“From the boat. She came to the window and let down the blind.”
Gaspare did not ask anything. They went 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 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 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.