Clementina never doubted the good faith or constancy of her lover; but her heart misgave her as to his well-being when it sank at each failure of the vice-consul to bring her a letter from him.  Something must have happened to him, and it must have been something very serious to keep him from writing; or there was some mistake of the post-office.  The vice-consul indulged himself in personal inquiries to make sure that the mistake was not in the Venetian post-office; but he saw that he brought her greater distress in ascertaining the fact.  He got to dreading a look of resolute cheerfulness that came into her face, when he shook his head in sign that there were no letters, and he suffered from the covert eagerness with which she glanced at the superscriptions of those he brought and failed to find the hoped-for letter among them.  Ordeal for ordeal, he was beginning to regret his trials under Mrs. Lander.  In them he could at least demand Clementina’s sympathy, but against herself this was impossible.  Once she noted his mute distress at hers, and broke into a little laugh that he found very harrowing.

“I guess you hate it almost as much as I do, Mr. Bennam.”

“I guess I do.  I’ve half a mind to write the letter you want, myself.”

“I’ve half a mind to let you—­or the letter I’d like to write.”

It had come to her thinking she would write again to Hinkle; but she could not bring herself to do it.  She often imagined doing it; she had every word of such a letter in her mind; and she dramatized every fact concerning it from the time she should put pen to paper, to the time when she should get back the answer that cleared the mystery of his silence away.  The fond reveries helped her to bear her suspense; they helped to make the days go by, to ease the doubt with which she lay down at night, and the heartsick hope with which she rose up in the morning.

One day, at the hour of his wonted visit, she say the vice-consul from her balcony coming, as it seemed to her, with another figure in his gondola, and a thousand conjectures whirled through her mind, and then centred upon one idea.  After the first glance she kept her eyes down, and would not look again while she told herself incessantly that it could not be, and that she was a fool and a goose and a perfect coot, to think of such a thing for a single moment.  When she allowed herself, or forced herself, to look a second time; as the boat drew near, she had to cling to the balcony parapet for support, in her disappointment.

The person whom the vice-consul helped out of the gondola was an elderly man like himself, and she took a last refuge in the chance that he might be Hinkle’s father, sent to bring her to him because he could not come to her; or to soften some terrible news to her.  Then her fancy fluttered and fell, and she waited patiently for the fact to reveal itself.  There was something countrified in the figure of the man, and something clerical in his face, though there was nothing in his uncouth best clothes that confirmed this impression.  In both face and figure there was a vague resemblance to some one she had seen before, when the vice-consul said: