passed them and went into the house quickly. 
 They knew he had gone to see if his Padrona was com- 
 ing. Moved by a mutual instinct, they stayed where 
 they were till he should come to them again. 
 
 For a long time they waited. He did not return. 
 
 "We had better go in, Vere. You must eat." 
 
 "I can't unless she comes." 
 
 "You must try to eat." 
 
 He spoke to her as to a child. 
 
 "And perhaps Gaspare may be with her, may be 
 speaking with her. Let us go in." 
 
 They passed into the house, and went to the dining- 
 room. The table was laid. The lamp was lit. Giulia 
 stood by the sideboard looking anxious and subdued. 
 She did not even smile when she saw Artois, who was her 
 favorite. 
 
 "Where is Gaspare, Giulia?" said Artois. 
 
 "Up-stairs, Signore. He came in and ran up-stairs, 
 and he has not come down. Ah!" she raised her hands 
 ' ' the evil eye has looked upon this house ! When that 
 girl Peppina 
 
 "Be quiet!" Artois said, sharply. 
 38 587
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Giulia's round, black eyes filled with tears, and her 
 mouth opened in surprise. 
 
 He put his hand kindly on her arm. 
 
 " Never mind, Giulia mia! But it is foolish to talk 
 like that. There is no reason why evil should come 
 upon the Casa del Mare. Here is Gaspare!" 
 
 At this moment he entered, looking tragic. 
 
 "Go away, Giulia!" he said to her, roughly. 
 
 "Ma" 
 
 "Go away!" 
 
 He put her out of the room without ceremony, and 
 shut the door. 
 
 "Signore!" he said to Artois, "I have been up to the 
 Padrona's room. I have knocked on the door. I have 
 spoken " 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 ''I did not say that you were here, Signore." 
 
 "Did you ask the Signora to come down?" 
 
 "I asked if she was coming down to dinner. I said 
 the Signorina was waiting for her." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "The Signora did not answer. There was no noise, 
 and in the room there is no light!" 
 
 "Let me go!" Vere said, breathlessly. 
 
 She was moving towards the door when Artois stopped 
 her authoritatively. 
 
 "No, Vere wait!" 
 
 "But some one must I'm afraid " 
 
 "Wait, Vere!" 
 
 He turned once more to Gaspare. 
 
 "Did you try the door, Gaspare?" 
 
 "Signore, I did. After I had spoken several times 
 and waited a long time, I tried the door softly. It is 
 locked." 
 
 "You see!" 
 
 It was Vere speaking, still breathlessly. 
 58*
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Let me go, Monsieur Emile. We can't let Madre 
 stay like that, all alone in the dark. She must have 
 food. We can't stay down here and leave her." 
 
 Artois hesitated. He thought of the stranger at the 
 window, and he felt afraid. But he concealed his fear. 
 
 "Perhaps you had better go, Vere," he said, at length. 
 "But if she does not answer, don't try the door. Don't 
 knock. Just speak. You will find the best words." 
 
 "Yes. I'll try I'll try." 
 
 Gaspare opened the door. Giulia was sobbing out- 
 side. Her pride and dignity were lacerated by Gaspare's 
 action. 
 
 "Giulia, never mind! Don't cry! Gaspare didn't 
 mean " 
 
 Before she had finished speaking the servant passion- 
 ately seized her hand and kissed it. Vere released her 
 hand very gently and went slowly up the stairs. 
 
 The instinct of Artois was to follow her. He longed 
 to follow her, but he denied himself, and sat down by 
 the dinner-table, on which the zuppa di pesce was smok- 
 ing under the lamp. Giulia, trying to stifle her sobs, 
 went away down the kitchen stairs, and Gaspare stood 
 near the door. He touched his face with his hands, 
 opened and shut his lips, then thrust his hands into his 
 pockets, and stared first at Artois then at the floor. His 
 cheeks and his forehead looked hot, as if he had just 
 finished some difficult physical act. Artois did not 
 glance at him. In that moment both men, in their dif- 
 ferent ways, felt dreadfully, almost unbearably, self- 
 conscious. 
 
 Presently Vere's step was heard again on the stairs, 
 descending softly and slowly. She came in and went 
 at once to Artois. 
 
 "Madre doesn't answer." 
 
 Artois got up. 
 
 "What ought we to do?" 
 589
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Verc was whispering. 
 
 "Did you hear anything?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Gaspare moved, took his hands violently out of his 
 pockets, then thrust them in again. 
 
 Artois stood in silence. His face, generally so strong, 
 so authoritative, showed his irresolution, and Vere, look- 
 ing to him like a frightened child for guidance, felt her 
 terror increase. 
 
 "Shall I go up again? I didn't knock. You told 
 me not to. Shall I go and knock? Or shall Gaspare 
 go again?" 
 
 She did not suggest that Artois should go himself. 
 He noticed that, even in this moment of the confusion 
 of his will. 
 
 "I think we had better leave her for a time," he said, 
 at last. 
 
 As he spoke he made an effort, and recovered himself. 
 
 "We had better do nothing more. What can we do ?" 
 
 He was looking at Gaspare. 
 
 Gaspare went out into the passage and called down 
 the stairs. 
 
 1 ' Giulia ! Come up ! The Signorina is going to dinner. ' ' 
 
 His defiant voice sounded startling in the silent house. 
 
 "We are to eat!" 
 
 "Yes, Vere. I shall stay. Presently your mother 
 may come down. She feels that she must be alone. 
 We have no right to try to force ourselves upon her." 
 
 "Do you think it is that? Are you telling me the 
 truth? Are you?" 
 
 "If she does not come down presently I will go up. 
 Don't be afraid. I will not leave you till she comes 
 down." 
 
 Giulia returned, wiping her eyes. When he saw her 
 Gaspare disappeared. They knew he had gone to wait 
 outside his Padrona's door. 
 
 590
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The dinner passed almost in silence. Artois ate, and 
 made Vere eat. Vere sat in her mother's place, with 
 her back to the door. Artois was facing her. Often 
 his eyes travelled to the door. Often, too, Vere turned 
 her head. And in the silence both were listening for a 
 step that did not come: Vere with a feverish eagerness, 
 Artois with a mingling of longing and of dread. For he 
 knew he dreaded to see Hermione that night. He knew 
 that it would be terrible to him to meet her eyes, to 
 speak to her, to touch her hand. And yet he longed for 
 her to come. For he was companioned by a great and 
 growing fear, which he must hide. And that act of 
 secrecy, undertaken for Vere's sake, seemed to increase 
 the thing he hid, till the shadow it had been began to 
 take form, to grow in stature, to become dominating, 
 imperious. 
 
 Giulia put some fruit on the table. The meal was 
 over, and there had been no sound outside upon the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile, what are you going to do?" 
 
 "Go to the drawing-room, Vere. I will go out and 
 see whether there is any light in your mother's win- 
 dow." 
 
 She obeyed him silently and went away. Then he 
 took his hat and went out upon the terrace. 
 
 Gaspare had said that Hermione 's room was dark. 
 Perhaps he had been mistaken. The key might have 
 been so placed in the lock that he had been deceived. 
 As Artois walked to a point from which he could, see 
 one of the windows of Hermione 's bedroom, he knew 
 that he longed to see a light there. If the window was 
 dark the form of his fear would be more distinct. He 
 reached the point and looked up. There was no light. 
 
 He stood there for some time gazing at that darkness. 
 He thought of the bent photograph-frame, of the photo- 
 graph that had been so loved torn into fragments, of 
 
 591
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the sound that was hardly crying, and of the face he 
 had seen for an instant as he drew near to the island. 
 He ought to come to some decision, to take some action. 
 Vere was depending upon him. But he felt as if he 
 could do nothing. In answer to Vere's appeal he had 
 hastened to the island. And now he was paralyzed, he 
 was utterly useless. 
 
 He felt as if he dared no', do anything. Hermione, 
 in her grief, had suddenly passed from him into a dark- 
 ness that was sacred. What right had he to try to 
 share it? 
 
 And yet if that great shape of fear were not the body 
 of a lie, but of the truth ? 
 
 Never before had he felt so impotent, so utterly un- 
 worthy of his manhood. 
 
 He moved away, turned, came back and stood once 
 more beneath the window. Ought he to go up to Her- 
 mione's door, to knock, to speak, to insist on admittance ? 
 And if there was no reply ? what ought he to do then ? 
 Break down the door ? 
 
 He went into the house. Vere was sitting in the 
 drawing-room looking at the door. She sprang up. 
 
 "Is there a light in Madre's room?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 He saw, as he answered, that she caught his fear, 
 that hers now had the same shape as his. 
 
 "Monsieur Emile, you you don't think ?" 
 
 Her voice faltered, her bright eyes became changed, 
 dim, seemed to sink into her head. 
 
 "You must go to her room. Go to Madre, Monsieur 
 Emile. Go! speak to her! Make her answer! Make 
 her! make her!" 
 
 She put her hands on him. She pushed him fran- 
 tically. 
 
 He took her hands and held them tightly. 
 
 "I am going, Vere. Don't be frightened!" 
 592
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "But you are frightened! You are frightened!" 
 
 "I will speak to your mother. I will beg her to an- 
 swer." 
 
 "And if she doesn't answer?" 
 
 "I will get into the room." 
 
 He let go her hands and went towards the door. 
 Just as he reached it there came from below in the house 
 a loud, shrill cry. It was followed by an instant of 
 silence, then by another cry, louder, nearer than before. 
 And this time they could hear words: 
 
 "La fattura delta morte! La fattura delta morte!" 
 
 Running, stumbling feet sounded outside, and Pep- 
 pina appeared at the door, her disfigured face convulsed 
 with terror, her hand out-stretched. 
 
 "Look!" she cried, shrilly. "Look, Signorina! Look, 
 Signore! La fattura delta morte! La fattura della 
 morte! It has been brought to the house to-night! 
 It has been put in my room to-night!" 
 
 In her hand lay a green lemon pierced by many nails.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "MONSIEUR EMILE, what is it?" exclaimed Vere. 
 
 The frightened servants were gone, half coaxed and 
 half scolded into silence by Artois. He had taken the 
 lemon from Peppina, and it lay now in his hand. 
 
 "It is what the people of Naples call a death-charm." 
 
 "A death-charm?" 
 
 In her eyes superstition dawned. 
 
 "Why do they call it that?" 
 
 "Because it is supposed to bring death to any one 
 any enemy near whom it is placed." 
 
 "Who can have put it in the house to-night?" Vere 
 said. Her voice was low and trembling. "Who can 
 have wished to bring death here to-night?" 
 
 "I don't know, Vere." 
 
 "And such a thing could it bring death?" 
 
 "Vere! You can ask me!" 
 
 He spoke with an attempt at smiling irony, but his 
 eyes held something of the awe, the cloudy apprehen- 
 sion that had gathered in hers. 
 
 "Where is your mind?" he added. 
 
 She answered: "Are you going to Madre's room, Mon- 
 sieur Emile?" 
 
 He put the death-charm down quickly, as if it had 
 burned his hand. 
 
 "I am going now. Gaspare!" 
 
 At this moment Gaspare came into the room with a 
 face that was almost livid. 
 
 "Who is it that has brought a fattura della morte 
 here?" he exclaimed. 
 
 594
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 His usually courageous eyes were full of superstitious 
 fear. 
 
 "Signore, do you 
 
 He stopped. He had seen the death-charm lying on 
 the little table covered with silver trifles. He approach- 
 ed it, made a sign of the cross, bent down his head and 
 examined it closely, but did not touch it. 
 
 Artois and Vere watched him closely. He lifted up 
 his head at last. 
 
 "I know who brought the fattura della morte here," 
 he said, solemnly. "I know." 
 
 "Who?" said Vere. 
 
 "It was Ruffo." 
 
 "Ruffo!" 
 
 Vere reddened. "Ruffo! He loves our house, and 
 he loves us!" 
 
 "It is Ruffo, Signorina. It is Ruffo. He brought 
 it, and it is he that must take it away. Do not touch 
 it, Signorina. Do not touch it, Signore. Leave it where 
 it is till Ruffo comes, till Ruffo takes it away." 
 
 He again made the sign of the cross, and drew back 
 from the death-charm with a sort of mysterious caution. 
 
 "Signore," he said to Artois, "I will go down to the 
 Saint's Pool. I will find Ruffo. I will bring him here. 
 I will make him come here." 
 
 He was going out when Artois put a hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And the Padrona?" 
 
 "Signore, she is always there, in her room, in the 
 dark." 
 
 "And you have heard nothing?" 
 
 "Signore, I have heard the Padrona moving." 
 
 The hand of Artois dropped down. He was invaded 
 by a sense of relief that was almost overwhelming. 
 
 "You are certain?" 
 
 "Si, Signore. The Padrona is walking up and down 
 
 595
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the room. When Peppina screamed out I heard the 
 Padrona move. And then I heard her walking up and 
 down the room." 
 
 He looked again at the death-charm and went out. 
 Vere stood for a moment. Then she, too, went suddenly 
 away, and Artois heard her light footstep retreating 
 from him towards the terrace. 
 
 He understood her silent and abrupt departure. His 
 fear had been hers. His relief was hers, too, and she was 
 moved to hide it. He was left alone with the death-charm. 
 
 He sat down by the table on which it lay among the 
 bright toys of silver. Released from his great fear, re- 
 leased from his undertaking to force his way into the 
 darkness of that room which had been silent, he seemed 
 suddenly to regain his identity, to be put once more 
 into possession of his normal character. He had gone 
 out from it. He returned to it. The cloud of supersti- 
 tion, in which even he had been for a moment involved 
 with Vere and with the servants, evaporated, and he 
 was able to smile secretly at them and at himself. Yet 
 while he smiled thus secretly, and while he looked at 
 the lemon with its perforating nails, he realized his own 
 smallness, helplessness, the smallness and the helpless- 
 ness of every man, as he had never realized them before. 
 And he realized also something, much, of what it would 
 have meant to him, had the body of his fear been the 
 body of a truth, not of a lie. 
 
 If death had really come into the Casa del Mare that 
 night with the death-charm! 
 
 He stretched out his hand to the table, lifted the 
 death-charm from among the silver ornaments, held it, 
 kept it in his hand, which he laid upon his knee. 
 
 If Ruffo had carried death in his boy's hand over the 
 sea to the island, had carried death to Hermione! 
 
 Artois tried to imagine that house without Hermione, 
 his life without Hermione. 
 
 596
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 For a long time he sat, always holding the death- 
 charm in his hand, always with his eyes fixed upon it, 
 until at last in it, as in a magic mirror, among the scars 
 of its burning, and among the nails that pierced it, as 
 the woman who had fashioned it, and fired it, and mut- 
 tered witch's words over it, longed to pierce the heart 
 of her enemy, he saw scenes of the past, and shadowy, 
 moving figures. He saw among the scars and among 
 the nails Hermione and himself! 
 
 They were in Paris, at a table strewn with flowers. 
 That was the first scene in the magic mirror of the 
 fattura delta morte, the scene in which they met for the 
 first time. Hermione regarded him almost with timid- 
 ity. And he looked at her doubtfully, because she had 
 no beauty. 
 
 Then they were in another part of Paris, in his "Mo- 
 rocco slipper of a room," crammed with books, and dim 
 with Oriental incense and tobacco smoke, his room red 
 and yellow, tinted with the brilliant colors of the East. 
 And he turned to her for sympathy, and he received it 
 in full measure, pressed down and running over. He 
 told her his thought, and he told her his feelings, his 
 schemes, his struggles, his moments of exaltation, his 
 depressions. Something, much indeed of him was hers, 
 the egotistic part of a man that does really give, 
 but that keeps back much, and that seeks much more 
 than it gives. And what he sought she eagerly, gen- 
 erously gave, with both hands, never counting any 
 cost. Always she was giving and always he was 
 taking. 
 
 Then they were in London, in another room full of 
 books. He stood by a fire, and she was seated with a 
 bundle of letters in her lap. And his heart was full of 
 something that was like anger, and of a dull and smoul- 
 dering jealousy. And hers was full of a new and won- 
 derful beauty, a piercing joy. 
 
 597
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He sighed deeply. He stirred. He looked up for a 
 moment and listened. 
 
 But all the house was silent. And again he bent over 
 the death-charm. 
 
 He stood by a door. Outside was the hum of traffic, 
 inside a narrow room. And now in the magic mirror 
 a third figure showed itself, a figure of youth incarnate, 
 brave, passionate, thrilling with the joy of life. He 
 watched it, how coldly, although he felt its charm, the 
 rays of fire that came from it, as sunbeams come from 
 the sun! And apprehension stirred within him. And 
 presently in the night, by ebony waters, and by strange 
 and wandering lights, and under unquiet stars, he told 
 Hermione something of his fear. 
 
 Africa and the hovering flies, and the dreadful feel- 
 ing that death's hands were creeping about his body and 
 trying to lay hold of it ! A very lonely creature lay there 
 in the mirror, with the faint shadow of a palm-leaf shift- 
 ing and swaying upon the ghastly whiteness of its face 
 himself, in the most desolate hour of his life. As he 
 gazed he was transported to the City of the Mosques. 
 The years rolled back. He felt again all, or nearly all, 
 that he had felt then of helplessness, abandonment, de- 
 spair. It was frightful to go out thus alone, to be ex- 
 tinguished in the burning heat of Africa, and laid in 
 that arid soil, where the vipers slid through the hot 
 crevices of the earth, and the scorpions bred in the long 
 days of the summer. Now it was evening. He heard 
 the call to prayer, that wailing, wonderful cry which 
 saluted the sinking sun. 
 
 He remembered exactly how it had come into his ears 
 through the half-opened window, the sensation of re- 
 moteness, of utter solitude, which it had conveyed to 
 him. An Arab had passed under the window, singing in 
 a withdrawn and drowsy voice a plaintive song of the 
 East which had mingled with the call to prayer. And 
 
 598
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 then he, Artois, being quite alone, had given way in his 
 great pain and weakness. He remembered feeling the 
 tears slipping over his cheeks, one following another, 
 quickly, quickly. It had seemed as if they would never 
 stop, as if there would always be tears to flow from those 
 sources deep within his stricken body, his stricken soul. 
 
 He looked into the mirror. The door of the room was 
 opened. A woman stood upon the threshold. The sick 
 man turned upon his pillow. He gazed towards the 
 woman. And his tears ceased. He was no longer alone. 
 His friend had come from her garden of Paradise to 
 draw him back to life. 
 
 In the magic mirror of the fattura delta morte other 
 scenes formed themselves, were clearly visible for a mo- 
 ment, then dispersed, dissolved till scenes of the island 
 came, till the last scene in the mirror dawned faintly 
 before his eyes. 
 
 He saw a dark room, and a woman more desolate than 
 he had been when he lay alone with the shadow of the 
 palm-tree shifting on his face, and heard the call to 
 prayer. He saw Hermione in her room in the Casa del 
 Mare that night, after she knew. 
 
 Suddenly he put his hand to his eyes. 
 
 Those were the first tears his eyes had known since 
 that evening in Africa years and years ago. 
 
 He laid the death-charm down once more among the 
 silver toys. But he still looked at it as he sat back now 
 in his chair, waiting for Gaspare's return. 
 
 He gazed at the symbol of death. And he began to 
 think how strangely appropriate was its presence that 
 night in the Casa del Mare, how almost more than 
 strange had been its bringing there by Ruffo if indeed 
 Ruffo had brought it, as Gaspare declared. For the 
 little green lemon represented a heart pierced. And 
 Ruffo, all ignorantly and unconsciously, had pierced the 
 heart of Hermione. 
 
 599
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Artois knew nothing of what had happened that day at 
 Mergellina, but he divined that it was Ruffo who, with- 
 out words, had told Hermione the truth. It must have 
 been Ruffo, in whom the dead man lived again. And, 
 going beyond the innocent boy, deep into the shadows 
 where lies so much of truth, Artois saw the murdered 
 man stirring from his sleep, unable to rest because of 
 the lie that had been coiled around his memory, making 
 it what it should not be. Perhaps only the dead know 
 the true, the sacred passion for justice. Perhaps only 
 they are indifferent to everything save truth, they who 
 know the greatest truth of all. 
 
 And Artois saw Maurice Delarey, the gay, the full- 
 blooded youth, grown stern in the halls of death, unable 
 to be at peace until she who had most loved him knew 
 him at last as he had been in life. 
 
 As no one else would tell Hermione the truth, the dead 
 man himself, speaking through his son, the fruit of his sin, 
 had told her the truth that day. He, too, had been perhaps 
 a spirit in prison, through all these years since his death. 
 
 Artois saw him in freedom. 
 
 And at that moment Artois felt that in the world there 
 was only one thing that was perfectly beautiful, and 
 that thing was absolute truth. Its knowledge must 
 make Hermione greater. 
 
 But now she was hanging on her cross. 
 
 If he could only comfort her! 
 
 As she had come to him in Africa, he longed now to go 
 to her. She had saved him from the death of the body. 
 If only he could save her from another and more terrible. 
 death the death of the spirit that believes and trusts 
 in life! 
 
 He had been absorbed in thought and unconscious of 
 time. Now he looked up, he was aware of things. He 
 listened. Surely Gaspare had been away a long while 
 And Vere where was she ? 
 
 600
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He had a strange desire to see Ruffo now. Something 
 new and mystic had been born, or had for the first time 
 made itself apparent, within him to-night. And he 
 knew that to-night he would look at Ruffo as he had 
 never looked at him before. 
 
 He got up and, leaving the death-charm lying on the 
 table, went to the door. There he hesitated. Should he 
 go to the terrace, to Vere ? or should he go up-stairs to 
 that dark room and try to speak to his friend? Or 
 should he go out to the cliff, to seek Gaspare and 
 Ruffo? 
 
 Ruffo drew him. He had to go to the cliff. 
 
 He went out by the front door. At first he thought 
 of descending at once by the steps to the Pool of San 
 Francesco. But he changed his mind and went instead 
 to the bridge. 
 
 He looked over into the Pool. 
 
 It was a very clear night. San Francesco's light was 
 burning brightly. Very sincerely it was burning be- 
 neath the blessing hands of the Saint. A ray of gold 
 that came from it lay upon the darkness of the Pool, 
 stealing through the night a little way, as if in an effort 
 to touch the Casa del Mare. 
 
 In the Pool there was one boat. Artois saw no one 
 by the sea's edge, heard no voices there, and he turned 
 towards the crest of the island, to the seat where Vere 
 so often went at night, and where Hermione, too, had 
 often sought out Ruffo. 
 
 Gaspare and Ruffo were near it. Almost directly 
 he saw their forms, relieved against the dimness but not 
 deep darkness of the night, and heard their voices talk- 
 ing. As he went towards them Gaspare was speaking 
 vehemently. He threw up one arm in a strong, even, 
 and excited gesture, and was silent. Then Artois heard 
 Ruffo say, in a voice that, though respectful and almost 
 deprecatory, was yet firm like a man's : 
 
 60 1
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I cannot take it away, Gaspare. When I go home 
 my mamma will ask me if I have put it in the house." 
 
 "Dio mio!" cried Gaspare. "But you have put it in 
 the house ! Is it not there is it not there now to bring 
 death upon the Signora, upon the Signorina, upon us 
 all?" 
 
 "It was made for Peppina. My mamma made it 
 only against Peppina, because she has brought evil into 
 our house. It will hurt only Peppina! It will kill only 
 Peppina!" 
 
 He spoke now with a vehemence and passion almost 
 equal to Gaspare's. Artois stood still. They did not 
 see him. They were absorbed in their conversation. 
 
 "It will not hurt the Signora or the Signorina. The 
 fattura delta morte it is to harm Peppina. Has she 
 not done us injury? Has she not taken my Patrigno 
 from my mamma? Has she not made him mad? Is 
 it not for her that he has been in prison, and that he has 
 left my mamma without a soldo in the house? The 
 Signora she has been good to me and my mamma. 
 It is she who sent my mamma money twenty lire! I 
 respect the Signora as I respect my mamma. Only 
 to-day, only this very day she came to Mergellina, she 
 came to see my mamma. And when she knew that my 
 Patrigno was let out of prison, when I cried out at the 
 door that he was coming, the Signora was so glad for 
 us that she looked she looked Madre di Dio! she was 
 all white, she was shaking she was worse than my poor 
 mamma. And when I came to her, and when I called 
 out, 'Signora! Signora!' you should have seen! She 
 opened her eyes! She gave me such a look! And then 
 my Patrigno came in at the door, and the Signora she 
 went away. I was going to follow her, but she put out 
 her hand so, to make me stay she wanted me to 
 stay with my mamma. And she went down the stairs 
 all trembling because my Patrigno was let out of prison. 
 
 602
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Per dio! She has a good heart. She is an angel. For 
 the Signora I would die. For the Signora I would do 
 anything! I you say I would kill the Signora! Would 
 I kill my mamma? Would I kill the Madonna? La 
 Bruna would I kill her? To me the Signora is as my 
 mamma! I respect the Signora as I respect my mamma. 
 Ecco!" 
 
 "The fattura delta morte will bring evil on the house, 
 it will bring death into the house." 
 
 Gaspare spoke again, and his voice was dogged with 
 superstition, but it was less vehement than before. 
 
 "Already who knows what it has brought? Who 
 knows what evil it has done ? All the house is sad to- 
 night, all the house is terrible to-night." 
 
 "It is Peppina who has looked on the house with 
 the evil eye," said Ruffo. "It is Peppina who has 
 brought trouble to the house." 
 
 There was a silence. Then Gaspare said: 
 
 "No, it is not Peppina." 
 
 As he spoke Artois saw him stretch out his hand, 
 but gently, towards Ruffo. 
 
 "Who is it, then?" said Ruffo. 
 
 Moved by an irresistible impulse to interpose, Artois 
 called out: 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 He saw the two figures start. 
 
 "Gaspare!" he repeated, coming up to them. 
 
 "Signore! What is it? Has the Signora " 
 
 "I have not heard her. I have not seen her." 
 
 "Then what is it, Signore?" 
 
 "Good-evening, Ruffo," Artois said, looking at the 
 boy. 
 
 "Good-evening, Signore." 
 
 Ruffo took off his cap. He was going to put it back 
 on his dark hair, when Artois held his arm. 
 
 "Wait a minute, Ruffo!" 
 39 603
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The boy looked surprised, but met fearlessly the eyes 
 that were gazing into his. 
 
 "Va bene, Ruffo." 
 
 Artois released his arm, and Ruffo put on his cap. 
 
 " I heard you talking of the fattura delta morte," Artois 
 said. 
 
 Ruffo reddened slightly. 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Your mother made it?" 
 
 Ruffo did not answer. Gaspare stood by, watching 
 and listening with deep, half-suspicious attention. 
 
 "I heard you say so." 
 
 "Si, Signore. My mamma made it." 
 
 "And told you to bring it to the island and put it in 
 the house to-night?" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Are you quite sure it was Peppina your mother 
 wished to do evil?" 
 
 "Si, Signore, quite sure. Peppina is a bad girl. She 
 made my Patrigno mad. She brought trouble to our 
 house." 
 
 "You love the Signora, don't you, Ruffo?" 
 
 His face changed and grew happier at once. 
 
 "Si, Signore. I love the Signora and the Signorina." 
 
 He would not leave out Vere. Artois's heart warmed 
 to him for that. 
 
 "Ruffo" 
 
 While he had been on the crest of the island an idea 
 had come to him. At first he had put it from him. 
 Now, suddenly, he caressed it, he resolved to act on its 
 prompting. 
 
 "Ruffo, the Signora is in the house." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "I don't think she is very well. I don't think she 
 will leave the house to-night. Wouldn't you like to 
 see her?" 
 
 604
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Signore, I always like to see the Signora." 
 
 "And I think she likes to see you. I know she does." 
 
 "Si, Signore. The Signora is always glad when I 
 come." 
 
 He spoke without conceit or vanity, with utterly sin- 
 cere simplicity. 
 
 "Go to the house and ask to see her now Gaspare 
 will take you." 
 
 As he spoke he looked at Gaspare, and Gaspare under- 
 stood. 
 
 "Come on, Ruffo!" 
 
 Gaspare's voice was rough, arbitrary, but the eyes 
 that he turned on Ruffo were full of the almost melting 
 gentleness that Hermione had seen in them sometimes 
 and that she had always loved. 
 
 "Come on, Ruffmo!" 
 
 He walked away quickly, almost sternly, towards the 
 house. And Ruffo followed him.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 ARTOIS did not go with them. Once again he was 
 governed by an imperious feeling that held him inactive, 
 the feeling that it was not for him to approach Hermione 
 that others might draw near to her, but that he dared 
 not. The sensation distressed and almost humiliated 
 him. It came upon him like a punishment for sin, and 
 as a man accepts a punishment which he is conscious 
 of deserving Artois accepted it. 
 
 So now he waited alone on the crest of the island, 
 looking towards the Casa del Mare. 
 
 What would be the result of this strange and daring 
 embassy ? 
 
 He was not long to be in doubt. 
 
 ' ' Signore ! Signore ! ' ' 
 
 Gaspare's voice was calling him from somewhere in 
 the darkness. 
 
 "Signore." 
 
 "I am coming." 
 
 There had been a thrill of emotion in the appeal sent 
 out to him. He hurried towards the house. He crossed 
 the bridge. When he was on it he heard the splash of 
 oars below him in the Pool, but he took no heed of it. 
 What were the fishermen to him to-night? Before the 
 house door he met Gaspare and Ruffo. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "The Signora is not in her room, Signore." 
 
 "Not ? How do you know? Is the door open?" 
 
 "Si, Signore. The Signora has gone ! And 'the jattura 
 delta morte has gone." 
 
 606
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "The fattura delta morte has gone!" repeated Ruffo. 
 
 The repetition of the words struck a chill to the heart 
 of Artois. Again he was beset by superstition. He 
 caught it from these children of the South, who stared 
 at him now with their grave and cloudy eyes. 
 
 "Perhaps one of the servants " he began. 
 
 "No, Signore. I have "asked them. And they would 
 not dare to touch it." 
 
 "The Signorina?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "She is in the garden. She has been there all the 
 time. She does not know" he lowered his voice al- 
 most to a whisper "she does not know about the Sig- 
 nora and the fattura della morte" 
 
 "We must not let her know 
 
 He stopped. Suddenly his ears seemed full of the 
 sound of plashing oars in water. Yet he heard nothing. 
 
 "Gaspare," he said, quickly, "have you looked every- 
 where for the Signora?" 
 
 "I have looked in the house, Signore. I have been 
 on the terrace and to the Signorina in the garden. 
 Then I came to tell you. I thought you should know 
 about the Signora and the fattura della morte." 
 
 Artois felt that it was this fact of the disappearance 
 of the death-charm which for the moment paralyzed 
 Gaspare's activities. What stirring of ancient super- 
 stition was in the Sicilian's heart he did not know, but 
 he knew that now his own time of action was come. 
 No longer could he delegate to others the necessary 
 deed. And with this knowledge his nature seemed to 
 change. An ardor that was almost vehement with 
 youth, and that was hard-fibred with manly strength 
 and resolution, woke up in him. 
 
 Again his ears were full of the sound of oars in water. 
 
 "Ruffo," he said, "will you obey me?" 
 
 He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. 
 607
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "Go into the garden. Stay with the Signorina till I 
 come." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 "If it is a long time, if the Signorina is afraid, if she 
 wants to do anything, you are to say that Don Emilio 
 said she was not to be afraid, and that she was to wait." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 The boy paused, looking steadily at Artois, then, 
 seeing that he had finished, turned away and went softly 
 into the house. 
 
 "Gaspare, come with me." 
 
 Gaspare said nothing, but followed him down to the 
 foot of the cliff. One of the island boats was gone. 
 When Gaspare saw that he ran to pull in the other. 
 He held out his arm to help Artois into the boat, then 
 took the oars, standing up and looking before him into 
 the night. 
 
 "Row towards the village, Gaspare." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 At that moment Gaspare understood much of what 
 was in Artois 's mind. He relied upon Artois. He trust- 
 ed him and this fact, of Gaspare's trust and reliance 
 upon him, added now to the feeling of ardor that had 
 risen up in Artois, gave him courage, helped to banish 
 completely that punishing sensation which had con- 
 demned him to keep away from Hermione as one un- 
 worthy to approach her, to touch even the hem of her 
 grief. 
 
 No need to tell Gaspare to row quickly. With all his 
 strength he forced the boat along through the calm sea. 
 
 "Keep near the shore, Gaspare!" 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Only the first quarter of the young moon was visible 
 in the sky. It cast but a thin and distant glint of silver 
 upon the waters. By the near shore the dimness of this 
 
 608
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hour was unbroken by any light, unstirred by any sound 
 except the withdrawn and surreptitious murmur of the 
 sea. The humped shapes of the low yellow rocks 
 showed themselves faintly like shapes of beasts asleep. 
 In the distance, lifted above the sea, two or three flames 
 shone faintly. They were shed by lamps or candles set 
 in the windows of the fishermen's cottages in the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Had Hermione gone to the village? 
 
 She might have left the island with some definite pur- 
 pose, or moved by a blind impulse to get away and be 
 alone. Artois could not tell. But she had taken the 
 fattura delta morte. 
 
 He wondered whether she knew its meaning, with 
 what sinister intention it had been made. Something in 
 the little worthless thing must have attracted her, have 
 fascinated her, or she would not have taken it. In her 
 distress of mind, in her desire for solitude, she would 
 have hastened away and left it lying where it was. 
 
 Perhaps she had a purpose in leaving the island with 
 the fattura della morte. 
 
 Her taking of it began to seem to Artois, as it had 
 evidently seemed to Gaspare, a fact of profound sig- 
 nificance. His imagination, working with an almost 
 diseased rapidity and excitement, brought before him a 
 series of scenes in which the death-charm figured as 
 symbol. In one of these there were two women Her- 
 mione and Maddalena. 
 
 Hermione might have set out on some wild quest to 
 Mergellina. He remembered the face at the window, 
 and knew that to-night everything was possible. 
 
 "Row quickly, Gaspare!" 
 
 Gaspare bent almost furiously to the oars. Then 
 sharply he turned his head. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I can see the boat! I can see the Signora!" 
 609
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 The words struggled out on a long breath that made 
 his broad chest heave. Instinctively Artois put his 
 hands on the gunwale of the boat on either side of him, 
 moving as if to stand up. 
 
 "Take care, Signore!" 
 
 "I'd forgotten " He leaned forward, searching the 
 night. "Where is the Signora?" 
 
 "There in front! She is rowing to the village. No, 
 she has turned." 
 
 He stopped rowing. 
 
 "The Signora has seen, or she has heard, and she is 
 going in to shore." 
 
 "But there are only the rocks." 
 
 "The Signora is going in to the Palazzo of the Spirits." 
 
 "The Palazzo of the Spirits?" Artois repeated. 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Gaspare turned and looked again into the darkness. 
 
 "I cannot see the Signora any more." 
 
 "Follow the Signora, Gaspare. If she has gone to 
 the Palazzo of the Spirits row in there." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 He drew the oars again strongly through the water. 
 
 Artois remembered a blinding storm that had crashed 
 over a mountain village in Sicily long ago, a flash of 
 lightning which had revealed to him the gaunt portal 
 of a palace that seemed abandoned, a strip of black 
 cloth, the words "Lutto in famiglia." They had seemed 
 to him prophetic words. 
 
 And now ? 
 
 In the darkness he saw another darkness, the strange 
 and broken outline of the ruined palace by the sea, once, 
 perhaps, the summer home of some wealthy Roman, 
 now a mere shell visited in the lonely hours by the in- 
 satiate waves. Were Hermione and he to meet here? 
 To-day he had thought of his friend as a spirit that had 
 been long in prison. Now he came to the Palace of the 
 
 610
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Spirits to face her truth with his. The Palace of the 
 Spirits! The name suggested the very nakedness of 
 truth. Well, let it be so, let the truth stand there 
 naked. Again, mingling with a certain awe, there rose 
 up in him a strong ardor, a courage that was vehement, 
 that longed at last to act. And it seemed to him sud- 
 denly that for many years, through all the years that 
 divided Hermione and him from the Sicilian life, they 
 had been held in leash, waiting for the moment of this 
 encounter. Now the leash slackened. They were being 
 freed. And for what? 
 
 Gaspare plunged his right oar into the sea alone. 
 The boat swung round obediently, heading for the shore. 
 
 One of the faint lights that gleamed in the village was 
 extinguished. 
 
 "Signore, the Signora has left the boat!" 
 
 "Si?" 
 
 ' ' Madonna ! She has let it go ! She has left it to the 
 sea!" 
 
 He backed water. A moment later the little boat in 
 which Vere loved to go out alone grated against theirs. 
 
 "Madonna! To leave the boat like that!" exclaimed 
 Gaspare, bending to catch the tow-rope. "The Signora 
 is not safe to-night. The Signora's saint will not look 
 on her to-night." 
 
 "Put me ashore, Gaspare." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 The boat passed before the facade of the palace. 
 
 Artois knew the palace well by day. This was the 
 first time he had come to it by night. In daylight it 
 was a small and picturesque ruin washed by the laughing 
 sea, lonely but scarcely sad. Leaping from its dark and 
 crumbling walls the fisher-boys often plunged into the 
 depths below; or they lay upon the broad sills of the 
 gaping window-spaces to dry themselves in the sun. 
 Men came with rods and lines to fish from its deserted 
 
 611
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 apartments, through which, when rough weather was 
 at hand, the screaming sea-birds flew. The waves played 
 frivolously enough in its recesses. And their voices were 
 heard against the slimy and defiant stones calling to 
 each other merrily, as perhaps once the voices of revellers 
 long dead called in the happy hours of a vanished vil- 
 leggiatura. 
 
 But the night wrought on it, in it, and about it change. 
 Its solitude then became desolation, the darkness of its 
 stones a blackness that was tragic, its ruin more than a 
 suggestion, the decisive picture of despair. 
 
 At its base was a line of half-discovered window-spaces, 
 the lower parts of which had become long since the prey 
 of the waves. Above it were more window-spaces, fully 
 visible, and flanking a high doorway, once, no doubt, 
 connected with a staircase, but now giving upon mid- 
 air. Formerly there had been another floor, but this 
 had fallen into decay and disappeared, with the excep- 
 tion of one small and narrow chamber situated imme- 
 diately over the doorway. Isolated, for there was no 
 means of approach to it, this chamber had something of 
 the aspect of a low and sombre tower sluggishly lifting 
 itself towards the sky. The palace was set upon rock 
 and flanked by rocks. Round about it grass grew to 
 the base of a high cliff at perhaps two hundred yards 
 distance from it. And here and there grass and tufts 
 of rank herbage pushed in its crevices, proclaiming the 
 triumph of time to exulting winds and waters. 
 
 As Gaspare rowed in cautiously and gently to this 
 deserted place, to which from the land no road, no foot- 
 path led, he stared at the darkness of the palace with 
 superstitious awe, then at the small, familiar boat, which 
 followed in their wake because he held the tow-rope. 
 
 "Signore," he said, "I am afraid!" 
 
 "You Gaspare!" 
 
 "I am afraid for the Signora. Why should she come 
 612
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 here all alone with the jattura delta morte? I am afraid 
 for the Signora." 
 
 The boat touched the edge of the rock to the right of 
 the palace. 
 
 "And where has the Signora gone, Signore ? I cannot 
 see her, and I cannot hear her." 
 
 He lifted up his hand. They listened. But they 
 heard only the sucking murmur of the sea against the 
 rocks perforated with little holes, and in distant, aban- 
 doned chambers of the palace. 
 
 "Where has the Signora gone?" Gaspare repeated, in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "I will find the Signora," said Artois. 
 
 He got up. Gaspare held his arm to assist him to 
 the shore. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 He was on the rocks. 
 
 "Gaspare," he said, "wait here. Lie off the shore 
 close by till I come back." 
 
 "Si, Signore." 
 
 Artois hesitated, looking at Gaspare. 
 
 "I will persuade the Signora to come back with us," 
 he said. 
 
 "Si, Signore. You must persuade the poor Signora. 
 The poor Signora is mad to-night. She gave me a 
 look His eyes were clouded with moisture. "If 
 the poor Signora had not been mad she could not have 
 looked at me like that at another, perhaps, but not 
 at me." 
 
 It seemed as if at last his long reserve was breaking 
 down. He put up his hand to his eyes. 
 
 "I did not think that my Padrona " 
 
 He stopped. Artois remembered the face at the win- 
 dow. He grasped Gaspare's hand. 
 
 "The Signora does not understand," he said. "I 
 will make the Signora understand." 
 
 613
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "SI, Signore, you must make the poor Signora under- 
 stand." 
 
 Gaspare's hand held on to the hand of Artois, and in 
 that clasp the immense reserve, that for so many years 
 had divided, and united, these two men, seemed to 
 melt like gold in a crucible of fire. 
 
 "I will make the Signora understand." 
 
 "And I will wait, Signore." 
 
 He pushed the boat off from the rocks. It floated 
 away, with its sister boat, on the calm sea that kissed 
 the palace walls. He gave his Padrona's fate into the 
 hands of Artois. It was a tribute which had upon 
 Artois a startling effect. 
 
 It was like a great resignation which conferred a great 
 responsibility. 
 
 Always Gaspare had been very jealous, very proud 
 of his position of authority as the confidential servant 
 and protector of Hermione. And now, suddenly, and 
 very simply, he seemed to acknowledge his helplessness 
 with Hermione to rely implicitly upon the power of 
 Artois. 
 
 Vere, too, in her way had performed a kindred action. 
 She had summoned "Monsieur Emile" in her great 
 trouble. She had put herself in his hands. And he 
 he had striven to delegate to others the burden he was 
 meant to bear. He had sent Vere to Hermione. He 
 had sent Gaspare to her. He had even sent Ruffo to 
 her. Now he must go himself. Vere, Gaspare, Ruffo 
 they'were all looking to him. But Gaspare's eyes were 
 most expressive, held more of demand for him than the 
 eyes of the girl and boy. For the past was gathered in 
 Gaspare, spoke to him in Gaspare's voice, looked at him 
 from Gaspare's eyes, and in Gaspare's soul waited surely 
 to know how it would be redeemed. 
 
 He turned from the sea and looked towards the 
 cliff. Now he had the palace on his left hand. On his 
 
 614
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 right, not far off, was a high bluff going almost sheer 
 into the sea. Nevertheless, access to the village was 
 possible by the strip of rocks beneath it. Had Hermione 
 gone to the village by the rocks? If she had, Gaspare's 
 keen eyes would surely have seen her. Artois looked 
 at the blank wall of the palace. This extended a little 
 way, then turned at right angles. Just beyond the 
 angle, in its shadow, there was a low and narrow door- 
 way. Artois moved along the wall, reached this door- 
 way, stood without it, and listened. 
 
 The grass here grew right up to the stones of the ruin. 
 He had come almost without noise. Before him he saw 
 blackness, the blackness of a passage extending from the 
 orifice of the doorway to an interior chamber of the 
 palace. He heard the peculiar sound of moving water 
 that is beset and covered in by barriers of stone, a hol- 
 low and pugnacious murmur, as of something so deter- 
 mined that it would be capable of striving through 
 eternity, yet of something that was wistful and even 
 sad. 
 
 For an instant he yielded his spirit to this sound of 
 eternal striving. Then he said: 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 No one answered. 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 He raised his voice. He almost called the name. 
 
 Still there was no answer. Yet the silence seemed 
 to tell him that she was near. 
 
 He did not call again. He waited a moment, then 
 he stepped into the passage. 
 
 The room to which it led was the central room, or 
 hall, of the palace a vaulted chamber, high and narrow, 
 opening to the sea at one end by the great doorway 
 already mentioned, to the land beneath the cliff by a 
 smaller doorway at the other. The faint light from 
 without, penetrating through these facing doorways,
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 showed to Artois a sort of lesser darkness, towards which 
 he walked slowly, feeling his way along the wall. When 
 he reached the hall he again stood still, trying to get 
 accustomed to the strange and eerie obscurity, to pierce 
 it with his eyes. 
 
 Now to his left, evidently within the building, and 
 not far from where he stood, he heard almost loudly 
 the striving of the sea. He heard the entering wave 
 push through some narrow opening, search round the 
 walls for egress, lift itself in a vain effort to emerge, fall 
 back baffled, retreat, murmuring discontent, only to be 
 succeeded by another eager wave. And this startling 
 living noise of water filled him with a sensation of acute 
 anxiety, almost of active fear. 
 
 "Hermione!" he said once more. 
 
 It seemed to him that the voice of the water drowned 
 his voice, that it was growing louder, was filling the 
 palace with an uproar that was angry. 
 
 ' ' Hermione ! Hermione ! ' ' 
 
 He strove to dominate that uproar. 
 
 Now, far off, through the seaward opening, he saw a 
 streak of silver lying like a thread upon the darkness 
 of the sea. And as he saw it, the voice of the waves 
 within the palace seemed to sink suddenly away almost 
 to silence. He did not know why, but the vision of 
 that very distant radiance of the young and already 
 setting moon seemed to restore to him abruptly the ac- 
 curacy of his sense of hearing. 
 
 He again went forward a few steps, descending in 
 the chamber towards the doorway by the worn remains 
 of an almost effaced staircase. Reaching the bottom, 
 he stood still once more. On either side of him he could 
 faintly discern openings leading into other rooms. Per- 
 haps Hermione, hearing him call, had retreated from 
 him through one of them. A sort of horror of the situa- 
 tion came upon him, as he began thoroughly to realize 
 
 616
 
 the hatred, hatred of brain, of nerves, of heart, that was 
 sarely quivering in Hermione in this moment, that was 
 driving her away into the darkness from sound and 
 touch of life. Like a wounded animal she was creeping 
 away from the hideous cruelty of men, creeping away 
 from it and hating it. He remembered Gaspare's words 
 about the look she had cast upon perhaps the most truly 
 faithful of all her friends. 
 
 But she did not know. And he, Artois, must tell 
 her. He must make her see the exact truth of the 
 years. He must win her back to reason. 
 
 Reason! As the word went through his mind it chilled 
 him, like the passing of a thing coated with ice. He had 
 been surely a reasonable man, and his reasonableness 
 had led him to this hour. Suddenly he saw himself, as 
 he had seen that palace door by lightning. He saw him- 
 self for an instant lit by a glare of fire. He looked, he 
 stared upon himself. 
 
 And he shivered, as if he had drawn close to, as if 
 he had stood by, a thing coated with ice. 
 
 And he dared to come here, to pursue such a woman 
 as Hermione! He dared to think that he could have 
 any power over her, that his ice could have any power 
 over her fire! He dared to think that! For a moment 
 all, and far more than all, his former feeling of unworthi- 
 ness, of helplessness, of cowardice, rushed back upon 
 him. Then, abruptly, there came upon him this thought 
 "Vere believes I have power over Hermione." And 
 then followed the thought "Gaspare believes that I 
 have power over her." And the ice seemed to crack. 
 He saw fissures in it. He saw it melting. He saw the 
 "thing" it had covered appearing, being gradually re- 
 vealed as man. 
 
 ' ' Vere believes in my power. Gaspare believes in my 
 power. They are the nearest to Hermione. They know 
 her best. Their instincts about her must be the strong- 
 
 617
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 est, the truest. Why do they believe in it? Why do 
 they why do they know for they must, they do know, 
 that I have this power, that I am the one to succeed 
 where any one else would fail? Why have they left 
 Hermione in my hands to-night?" 
 
 The ice was gone. The lightning flash lit up a man 
 warm with the breath of life. From the gaunt door of 
 the abandoned palace the strip of black cloth, the tragic 
 words above it, dropped down and disappeared. 
 
 Suddenly Artois knew why Vere believed in his power, 
 and why Gaspare believed in it knew how their in- 
 stincts had guided them, knew to what secret knowledge 
 perhaps not even consciously now their knowledge 
 they had travelled. And he remembered the words he 
 had written in the book at Frisio's on the night of the 
 storm: 
 
 "La conscience, c'est la quantite" de science innde que 
 nous avons en nous." 
 
 He had written those words hurriedly, irritably, mere- 
 ly because he had to write something, and they chanced 
 he knew not why to come into his mind as he took 
 hold of the pen. And it was on that night, surely, that 
 his conscience his innate knowledge began to betray 
 him. Or no it was on that night that he began to 
 defy it, to deny it, to endeavor to cast it out. 
 
 For surely he must have known, he had known, what 
 Vere and Gaspare innately knew. Surely his conscience 
 had not slept while theirs had been awake. 
 
 He did not know. It seemed to him as if he had not 
 time to decide this now. Very rapidly his mind had 
 worked, rushing surely through corridors of knowledge 
 to gain an inner room. He had only stood at the foot 
 of the crumbling staircase two or three minutes before 
 he moved again decisively, called again, decisively: 
 
 "Hermione! Hermione! I know you are here. I 
 have come for you!" 
 
 618
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 He went to the right. On the left was the chamber 
 which had been taken possession of by the sea. She 
 could not have gone that way, unless he thought of 
 the fattura delta morte, and for a moment the supersti- 
 tious horror returned upon him. But he banished it. 
 That could not be. His heart was flooded by convic- 
 tion that cruelty has an end, that the most relentless 
 fate fails at last in its pursuing, that the fattura delta 
 morte, if it brought death with it, brought a death that 
 was not of the body, brought, perhaps, a beautiful death 
 of something that had lived too long. 
 
 He banished fear, and he entered the chamber on the 
 right. It was lit only by an opening looking to the 
 sea. As he came into it he saw a tall thing like a tall 
 shadow pass close to him and disappear. He saw 
 that, and he heard the faint sound of material in move- 
 ment. 
 
 There was then still another chamber on this side, 
 and Hermione had passed into it. He followed her in 
 silence, came to the doorway of it, looked, saw black 
 darkness. There was no other opening either to sea 
 or land. In it Hermione had found what she sought 
 absolute blackness. 
 
 But he had found her. Here she could not escape 
 him. 
 
 He stood in the doorway. He remembered Vere's 
 trust in him. He remembered Gaspare's trust. He re- 
 membered that Gaspare was waiting in the boat for him 
 for them. He remembered the words of Gaspare: 
 
 "You must make the poor Signora understand!" 
 
 That was what he had to do : to make Hermione under- 
 stand. And that surely he could do. Surely he had the 
 power to do it now. 
 
 For he himself understood. 
 40
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 "HERMIONE!" 
 
 Artois spoke to the void. 
 
 "Hermione, because I have followed you, because I 
 have come here, don't think that I am claiming any 
 right. Don't think that I imagine, because I am your 
 because I am I mean that it has not been easy to me 
 to come. It has not been it is not a simple thing to 
 me to break in upon upon " 
 
 He had begun to speak with determination. He had 
 said the very first words with energy, almost with a 
 warm eagerness, as of one hurrying on to vital speech. 
 But suddenly the energy faltered, the eagerness failed, 
 the ring of naturalness died out of the voice. It was as 
 if a gust of cold air had blown out a flame. He paused. 
 Then he said, in a low voice: 
 
 "You hate me for coming." 
 
 He stopped again. He stared at the void, at the 
 blackness. 
 
 "You hate me for being here." 
 
 As he said the last words the blackness before him 
 surely gathered itself together, took a form, the form of 
 a wave, towered up as a gigantic wave towers, rolled 
 upon him to overwhelm him. So acute was his sensation 
 of being attacked, of being in peril, that his body was 
 governed by it and instinctively shrank, trying to make 
 itself small that it might oppose as little resistance as 
 possible to the oncoming foe. 
 
 For it seemed to him that the wave of blackness was 
 620
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the wave of Hermione's present hatred, that it came 
 upon him, that it struck him, that it stunned and almost 
 blinded him, then divided, rushing onwards he knew not 
 where, unspent and unsatisfied. 
 
 He stood like a man startled and confused, striving to 
 regain lost footing, to recover his normal condition. 
 
 "You hate me." 
 
 Had he spoken the words or merely thought them? 
 He did not know. He was not conscious of speaking 
 them, yet he seemed to hear them. He looked at the 
 blackness. And again it surely moved. Again he sure- 
 ly saw it gathering itself together, and towering up as a 
 wave towers. 
 
 His sensation was absolutely one of nightmare. And 
 exactly as in a nightmare a man feels that he is no longer 
 fully himself, has no longer the power to do any manly 
 or effective thing, so Artois felt now. 
 
 It seemed to him that he was nothing, and yet that 
 he was hated. He turned and looked behind him, moved 
 by a fierce desire for relief. He had not the courage to 
 persist in confronting that blackness which took a form, 
 which came upon him, which would surely overwhelm him. 
 
 In the distance he saw a pallor, where the face of the 
 night looked into the palace from the sea. And he 
 heard the distant water. Still the little waves were en- 
 tering the deserted chambers, only to seek an exit which 
 they could never find. Their ceaseless determination 
 was horrible to him, because it suggested to him the 
 ceaseless determination of those other waves of black 
 hatred, one following another, from some hidden centre 
 of energy that was inexhaustible. As he listened the 
 sound of the sea stole into his ears till his brain was full 
 of it, till he felt as if into his brain, as into those deserted 
 chambers, the waves were penetrating, the waves of the 
 sea and those dark waves which gathered themselves 
 together and flowed upon him from the void. 
 
 621
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 For a moment they possessed him. For a moment 
 he was the prey of these two oceans. 
 
 Then he made a violent effort, released himself, and 
 turned again to the chamber in which Hermione was 
 hidden. He faced the blackness. He was able to do 
 that now. But he was not able to go on speaking to 
 the woman who remained invisible, but whose influence 
 he was so painfully conscious of. He was not able to 
 speak to her because she was surely speaking to him, 
 was communicating to him not only her feeling towards 
 him, but also its reason, its basis, in that wordless lan- 
 guage which is only used and comprehended by human 
 beings in moments of crisis and intense emotion. That 
 was what he felt, seemed to know. 
 
 He stood there, facing the blackness and listening, 
 while she seemed to be telling him her woman's reasons 
 for her present hatred of the man who had been for so 
 long a time her closest friend. 
 
 And these reasons were not only the reasons born of 
 a day's events, of the discovery of the lie on which her 
 spirit had been resting. She did not say her heart did 
 not say only: "I hate you because you let me believe in 
 that which never existed except in my imagination my 
 husband's complete love of me, complete faithfulness to 
 me. I hate you because you enclosed me in the prison 
 of a lie. I hate you because during all these years you 
 have been a witness of my devotion to an idol, a graven 
 image whose wooden grimace I mistook for the smile of 
 the god's happy messenger, because you have been a 
 witness of my cult for the memory of one who betrayed 
 my trust in him, who thought nothing of my gift to him, 
 who put another in the sanctuary that should have been 
 sacred to me, and who has poisoned the sources of the 
 holy streams that flow into and feed the soul of a good 
 woman." 
 
 If Hermione had silently told Artois reasons such as 
 622
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 these for hating him she would have roused him to battle 
 with her, to defend himself with some real hope of hold- 
 ing his own, even of eventual conquest. But other rea- 
 sons, too, did they not come from her, creeping out of her 
 brain and heart and soul into his, reasons against which he 
 had no weapons, against which he could make no defence ? 
 
 He had claimed to understand the psychology of 
 women. He had believed he comprehended women well, 
 Hermione best of all women. But these reasons, creep- 
 ing out of her into him, set a ring of illuminating fire 
 about his misconception. They told him that though 
 perhaps he had known one Hermione in his friend, there 
 were other Hermiones in her whom he had never really 
 known. Once in the garden of the island by night he 
 had seen, or fancied he had seen, a strange smile upon 
 her face that betokened a secret bitterness; and for a 
 moment he had been confused, and had faltered in his 
 speech, and had felt as if he were sitting with a stranger 
 who was hostile to him, or, if not actually hostile, was 
 almost cruelly critical of him. Now that stranger silent- 
 ly spoke to him, silently told him many things. 
 
 She told him that which few men ever know some- 
 thing of what women specially want, specially need in 
 life. And the catalogue of these needs seemed to him 
 to be also the catalogue of her reasons for hating him at 
 this moment. 
 
 "Women need I needed," she seemed to say, "not 
 only a large and ample friendship, nobly condescending, 
 a friendship like an announcement to citizens affixed to 
 the wall of a market-place, and covering boldly all the 
 principal circumstances and likely happenings of or- 
 dinary feminine life, but a friendship, an affection, very 
 individual, very full of subtlety, not such as would suit, 
 would fit comfortably women, but such as would suit, 
 would fit comfortably, would fit beautifully one individ- 
 ual woman me." 
 
 623
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Ah, the "woman need" was flung away, like a stone 
 thrown into the sea! It was the "I needed" that was 
 held fast, that was shown to Artois now. And the "I" 
 stood to Hermione for herself. But might it not have 
 stood to the world for many a woman ? 
 
 "I needed some one to whom I could be kind, for 
 whom I could think, plan, hope, weave a fabric of am- 
 bitious dreams, look forward along the path that leads 
 to glory. I needed some one for whom I could be un- 
 selfish, to whom I could often offer those small burnt 
 sacrifices whose smoke women love to see ascending 
 towards God, burnt sacrifices of small personal desires, 
 small personal plans and intentions. I needed some 
 one to need my encouragement, my admiration fre- 
 quently expressed my perpetual sympathy hovering 
 about him like a warm cloud of fragrant incense, my 
 gentle criticism, leading him to efforts which would win 
 from the world, and from me, more admiration of and 
 wonder at his energy and genius. I needed some one 
 to stir within me woman's soft passion for forgiveness, 
 woman's delight in petting the child who has been 
 naughty, but who puts the naughtiness aside and runs 
 home to be good again. I needed some one to set upon 
 a pedestal. 
 
 "These needs you fully satisfied. 
 
 "You gave me generously opportunities for kindness, 
 for thoughtfulness, for impersonal ambition, for looking 
 forward on your behalf, for unselfishness, for the sacri- 
 fice of my little personal desires, plans, and intentions, for 
 encouragement of you, for admiration of your abilities, 
 for sympathy even for gentle criticism leading you to 
 efforts which won from me eventually a greater respect 
 for your powers and for secret forgiveness which ended 
 in open petting. When I prepared the pedestal you 
 were quite ready to mount it, and to remain upon it 
 without any demonstration of fatigue. 
 
 624
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "And so, many needs of mine you satisfied. 
 
 "But I had more needs, and far other needs, than 
 these. 
 
 "I needed not only to make many gifts, to satisfy 
 my passion for generosity, but to have many gifts, and 
 gifts of a special nature, made in return to me. I needed 
 to feel another often, if not perpetually and exclusively, 
 intent on me. I needed to feel tenderness watchful, 
 quick, eager tenderness, not tenderness slow-footed and 
 in blinkers round about me. 
 
 "I needed a little blindness in my friend. That is 
 true. But the blindness that I needed was not blind- 
 ness to my little sacrifices, but blindness to my little faults. 
 
 "To a woman there is such a world of difference be- 
 tween the two ! I longed for my friend to see the smoke 
 ascending from my small burnt-offerings of self made 
 for his sake. But I longed, too, for him not always to 
 see with calm, clear eyes my petty failings, my minute 
 vanities, my inconsistencies, my incongruities, my fre- 
 quent lack of reasoning power and logical sequence, my 
 gusts of occasional injustice ending nearly always in 
 a rain of undue benefits my surely forgivable follies of 
 sentiment, my irritabilities how often due to physical 
 causes which no man could ever understand! my blun- 
 ders of the head of the heart I made but few, or none 
 my weak depressions, struggled against but not always 
 conquered, my perhaps childish anxieties and apprehen- 
 sions, my forebodings, not invariably well founded, my 
 fleeting absurdities of temper, of temperament, of man- 
 ner, or of word. 
 
 "But as definitely as my friend did not see my little 
 sacrifices he saw my little faults, and he made me see 
 that he saw them. Men are so free from the tender 
 deceits that women are compact of. 
 
 "And as I needed blindness in some directions, in 
 others I needed clear sight. 
 
 625
 
 "I needed some one to see that my woman's heart was 
 not only the heart of a happy mother, to whom God 
 had given an almost perfect child, but also the heart of 
 a lover not of a grande amoureuse, perhaps, but of a 
 lover who had been deprived of the love that is the com- 
 plement of woman's, and who suffered perpetually in wom- 
 an's peculiar and terrible way because of that deprivation. 
 
 "I needed an understanding of my sacred hunger, a 
 comprehension of my desolation, a realization that my 
 efforts to fill my time with work were as the efforts of a 
 traveller in a forest to escape from the wolves whose 
 voices he hears behind him. I needed the recognition 
 of a simple truth that the thing one is passionately 
 eager to give is nearly always the thing one is passion- 
 ately eager to receive, and that when I poured forth 
 sympathy upon others I was longing to have it poured 
 forth upon me. I gave because secretly I realized the 
 hunger I was sharing. And often, having satisfied your 
 hunger, I was left to starve, no longer in company, but 
 entirely alone. 
 
 "I needed great things, perhaps, but I needed them ex- 
 pressed in little ways; and I needed little cares, little at- 
 tentions, little thoughtfulnesses, little preventions, little, 
 little, absurd kindnesses, tendernesses, recognitions, for- 
 givenesses. Perhaps, indeed, even more than anything 
 magnificent or great, I needed the so-called little things. 
 It is not enough for a woman to know that a man would 
 do for her something important, something even superb, 
 if the occasion for it arose. Such an occasion probably 
 never would arise and she cannot wait. She wants to 
 be shown at every moment that some one is thinking 
 kindly of her, is making little, kind plots and plans for 
 her, is wishing to ward off from her the chill winds, to 
 keep from pricking her the thorns of the roses, to shut 
 out from her the shadows of life and let in the sunbeams 
 to her pathway. 
 
 626
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I needed the tender, passing touch to show me my 
 secret grief was understood, and my inconsistency was 
 pardoned. I needed the generous smile to prove to 
 me that my greed for kindness, even when perhaps in- 
 opportune, was met in an ungrudging spirit. I needed 
 now and then I needed this sometimes terribly, more, 
 perhaps, than any other thing a sacrifice of self in my 
 friend, in you, a sacrifice of some very small, very per- 
 sonal desire of yours, because it was not mine or be- 
 cause it was the opposite to mine. Never, never did my 
 heart and my nature demand of yours any great sacrifice 
 of self, such as mine could have made such as mine 
 once did make for you. But it did demand, often 
 often it demanded some small sacrifice: the giving up of 
 some trifle, the resignation of some advantage, perhaps, 
 that your man's intellect gave you over my woman's 
 intellect, the abandoning of some argumentative posi- 
 tion, or the not taking of it, the sweet pretence scarce- 
 ly a sin against the Holy Ghost of truth! that I was a 
 tiny bit more persuasive, or more clear-sighted, or more 
 happy in some contention, or more just in some decision, 
 than perhaps I really was. I needed to be shown your 
 affection for me, as I was ever ready, ever anxious, to 
 show mine for you, in all the little ways that are the 
 language of the heart and that fill a woman's life with 
 music. 
 
 "All this I needed. My nature cried out for it as in- 
 stinctively as the nature of man cries out for God. But 
 all this I needed generally in vain. You were not al- 
 ways a niggard. You were ready sometimes to give in 
 your way. But were you ever ready to give in mine 
 when you saw and sometimes you must have seen, 
 sometimes you did see what mine was? I longed al- 
 ways to give you all you wanted in the way you wanted 
 it. But you gave when you wished and as you chose 
 to give. I was often grateful. I was too often grate- 
 
 627
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 ful. I was unduly grateful. Because I was giving, I 
 was always giving far more than I received. 
 
 "But all that time I had something. All that time I 
 had a memory that I counted sacred. All that time, 
 like an idiot child, I was clasping in my hand a farthing, 
 which I believed, which I stated, to be a shining piece 
 of gold. 
 
 "You knew what it Was. You knew it was a farthing! 
 You knew you knew! 
 
 "And now that the hour has come when I know, too, 
 can't you understand that I realize not only that that 
 farthing is a farthing, but that all farthings are farthings ? 
 Can't you understand that I hate those who have given 
 me farthings when my hands were stretched out for 
 gold my hands that were giving gold? 
 
 "Can't you understand? Can't you? Then I'll make 
 you understand! I'll make you! I'll make you!" 
 
 Again the blackness gathered itself together, took a 
 form, the form of a wave, towered up as a gigantic wave 
 towers, rolled upon Artois to overwhelm him. He stood 
 firm and received the shock. For he was beginning to 
 understand. He was no longer confronting waves of 
 hatred which were also waves of mystery. 
 
 He had thought that Hermione hated him, hated 
 every one just then, because of what Ruffo had silently 
 told her that day at Mergellina. But as he stood there 
 in the dark at the door of that black chamber, hearing 
 the distant murmur of the sea about the palace walls, 
 there were borne in upon him, as if in words she told him, 
 all the reasons for present hatred of him which preceded 
 the great reason of that day; reasons for hatred which 
 sprang, perhaps, which surely must spring, from other 
 reasons of love. 
 
 His mind was exaggerating, as minds do when the heart 
 is intensely moved, yet it discerned much truth. And 
 it was very strange, but his now acute consciousness of 
 
 628
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 a personal hatred coming to him from out of the dark- 
 ness of this almost secret chamber, and of its complex 
 causes, causes which nevertheless would surely never 
 have produced the effect he felt but for the startling 
 crisis of that day, this acute consciousness of a personal 
 and fierce hatred bred suddenly in Artois a new sensa- 
 tion of something that was not hatred, that was the 
 reverse of hatred. Vere had once compared him to a 
 sleepy lion. The lion was now awake. 
 
 "Hermione," he said and now his voice was strong 
 and unfaltering ' ' I seem to have been listening to you 
 all this time that I have been standing here. Surely I 
 have been listening to you, hearing your thoughts. 
 Don't you know it ? Haven't you felt it ? When I left 
 the island, when I followed you, I thought I understood. 
 I thought I understood what you were feeling, almost 
 all that you were feeling. I know now how little I 
 understood. I didn't realize how much there was to 
 understand. You've been telling me. Haven't you, 
 Hermione? Haven't you?" 
 
 He paused. But there was no answer. 
 
 "I am sure you have been telling me. We must get 
 down to the truth at last. I thought till now I have 
 thought that I was more able to read the truth than 
 most men. You must often have laughed how you 
 must have laughed secretly at my pretensions. Only 
 once one night in the garden on the island I think I 
 saw you laughing. And even then I didn't understand. 
 Mon Dieu!" 
 
 He was becoming fiercely concentrated now on what 
 he was saying. He was losing all self -consciousness. 
 He was even losing consciousness of the strange fact 
 that he was addressing the void. It was as if he saw 
 Hermione, so strongly did he feel her. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! It is as if I'd been blind all the time I 
 have known you, blind to the truth of you and blinder 
 
 629
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 still to my own truth. Perhaps I am blind now. I 
 don't know. But, Hermione, I can see something. I 
 do know something of you and of myself. I do know 
 that even now there is a link between us. You want 
 to deny it. You wouldn't acknowledge it. But it is 
 there. We are not quite apart from each other. We 
 can't be that. For there is something there has al- 
 ways been something, since that night we met in Paris, 
 at Madame Enthoven's" he paused again, so vividly 
 flashed the scene of that dinner in Paris upon his mem- 
 ory ' ' something to draw us together, something to hold 
 us together, something strong. Don't deny it even now. 
 Don't deny it. Can't I be of some help, even now? 
 Don't say I am utterly useless because I have been so 
 useless to you, so damnably useless in the past. I see 
 all that, my wretched uselessness to you through all these 
 years. I am seeing it now while I am speaking. All the 
 time I'm seeing it. What you have deserved and what 
 you have had!" 
 
 He stopped, then he said again: 
 
 "What you have deserved and what you have had 
 from me! And from it was so it was the same long 
 ago, not here. But till to-day you didn't know that. 
 I was wrong. I must have been wrong, hideously 
 wrong, but I didn't want you ever to know that. It 
 isn't that I don't love truth. You know I do. But I 
 thought that lie was right. And it is only lately, this 
 summer, that I have had any doubts. But I was 
 wrong. I must have been wrong. It was intended 
 that you should know. God, perhaps, intended it." 
 
 He thought he heard a movement. But he was not 
 quite sure. For there was always the noise of the sea 
 in the deserted chambers of the palace. 
 
 "It seems to me now as if I had always been deceived, 
 mistaken, blind with you, about you. I thought you 
 need never know. I was mad enough to think that. 
 
 630
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 But I was madder still, for I thought I must have 
 thought that you could not bear to know, that you 
 weren't strong enough to endure the knowledge. But" 
 he was digging deep now, searching for absolute truth: 
 in this moment his natural passion for truth, in one di- 
 rection repressed for many years deliberately and con- 
 sciously, in other directions, perhaps, almost uncon- 
 sciously frustrated, took entire possession of his being 
 "but nothing should ever be allowed to stand in the 
 way of truth. I believe that. I know it. I must, I 
 will always act upon the knowledge from this moment. 
 Never mind if it is bitter, cruel. Perhaps it is some- 
 times put into the world because of that. I've been 
 a horrible faineant, the last of faineants. I protected 
 you from the truth. With Gaspare I managed to do it. 
 We never spoke of it never. But I think each of us 
 understood. And we acted together for you in that. 
 And I it has often seemed to me that it was a fine 
 thing to do, and that my motives in doing it were fine. 
 But sometimes I have wondered whether they weren't 
 selfish whether, instead of protecting you, I wasn't 
 only protecting myself. For it was all my fault. It 
 all came about through me, through my weakness, my 
 cursed weakness, my cursed weakness and whining for 
 help." He grew scarlet in the dark, realizing how his 
 pride in his strength, his quiet assumption with Her- 
 mione that he was the stronger, must often have made 
 her marvel, or almost weep. "I called you away. I 
 called you to Africa. And if I hadn't it would all have 
 been different." 
 
 "No, it would all have been the same." 
 
 Artois started. Out of the darkness a voice, a low, 
 cold, inexorable voice had spoken had spoken abso- 
 lute truth, correcting his lie: 
 
 "It would all have been the same!" 
 
 The woman's unerring instinct had penetrated much 
 631
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 further than the man's. He had been feeling the shell; 
 she plucked out the kernel. He had been speaking of 
 the outward facts, of the actions of the body; she spoke 
 of the inward facts, of the actions of the soul. Her hus- 
 band's sin against her was not his unfaithfulness, the un- 
 faithfulness at the Fair, but the fact that all the time 
 he had been with her, all the time she had been giving 
 her whole self to him, all the time that she had been sur- 
 rounding him with her love, he had retained in his soul 
 the power to will to commit it. That he had been given 
 an opportunity to sin was immaterial. What was ma- 
 terial was that he had been capable of sinning. 
 
 Artois saw his lie. And he stood there silent, rebuked, 
 waiting for the voice to speak again. But it did not 
 speak. And he felt as if Hermione were silently demand- 
 ing that he should sound the deeper depths of truth, 
 he who had always proclaimed to her his love of truth. 
 
 "Perhaps yes, it would have been the same," he 
 said. "But but " His intention was to say, "But 
 we should not have known it." He checked himself. 
 Even as they formed themselves in his mind the words 
 seemed bending like some wretched, flabby reed. 
 
 "It would have been the same. But that makes no 
 difference in my conduct. I was weak and called to 
 you. You were strong and came to me. How strong 
 you were! How strong it was of you to come!" 
 
 As if for the first time and indeed it was for the first 
 time he really and thoroughly comprehended her self- 
 sacrifice, the almost bizarre generosity of her implacably 
 unselfish nature. He measured the force of her love 
 and the greatness of her sacrifice, by the depth of her 
 disillusion; and he began to wonder, almost as a child 
 wonders at things, how he had been able during all 
 these years quite simply, with indeed the almost in- 
 credible simplicity of man, never to be shared by any 
 woman, to assume and to feel, when with Hermione, 
 
 632
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 that he was the dominant spirit of the two, that she 
 was, very rightly and properly, and very happily for 
 her, leaning comfortably upon his strength. And in his 
 wonder he knew that the real dominance strikes its roots 
 in the heart, not in the head. 
 
 "You were strong, then, and you were strong, you 
 were wonderfully strong, when afterwards. On Monte 
 Amato that evening you were strong." 
 
 His mind went to that mountain summit. The eyes 
 of his mind saw the evening calm on Etna, and then 
 something else, a small, fluttering fragment of white 
 paper at his feet among the stones. And, as if her mind 
 read his, she spoke again, still in that low, cold, and in- 
 exorable voice. 
 
 "That piece of paper you found what was it?" 
 
 "Hermione Hermione it was part of a letter of 
 yours written in Africa, telling him that we were coming 
 to Sicily, the day we were coming." 
 
 "It was that!" 
 
 The voice had suddenly changed. It struggled with 
 a sob. It sank away in a sob. The sin that she could 
 speak of with a sound of calm. But all the woman in her 
 was stricken by the thought of her happy letter treated like 
 that, hated, denied, destroyed, and thrown to the winds. 
 
 "My letter! my letter!" 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 His heart spoke in his voice, and he made a step for- 
 ward in the darkness. 
 
 "Don't!" 
 
 The voice had changed again, had become sharp, al- 
 most cutting. Like the lash of a whip it fell upon him. 
 And he stopped at once. It seemed to him as if she had 
 cried out, ' ' If you dare to give me your pity I shall kill 
 you!" 
 
 And he felt as if just then, for such a reason, she 
 would be capable of such an action. 
 
 633
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I will not " He almost faltered. "I am not- 
 coming." 
 
 Never before had he been so completely dominated by 
 any person, or by any fate, or by anything at all. 
 
 There was again a silence. Then he said: 
 
 "You are strong. I know you will be strong now. 
 You can't go against your nature. I ought to have 
 realized that as I have not realized it. I ought to have 
 trusted to your strength long ago." 
 
 If he had known how weak she felt while she listened 
 to him, how her whole being was secretly entreating to 
 be supported, to be taken hold of tenderly, and guarded 
 and cared for like a child! But he was a man. And at 
 one moment he understood her and at another he did 
 not. 
 
 "Gaspare and I we wished to spare you. And per- 
 haps I wished to spare myself. I think I did. I am 
 sure I did. I am sure that was partly my reason. I was 
 secretly ashamed of my cowardice, my weakness in 
 Africa; and when I knew no, when I guessed, for it 
 was only that what my appeal to you had caused all 
 it had caused " 
 
 He paused. He was thinking of Maurice's death, 
 which must have been a murder, which he was certain 
 had been a murder. 
 
 " I hadn't " 
 
 But the compelling voice from the darkness inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 "All?" it said. 
 
 He hesitated. Had she read his mind again ? 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "The misery," he answered, slowly. "The sorrow 
 that has lain upon your life ever since." 
 
 "Did you mean that? Did you only mean that?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What did you mean?" 
 
 634
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "I was thinking of his death," he replied. 
 
 He spoke very quietly. He was resolved to have no 
 more subterfuges, whatever the coward or the tender 
 friend, or the something else that was more than the 
 tender friend within him might prompt him to try to 
 hide. 
 
 "I was thinking of his death." 
 
 "His death!" 
 
 Artois felt cold with apprehension, but he was deter- 
 mined to be sincere. 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Don't ask me any more, Hermione. I know nothing 
 more." 
 
 "He was coming from the island. He slipped and fell 
 into the sea." 
 
 "He fell into the sea." 
 
 There was a long silence between them, filled by the 
 perpetual striving of the restless waves within the 
 chambers of the palace. Then she said: 
 
 "Her father was on the island that night?" 
 
 "I think he was." 
 
 "Was it that? Was it that? Did Maurice make that 
 atonement?" 
 
 Artois shuddered. Her voice was so strange, or sound- 
 ed so strange in the dark. Did she wish to think, wish 
 to be sure that her husband had been murdered? He 
 heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved. 
 Was she coming nearer? He heard her breathing, or 
 thought he heard it. He longed to be certain. He 
 longed to still the perpetual cry of the baffled sea. 
 
 "Then he was brave at the last. I think he knew 
 I am sure he knew when he went down to the sea. I 
 am sure he knew when he said good-bye." 
 
 Her voice was nearer o him. And again it had 
 changed, utterly changed. And in the different sounds 
 of her voice Artois seemed to see the different women 
 41 635
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 who dwelt within her, to understand and to know them 
 as he had never understood and known them before. 
 This woman was pleading, as women will plead for a 
 man they have once loved, so long as they have voices, 
 so long as they have hearts. 
 
 "Then that last time he didn't no, he didn't go to 
 her." 
 
 The voice was almost a whisper, and Artois knew that 
 she was speaking for herself that she was telling her- 
 self that her husband's last action had been not to 
 creep to the woman, but to stand up and face the man. 
 
 "Was it her father?" 
 
 The voice was still almost a whisper. 
 
 "I think it was." 
 
 "Maurice paid then he paid!" 
 
 "Yes. I am sure he paid." 
 
 "Gaspare knew. Gaspare knew that night. He 
 was afraid. He knew but he didn't tell me. He has 
 never told me." 
 
 "He loved his master." 
 
 "Gaspare loved Maurice more than he loved me." 
 
 By the way she said that Artois knew that Gaspare 
 was forgiven. And a sort of passion of love for woman's 
 love welled up in his heart. At that moment he almost 
 worshipped Hermione for being unable, even in that mo- 
 ment, not to love Gaspare because Gaspare had loved 
 the dead man more than he loved her. 
 
 "But Gaspare loves you," he said. 
 
 "I don't believe in love. I don't want love any 
 more." 
 
 Again the voice was transformed. It had become 
 hollow and weary, without resonance, like the voice of 
 some one very old. And Artois thought of Virgil's 
 Grotto, of all they had said there, and of how the rock 
 above them had broken into deep and sinister murmur- 
 ings, as if to warn them, or rebuke. 
 
 636
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 And now, too, there were murmurings about them, 
 but below them from the sea. 
 
 "Hermione, we must speak only the truth to-night." 
 
 "I am telling you the truth. You chose to follow me. 
 You chose to hunt me to hunt me when you knew it 
 was necessary to me to be alone. It was brutal to do 
 it. It was brutal. I had earned the right at least to 
 one thing: I had earned the right to be alone. But you 
 didn't care. You wouldn't respect my right. You hunt- 
 ed me as you might have hunted an animal. I tried 
 to escape. I didn't go to the village. I turned in here. 
 I hid here. But you saw me coming, and you chased 
 me, and you caught me. I can't get away. You have 
 driven me in here. And I can't get away from you. 
 You won't even let me be alone." 
 
 "I dare not let you be alone to-night." 
 
 "Why not? What are you afraid of? What does it 
 matter to you where I go or what I do ? Don't say it 
 matters! Don't dare to say that!" 
 
 Her voice was fierce now. 
 
 "It doesn't matter to anybody, except perhaps a lit- 
 tle to Vere and a very little to Gaspare. It never has 
 really mattered to anybody. I thought it did once to 
 some one. I thought I knew it did. But I was wrong. 
 It didn't. It never mattered." 
 
 As she spoke an immense, a terrific feeling of desola- 
 tion poured over her, as if from above, coming down 
 upon her in the dark. It was like a flood that stiffened 
 into ice upon her, making her body and her soul numb 
 for a moment. 
 
 "I've never mattered to any one." 
 
 She muttered the words to herself. As she did so 
 Artois seemed again to be looking into the magic mirror 
 of the fattura della morte, to see the pale man, across 
 whose face the shadow of a palm-leaf shifted, turning 
 on his bed towards a woman who stood by an open door. 
 
 637
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "You have always mattered to me," he said. 
 
 As he spoke there was in his voice that peculiar ring 
 of utter sincerity which can no more be simulated, or 
 mistaken, than the ringing music of sterling gold. But 
 perhaps she was not in a condition to hear rightly, or 
 perhaps something within her chose to deny, had a lust 
 for denial because denial hurt her. 
 
 "To you least of all," she said. "Only yourself has 
 ever really mattered to you." 
 
 In a sentence she summed up the long catalogue that 
 had been given to him by her silence. 
 
 His whole body felt as if it reddened. His skin 
 tingled with a sort of physical anger. His mature pride 
 that had grown always, as a strong man's natural pride 
 does grow with the passing of the years, seemed to him 
 instinctively to rush forward to return the blow that 
 had been dealt it. 
 
 "That is not quite true," he said. 
 
 "It is true. I have always had copper and I have 
 always wanted gold," she answered. 
 
 He controlled himself, to prove to himself that she 
 lied, that he was not the eternal egoist she dubbed him. 
 Sometimes he had been genuinely unselfish, sometimes 
 not often, perhaps, but sometimes he had really 
 sunk himself in her. She was not being quite just. 
 But how could she be quite just to-night? And what 
 did exact justice matter to-night? An almost reckless 
 feeling overtook him, a desire to conquer at all costs 
 in this struggle; to win her back, whether against her 
 will or not, to her old self; to eliminate the shocking 
 impression made upon her soul by the discovery of that 
 day, to wipe it out utterly, to replace it with another; 
 to revive within her that beautiful enthusiasm which 
 had been as a light always shining for her and from her 
 upon people and events and life; to make her under- 
 stand, to prove to her that, after all allowance has been 
 
 638
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 made for uncertainties and contradictions of fate, for 
 the ironies, the paradoxes, the cruelties, the tragedies, 
 and the despairs of existence, the great, broad fact 
 emerges, that what the human being gives, in the long 
 run the human being generally gets, and that she who 
 persistently gives gold will surely at last receive it. 
 
 The thought of a lost Hermione struck to his heart a 
 greater fear than had already that night the thought of 
 a dead Hermione. And if she was changed she was lost. 
 
 The real, the beautiful Hermione he must seize her, 
 grip her, hold her fast before it was too late. 
 
 "Hermione," he said, "I think you saved me from 
 death; I am sure you did. Did you save me only to 
 hate me?" 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 ' ' Do you remember that evening when you came into 
 my room at Kairouan all covered with dust from your 
 journey across the plains? I do. I remember it as if 
 it had happened an hour ago instead of nearly seventeen 
 years. I remember the strange feeling I had when I 
 turned my head and saw you, a feeling that you and 
 Africa would fight for me and that you would conquer. 
 It had seemed to me that Africa meant to have me and 
 would have me. Unless you came I felt certain of that. 
 And I had thought about it all as I lay there in the 
 stifling heat, till I almost felt the feverish earth enclosing 
 me. I had loved Africa, but Africa seemed to me ter- 
 rible then. I thought of only Arabs, always Arabs, 
 walking above me on the surface of the ground when I 
 was buried. And the thought made me shudder with 
 horror. As if it could have mattered! I was absurd! 
 But one is often absurd when one is very ill. The child 
 in one comes out then, I suppose. And I had wondered 
 how I had wondered! whether there was any chance 
 of your coming. I hadn't actually asked you to come. 
 I hadn't dared to do that. But it was the same thing 
 
 639
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 almost. I had let you know I had let you know. 
 And I saw you come into my room all covered with dust. 
 You had come so quickly at once. Perhaps perhaps 
 sometimes you have thought I had forgotten that even- 
 ing. I may be an egoist. I expect most men are 
 egoists. And perhaps I am the egoist you say I am. 
 Often one doesn't know what one is. But I have never 
 forgotten that day, and that you were covered with dust. 
 It was that the dust which seemed to make me re- 
 alize that you had not lost a moment in coming, that 
 you hadn't hesitated a moment as to whether you would 
 come or not. You looked as if almost as if you had 
 run all the way to be in time to save my life my 
 wretched life. And you saved it. Did you save me to 
 hate me?" 
 
 He waited for her to speak. But still she was silent. 
 He heard no sound of her at all, and for a moment he 
 almost wondered whether she had discovered that the 
 chamber had some second outlet, whether she had not 
 escaped while he had been speaking. But he looked 
 round and he saw only dense darkness. She must be 
 there still, close to him, hearing everything he said, 
 whether against her will or with it. He was being per- 
 fectly sincere, and he was feeling very deeply, with in- 
 tensity. But out of his natural reserve now rose a fear 
 the fear that perhaps his voice, his speech, did not 
 convey his sincerity to her. If she should mistake him! 
 If she should fancy he was trying to play upon her 
 emotions in order to win her away from some desperate 
 resolve. He longed to make her see what he was feel- 
 ing, feel what he was feeling, be him and herself for one 
 moment. And now the darkness began to distract him. 
 He wanted light. He wanted to see Hermione, to see 
 which of the women in her faced him, which was listen- 
 ing to him. 
 
 "Hermione," he said, "I want you I want it's 
 640
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 hateful speaking like this, always in the darkness. Don't 
 make me stay here. Don't make me feel all the time 
 that I am holding you a prisoner. No, I can't I won't 
 bear that any more." 
 
 He moved suddenly from the doorway back into the 
 room behind him, in which there was a very little, very 
 faint light. There he waited. 
 
 Almost immediately the tall shadow which had dis- 
 appeared into the darkness emerged from it, passed 
 before him, and went into the central chamber of the 
 palace. He followed it, and found Hermione standing 
 by the great doorway that overlooked the sea. Her- 
 mione she was, no longer a shadow, but the definite 
 darkness of a human form relieved against the clear 
 but now moonless night. She was waiting. Surely she 
 was waiting for him. She might have escaped, but she 
 stayed. She was willing, then, to hear what he had to 
 say, all he had to say. 
 
 He stood still at a little distance from her. But in 
 this hall the sound of the sea which came from the 
 chamber on the left was much more distinct and dis- 
 turbing than in the chamber where she had hidden. 
 And he came nearer to her, till he was very near, almost 
 close to her. 
 
 "If you hated me for once, when we were standing 
 on the terrace, you said, 'Take care or I shall hate you 
 for keeping me in the dark.' If you hated me because 
 of what I have done, with Gaspare, Hermione, I could 
 bear it. I could bear it, because I think it would pass 
 away. We did keep you in the dark. Now you know 
 it. But you know our reason, and that it was a reason 
 of very deep affection. And I think you would forgive 
 us, I know you would forgive us in the end. But I 
 understand it isn't only that 
 
 Suddenly he thought of Vere, of that perhaps dawn- 
 ing folly, so utterly dead now, so utterly dead that he 
 
 641
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 could no longer tell whether it had ever even sluggishly 
 stirred with life. He thought of Vere, and of the poems, 
 and of the secret of Peppina's revelation. And he won- 
 dered whether the record he seemed to read in the 
 silence had been a true record, or whether his imagina- 
 tion and his intellect of a psychologist, alert even in 
 this hour of intense emotion, had been deceiving him. 
 Hermione had seemed to be speaking to him. But had 
 he really been only impersonating her? Had it been 
 really himself that had spoken to himself? As this 
 question arose in his mind he longed to make Hermione 
 speak. Then he could be sure of all. He must clear 
 away all misconception. Yet, even now, how could he 
 speak of that episode with Vere ? 
 
 "You say you have always wanted gold, and that 
 you have never been given gold " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He saw the dark figure near him lift its head. And 
 he felt that Hermione had come out of the darkness 
 with the intention of speaking the truth of what she felt. 
 If she could not have spoken she would have stayed in 
 the inner chamber, or she would have escaped altogether 
 from the palace when he moved from the doorway. He 
 was sure that only if she spoke would she change. In 
 her silence there was damnation for them both. But she 
 meant to speak. 
 
 "I have been a fool. I see that now. But I think I 
 have been suspecting it for some time nearly all this 
 summer." 
 
 He could hear by the sound of her voice that while 
 she was speaking she was thinking deeply. Like him, 
 she was in search of absolute truth. 
 
 "It is only this summer that I have begun to see why 
 people you have often smiled at my enthusiasms. 
 No wonder you smiled! No wonder you laughed at me 
 secretly!" 
 
 642
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Her voice was hard and bitter. 
 
 "I never laughed at you, never either secretly or 
 openly!" he said, with a heat almost of anger. 
 
 "Oh yes, you did, as a person who can see clearly 
 might laugh at a short-sighted person tumbling over all 
 the little obstacles on a road. I was always tumbling 
 over things always and you must always have been 
 laughing. I have been a fool. Instead of growing up, 
 my heart has remained a child till now. That's what 
 it is. Children who have been kindly treated think the 
 world is all kindness. Because my friends were good 
 to me, the world was good to me, I got into the habit of 
 believing that I was lovable, and of loving in return. 
 And I trusted people. I always thought they were giv- 
 ing me what I was giving them. That has been my 
 great folly, the folly I'm punished for. I have been a 
 credulous fool. I have thought that because I gave a 
 thing with all my heart it was it must be given back 
 to me. And yet I was surprised I could scarcely be- 
 lieve it when when " 
 
 He knew she was thinking of her beautiful wonder 
 when Maurice had said he loved her. 
 
 "I could scarcely believe it! But, because I was a 
 fool, I got to believe it, and I have believed it till to-day 
 you have stood by, and watched me believing it, and 
 laughed at me for believing it till to-day." 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 "Yes, you mayn't have meant to laugh, but you must 
 have laughed. Your mind, your intellect must have 
 laughed. Don't say they haven't. I wouldn't believe 
 you. And I know your mind at any rate, I know that. 
 Not your heart! I shall never pretend I shall never 
 think again for a moment that I know anything 
 anything at all about a man's heart. But I do know 
 something about your mind. And I know the irony in 
 it. What a subject I have presented to you all these 
 
 643
 
 years for the exercise of your ironic faculty! You ought 
 to thank me ! You ought to go on your knees and thank 
 me and bless me for that!" 
 
 "Hermione!" 
 
 "Just now you talked of my coming into your room 
 in Kairouan all covered with dust. You asked me if I 
 remembered it. Yes, I do. And I remember something 
 you don't probably you don't remember. There was 
 no looking-glass in your room." 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "No looking-glass!" he repeated, wondering. 
 
 "No, there was no looking-glass. And I .remember 
 when I came in I saw there wasn't, and I was glad. 
 Because I couldn't look at myself and see how dreadful 
 and dishevelled and hideous I was how dirty even I 
 was. My impulse was to go to a glass. And then I was 
 glad I couldn't. And I looked at your face. And I 
 thought 'he doesn't care. He loves me, all dusty and 
 hideous and horrid, as I am.' And then I didn't care 
 either. I said to myself, ' I look an object, and I don't 
 mind a bit, because I see in his face that he loves me 
 for myself, because he sees my heart, and ' " 
 
 And suddenly in her voice there was a sharp, hissing 
 catch, and she stopped short. For a full minute she 
 was. silent. And Artois did not speak. Nor did he 
 move. 
 
 "I felt then, perhaps for the first time, 'the outside 
 doesn't matter to real people.' I felt that. I felt, 'I'm 
 real, and he is real, and and Maurice is real. And 
 though it is splendid to be beautiful, and beauty means 
 so much, yet it doesn't mean so much as I used to think. 
 Real people get beyond it. And when once they have 
 got beyond it then life begins.' I remember thinking 
 that, feeling that, and just for a minute loving my own 
 ugliness. And then, suddenly, I wished there was a look- 
 ing-glass in the room that I might stand before it and 
 
 644
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 see what an object I was, and then look into your face 
 and see that it didn't matter. And I even triumphed 
 in my ugliness. 'I have a husband who doesn't mind,' 
 I thought. 'And I have a friend who doesn't mind. 
 They love me, both of them, whatever I look like. It's 
 me the woman inside they love, because they know 
 I care, and how I care for them.' And that thought 
 made me feel as if I could do anything for Maurice and 
 anything for you; heroic things, or small, dreadful, 
 necessary things; as if I could be the servant of, or sac- 
 rifice my life easily for, those who loved me so splendidly, 
 who knew how to love so splendidly. And I was happy 
 then even in sacrificing my happiness with Maurice. And 
 I thanked God then for not having given me beauty. 
 
 "And I was a fool. But I didn't find it out. And 
 so I revelled in self-sacrifice. You don't know, you 
 could never understand, how I enjoyed doing the most 
 menial things for you in your illness. Often you thank- 
 ed me, and often you seemed ashamed that I should do 
 such things. And the doctor that little Frenchman 
 apologized to me. And you both thought that doing 
 so much in the frightful heat would make me ill. And 
 I blessed the heat and the flies and everything that 
 made what I did for you more difficult to do. Because 
 the doing of what was more difficult, more trying, more 
 fatiguing needed more love. And my gratitude to you 
 for your loving friendship, and ibr needing me more 
 than any one else, wanted to be tried to the uttermost. 
 And I thought, too, 'When I go back to Maurice I shall 
 be worth a little more, I shall be a little bit finer, and 
 he'll feel it. He'll understand exactly what it was to 
 me to leave him so soon, to leave to leave what I 
 thought of then as my Garden of Paradise. And he'll 
 love me more because I had the courage to leave it to 
 try and save my friend. He'll realize he'll realize ' 
 But men don't. They don't want to. Or they can't 
 
 645
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 1 'm sure I'm positive now that men think less of women 
 who are ready to sacrifice themselves than of women who 
 wish to make slaves of them. I see that now. It's the 
 selfish women they admire, the women who take their 
 own way and insist on having all they want, not the 
 women who love to serve them not slavishly, but out 
 of love. A selfish woman they can understand; but 
 a woman who gives up something very precious to her 
 they don't understand. Maurice never understood my 
 action in going to Africa. And you I don't believe 
 you ever understood it. You must have wondered at 
 my coming as much as he did at my going. You were 
 glad I came at the moment. Oh yes, you were glad. 
 I know that. But afterwards you must have wondered ; 
 you did wonder. You thought it Quixotic, odd. You 
 said to yourself, ' It was just like Hermione. How could 
 she do it? How could she come to me if she really 
 loved her husband ?' And very likely my coming made 
 you doubt my really loving Maurice. I am almost sure 
 it did. I don't believe all these years you have ever 
 understood what I felt about him, what his death 
 meant to me, what life meant to me afterwards. I told 
 I tried to tell you in the cave that day. But I don't 
 think you really understood at all. And he he didn't 
 understand my love for him. But I suppose he didn't 
 even want to. When I went away he simply forgot all 
 about me. That was it. I wasn't there, and he forgot. 
 I wasn't there, and another woman was there and that 
 was enough for him. And I dare say now it is 
 enough for most men, perhaps for every man. And 
 then I'd made another mistake. I was always making 
 mistakes when my heart led me. And I'd made a mis- 
 take in thinking that real people get beyond looks, the 
 outside and that then life begins. They don't at 
 least real men don't. A woman may spend her heart's 
 blood for a man through years, and for youthful charm 
 
 646
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 and a face that is pretty, for the mere look in a pair of 
 eyes or the curve of a mouth, he'll almost forget that 
 she's alive, even when she's there before him. He'll 
 take the other woman's part against her instinctively, 
 whichever is in the right. If both women do exactly 
 the same thing a man will find that the pretty woman 
 has performed a miracle and the ugly woman made some 
 preposterous mistake. That is how men are. That is 
 how you are, I suppose, and that was Maurice, too. He 
 forgot me for a peasant. But she must have been pretty 
 once. And I was always ugly!" 
 
 "Delarey loved you," Artois said, suddenly, inter- 
 rupting her in a strong, deep voice, a voice that rang 
 with true conviction. 
 
 "He never loved me. Perhaps he thought he did. 
 He must have thought so. And that first day when 
 we were coming up the mountain-side " 
 
 She stopped. She was seized; she was held fast in 
 the grip of a memory so intense, so poignant, that she 
 made, she could make, no effort to release herself. She 
 heard the drowsy wail of the Ceramella dropping down 
 the mountain - side in the radiant heat of noon. She 
 felt Maurice's warm hand. She remembered her words 
 about the woman's need to love "I wanted, I needed 
 to love do men ever feel that? Women do often, 
 ncaryl always, I think." The Pastorale it sounded in 
 her ears. Or was it the sea that sounded, the sea in the 
 abandoned chambers of the Palace of the Spirits ? She 
 listened. No, it was the Pastorale, that antique, sim- 
 ple, holy tune, that for her must always be connected 
 with the thought of love, man's love for woman, and 
 the Bambino's love for all the creatures of God. It 
 flooded her heart, and beneath it sank down, like a 
 drowning thing, for a moment the frightful bitterness 
 that was alive in her heart to-night. 
 
 "Delarey loved you," Artois repeated. "He loved 
 647
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 you on the first day in Sicily, and he loved you on the 
 last." 
 
 "And and the days between?" 
 
 Her voice spoke falteringly. In her voice there was 
 a sound of pleading that struck into the very depths 
 of his heart. The real Hermione was in that sound, 
 the loving' woman who needed love, who deserved a 
 love as deep as that which she had given, as that which 
 she surely still had to give. 
 
 "He loved you always, but he loved you in his way." 
 
 "In his way!" she repeated, with a sort of infinite, 
 hopeless sadness. 
 
 "Yes, Hermione, in his way. Oh, we all have our 
 ways, all our different ways of loving. But I don't 
 believe a human being ever existed who had no way at 
 all. Delarey's way was different from your way, so 
 different that, now you know the truth of him, perhaps 
 you can't believe he ever loved you. But he did. He 
 was young, and he was hot-blooded he was really of 
 the South. And the sun got hold of him. And he be- 
 trayed you. But he repented. That last day he was 
 stricken, not by physical fear, but by a tremendous 
 shame at what he had done to you, and perhaps, also, 
 by fear lest you should ever know it. I sat with him 
 by the wall, and I felt without at all fully understand- 
 ing it the drama in his soul. But now I understand it. 
 I'm sure I understand it. And I think the depth of a 
 shame is very often the exact measure of the depth of 
 a love. Perhaps, indeed, there is no more exact meas- 
 ure." 
 
 Again he thought of the episode with Vere, and of 
 his determination always from henceforth to be abso- 
 lutely sincere with himself and with those whom he 
 really loved. 
 
 "I am sure there is no more exact measure. Her- 
 mione, it is very difficult, I think, to realize what any 
 
 648
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 human being is, to judge any one quite accurately. 
 Some judge a nature by the distance it can sink, others 
 by the distance it can rise. Which do you do? Do 
 you judge Delarey by his act of faithlessness? And, 
 if you do, how would you judge me ?" 
 
 "You!" 
 
 There was a sound of wonder in her voice. 
 
 "Yes. You say I am an egoist. And this that I am 
 saying will seem to you egoism. It is egoism, I suppose. 
 But I want to know I must know. How would you 
 judge me ? How do you judge me ?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "How are you judging me at this moment? Aren't 
 you judging me by the distance I could fall, the dis- 
 tance, perhaps, you think I have fallen ?" 
 
 He spoke slowly. He was delaying. For all the time 
 he spoke he was secretly battling with his pride and 
 his pride was a strong fighter. But to-night his passion 
 for sincerity, his instinct that for Hermione and for 
 him, too salvation lay in their perfect, even in their 
 cruel sincerity to themselves and to each other, was a 
 strong fighter also. In it his pride met an antagonist 
 that was worthy of it. And he went on: 
 
 "Are you judging me by this summer?" 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Go on," she said. 
 
 He could not tell by her voice what she was feeling, 
 thinking. Expression seemed to be withdrawn from it, 
 perhaps deliberately. 
 
 "This summer something has come between us, a 
 cloud has come between us. I scarcely know when I 
 first noticed it, when it came. But I have felt it, and 
 you have felt it." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It might, perhaps, have arisen from the fact of my 
 suspicion who Ruffo was, a suspicion that lately became 
 
 649
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 a certainty. My suspicion, and latterly my knowledge, 
 no doubt changed my manner made me anxious, per- 
 haps, uneasy, made me watchful, made me often seem 
 very strange to you. That alone might have caused a 
 difference in our relations. But I think there was some- 
 thing else." 
 
 "Yes, there was something else." 
 
 "And I think, I feel sure now, that it was something 
 to do with Vere. I was, I became deeply interested in 
 Vere interested in a new way. She was growing up. 
 She was passing from childhood into girlhood. She was 
 developing swiftly. That development fascinated me. 
 Of course I had always been very fond of Vere. But 
 this summer she meant more to me than she had meant. 
 One day it was the day I came back to the island after 
 my visit to Paris " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He looked at her, trying to read what she was feeling 
 in her face, but it was too dark for him to discern it. 
 
 "Vere made a confession to me. She told me she 
 was working secretly, that she was writing poems. I 
 asked her to show them to me. She did so. I found 
 some talent in them, enough for me to feel justified in 
 telling her to continue. Once, Hermione, you consulted 
 me. Then my advice was different." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "The remembrance of this, and Vere's knowledge 
 that you had suffered in not succeeding with work, 
 prompted us to keep the matter of her attempts to 
 write a secret for the time. It seems a trifle all this, 
 but looking back now I feel that we were quite wrong 
 in not telling you." 
 
 "I found it out." 
 
 "You knew?" 
 
 "I went to Vere's room. The poems were on the 
 table with your corrections. I read them." 
 
 650
 
 "We ought to have told you." 
 
 "I oughtn't to have read them, but I did." 
 
 "A mother has the right " 
 
 "Not a mother who has resigned her right to ques- 
 tion her child. I had said to Vere, 'Keep your secrets.' 
 So I had no right, and I did wrong in reading them." 
 
 He felt that she was instinctively trying to match his 
 sincerity with hers, and that fact helped him to continue. 
 
 "The knowledge of this budding talent of Vere's 
 made me take a new interest in her, made me wish very 
 much at least I thought, I believed it was that, Her- 
 mione that no disturbing influence should come into 
 her life. Isidore Panacci came through me. Peppina 
 came through you. Hermione, on the night when 
 Vere and I went out alone together in the boat Vere 
 learned the truth about Peppina and the life behind 
 the shutter." 
 
 "I knew that, too." 
 
 "You knew it?" 
 
 "Yes. I suspected something. You led me to sus- 
 pect it." 
 
 "I remember " 
 
 "I questioned Peppina. I made her tell me." 
 
 He said nothing for a moment. Then, with an effort, 
 he said: 
 
 "You knew we had kept those two things from you, 
 Vere and I?" 
 
 "Vere and you yes." 
 
 Now he understood almost all, or quite all, that had 
 been strange to him in her recent conduct. 
 
 "Sometimes have you almost hated us for keeping 
 those two secrets?" 
 
 "I don't think I have ever hated Vere." 
 
 "But me?" 
 
 "Do you know why I told Vere she might read your 
 books?" 
 
 41 651
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I thought they might make her feel differ- 
 ently towards you." 
 
 "Less less kindly?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, but he felt he did not know 
 why that it had cost her very much to say what she 
 had said. 
 
 "You wanted Vere to think badly of me!" 
 
 He was honoring her for the moral courage which en- 
 abled her to tell him. Yet he felt as if she had struck 
 him. And so absolutely was he accustomed to delicate 
 tenderness, and the most thoughtful, anxious kindness 
 from her, that he suffered acutely and from a double 
 distress. The thing itself was cruel and hurt him. But 
 that Hermione had done it hurt him far more. He 
 could hardly believe it. That by any road she could 
 travel to such an action seemed incredible to him. He 
 stood, realizing it. And the bitter sharpness of his 
 suffering made him understand something. In all its 
 fulness he understood what Hermione 's tenderness had 
 been in his life for many, many years. And then his 
 mind seemed to take another step. "Why does a wom- 
 an do such a thing as this?" he asked himself. "Why 
 does such a woman as Hermione do such a thing?" 
 And he knew what her suffering must have been, and 
 how her heart must have been storm-tossed, before it 
 was driven to succumb to such an impulse. 
 
 And he came quite close to her. And he felt a strange, 
 sudden nearness to her that was no nearness of body. 
 
 "Hermione," he said, "I could never judge your char- 
 acter by that action. Don't don't judge mine by any 
 cruelty of which I have been guilty during this summer. 
 You have told me something that it was very difficult 
 for you to tell. I have something to tell you. And it 
 is it is not easy to tell." 
 
 652
 
 "Tell it me." 
 
 He looked at her. He was now quite close to her, 
 and could see the outline of her face but not the ex- 
 pression in her eyes. 
 
 "My interest in Vere increased. I believed it to be 
 an interest aroused in me by the discovery of this talent 
 in her. I believed the new fondness I felt for her to be 
 a very natural fondness, caused by her charming con- 
 fidence in me. Our little secret drew us together. And 
 I understand now, Hermione, that it seemed to set you 
 apart from us. I believe I understand all now, all the 
 circumstances that have seemed strange to me this 
 summer. I wanted Vere's talent to develop naturally, 
 unhindered, unaffected I thought it was merely that 
 and I became exigent, I even became jealous of all 
 outside interference. On the night we dined at Frisio's 
 I felt strongly irritated at Panacci's interest in Vere. 
 And there were other moments 
 
 He looked at her again. She stood perfectly still. 
 Her head was slightly bent and she seemed to be look- 
 ing at the ground. 
 
 "And then came the night of the Carmine. Her- 
 mione, after you and Vere had gone to bed Panacci and 
 I had a quarrel. He attacked me violently. He told 
 me he told me that I was in love with Vere, and that 
 you, and even even that Gaspare knew it. At the 
 moment I think I laughed at him. I thought his ac- 
 cusation ridiculous. But when he had gone and after- 
 wards I examined myself. I tried to know myself. I 
 spent hours in self-examination, cruel self-examination. 
 I did not spare myself. Believe that, Hermione! Be- 
 lieve that!" 
 
 "I do believe it." 
 
 "And at the end I knew that it was not true. I was 
 not, I had never been in love with Vere. When I 
 thought of Vere and myself in such a relation my spirit 
 
 653
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 recoiled. Such a thing seemed to me monstrous. But 
 though I knew that was not true, I knew also that I 
 had been jealous of Vere, unjust to others because of 
 Vere. I had been, perhaps, foolish, undignified. Perhaps 
 perhaps for how can we be quite sure of ourselves, 
 Hermione? how can we be certain of our own natures, 
 our own conduct? perhaps, if Panacci's coarse brutal- 
 ity had not waked up my whole being, I might have 
 drifted on towards an affection for Vere that, in a man 
 of my age, would have been absurd, have made me 
 ridiculous in the eyes of others. I scarcely think so. 
 But I want to be sincere. I would rather exaggerate 
 than minimize my own shortcomings to you to-night. I 
 scarcely believe it ever could have been so. But Panacci 
 said it was so. And you I don't know what you have 
 thought " 
 
 "What I have thought doesn't matter now." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, but not with bitterness. She 
 knew Artois. And even in that moment of emotion, 
 and of a sort of strange exhaustion following upon 
 emotion, she knew, as no other living person could have 
 known, the effort it must have cost him to speak as he 
 had just spoken. 
 
 "That, at any rate, is the exact truth." 
 
 "I know it is." 
 
 "I have thought myself clear-sighted, Hermione. I 
 have studied others. Just lately I have been forced to 
 study myself. It is as if it seems to me as if events 
 had conspired against my own crass ignorance of my 
 self, as if a resolve had been come to by the power that 
 directs our destinies that I should know myself. I wish 
 I dared to tell you more. I wish to-night I dared to 
 tell you all that I have come to know. But I dare not, 
 I dare not. You would not believe me. I could not 
 even expect you to believe me." 
 
 He stopped. Perhaps he hoped for a word that would 
 654
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 deny his last observation. But it did not come to him 
 And he hesitated for what seemed to him a very long 
 time, almost an eternity. He was beset by indecision, 
 by an extraordinary deep modesty and consciousness of 
 his own unworthiness that he had never before experi- 
 enced, and also by a new and acute consciousness of 
 the splendor of Hermione's nature, of the power of her 
 heart, of the faithfulness and nobility of her tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 "All I can say, Hermione" he at length went on 
 speaking, and in his voice sounded that strange modesty, 
 a modesty that made his voice seem to her almost like 
 a voice of hesitating youth "all that I dare to say to- 
 night is this. I told you just now that we 'all have our 
 different ways of loving. You have loved in your way. 
 You have loved Delarey as your husband. And you 
 have loved me as your friend. Delarey, as your hus- 
 band, betrayed you. Only to-day you know it. I, as 
 your friend have I ever betrayed you ? Do you believe 
 even now when you are ready to believe very much of 
 evil do you really believe that as a friend I could ever 
 betray you?" 
 
 He moved, stood in front of her, lifted his hands and 
 laid them on her shoulders. 
 
 "Do you believe that?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You have loved us in your way. He is dead. But 
 I am here to love you always in my way. Perhaps my 
 way seems to you such a poor way it must, it must 
 that it is hardly worth anything at all. But perhaps, 
 now that I know so much of myself and of you" 
 there was a slight break in his voice "and of you, I 
 shall be able to find a different, a better way. I don't 
 know. To-night I doubt myself. I feel as if I were so 
 unworthy. But I may I may be able to find a better 
 way of loving you." 
 
 655
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Quite unconsciously his two hands, which still rested 
 upon her shoulders, began to lean heavily upon them, 
 to press them, to grip them till she suffered a physical 
 discomfort that almost amounted to pain. 
 
 "I shall seek a better way I shall seek it. And the 
 only thing I ask you to-night is that ^ou will not for- 
 bid me to seek it." 
 
 The pressure of his hands upon her shoulders was be- 
 coming almost unbearable. But she bore it. She bore 
 it for she loved it. Perhaps that night no words could 
 have quite convinced her of his desperate honesty of 
 soul in that moment, perhaps no sound of his voice 
 could have quite convinced her. But the unconsciously 
 cruel pressure of his hands upon her convinced her ab- 
 solutely. She felt as if it was his soul the truth of his 
 soul which was grasping her which was closing upon 
 her. And she felt that only a thing that needed could 
 grasp, could close like that. 
 
 And even in the midst of her chaos of misery and 
 doubt she felt, she knew, that it was herself that was 
 needed. 
 
 "I will not forbid you to seek it," she said. 
 
 He sighed deeply. His hands dropped down from 
 her. They stood for a moment quite still. Then he 
 said, in a low voice: 
 
 "You took the fattura della morte?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "It was in in her room at 
 Mergellina to-day." 
 
 "Have you got it still?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She held out her right hand. He took the death- 
 charm from her. 
 
 "She made it the woman who wronged you made it 
 to bring death into the Casa del Mare." 
 
 "Not to me?" 
 
 "No, to Peppina. Has it not brought another death? 
 656
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 or, at least, does it not typify another death to-night, 
 the death of a great lie ? I think it does. I look upon 
 it as a symbol. But but ?" 
 
 He looked at her. He was at the huge doorway of 
 the palace. The sea murmured below him. Hermione 
 understood and bent her head. 
 
 Then Artois threw the death-charm far away into the 
 sea. 
 
 "Let me take you to the boat. Let me take you 
 back to the island." 
 
 She did not answer him. But when he moved she 
 followed him, till they came to the rocks and saw float- 
 ing on the dim water the two white boats. 
 
 "Gaspare!" 
 
 "Vengo!" 
 
 That cry what did it recall to Hermione ? Gaspare's 
 cry from the inlet beneath the Isle of the Sirens when 
 he was bringing the body of Maurice from the sea. As 
 she had trembled then, she began to tremble now. She 
 felt exhausted, that she could bear no more, that she 
 must rest, be guarded, cared for, protected, loved. The 
 boat touched shore. Gaspare leaped out. He cast an 
 eager, fiery look of scrutiny on his Padrona. She re- 
 turned it. Then, suddenly, he seized her hand, bent 
 down and kissed it. 
 
 She trembled more. He lifted his head, stared at her 
 again. Then he took her up in his strong arms, as if 
 she were a child, and carried her gently and carefully 
 to the stern of the boat. 
 
 "Lei si riposi!" he whispered, as he set her down. 
 
 She shut her eyes, leaning back against the seat. She 
 heard Artois get in, the boat pushed off, the plash of 
 the oars. But she did not open her eyes, until presently 
 an instinct told her there was something she must see. 
 Then she looked. 
 
 The boat was passing under the blessing hand of San 
 
 657
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 Francesco, under the light of the Saint, which was burn- 
 ing calmly and brightly. 
 
 Hermione moved. She bent down to the water, the 
 acqua benedetta. She sprinkled it over the boat and 
 made the sign of the cross. When they reached the 
 island Artois got out. As she came on shore he said to 
 her : 
 
 "Hermione, I left the the two children together in 
 the garden. Do you think will you go to them for a 
 moment? Or" 
 
 "I will go," she answered. 
 
 She was no longer trembling. She followed him up 
 the steps, walking slowly but firmly. They came to the 
 house door. Gaspare had kept close behind them. At 
 the door Artois stopped. He felt as if to-night he ought 
 to go no farther. 
 
 Hermione looked at him and passed into the house. 
 Gaspare, seeing that Artois did not follow her, hesitated, 
 but Artois said to him: 
 
 "Go, Gaspare, go with your Padrona." 
 
 Then Gaspare went in, down the passage, and out to 
 the terrace. 
 
 Hermione was standing there. 
 
 "Do you think they are in the garden, Gaspare?" she 
 said. 
 
 "SI, Signora. Listen! I can hear them!" 
 
 He held up his hand. Not far away there was a sound 
 of voices speaking together. 
 
 "Shall I go and tell them, Signora?" 
 
 After a moment Hermione said: 
 
 "Yes, Gaspare go and tell them." 
 
 He went away, and she waited, leaning on the balus- 
 trade and looking down to the dim sea, from which only 
 the night before Ruffo's voice had floated up to her, 
 singing the song of Mergellina. Only the night before! 
 And it seemed to her centuries ago. 
 
 658
 
 "Madre!" 
 
 Vere spoke to her. Vere was beside her. But she 
 gazed beyond her child to Ruffo, who stood with his cap 
 in his hand and his eyes, full of gentleness, looking at 
 her for recognition. 
 
 "Ruffo!" she said. 
 
 Vere moved to let Ruffo pass. He came up and stood 
 before Hermione. 
 
 "Ruffo!" she said again. 
 
 It seemed that she was going to say more. They 
 waited for her to say something more. But she did not 
 speak. She stood quite still for a moment looking at 
 the boy. Then she put one hand on his shoulder, bent 
 down and touched his forehead with her lips. 
 
 And in that kiss the dead man was forgiven.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 ON a radiant day of September in the following year, 
 from the little harbor of Mergellina a white boat with a 
 green line put off. It was rowed by Gaspare, who wore 
 his festa suit, and it contained two people, a man and 
 a woman, who had that morning been quietly mar- 
 ried. 
 
 Another boat preceded theirs, going towards the isl- 
 and, but it was so far ahead of them that they could 
 only see it as a moving dot upon the shining sea, 
 when they rounded the breakwater and set their course 
 for the point of land where lies the Antico Giusep- 
 pone. 
 
 Gaspare rowed standing up, with his back towards 
 Hermione and Artois and his great eyes staring steadily 
 out to sea. He plied the oars mechanically. During 
 the first few minutes of the voyage to the island his 
 mind was far away. He was a boy in Sicily once more, 
 waiting proudly upon his first, and indeed his only, 
 Padrona in the Casa del Prete on Monte Amato. Then 
 she was quite alone. He could see her sitting at even- 
 ing upon the terrace with a book in her lap, gazing out 
 across the ravine and the olive-covered mountain slopes 
 to the waters that kissed the shore of the Sirens' Isle. 
 He could see her, when night fell, going slowly up the 
 steps into the lighted cottage, and turning on its thresh- 
 old to wish him "Buon riposo." 
 
 Then there was an interval and she came again. He 
 was waiting at the station of Cattaro. Outside stood 
 
 660
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 the little train of donkeys, decorated with flowers un- 
 der his careful supervision. Upon Monte Amato, in the 
 Casa del Prete, everything was in readiness for the ar- 
 rival of the Padrona and the Padrone. For this time 
 his Padrona was not to be alone. And the train came 
 in, thundering along by the sea, and he saw a brown, 
 eager face looking out of a window a face which at 
 once had seemed familiar to him almost as if he had 
 always known it in Sicily. 
 
 And the new and wonderful period of his boy's life 
 began. 
 
 But it passed, and in the early morning he stood in 
 the corner of the Campo Santo where Protestants were 
 buried, and threw flowers from his father's terreno into 
 an open grave. 
 
 And once more his Padrona was alone. 
 
 Far away from Sicily, from his "Paese," among the 
 great woods of the Abetone he received for the first time 
 into his untutored arms his Padroncina. His Padrone 
 was gone from him forever. But once more, as he would 
 have expressed it to a Sicilian comrade, they were "in 
 three." And still another period began. 
 
 And now that period was ended. 
 
 As Gaspare rowed slowly 011 towards the island, in 
 his simple and yet shrewd way he was pondering on 
 life, on its irresistible movement, on its changes, its 
 alternations of grief and joy, loneliness and companion- 
 ship. He was silently reviewing the combined fates of 
 his Padrona and himself. 
 
 Behind him for a long while there was silence. But 
 when the boat was abreast of the sloping gardens of 
 Posilipo Artois spoke at last. 
 
 "Hermione!" he said. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "Do you remember that evening when I met you on 
 the sea?" 
 
 661
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 "After I had been to Frisio's? Yes, I remember it." 
 
 "You had been reading what I wrote in the wonder- 
 ful book." 
 
 "And I was wondering why you had written it." 
 
 "I had no special reason. I thought of that say- 
 ing. I had to write something, so I wrote that. I won- 
 der I wonder now why long ago my conscience did 
 not tell me plainly something. I wonder it did not 
 tell me plainly what you were in my life, all you 
 were." 
 
 "Have I have I really been much?" 
 
 ' ' I never knew how much till I thought of you per- 
 manently changed towards me, till I thought of you 
 living, but with your affection permanently withdrawn 
 from me. That night you know ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "At first I was not sure I was afraid for a moment 
 about you. Vcre and I were afraid, when your room 
 was dark and we heard nothing. But even then I did 
 not fully understand how much I needed you. I only 
 understood that in the Palace of the Spirits, when 
 when you hated me " 
 
 "I don't think I ever hated you." 
 
 "Hatred, you know, is the other side of love." 
 
 "Then perhaps I did. Yes I did." 
 
 "How long my conscience was inactive, was useless 
 to me! It needed a lesson, a terrible lesson. It needed 
 a cruel blow to rouse it." 
 
 "And mine!" she answered, in a low voice. 
 
 "We shall make many mistakes, both of us," he said. 
 "But I think, after that night, we can never for very 
 long misunderstand each other. For that night we 
 were sincere." 
 
 "Let us always be sincere." 
 
 "Sincerity is the rock on which one should build the 
 house of life." 
 
 662
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 'Let us you and I let us build upon it our palace 
 of the spirits." 
 
 Then they were silent again. They were silent until 
 the boat passed the point, until in the distance the isl- 
 ana appeared, even until the prow of the boat grated 
 against the rock beneath the window of the Casa del 
 Mare. 
 
 As Hermione got out Gaspare bent to kiss her hand. 
 
 "Benedicite!" he murmured. 
 
 And, as she pressed his hand with both of hers, she 
 answered: 
 
 "Benedicite!" 
 
 That night, not very late, but when darkness had 
 fallen over the sea, Hermione said to Vere: 
 
 "I am going out for a little, Vere." 
 
 "Yes, Madre." 
 
 The child put her arms round her mother and kissed 
 her. Hermione tenderly returned the kiss, looked at 
 Artois, and went out. 
 
 She made her way to the brow of the island, and stood 
 still for a while, drinking in the soft wind that blew to 
 her from Ischia. Then she descended to the bridge and 
 looked down into the Pool of San Francesco. 
 
 The Saint's light was burning steadily. She watched 
 it for a moment, and while she watched it she presently 
 heard beneath her a boy's voice singing softly the song 
 of Merge llina: 
 
 " Oh, dolce luna bianca de 1* estate 
 
 Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la marina; 
 Mi destan le dolcissime serate, 
 
 Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina." 
 
 The voice died away. There was a moment of si- 
 lence. 
 
 663
 
 A SPIRIT IN PRISON 
 
 She clasped the rail with her hands; she leaned 
 over the Pool. 
 
 "Buona notte, Ruffino!" she said, softly. 
 And the voice from the sea answered her: 
 "Buona notte, Signora. Buona notte e buon ripe-*; "
 
 Popular Copyright Books 
 
 a r / U 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at 50 cents per volume. 
 
 The Shepherd of the Hills. By Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 Jane Cable. By George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Abner Daniel. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 The Far Horizon. By Lucas Malet. 
 
 The Halo. By Bettina von Hutten. 
 
 Jerry Junior. By Jean Webster. 
 
 The Powers and Maxine. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 The Balance of Power. By Arthur Goodrich. 
 
 Adventures of Captain Kettle. By Cutcliffe Hyne. 
 
 Adventures of Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Arnio and the Woman. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Artemus V/ard's Works (extra illustrated). 
 
 At the Mercy of Tiberius. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Awakening of Helena Richie. By Margaret Deland. 
 
 Battle Ground, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 Belle of Bowling Green, The. By Amelia E. Barr. 
 
 Ben Blair. By Will Lillibridge. 
 
 Best Man, The. By Harold MacGrath. 
 
 Beth Norvell. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Bob Hampton of Placer. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Bob, Son of Battle. By Alfred Ollivant. 
 
 Brass Bowl, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Brethren, The. By H. Rider Haggard. 
 
 Broken Lance, The. By Herbert Quick. 
 
 By Wit of Women. By Arthur W. Marchmont. 
 
 Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Kitchens. 
 
 Cap'n Eri. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Cardigan. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Car of Destiny, The. By C. N. and A. N. Williamson. 
 
 Casting Away of Mrs. Leeks and Mrs. Aleshine. By Frank 
 
 R. Stockton. 
 Cecilia's Lovers. By Amelia E. Barr.
 
 Popular Copyright Books 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at 50 cents per volume. 
 
 Circle, The. By Katharine Cecil Thurston (author of "The 
 
 Masquerader." "The Gambler"). 
 
 Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. 
 Conquest of Canaan, The. By Booth Tarkington. 
 Courier of Fortune, A. By Arthur W. Marchmont. 
 Darrow Enigma, The. By Melvin Severy. 
 Deliverance, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 Divine Fire, The. By May Sinclair. 
 Empire Builders. By Francis Lynde. 
 Exploits of Brigadier Gerard. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 Fighting Chance, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. 
 
 Fugitive Blacksmith, The. By Chas. D. Stewart. 
 
 God's Good Man. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 Heart's Highway, The. By Mary E. Wilkins. 
 
 Holladay Case, The. By Burton Egbert Stevenson. 
 
 Hurricane Island. By H. B. Marriott Watson. 
 
 In Defiance of the King. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. 
 
 Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond. 
 
 Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Lady Betty Across the Water. By C. N. and A. M. Will- 
 iamson. 
 
 Lady of the Mount, The. By Frederic S. Isham. 
 Lane That Had No Turning, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
 Langford of the Three Bars. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. 
 Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. 
 Leavenworth Case, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 
 Lilac Sunbonnet, The. By S. R. Crockett. 
 Lin McLean. By Owen Wister. 
 Long Night, The. By Stanley J. Weyman. 
 Maid at Arms, The, By Robert W. Chambers.
 
 Popular 
 
 Books 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at 50 cents per volume. 
 
 Man from Red Keg, The. By Eugene Thwing. 
 
 Marthon Mystery, The. By Burton Egbert Stevenson. 
 
 Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Millionaire Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 
 
 Missourian, The. By Eugene P. Lyle, Jr. 
 
 Mr. Barnes, American. By A. C. Gunter. 
 
 Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 My Friend the Chauffeur. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Mystery of June 13th. By Melvin L. Severy. 
 
 Mystery Tales. By Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 Nancy Stair. By Elinor Macartney Lane. 
 
 Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley. 
 
 Pam. By Bettina von Hutten. 
 
 Pam Decides. By Bettina von Hutten. 
 
 Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
 
 Phra the Phoenician. By Edwin Lester Arnold. 
 
 President, The. By Afred Henry Lewis. 
 
 Princess Passes, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 Princess Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 
 Prisoners. By Mary Cholmondeley. 
 
 Private War, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 
 Prodigal Son, The. By Hall Caine. 
 
 Quickening, The. By Francis Lynde. 
 
 Richard the Brazen. By Cyrus T. Brady and Edw. Peple. 
 
 Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. 
 
 Running Water. By A. E. W. Mason. 
 
 Sarita the Carlist. By Arthur W. Marchmont. 
 
 Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet. 
 
 Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
 
 Popular Copyright Books 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at 50 cents per volume. 
 
 Purple Parasol, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Princess Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott. 
 
 Making of Bobby Burnit, The. By George Randolph 
 
 Chester. 
 Last Voyage of the Donna Isabel, The. By Randall 
 
 Parrish. 
 
 Bronze Bell, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. 
 Pole Baker. By Will N. Harben. 
 Four Million, The. By O. Henry. 
 Idols. By William J. Locke. 
 Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting. 
 Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman. 
 Story of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough. 
 Mistress of Brae Farm, The. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 Explorer, The. By William Somerset Maugham. 
 Abbess of Vlaye, The. By Stanley Weyman. 
 Alton of Somasco. By Harold Bindloss. 
 Ancient Law, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 Barrier, The. By Rex Beach. 
 Bar 20. By Clarence E. Mulford. 
 Beloved Vagabond, The. By William J. Locke. 
 Beulah. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans. 
 Chaperon, The. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 
 Colonel Greatheart. By H. C. Bailey. 
 Dissolving Circle, The. By Will Lillibridge. 
 Elusive Isabel. By Jacques Futrelle. 
 Fair Moon of Bath, The. By Elizabeth Ellis. 
 54.40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough.
 
 r 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at the price you paid for this volume 
 
 Anna the Adventuress. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
 
 Ann Boyd. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 At The Moorings. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 By Right of Purchase. By Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Carlton Case, The. By Ellery H. Clark. 
 
 Chase of the Golden Plate. By Jacques Futrelle. 
 
 Cash Intrigue, The. By George Randolph Chester. 
 
 Delafield Affair, The. By Florence Finch Kelly. 
 
 Dominant Dollar, The. By Will Lillibridge. 
 
 Elusive Pimpernel, The. By Baroness Orczy, 
 
 Canton & Co. By Arthur J. Eddy. 
 
 Gilbert Neal. By Will N. Harben. 
 
 Girl and the Bill, The. By Bannister Merwin. 
 
 Girl from His Town, The. By Marie Van Vorst. 
 
 Glass House, The. By Florence Morse Kingsley. 
 
 Highway of Fate, The. By Rosa N. Carey. 
 
 Homesteaders, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles. 
 
 Husbands of Edith, The. George Barr McCutcheon. 
 
 Inez. (Illustrated Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. 
 
 Into the Primitive. By Robert Ames Bennet. 
 
 Jack Spurlock, Prodigal. By Horace Lorimer. 
 
 Jude the Obscure. By Thomas Hardy. 
 
 King Spruce. By Holman Day. 
 
 Kingsmead. By Bettina Von Hutten. 
 
 Ladder of Swords, A. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 Lorimer of the Northwest. By Harold Bindloss. 
 
 Lorraine. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 Loves of Miss Anne, The. By S. R. Crockett.
 
 Popular Copyright Books 
 
 AT MODERATE PRICES 
 
 Any of the following titles can be bought of your 
 bookseller at 50 cents per volume. 
 
 Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. 
 
 Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. 
 
 Squire Phin. By Holman F. Day. 
 
 Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett. 
 
 Subjection of Isabel Carnaby. By Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. 
 
 Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 
 
 Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
 
 That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright. 
 
 Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 
 
 Trail of the Sword, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. 
 
 Two Vanrevels, The. By Booth Tarkington. 
 
 Up From Slavery. By Booker T. Washington. 
 
 Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
 
 Viper of Milan, The (original edition). By Marjorie Bowen. 
 
 Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 Wheel of Life, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
 
 When Wilderness Was Kin. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. 
 
 Woman in Grey, A. By Mrs. C. N. Williamson. 
 
 Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 
 
 Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers. 
 
 The Weavers. By Gilbert Parker. 
 
 The Little Brown Jug at Kildare. By Meredith Nicholson. 
 
 The Prisoners of Chance. By Randall Parrish. 
 
 My Lady of Cleve. By Percy J. Hartley. 
 
 Loaded Dice. By Ellery H. Clark. 
 
 Get Rich Quick Wallingford. By George Randolph Chester. 
 
 The Orphan. Ry Clarence Mulford. 
 
 A Gentleman of France. By Stanley J. Weyman.
 
 A 000103665 6