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 photograph that had been so loved torn into fragments, of 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 not do anything. Hermione in her grief, had suddenly passed from him into a darkness 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 had he felt so impotent, so utterly unworthy of his manhood.
He moved away, turned, came back and stood once more beneath the window. Ought he to go up to Hermione’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.”