His defiant voice sounded startling in the silent house.
“We are to eat!”
“Yes, Vere. I shall stay. Presently our 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.
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 window.”