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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.
Gaspare's pockets were bulging, and he walked carefully, carrying in his hands a tortured-looking parcel. "Dov'è il mio padrone?" he asked, as he and Amedeo pushed through the dense throng. "Dov'è il mio padrone?"
"It was not our fault that she went," Maurice said, in a hard voice like that of a man trying to justify something, to defend himself against some accusation. "We did not want the signora to go." "No, signore." Gaspare's voice sounded almost apologetic. He was a little startled by his padrone's tone. "It was a pity she went," he continued. "The poor signora " "Why is it such a pity?"
Neither Maddalena nor her father had been in the Casa delle Sirene when he knocked upon the door in the night. And he had actually sailed before Gaspare's arrival on the island. But Gaspare knew that there had been a meeting, and he knew what the Sicilian is when he is wronged.
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.
"She is in the kitchen, Signore. I have nothing to do with her." "I see." Evidently Gaspare did not mean to talk. Artois decided to change the subject. "I hear you had that boy, Ruffo, sleeping in the house the other night," he said. "Si, Signore; the Signorina wished it." Gaspare's voice sounded rather more promising. "He seems popular on the island."
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 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 excited.
Yet he could scarcely speak Gaspare's language, and knew nothing of his thoughts, his feelings, his hopes, his way of life. It was an odd sensation, a subtle sympathy not founded upon knowledge. It seemed to now into Delarey's heart out of the heart of the sun, to steal into it with the music of the "Pastorale." "I feel I feel almost as if I belonged here," he whispered to Hermione, at last.
"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.
Artois felt the iron of this faithful servant's impenetrable reserve, but he continued very quietly and composedly: "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.
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