She rose to her feet, and in a steady voice briefly explained the whole affair. The figures listened motionless; then the last comer politely replied, begging her to be in no uneasiness, made her a shadowy salute, and vanished. The sentry resumed his walk, and took no further notice of them.
“Brava!” said Ferris, while Mrs. Vervain babbled her satisfaction, “I will buy a German Ollendorff to-morrow. The language is indispensable to a pleasure excursion in the lagoon.”
Florida made no reply, but devoted herself to restoring her mother to that state of defense against the discomforts of the time and place, which the common agitation had impaired. She seemed to have no sense of the presence of any one else. Don Ippolito did not speak again save to protect himself from the anxieties and reproaches of Mrs. Vervain, renewed and reiterated at intervals. She drowsed after a while, and whenever she woke she thought they had just touched her own landing. By fits it was cloudy and moonlight; they began to meet peasants’ boats going to the Rialto market; at last, they entered the Canal of the Zattere, then they slipped into a narrow way, and presently stopped at Mrs. Vervain’s gate; this time she had not expected it. Don Ippolito gave her his hand, and entered the garden with her, while Ferris lingered behind with Florida, helping her put together the wraps strewn about the gondola.
“Wait!” she commanded, as they moved up the garden walk. “I want to speak with you about Don Ippolito. What shall I do to him for my rudeness? You must tell me—you shall,” she said in a fierce whisper, gripping the arm which Ferris had given to help her up the landing-stairs. “You are—older than I am!”
“Thanks. I was afraid you were going to say wiser. I should think your own sense of justice, your own sense of”—
“Decency. Say it, say it!” cried the girl passionately; “it was indecent, indecent—that was it!”
—“would tell you what to do,” concluded the painter dryly.
She flung away the arm to which she had been clinging, and ran to where the priest stood with her mother at the foot of the terrace stairs. “Don Ippolito,” she cried, “I want to tell you that I am sorry; I want to ask your pardon—how can you ever forgive me?—for what I said.”
She instinctively stretched her hand towards him.
“Oh!” said the priest, with an indescribable long, trembling sigh. He caught her hand in his held it tight, and then pressed it for an instant against his breast.