"Generally, but--you do look dreadfully as if you meant business when you are smoking a pipe."
"I do mean business now."
He took his pipe from his pocket, filled it and lit it.
"Now then, Vere!" he said.
She came to sit down on the sofa.
He sat down beside her.
CHAPTER XII
More than an hour had pa.s.sed. To Vere it had seemed like five minutes.
Her cheeks were hotly flushed. Her eyes shone. With hands that were slightly trembling she gathered together her ma.n.u.scripts, and carefully arranged them in a neat packet and put a piece of ribbon round them, tying it in a little bow. Meanwhile Artois, standing up, was knocking the shreds of tobacco out of his pipe against the chimney-piece into his hand. He carried them over to the window, dropped them out, then stood for a minute looking at the sea.
"The evening calm is coming, Vere," he said, "bringing with it the wonder of this world."
"Yes."
He heard a soft sigh behind him, and turned round.
"Why was that? Has dejection set in, then?"
"No, no."
"You know the Latin saying: "Festina lente"? If you want to understand how slowly you must hasten, look at me."
He had been going to add, "Look at these gray hairs," but he did not.
Just then he felt suddenly an invincible reluctance to call Vere"s attention to the signs of age apparent in him.
"I spoke to you about the admirable incentive of ambition," he continued, after a moment. "But you must understand that I meant the ambition for perfection, not at all the ambition for celebrity. The satisfaction of the former may be a deep and exquisite joy--the partial satisfaction, for I suppose it can never be anything more than that. But the satisfaction of the other will certainly be Dead-sea fruit--fruit of the sea unlike that brought up by Ruffo, without lasting savor, without any real value. One should never live for that."
The last words he spoke as if to himself, almost like a warning addressed to himself.
"I don"t believe I ever should," Vere said quickly. "I never thought of such a thing."
"The thought will come, though, inevitably."
"How dreadful it must be to know so much about human nature as you do!"
"And yet how little I really know!"
There came up a distant cry from the sea. Vere started.
"There is Madre! Of course, Monsieur Emile, I don"t want--but you understand!"
She hurried out of the room, carrying the packet with her.
Artois felt that the girl was strongly excited. She was revealing more of herself to him, this little Vere whom he had known, and not known, ever since she had been a baby. The gradual revelation interested him intensely--so intensely that in him, too, there was excitement now. So many truths go to make up the whole round truth of every human soul.
Hermione saw some of these truths of Vere, Gaspare others, perhaps; he again others. And even Ruffo and the Marchesino--he put the Marchesino most definitely last--even they saw still other truths of Vere, he supposed.
To whom did she reveal the most? The mother ought to know most, and during the years of childhood had doubtless known most. But those years were nearly over. Certainly Vere was approaching, or was on, the threshold of the second period of her life.
And she and he had a secret from Hermione. This secret was a very innocent one. Still, of course, it had the two attributes that belong to every secret: of drawing together those who share it, of setting apart from them those who know it not. And there was another secret, too, connected with it, and known only to Artois: the fact that the child, Vere, possessed the very small but quite definite beginnings, the seed, as it were, of something that had been denied to the mother, Hermione.
"Emile, you have come back! I am glad!"
Hermione came into the room with her eager manner and rather slow gait, holding out both her hands, her hot face and prominent eyes showing forth with ardor the sincerity of her surprise and pleasure.
"Gaspare told me. I nearly gave him a hug. You know his sly look when he has something delightful up his sleeve for one! Bless you!"
She shook both his hands.
"And I had come back in such bad spirits! But now--"
She took off her hat and put it on a table.
"Why were you in bad spirits, my friend?"
"I had been with Madame Alliani, seeing something of the intense misery and wickedness of Naples. I have seen a girl--such a tragedy! What devils men can be in these Southern places! What hideous things they will do under the pretence of being driven by love! But--no, don"t let us spoil your arrival. Where is Vere? I thought she was entertaining you."
"We have been having tea together. She has this moment gone out of the room."
"Oh!"
She seemed to expect some further explanation. As he gave none she sat down.
"Wasn"t she very surprised to see you?"
"I think she was. She had just been bathing, and came running in with her hair all about her, looking like an Undine with a dash of Sicilian blood in her. Here she is!"
"Are you pleased, Madre? You poor, hot Madre!"
Vere sat down by her mother and put one arm round her. Subtly she was trying to make up to her mother for the little secret she was keeping from her for a time.
"Are you very, very pleased?"
"Yes, I think I am."
"Think! You mischievous Madre!"
Hermione laughed.
"But I feel almost jealous of you two sitting here in the cool, and having a quiet tea and a lovely talk while--Never mind. Here is my tea.
And there"s another thing. Oh, Emile, I do wish I had known you would arrive to-day!"