A Spirit in Prison is a Webnovel created by Robert Hichens.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“That is what I want you to tell me.”
Maddalena was silent. She shifted uneasily in her chair, which creaked under her weight, and twisted her full lips sideways. Her whole body looked half-sleepily apprehensive. The parrot watched her with supreme attention. Suddenly Hermione felt that she could no longer bear this struggle, that she could no longer continue in darkness, that she must have full light. The contemplation of this stolid ignorance–that yet knew how much?–confronting her like a featureless wall almost maddened her.
“Who are you?” she said. “What have you had to do with my lie?”
Maddalena looked at her and looked away, bending her head sideways till her plump neck was like a thing deformed.
“What have you had to do with my life? What have you to do with it now?
I want to know!” She stood up. “I must know. You must tell me! Do you hear?” She bent down. She was standing almost over Maddalena. “You must tell me!”
There was again a silence through which presently the tram-bell sounded.
Maddalena’s face had become heavily expressionless, almost like a face of stone. And Hermione, looking down at this face, felt a moment of impotent despair that was succeeded by a fierce, energetic impulse.
“Then,” she said–“then–I’ll tell you!”
Maddalena looked up.
“Yes, I’ll tell you.”
Hermione paused. She had begun to tremble. She put one hand down to the back of the chair, grasping it tightly as if to steady herself.
“I’ll tell you.”
What? What was she going to tell?
That first evening in Sicily–just before they went in to bed–Maurice had looked down over the terrace wall to the sea. He had seen a light–far down by the sea.
It was the light in the House of the Sirens.
“You once lived in Sicily. You once lived in the Casa delle Sirene, beyond the old wall, beyond the inlet. You were there when we were in Sicily, when Gaspare was with us as our servant.”
Maddalena’s lips parted. Her mouth began to gape. It was obvious that she was afraid.
“You–you knew Gaspare. You knew–you knew my husband, the Signore of the Casa del Prete on Monte Amato. You knew him. Do you remember?”
Maddalena only stared up at her with a sort of heavy apprehension, sitting widely in her chair, with her feet apart and her hands always resting on her knees.
“It was in the summer-time–” She was again in Sicily. She was tracing out a story. It was almost as if she saw words and read them from a book. “There were no forestieri in Sicily. They had all gone. Only we were there–” An expression so faint that it was like a fleeting shadow pa.s.sed over Maddalena’s face, the fleeting shadow of something that denied. “Ah, yes! Till I went away, you mean! I went to Africa. Did you know it then? But before I went–before–” She was thinking, she was burrowing deep down into the past, stirring the heap of memories that lay like drifted leaves. “They used to go–at least they went once–down to the sea. One night they went to the fishing. And they slept out all night. They slept in the caves. Ah, you know that? You remember that night!”
The trembling that shook her body was reflected in her voice, which became tremulous. She heard the tram-bell ringing. She saw the green parrot listening on its board. And yet she was in Sicily, and saw the line of the coast between Messina and Cattaro, the Isle of the Sirens, the lakelike sea of the inlet between it and the sh.o.r.e.
“I see that you remember it. You saw them there. They–they didn’t tell me!”
As she said the last words she felt that she was entering the great darkness. Maurice and Gaspare–she had trusted them with all her nature.
And they–had they failed her? Was that possible?
“They didn’t tell me,” she repeated, piteously, speaking now only for herself and to her own soul. “They didn’t tell me!”
Maddalena shook her head like one in sympathy or agreement. But Hermione did not see the movement. She no longer saw Maddalena. She saw only herself, and those two, whom she had trusted so completely, and–who had not told her.
What had they not told her?
And then she was in Africa, beside the bed of Artois, ministering to him in the torrid heat, driving away the flies from his white face.
What had been done in the Garden of Paradise while she had been in exile?
She turned suddenly sick. Her body felt ashamed, defiled. A shutter seemed to be sharply drawn across her eyes, blotting out life. Her head was full of sealike noises.
Presently, from among these noises, one detached itself, pushed itself, as it were, forward to attract forcibly her attention–the sound of a boy’s voice.
“Signora! Signora!”
“Signora!”
A hand touched her, gripped her.
“Signora!”
The shutter was sharply drawn back from her eyes, and she saw Ruffo.
He stood before her, gazing at her. His hair, wet from the sea, was plastered down upon his brown forehead–as _his_ hair had been when, in the night, they drew him from the sea.
She saw Ruffo in that moment as if for the first time.
And she knew. Ruffo had told her.
CHAPTER x.x.xVII
Hermione was outside in the street, hearing the cries of ambulant sellers, the calls of women and children, the tinkling bells and the rumble of the trams, and the voice of Fabiano Lari speaking–was it to her?
“Signora, did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“He is glad to be out of prison. He is gay, but he looks wicked.”
She did not understand what he meant. She walked on and came into the road that leads to the tunnel. She turned mechanically towards the tunnel, drawn by the darkness.
“But, Signora, this is not the way! This is the way to Fuorigrotta!”
“Oh!”
She went towards the sea. She was thinking of the green parrot expanding and contracting the pupils of its round, ironic eyes.
“Was Maddalena pleased to see him? Was Donna Teresa pleased?”