As the first shock of horror and despair passed away from Gaspare he was
devoured, as by teeth, devoured by the desire to spring upon Salvatore
and revenge the death of his padrone. But the padrone had laid a solemn
injunction upon him. Solemn, indeed, it seemed to the boy now that the
lips which had spoken were sealed forever. The padrona was never to know.
If he obeyed his impulse, if he declared the vendetta against Salvatore,
the padrona would know. The knife that spilled the murderer's blood would
give the secret to the world--and to the padrona.
Tremendous that night was the conflict in the boy's soul. He would not
leave Hermione. He was like the dog that creeps to lie at the feet of his
sorrowing mistress. But he was more than that. For he had his own sorrow
and his own fury. And he had the battle with his own instincts.
What was he going to do?
As he began to think, really to think, and to realize things, he knew
that after such a death the authorities of Marechiaro, the Pretore and
the Cancelliere, would proceed to hold a careful examination into the
causes of death. He would be questioned. That was certain. The
opportunity would be given him to denounce Salvatore.
And was he to keep silence? Was he to act for Salvatore, to save
Salvatore from justice? He would not have minded doing that, he would
have wished to do it, if afterwards he could have sprung upon Salvatore
and buried his knife in the murderer of his padrone.
But--the padrona? She was not to know. She was never to know. And she had
been the first in his life. She had found him, a poor, ragged little boy
working among the vines, and she had given him new clothes and had taken
him into her home and into her confidence. She had trusted him. She had
remembered him in England. She had written to him from far away, telling
him to prepare everything for her and the padrone when they were coming.
He began to sob violently again, thinking of it all, of how he had
ordered the donkeys to fetch the luggage from the station, of how-"Hush, Gaspare!"
Hermione again put her hand on his. She was sitting near the bed on which
the body was lying between dry sheets. For she had changed them with
Gaspare's assistance. Maurice still wore the clothes which had been on
him in the sea. Giuseppe, the fisherman, had explained to Hermione that
she must not interfere with the body till it had been visited by the
authorities, and she had obeyed him. But she had changed the sheets. She
scarcely knew why. Now the clothes had almost dried on the body, and she
did not see any more the stains of water. One sheet was drawn up over the
body, to the chin. The matted dark hair was visible against the pillow,
and had made her think several times vaguely of that day after the
fishing when she had watched Maurice taking his siesta. She had longed
for him to wake then, for she had known that she was going to Africa,
that they had only a few hours together before she started. It had seemed
almost terrible to her, his sleeping through any of those hours. And now
he was sleeping forever. She was sitting there waiting for nothing, but
she could not realize that yet. She felt as if she must be waiting for
something, that something must presently occur, a movement in the bed,
a--she scarcely knew what.