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She would probably have started at once for Sicily; but Vere
was just then ill with some infantile complaint, and could not be
left. Artois, who was in Rome, and had received from her the news of
this carefully arranged disaster, offered to go to Sicily on her
behalf--and actually went. He returned to tell her that the house of
the priest was already occupied by contadini, and all the land up to
the very door in process of being dug up and planted with vines. It
was useless to make any further offer. The thing was done.
Hermione said nothing, but Artois saw in her eyes how keenly she was
suffering, and turned his own eyes away. He was only trying to
preserve her from greater unhappiness, the agony of ever finding out
the truth; but he felt guilty at that moment, and as if he had been
cruel to the woman who roused all his tenderness, all his protective
instinct.
"I shall not go back to Marechiaro now," Hermione said. "I shall not
go back even to see the grave. I could never feel that anything of his
spirit lingered there.


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