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diff --git a/20157-h/20157-h.htm b/20157-h/20157-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0db6f38 --- /dev/null +++ b/20157-h/20157-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,23011 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Call of the Blood, by Robert Smythe Hichens</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + .blockquot { + MARGIN-LEFT: 5%; MARGIN-RIGHT: 10% + } + + img {border: 0;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 75%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Call of the Blood, by Robert Smythe +Hichens, Illustrated by Orson Lowell</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Call of the Blood</p> +<p>Author: Robert Smythe Hichens</p> +<p>Release Date: December 21, 2006 [eBook #20157]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE BLOOD***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Suzanne Shell,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net/c/)</h3> +<p> </p> +<p><b>Transcriber's Notes:</b></p> +<p>Some minor changes have been made to correct +typographical errors and inconsistencies.<br /> +<br /> +The original book has no table of contents. In this version I have added one to allow the +reader to jump to a particular chapter. +</p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 267px;"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img src="images/cover_th.jpg" width="267" height="400" alt="" title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 228px;"> +<a href="images/gs01.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs01_th.jpg" width="228" height="400" alt="See p. 399 +"HE STOOD STILL, GAZING AT THEM AS THEY PRAYED"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">See p. 399 +"HE STOOD STILL, GAZING AT THEM AS THEY PRAYED"</span> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1>THE CALL</h1> +<h2>OF THE</h2> +<h1>BLOOD</h1> + +<p><br /> +<br /></p> + +<h2>ROBERT HICHENS</h2> +<h5>AUTHOR OF<br /> +"THE GARDEN OF ALLAH" ETC.</h5> + +<p><br /> +<br /></p> + +<h4>ILLUSTRATED BY<br /> +ORSON LOWELL</h4> +<p> </p> + +<p><br /> +<br /></p> + +<h4>NEW YORK AND LONDON</h4> +<h3>HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS</h3> +<h4>MCMVI</h4> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 226px;"> +<a href="images/tp01.jpg"> +<img src="images/tp01_th.jpg" width="226" height="400" alt="Title page." +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">Title page.</span> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<h5>Copyright, 1905, 1906, by <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span>. +<br /> +<i>All rights reserved.</i> +<br /> +Published October, 1906.</h5> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="14" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs01.jpg">"HE STOOD STILL, GAZING AT THEM AS THEY PRAYED"</a></td><td align='right'><i>Frontispiece</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs02.jpg">"'SPACE SEEMS TO LIBERATE THE SOUL,' SHE SAID"</a></td><td align='right'><i>Facing p.</i> 38</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs03.jpg">"HE ... LOOKED DOWN AT THE LIGHT SHINING IN<br /> +THE HOUSE OF THE SIRENS"</a></td><td align='right'>" 78</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs04.jpg">"HER HEAD WAS THROWN BACK, AS IF SHE WERE<br /> +DRINKING IN THE BREEZE"</a></td><td align='right'>" 120</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs05.jpg">"'I AM CONTENT WITHOUT ANYTHING, SIGNORINO,'<br /> +SHE SAID"</a></td><td align='right'>" 280</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs06.jpg">"HE KEPT HIS HAND ON HERS AND HELD IT ON THE<br /> +WARM GROUND"</a></td><td align='right'>" 302</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs07.jpg">"'BUT I SOON LEARNED TO DELIGHT IN—IN MY<br /> +SICILIAN,' SHE SAID, TENDERLY"</a></td><td align='right'>" 366</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="images/gs08.jpg">"SHE COULD SEE VAGUELY THE SHORE BY THE<br /> +CAVES WHERE THE FISHERMEN HAD SLEPT IN<br /> +THE DAWN"</a></td><td align='right'>" 420</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<h1>THE</h1> +<h1>CALL OF THE BLOOD</h1> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<h5>Go to chapter.</h5> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='right'><a href="#I"><b>Chapter I</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#II"><b>Chapter II</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#III"><b>Chapter III</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#IV"><b>Chapter IV</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#V"><b>Chapter V</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='right'><a href="#VI"><b>Chapter VI</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#VII"><b>Chapter VII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#VIII"><b>Chapter VIII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#IX"><b>Chapter IX</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#X"><b>Chapter X</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='right'><a href="#XI"><b>Chapter XI</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XII"><b>Chapter XII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XIII"><b>Chapter XIII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XIV"><b>Chapter XIV</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XV"><b>Chapter XV</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='right'><a href="#XVI"><b>Chapter XVI</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XVII"><b>Chapter XVII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XVIII"><b>Chapter XVIII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XIX"><b>Chapter XIX</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XX"><b>Chapter XX</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align='right'><a href="#XXI"><b>Chapter XXI</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XXII"><b>Chapter XXII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XXIII"><b>Chapter XXIII</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XXIV"><b>Chapter XXIV</b></a></td> +<td align='right'><a href="#XXV"><b>Chapter XXV</b></a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> + +<h3>THE +CALL OF THE BLOOD</h3> + +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + +<p>On a dreary afternoon of November, when London +was closely wrapped in a yellow fog, Hermione Lester was +sitting by the fire in her house in Eaton Place reading +a bundle of letters, which she had just taken out of her +writing-table drawer. She was expecting a visit from +the writer of the letters, Emile Artois, who had wired to +her on the previous day that he was coming over from +Paris by the night train and boat.</p> + +<p>Miss Lester was a woman of thirty-four, five feet ten +in height, flat, thin, but strongly built, with a large waist +and limbs which, though vigorous, were rather unwieldy. +Her face was plain: rather square and harsh in outline, +with blunt, almost coarse features, but a good complexion, +clear and healthy, and large, interesting, and +slightly prominent brown eyes, full of kindness, sympathy, +and brightness, full, too, of eager intelligence and +of energy, eyes of a woman who was intensely alive both +in body and in mind. The look of swiftness, a look most +attractive in either human being or in animal, was absent +from her body but was present in her eyes, which showed +forth the spirit in her with a glorious frankness and a +keen intensity. Nevertheless, despite these eyes and +her thickly growing, warm-colored, and wavy brown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> +hair, she was a plain, almost an ugly woman, whose +attractive force issued from within, inviting inquiry and +advance, as the flame of a fire does, playing on the +blurred glass of a window with many flaws in it.</p> + +<p>Hermione was, in fact, found very attractive by a great +many people of varying temperaments and abilities, who +were captured by her spirit and by her intellect, the soul +of the woman and the brains, and who, while seeing +clearly and acknowledging frankly the plainness of her +face and the almost masculine ruggedness of her form, +said, with a good deal of truth, that "somehow they +didn't seem to matter in Hermione." Whether Hermione +herself was of this opinion not many knew. Her +general popularity, perhaps, made the world incurious +about the subject.</p> + +<p>The room in which Hermione was reading the letters of +Artois was small and crammed with books. There were +books in cases uncovered by glass from floor to ceiling, +some in beautiful bindings, but many in tattered paper +covers, books that looked as if they had been very much +read. On several tables, among photographs and vases +of flowers, were more books and many magazines, both +English and foreign. A large writing-table was littered +with notes and letters. An upright grand-piano stood +open, with a quantity of music upon it. On the thick +Persian carpet before the fire was stretched a very large +St. Bernard dog, with his muzzle resting on his paws and +his eyes blinking drowsily in serene contentment.</p> + +<p>As Hermione read the letters one by one her face showed +a panorama of expressions, almost laughably indicative +of her swiftly passing thoughts. Sometimes she +smiled. Once or twice she laughed aloud, startling the +dog, who lifted his massive head and gazed at her with +profound inquiry. Then she shook her head, looked +grave, even sad, or earnest and full of sympathy, which +seemed longing to express itself in a torrent of comforting +words. Presently she put the letters together, tied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +them up carelessly with a piece of twine, and put them +back into the drawer from which she had taken them. +Just as she had finished doing this the door of the room, +which was ajar, was pushed softly open, and a dark-eyed, +Eastern-looking boy dressed in livery appeared.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Selim?" asked Hermione, in French.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur Artois, madame."</p> + +<p>"Emile!" cried Hermione, getting up out of her chair +with a sort of eager slowness. "Where is he?"</p> + +<p>"He is here!" said a loud voice, also speaking French.</p> + +<p>Selim stood gracefully aside, and a big man stepped +into the room and took the two hands which Hermione +stretched out in his.</p> + +<p>"Don't let any one else in, Selim," said Hermione to +the boy.</p> + +<p>"Especially the little Townly," said Artois, menacingly.</p> + +<p>"Hush, Emile! Not even Miss Townly if she calls, +Selim."</p> + +<p>Selim smiled with grave intelligence at the big man, +said, "I understand, madame," and glided out.</p> + +<p>"Why, in Heaven's name, have you—you, pilgrim +of the Orient—insulted the East by putting Selim into +a coat with buttons and cloth trousers?" exclaimed +Artois, still holding Hermione's hands.</p> + +<p>"It's an outrage, I know. But I had to. He was +stared at and followed, and he actually minded it. As +soon as I found out that, I trampled on all my artistic +prejudices, and behold him—horrible but happy! +Thank you for coming—thank you."</p> + +<p>She let his hands go, and they stood for a moment +looking at each other in the firelight.</p> + +<p>Artois was a tall man of about forty-three, with large, +almost Herculean limbs, a handsome face, with regular +but rather heavy features, and very big gray eyes, that +always looked penetrating and often melancholy. His +forehead was noble and markedly intellectual, and his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +well-shaped, massive head was covered with thick, short, +mouse-colored hair. He wore a mustache and a magnificent +beard. His barber, who was partly responsible +for the latter, always said of it that it was the "most +beautiful fan-shaped beard in Paris," and regarded it +with a pride which was probably shared by its owner. +His hands and feet were good, capable-looking, but not +clumsy, and his whole appearance gave an impression +of power, both physical and intellectual, and of indomitable +will combined with subtlety. He was well +dressed, fashionably not artistically, yet he suggested +an artist, not necessarily a painter. As he looked at +Hermione the smile which had played about his lips +when he entered the little room died away.</p> + +<p>"I've come to hear about it all," he said, in his resonant +voice—a voice which matched his appearance. "Do +you know"—and here his accent was grave, almost reproachful—"that +in all your letters to me—I looked +them over before I left Paris—there is no allusion, not +one, to this Monsieur Delarey."</p> + +<p>"Why should there be?" she answered.</p> + +<p>She sat down, but Artois continued to stand.</p> + +<p>"We seldom wrote of persons, I think. We wrote +of events, ideas, of work, of conditions of life; of man, +woman, child—yes—but not often of special men, +women, children. I am almost sure—in fact, quite +sure, for I've just been reading them—that in your +letters to me there is very little discussion of our mutual +friends, less of friends who weren't common to us +both."</p> + +<p>As she spoke she stretched out a long, thin arm, and +pulled open the drawer into which she had put the +bundle tied with twine.</p> + +<p>"They're all in here."</p> + +<p>"You don't lock that drawer?"</p> + +<p>"Never."</p> + +<p>He looked at her with a sort of severity.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I lock the door of the room, or, rather, it locks itself. +You haven't noticed it?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"It's the same as the outer door of a flat. I have a +latch-key to it."</p> + +<p>He said nothing, but smiled. All the sudden grimness +had gone out of his face.</p> + +<p>Hermione withdrew her hand from the drawer holding +the letters.</p> + +<p>"Here they are!"</p> + +<p>"My complaints, my egoism, my ambitions, my views—Mon +Dieu! Hermione, what a good friend you've been!"</p> + +<p>"And some people say you're not modest!"</p> + +<p>"I—modest! What is modesty? I know my own +value as compared with that of others, and that knowledge +to others must often seem conceit."</p> + +<p>She began to untie the packet, but he stretched out +his hand and stopped her.</p> + +<p>"No, I didn't come from Paris to read my letters, or +even to hear you read them! I came to hear about this +Monsieur Delarey."</p> + +<p>Selim stole in with tea and stole out silently, shutting +the door this time. As soon as he had gone, Artois drew +a case from his pocket, took out of it a pipe, filled it, +and lit it. Meanwhile, Hermione poured out tea, and, +putting three lumps of sugar into one of the cups, handed +it to Artois.</p> + +<p>"I haven't come to protest. You know we both +worship individual freedom. How often in those letters +haven't we written it—our respect of the right of +the individual to act for him or herself, without the interference +of outsiders? No, I've come to hear about +it all, to hear how you managed to get into the pleasant +state of mania."</p> + +<p>On the last words his deep voice sounded sarcastic, +almost patronizing. Hermione fired up at once.</p> + +<p>"None of that from you, Emile!" she exclaimed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>Artois stirred his tea rather more than was necessary, +but did not begin to drink it.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't look down on me from a height," she +continued. "I won't have it. We're all on a level +when we're doing certain things, when we're truly living, +simply, frankly, following our fates, and when we're +dying. You feel that. Drop the analyst, dear Emile, +drop the professional point of view. I see right through +it into your warm old heart. I never was afraid of +you, although I place you high, higher than your critics, +higher than your public, higher than you place yourself. +Every woman ought to be able to love, and every man. +There's nothing at all absurd in the fact, though there +may be infinite absurdities in the manifestation of it. +But those you haven't yet had an opportunity of seeing +in me, so you've nothing yet to laugh at or label. Now +drink your tea."</p> + +<p>He laughed a loud, roaring laugh, drank some of his +tea, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and said:</p> + +<p>"Whom will you ever respect?"</p> + +<p>"Every one who is sincere—myself included."</p> + +<p>"Be sincere with me now, and I'll go back to Paris +to-morrow like a shorn lamb. Be sincere about Monsieur +Delarey."</p> + +<p>Hermione sat quite still for a moment with the bundle +of letters in her lap. At last she said:</p> + +<p>"It's difficult sometimes to tell the truth about a +feeling, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, you don't know yourself what the truth is."</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure that I do. The history of the growth +of a feeling may be almost more complicated than the +history of France."</p> + +<p>Artois, who was a novelist, nodded his head with the +air of a man who knew all about that.</p> + +<p>"Maurice—Maurice Delarey has cared for me, in that +way, for a long time. I was very much surprised when +I first found it out."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, in the name of Heaven?"</p> + +<p>"Well, he's wonderfully good-looking."</p> + +<p>"No explanation of your astonishment."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it? I think, though, it was that fact which +astonished me, the fact of a very handsome man loving +me."</p> + +<p>"Now, what's your theory?"</p> + +<p>He bent down his head a little towards her, and +fixed his great, gray eyes on her face.</p> + +<p>"Theory! Look here, Emile, I dare say it's difficult +for a man like you, genius, insight, and all, thoroughly +to understand how an ugly woman regards beauty, an +ugly woman like me, who's got intellect and passion +and intense feeling for form, color, every manifestation +of beauty. When I look at beauty I feel rather like a +dirty little beggar staring at an angel. My intellect +doesn't seem to help me at all. In me, perhaps, the +sensation arises from an inward conviction that humanity +was meant originally to be beautiful, and that +the ugly ones among us are—well, like sins among +virtues. You remember that book of yours which was +and deserved to be your one artistic failure, because you +hadn't put yourself really into it?"</p> + +<p>Artois made a wry face.</p> + +<p>"Eventually you paid a lot of money to prevent it +from being published any more. You withdrew it from +circulation. I sometimes feel that we ugly ones ought +to be withdrawn from circulation. It's silly, perhaps, +and I hope I never show it, but there the feeling is. So +when the handsomest man I had ever seen loved me, I +was simply amazed. It seemed to me ridiculous and +impossible. And then, when I was convinced it was +possible, very wonderful, and, I confess it to you, very +splendid. It seemed to help to reconcile me with myself +in a way in which I had never been reconciled before."</p> + +<p>"And that was the beginning?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I dare say. There were other things, too. Maurice +Delarey isn't at all stupid, but he's not nearly so intelligent +as I am."</p> + +<p>"That doesn't surprise me."</p> + +<p>"The fact of this physical perfection being humble +with me, looking up to me, seemed to mean a great deal. +I think Maurice feels about intellect rather as I do about +beauty. He made me understand that he must. And +that seemed to open my heart to him in an extraordinary +way. Can you understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Give me some more tea, please."</p> + +<p>He held out his cup. She filled it, talking while she +did so. She had become absorbed in what she was saying, +and spoke without any self-consciousness.</p> + +<p>"I knew my gift, such as it is, the gift of brains, could +do something for him, though his gift of beauty could +do nothing for me—in the way of development. And +that, too, seemed to lead me a step towards him. Finally—well, +one day I knew I wanted to marry him. And +so, Emile, I'm going to marry him. Here!"</p> + +<p>She held out to him his cup full of tea.</p> + +<p>"There's no sugar," he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh—the first time I've forgotten."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>The tone of his voice made her look up at him quickly +and exclaim:</p> + +<p>"No, it won't make any difference!"</p> + +<p>"But it has. You've forgotten for the first time. +Cursed be the egotism of man."</p> + +<p>He sat down in an arm-chair on the other side of the +tea-table.</p> + +<p>"It ought to make a difference. Maurice Delarey, if +he is a man—and if you are going to marry him he +must be—will not allow you to be the Egeria of a fellow +who has shocked even Paris by telling it the naked +truth."</p> + +<p>"Yes, he will. I shall drop no friendship for him,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +and he knows it. There is not one that is not honest +and innocent. Thank God I can say that. If you care +for it, Emile, we can both add to the size of the letter +bundles."</p> + +<p>He looked at her meditatively, even rather sadly.</p> + +<p>"You are capable of everything in the way of friendship, +I believe," he said. "Even of making the bundle +bigger with a husband's consent. A husband's—I suppose +the little Townly's upset? But she always is."</p> + +<p>"When you're there. You don't know Evelyn. You +never will. She's at her worst with you because you +terrify her. Your talent frightens her, but your appearance +frightens her even more."</p> + +<p>"I am as God made me."</p> + +<p>"With the help of the barber. It's your beard as +much as anything else."</p> + +<p>"What does she say of this affair? What do all your +innumerable adorers say?"</p> + +<p>"What should they say? Why should anybody be +surprised? It's surely the most natural thing in the +world for a woman, even a very plain woman, to marry. +I have always heard that marriage is woman's destiny, +and though I don't altogether believe that, still I see +no special reason why I should never marry if I wish to. +And I do wish to."</p> + +<p>"That's what will surprise the little Townly and the +gaping crowd."</p> + +<p>"I shall begin to think I've seemed unwomanly all +these years."</p> + +<p>"No. You're an extraordinary woman who astonishes +because she is going to do a very important thing +that is very ordinary."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't seem at all ordinary to me."</p> + +<p>Emile Artois began to stroke his beard. He was determined +not to feel jealous. He had never wished to +marry Hermione, and did not wish to marry her now, but +he had come over from Paris secretly a man of wrath.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You needn't tell me that," he said. "Of course it +is the great event to you. Otherwise you would never +have thought of doing it."</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Are you astonished?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose I am. Yes, I am."</p> + +<p>"I should have thought you were far too clever to +be so."</p> + +<p>"Exactly what I should have thought. But what +living man is too clever to be an idiot? I never met +the gentleman and never hope to."</p> + +<p>"You looked upon me as the eternal spinster?"</p> + +<p>"I looked upon you as Hermione Lester, a great +creature, an extraordinary creature, free from the prejudices +of your sex and from its pettinesses, unconventional, +big brained, generous hearted, free as the wind +in a world of monkey slaves, careless of all opinion save +your own, but humbly obedient to the truth that is in +you, human as very few human beings are, one who +ought to have been an artist but who apparently preferred +to be simply a woman."</p> + +<p>Hermione laughed, winking away two tears.</p> + +<p>"Well, Emile dear, I'm being very simply a woman +now, I assure you."</p> + +<p>"And why should I be surprised? You're right. +What is it makes me surprised?"</p> + +<p>He sat considering.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it is that you are so unusual, so individual, +that my imagination refuses to project the man on +whom your choice could fall. I project the snuffy +professor—Impossible! I project the Greek god—again +my mind cries, 'Impossible!' Yet, behold, it is +in very truth the Greek god, the ideal of the ordinary +woman."</p> + +<p>"You know nothing about it. You're shooting arrows +into the air."</p> + +<p>"Tell me more then. Hold up a torch in the darkness."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can't. You pretend to know a woman, and you +ask her coldly to explain to you the attraction of the +man she loves, to dissect it. I won't try to."</p> + +<p>"But," he said, with now a sort of joking persistence, +which was only a mask for an almost irritable curiosity, +"I want to know."</p> + +<p>"And you shall. Maurice and I are dining to-night +at Caminiti's in Peathill Street, just off Regent Street. +Come and meet us there, and we'll all three spend the +evening together. Half-past eight, of course no evening +dress, and the most delicious Turkish coffee in London."</p> + +<p>"Does Monsieur Delarey like Turkish coffee?"</p> + +<p>"Loves it."</p> + +<p>"Intelligently?"</p> + +<p>"How do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Does he love it inherently, or because you do?"</p> + +<p>"You can find that out to-night."</p> + +<p>"I shall come."</p> + +<p>He got up, put his pipe into a case, and the case into +his pocket, and said:</p> + +<p>"Hermione, if the analyst may have a word—"</p> + +<p>"Yes—now."</p> + +<p>"Don't let Monsieur Delarey, whatever his character, +see now, or in the future, the dirty little beggar staring +at the angel. I use your own preposterously inflated +phrase. Men can't stand certain things and remain +true to the good in their characters. Humble adoration +from a woman like you would be destructive of blessed +virtues in Antinous. Think well of yourself, my friend, +think well of your sphinxlike eyes. Haven't they +beauty? Doesn't intellect shoot its fires from them? +Mon Dieu! Don't let me see any prostration to-night, +or I shall put three grains of something I know—I always +call it Turkish delight—into the Turkish coffee +of Monsieur Delarey, and send him to sleep with his +fathers."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hermione got up and held out her hands to him impulsively.</p> + +<p>"Bless you, Emile!" she said. "You're a—"</p> + +<p>There was a gentle tap on the door. Hermione went +to it and opened it. Selim stood outside with a pencil +note on a salver.</p> + +<p>"Ha! The little Townly has been!" said Artois.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it's from her. You told her, Selim, that I was +with Monsieur Artois?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, madame."</p> + +<p>"Did she say anything?"</p> + +<p>"She said, 'Very well,' madame, and then she wrote +this. Then she said again, 'Very well,' and then she +went away."</p> + +<p>"All right, Selim."</p> + +<p>Selim departed.</p> + +<p>"Delicious!" said Artois. "I can hear her speaking and +see her drifting away consumed by jealousy, in the fog."</p> + +<p>"Hush, Emile, don't be so malicious."</p> + +<p>"P'f! I must be to-day, for I too am—"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense. Be good this evening, be very good."</p> + +<p>"I will try."</p> + +<p>He kissed her hand, bending his great form down with +a slightly burlesque air, and strode out without another +word. Hermione sat down to read Miss Townly's note:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dearest, never mind. I know that I must now accustom +myself to be nothing in your life. It is difficult at first, but +what is existence but a struggle? I feel that I am going to +have another of my neuralgic seizures. I wonder what it all +means?—Your, <span class="smcap">Evelyn</span>."</p></div> + +<p>Hermione laid the note down, with a sigh and a little +laugh.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what it all means? Poor, dear Evelyn! +Thank God, it sometimes means—" She did not finish +the sentence, but knelt down on the carpet and took +the St. Bernard's great head in her hands.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You don't bother, do you, old boy, as long as you +have your bone. Ah, I'm a selfish wretch. But I am +going to have my bone, and I can't help feeling happy—gloriously, +supremely happy!"</p> + +<p>And she kissed the dog's cold nose and repeated:</p> + +<p>"Supremely—supremely happy!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + + +<p>Miss Townly, gracefully turned away from Hermione's +door by Selim, did, as Artois had surmised, drift +away in the fog to the house of her friend Mrs. Creswick, +who lived in Sloane Street. She felt she must unburden +herself to somebody, and Mrs. Creswick's tea, a blend of +China tea with another whose origin was a closely guarded +secret, was the most delicious in London. There are +merciful dispensations of Providence even for Miss +Townlys, and Mrs. Creswick was at home with a blazing +fire. When she saw Miss Townly coming sideways into +the room with a slightly drooping head, she said, briskly:</p> + +<p>"Comfort me with crumpets, for I am sick with love! +Cheer up, my dear Evelyn. Fogs will pass and even +neuralgia has its limits. I don't ask you what is the +matter, because I know perfectly well."</p> + +<p>Miss Townly went into a very large arm-chair and +waveringly selected a crumpet.</p> + +<p>"What does it all mean?" she murmured, looking +obliquely at her friend's parquet.</p> + +<p>"Ask the baker, No. 5 Allitch Street. I always get +them from there. And he's a remarkably well-informed +man."</p> + +<p>"No, I mean life with its extraordinary changes, +things you never expected, never dreamed of—and all +coming so abruptly. I don't think I'm a stupid person, +but I certainly never looked for this."</p> + +<p>"For what?"</p> + +<p>"This most extraordinary engagement of Hermione's."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Creswick, who was a short woman who looked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +tall, with a briskly conceited but not unkind manner, +and a decisive and very English nose, rejoined:</p> + +<p>"I don't know why we should call it extraordinary. +Everybody gets engaged at some time or other, and +Hermione's a woman like the rest of us and subject to +aberration. But I confess I never thought she would +marry Maurice Delarey. He never seemed to mean more +to her than any one else, so far as I could see."</p> + +<p>"Everybody seems to mean so much to Hermione +that it makes things difficult to outsiders," replied Miss +Townly, plaintively. "She is so wide-minded and has +so many interests that she dwarfs everybody else. I +always feel quite squeezed when I compare my poor +little life with hers. But then she has such physical +endurance. She breaks the ice, you know, in her bath +in the winter—of course I mean when there is ice."</p> + +<p>"It isn't only in her bath that she breaks the ice," +said Mrs. Creswick.</p> + +<p>"I perfectly understand," Miss Townly said, vaguely. +"You mean—yes, you're right. Well, I prefer my bath +warmed for me, but my circulation was never of the +best."</p> + +<p>"Hermione is extraordinary," said Mrs. Creswick, +trying to look at her profile in the glass and making her +face as Roman as she could, "I know all London, but I +never met another Hermione. She can do things that +other women can't dream of even, and nobody minds."</p> + +<p>"Well, now she is going to do a thing we all dream of +and a great many of us do. Will it answer? He's ten +years younger than she is. Can it answer?"</p> + +<p>"One can never tell whether a union of two human +mysteries will answer," said Mrs. Creswick, judicially. +"Maurice Delarey is wonderfully good-looking."</p> + +<p>"Yes, and Hermione isn't."</p> + +<p>"That has never mattered in the least."</p> + +<p>"I know. I didn't say it had. But will it now?"</p> + +<p>"Why should it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Men care so much for looks. Do you think Hermione +loves Mr. Delarey for his?"</p> + +<p>"She dives deep."</p> + +<p>"Yes, as a rule."</p> + +<p>"Why not now? She ought to have dived deeper +than ever this time."</p> + +<p>"She ought, of course. I perfectly understand that. +But it's very odd, I think we often marry the man we +understand less than any one else in the world. Mystery +is so very attractive."</p> + +<p>Miss Townly sighed. She was emaciated, dark, and +always dressed to look mysterious.</p> + +<p>"Maurice Delarey is scarcely my idea of a mystery," +said Mrs. Creswick, taking joyously a marron glacé. "In +my opinion he's an ordinarily intelligent but an extraordinarily +handsome man. Hermione is exactly the reverse, +extraordinarily intelligent and almost ugly."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, not ugly!" said Miss Townly, with unexpected +warmth.</p> + +<p>Though of a tepid personality, she was a worshipper +at Hermione's shrine.</p> + +<p>"Her eyes are beautiful," she added.</p> + +<p>"Good eyes don't make a beauty," said Mrs. Creswick +again, looking at her three-quarters face in the +glass. "Hermione is too large, and her face is too +square, and—but as I said before, it doesn't matter the +least. Hermione's got a temperament that carries all +before it."</p> + +<p>"I do wish I had a temperament," said Miss Townly. +"I try to cultivate one."</p> + +<p>"You might as well try to cultivate a mustache," +Mrs. Creswick rather brutally rejoined. "If it's there, +it's there, but if it isn't one prays in vain."</p> + +<p>"I used to think Hermione would do something," +continued Miss Townly, finishing her second cup of tea +with thirsty languor.</p> + +<p>"Do something?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Something important, great, something that would +make her famous, but of course now"—she paused—"now +it's too late," she concluded. "Marriage destroys, +not creates talent. Some celebrated man—I forget +which—has said something like that."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he'd destroyed his wife's. I think Hermione +might be a great mother."</p> + +<p>Miss Townly blushed faintly. She did nearly everything +faintly. That was partly why she admired Hermione.</p> + +<p>"And a great mother is rare," continued Mrs. Creswick. +"Good mothers are, thank God, quite common +even in London, whatever those foolish people who +rail at the society they can't get into may say. But +great mothers are seldom met with. I don't know +one."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by a great mother?" inquired +Miss Townly.</p> + +<p>"A mother who makes seeds grow. Hermione has +a genius for friendship and a special gift for inspiring +others. If she ever has a child, I can imagine that she +will make of that child something wonderful."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean an infant prodigy?" asked Miss Townly, +innocently.</p> + +<p>"No, dear, I don't!" said Mrs. Creswick; "I mean +nothing of the sort. Never mind!"</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Creswick said "Never mind!" Miss Townly +usually got up to go. She got up to go now, and went +forth into Sloane Street meditating, as she would have +expressed it, "profoundly."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Artois went back to the Hans Crescent +Hotel on foot. He walked slowly along the greasy +pavement through the yellow November fog, trying to +combat a sensation of dreariness which had floated +round his spirit, as the fog floated round his body, +directly he stepped into the street. He often felt depressed +without a special cause, but this afternoon there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +was a special cause for his melancholy. Hermione was +going to be married.</p> + +<p>She often came to Paris, where she had many friends, +and some years ago they had met at a dinner given by +a brilliant Jewess, who delighted in clever people, not +because she was stupid, but for the opposite reason. +Artois was already famous, though not loved, as a +novelist. He had published two books; works of art, +cruel, piercing, brutal, true. Hermione had read them. +Her intellect had revelled in them, but they had set +ice about her heart, and when Madame Enthoven told +her who was going to take her in to dinner, she very +nearly begged to be given another partner. She felt +that her nature must be in opposition to this man's.</p> + +<p>Artois was not eager for the honor of her company. +He was a careful dissecter of women, and, therefore, +understood how mysterious women are; but in his intimate +life they counted for little. He regarded them +there rather as the European traveller regards the +Mousmés of Japan, as playthings, and insisted on one +thing only—that they must be pretty. A Frenchman, +despite his unusual intellectual power, he was not wholly +emancipated from the la petite femme tradition, which +will never be outmoded in Paris while Paris hums with +life, and, therefore, when he was informed that he was +to take in to dinner the tall, solidly built, big-waisted, +rugged-faced woman, whom he had been observing +from a distance ever since he came into the drawing-room, +he felt that he was being badly treated by his +hostess.</p> + +<p>Yet he had been observing this woman closely.</p> + +<p>Something unusual, something vital in her had +drawn his attention, fixed it, held it. He knew that, +but said to himself that it was the attention of the +novelist that had been grasped by an uncommon human +specimen, and that the man of the world, the diner-out, +did not want to eat in company with a specimen,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +but to throw off professional cares with a gay little +chatterbox of the Mousmé type. Therefore he came +over to be presented to Hermione with rather a bad +grace.</p> + +<p>And that introduction was the beginning of the great +friendship which was now troubling him in the fog.</p> + +<p>By the end of that evening Hermione and he had +entirely rid themselves of their preconceived notions +of each other. She had ceased from imagining him a +walking intellect devoid of sympathies, he from considering +her a possibly interesting specimen, but not +the type of woman who could be agreeable in a man's +life. Her naturalness amounted almost to genius. She +was generally unable to be anything but natural, unable +not to speak as she was feeling, unable to feel unsympathetic. +She always showed keen interest when +she felt it, and, with transparent sincerity, she at once +began to show to Artois how much interested she was +in him. By doing so she captivated him at once. He +would not, perhaps, have been captivated by the heart +without the brains, but the two in combination took +possession of him with an ease which, when the evening +was over, but only then, caused him some astonishment.</p> + +<p>Hermione had a divining-rod to discover the heart in +another, and she found out at once that Artois had a +big heart as well as a fine intellect. He was deceptive +because he was always ready to show the latter, and +almost always determined to conceal the former. Even +to himself he was not quite frank about his heart, but +often strove to minimize its influence upon him, if not +to ignore totally its promptings and its utterances. +Why this was so he could not perhaps have explained +even to himself. It was one of the mysteries of his +temperament. From the first moment of their intercourse +Hermione showed to him her conviction that +he had a warm heart, and that it could be relied upon +without hesitation. This piqued but presently de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>lighted, +and also soothed Artois, who was accustomed +to be misunderstood, and had often thought he liked to +be misunderstood, but who now found out how pleasant +a brilliant woman's intuition may be, even at a Parisian +dinner. Before the evening was over they knew that +they were friends; and friends they had remained ever +since.</p> + +<p>Artois was a reserved man, but, like many reserved +people, if once he showed himself as he really was, he +could continue to be singularly frank. He was singularly +frank with Hermione. She became his confidante, +often at a distance. He scarcely ever came to London, +which he disliked exceedingly, but from Paris or +from the many lands in which he wandered—he was +no pavement lounger, although he loved Paris rather as +a man may love a very chic cocotte—he wrote to Hermione +long letters, into which he put his mind and heart, +his aspirations, struggles, failures, triumphs. They +were human documents, and contained much of his +secret history.</p> + +<p>It was of this history that he was now thinking, and +of Hermione's comments upon it, tied up with a ribbon +in Paris. The news of her approaching marriage with +a man whom he had never seen had given him a rude +shock, had awakened in him a strange feeling of jealousy. +He had grown accustomed to the thought that Hermione +was in a certain sense his property. He realized +thoroughly the egotism, the dog-in-the-manger spirit +which was alive in him, and hated but could not banish +it. As a friend he certainly loved Hermione. She +knew that. But he did not love her as a man loves +the woman he wishes to make his wife. She must know +that, too. He loved her but was not in love with her, +and she loved but was not in love with him. Why, +then, should this marriage make a difference in their +friendship? She said that it would not, but he felt +that it must. He thought of her as a wife, then as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +mother. The latter thought made his egotism shudder. +She would be involved in the happy turmoil of a +family existence, while he would remain without in that +loneliness which is the artist's breath of life and martyrdom. +Yes, his egotism shuddered, and he was angry +at the weakness. He chastised the frailties of others, +but must be the victim of his own. A feeling of helplessness +came to him, of being governed, lashed, driven. +How unworthy was his sensation of hostility against +Delarey, his sensation that Hermione was wronging him +by entering into this alliance, and how powerless he was +to rid himself of either sensation! There was good +cause for his melancholy—his own folly. He must try +to conquer it, and, if that were impossible, to rein it in +before the evening.</p> + +<p>When he reached the hotel he went into his sitting-room +and worked for an hour and a half, producing a +short paragraph, which did not please him. Then he +took a hansom and drove to Peathill Street.</p> + +<p>Hermione was already there, sitting at a small table +in a corner with her back to him, opposite to one of the +handsomest men he had ever seen. As Artois came in, +he fixed his eyes on this man with a scrutiny that was +passionate, trying to determine at a glance whether he +had any right to the success he had achieved, any fitness +for the companionship that was to be his, companionship +of an unusual intellect and a still more unusual +spirit.</p> + +<p>He saw a man obviously much younger than Hermione, +not tall, athletic in build but also graceful, with +the grace that is shed through a frame by perfectly +developed, not over-developed muscles and accurately +trained limbs, a man of the Mercury rather than of the +Hercules type, with thick, low-growing black hair, vivid, +enthusiastic black eyes, set rather wide apart under +curved brows, and very perfectly proportioned, small, +straight features, which were not undecided, yet which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +suggested the features of a boy. In the complexion +there was a tinge of brown that denoted health and an +out-door life—an out-door life in the south, Artois +thought.</p> + +<p>As Artois, standing quite still, unconsciously, in the +doorway of the restaurant, looked at this man, he felt +for a moment as if he himself were a splendid specimen +of a cart-horse faced by a splendid specimen of a race-horse. +The comparison he was making was only one +of physical endowments, but it pained him. Thinking +with an extraordinary rapidity, he asked himself why +it was that this man struck him at once as very much +handsomer than other men with equally good features +and figures whom he had seen, and he found at once +the answer to his question. It was the look of Mercury +in him that made him beautiful, a look of radiant readiness +for swift movement that suggested the happy messenger +poised for flight to the gods, his mission accomplished, +the expression of an intensely vivid activity +that could be exquisitely obedient. There was an +extraordinary fascination in it. Artois realized that, +for he was fascinated even in this bitter moment that +he told himself ought not to be bitter. While he gazed +at Delarey he was conscious of a feeling that had sometimes +come upon him when he had watched Sicilian +peasant boys dancing the tarantella under the stars +by the Ionian sea, a feeling that one thing in creation +ought to be immortal on earth, the passionate, leaping +flame of joyous youth, physically careless, physically +rapturous, unconscious of death and of decay. Delarey +seemed to him like a tarantella in repose, if such +a thing could be.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Hermione turned round, as if conscious that +he was there. When she did so he understood in the +very depths of him why such a man as Delarey attracted, +must attract, such a woman as Hermione. +That which she had in the soul Delarey seemed to ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>press +in the body—sympathy, enthusiasm, swiftness, +courage. He was like a statue of her feelings, but a +statue endowed with life. And the fact that her +physique was a sort of contradiction of her inner self +must make more powerful the charm of a Delarey for +her. As Hermione looked round at him, turning her +tall figure rather slowly in the chair, Artois made up +his mind that she had been captured by the physique +of this man. He could not be surprised, but he still +felt angry.</p> + +<p>Hermione introduced Delarey to him eagerly, not +attempting to hide her anxiety for the two men to +make friends at once. Her desire was so transparent +and so warm that for a moment Artois felt touched, +and inclined to trample upon his evil mood and leave +no trace of it. He was also secretly too human to remain +wholly unmoved by Delarey's reception of him. +Delarey had a rare charm of manner whose source was +a happy, but not foolishly shy, modesty, which made +him eager to please, and convinced that in order to do +so he must bestir himself and make an effort. But in +this effort there was no labor. It was like the spurt of +a willing horse, a fine racing pace of the nature that +woke pleasure and admiration in those who watched it.</p> + +<p>Artois felt at once that Delarey had no hostility towards +him, but was ready to admire and rejoice in him +as Hermione's greatest friend. He was met more than +half-way. Yet when he was beside Delarey, almost +touching him, the stubborn sensation of furtive dislike +within Artois increased, and he consciously determined +not to yield to the charm of this younger man +who was going to interfere in his life. Artois did not +speak much English, but fortunately Delarey talked +French fairly well, not with great fluency like Hermione, +but enough to take a modest share in conversation, +which was apparently all the share that he desired. +Artois believed that he was no great talker. His eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +were more eager than was his tongue, and seemed to +betoken a vivacity of spirit which he could not, perhaps, +show forth in words. The conversation at first was +mainly between Hermione and Artois, with an occasional +word from Delarey—generally interrogative—and was +confined to generalities. But this could not continue +long. Hermione was an enthusiastic talker and seldom +discussed banalities. From every circle where she +found herself the inane was speedily banished; pale +topics—the spectres that haunt the dull and are cherished +by them—were whipped away to limbo, and some +subject full-blooded, alive with either serious or comical +possibilities, was very soon upon the carpet. By +chance Artois happened to speak of two people in +Paris, common friends of his and of Hermione's, who +had been very intimate, but who had now quarrelled, +and every one said, irrevocably. The question arose +whose fault was it. Artois, who knew the facts of the +case, and whose judgment was usually cool and well-balanced, +said it was the woman's.</p> + +<p>"Madame Lagrande," he said, "has a fine nature, but +in this instance it has failed her, it has been warped by +jealousy; not the jealousy that often accompanies passion, +for she and Robert Meunier were only great friends, +linked together by similar sympathies, but by a much +more subtle form of that mental disease. You know, +Hermione, that both of them are brilliant critics of +literature?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes."</p> + +<p>"They carried on a sort of happy, but keen rivalry in +this walk of letters, each striving to be more unerring +than the other in dividing the sheep from the goats. +I am the guilty person who made discord where there +had been harmony."</p> + +<p>"You, Emile! How was that?"</p> + +<p>"One day I said, in a bitter mood, 'It is so easy to +be a critic, so difficult to be a creator. You two, now<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> would +you even dare to try to create?' They were +nettled by my tone, and showed it. I said, 'I have a magnificent +subject for a conte, no work de longue haleine, +a conte. If you like I will give it you, and leave you +to create—separately, not together—what you have so +often written about, the perfect conte.' They accepted +my challenge. I gave them my subject and a month +to work it out. At the end of that time the two contes +were to be submitted to a jury of competent literary +men, friends of ours. It was all a sort of joke, but +created great interest in our circle—you know it, Hermione, +that dines at Réneau's on Thursday nights?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Well, what happened?"</p> + +<p>"Madame Lagrande made a failure of hers, but +Robert Meunier astonished us all. He produced certainly +one of the best contes that was ever written in the +French language."</p> + +<p>"And Madame Lagrande?"</p> + +<p>"It is not too much to say that from that moment +she has almost hated Robert."</p> + +<p>"And you dare to say she has a noble nature?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, a noble nature from which, under some apparently +irresistible impulse, she has lapsed."</p> + +<p>"Maurice," said Hermione, leaning her long arms on +the table and leaning forward to her fiancé, "you're not +in literature any more than I am, you're an outsider—bless +you! What d'you say to that?"</p> + +<p>Delarey hesitated and looked modestly at Artois.</p> + +<p>"No, no," cried Hermione, "none of that, Maurice! +You may be a better judge in this than Emile is with +all his knowledge of the human heart. You're the man +in the street, and sometimes I'd give a hundred pounds +for his opinion and not twopence for the big man's +who's in the profession. Would—could a noble nature +yield to such an impulse?"</p> + +<p>"I should hardly have thought so," said Delarey.</p> + +<p>"Nor I," said Hermione. "I simply don't believe it's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +possible. For a moment, yes, perhaps. But you say, +Emile, that there's an actual breach between them."</p> + +<p>"There is certainly. Have you ever made any study +of jealousy in its various forms?"</p> + +<p>"Never. I don't know what jealousy is. I can't +understand it."</p> + +<p>"Yet you must be capable of it."</p> + +<p>"You think every one is?"</p> + +<p>"Very few who are really alive in the spirit are not. +And you, I am certain, are."</p> + +<p>Hermione laughed, an honest, gay laugh, that rang +out wholesomely in the narrow room.</p> + +<p>"I doubt it, Emile. Perhaps I'm too conceited. For +instance, if I cared for some one and was cared for—"</p> + +<p>"And the caring of the other ceased, because he had +only a certain, limited faculty of affection and transferred +his affection elsewhere—what then?"</p> + +<p>"I've so much pride, proper or improper, that I believe +my affection would die. My love subsists on +sympathy—take that food from it and it would starve +and cease to live. I give, but when giving I always ask. +If I were to be refused I couldn't give any more. And +without the love there could be no jealousy. But that +isn't the point, Emile."</p> + +<p>He smiled.</p> + +<p>"What is?"</p> + +<p>"The point is—can a noble nature lapse like that +from its nobility?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it can."</p> + +<p>"Then it changes, it ceases to be noble. You would +not say that a brave man can show cowardice and remain +a brave man."</p> + +<p>"I would say that a man whose real nature was brave, +might, under certain circumstances, show fear, without +being what is called a coward. Human nature is full +of extraordinary possibilities, good and evil, of extraordinary +contradictions. But this point I will concede<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +you, that it is like the boomerang, which flies forward, +circles, and returns to the point from which it started. +The inherently noble nature will, because it must, return +eventually to its nobility. Then comes the really +tragic moment with the passion of remorse."</p> + +<p>He spoke quietly, almost coldly. Hermione looked +at him with shining eyes. She had quite forgotten +Madame Lagrande and Robert Meunier, had lost the +sense of the special in her love of the general.</p> + +<p>"That's a grand theory," she said. "That we must +come back to the good that is in us in the end, that +we must be true to that somehow, almost whether we +will or no. I shall try to think of that when I am sinning."</p> + +<p>"You—sinning!" exclaimed Delarey.</p> + +<p>"Maurice, dear, you think too well of me."</p> + +<p>Delarey flushed like a boy, and glanced quickly at +Artois, who did not return his gaze.</p> + +<p>"But if that's true, Emile," Hermione continued, +"Madame Lagrande and Robert Meunier will be friends +again."</p> + +<p>"Some day I know she will hold out the olive-branch, +but what if he refuses it?"</p> + +<p>"You literary people are dreadfully difficile."</p> + +<p>"True. Our jealousies are ferocious, but so are the +jealousies of thousands who can neither read nor write."</p> + +<p>"Jealousy," she said, forgetting to eat in her keen +interest in the subject. "I told you I didn't believe +myself capable of it, but I don't know. The jealousy +that is born of passion I might understand and suffer, +perhaps, but jealousy of a talent greater than my own, +or of one that I didn't possess—that seems to me inexplicable. +I could never be jealous of a talent."</p> + +<p>"You mean that you could never hate a person for a +talent in them?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Suppose that some one, by means of a talent which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +you had not, won from you a love which you had? +Talent is a weapon, you know."</p> + +<p>"You think it is a weapon to conquer the affections! +Ah, Emile, after all you don't know us!"</p> + +<p>"You go too fast. I did not say a weapon to conquer +the affection of a woman."</p> + +<p>"You're speaking of men?"</p> + +<p>"I know," Delarey said, suddenly, forgetting to be +modest for once, "you mean that a man might be won +away from one woman by a talent in another. Isn't +that it?"</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Hermione, "a man—I see."</p> + +<p>She sat for a moment considering deeply, with her +luminous eyes fixed on the food in her plate, food which +she did not see.</p> + +<p>"What horrible ideas you sometimes have, Emile," +she said, at last.</p> + +<p>"You mean what horrible truths exist," he answered, +quietly.</p> + +<p>"Could a man be won so? Yes, I suppose he might +be if there were a combination."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," said Artois.</p> + +<p>"I see now. Suppose a man had two strains in him, +say: the adoration of beauty, of the physical; and the +adoration of talent, of the mental. He might fall in +love with a merely beautiful woman and transfer his +affections if he came across an equally beautiful woman +who had some great talent."</p> + +<p>"Or he might fall in love with a plain, talented woman, +and be taken from her by one in whom talent was +allied with beauty. But in either case are you sure +that the woman deserted could never be jealous, bitterly +jealous, of the talent possessed by the other +woman? I think talent often creates jealousy in your +sex."</p> + +<p>"But beauty much oftener, oh, much! Every woman, +I feel sure, could more easily be jealous of physical<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +beauty in another woman than of mental gifts. There's +something so personal in beauty."</p> + +<p>"And is genius not equally personal?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose it is, but I doubt if it seems so."</p> + +<p>"I think you leave out of account the advance of +civilization, which is greatly changing men and women +in our day. The tragedies of the mind are increasing."</p> + +<p>"And the tragedies of the heart—are they diminishing +in consequence? Oh, Emile!" And she laughed.</p> + +<p>"Hermione—your food! You are not eating anything!" +said Delarey, gently, pointing to her plate. +"And it's all getting cold."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Maurice."</p> + +<p>She began to eat at once with an air of happy submission, +which made Artois understand a good deal +about her feeling for Delarey.</p> + +<p>"The heart will always rule the head, I dare say, in +this world where the majority will always be thoughtless," +said Artois. "But the greatest jealousy, the +jealousy which is most difficult to resist and to govern, +is that in which both heart and brain are concerned. +That is, indeed, a full-fledged monster."</p> + +<p>Artois generally spoke with a good deal of authority, +often without meaning to do so. He thought so clearly, +knew so exactly what he was thinking and what he +meant, that he felt very safe in conversation, and from +this sense of safety sprang his air of masterfulness. It +was an air that was always impressive, but to-night it +specially struck Hermione. Now she laid down her +knife and fork once more, to Delarey's half-amused despair, +and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"I shall never forget the way you said that. Even +if it were nonsense one would have to believe it for the +moment, and of course it's dreadfully true. Intellect +and heart suffering in combination must be far more +terrible than the one suffering without the other. No,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +Maurice, I've really finished. I don't want any more. +Let's have our coffee."</p> + +<p>"The Turkish coffee," said Artois, with a smile. +"Do you like Turkish coffee, Monsieur Delarey?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, monsieur. Hermione has taught me to."</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>"At first it seemed to me too full of grounds," he explained.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps a taste for it must be an acquired one +among Europeans. Do we have it here?"</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Hermione, "Caminiti has taken my +advice, and now there's a charming smoke-room behind +this. Come along."</p> + +<p>She got up and led the way out. The two men followed +her, Artois coming last. He noticed now more +definitely the very great contrast between Hermione +and her future husband. Delarey, when in movement, +looked more than ever like a Mercury. His footstep +was light and elastic, and his whole body seemed to +breathe out a gay activity, a fulness of the joy of life. +Again Artois thought of Sicilian boys dancing the +tarantella, and when they were in the small smoke-room, +which Caminiti had fitted up in what he believed +to be Oriental style, and which, though scarcely accurate, +was quite cosey, he was moved to inquire:</p> + +<p>"Pardon me, monsieur, but are you entirely English?"</p> + +<p>"No, monsieur. My mother has Sicilian blood in her +veins. But I have never been in Sicily or Italy."</p> + +<p>"Ah, Emile," said Hermione, "how clever of you to +find that out. I notice it, too, sometimes, that touch +of the blessed South. I shall take him there some day, +and see if the Southern blood doesn't wake up in his +veins when he's in the rays of the real sun we never see +in England."</p> + +<p>"She'll take you to Italy, you fortunate, damned dog!" +thought Artois. "What luck for you to go there with +such a companion!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<p>They sat down and the two men began to smoke. +Hermione never smoked because she had tried smoking +and knew she hated it. They were alone in the room, +which was warm, but not too warm, and faintly lit by +shaded lamps. Artois began to feel more genial, he +scarcely knew why. Perhaps the good dinner had comforted +him, or perhaps he was beginning to yield to the +charm of Delarey's gay and boyish modesty, which was +untainted and unspoiled by any awkward shyness.</p> + +<p>Artois did not know or seek to know, but he was +aware that he was more ready to be happy with the +flying moment than he had been, or had expected to be +that evening. Something almost paternal shone in his +gray eyes as he stretched his large limbs on Caminiti's +notion of a Turkish divan, and watched the first smoke-wreaths +rise from his cigar, a light which made his face +most pleasantly expressive to Hermione.</p> + +<p>"He likes Maurice," she thought, with a glow of pleasure, +and with the thought came into her heart an even +deeper love for Maurice. For it was a triumph, indeed, if +Artois were captured speedily by any one. It seemed +to her just then as if she had never known what perfect +happiness was till now, when she sat between her +best friend and her lover, and sensitively felt that in +the room there were not three separate persons but +a Trinity. For a moment there was a comfortable +silence. Then an Italian boy brought in the coffee. +Artois spoke to him in Italian. His eyes lit up as he +answered with the accent of Naples, lit up still more +when Artois spoke to him again in his own dialect. +When he had served the coffee he went out, glowing.</p> + +<p>"Is your honeymoon to be Italian?" asked Artois.</p> + +<p>"Whatever Hermione likes," answered Delarey. "I—it +doesn't matter to me. Wherever it is will be the +same to me."</p> + +<p>"Happiness makes every land an Italy, eh?" said +Artois. "I expect that's profoundly true."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't you—don't you know?" ventured Delarey.</p> + +<p>"I! My friend, one cannot be proficient in every +branch of knowledge."</p> + +<p>He spoke the words without bitterness, with a calm +that had in it something more sad than bitterness. +It struck both Hermione and Delarey as almost monstrous +that anybody with whom they were connected +should be feeling coldly unhappy at this moment. Life +presented itself to them in a glorious radiance of sunshine, +in a passionate light, in a torrent of color. Their +knowledge of life's uncertainties was rocked asleep by +their dual sensation of personal joy, and they felt as +if every one ought to be as happy as they were, almost +as if every one could be as happy as they were.</p> + +<p>"Emile," said Hermione, led by this feeling, "you +can't mean to say that you have never known the happiness +that makes of every place—Clapham, Lippe-Detmold, +a West African swamp, a Siberian convict +settlement—an Italy? You have had a wonderful life. +You have worked, you have wandered, had your ambition +and your freedom—"</p> + +<p>"But my eyes have been always wide open," he interrupted, +"wide open on life watching the manifestations of life."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you ever been able to shut them for a +minute to everything but your own happiness? Oh, +it's selfish, I know, but it does one good, Emile, any +amount of good, to be selfish like that now and then. +It reconciles one so splendidly to existence. It's like a +spring cleaning of the soul. And then, I think, when one +opens one's eyes again one sees—one must see—everything +more rightly, not dressed up in frippery, not horribly +naked either, but truly, accurately, neither overlooking +graces nor dwelling on distortions. D'you understand +what I mean? Perhaps I don't put it well, but—"</p> + +<p>"I do understand," he said. "There's truth in what +you say."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, isn't there?" said Delarey.</p> + +<p>His eyes were fixed on Hermione with an intense +eagerness of admiration and love.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Artois felt immensely old, as he sometimes +felt when he saw children playing with frantic happiness +at mud-pies or snowballing. A desire, which his +true self condemned, came to him to use his intellectual +powers cruelly, and he yielded to it, forgetting the benign +spirit which had paid him a moment's visit and +vanished almost ere it had arrived.</p> + +<p>"There's truth in what you say. But there's another +truth, too, which you bring to my mind at this +moment."</p> + +<p>"What's that, Emile?"</p> + +<p>"The payment that is exacted from great happiness. +These intense joys of which you speak—what are they +followed by? Haven't you observed that any violence +in one direction is usually, almost, indeed, inevitably, +followed by a violence in the opposite direction? Humanity +is treading a beaten track, the crowd of humanity, +and keeps, as a crowd, to this highway. But +individuals leave the crowd, searchers, those who need +the great changes, the great fortunes that are dangerous. +On one side of the track is a garden of paradise; +on the other a deadly swamp. The man or woman +who, leaving the highway, enters the garden of paradise +is almost certain in the fulness of time to be struggling +in the deadly swamp."</p> + +<p>"Do you really mean that misery is born of happiness?"</p> + +<p>"Of what other parent can it be the child? In my +opinion those who are said to be 'born in misery' never +know what real misery is. It is only those who have +drunk deep of the cup of joy who can drink deep of the +cup of sorrow."</p> + +<p>Hermione was about to speak, but Delarey suddenly +burst in with the vehement exclamation:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +"Where's the courage in keeping to the beaten track? +Where's the courage in avoiding the garden for fear of +the swamp?"</p> + +<p>"That's exactly what I was going to say," said Hermione, +her whole face lighting up. "I never expected +to hear a counsel of cowardice from you, Emile."</p> + +<p>"Or is it a counsel of prudence?"</p> + +<p>He looked at them both steadily, feeling still as if he +were face to face with children. For a man he was +unusually intuitive, and to-night suddenly, and after +he had begun to yield to his desire to be cruel, to say +something that would cloud this dual happiness in +which he had no share, he felt a strange, an almost +prophetic conviction that out of the joy he now contemplated +would be born the gaunt offspring, misery, +of which he had just spoken. With the coming of this +conviction, which he did not even try to explain to +himself or to combat, came an abrupt change in his +feelings. Bitterness gave place to an anxiety that was +far more human, to a desire to afford some protection +to these two people with whom he was sitting. But +how? And against what? He did not know. His +intuition stopped short when he strove to urge it on.</p> + +<p>"Prudence," said Hermione. "You think it prudent +to avoid the joy life throws at your feet?"</p> + +<p>Abruptly provoked by his own limitations, angry, +too, with his erratic mental departure from the realm +of reason into the realm of fantasy—for so he called the +debatable land over which intuition held sway—Artois +hounded out his mood and turned upon himself.</p> + +<p>"Don't listen to me," he said. "I am the professional +analyst of life. As I sit over a sentence, examining, +selecting, rejecting, replacing its words, so do I sit over +the emotions of myself and others till I cease really to +live, and could almost find it in my head to try to prevent +them from living, too. Live, live—enter into the +garden of paradise and never mind what comes after."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I could not do anything else," said Hermione. "It +is unnatural to me to look forward. The 'now' nearly +always has complete possession of me."</p> + +<p>"And I," said Artois, lightly, "am always trying to +peer round the corner to see what is coming. And you, +Monsieur Delarey?"</p> + +<p>"I!" said Delarey.</p> + +<p>He had not expected to be addressed just then, and +for a moment looked confused.</p> + +<p>"I don't know if I can say," he answered, at last. +"But I think if the present was happy I should try to +live in that, and if it was sad I should have a shot at +looking forward to something better."</p> + +<p>"That's one of the best philosophies I ever heard," +said Hermione, "and after my own heart. Long live +the philosophy of Maurice Delarey!"</p> + +<p>Delarey blushed with pleasure like a boy. Just then +three men came in smoking cigars. Hermione looked +at her watch.</p> + +<p>"Past eleven," she said. "I think I'd better go. +Emile, will you drive with me home?"</p> + +<p>"I!" he said, with an unusual diffidence. "May I?"</p> + +<p>He glanced at Delarey.</p> + +<p>"I want to have a talk with you. Maurice quite +understands. He knows you go back to Paris to-morrow."</p> + +<p>They all got up, and Delarey at once held out his +hand to Artois.</p> + +<p>"I am glad to have been allowed to meet Hermione's +best friend," he said, simply. "I know how much you +are to her, and I hope you'll let me be a friend, too, +perhaps, some day."</p> + +<p>He wrung Artois's hand warmly.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, monsieur," replied Artois.</p> + +<p>He strove hard to speak as cordially as Delarey.</p> + +<p>Two or three minutes later Hermione and he were in +a hansom driving down Regent Street. The fog had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +lifted, and it was possible to see to right and left of the +greasy thoroughfare.</p> + +<p>"Need we go straight back?" said Hermione. "Why +not tell him to drive down to the Embankment? It's +quiet there at night, and open and fine—one of the few +fine things in dreary old London. And I want to have +a last talk with you, Emile."</p> + +<p>Artois pushed up the little door in the roof with his +stick.</p> + +<p>"The Embankment—Thames," he said to the cabman, +with a strong foreign accent.</p> + +<p>"Right, sir," replied the man, in the purest cockney.</p> + +<p>As soon as the trap was shut down above her head +Hermione exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"Emile, I'm so happy, so—so happy! I think you +must understand why now. You don't wonder any +more, do you?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't wonder. But did I ever express any +wonder?"</p> + +<p>"I think you felt some. But I knew when you saw +him it would go. He's got one beautiful quality that's +very rare in these days, I think—reverence. I love +that in him. He really reverences everything that is +fine, every one who has fine and noble aspirations and +powers. He reverences you."</p> + +<p>"If that is the case he shows very little insight."</p> + +<p>"Don't abuse yourself to me to-night. There's nothing +the matter now, is there?"</p> + +<p>Her intonation demanded a negative, but Artois did +not hasten to give it. Instead he turned the conversation +once more to Delarey.</p> + +<p>"Tell me something more about him," he said. +"What sort of family does he come from?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, a very ordinary family, well off, but not what is +called specially well-born. His father has a large shipping +business. He's a cultivated man, and went to Eton +and Oxford, as Maurice did. Maurice's mother is very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +handsome, not at all intellectual, but fascinating. The +Southern blood comes from her side."</p> + +<p>"Oh—how?"</p> + +<p>"Her mother was a Sicilian."</p> + +<p>"Of the aristocracy, or of the people?"</p> + +<p>"She was a lovely contadina. But what does it matter? +I am not marrying Maurice's grandmother."</p> + +<p>"How do you know that?"</p> + +<p>"You mean that our ancestors live in us. Well, I +can't bother. If Maurice were a crossing-sweeper, and +his grandmother had been an evilly disposed charwoman, +who could never get any one to trust her to char, +I'd marry him to-morrow if he'd have me."</p> + +<p>"I'm quite sure you would."</p> + +<p>"Besides, probably the grandmother was a delicious +old dear. But didn't you like Maurice, Emile? I felt +so sure you did."</p> + +<p>"I—yes, I liked him. I see his fascination. It is +almost absurdly obvious, and yet it is quite natural. +He is handsome and he is charming."</p> + +<p>"And he's good, too."</p> + +<p>"Why not? He does not look evil. I thought of +him as a Mercury."</p> + +<p>"The messenger of the gods—yes, he is like that."</p> + +<p>She laid her hand on his arm, as if her happiness and +longing for sympathy in it impelled her to draw very +near to a human being.</p> + +<p>"A bearer of good tidings—that is what he has been +to me. I want you to like and understand him so much, +Emile; you more, far more, than any one else."</p> + +<p>The cab was now in a steep and narrow street leading +down from the Strand to the Thames Embankment—a +street that was obscure and that looked sad and evil +by night. Artois glanced out at it, and Hermione, seeing +that he did so, followed his eyes. They saw a man +and a woman quarrelling under a gas-lamp. The woman +was cursing and crying. The man put out his hand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +and pushed her roughly. She fell up against some railings, +caught hold of them, turned her head and shrieked +at the man, opening her mouth wide.</p> + +<p>"Poor things!" Hermione said. "Poor things! If +we could only all be good to each other! It seems as +if it ought to be so simple."</p> + +<p>"It's too difficult for us, nevertheless."</p> + +<p>"Not for some of us, thank God. Many people have +been good to me—you for one, you most of all my friends. +Ah, how blessed it is to be out here!"</p> + +<p>She leaned over the wooden apron of the cab, stretching +out her hands instinctively as if to grasp the space, +the airy darkness of the spreading night.</p> + +<p>"Space seems to liberate the soul," she said. "It's +wrong to live in cities, but we shall have to a good deal, +I suppose. Maurice needn't work, but I'm glad to say +he does."</p> + +<p>"What does he do?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know exactly, but he's in his father's shipping +business. I'm an awful idiot at understanding +anything of that sort, but I understand Maurice, and +that's the important matter."</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 230px;"> +<a href="images/gs02.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs02_th.jpg" width="230" height="400" +alt=""'SPACE SEEMS TO LIBERATE THE SOUL,' SHE SAID"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"'SPACE SEEMS TO LIBERATE THE SOUL,' SHE SAID"</span> +</p> + +<p>They were now on the Thames Embankment, driving +slowly along the broad and almost deserted road. Far +off lights, green, red, and yellow, shone faintly upon the +drifting and uneasy waters of the river on the one side; +on the other gleamed the lights from the houses and +hotels, in which people were supping after the theatres. +Artois, who, like most fine artists, was extremely susceptible +to the influence of place and of the hour, with +its gift of light or darkness, began to lose in this larger +atmosphere of mystery and vaguely visible movement +the hitherto dominating sense of himself, to regain the +more valuable and more mystical sense of life and its +strange and pathetic relation with nature and the spirit +behind nature, which often floated upon him like a +tide when he was creating, but which he was accus<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>tomed +to hold sternly in leash. Now he was not in the +mood to rein it in. Maurice Delarey and his business, +Hermione, her understanding of him and happiness in +him, Artois himself in his sharply realized solitude of +the third person, melted into the crowd of beings who +made up life, whose background was the vast and infinitely +various panorama of nature, and Hermione's +last words, "the important matter," seemed for the +moment false to him. What was, what could be, important +in the immensity and the baffling complexity +of existence?</p> + +<p>"Look at those lights," he said, pointing to those +that gleamed across the water through the London +haze that sometimes makes for a melancholy beauty, +"and that movement of the river in the night, tremulous +and cryptic like our thoughts. Is anything important?"</p> + +<p>"Almost everything, I think, certainly everything in +us. If I didn't feel so, I could scarcely go on living. +And you must really feel so, too. You do. I have your +letters to prove it. Why, how often have I written +begging you not to lash yourself into fury over the +follies of men!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my temperament betrays the citadel of my +brain. That happens in many."</p> + +<p>"You trust too much to your brain and too little to +your heart."</p> + +<p>"And you do the contrary, my friend. You are too +easily carried away by your impulses."</p> + +<p>She was silent for a moment. The cabman was +driving slowly. She watched a distant barge drifting, +like a great shadow, at the mercy of the tide. Then she +turned a little, looked at Artois's shadowy profile, and +said:</p> + +<p>"Don't ever be afraid to speak to me quite frankly—don't +be afraid now. What is it?"</p> + +<p>He did not answer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Imagine you are in Paris sitting down to write to +me in your little red-and-yellow room, the morocco +slipper of a room."</p> + +<p>"And if it were the Sicilian grandmother?"</p> + +<p>He spoke half-lightly, as if he were inclined to laugh +with her at himself if she began to laugh.</p> + +<p>But she said, gravely:</p> + +<p>"Go on."</p> + +<p>"I have a feeling to-night that out of this happiness +of yours misery will be born."</p> + +<p>"Yes? What sort of misery?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know."</p> + +<p>"Misery to myself or to the sharer of my happiness?"</p> + +<p>"To you."</p> + +<p>"That was why you spoke of the garden of paradise +and the deadly swamp?"</p> + +<p>"I think it must have been."</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I love the South. You know that. But I distrust +what I love, and I see the South in him."</p> + +<p>"The grace, the charm, the enticement of the South."</p> + +<p>"All that, certainly. You said he had reverence. +Probably he has, but has he faithfulness?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Emile!"</p> + +<p>"You told me to be frank."</p> + +<p>"And I wish you to be. Go on, say everything."</p> + +<p>"I've only seen Delarey once, and I'll confess that I +came prepared to see faults as clearly as, perhaps more +clearly than, virtues. I don't pretend to read character +at a glance. Only fools can do that—I am relying on +their frequent assertion that they can. He strikes me +as a man of great charm, with an unusual faculty of +admiration for the gifts of others and a modest estimate +of himself. I believe he's sincere."</p> + +<p>"He is, through and through."</p> + +<p>"I think so—now. But does he know his own blood? +Our blood governs us when the time comes. He is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +modest about his intellect. I think it quick, but I +doubt its being strong enough to prove a good restraining +influence."</p> + +<p>"Against what?"</p> + +<p>"The possible call of the blood that he doesn't understand."</p> + +<p>"You speak almost as if he were a child," Hermione +said. "He's much younger than I am, but he's twenty-four."</p> + +<p>"He is very young looking, and you are at least twenty +years ahead of him in all essentials. Don't you feel it?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose—yes, I do."</p> + +<p>"Mercury—he should be mercurial."</p> + +<p>"He is. That's partly why I love him, perhaps. He +is full of swiftness."</p> + +<p>"So is the butterfly when it comes out into the sun."</p> + +<p>"Emile, forgive me, but sometimes you seem to me +deliberately to lie down and roll in pessimism rather +as a horse—"</p> + +<p>"Why not say an ass?"</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>"An ass, then, my dear, lies down sometimes and rolls +in dust. I think you are doing it to-night. I think +you were preparing to do it this afternoon. Perhaps it +is the effect of London upon you?"</p> + +<p>"London—by-the-way, where are you going for your +honeymoon? I am sure you know, though Monsieur +Delarey may not."</p> + +<p>"Why are you sure?"</p> + +<p>"Your face to-night when I asked if it was to be +Italian."</p> + +<p>She laid her hand again upon his arm and spoke +eagerly, forgetting in a moment his pessimism and the +little cloud it had brought across her happiness.</p> + +<p>"You're right; I've decided."</p> + +<p>"Italy—and hotels?"</p> + +<p>"No, a thousand times no!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Where then?"</p> + +<p>"Sicily, and my peasant's cottage."</p> + +<p>"The cottage on Monte Amato where you spent a +summer four or five years ago contemplating Etna?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I've not said a word to Maurice, but I've taken +it again. All the little furniture I had—beds, straw +chairs, folding-tables—is stored in a big room in the +village at the foot of the mountain. Gaspare, the +Sicilian boy who was my servant, will superintend the +carrying up of it on women's heads—his dear old grandmother +takes the heaviest things, arm-chairs and so on—and +it will all be got ready in no time. I'm having +the house whitewashed again, and the shutters painted, +and the stone vases on the terrace will be filled with +scarlet geraniums, and—oh, Emile, I shall hear the +piping of the shepherds in the ravine at twilight again +with him, and see the boys dance the tarantella under +the moon again with him, and—and—"</p> + +<p>She stopped with a break in her voice.</p> + +<p>"Put away your pessimism, dear Emile," she continued, +after a moment. "Tell me you think we shall +be happy in our garden of paradise—tell me that!"</p> + +<p>But he only said, even more gravely:</p> + +<p>"So you're taking him to the real South?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, to the blue and the genuine gold, and the quivering +heat, and the balmy nights when Etna sends up +its plume of ivory smoke to the moon. He's got the +south in his blood. Well, he shall see the south first +with me, and he shall love it as I love it."</p> + +<p>He said nothing. No spark of her enthusiasm called +forth a spark from him. And now she saw that, and +said again:</p> + +<p>"London is making you horrible to-night. You are +doing London and yourself an injustice, and Maurice, +too."</p> + +<p>"It's very possible," he replied. "But—I can say +it to you—I have a certain gift of—shall I call it divina<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>tion?—where +men and women are concerned. It is not +merely that I am observant of what is, but that I can +often instinctively feel that which must be inevitably +produced by what is. Very few people can read the +future in the present. I often can, almost as clearly +as I can read the present. Even pessimism, accentuated +by the influence of the Infernal City, may contain some +grains of truth."</p> + +<p>"What do you see for us, Emile? Don't you think +we shall be happy together, then? Don't you think +that we are suited to be happy together?"</p> + +<p>When she asked Artois this direct question he was +suddenly aware of a vagueness brooding in his mind, +and knew that he had no definite answer to make.</p> + +<p>"I see nothing," he said, abruptly. "I know nothing. +It may be London. It may be my own egoism."</p> + +<p>And then he suddenly explained himself to Hermione +with the extraordinary frankness of which he was only +capable when he was with her, or was writing to her.</p> + +<p>"I am the dog in the manger," he concluded. "Don't +let my growling distress you. Your happiness has +made me envious."</p> + +<p>"I'll never believe it," she exclaimed. "You are too +good a friend and too great a man for that. Why can't +you be happy, too? Why can't you find some one?"</p> + +<p>"Married life wouldn't suit me. I dislike loneliness +yet I couldn't do without it. In it I find my liberty as +an artist."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I think it must be a curse to be an artist, +and yet I have often longed to be one."</p> + +<p>"Why have you never tried to be one?"</p> + +<p>"I hardly know. Perhaps in my inmost being I feel +I never could be. I am too impulsive, too unrestrained, +too shapeless in mind. If I wrote a book it might be +interesting, human, heart-felt, true to life, I hope, not +stupid, I believe; but it would be a chaos. You—how +it would shock your critical mind! I could never select<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +and prune and blend and graft. I should have to +throw my mind and heart down on the paper and just +leave them there."</p> + +<p>"If you did that you might produce a human document +that would live almost as long as literature, that +even just criticism would be powerless to destroy."</p> + +<p>"I shall never write that book, but I dare say I shall +live it."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "You will live it, perhaps with +Monsieur Delarey."</p> + +<p>And he smiled.</p> + +<p>"When is the wedding to be?"</p> + +<p>"In January, I think."</p> + +<p>"Ah! When you are in your garden of paradise I +shall not be very far off—just across your blue sea on +the African shore."</p> + +<p>"Why, where are you going, Emile?"</p> + +<p>"I shall spend the spring at the sacred city of Kairouan, +among the pilgrims and the mosques, making +some studies, taking some notes."</p> + +<p>"For a book? Come over to Sicily and see us."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you will want me there."</p> + +<p>The trap in the roof was opened, and a beery eye, +with a luscious smile in it, peered down upon them.</p> + +<p>"'Ad enough of the river, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Comment?" said Artois.</p> + +<p>"We'd better go home, I suppose," Hermione said.</p> + +<p>She gave her address to the cabman, and they drove +in silence to Eaton Place.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Lucrezia Gabbi</span> came out onto the terrace of the +Casa del Prete on Monte Amato, shaded her eyes with +her brown hands, and gazed down across the ravine +over the olive-trees and the vines to the mountain-side +opposite, along which, among rocks and Barbary figs, +wound a tiny track trodden by the few contadini whose +stone cottages, some of them scarcely more than huts, +were scattered here and there upon the surrounding +heights that looked towards Etna and the sea. Lucrezia +was dressed in her best. She wore a dark-stuff +gown covered in the front by a long blue-and-white +apron. Although really happiest in her mind when +her feet were bare, she had donned a pair of white +stockings and low slippers, and over her thick, dark +hair was tied a handkerchief gay with a pattern of +brilliant yellow flowers on a white ground. This was +a present from Gaspare bought at the town of Cattaro +at the foot of the mountains, and worn now for the +first time in honor of a great occasion.</p> + +<p>To-day Lucrezia was in the service of distinguished +forestieri, and she was gazing now across the ravine +straining her eyes to see a procession winding up from +the sea: donkeys laden with luggage, and her new +padrone and padrona pioneered by the radiant Gaspare +towards their mountain home. It was a good day +for their arrival. Nobody could deny that. Even +Lucrezia, who was accustomed to fine weather, having +lived all her life in Sicily, was struck to a certain blinking +admiration as she stepped out on to the terrace,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +and murmured to herself and a cat which was basking +on the stone seat that faced the cottage between broken +columns, round which roses twined:</p> + +<p>"Che tempo fa oggi! Santa Madonna, che bel tempo!"</p> + +<p>On this morning of February the clearness of the +atmosphere was in truth almost African. Under the +cloudless sky every detail of the great view from the +terrace stood out with a magical distinctness. The lines +of the mountains were sharply defined against the profound +blue. The forms of the gray rocks scattered +upon their slopes, of the peasants' houses, of the olive +and oak trees which grew thickly on the left flank of +Monte Amato below the priest's house, showed themselves +in the sunshine with the bold frankness which is +part of the glory of all things in the south. The figures +of stationary or moving goatherds and laborers, watching +their flocks or toiling among the vineyards and the +orchards, were relieved against the face of nature in +the shimmer of the glad gold in this Eden, with a mingling +of delicacy and significance which had in it something +ethereal and mysterious, a hint of fairy-land. Far +off, rising calmly in an immense slope, a slope that +was classical in its dignity, profound in its sobriety, +remote, yet neither cold nor sad, Etna soared towards +the heaven, sending from its summit, on which the +snows still lingered, a steady plume of ivory smoke. +In the nearer foreground, upon a jagged crest of beetling +rock, the ruins of a Saracenic castle dominated a +huddled village, whose houses seemed to cling frantically +to the cliff, as if each one were in fear of being +separated from its brethren and tossed into the sea. +And far below that sea spread forth its waveless, silent +wonder to a horizon-line so distant that the eyes which +looked upon it could scarcely distinguish sea from sky—a +line which surely united not divided two shades of +flawless blue, linking them in a brotherhood which +should be everlasting. Few sounds, and these but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +slight ones, stirred in the breast of the ardent silence; +some little notes of birds, fragmentary and wandering, +wayward as pilgrims who had forgotten to what shrine +they bent their steps, some little notes of bells swinging +beneath the tufted chins of goats, the wail of a +woman's song, old in its quiet melancholy, Oriental in +its strange irregularity of rhythm, and the careless +twitter of a tarantella, played upon a reed-flute by a +secluded shepherd-boy beneath the bending silver green +of tressy olives beside a tiny stream.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was accustomed to it all. She had been born +beside that sea. Etna had looked down upon her as she +sucked and cried, toddled and played, grew to a lusty +girlhood, and on into young womanhood with its gayety +and unreason, its work and hopes and dreams. That +Oriental song—she had sung it often on the mountain-sides, +as she set her bare, brown feet on the warm stones, +and lifted her head with a native pride beneath its +burdening pannier or its jar of water from the well. +And she had many a time danced to the tarantella that +the shepherd-boy was fluting, clapping her strong +hands and swinging her broad hips, while the great +rings in her ears shook to and fro, and her whole healthy +body quivered to the spirit of the tune. She knew it +all. It was and had always been part of her life.</p> + +<p>Hermione's garden of paradise generally seemed +homely enough to Lucrezia. Yet to-day, perhaps because +she was dressed in her best on a day that was +not a festa, and wore a silver chain with a coral charm +on it, and had shoes on her feet, there seemed to her +a newness, almost a strangeness in the wideness and +the silence, in the sunshine and the music, something +that made her breathe out a sigh, and stare with almost +wondering eyes on Etna and the sea. She soon lost +her vague sensation that her life lay, perhaps, in a +home of magic, however, when she looked again at the +mule track which wound upward from the distant town,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +in which the train from Messina must by this time have +deposited her forestieri, and began to think more naturally +of the days that lay before her, of her novel and +important duties, and of the unusual sums of money +that her activities were to earn her.</p> + +<p>Gaspare, who, as major-domo, had chosen her imperiously +for his assistant and underling in the house +of the priest, had informed her that she was to receive +twenty-five lire a month for her services, besides food +and lodging, and plenty of the good, red wine of Amato. +To Lucrezia such wages seemed prodigal. She had +never yet earned more than the half of them. But it +was not only this prospect of riches which now moved +and excited her.</p> + +<p>She was to live in a splendidly furnished house with +wealthy and distinguished people; she was to sleep in +a room all to herself, in a bed that no one had a right +to except herself. This was an experience that in her +most sanguine moments she had never anticipated. +All her life had been passed en famille in the village of +Marechiaro, which lay on a table-land at the foot of +Monte Amato, half-way down to the sea. The Gabbis +were numerous, and they all lived in one room, to which +cats, hens, and turkeys resorted with much freedom +and in considerable numbers. Lucrezia had never +known, perhaps had never desired, a moment of privacy, +but now she began to awake to the fact that privacy +and daintiness and pretty furniture were very interesting, +and even touching, as well as very phenomenal +additions to a young woman's existence. What could +the people who had the power to provide them be like? +She scanned the mule-track with growing eagerness, +but the procession did not appear. She saw only an +old contadino in a long woollen cap riding slowly into +the recesses of the hills on a donkey, and a small boy +leading his goats to pasture. The train must have +been late. She turned round from the view and ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>amined +her new home once more. Already she knew it +by heart, yet the wonder of it still encompassed her spirit.</p> + +<p>Hermione's cottage, the eyrie to which she was bringing +Maurice Delarey, was only a cottage, although to Lucrezia +it seemed almost a palace. It was whitewashed, +with a sloping roof of tiles, and windows with green +Venetian shutters. Although it now belonged to a contadino, +it had originally been built by a priest, who +had possessed vineyards on the mountain-side, and who +wished to have a home to which he could escape from +the town where he lived when the burning heats of the +summer set in. Above his vineyards, some hundreds +of yards from the summit of the mountain, and close +to a grove of oaks and olive-trees, which grew among +a turmoil of mighty boulders, he had terraced out the +slope and set his country home. At the edge of the +rough path which led to the cottage from the ravine +below was a ruined Norman arch. This served as a +portal of entrance. Between it and the cottage was +a well surrounded by crumbling walls, with stone seats +built into them. Passing that, one came at once to the +terrace of earth, fronted by a low wall with narrow +seats covered with white tiles, and divided by broken +columns that edged the ravine and commanded the +great view on which Lucrezia had been gazing. On the +wall of this terrace were stone vases, in which scarlet +geraniums were growing. Red roses twined around the +columns, and, beneath, the steep side of the ravine was +clothed with a tangle of vegetation, olive and peach, +pear and apple trees. Behind the cottage rose the +bare mountain-side, covered with loose stones and rocks, +among which in every available interstice the diligent +peasants had sown corn and barley. Here and there +upon the mountains distant cottages were visible, but +on Monte Amato Hermione's was the last, the most +intrepid. None other ventured to cling to the warm +earth so high above the sea and in a place so solitary.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +That was why Hermione loved it, because it was near +the sky and very far away.</p> + +<p>Now, after an earnest, ruminating glance at the cottage, +Lucrezia walked across the terrace and reverently +entered it by a door which opened onto a flight of three +steps leading down to the terrace. Already she knew +the interior by heart, but she had not lost her awe of +it, her sense almost of being in a church when she stood +among the furniture, the hangings, and the pictures +which she had helped to arrange under Gaspare's orders. +The room she now stood in was the parlor of +the cottage, serving as dining-room, drawing-room, +boudoir, and den. Although it must be put to so +many purposes, it was only a small, square chamber, +and very simply furnished. The walls, like all the +walls of the cottage inside and out, were whitewashed. +On the floor was a carpet that had been woven in Kairouan, +the sacred African town where Artois was now +staying and making notes for his new book. It was +thick and rough, and many-colored almost as Joseph's +coat; brilliant but not garish, for the African has a +strange art of making colors friends instead of enemies, +of blending them into harmonies that are gay yet +touched with peace. On the walls hung a few reproductions +of fine pictures: an old woman of Rembrandt, +in whose wrinkled face and glittering dark eyes the +past pleasures and past sorrows of life seemed tenderly, +pensively united, mellowed by the years into a soft +bloom, a quiet beauty; an allegory of Watts, fierce with +inspiration like fire mounting up to an opening heaven; +a landscape of Frederick Walker's, the romance of harvest +in an autumn land; Burne-Jones's "The Mill," +and a copy in oils of a knight of Gustave Moreau's, riding +in armor over the summit of a hill into an unseen +country of errantry, some fairy-land forlorn. There was, +too, an old Venetian mirror in a curiously twisted golden +frame.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> + +<p>At the two small windows on either side of the door, +which was half glass, half white-painted wood, were +thin curtains of pale gray-blue and white, bought in +the bazaars of Tunis. For furniture there were a folding-table +of brown, polished wood, a large divan with +many cushions, two deck-chairs of the telescope species, +that can be made long or short at will, a writing-table, +a cottage piano, and four round wicker chairs with +arms. In one corner of the room stood a tall clock +with a burnished copper face, and in another a cupboard +containing glass and china. A door at the back, +which led into the kitchen, was covered with an Oriental +portière. On the writing-table, and on some dwarf +bookcases already filled with books left behind by Hermione +on her last visit to Sicily, stood rough jars of +blue, yellow, and white pottery, filled with roses and +geraniums arranged by Gaspare. To the left of the +room, as Lucrezia faced it, was a door leading into the +bedroom, of the master and mistress.</p> + +<p>After a long moment of admiring contemplation, +Lucrezia went into this bedroom, in which she was +specially interested, as it was to be her special care. +All was white here, walls, ceiling, wooden beds, tables, +the toilet service, the bookcases. For there were books +here, too, books which Lucrezia examined with an awful +wonder, not knowing how to read. In the window-seat +were white cushions. On the chest of drawers were +more red roses and geraniums. It was a virginal room, +into which the bright, golden sunbeams stole under the +striped awning outside the low window with surely a +hesitating modesty, as if afraid to find themselves intruders. +The whiteness, the intense quietness of the +room, through whose window could be seen a space of +far-off sea, a space of mountain-flank, and, when one +came near to it, and the awning was drawn up, the +snowy cone of Etna, struck now to the soul of Lucrezia +a sense of half-puzzled peace. Her large eyes opened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +wider, and she laid her hands on her hips and fell into +a sort of dream as she stood there, hearing only the +faint and regular ticking of the clock in the sitting-room. +She was well accustomed to the silence of the +mountain world and never heeded it, but peace within +four walls was almost unknown to her. Here no hens +fluttered, no turkeys went to and fro elongating their +necks, no children played and squalled, no women +argued and gossiped, quarrelled and worked, no men +tramped in and out, grumbled and spat. A perfectly +clean and perfectly peaceful room—it was marvellous, +it was—she sighed again. What must it be like to be +gentlefolk, to have the money to buy calm and cleanliness?</p> + +<p>Suddenly she moved, took her hands from her hips, +settled her yellow handkerchief, and smiled. The silence +had been broken by a sound all true Sicilians +love, the buzz and the drowsy wail of the ceramella, +the bagpipes which the shepherds play as they come +down from the hills to the villages when the festival of +the Natale is approaching. It was as yet very faint +and distant, coming from the mountain-side behind +the cottage, but Lucrezia knew the tune. It was part +of her existence, part of Etna, the olive groves, the +vineyards, and the sea, part of that old, old Sicily which +dwells in the blood and shines in the eyes, and is alive +in the songs and the dances of these children of the sun, +and of legends and of mingled races from many lands. +It was the "Pastorale," and she knew who was playing +it—Sebastiano, the shepherd, who had lived with the +brigands in the forests that look down upon the Isles +of Lipari, who now kept his father's goats among the +rocks, and knew every stone and every cave on Etna, +and who had a chest and arms of iron, and legs that no +climbing could fatigue, and whose great, brown fingers, +that could break a man's wrist, drew such delicate tones +from the reed pipe that, when he played it, even the old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +man's thoughts were turned to dancing and the old +woman's to love. But now he was being important, +he was playing the ceramella, into which no shepherd +could pour such a volume of breath as he, from which +none could bring such a volume of warm and lusty +music. It was Sebastiano coming down from the top +of Monte Amato to welcome the forestieri.</p> + +<p>The music grew louder, and presently a dog barked +outside on the terrace. Lucrezia ran to the window. +A great white-and-yellow, blunt-faced, pale-eyed dog, +his neck surrounded by a spiked collar, stood there +sniffing and looking savage, his feathery tail cocked up +pugnaciously over his back.</p> + +<p>"Sebastiano!" called Lucrezia, leaning out of the +window under the awning—"Sebastiano!"</p> + +<p>Then she drew back laughing, and squatted down on +the floor, concealed by the window-seat. The sound +of the pipes increased till their rough drone seemed to +be in the room, bidding a rustic defiance to its whiteness +and its silence. Still squatting on the floor, Lucrezia +called out once more:</p> + +<p>"Sebastiano!"</p> + +<p>Abruptly the tune ceased and the silence returned, +emphasized by the vanished music. Lucrezia scarcely +breathed. Her face was flushed, for she was struggling +against an impulse to laugh, which almost overmastered +her. After a minute she heard the dog's short bark +again, then a man's foot shifting on the terrace, then +suddenly a noise of breathing above her head close to +her hair. With a little scream she shrank back and +looked up. A man's face was gazing down at her. It +was a very brown and very masculine face, roughened +by wind and toughened by sun, with keen, steady, almost +insolent eyes, black and shining, stiff, black hair, +that looked as if it had been crimped, a mustache +sprouting above a wide, slightly animal mouth full of +splendid teeth, and a square, brutal, but very manly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +chin. On the head was a Sicilian cap, long and hanging +down at the left side. There were ear-rings in the +man's large, well-shaped ears, and over the window-ledge +protruded the swollen bladder, like a dead, bloated +monster, from which he had been drawing his antique +tune.</p> + +<p>He stared down at Lucrezia with a half-contemptuous +humor, and she up at him with a wide-eyed, unconcealed +adoration. Then he looked curiously round the +room, with a sharp intelligence that took in every detail +in a moment.</p> + +<p>"Per Dio!" he ejaculated. "Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>He looked at Lucrezia, folded his brawny arms on the +window-sill, and said:</p> + +<p>"They've got plenty of soldi."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia nodded, not without personal pride.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare says—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know as much as Gaspare," interrupted Sebastiano, +brusquely. "The signora is my friend. When +she was here before I saw her many times. But for me +she would never have taken the Casa del Prete."</p> + +<p>"Why was that?" asked Lucrezia, with reverence.</p> + +<p>"They told her in Marechiaro that it was not safe for +a lady to live up here alone, that when the night came +no one could tell what would happen."</p> + +<p>"But, Gaspare—"</p> + +<p>"Does Gaspare know every grotto on Etna? Has +Gaspare lived eight years with the briganti? And the +Mafia—has Gaspare—"</p> + +<p>He paused, laughed, pulled his mustache, and added:</p> + +<p>"If the signora had not been assured of my protection +she would never have come up here."</p> + +<p>"But now she has a husband."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He glanced again round the room.</p> + +<p>"One can see that. Per Dio, it is like the snow on +the top of Etna."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lucrezia got up actively from the floor and came +close to Sebastiano.</p> + +<p>"What is the padrona like, Sebastiano?" she asked. +"I have seen her, but I have never spoken to her."</p> + +<p>"She is simpatica—she will do you no harm."</p> + +<p>"And is she generous?"</p> + +<p>"Ready to give soldi to every one who is in trouble. +But if you once deceive her she will never look at you +again."</p> + +<p>"Then I will not deceive her," said Lucrezia, knitting +her brows.</p> + +<p>"Better not. She is not like us. She thinks to tell +a lie is a sin against the Madonna, I believe."</p> + +<p>"But then what will the padrone do?" asked Lucrezia, +innocently.</p> + +<p>"Tell his woman the truth, like all husbands," replied +Sebastiano, with a broadly satirical grin. "As +your man will some day, Lucrezia mia. All husbands +are good and faithful. Don't you know that?"</p> + +<p>"Macchè!"</p> + +<p>She laughed loudly, with an incredulity quite free +from bitterness.</p> + +<p>"Men are not like us," she added. "They tell us +whatever they please, and do always whatever they like. +We must sit in the doorway and keep our back to the +street for fear a man should smile at us, and they can +stay out all night, and come back in the morning, and +say they've been fishing at Isola Bella, or sleeping out +to guard the vines, and we've got to say, 'Si, Salvatore!' +or 'Si, Guido!' when we know very well—"</p> + +<p>"What, Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>She looked into his twinkling eyes and reddened +slightly, sticking out her under lip.</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to tell you."</p> + +<p>"You have no business to know."</p> + +<p>"And how can I help—they're coming!"</p> + +<p>Sebastiano's dog had barked again on the terrace.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +Sebastiano lifted the ceramalla quickly from the window-sill +and turned round, while Lucrezia darted out through +the door, across the sitting-room, and out onto the +terrace.</p> + +<p>"Are they there, Sebastiano? Are they there?"</p> + +<p>He stood by the terrace wall, shading his eyes with +his hand.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" he said, pointing across the ravine.</p> + +<p>Far off, winding up from the sea slowly among the +rocks and the olive-trees, was a procession of donkeys, +faintly relieved in the brilliant sunshine against the +mountain-side.</p> + +<p>"One," counted Sebastiano, "two, three, four—there +are four. The signore is walking, the signora is riding. +Whose donkeys have they got? Gaspare's father's, of +course. I told Gaspare to take Ciccio's, and—it is too +far to see, but I'll soon make them hear me. The signora +loves the 'Pastorale.' She says there is all Sicily +in it. She loves it more than the tarantella, for she is +good, Lucrezia—don't forget that—though she is not +a Catholic, and perhaps it makes her think of the coming +of the Bambino and of the Madonna. Ah! She +will smile now and clap her hands when she hears."</p> + +<p>He put the pipe to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and +began to play the "Pastorale" with all his might, while +Lucrezia listened, staring across the ravine at the creeping +donkey, which was bearing Hermione upward to her +garden of paradise near the sky.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a><b>IV</b></h2> + + +<p>"And then, signora, I said to Lucrezia, 'the padrona +loves Zampaglione, and you must be sure to—'"</p> + +<p>"Wait, Gaspare! I thought I heard—Yes, it is, it +is! Hush! Maurice—listen!"</p> + +<p>Hermione pulled up her donkey, which was the last +of the little procession, laid her hand on her husband's +arm, and held her breath, looking upward across the +ravine to the opposite slope where, made tiny by distance, +she saw the white line of the low terrace wall of +the Casa del Prete, the black dots, which were the heads +of Sebastiano and Lucrezia. The other donkeys tripped +on among the stones and vanished, with their attendant +boys, Gaspare's friends, round the angle of a great +rock, but Gaspare stood still beside his padrona, with his +brown hand on her donkey's neck, and Maurice Delarey, +following her eyes, looked and listened like a statue of +that Mercury to which Artois had compared him.</p> + +<p>"It's the 'Pastorale,'" Hermione whispered. "The +'Pastorale'!"</p> + +<p>Her lips parted. Tears came into her eyes, those +tears that come to a woman in a moment of supreme +joy that seems to wipe out all the sorrows of the past. +She felt as if she were in a great dream, one of those +rare and exquisite dreams that sometimes bathe the +human spirit, as a warm wave of the Ionian Sea bathes +the Sicilian shore in the shadow of an orange grove, +murmuring peace. In that old tune of the "Pastorale" +all her thoughts of Sicily, and her knowledge of Sicily, +and her imaginations, and her deep and passionately<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +tender and even ecstatic love of Sicily seemed folded +and cherished like birds in a nest. She could never have +explained, she could only feel how. In the melody, +with its drone bass, the very history of the enchanted +island was surely breathed out. Ulysses stood to listen +among the flocks of Polyphemus. Empedocles stayed +his feet among the groves of Etna to hear it. And +Persephone, wandering among the fields of asphodel, +paused with her white hands out-stretched to catch +its drowsy beauty; and Arethusa, turned into a fountain, +hushed her music to let it have its way. And +Hermione heard in it the voice of the Bambino, the +Christ-child, to whose manger-cradle the shepherds followed +the star, and the voice of the Madonna, Maria +stella del mare, whom the peasants love in Sicily as +the child loves its mother. And those peasants were +in it, too, people of the lava wastes and the lava terraces +where the vines are green against the black, people +of the hazel and the beech forests, where the little +owl cries at eve, people of the plains where, beneath the +yellow lemons, spring the yellow flowers that are like +their joyous reflection in the grasses, people of the sea, +that wonderful purple sea in whose depth of color +eternity seems caught. The altars of the pagan world +were in it, and the wayside shrines before which the +little lamps are lit by night upon the lonely mountain-sides, +the old faith and the new, and the love of a land +that lives on from generation to generation in the pulsing +breasts of men.</p> + +<p>And Maurice was in it, too, and Hermione and her love +for him and his for her.</p> + +<p>Gaspare did not move. He loved the "Pastorale" almost +without knowing that he loved it. It reminded +him of the festa of Natale, when, as a child, dressed in +a long, white garment, he had carried a blazing torch +of straw down the steps of the church of San Pancrazio +before the canopy that sheltered the Bambino. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +a part of his life, as his mother was, and Tito the donkey, +and the vineyards, the sea, the sun. It pleased +him to hear it, and to feel that his padrona from a far +country loved it, and his isle, his "Paese" in which it +sounded. So, though he had been impatient to reach +the Casa del Prete and enjoy the reward of praise which +he considered was his due for his forethought and his +labors, he stood very still by Tito, with his great, brown +eyes fixed, and the donkey switch drooping in the hand +that hung at his side.</p> + +<p>And Hermione for a moment gave herself entirely to +her dream.</p> + +<p>She had carried out the plan which she had made. +She and Maurice Delarey had been married quietly, early +one morning in London, and had caught the boat-train +at Victoria, and travelled through to Sicily without +stopping on the way to rest. She wanted to plunge +Maurice in the south at once, not to lead him slowly, +step by step, towards it. And so, after three nights in the +train, they had opened their eyes to the quiet sea near +Reggio, to the clustering houses under the mountains +of Messina, to the high-prowed fishermen's boats painted +blue and yellow, to the coast-line which wound away +from the straits till it stole out to that almost phantasmal +point where Siracusa lies, to the slope of Etna, to +the orange gardens and the olives, and the great, dry +water courses like giant highways leading up into the +mountains. And from the train they had come up +here into the recesses of the hills to hear their welcome +of the "Pastorale." It was a contrast to make a dream, +the roar of ceaseless travel melting into this radiant +silence, this inmost heart of peace. They had rushed +through great cities to this old land of mountains and +of legends, and up there on the height from which the +droning music dropped to them through the sunshine +was their home, the solitary house which was to shelter +their true marriage.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>Delarey was almost confused by it all. Half dazed +by the noise of the journey, he was now half dazed by +the wonder of the quiet as he stood near Gaspare and +listened to Sebastiano's music, and looked upward to +the white terrace wall.</p> + +<p>Hermione was to be his possession here, in this strange +and far-off land, among these simple peasant people. +So he thought of them, not versed yet in the complex +Sicilian character. He listened, and he looked at Gaspare. +He saw a boy of eighteen, short as are most +Sicilians, but straight as an arrow, well made, active as +a cat, rather of the Greek than of the Arab type so +often met with in Sicily, with bold, well-cut features, +wonderfully regular and wonderfully small, square, +white teeth, thick, black eyebrows, and enormous brown +eyes sheltered by the largest lashes he had ever seen. +The very low forehead was edged by a mass of hair +that had small gleams of bright gold here and there in +the front, but that farther back on the head was of a +brown so dark as to look nearly black. Gaspare was +dressed in a homely suit of light-colored linen with no +collar and a shirt open at the throat, showing a section +of chest tanned by the sun. Stout mountain boots +were on his feet, and a white linen hat was tipped carelessly +to the back of his head, leaving his expressive, +ardently audacious, but not unpleasantly impudent face +exposed to the golden rays of which he had no fear.</p> + +<p>As Delarey looked at him he felt oddly at home with +him, almost as if he stood beside a young brother. Yet +he could scarcely speak Gaspare's language, and knew +nothing of his thoughts, his feelings, his hopes, his way +of life. It was an odd sensation, a subtle sympathy not +founded upon knowledge. It seemed to now into Delarey's +heart out of the heart of the sun, to steal into it +with the music of the "Pastorale."</p> + +<p>"I feel—I feel almost as if I belonged here," he whispered +to Hermione, at last.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> + +<p>She turned her head and looked down on him from +her donkey. The tears were still in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I always knew you belonged to the blessed, blessed +south," she said, in a low voice. "Do you care for +that?"</p> + +<p>She pointed towards the terrace.</p> + +<p>"That music?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Tremendously, but I don't know why. Is it very +beautiful?"</p> + +<p>"I sometimes think it is the most beautiful music I +have ever heard. At any rate, I have always loved it +more than all other music, and now—well, you can guess +if I love it now."</p> + +<p>She dropped one hand against the donkey's warm +shoulder. Maurice took it in his warm hand.</p> + +<p>"All Sicily, all the real, wild Sicily seems to be in it. +They play it in the churches on the night of the Natale," +she went on, after a moment. "I shall never forget +hearing it for the first time. I felt as if it took hold +of my very soul with hands like the hands of the Bambino."</p> + +<p>She broke off. A tear had fallen down upon her +cheek.</p> + +<p>"Avanti Gaspare!" she said.</p> + +<p>Gaspare lifted his switch and gave Tito a tap, calling +out "Ah!" in a loud, manly voice. The donkey moved +on, tripping carefully among the stones. They mounted +slowly up towards the "Pastorale." Presently Hermione +said to Maurice, who kept beside her in spite of the +narrowness of the path:</p> + +<p>"Everything seems very strange to me to-day. Can +you guess why?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Tell me," he answered.</p> + +<p>"It's this. I never expected to be perfectly happy. +We all have our dreams, I suppose. We all think now +and then, 'If only I could have this with that, this per<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>son +in that place, I could be happy.' And perhaps we +have sometimes a part of our dream turned into reality, +though even that comes seldom. But to have the two, +to have the two halves of our dream fitted together and +made reality—isn't that rare? Long ago, when I was +a girl, I always used to think—'If I could ever be with +the one I loved in the south—alone, quite alone, quite +away from the world, I could be perfectly happy.' +Well, years after I thought that I came here. I knew +at once I had found my ideal place. One-half of my +dream was made real and was mine. That was much, +wasn't it? But getting this part of what I longed for +sometimes made me feel unutterably sad. I had never +seen you then, but often when I sat on that little terrace +up there I felt a passionate desire to have a human +being whom I loved beside me. I loved no one then, +but I wanted, I needed to love. Do men ever feel that? +Women do, often, nearly always I think. The beauty +made me want to love. Sometimes, as I leaned over +the wall, I heard a shepherd-boy below in the ravine +play on his pipe, or I heard the goat-bells ringing under +the olives. Sometimes at night I saw distant lights, +like fire-flies, lamps carried by peasants going to their +homes in the mountains from a festa in honor of some +saint, stealing upward through the darkness, or I saw +the fishermen's lights burning in the boats far off upon +the sea. Then—then I knew that I had only half my +dream, and I was ungrateful, Maurice. I almost wished +that I had never had this half, because it made me +realize what it would be to have the whole. It made +me realize the mutilation, the incompleteness of being +in perfect beauty without love. And now—now I've +actually got all I ever wanted, and much more, because +I didn't know then at all what it would really mean +to me to have it. And, besides, I never thought that +God would select me for perfect happiness. Why should +he? What have I ever done to be worthy of such a gift?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You've been yourself," he answered.</p> + +<p>At this moment the path narrowed and he had to fall +behind, and they did not speak again till they had +clambered up the last bit of the way, steep almost as +the side of a house, passed through the old ruined arch, +and came out upon the terrace before the Casa del Prete.</p> + +<p>Sebastiano met them, still playing lustily upon his +pipe, while the sweat dripped from his sunburned face; +but Lucrezia, suddenly overcome by shyness, had disappeared +round the corner of the cottage to the kitchen. +The donkey boys were resting on the stone seats in easy +attitudes, waiting for Gaspare's orders to unload, and +looking forward to a drink of the Monte Amato wine. +When they had had it they meant to carry out a plan +devised by the radiant Gaspare, to dance a tarantella +for the forestieri while Sebastiano played the flute. But +no hint of this intention was to be given till the luggage +had been taken down and carried into the house. Their +bright faces were all twinkling with the knowledge of +their secret. When at length Sebastiano had put down +the ceramella and shaken Hermione and Maurice warmly +by the hand, and Gaspare had roughly, but with roars +of laughter, dragged Lucrezia into the light of day to +be presented, Hermione took her husband in to see +their home. On the table in the sitting-room lay a +letter.</p> + +<p>"A letter already!" she said.</p> + +<p>There was a sound almost of vexation in her voice. +The little white thing lying there seemed to bring a +breath of the world she wanted to forget into their +solitude.</p> + +<p>"Who can have written?"</p> + +<p>She took it up and felt contrition.</p> + +<p>"It's from Emile!" she exclaimed. "How good of +him to remember! This must be his welcome."</p> + +<p>"Read it, Hermione," said Maurice. "I'll look after +Gaspare."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>"Better not. He's here to look after us. But you'll +soon understand him, very soon, and he you. You +speak different languages, but you both belong to the +south. Let him alone, Maurice. We'll read this together. +I'm sure it's for you as well as me."</p> + +<p>And while Gaspare and the boys carried in the trunks +she sat down by the table and opened Emile's letter. +It was very short, and was addressed from Kairouan, +where Artois had established himself for the spring in +an Arab house. She began reading it aloud in French:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"This is a word—perhaps unwelcome, for I think I understand, +dear friend, something of what you are feeling and of +what you desire just now—a word of welcome to your garden +of paradise. May there never be an angel with a flaming sword +to keep the gate against you. Listen to the shepherds fluting, +dream, or, better, live, as you are grandly capable of living, +under the old olives of Sicily. Take your golden time boldly +with both hands. Life may seem to most of us who think in +the main a melancholy, even a tortured thing, but when it is +not so for a while to one who can think as you can think, the +power of thought, of deep thought, intensifies its glory. You +will never enjoy as might a pagan, perhaps never as might a +saint. But you will enjoy as a generous-blooded woman with +a heart that only your friends—I should like to dare to say +only one friend—know in its rare entirety. There is an egoist +here, in the shadow of the mosques, who turns his face towards +Mecca, and prays that you may never leave your garden. E. A."</p> + +<p>"Does the Sicilian grandmother respond to the magic of the +south?"</p></div> + +<p>When she drew near to the end of this letter Hermione +hesitated.</p> + +<p>"He—there's something," she said, "that is too +kind to me. I don't think I'll read it."</p> + +<p>"Don't," said Delarey. "But it can't be too kind."</p> + +<p>She saw the postscript and smiled.</p> + +<p>"And quite at the end there's an allusion to you."</p> + +<p>"Is there?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I must read that."</p> + +<p>And she read it.</p> + +<p>"He needn't be afraid of the grandmother's not responding, +need he, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said, smiling too. "But is that it, do you +think? Why should it be? Who wouldn't love this +place?"</p> + +<p>And he went to the open door and looked out towards +the sea.</p> + +<p>"Who wouldn't?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I have met an Englishman who was angry with +Etna for being the shape it is."</p> + +<p>"What an ass!"</p> + +<p>"I thought so, too. But, seriously, I expect the +grandmother has something to say in that matter of +your feeling already, as if you belonged here."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>He was still looking towards the distant sea far down +below them.</p> + +<p>"Is that an island?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Where?" said Hermione, getting up and coming +towards him. "Oh, that—no, it is a promontory, but +it's almost surrounded by the sea. There is only a +narrow ledge of rock, like a wall, connecting it with the +main-land, and in the rock there's a sort of natural +tunnel through which the sea flows. I've sometimes +been to picnic there. On the plateau hidden among +the trees there's a ruined house. I have spent many +hours reading and writing in it. They call it, in Marechiaro, +Casa delle Sirene—the house of the sirens."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Questo vino è bello e fino,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>cried Gaspare's voice outside.</p> + +<p>"A Brindisi!" said Hermione. "Gaspare's treating +the boys. Questo vino—oh, how glorious to be here +in Sicily!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>She put her arm through Delarey's, and drew him +out onto the terrace. Gaspare, Lucrezia, Sebastiano, +and the three boys stood there with glasses of red wine +in their hands raised high above their heads.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Questo vino è bello e fino,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">È portato da Castel Perini,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faccio brindisi alla Signora Ermini,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>continued Gaspare, joyously, and with an obvious pride +in his poetical powers.</p> + +<p>They all drank simultaneously, Lucrezia spluttering +a little out of shyness.</p> + +<p>"Monte Amato, Gaspare, not Castel Perini. But that +doesn't rhyme, eh? Bravo! But we must drink, too."</p> + +<p>Gaspare hastened to fill two more glasses.</p> + +<p>"Now it's our turn," cried Hermione.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Questo vino è bello e fino,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">È portato da Castello a mare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faccio brindisi al Signor Gaspare."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The boys burst into a hearty laugh, and Gaspare's +eyes gleamed with pleasure while Hermione and Maurice +drank. Then Sebastiano drew from the inner pocket +of his old jacket a little flute, smiling with an air of intense +and comic slyness which contorted his face.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Hermione, "I know—it's the tarantella!"</p> + +<p>She clapped her hands.</p> + +<p>"It only wanted that," she said to Maurice. "Only +that—the tarantella!"</p> + +<p>"Guai Lucrezia!" cried Gaspare, tyrannically.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia bounded to one side, bent her body inward, +and giggled with all her heart. Sebastiano leaned his +back against a column and put the flute to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Here, Maurice, here!" said Hermione.</p> + +<p>She made him sit down on one of the seats under the +parlor window, facing the view, while the four boys took +their places, one couple opposite to the other. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +Sebastiano began to twitter the tune familiar to the +Sicilians of Marechiaro, in which all the careless pagan +joy of life in the sun seems caught and flung out upon +a laughing, dancing world. Delarey laid his hands on +the warm tiles of the seat, leaned forward, and watched +with eager eyes. He had never seen the tarantella, +yet now with his sensation of expectation there was +blended another feeling. It seemed to him as if he +were going to see something he had known once, perhaps +very long ago, something that he had forgotten +and that was now going to be recalled to his memory. +Some nerve in his body responded to Sebastiano's lively +tune. A desire of movement came to him as he +saw the gay boys waiting on the terrace, their eyes +already dancing, although their bodies were still.</p> + +<p>Gaspare bent forward, lifted his hands above his +head, and began to snap his fingers in time to the music. +A look of joyous invitation had come into his eyes—an +expression that was almost coquettish, like the expression +of a child who has conceived some lively, innocent +design of which he thinks that no one knows +except himself. His young figure surely quivered with +a passion of merry mischief which was communicated +to his companions. In it there began to flame a spirit +that suggested undying youth. Even before they began +to dance the boys were transformed. If they had +ever known cares those cares had fled, for in the breasts +of those who can really dance the tarantella there is +no room for the smallest sorrow, in their hearts no +place for the most minute regret, anxiety, or wonder, +when the rapture of the measure is upon them. Away +goes everything but the pagan joy of life, the pagan +ecstasy of swift movement, and the leaping blood that +is quick as the motes in a sunray falling from a southern +sky. Delarey began to smile as he watched them, +and their expression was reflected in his eyes. Hermione +glanced at him and thought what a boy he looked.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +His eyes made her feel almost as if she were sitting with +a child.</p> + +<p>The mischief, the coquettish joy of the boys increased. +They snapped their fingers more loudly, +swayed their bodies, poised themselves first on one +foot, then on the other, then abruptly, and with a wildness +that was like the sudden crash of all the instruments +in an orchestra breaking in upon the melody of +a solitary flute, burst into the full frenzy of the dance. +And in the dance each seemed to be sportively creative, +ruled by his own sweet will.</p> + +<p>"That's why I love the tarantella more than any +other dance," Hermione murmured to her husband, +"because it seems to be the invention of the moment, +as if they were wild with joy and had to show it somehow, +and showed it beautifully by dancing. Look at +Gaspare now."</p> + +<p>With his hands held high above his head, and linked +together, Gaspare was springing into the air, as if propelled +by one of those boards which are used by acrobats +in circuses for leaping over horses. He had thrown +off his hat, and his low-growing hair, which was rather +long on the forehead, moved as he sprang upward, as +if his excitement, penetrating through every nerve in +his body, had filled it with electricity. While Hermione +watched him she almost expected to see its +golden tufts give off sparks in response to the sparkling +radiance that flashed from his laughing eyes. For in +all the wild activity of his changing movements Gaspare +never lost his coquettish expression, the look of +seductive mischief that seemed to invite the whole +world to be merry and mad as he was. His ever-smiling +lips and ever-smiling eyes defied fatigue, and his +young body—grace made a living, pulsing, aspiring +reality—suggested the tireless intensity of a flame. The +other boys danced well, but Gaspare outdid them all, +for they only looked gay while he looked mad with joy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +And to-day, at this moment, he felt exultant. He +had a padrona to whom he was devoted with that peculiar +sensitive devotion of the Sicilian which, once +it is fully aroused, is tremendous in its strength and +jealous in its doggedness. He was in command of +Lucrezia, and was respectfully looked up to by all his +boy friends of Marechiaro as one who could dispense +patronage, being a sort of purse-bearer and conductor +of rich forestieri in a strange land. Even Sebastiano, +a personage rather apt to be a little haughty in his +physical strength, and, though no longer a brigand, +no great respecter of others, showed him to-day a certain +deference which elated his boyish spirit. And all +his elation, all his joy in the present and hopes for the +future, he let out in the dance. To dance the tarantella +almost intoxicated him, even when he only danced +it in the village among the contadini, but to-day the +admiring eyes of his padrona were upon him. He knew +how she loved the tarantella. He knew, too, that she +wanted the padrone, her husband, to love it as she did. +Gaspare was very shrewd to read a woman's thoughts +so long as her love ran in them. Though but eighteen, +he was a man in certain knowledge. He understood, +almost unconsciously, a good deal of what Hermione +was feeling as she watched, and he put his whole soul +into the effort to shine, to dazzle, to rouse gayety and +wonder in the padrone, who saw him dance for the first +time. He was untiring in his variety and his invention. +Sometimes, light-footed in his mountain boots, with an +almost incredible swiftness and vim, he rushed from end +to end of the terrace. His feet twinkled in steps so +complicated and various that he made the eyes that +watched him wink as at a play of sparks in a furnace, +and his arms and hands were never still, yet never, even +for a second, fell into a curve that was ungraceful. +Sometimes his head was bent whimsically forward as if +in invitation. Sometimes he threw his whole body<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +backward, exposing his brown throat, and staring up at +the sun like a sun worshipper dancing to his divinity. +Sometimes he crouched on his haunches, clapping his +hands together rhythmically, and, with bent knees, +shooting out his legs like some jovially grotesque dwarf +promenading among a crowd of Follies. And always the +spirit of the dance seemed to increase within him, and +the intoxication of it to take more hold upon him, and +his eyes grew brighter and his face more radiant, and +his body more active, more utterly untiring, till he was +the living embodiment surely of all the youth and all +the gladness of the world.</p> + +<p>Hermione had kept Artois's letter in her hand, and +now, as she danced in spirit with Gaspare, and rejoiced +not only in her own joy, but in his, she thought suddenly +of that sentence in it—"Life may seem to most +of us who think in the main a melancholy, even a tortured, +thing." Life a tortured thing! She was thinking +now, exultantly thinking. Her thoughts were leaping, +spinning, crouching, whirling, rushing with Gaspare +in the sunshine. But life was a happy, a radiant +reality. No dream, it was more beautiful than any +dream, as the clear, when lovely, is more lovely than +even that which is exquisite and vague. She had, of +course, always known that in the world there is much +joy. Now she felt it, she felt all the joy of the world. +She felt the joy of sunshine and of blue, the joy of love +and of sympathy, the joy of health and of activity, the +joy of sane passion that fights not against any law of +God or man, the joy of liberty in a joyous land where +the climate is kindly, and, despite poverty and toil, +there are songs upon the lips of men, there are tarantellas +in their sun-browned bodies, there are the fires of +gayety in their bold, dark eyes. Joy, joy twittered in the +reed-flute of Sebastiano, and the boys were joys made +manifest. Hermione's eyes had filled with tears of +joy when among the olives she had heard the far-off<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +drone of the "Pastorale." Now they shone with a joy +that was different, less subtly sweet, perhaps, but more +buoyant, more fearless, more careless. The glory of +the pagan world was round about her, and for a moment +her heart was like the heart of a nymph scattering +roses in a Bacchic triumph.</p> + +<p>Maurice moved beside her, and she heard him breathing +quickly.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Maurice?" she asked. "You—do you—"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, understanding the question she +had not fully asked. "It drives me almost mad to sit +still and see those boys. Gaspare's like a merry devil +tempting one."</p> + +<p>As if Gaspare had understood what Maurice said, he +suddenly spun round from his companions, and began to +dance in front of Maurice and Hermione, provocatively, +invitingly, bending his head towards them, and laughing +almost in their faces, but without a trace of impertinence. +He did not speak, though his lips were +parted, showing two rows of even, tiny teeth, but his +radiant eyes called to them, scolded them for their inactivity, +chaffed them for it, wondered how long it +would last, and seemed to deny that it could last forever.</p> + +<p>"What eyes!" said Hermione. "Did you ever see +anything so expressive?"</p> + +<p>Maurice did not answer. He was watching Gaspare, +fascinated, completely under the spell of the dance. +The blood was beginning to boil in his veins, warm +blood of the south that he had never before felt in his +body. Artois had spoken to Hermione of "the call of +the blood." Maurice began to hear it now, to long to +obey it.</p> + +<p>Gaspare clapped his hands alternately in front of +him and behind him, leaping from side to side, with a +step in which one foot crossed over the other, and holding +his body slightly curved inward. And all the time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +he kept his eyes on Delarey, and the wily, merry invitation +grew stronger in them.</p> + +<p>"Venga!" he whispered, always dancing. "Venga, +signorino, venga—venga!"</p> + +<p>He spun round, clapped his hands furiously, snapped +his fingers, and jumped back. Then he held out his +hands to Delarey, with a gay authority that was irresistible.</p> + +<p>"Venga, venga, signorino! Venga, venga!"</p> + +<p>All the blood in Delarey responded, chasing away +something—was it a shyness, a self-consciousness of +love—that till now had held him back from the gratification +of his desire? He sprang up and he danced the +tarantella, danced it almost as if he had danced it all +his life, with a natural grace, a frolicsome abandon that +no pure-blooded Englishman could ever achieve, danced +it as perhaps once the Sicilian grandmother had danced +it under the shadow of Etna. Whatever Gaspare did +he imitated, with a swiftness and a certainty that were +amazing, and Gaspare, intoxicated by having such a +pupil, outdid himself in countless changing activities. +It was like a game and like a duel, for Gaspare presently +began almost to fight for supremacy as he watched +Delarey's startling aptitude in the tarantella, which, till +this moment, he had considered the possession of those +born in Sicily and of Sicilian blood. He seemed to feel +that this pupil might in time become the master, and +to be put upon his mettle, and he put forth all his cunning +to be too much for Delarey.</p> + +<p>And Hermione was left alone, watching, for Lucrezia +had disappeared, suddenly mindful of some household +duty.</p> + +<p>When Delarey sprang up she felt a thrill of responsive +excitement, and when she watched his first steps, +and noted the look of youth in him, the supple southern +grace that rivalled the boyish grace of Gaspare, she was +filled with that warm, that almost yearning admiration<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +which is the child of love. But another feeling followed—a +feeling of melancholy. As she watched him +dancing with the four boys, a gulf seemed to yawn between +her and them. She was alone on her side of this +gulf, quite alone. They were remote from her. She +suddenly realized that Delarey belonged to the south, +and that she did not. Despite all her understanding of +the beauty of the south, all her sympathy for the spirit +of the south, all her passionate love of the south, she +was not of it. She came to it as a guest. But Delarey +was of it. She had never realized that absolutely till +this moment. Despite his English parentage and upbringing, +the southern strain in his ancestry had been +revived in him. The drop of southern blood in his +veins was his master. She had not married an Englishman.</p> + +<p>Once again, and in all the glowing sunshine, with +Etna and the sea before her, and the sound of Sebastiano's +flute in her ears, she was on the Thames Embankment +in the night with Artois, and heard his deep +voice speaking to her.</p> + +<p>"Does he know his own blood?" said the voice. "Our +blood governs us when the time comes."</p> + +<p>And again the voice said:</p> + +<p>"The possible call of the blood that he doesn't understand."</p> + +<p>"The call of the blood." There was now something +almost terrible to Hermione in that phrase, something +menacing and irresistible. Were men, then, governed +irrevocably, dominated by the blood that was in them? +Artois had certainly seemed to imply that they were, +and he knew men as few knew them. His powerful +intellect, like a search-light, illumined the hidden places, +discovering the concealed things of the souls of men. +But Artois was not a religious man, and Hermione had +a strong sense of religion, though she did not cling, as +many do, to any one creed. If the call of the blood<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +were irresistible in a man, then man was only a slave. +The criminal must not be condemned, nor the saint +exalted. Conduct was but obedience in one who had +no choice but to obey. Could she believe that?</p> + +<p>The dance grew wilder, swifter. Sebastiano quickened +the time till he was playing it prestissimo. One +of the boys, Giulio, dropped out exhausted. Then another, +Alfio, fell against the terrace wall, laughing and +wiping his streaming face. Finally Giuseppe gave in, +too, obviously against his will. But Gaspare and Maurice +still kept on. The game was certainly a duel now—a +duel which would not cease till Sebastiano put an end +to it by laying down his flute. But he, too, was on his +mettle and would not own fatigue. Suddenly Hermione +felt that she could not bear the dance any more. +It was, perhaps, absurd of her. Her brain, fatigued by +travel, was perhaps playing her tricks. But she felt as +if Maurice were escaping from her in this wild tarantella, +like a man escaping through a fantastic grotto from +some one who called to him near its entrance. A faint +sensation of something that was surely jealousy, the +first she had ever known, stirred in her heart—jealousy +of a tarantella.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she said.</p> + +<p>He did not hear her.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called. "Sebastiano—Gaspare—stop! +You'll kill yourselves!"</p> + +<p>Sebastiano caught her eye, finished the tune, and +took the flute from his lips. In truth he was not sorry +to be commanded to do the thing his pride of music +forbade him to do of his own will. Gaspare gave a wild, +boyish shout, and flung himself down on Giuseppe's +knees, clasping him round the neck jokingly. And +Maurice—he stood still on the terrace for a moment looking +dazed. Then the hot blood surged up to his head, +making it tingle under his hair, and he came over slowly, +almost shamefacedly, and sat down by Hermione.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"This sun's made me mad, I think," he said, looking +at her. "Why, how pale you are, Hermione!"</p> + +<p>"Am I? No, it must be the shadow of the awning +makes me look so. Oh, Maurice, you are indeed a southerner! +Do you know, I feel—I feel as if I had never +really seen you till now, here on this terrace, as if I had +never known you as you are till now, now that I've +watched you dance the tarantella."</p> + +<p>"I can't dance it, of course. It was absurd of me to +try."</p> + +<p>"Ask Gaspare! No, I'll ask him. Gaspare, can the +padrone dance the tarantella?"</p> + +<p>"Eh—altro!" said Gaspare, with admiring conviction.</p> + +<p>He got off Giuseppe's knee, where he had been curled +up almost like a big kitten, came and stood by Hermione, +and added:</p> + +<p>"Per Dio, signora, but the padrone is like one of us!"</p> + +<p>Hermione laughed. Now that the dance was over +and the twittering flute was silent, her sense of loneliness +and melancholy was departing. Soon, no doubt, +she would be able to look back upon it and laugh at it +as one laughs at moods that have passed away.</p> + +<p>"This is his first day in Sicily, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"There are forestieri who come here every year, and +who stay for months, and who can talk our language—yes, +and can even swear in dialetto as we can—but they +are not like the padrone. Not one of them could dance +the tarantella like that. Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>A radiant look of pleasure came into Maurice's face.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you've brought me here," he said. "Ah, +when you chose this place for our honeymoon you understood +me better than I understand myself, Hermione."</p> + +<p>"Did I?" she said, slowly. "But no, Maurice, I think +I chose a little selfishly. I was thinking of what I +wanted. Oh, the boys are going, and Sebastiano."</p> + +<p>That evening, when they had finished supper—they +did not wish to test Lucrezia's powers too severely by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +dining the first day—they came out onto the terrace. +Lucrezia and Gaspare were busily talking in the kitchen. +Tito, the donkey, was munching his hay under the low-pitched +roof of the out-house. Now and then they +could faintly hear the sound of his moving jaws, Lucrezia's +laughter, or Gaspare's eager voice. These +fragmentary noises scarcely disturbed the great silence +that lay about them, the night hush of the mountains +and the sea. Hermione sat down on the seat in the +terrace wall looking over the ravine. It was a moonless +night, but the sky was clear and spangled with stars. +There was a cool breeze blowing from Etna. Here and +there upon the mountains shone solitary lights, and one +was moving slowly through the darkness along the crest +of a hill opposite to them, a torch carried by some peasant +going to his hidden cottage among the olive-trees.</p> + +<p>Maurice lit his cigar and stood by Hermione, who was +sitting sideways and leaning her arms on the wall, and +looking out into the wide dimness in which, somewhere, +lay the ravine. He did not want to talk just then, and +she kept silence. This was really their wedding night, +and both of them were unusually conscious, but in different +ways, of the mystery that lay about them, and +that lay, too, within them. It was strange to be together +up here, far up in the mountains, isolated in their +love. Below the wall, on the side of the ravine, the +leaves of the olives rustled faintly as the wind passed +by. And this whisper of the leaves seemed to be meant +for them, to be addressed to them. They were surely +being told something by the little voices of the night.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," Hermione said, at last, "does this silence +of the mountains make you wish for anything?"</p> + +<p>"Wish?" he said. "I don't know—no, I think not. +I have got what I wanted. I have got you. Why +should I wish for anything more? And I feel at home +here. It's extraordinary how I feel at home."</p> + +<p>"You! No, it isn't extraordinary at all."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked up at him, still keeping her arms on the +terrace wall. His physical beauty, which had always +fascinated her, moved her more than ever in the south, +seemed to her to become greater, to have more meaning +in this setting of beauty and romance. She thought +of the old pagan gods. He was, indeed, suited to be +their happy messenger. At that moment something +within her more than loved him, worshipped him, felt +for him an idolatry that had something in it of pain. +A number of thoughts ran through her mind swiftly. +One was this: "Can it be possible that he will die some +day, that he will be dead?" And the awfulness, the +unspeakable horror of the death of the body gripped her +and shook her in the dark.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maurice!" she said. "Maurice!"</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>She held out her hands to him. He took them and +sat down by her.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Hermione?" he said again.</p> + +<p>"If beauty were only deathless!"</p> + +<p>"But—but all this is, for us. It was here for the old +Greeks to see, and I suppose it will be here—"</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean that."</p> + +<p>"I've been stupid," he said, humbly.</p> + +<p>"No, my dearest—my dearest one. Oh, how did you +ever love me?"</p> + +<p>She had forgotten the warning of Artois. The dirty +little beggar was staring at the angel and wanted the +angel to know it.</p> + +<p>"Hermione! What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>He looked at her, and there was genuine surprise in +his face and in his voice.</p> + +<p>"How can you love me? I'm so ugly. Oh, I feel it +here, I feel it horribly in the midst of—of all this loveliness, +with you."</p> + +<p>She hid her face against his shoulder almost like one +afraid.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But you are not ugly! What nonsense! Hermione!"</p> + +<p>He put his hand under her face and raised it, and the +touch of his hand against her cheek made her tremble. +To-night she more than loved, she worshipped him. +Her intellect did not speak any more. Its voice was +silenced by the voice of the heart, by the voices of the +senses. She felt as if she would like to go down on her +knees to him and thank him for having loved her, for +loving her. Abasement would have been a joy to her +just then, was almost a necessity, and yet there was +pride in her, the decent pride of a pure-natured woman +who has never let herself be soiled.</p> + +<p>"Hermione," he said, looking into her face. "Don't +speak to me like that. It's all wrong. It puts me in +the wrong place, I a fool and you—what you are. If +that friend of yours could hear you—by Jove!"</p> + +<p>There was something so boyish, so simple in his +voice that Hermione suddenly threw her arms round +his neck and kissed him, as she might have kissed a +delightful child. She began to laugh through tears.</p> + +<p>"Thank God you're not conceited!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"What about?" he asked.</p> + +<p>But she did not answer. Presently they heard Gaspare's +step on the terrace. He came to them bareheaded, +with shining eyes, to ask if they were satisfied +with Lucrezia. About himself he did not ask. He felt +that he had done all things for his padrona as he alone +could have done them, knowing her so well.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," Hermione said, "everything is perfect. +Tell Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>"Better not, signora. I will say you are fairly satisfied, +as it is only the first day. Then she will try to +do better to-morrow. I know Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>And he gazed at them calmly with his enormous +liquid eyes.</p> + +<p>"Do not say too much, signora. It makes people +proud."</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 230px;"> +<a href="images/gs03.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs03_th.jpg" width="230" height="400" alt=""HE ... LOOKED DOWN AT THE LIGHT SHINING IN THE HOUSE +OF THE SIRENS"" title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"HE ... LOOKED DOWN AT THE LIGHT SHINING IN THE HOUSE +OF THE SIRENS"</span> +</p> + +<p>She thought that she heard an odd Sicilian echo of +Artois. The peasant lad's mind reflected the mind of +the subtle novelist for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Very well, Gaspare," she said, submissively.</p> + +<p>He smiled at her with satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"I understand girls," he said. "You must keep +them down or they will keep you down. Every girl in +Marechiaro is like that. We keep them down therefore."</p> + +<p>He spoke calmly, evidently quite without thought +that he was speaking to a woman.</p> + +<p>"May I go to bed, signora?" he added. "I got up at +four this morning."</p> + +<p>"At four!"</p> + +<p>"To be sure all was ready for you and the signore."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Go at once. We will go to bed, too. +Shall we, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I'm ready."</p> + +<p>Just as they were going up the steps into the house, +he turned to take a last look at the night. Far down +below him over the terrace wall he saw a bright, steady +light.</p> + +<p>"Is that on the sea, Hermione?" he asked, pointing +to it. "Do they fish there at night?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. No doubt it is a fisherman."</p> + +<p>Gaspare shook his head.</p> + +<p>"You understand?" said Hermione to him in Italian.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora. That is the light in the Casa delle Sirene."</p> + +<p>"But no one lives there."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it has been built up now, and Salvatore Buonavista +lives there with Maddalena. Buon riposo, signora. +Buon riposo, signore."</p> + +<p>"Buon riposo, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>And Maurice echoed it:</p> + +<p>"Buon riposo."</p> + +<p>As Gaspare went away round the angle of the cottage +to his room near Tito's stable, Maurice added:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Buon riposo. It's an awfully nice way of saying +good-night. I feel as if I'd said it before, somehow."</p> + +<p>"Your blood has said it without your knowing it, +perhaps many times. Are you coming, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>He turned once more, looked down at the light shining +in the house of the sirens, then followed Hermione +in through the open door.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> + + +<p>That spring-time in Sicily seemed to Hermione +touched with a glamour such as the imaginative dreamer +connects with an earlier world—a world that never +existed save in the souls of dreamers, who weave tissues +of gold to hide naked realities, and call down the stars +to sparkle upon the dust-heaps of the actual. Hermione +at first tried to make her husband see it with +her eyes, live in it with her mind, enjoy it, or at least +seem to enjoy it, with her heart. Did he not love her? +But he did more; he looked up to her with reverence. +In her love for him there was a yearning of worship, +such as one gifted with the sense of the ideal is conscious +of when he stands before one of the masterpieces +of art, a perfect bronze or a supreme creation in marble. +Something of what Hermione had felt in past +years when she looked at "The Listening Mercury," +or at the statue of a youth from Hadrian's Villa in the +Capitoline Museum at Rome, she felt when she looked at +Maurice, but the breath of life in him increased, instead +of diminishing, her passion of admiration. And this +sometimes surprised her. For she had thought till now +that the dead sculptors of Greece and Rome had in +their works succeeded in transcending humanity, had +shown what God might have created instead of what +He had created, and had never expected, scarcely ever +even desired, to be moved by a living being as she was +moved by certain representations of life in a material. +Yet now she was so moved. There seemed to her in +her husband's beauty something strange, something<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +ideal, almost an other-worldliness, as if he had been +before this age in which she loved him, had had an +existence in the fabled world that the modern pagan +loves to recall when he walks in a land where legend +trembles in the flowers, and whispers in the trees, and +is carried on the winds across the hill-sides, and lives +again in the silver of the moon. Often she thought of +him listening in a green glade to the piping of Pan, or +feeding his flocks on Mount Latmos, like Endymion, +and falling asleep to receive the kisses of Selene. Or +she imagined him visiting Psyche in the hours of darkness, +and fleeing, light-footed, before the coming of the +dawn. He seemed to her ardent spirit to have stepped +into her life from some Attic frieze out of a "fairy +legend of old Greece," and the contact of daily companionship +did not destroy in her the curious, almost +mystical sensation roused in her by the peculiar, and +essentially youthful charm which even Artois had been +struck by in a London restaurant.</p> + +<p>This charm increased in Sicily. In London Maurice +Delarey had seemed a handsome youth, with a delightfully +fresh and almost woodland aspect that set him +apart from the English people by whom he was surrounded. +In Sicily he seemed at once to be in his +right setting. He had said when he arrived that he +felt as if he belonged to Sicily, and each day Sicily and +he seemed to Hermione to be more dear to each other, +more suited to each other. With a loving woman's fondness, +which breeds fancies deliciously absurd, laughably +touching, she thought of Sicily as having wanted +this son of hers who was not in her bosom, as sinking +into a golden calm of satisfaction now that he was there, +hearing her "Pastorale," wandering upon her mountain-sides, +filling his nostrils with the scent of her orange +blossoms, swimming through the liquid silver of her +cherishing seas.</p> + +<p>"I think Sicily's very glad that you are here," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +said to him on one morning of peculiar radiance, when +there was a freshness as of the world's first day in the +air, and the shining on the sea was as the shining that +came in answer to the words—"Let there be light!"</p> + +<p>In her worship, however, Hermione was not wholly +blind. Because of the wakefulness of her powerful +heart her powerful mind did not cease to be busy, but +its work was supplementary to the work of her heart. +She had realized in London that the man she loved was +not a clever man, that there was nothing remarkable +in his intellect. In Sicily she did not cease from realizing +this, but she felt about it differently. In Sicily +she actually loved and rejoiced in Delarey's mental +shortcomings because they seemed to make for freshness, +for boyishness, to link him more closely with the +spring in their Eden. She adored in him something +that was pagan, some spirit that seemed to shine on +her from a dancing, playful, light-hearted world. And +here in Sicily she presently grew to know that she +would be a little saddened were her husband to change, +to grow more thoughtful, more like herself. She had +spoken to Artois of possible development in Maurice, of +what she might do for him, and at first, just at first, +she had instinctively exerted her influence over him to +bring him nearer to her subtle ways of thought. And +he had eagerly striven to respond, stirred by his love +for her, and his reverence—not a very clever, but certainly +a very affectionate reverence—for her brilliant +qualities of brain. In those very first days together, +isolated in their eyrie of the mountains, Hermione had +let herself go—as she herself would have said. In her +perfect happiness she felt that her mind was on fire +because her heart was at peace. Wakeful, but not +anxious, love woke imagination. The stirring of spring +in this delicious land stirred all her eager faculties, and +almost as naturally as a bird pours forth its treasure +of music she poured forth her treasure, not only of love<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +but of thought. For in such a nature as hers love +prompts thought, not stifles it. In their long mountain +walks, in their rides on muleback to distant villages, +hidden in the recesses, or perched upon the crests of +the rocks, in their quiet hours under the oak-trees when +the noon wrapped all things in its cloak of gold, or on +the terrace when the stars came out, and the shepherds +led their flocks down to the valleys with little happy +tunes, Hermione gave out all the sensitive thoughts, +desires, aspirations, all the wonder, all the rest that +beauty and solitude and nearness to nature in this isle +of the south woke in her. She did not fear to be subtle, +she did not fear to be trivial. Everything she +noticed she spoke of, everything that the things she +noticed suggested to her, she related. The sound of +the morning breeze in the olive-trees seemed to her different +from the sound of the breeze of evening. She +tried to make Maurice hear, with her, the changing of +the music, to make him listen, as she listened, to every +sound, not only with the ears but with the imagination. +The flush of the almond blossoms upon the lower slopes +of the hills about Marechiaro, a virginal tint of joy against +gray walls, gray rocks, made her look into the soul of +the spring as her first lover alone looks into the soul +of a maiden. She asked Maurice to look with her into +that place of dreams, and to ponder with her over the +mystery of the everlasting renewal of life. The sight +of the sea took her away into a fairy-land of thought. +Far down below, seen over rocks and tree-tops and +downward falling mountain flanks, it spread away towards +Africa in a plain that seemed to slope upward to +a horizon-line immensely distant. Often it was empty +of ships, but when a sail came, like a feather on the +blue, moving imperceptibly, growing clearer, then fading +until taken softly by eternity—that was Hermione's +feeling—that sail was to her like a voice from the worlds +we never know, but can imagine, some of us, worlds of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +mystery that is not sad, and of joys elusive but ineffable, +sweet and strange as the cry of echo at twilight, +when the first shadows clasp each other by the +hand, and the horn of the little moon floats with a shy +radiance out of its hiding-place in the bosom of the +sky. She tried to take Maurice with her whence the +sail came, whither it went. She saw Sicily perhaps as it +was, but also as she was. She felt the spring in Sicily, +but not only as that spring, spring of one year, but as +all the springs that have dawned on loving women, and +laughed with green growing things about their feet. +Her passionate imagination now threw gossamers before, +now drew gossamers away from a holy of holies that +no man could ever enter. And she tried to make that +holy of holies Maurice's habitual sitting-room. It was +a tender, glorious attempt to compass the impossible.</p> + +<p>All this was at first. But Hermione was generally +too clear-brained to be long tricked even by her own enthusiasms. +She soon began to understand that though +Maurice might wish to see, to feel all things as she +saw and felt them, his effort to do so was but a gallant +attempt of love in a man who thought he had married +his superior. Really his outlook on Sicily and the +spring was naturally far more like Gaspare's. She +watched in a rapture of wonder, enjoyed with a passion +of gratitude. But Gaspare was in and was of all that +she was wondering about, thanking God for, part of +the phenomenon, a dancer in the exquisite tarantella. +And Maurice, too, on that first day had he not obeyed +Sebastiano's call? Soon she knew that when she had +sat alone on the terrace seat, and seen the dancers losing +all thought of time and the hour in the joy of their +moving bodies, while hers was still, the scene had been +prophetic. In that moment Maurice had instinctively +taken his place in the mask of the spring and she hers. +Their bodies had uttered their minds. She was the +passionate watcher, but he was the passionate per<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>former. +Therefore she was his audience. She had +travelled out to be in Sicily, but he, without knowing it, +had travelled out to be Sicily.</p> + +<p>There was a great difference between them, but, having +realized it thoroughly, Hermione was able not to +regret but to delight in it. She did not wish to change +her lover, and she soon understood that were Maurice +to see with her eyes, hear with her ears, and understand +with her heart, he would be completely changed, +and into something not natural, like a performing dog +or a child prodigy, something that rouses perhaps amazement, +combined too often with a faint disgust. And +ceasing to desire she ceased to endeavor.</p> + +<p>"I shall never develop Maurice," she thought, remembering +her conversation with Artois. "And, thank God, +I don't want to now."</p> + +<p>And then she set herself to watch her Sicilian, as she +loved to call him, enjoying the spring in Sicily in his +own way, dancing the tarantella with surely the spirit +of eternal youth. He had, she thought, heard the call +of the blood and responded to it fully and openly, fearless +and unashamed. Day by day, seeing his boyish +happiness in this life of the mountains and the sea, she +laughed at the creeping, momentary sense of apprehension +that had been roused in her during her conversation +with Artois upon the Thames Embankment. +Artois had said that he distrusted what he loved. That +was the flaw in an over-intellectual man. The mind +was too alert, too restless, dogging the steps of the +heart like a spy, troubling the heart with an eternal uneasiness. +But she could trust where she loved. Maurice +was open as a boy in these early days in the garden of +paradise. He danced the tarantella while she watched +him, then threw himself down beside her, laughing, to rest.</p> + +<p>The strain of Sicilian blood that was in him worked +in him curiously, making her sometimes marvel at the +mysterious power of race, at the stubborn and almost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +tyrannical domination some dead have over some living, +those who are dust over those who are quick with +animation and passion. Everything that was connected +with Sicily and with Sicilian life not only reached +his senses and sank easily into his heart, but seemed +also to rouse his mind to an activity that astonished +her. In connection with Sicily he showed a swiftness, +almost a cleverness, she never noted in him when things +Sicilian were not in question.</p> + +<p>For instance, like most Englishmen, Maurice had no +great talent for languages. He spoke French fairly +well, having had a French nurse when he was a child, +and his mother had taught him a little Italian. But +till now he had never had any desire to be proficient in +any language except his own. Hermione, on the other +hand, was gifted as a linguist, loving languages and +learning them easily. Yet Maurice picked up—in his +case the expression, usually ridiculous, was absolutely +applicable—Sicilian with a readiness that seemed to +Hermione almost miraculous. He showed no delight +in the musical beauty of Italian. What he wanted, +and what his mind—or was it rather what his ears and +his tongue and his lips?—took, and held and revelled +in, was the Sicilian dialect spoken by Lucrezia and Gaspare +when they were together, spoken by the peasants +of Marechiaro and of the mountains. To Hermione +Gaspare had always talked Italian, incorrect, but still +Italian, and she spoke no dialect, although she could +often guess at what the Sicilians meant when they addressed +her in their vigorous but uncouth jargon, different +from Italian almost as Gaelic is from English. +But Maurice very soon began to speak a few words of +Sicilian. Hermione laughed at him and discouraged +him jokingly, telling him that he must learn Italian +thoroughly, the language of love, the most melodious +language in the world.</p> + +<p>"Italian!" he said. "What's the use of it? I want<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +to talk to the people. A grammar! I won't open it. +Gaspare's my professor. Gaspare! Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare came rushing bareheaded to them in the sun.</p> + +<p>"The signora says I'm to learn Italian, but I say +that I've Sicilian blood in my veins and must talk as +you do."</p> + +<p>"But I, signore, can speak Italian!" said Gaspare, +with twinkling pride.</p> + +<p>"As a bear dances. No, professor, you and I, we'll +be good patriots. We'll speak in our mother-tongue. +You rascal, you know we've begun already."</p> + +<p>And looking mischievously at Hermione, he began +to sing in a loud, warm voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Cu Gabbi e Jochi e Parti e Mascarati,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Si fa lu giubileu universali.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tiripi-tùmpiti, tùmpiti, tùmpiti,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Milli cardùbuli 'n culu ti pùncinu!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Gaspare burst into a roar of delighted laughter.</p> + +<p>"It's the tarantella over again," Hermione said. +"You're a hopeless Sicilian. I give you up."</p> + +<p>That same day she said to him:</p> + +<p>"You love the peasants, don't you, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Are you surprised?"</p> + +<p>"No; at least I'm not surprised at your loving them."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, Hermione?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps a little at the way you love them."</p> + +<p>"What way's that?"</p> + +<p>"Almost as they love each other—that's to say, when +they love each other at all. Gaspare now! I believe +you feel more as if he were a young brother of yours +than as if he were your servant."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I do. Gaspare is terrible, a regular donna +<a href = "#FNanchor__1" name = "Footnote__1"><sup>1</sup></a> +of a boy in spite of all his mischief and fun. You should +hear him talk of you. He'd die for his padrona."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p><p>"I believe he would. In love, the love that means +being in love, I think Sicilians, though tremendously +jealous, are very fickle, but if they take a devotion to +any one, without being in love, they're rocks. It's a +splendid quality."</p> + +<p>"If they've got faults, I love their faults," he said. +"They're a lovable race."</p> + +<p>"Praising yourself!" she said, laughing at him, but +with tender eyes.</p> + +<p>"Myself?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind. What is it, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare had come upon the terrace, his eyes shining +with happiness and a box under his arm.</p> + +<p>"The signore knows."</p> + +<p>"Revolver practice," said Maurice. "I promised him +he should have a try to-day. We're going to a place +close by on the mountain. He's warned off Ciccio and +his goats. Got the paper, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare pointed to a bulging pocket.</p> + +<p>"Enough to write a novel on. Well—will you come, +Hermione?"</p> + +<p>"It's too hot in the sun, and I know you're going +into the eye of the sun."</p> + +<p>"You see, it's the best place up at the top. There's +that stone wall, and—"</p> + +<p>"I'll stay here and listen to your music."</p> + +<p>They went off together, climbing swiftly upward into +the heart of the gold, and singing as they went:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ciao, ciao, ciao,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Morettina bella, ciao—"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Their voices died away, and with them the dry noise +of stones falling downward from their feet on the sunbaked +mountain-side. Hermione sat still on the seat +by the ravine.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ciao, ciao, ciao!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>She thought of the young peasants going off to be +soldiers, and singing that song to keep their hearts up. +Some day, perhaps, Gaspare would have to go. He was +the eldest of his family, and had brothers. Maurice sang +that song like a Sicilian lad. She thought, she began +to think, that even the timbre of his voice was Sicilian. +There was the warm, and yet plaintive, sometimes almost +whining sound in it that she had often heard +coming up from the vineyards and the olive groves. +Why was she always comparing him with the peasants? +He was not of their rank. She had met many Sicilians +of the nobility in Palermo—princes, senators, young +men of fashion, who gambled and danced and drove in +the Giardino Inglese. Maurice did not remind her at all +of them. No, it was of the Sicilian peasants that he +reminded her, and yet he was a gentleman. She wondered +what Maurice's grandmother had been like. She +was long since dead. Maurice had never seen her. Yet +how alive she, and perhaps brothers of hers, and their +children, were in him, how almost miraculously alive! +Things that had doubtless stirred in them—instincts, +desires, repugnances, joys—were stirring in him, dominating +his English inheritance. It was like a new birth +in the sun of Sicily, and she was assisting at it. Very, +very strange it was. And strange, too, it was to be so +near to one so different from herself, to be joined to him +by the greatest of all links, the link that is forged by +the free will of a man and a woman. Again, in thought, +she went back to her comparison of things in him with +things in the peasants of Sicily. She remembered that +she had once heard a brilliant man, not a Sicilian, say +of them, "With all their faults, and they are many, every +Sicilian, even though he wear the long cap and live in +a hut with the pigs, is a gentleman." So the peasant, if +there were peasant in Maurice, could never disturb, never +offend her. And she loved the primitive man in him +and in all men who had it. There was a good deal that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +was primitive in her. She never called herself democrat, +socialist, radical, never christened herself with any +name to describe her mental leanings, but she knew that, +for a well-born woman—and she was that, child of an +old English family of pure blood and high traditions—she +was remarkably indifferent to rank, its claims, its +pride. She felt absolutely "in her bones," as she would +have said, that all men and women are just human +beings, brothers and sisters of a great family. In judging +of individuals she could never be influenced by anything +except physical qualities, and qualities of the heart +and mind, qualities that might belong to any man. She +was affected by habits, manners—what woman of breeding +is not?—but even these could scarcely warp her judgment +if they covered anything fine. She could find gold +beneath mud and forget the mud.</p> + +<p>Maurice was like the peasants, not like the Palermitan +aristocracy. He was near to the breast of Sicily, of +that mother of many nations, who had come to conquer, +and had fought, and bled, and died, or been expelled, +but had left indefaceable traces behind them, +traces of Norman of Greek of Arab. He was no cosmopolitan +with characteristics blurred; he was of the +soil. Well, she loved the soil dearly. The almond +blossomed from it. The olive gave its fruit, and the +vine its generous blood, and the orange its gold, at the +word of the soil, the dear, warm earth of Sicily. She +thought of Maurice's warm hands, brown now as Gaspare's. +How she loved his hands, and his eyes that +shone with the lustre of the south! Had not this soil, +in very truth, given those hands and those eyes to her? +She felt that it had. She loved it more for the gift. She +had reaped and garnered in her blessed Sicilian harvest.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia came to her round the angle of the cottage, +knowing she was alone. Lucrezia was mending a hole +in a sock for Gaspare. Now she sat down on the seat +under the window, divided from Hermione by the ter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>race, +but able to see her, to feel companionship. Had +the padrone been there Lucrezia would not have ventured +to come. Gaspare had often explained to her her +very humble position in the household. But Gaspare +and the padrone were away on the mountain-top, and +she could not resist being near to her padrona, for whom +she already felt a very real affection and admiration.</p> + +<p>"Is it a big hole, Lucrezia?" said Hermione, smiling +at her.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia put her thumb through it, holding it up on +her fist.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare's holes are always big."</p> + +<p>She spoke as if in praise.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare is strong," she added. "But Sebastiano +is stronger."</p> + +<p>As she said the last words a dreamy look came into +her round face, and she dropped the hand that held the +stocking into her lap.</p> + +<p>"Sebastiano is hard like the rocks, signora."</p> + +<p>"Hard-hearted, Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia said nothing.</p> + +<p>"You like Sebastiano, Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia reddened under her brown skin.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"So do I. He's always been a good friend of mine."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia shifted along the seat until she was nearly +opposite to where Hermione was sitting.</p> + +<p>"How old is he?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty-five, signora."</p> + +<p>"I suppose he will be marrying soon, won't he? The +men all marry young round about Marechiaro."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia began to darn.</p> + +<p>"His father, Chinetti Urbano, wishes him to marry +at once. It is better for a man."</p> + +<p>"You understand men, Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora. They are all alike."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And what are they like?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, you know as well as I do. They must +have their own way and we must not think to have ours. +They must roam where they like, love where they +choose, day or night, and we must sit in the doorway +and get to bed at dark, and not bother where they've +been or what they've done. They say we've no right, +except one or two. There's Francesco, to be sure. +He's a lamb with Maria. She can sit with her face to +the street. But she wouldn't sit any other way, and +he knows it. But the rest! Eh, già!"</p> + +<p>"You don't think much of men, Lucrezia!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, they're just as God made them. They +can't help it any more than we can help—"</p> + +<p>She stopped and pursed her lips suddenly, as if checking +some words that were almost on them.</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia, come here and sit by me."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia looked up with a sort of doubtful pleasure +and surprise.</p> + +<p>"Signora?"</p> + +<p>"Come here."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia got up and came slowly to the seat by the +ravine. Hermione took her hand.</p> + +<p>"You like Sebastiano very much, don't you?"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia hung her head.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Do you think he'd be good to a woman if she loved +him?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't care. Bad or good, I'd—I'd—"</p> + +<p>Suddenly, with a sort of childish violence, she put +her two hands on Hermione's arms.</p> + +<p>"I want Sebastiano, signora; I want him!" she cried. +"I've prayed to the Madonna della Rocca to give him +to me; all last year I've prayed, and this. D'you think +the Madonna's going to do it? Do you? Do you?"</p> + +<p>Heat came out of her two hands, and heat flashed in +her eyes. Her broad bosom heaved, and her lips, still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +parted when she had done speaking, seemed to interrogate +Hermione fiercely in the silence. Before Hermione +could reply two sounds came to them: from below +in the ravine the distant drone of the ceramella, +from above on the mountain-top the dry crack of a +pistol-shot.</p> + +<p>Swiftly Lucrezia turned and looked downward, but +Hermione looked upward towards the bare flank that +rose behind the cottage.</p> + +<p>"It's Sebastiano, signora."</p> + +<p>The ceramella droned on, moving slowly with its +player on the hidden path beneath the olive-trees.</p> + +<p>A second pistol-shot rang out sharply.</p> + +<p>"Go down and meet him, Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>"May I—may I, really, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; go quickly."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia bent down and kissed her padrona's hand.</p> + +<p>"Bacio la mano, bacio la mano a Lei!"</p> + +<p>Then, bareheaded, she went out from the awning into +the glare of the sunshine, passed through the ruined +archway, and disappeared among the rocks. She had +gone to her music. Hermione stayed to listen to hers, +the crack of the pistol up there near the blue sky.</p> + +<p>Sebastiano was playing the tune she loved, the "Pastorale," +but to-day she did not heed it. Indeed, now +that she was left alone she was not conscious that she +heard it. Her heart was on the hill-top near the blue.</p> + +<p>Again and again the shots rang out. It seemed to Hermione +that she knew which were fired by Maurice and +which by Gaspare, and she whispered to herself "That's +Maurice!" when she fancied one was his. Presently she +was aware of some slight change and wondered what it +was. Something had ceased, and its cessation recalled +her mind to her surroundings. She looked round her, +then down to the ravine, and then at once she understood. +There was no more music from the ceramella. +Lucrezia had met Sebastiano under the olives. That<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +was certain. Hermione smiled. Her woman's imagination +pictured easily enough why the player had +stopped. She hoped Lucrezia was happy. Her first +words, still more her manner, had shown Hermione the +depth of her heart. There was fire there, fire that +burned before a shrine when she prayed to the Madonna +della Rocca. She was ready even to be badly +treated if only she might have Sebastiano. It seemed +to be all one to her. She had no illusions, but her heart +knew what it needed.</p> + +<p>Crack went the pistol up on the mountain-top.</p> + +<p>"That's not Maurice!" Hermione thought.</p> + +<p>There was another report, then another.</p> + +<p>"That last one was Maurice!"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia did not seem even to expect a man to be +true and faithful. Perhaps she knew the Sicilian character +too well. Hermione lifted her face up and looked +towards the mountain. Her mind had gone once more +to the Thames Embankment. As once she had mentally +put Gaspare beside Artois, so now she mentally +put Lucrezia. Lucrezia distrusted the south, and she +was of it. Men must be as God had made them, she +said, and evidently she thought that God had made +them to run wild, careless of woman's feelings, careless +of everything save their own vagrant desires. The +tarantella—that was the dance of the soil here, the +dance of the blood. And in the tarantella each of the +dancers seemed governed by his own sweet will, possessed +by a merry, mad devil, whose promptings he +followed with a sort of gracious and charming violence, +giving himself up joyously, eagerly, utterly—to what? +To his whim. Was the tarantella an allegory of life +here? How strangely well Maurice had danced it on that +first day of their arrival. She felt again that sense of +separation which brought with it a faint and creeping +melancholy.</p> + +<p>"Crack! Crack!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> + +<p>She got up from the seat by the ravine. Suddenly +the sound of the firing was distressing to her, almost +sinister, and she liked Lucrezia's music better. For it +suggested tenderness of the soil, and tenderness of faith, +and a glory of antique things both pagan and Christian. +But the reiterated pistol-shots suggested violence, death, +ugly things.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called, going out into the sun and gazing +up towards the mountain-top. "Maurice!"</p> + +<p>The pistol made reply. They had not heard her. +They were too far or were too intent upon their sport +to hear.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called again, in a louder voice, almost +as a person calls for help. Another pistol-shot answered +her, mocking at her in the sun. Then she heard +a distant peal of laughter. It did not seem to her to be +either Maurice's or Gaspare's laughter. It was like the +laughter of something she could not personify, of some +jeering spirit of the mountain. It died away at last, +and she stood there, shivering in the sunshine.</p> + +<p>"Signora! Signora!"</p> + +<p>Sebastiano's lusty voice came to her from below. +She turned and saw him standing with Lucrezia on the +terrace, and his arm was round Lucrezia's waist. He +took off his cap and waved it, but he still kept one arm +round Lucrezia.</p> + +<p>Hermione hesitated, looking once more towards the +mountain-top. But something within her held her +back from climbing up to the distant laughter, a feeling, +an idiotic feeling she called it to herself afterwards. +She had shivered in the sunshine, but it was not a feeling +of fear.</p> + +<p>"Am I wanted up there?"</p> + +<p>That was what something within her said. And the +answer was made by her body. She turned and began +to descend towards the terrace.</p> + +<p>And at that moment, for the first time in her life, she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +was conscious of a little stab of pain such as she had +never known before. It was pain of the mind and of +the heart, and yet it was like bodily pain, too. It made +her angry with herself. It was like a betrayal, a betrayal +of herself by her own intellect, she thought.</p> + +<p>She stopped once more on the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>"Am I going to be ridiculous?" she said to herself. +"Am I going to be one of the women I despise?"</p> + +<p>Just then she realized that love may become a tyrant, +ministering to the soul with persecutions.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + +<div class = "footnote"> +<a href="#Footnote__1" name = "FNanchor__1" ><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The Sicilians use the word "donna" to express the meaning +we convey by the word "trump."</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> + + +<p>Sebastiano took his arm from Lucrezia's waist as +Hermione came down to the terrace, and said:</p> + +<p>"Buona sera, signora. Is the signore coming down +yet?"</p> + +<p>He flung out his arm towards the mountain.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Sebastiano. Why?"</p> + +<p>"I've come with a message for him."</p> + +<p>"Not for Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>Sebastiano laughed boldly, but Lucrezia, blushing +red, disappeared into the kitchen.</p> + +<p>"Don't play with her, Sebastiano," said Hermione. +"She's a good girl."</p> + +<p>"I know that, signora."</p> + +<p>"She deserves to be well treated."</p> + +<p>Sebastiano went over to the terrace wall, looked into +the ravine, turned round, and came back.</p> + +<p>"Who's treating Lucrezia badly, signora?"</p> + +<p>"I did not say anybody was."</p> + +<p>"The girls in Marechiaro can take care of themselves, +signora. You don't know them as I do."</p> + +<p>"D'you think any woman can take care of herself, +Sebastiano?"</p> + +<p>He looked into her face and laughed, but said nothing. +Hermione sat down. She had a desire to-day, +after Lucrezia's conversation with her, to get at the +Sicilian man's point of view in regard to women.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think women want to be protected?" she +asked.</p> + +<p>"What from, signora?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was still laughter in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Not from us, anyway," he added. "Lucrezia there—she +wants me for her husband. All Marechiaro knows +it."</p> + +<p>Hermione felt that under the circumstances it was +useless to blush for Lucrezia, useless to meet blatant +frankness with sensitive delicacy.</p> + +<p>"Do you want Lucrezia for your wife?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Well, signora, I'm strong. A stick or a knife in +my hand and no man can touch me. You've never +seen me do the scherma con coltello? One day I'll +show you with Gaspare. And I can play better even +than the men from Bronte on the ceramella. You've +heard me. Lucrezia knows I can have any girl I like."</p> + +<p>There was a simplicity in his immense superiority to +women that robbed it of offensiveness and almost made +Hermione laugh. In it, too, she felt the touch of the +East. Arabs had been in Sicily and left their traces +there, not only in the buildings of Sicily, but in its people's +songs, and in the treatment of the women by the +men.</p> + +<p>"And are you going to choose Lucrezia?" she asked, +gravely.</p> + +<p>"Signora, I wasn't sure. But yesterday, I had a +letter from Messina. They want me there. I've got +a job that'll pay me well to go to the Lipari Islands +with a cargo."</p> + +<p>"Are you a sailor, too?"</p> + +<p>"Signora, I can do anything."</p> + +<p>"And will you be long away?"</p> + +<p>"Who knows, signora? But I told Lucrezia to-day, +and when she cried I told her something else. We are +'promised.'"</p> + +<p>"I am glad," Hermione said, holding out her hand +to him.</p> + +<p>He took it in an iron grip.</p> + +<p>"Be very good to her when you're married, won't you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, she'll be all right with me," he answered, carelessly. +"And I won't give her the slap in the face on +the wedding-day."</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>There was a shrill cry from the mountain and Maurice +and Gaspare came leaping down, scattering the stones, +the revolvers still in their hands.</p> + +<p>"Look, signora, look!" cried Gaspare, pulling a sheet +of paper from his pocket and holding it proudly up. +"Do you see the holes? One, two, three—"</p> + +<p>He began to count.</p> + +<p>"And I made five. Didn't I, signore?"</p> + +<p>"You're a dead shot, Gasparino. Did you hear us, +Hermione?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. "But you didn't hear me."</p> + +<p>"You? Did you call?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Sebastiano's got a message for you," Hermione said.</p> + +<p>She could not tell him now the absurd impulse that +had made her call him.</p> + +<p>"What's the message, Sebastiano?" asked Maurice, in +his stumbling Sicilian-Italian that was very imperfect, +but that nevertheless had already the true accent of +the peasants about Marechiaro.</p> + +<p>"Signore, there will be a moon to-night."</p> + +<p>"Già. Lo so."</p> + +<p>"Are you sleepy, signorino?"</p> + +<p>He touched his eyes with his sinewy hands and made +his face look drowsy. Maurice laughed.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Are you afraid of being naked in the sea at night? +But you need not enter it. Are you afraid of sleeping +at dawn in a cave upon the sands?"</p> + +<p>"What is it all?" asked Maurice. "Gaspare, I understand +you best."</p> + +<p>"I know," said Gaspare, joyously. "It's the fish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>ing. +Nito has sent. I told him to. Is it Nito, Sebastiano?"</p> + +<p>Sebastiano nodded. Gaspare turned eagerly to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore, you must come, you will come!"</p> + +<p>"Where? In a boat?"</p> + +<p>"No. We go down to the shore, to Isola Bella. We +take food, wine, red wine, and a net. Between twenty-two +and twenty-three o'clock is the time to begin. And +the sea must be calm. Is the sea calm to-day, Sebastiano?"</p> + +<p>"Like that."</p> + +<p>Sebastiano moved his hand to and fro in the air, +keeping it absolutely level. Gaspare continued to explain +with gathering excitement and persuasiveness, talking +to his master as much by gesture as by the words +that Maurice could only partially understand.</p> + +<p>"The sea is calm. Nito has the net, but he will not +go into the sea. Per Dio, he is birbante. He will say +he has the rheumatism, I know, and walk like that." +(Gaspare hobbled to and fro before them, making a +face of acute suffering.) "He has asked for me. Hasn't +Nito asked for me, Sebastiano?"</p> + +<p>Here Gaspare made a grimace at Sebastiano, who +answered, calmly:</p> + +<p>"Yes, he has asked for you to come with the padrone."</p> + +<p>"I knew it. Then I shall undress. I shall take one +end of the net while Nito holds the other, and I shall +go out into the sea. I shall go up to here." (He put +his hands up to his chin, stretching his neck like one +avoiding a rising wave.) "And I shall wade, you'll +see!—and if I come to a hole I shall swim. I can swim +for hours, all day if I choose."</p> + +<p>"And all night too?" said Hermione, smiling at his +excitement.</p> + +<p>"Davvero! But at night I must drink wine to keep +out the cold. I come out like this." (He shivered +violently, making his teeth chatter.) "Then I drink<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +a glass and I am warm, and when they have taken the +fish I go in again. We fish all along the shore from +Isola Bella round by the point there, where there's the +Casa delle Sirene, and to the caves beyond the Caffè +Berardi. And when we've got enough—many fish—at +dawn we sleep on the sand. And when the sun is up +Carmela will take the fish and make a frittura, and we +all eat it and drink more wine, and then—"</p> + +<p>"And then—you're ready for the Campo Santo?" +said Hermione.</p> + +<p>"No, signora. Then we will dance the tarantella, +and come home up the mountain singing, 'O sole mio!' +and 'A mezzanotte a punto,' and the song of the Mafioso, +and—"</p> + +<p>Hermione began to laugh unrestrainedly. Gaspare, +by his voice, his face, his gestures, had made them +assist at a veritable orgie of labor, feasting, sleep, and +mirth, all mingled together and chasing one another like +performers in a revel. Even his suggestion of slumber +on the sands was violent, as if they were to sleep with +a kind of fury of excitement and determination.</p> + +<p>"Signora!" he cried, staring as if ready to be offended.</p> + +<p>Then he looked at Maurice, who was laughing, too, +threw himself back against the wall, opened his mouth, +and joined in with all his heart. But suddenly he stopped. +His face changed, became very serious.</p> + +<p>"I may go, signora?" he asked. "No one can fish +as I can. The others will not go in far, and they soon +get cold and want to put on their clothes. And the +padrone! I must take care of the padrone! Guglielmo, +the contadino, will sleep in the house, I know. Shall I +call him? Guglielmo! Guglielmo!"</p> + +<p>He vanished like a flash, they scarcely knew in what +direction.</p> + +<p>"He's alive!" exclaimed Maurice. "By Jove, he's alive, +that boy! Glorious, glorious life! Oh, there's something +here that—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p> + +<p>He broke off, looked down at the broad sea shimmering +in the sun, then said:</p> + +<p>"The sun, the sea, the music, the people, the liberty—it +goes to my head, it intoxicates me."</p> + +<p>"You'll go to-night?" she said.</p> + +<p>"D'you mind if I do?"</p> + +<p>"Mind? No. I want you to go. I want you to +revel in this happy time, this splendid, innocent, golden +time. And to-morrow we'll watch for you, Lucrezia +and I, watch for you down there on the path. But—you'll +bring us some of the fish, Maurice? You won't +forget us?"</p> + +<p>"Forget you!" he said. "You shall have all—"</p> + +<p>"No, no. Only the little fish, the babies that Carmela +rejects from the frittura."</p> + +<p>"I'll go into the sea with Gaspare," said Maurice.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure you will, and farther out even than he does."</p> + +<p>"Ah, he'll never allow that. He'd swim to Africa first!"</p> + +<p>That night, at twenty-one o'clock, Hermione and Lucrezia +stood under the arch, and watched Maurice and +Gaspare springing down the mountain-side as if in seven-leagued +boots. Soon they disappeared into the darkness +of the ravine, but for some time their loud voices +could be heard singing lustily:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ciao, ciao, ciao,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Morettina bella ciao,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prima di partire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Un bacio ti voglio da';<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Un bacio al papà,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Un bacio alla mammà,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cinquanta alla mia fidanzata,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Che vado a far solda'."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"I wish I were a man, Lucrezia," said Hermione, +when the voices at length died away towards the sea.</p> + +<p>"Signora, we were made for the men. They weren't +made for us. But I like being a girl."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + +<p>"To-night. I know why, Lucrezia."</p> + +<p>And then the padrona and the cameriera sat down +together on the terrace under the stars, and talked +together about the man the cameriera loved, and his +exceeding glory.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Maurice and Gaspare were giving themselves +joyously to the glory of the night. The glamour of +the moon, which lay full upon the terrace where the two +women sat, was softened, changed to a shadowy magic, +in the ravine where the trees grew thickly, but the pilgrims +did not lower their voices in obedience to the +message of the twilight of the night. The joy of life +which was leaping within them defied the subtle suggestions +of mystery, was careless because it was triumphant, +and all the way down to the sea they sang, Gaspare +changing the song when it suited his mood to do +so; and Maurice, as in the tarantella, imitating him with +the swiftness that is born of sympathy. For to-night, +despite their different ages, ranks, ways of life, their +gayety linked them together, ruled out the differences, +and made them closely akin, as they had been in Hermione's +eyes when they danced upon the terrace. They +did not watch the night. They were living too strongly +to be watchful. The spirit of the dancing faun was +upon them, and guided them down among the rocks +and the olive-trees, across the Messina road, white +under the moon, to the stony beach of Isola Bella, +where Nito was waiting for them with the net.</p> + +<p>Nito was not alone. He had brought friends of his +and of Gaspare's, and a boy who staggered proudly +beneath a pannier filled with bread and cheese, oranges +and apples, and dark blocks of a mysterious dolce. +The wine-bottles were not intrusted to him, but were +in the care of Giulio, one of the donkey-boys who had +carried up the luggage from the station. Gaspare and +his padrone were welcomed with a lifting of hats, and +for a moment there was a silence, while the little group<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +regarded the "Inglese" searchingly. Had Maurice felt +any strangeness, any aloofness, the sharp and sensitive +Sicilians would have at once been conscious of it, and +light-hearted gayety might have given way to gravity, +though not to awkwardness. But he felt, and therefore +showed, none. His soft hat cocked at an impudent +angle over his sparkling, dark eyes, his laughing lips, his +easy, eager manner, and his pleasant familiarity with +Gaspare at once reassured everybody, and when he +cried out, "Ciao, amici, ciao!" and waved a pair of +bathing drawers towards the sea, indicating that he +was prepared to be the first to go in with the net, +there was a general laugh, and a babel of talk broke +forth—talk which he did not fully understand, yet +which did not make him feel even for a moment a +stranger.</p> + +<p>Gaspare at once took charge of the proceedings as +one born to be a leader of fishermen. He began by +ordering wine to be poured into the one glass provided, +placed it in Maurice's hand, and smiled proudly at his +pupil's quick "Alla vostra salute!" before tossing it +off. Then each one in turn, with an "Alla sua salute!" +to Maurice, took a drink from the great, leather bottle; +and Nito, shaking out his long coil of net, declared that +it was time to get to work.</p> + +<p>Gaspare cast a sly glance at Maurice, warning him to +be prepared for a comedy, and Maurice at once remembered +the scene on the terrace when Gaspare had described +Nito's "birbante" character, and looked out +for rheumatics.</p> + +<p>"Who goes into the sea, Nito?" asked Gaspare, very +seriously.</p> + +<p>Nito's wrinkled and weather-beaten face assumed +an expression of surprise.</p> + +<p>"Who goes into the sea!" he ejaculated. "Why, +don't we all know who likes wading, and can always +tell the best places for the fish?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + +<p>He paused, then as Gaspare said nothing, and the +others, who had received a warning sign from him, +stood round with deliberately vacant faces, he added, +clapping Gaspare on the shoulder, and holding out one +end of the net:</p> + +<p>"Off with your clothes, compare, and we will soon +have a fine frittura for Carmela."</p> + +<p>But Gaspare shook his head.</p> + +<p>"In summer I don't mind. But this is early in the +year, and, besides—"</p> + +<p>"Early in the year! Who told me the signore distinto +would—"</p> + +<p>"And besides, compare, I've got the stomach-ache."</p> + +<p>He deftly doubled himself up and writhed, while the +lips of the others twitched with suppressed amusement.</p> + +<p>"Comparedro, I don't believe it!"</p> + +<p>"Haven't I, signorino?" cried Gaspare, undoubling +himself, pointing to his middleman, and staring hard +at Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Si, si! È vero, è vero!" cried Maurice.</p> + +<p>"I've been eating Zampaglione, and I am full. If I +go into the sea to-night I shall die."</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" ejaculated Nito, throwing up his +hands towards the stars.</p> + +<p>He dared not give the lie to the "signore distinto," +yet he had no trust in Gaspare's word, and had gained +no sort of conviction from his eloquent writhings.</p> + +<p>"You must go in, Nito," said Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"I—Madonna!"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" cried Nito, in a plaintive whine that +was almost feminine. "I go into the sea with my +rheumatism!"</p> + +<p>Abruptly one of his legs gave way, and he stood before +them in a crooked attitude.</p> + +<p>"Signore," he said to Maurice. "I would go into the +sea, I would stay there all night, for I love it, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +Dr. Marini has forbidden me to enter it. See how I +walk!"</p> + +<p>And he began to hobble up and down exactly as Gaspare +had on the terrace, looking over his shoulder at +Maurice all the time to see whether his deception was +working well. Gaspare, seeing that Nito's attention +was for the moment concentrated, slipped away behind +a boat that was drawn up on the beach; and Maurice, +guessing what he was doing, endeavored to make Nito +understand his sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Molto forte—molto dolore?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore!"</p> + +<p>And Nito burst forth into a vehement account of his +sufferings, accompanied by pantomime.</p> + +<p>"It takes me in the night, signore! Madonna, it is +like rats gnawing at my legs, and nothing will stop it. +Pancrazia—she is my wife, signore—Pancrazia, she +gets out of bed and she heats oil to rub it on, but she +might as well put it on the top of Etna for all the good +it does me. And there I lie like a—"</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>A wild shriek rent the air, and Gaspare, clad in a +pair of bathing drawers, bounded out from behind the +boat, gave Nito a cuff on the cheek, executed some steps +of the tarantella, whirled round, snatched up one end +of the net, and cried:</p> + +<p>"Al mare, al mare!"</p> + +<p>Nito's rheumatism was no more. His bent leg +straightened itself as if by magic, and he returned Gaspare's +cuff by an affectionate slap on his bare shoulder, +exclaiming to Maurice:</p> + +<p>"Isn't he terribile, signore? Isn't he terribile?"</p> + +<p>Nito lifted up the other end of the net and they all +went down to the shore.</p> + +<p>That night it seemed to Delarey as if Sicily drew him +closer to her breast. He did not know why he had +now for the first time the sensation that at last he was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +really in his natural place, was really one with the soil +from which an ancestor of his had sprung, and with the +people who had been her people. That Hermione's +absence had anything to do with his almost wild sense +of freedom did not occur to him. All he knew was this, +that alone among these Sicilian fishermen in the night, +not understanding much of what they said, guessing +at their jokes, and sharing in their laughter, without +always knowing what had provoked it, he was perfectly +at home, perfectly happy.</p> + +<p>Gaspare went into the sea, wading carefully through +the silver waters, and Maurice, from the shore, watched +his slowly moving form, taking a lesson which would be +useful to him later. The coast-line looked enchanted in +the glory of the moon, in the warm silence of the night, +but the little group of men upon the shore scarcely +thought of its enchantment. They felt it, perhaps, +sometimes faintly in their gayety, but they did not +savor its wonder and its mystery as Hermione would +have savored them had she been there.</p> + +<p>The naked form of Gaspare, as he waded far out in +the shallow sea, was like the form of a dream creature +rising out of waves of a dream. When he called to +them across the silver surely something of the magic +of the night was caught and echoed in his voice. When +he lifted the net, and its black and dripping meshes +slipped down from his ghostly hands into the ghostly +movement that was flickering about him, and the circles +tipped with light widened towards sea and shore, there +was a miracle of delicate and fantastic beauty delivered +up tenderly like a marvellous gift to the wanderers of +the dark hours. But Sicily scarcely wonders at Sicily. +Gaspare was intent only on the catching of fish, and +his companions smote the night with their jokes and +their merry, almost riotous laughter.</p> + +<p>The night wore on. Presently they left Isola Bella, +crossed a stony spit of land, and came into a second and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +narrower bay, divided by a turmoil of jagged rocks and +a bold promontory covered with stunted olive-trees, +cactus, and seed-sown earth plots, from the wide sweep +of coast that melted into the dimness towards Messina. +Gathered together on the little stones of the beach, in +the shadow of some drawn-up fishing-boats, they took +stock of the fish that lay shining in the basket, and +broke their fast on bread and cheese and more draughts +from the generous wine-bottle.</p> + +<p>Gaspare was dripping, and his thin body shook as he +gulped down the wine.</p> + +<p>"Basta Gaspare!" Maurice said to him. "You mustn't +go in any more."</p> + +<p>"No, no, signore, non basta! I can fish all night. +Once the wine has warmed me, I can—"</p> + +<p>"But I want to try it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore, what would the signora say? You are +a stranger. You will take cold, and then the signora +will blame me and say I did not take proper care of my +padrone."</p> + +<p>But Delarey was determined. He stripped off his +clothes, put on his bathing drawers, took up the net, +and, carefully directed by the admiring though protesting +Gaspare, he waded into the sea.</p> + +<p>For a moment he shuddered as the calm water rose +round him. Then, English fashion, he dipped under, with a +splash that brought a roar of laughter to him from the shore.</p> + +<p>"Meglio così!" he cried, coming up again in the moonlight. +"Adesso sto bene!"</p> + +<p>The plunge had made him suddenly feel tremendously +young and triumphant, reckless with a happiness that +thrilled with audacity. As he waded out he began to sing +in a loud voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ciao, ciao, ciao,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Morettina bella ciao,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prima di partire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Un bacio ti voglio da'."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>Gaspare, who was hastily dressing by the boats, called +out to him that his singing would frighten away the +fish, and he was obediently silent. He imprisoned the +song in his heart, but that went on singing bravely. As +he waded farther he felt splendid, as if he were a lord of +life and of the sea. The water, now warm to him, seemed +to be embracing him as it crept upward towards his throat. +Nature was clasping him with amorous arms. Nature +was taking him for her own.</p> + +<p>"Nature, nature!" he said to himself. "That's why +I'm so gloriously happy here, because I'm being right +down natural."</p> + +<p>His mind made an abrupt turn, like a coursed hare, +and he suddenly found himself thinking of the night in +London, when he had sat in the restaurant with Hermione +and Artois and listened to their talk, reverently +listened. Now, as the net tugged at his hand, influenced +by the resisting sea, that talk, as he remembered it, +struck him as unnatural, as useless, and the thoughts +which he had then admired and wondered at, as complicated +and extraordinary. Something in him said, +"That's all unnatural." The touch of the water about +his body, the light of the moon upon him, the breath of +the air in his wet face drove out his reverence for what +he called "intellectuality," and something savage got +hold of his soul and shook it, as if to wake up the sleeping +self within him, the self that was Sicilian.</p> + +<p>As he waded in the water, coming ever nearer to the +jagged rocks that shut out from his sight the wide sea +and something else, he felt as if thinking and living were +in opposition, as if the one were destructive of the +other; and the desire to be clever, to be talented, which +had often assailed him since he had known, and especially +since he had loved, Hermione, died out of him, +and he found himself vaguely pitying Artois, and almost +despising the career and the fame of a writer. What +did thinking matter? The great thing was to live, to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +live with your body, out-of-doors, close to nature, somewhat +as the savages live. When he waded to shore for +the first time, and saw, as the net was hauled in, the +fish he had caught gleaming and leaping in the light, he +could have shouted like a boy.</p> + +<p>He seized the net once more, but Gaspare, now +clothed, took hold of him by the arm with a familiarity +that had in it nothing disrespectful.</p> + +<p>"Signore, basta, basta! Giulio will go in now."</p> + +<p>"Si! si!" cried Giulio, beginning to tug at his waistcoat +buttons.</p> + +<p>"Once more, Gaspare!" said Maurice. "Only once!"</p> + +<p>"But if you take cold, signorino, the signora—"</p> + +<p>"I sha'n't catch cold. Only once!"</p> + +<p>He broke away, laughing, from Gaspare, and was +swiftly in the sea. The Sicilians looked at him with +admiration.</p> + +<p>"E' veramente più Siciliano di noi!" exclaimed Nito.</p> + +<p>The others murmured their assent. Gaspare glowed +with pride in his pupil.</p> + +<p>"I shall make the signore one of us," he said, as he +deftly let out the coils of the net.</p> + +<p>"But how long is he going to stay?" asked Nito. +"Will he not soon be going back to his own country?"</p> + +<p>For a moment Gaspare's countenance fell.</p> + +<p>"When the heat comes," he began, doubtfully. Then +he cheered up.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he will take me with him to England," he +said.</p> + +<p>This time Maurice waded with the net into the shadow +of the rocks out of the light of the moon. The night +was waning, and a slight chill began to creep into the +air. A little breeze, too, sighed over the sea, ruffling its +surface, died away, then softly came again. As he +moved into the darkness Maurice was conscious that the +buoyancy of his spirits received a slight check. The +night seemed suddenly to have changed, to have be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>come +more mysterious. He began to feel its mystery +now, to be aware of the strangeness of being out in the +sea alone at such an hour. Upon the shore he saw the +forms of his companions, but they looked remote and +phantom-like. He did not hear their voices. Perhaps +the slow approach of dawn was beginning to affect them, +and the little wind that was springing up chilled their +merriment and struck them to silence. Before him the +dense blackness of the rocks rose like a grotesque wall +carved in diabolic shapes, and as he stared at these +shapes he had an odd fancy that they were living things, +and that they were watching him at his labor. He could +not get this idea, that he was being watched, out of his +head, and for a moment he forgot about the fish, and +stood still, staring at the monsters, whose bulky forms +reared themselves up into the moonlight from which +they banished him.</p> + +<p>"Signore! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>There came to him a cry of protest from the shore. +He started, moved forward with the net, and went +under water. He had stepped into a deep hole. Still +holding fast to the net, he came up to the surface, shook +his head, and struck out. As he did so he heard another +cry, sharp yet musical. But this cry did not come +from the beach where his companions were gathered. +It rose from the blackness of the rocks close to him, and +it sounded like the cry of a woman. He winked his eyes +to get the water out of them, and swam for the rocks, +heedless of his duty as a fisherman. But the net impeded +him, and again there was a shout from the shore:</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino! E' pazzo Lei?"</p> + +<p>Reluctantly he turned and swam back to the shallow +water. But when his feet touched bottom he stood +still. That cry of a woman from the mystery of the +rocks had startled, had fascinated his ears. Suddenly +he remembered that he must be near to that Casa delle +Sirene, whose little light he had seen from the terrace<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +of the priest's house on his first evening in Sicily. He +longed to hear that woman's voice again. For a moment +he thought of it as the voice of a siren, of one of +those beings of enchantment who lure men on to their +destruction, and he listened eagerly, almost passionately, +while the ruffled water eddied softly about his +breast. But no music stole to him from the blackness +of the rocks, and at last he turned slowly and waded to +the shore.</p> + +<p>He was met with merry protests. Nito declared that +the net had nearly been torn out of his hands. Gaspare, +half undressed to go to his rescue, anxiously inquired +if he had come to any harm. The rocks were +sharp as razors near the point, and he might have cut +himself to pieces upon them. He apologized to Nito +and showed Gaspare that he was uninjured. Then, +while the others began to count the fish, he went to the +boats to put on his clothes, accompanied by Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"Why did you swim towards the rocks, signorino?" +asked the boy, looking at him with a sharp curiosity.</p> + +<p>Delarey hesitated for a moment. He was inclined, +he scarcely knew why, to keep silence about the cry he +had heard. Yet he wanted to ask Gaspare something.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," he said, at last, as they reached the boats, +"was any one of you on the rocks over there just +now?"</p> + +<p>He had forgotten to number his companions when he +reached the shore. Perhaps one was missing, and had +wandered towards the point to watch him fishing.</p> + +<p>"No, signore. Why do you ask?"</p> + +<p>Again Delarey hesitated. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"I heard some one call out to me there."</p> + +<p>He began to rub his wet body with a towel.</p> + +<p>"Call! What did they call?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing; no words. Some one cried out."</p> + +<p>"At this hour! Who should be there, signore?"</p> + +<p>The action of the rough towel upon his body brought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +a glow of warmth to Delarey, and the sense of mystery +began to depart from his mind.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was a fisherman," he said.</p> + +<p>"They do not fish from there, signore. It must have +been me you heard. When you went under the water +I cried out. Drink some wine, signorino."</p> + +<p>He held a glass full of wine to Delarey's lips. Delarey +drank.</p> + +<p>"But you've got a man's voice, Gaspare!" he said, putting +down the glass and beginning to get into his clothes.</p> + +<p>"Per Dio! Would you have me squeak like a woman, +signore?"</p> + +<p>Delarey laughed and said no more. But he knew it +was not Gaspare's voice he had heard.</p> + +<p>The net was drawn up now for the last time, and as +soon as Delarey had dressed they set out to walk to the +caves on the farther side of the rocks, where they meant +to sleep till Carmela was about and ready to make the +frittura. To reach them they had to clamber up from +the beach to the Messina road, mount a hill, and descend +to the Caffè Berardi, a small, isolated shanty +which stood close to the sea, and was used in summer-time +by bathers who wanted refreshment. Nito and +the rest walked on in front, and Delarey followed a few +paces behind with Gaspare. When they reached the summit +of the hill a great sweep of open sea was disclosed +to their view, stretching away to the Straits of Messina, +and bounded in the far distance by the vague outlines +of the Calabrian Mountains. Here the wind met them +more sharply, and below them on the pebbles by the +caffè they could see the foam of breaking waves. But +to the right, and nearer to them, the sea was still as an +inland pool, guarded by the tree-covered hump of land +on which stood the house of the sirens. This hump, +which would have been an islet but for the narrow wall +of sheer rock which joined it to the main-land, ran out +into the sea parallel to the road.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>On the height, Delarey paused for a moment, as if to +look at the wide view, dim and ethereal, under the +dying moon.</p> + +<p>"Is that Calabria?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. And there is the caffè. The caves are +beyond it. You cannot see them from here. But you +are not looking, signorino!"</p> + +<p>The boy's quick eyes had noticed that Delarey was +glancing towards the tangle of trees, among which was +visible a small section of the gray wall of the house of +the sirens.</p> + +<p>"How calm the sea is there!" Delarey said, swiftly.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. That is where you can see the light in +the window from our terrace."</p> + +<p>"There's no light now."</p> + +<p>"How should there be? They are asleep. Andiamo?"</p> + +<p>They followed the others, who were now out of sight. +When they reached the caves, Nito and the boys had already +flung themselves down upon the sand and were +sleeping. Gaspare scooped out a hollow for Delarey, +rolled up his jacket as a pillow for his padrone's head, +murmured a "Buon riposo!" lay down near him, buried +his face in his arms, and almost directly began to +breathe with a regularity that told its tale of youthful, +happy slumber.</p> + +<p>It was dark in the cave and quite warm. The sand +made a comfortable bed, and Delarey was luxuriously +tired after the long walk and the wading in the sea. +When he lay down he thought that he, too, would be +asleep in a moment, but sleep did not come to him, +though he closed his eyes in anticipation of it. His +mind was busy in his weary body, and that little cry +of a woman still rang in his ears. He heard it like a song +sung by a mysterious voice in a place of mystery by +the sea. Soon he opened his eyes. Turning a little in +the sand, away from his companions, he looked out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +from the cave, across the sloping beach and the foam +of the waves, to the darkness of trees on the island. +(So he called the place of the siren's house to himself +now, and always hereafter.) From the cave he could +not see the house, but only the trees, a formless, dim +mass that grew about it. The monotonous sound of +wave after wave did not still the cry in his ears, but +mingled with it, as must have mingled with the song of +the sirens to Ulysses the murmur of breaking seas ever so +long ago. And he thought of a siren in the night stealing +to a hidden place in the rocks to watch him as he drew +the net, breast high in the water. There was romance +in his mind to-night, new-born and strange. Sicily had +put it there with the wild sense of youth and freedom +that still possessed him. Something seemed to call +him away from this cave of sleep, to bid his tired body +bestir itself once more. He looked at the dark forms +of his comrades, stretched in various attitudes of repose, +and suddenly he knew he could not sleep. He +did not want to sleep. He wanted—what? He raised +himself to a sitting posture, then softly stood up, and +with infinite precaution stole out of the cave.</p> + +<p>The coldness of the coming dawn took hold on him +on the shore, and he saw in the east a mysterious pallor +that was not of the moon, and upon the foam of the +waves a light that was ghastly and that suggested infinite +weariness and sickness. But he did not say this +to himself. He merely felt that the night was quickly +departing, and that he must hasten on his errand before +the day came.</p> + +<p>He was going to search for the woman who had cried +out to him in the sea. And he felt as if she were a +creature of the night, of the moon and of the shadows, +and as if he could never hope to find her in the glory of +the day.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2> + + +<p>Delarey stole along the beach, walking lightly despite +his fatigue. He felt curiously excited, as if he +were on the heels of some adventure. He passed the +Caffè Berardi almost like a thief in the night, and came +to the narrow strip of pebbles that edged the still and +lakelike water, protected by the sirens' isle. There +he paused. He meant to gain that lonely land, but how? +By the water lay two or three boats, but they were large +and clumsy, impossible to move without aid. Should +he climb up to the Messina road, traverse the spit of +ground that led to the rocky wall, and try to make his +way across it? The feat would be a difficult one, he +thought. But it was not that which deterred him. He +was impatient of delay, and the détour would take time. +Between him and the islet was the waterway. Already +he had been in the sea. Why not go in again? He +stripped, packed his clothes into a bundle, tied roughly +with a rope made of his handkerchief and bootlaces, and +waded in. For a long way the water was shallow. +Only when he was near to the island did it rise to his +breast, to his throat, higher at last. Holding the bundle +on his head with one hand, he struck out strongly and +soon touched bottom again. He scrambled out, dressed +on a flat rock, then looked for a path leading upward.</p> + +<p>The ground was very steep, almost precipitous, and +thickly covered with trees and with undergrowth. This +undergrowth concealed innumerable rocks and stones +which shifted under his feet and rolled down as he began +to ascend, grasping the bushes and the branches. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +could find no path. What did it matter? All sense of +fatigue had left him. With the activity of a cat he +mounted. A tree struck him across the face. Another +swept off his hat. He felt that he had antagonists who +wished to beat him back to the sea, and his blood rose +against them. He tore down a branch that impeded him, +broke it with his strong hands, and flung it away viciously. +His teeth were set and his nerves tingled, and he +was conscious of the almost angry joy of keen bodily +exertion. The body—that was his God to-night. How +he loved it, its health and strength, its willingness, its +capacities! How he gloried in it! It had bounded down +the mountain. It had gone into the sea and revelled +there. It had fished and swum. Now it mounted upward +to discovery, defying the weapons that nature +launched against it. Splendid, splendid body!</p> + +<p>He fought with the trees and conquered them. His +trampling feet sent the stones leaping downward to be +drowned in the sea. His swift eyes found the likely +places for a foothold. His sinewy hands forced his +enemies to assist him in the enterprise they hated. He +came out on to the plateau at the summit of the island +and stood still, panting, beside the house that hid +there.</p> + +<p>Its blind, gray wall confronted him coldly in the dimness, +one shuttered window, like a shut eye, concealing +the interior, the soul of the house that lay inside its +body. In this window must have been set the light +he had seen from the terrace. He wished there were a +light burning now. Had he swum across the inlet and +fought his way up through the wood only to see a gray +wall, a shuttered window? That cry had come from the +rocks, yet he had been driven by something within him +to this house, connecting—he knew not why—the cry +with it and with the far-off light that had been like a +star caught in the sea. Now he said to himself that he +should have gone back to the rocks and sought the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +siren there. Should he go now? He hesitated for a +moment, leaning against the wall of the house.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Maju torna, maju veni<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cu li belli soi ciureri;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh chi pompa chi nni fa;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maju torna, maju è ccà!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Maju torna, maju vinni,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Duna isca a li disinni;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vinni riccu e ricchi fa,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maju viva! Maju è ccà!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He heard a girl's voice singing near him, whether inside +the house or among the trees he could not at first +tell. It sang softly yet gayly, as if the sun were up and +the world were awake, and when it died away Delarey +felt as if the singer must be in the dawn, though he stood +still in the night. He put his ear to the shuttered window +and listened.</p> + +<p>"L'haju; nun l'haju?"</p> + +<p>The voice was speaking now with a sort of whimsical +and half-pathetic merriment, as if inclined to break into +laughter at its own childish wistfulness.</p> + +<p>"M'ama; nun m'ama?"</p> + +<p>It broke off. He heard a little laugh. Then the +song began again:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Maju viju, e maju cògghiu,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bona sorti di Diù vògghiu;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ciuri di maju cògghiu a la campía,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Diù, pinzàticci vu a la sorti mia!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The voice was not in the house. Delarey was sure of +that now. He was almost sure, too, that it was the +same voice which had cried out to him from the rocks. +Moving with precaution, he stole round the house to the +farther side, which looked out upon the open sea, keeping +among the trees, which grew thickly about the house<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +on three sides, but which left it unprotected to the sea-winds +on the fourth.</p> + +<p>A girl was standing in this open space, alone, looking +seaward, with one arm out-stretched, one hand laid +lightly, almost caressingly, upon the gnarled trunk of +a solitary old olive-tree, the other arm hanging at her +side. She was dressed in some dark, coarse stuff, with +a short skirt, and a red handkerchief tied round her +head, and seemed in the pale and almost ghastly light +in which night and day were drawing near to each +other to be tall and slim of waist. Her head was thrown +back, as if she were drinking in the breeze that heralded +the dawn—drinking it in like a voluptuary.</p> + +<p>Delarey stood and watched her. He could not see +her face.</p> + +<p>She spoke some words in dialect in a clear voice. +There was no one else visible. Evidently she was talking +to herself. Presently she laughed again, and began +to sing once more:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Maju viju, e maju cògghiu,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A la me'casa guaj nu' nni vògghiu;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ciuri di maju cògghiu a la campía,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oru ed argentu a la sacchetta mia!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There was an African sound in the girl's voice—a sound +of mystery that suggested heat and a force that could be +languorous and stretch itself at ease. She was singing +the song the Sicilian peasant girls join in on the first of +May, when the ciuri di maju is in blossom, and the young +countrywomen go forth in merry bands to pick the flower +of May, and, turning their eyes to the wayside shrine, or, +if there be none near, to the east and the rising sun, lift +their hands full of the flowers above their heads, and, +making the sign of the cross, murmur devoutly:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Divina Pruvidenza, pruvvidìtimi;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divina Pruvidenza, cunsulàtimi;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divina Pruvidenza è granni assai;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cu' teni fidi a Diù, 'un pirisci mai!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 240px;"> +<a href="images/gs04.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs04_th.jpg" width="240" height="400" alt=""HER HEAD WAS THROWN BACK, AS IF SHE WERE DRINKING IN +THE BREEZE"" title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"HER HEAD WAS THROWN BACK, AS IF SHE WERE DRINKING IN +THE BREEZE"</span> +</p> + +<p>Delarey knew neither song nor custom, but his ears +were fascinated by the voice and the melody. Both +sounded remote and yet familiar to him, as if once, in +some distant land—perhaps of dreams—he had heard +them before. He wished the girl to go on singing, to +sing on and on into the dawn while he listened in his +hiding-place, but she suddenly turned round and stood +looking towards him, as if something had told her that +she was not alone. He kept quite still. He knew she +could not see him, yet he felt as if she was aware that +he was there, and instinctively he held his breath and +leaned backward into deeper shadow. After a minute +the girl took a step forward, and, still staring in his +direction, called out:</p> + +<p>"Padre?"</p> + +<p>Then Delarey knew that it was her voice that he had +heard when he was in the sea, and he suddenly changed +his desire. Now he no longer wished to remain unseen, +and without hesitation he came out from the trees. The +girl stood where she was, watching him as he came. +Her attitude showed neither surprise nor alarm, and +when he was close to her, and could at last see her face, +he found that its expression was one of simple, bold +questioning. It seemed to be saying to him quietly, +"Well, what do you want of me?"</p> + +<p>Delarey was not acquainted with the Arab type of face. +Had he been he would have at once been struck by the +Eastern look in the girl's long, black eyes, by the Eastern +cast of her regular, slightly aquiline features. Above +her eyes were thin, jet-black eyebrows that looked almost +as if they were painted. Her chin was full and her +face oval in shape. She had hair like Gaspare's, black-brown, +immensely thick and wavy, with tiny feathers +of gold about the temples. She was tall, and had the +contours of a strong though graceful girl just blooming +into womanhood. Her hands were as brown as Delarey's, +well shaped, but the hands of a worker. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and brimful of lusty +life.</p> + +<p>After a minute of silence Delarey's memory recalled +some words of Gaspare's, till then forgotten.</p> + +<p>"You are Maddalena!" he said, in Italian.</p> + +<p>The girl nodded.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>She uttered the words softly, then fell into silence +again, staring at him with her lustrous eyes, that were +like black jewels.</p> + +<p>"You live here with Salvatore?"</p> + +<p>She nodded once more and began to smile, as if with +pleasure at his knowledge of her.</p> + +<p>Delarey smiled too, and made with his arms the motion +of swimming. At that she laughed outright and +broke into quick speech. She spoke vivaciously, moving +her hands and her whole body. Delarey could not understand +much of what she said, but he caught the words +mare and pescatore, and by her gestures knew that she +was telling him she had been on the rocks and had seen +his mishap. Suddenly in the midst of her talk she +uttered the little cry of surprise or alarm which he had +heard as he came up above water, pointed to her lips to +indicate that she had given vent to it, and laughed again +with all her heart. Delarey laughed too. He felt happy +and at ease with his siren, and was secretly amused at his +thought in the sea of the magical being full of enchantment +who sang to lure men to their destruction. This +girl was simply a pretty, but not specially uncommon, +type of the Sicilian contadina—young, gay, quite free +from timidity, though gentle, full of the joy of life and +of the nascent passion of womanhood, blossoming out +carelessly in the sunshine of the season of flowers. She +could sing, this island siren, but probably she could not +read or write. She could dance, could perhaps innocently +give and receive love. But there was in her face, in her +manner, nothing deliberately provocative. Indeed, she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +looked warmly pure, like a bright, eager young animal of +the woods, full of a blithe readiness to enjoy, full of hope +and of unself-conscious animation.</p> + +<p>Delarey wondered why she was not sleeping, and +strove to ask her, speaking carefully his best Sicilian, +and using eloquent gestures, which set her smiling, then +laughing again. In reply to him she pointed towards +the sea, then towards the house, then towards the sea +once more. He guessed that some fisherman had risen +early to go to his work, and that she had got up to see +him off, and had been too wakeful to return to bed.</p> + +<p>"Niente più sonno!" he said, opening wide his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Niente! Niente!"</p> + +<p>He feigned fatigue. She took his travesty seriously, +and pointed to the house, inviting him by gesture to go +in and rest there. Evidently she believed that, being a +stranger, he could not speak or understand much of her +language. He did not even try to undeceive her. It +amused him to watch her dumb show, for her face spoke +eloquently and her pretty, brown hands knew a language +that was delicious. He had no longer any thought of +sleep, but he felt curious to see the interior of the cottage, +and he nodded his head in response to her invitation. +At once she became the hospitable peasant hostess. Her +eyes sparkled with eagerness and pleasure, and she went +quickly by him to the door, which stood half open, +pushed it back, and beckoned to him to enter.</p> + +<p>He obeyed her, went in, and found himself almost in +darkness, for the big windows on either side of the door +were shuttered, and only a tiny flame, like a spark, burned +somewhere among the dense shadows of the interior +at some distance from him. Pretending to be alarmed +at the obscurity, he put out his hand gropingly, and let +it light on her arm, then slip down to her warm, strong +young hand.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>He heard her merry laugh and felt her trying to pull<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +her hand away, but he held it fast, prolonging a joke that +he found a pleasant one. In that moment he was almost +as simple as she was, obeying his impulses carelessly, +gayly, without a thought of wrong—indeed, almost without +thought at all. His body was still tingling and damp +with the sea-water. Her face was fresh with the sea-wind. +He had never felt more wholesome or as if life +were a saner thing.</p> + +<p>She dragged her hand out of his at last; he heard a +grating noise, and a faint light sputtered up, then grew +steady as she moved away and set a match to a candle, +shielding it from the breeze that entered through the +open door with her body.</p> + +<p>"What a beautiful house!" he cried, looking curiously +around.</p> + +<p>He saw such a dwelling as one may see in any part of +Sicily where the inhabitants are not sunk in the direst +poverty and squalor, a modest home consisting of two +fair-sized rooms, one opening into the other. In each +room was a mighty bed, high and white, with fat pillows, +and a counterpane of many colors. At the head of each +was pinned a crucifix and a little picture of the Virgin, +Maria Addolorata, with a palm branch that had been +blessed, and beneath the picture in the inner room a tiny +light, rather like an English night-light near its end, was +burning. It was this that Delarey had seen like a spark +in the distance. At the foot of each bed stood a big box +of walnut wood, carved into arabesques and grotesque +faces. There were a few straw chairs and kitchen utensils. +An old gun stood in a corner with a bundle of wood. +Not far off was a pan of charcoal. There were also two +or three common deal-tables, on one of which stood the +remains of a meal, a big jar containing wine, a flat loaf +of coarse brown bread, with a knife lying beside it, some +green stuff in a plate, and a slab of hard, yellow cheese.</p> + +<p>Delarey was less interested in these things than in the +display of photographs, picture-cards, and figures of saints<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +that adorned the walls, carefully arranged in patterns +to show to the best advantage. Here were colored reproductions +of actresses in languid attitudes, of peasants +dancing, of babies smiling, of elaborate young people +with carefully dressed hair making love with "Molti +Saluti!" "Una stretta di Mano!" "Mando un bacio!" +"Amicizia eterna!" and other expressions of friendship +and affection, scribbled in awkward handwritings across +and around them. And mingled with them were representations +of saints, such as are sold at the fairs and +festivals of Sicily, and are reverently treasured by the +pious and superstitious contadine; San Pancrazio, Santa +Leocanda, the protector of child-bearing women; Sant +Aloe, the patron saint of the beasts of burden; San Biagio, +Santo Vito, the patron saint of dogs; and many others, +with the Bambino, the Immacolata, the Madonna di +Loreto, the Madonna della Rocca.</p> + +<p>In the faint light cast by the flickering candle, the faces +of saints and actresses, of smiling babies, of lovers and +Madonnas peered at Delarey as if curious to know why +at such an hour he ventured to intrude among them, why +he thus dared to examine them when all the world was +sleeping. He drew back from them at length and looked +again at the great bed with its fat pillows that stood in +the farther room secluded from the sea-breeze. Suddenly +he felt a longing to throw himself down and rest.</p> + +<p>The girl smiled at him with sympathy.</p> + +<p>"That is my bed," she said, simply. "Lie down and +sleep, signorino."</p> + +<p>Delarey hesitated for a moment. He thought of his +companions. If they should wake in the cave and miss +him what would they think, what would they do? Then +he looked again at the bed. The longing to lie down on +it was irresistible. He pointed to the open door.</p> + +<p>"When the sun comes will you wake me?" he said.</p> + +<p>He took hold of his arm with one hand, and made the +motion of shaking himself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sole," he said. "Quando c'è il sole."</p> + +<p>The girl laughed and nodded.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore—non dubiti!"</p> + +<p>Delarey climbed up on to the mountainous bed.</p> + +<p>"Buona notte, Maddalena!" he said, smiling at her +from the pillow like a boy.</p> + +<p>"Buon riposo, signorino!"</p> + +<p>That was the last thing he heard. The last thing he +saw was the dark, eager face of the girl lit up by the +candle-flame watching him from the farther room. Her +slight figure was framed by the doorway, through which +a faint, sad light was stealing with the soft wind from the +sea. Her lustrous eyes were looking towards him curiously, +as if he were something of a phenomenon, as if +she longed to understand his mystery.</p> + +<p>Soon, very soon, he saw those eyes no more. He was +asleep in the midst of the Madonnas and the saints, with +the blessed palm branch and the crucifix and Maria +Addolorata above his head.</p> + +<p>The girl sat down on a chair just outside the door, and +began to sing to herself once more in a low voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Divina Pruvidenza, pruvvidìtimi;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divina Pruvidenza, consulàtimi;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Divina Pruvidenza è granni assai;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cu' teni fidi a Diù, 'un pirisci mai!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Once, in his sleep, Delarey must surely have heard her +song, for he began to dream that he was Ulysses sailing +across the purple seas along the shores of an enchanted +coast, and that he heard far off the sirens singing, and +saw their shadowy forms sitting among the rocks and reclining +upon the yellow sands. Then he bade his mariners +steer the bark towards the shore. But when he +drew near the sirens changed into devout peasant women, +and their alluring songs into prayers uttered to the +Bambino and the Virgin. But one watched him with +eyes that gleamed like black jewels, and her lips smiled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +while they uttered prayers, as if they could murmur love +words and kiss the lips of men.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>Delarey stirred on the great, white bed. A hand +grasped him firmly, shook him ruthlessly.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! C'è il sole!"</p> + +<p>He opened his eyes reluctantly. Maddalena was +leaning over him. He saw her bright face and curious +young eyes, then the faces of the saints and the actresses +upon the wall, and he wondered where he was and +where Hermione was.</p> + +<p>"Hermione!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Cosa?" said Maddalena.</p> + +<p>She shook him again gently. He stretched himself, +yawned, and began to smile. She smiled back at him.</p> + +<p>"C'è il sole!"</p> + +<p>Now he remembered, lifted himself up, and looked +towards the doorway. The first rays of the sun were +filtering in and sparkling in the distance upon the sea. +The east was barred with red.</p> + +<p>He slipped down from the bed.</p> + +<p>"The frittura!" he said, in English. "I must make +haste!"</p> + +<p>Maddalena laughed. She had never heard English +before.</p> + +<p>"Ditelo ancora!" she cried, eagerly.</p> + +<p>They went but together on to the plateau and stood +looking seaward.</p> + +<p>"I—must—make—haste!" he said, speaking slowly +and dividing the words.</p> + +<p>"Hi—maust—maiki—'ai—isti!" she repeated, trying +to imitate his accent.</p> + +<p>He burst out laughing. She pouted. Then she +laughed, too, peal upon peal, while the sunlight grew +stronger about them. How fresh the wind was! It +played with her hair, from which she had now removed +the handkerchief, and ruffled the little feathers of gold<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +upon her brow. It blew about her smooth, young face +as if it loved to touch the soft cheeks, the innocent lips, +the candid, unlined brow. The leaves of the olive-trees +rustled and the brambles and the grasses swayed. +Everything was in movement, stirring gayly into life to +greet the coming day. Maurice opened his mouth and +drew in the air to his lungs, expanding his chest. He +felt inclined to dance, to sing, and very much inclined +to eat.</p> + +<p>"Addio, Maddalena!" he said, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>He looked into her eyes and added:</p> + +<p>"Addio, Maddalena mia!"</p> + +<p>She smiled and looked down, then up at him again.</p> + +<p>"A rivederci, signorino!"</p> + +<p>She took his hand warmly in hers.</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's better. A rivederci!"</p> + +<p>He held her hand for a moment, looking into her long +and laughing eyes, and thinking how like a young animal's +they were in their unwinking candor. And yet +they were not like an animal's. For now, when he +gazed into them, they did not look away from him, but +continued to regard him, and always with an eager +shining of curiosity. That curiosity stirred his manhood, +fired him. He longed to reply to it, to give a +quick answer to its eager question, its "what are you?" +He glanced round, saw only the trees, the sea all alight +with sun-rays, the red east now changing slowly into +gold. Then he bent down, kissed the lips of Maddalena +with a laugh, turned and descended through the trees +by the way he had come. He had no feeling that he +had done any wrong to Hermione, any wrong to Maddalena. +His spirits were high, and he sang as he leaped +down, agile as a goat, to the sea. He meant to return +as he had come, and at the water's edge he stripped off +his clothes once more, tied them into a bundle, plunged +into the sea, and struck out for the beach opposite. As +he did so, as the cold, bracing water seized him, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +heard far above him the musical cry of the siren of the +night. He answered it with a loud, exultant call.</p> + +<p>That was her farewell and his—this rustic Hero's +good-bye to her Leander.</p> + +<p>When he reached the Caffè Berardi its door stood open, +and a middle-aged woman was looking out seaward. +Beyond, by the caves, he saw figures moving. His companions +were awake. He hastened towards them. His +morning plunge in the sea had given him a wild appetite.</p> + +<p>"Frittura! Frittura!" he shouted, taking off his hat +and waving it.</p> + +<p>Gaspare came running towards him.</p> + +<p>"Where have you been, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"For a walk along the shore."</p> + +<p>He still kept his hat in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Why, your face is all wet, and so is your hair."</p> + +<p>"I washed them in the sea. Mangiamo! Mangiamo!"</p> + +<p>"You did not sleep?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare spoke curiously, regarded him with inquisitive, +searching eyes.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't. I'll sleep up there when we get home."</p> + +<p>He pointed to the mountain. His eyes were dancing +with gayety.</p> + +<p>"The frittura, Gasparino, the frittura! And then the +tarantella, and then 'O sole mio'!"</p> + +<p>He looked towards the rising sun, and began to sing +at the top of his voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O sole, o sole mio,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sta 'n fronte a te,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sta 'n fronte a te!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Gaspare joined in lustily, and Carmela in the doorway +of the Caffè Berardi waved a frying-pan at them +in time to the music.</p> + +<p>"Per Dio, Gaspare!" exclaimed Maurice, as they raced<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +towards the house, each striving to be first there—"Per +Dio, I never knew what life was till I came to Sicily! +I never knew what happiness was till this morning!"</p> + +<p>"The frittura! The frittura!" shouted Gaspare. +"I'll be first!"</p> + +<p>Neck and neck they reached the caffè as Nito poured +the shining fish into Madre Carmela's frying-pan.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2> + + +<p>"They are coming, signora, they are coming! Don't +you hear them?"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was by the terrace wall looking over into +the ravine. She could not see any moving figures, but +she heard far down among the olives and the fruit +trees Gaspare's voice singing "O sole mio!" and while +she listened another voice joined in, the voice of the +padrone:</p> + +<p>"Dio mio, but they are merry!" she added, as the +song was broken by a distant peal of laughter.</p> + +<p>Hermione came out upon the steps. She had been +in the sitting-room writing a letter to Miss Townly, who +sent her long and tearful effusions from London almost +every day.</p> + +<p>"Have you got the frying-pan ready, Lucrezia?" +she asked.</p> + +<p>"The frying-pan, signora!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, for the fish they are bringing us."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia looked knowing.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, they will bring no fish."</p> + +<p>"Why not? They promised last night. Didn't you +hear?"</p> + +<p>"They promised, yes, but they won't remember. +Men promise at night and forget in the morning."</p> + +<p>Hermione laughed. She had been feeling a little +dull, but now the sound of the lusty voices and the +laughter from the ravine filled her with a sudden cheerfulness, +and sent a glow of anticipation into her heart.</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia, you are a cynic."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What is a cinico, signora?"</p> + +<p>"A Lucrezia. But you don't know your padrone. +He won't forget us."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia reddened. She feared she had perhaps said +something that seemed disrespectful.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, there is not another like the padrone. +Every one says so. Ask Gaspare and Sebastiano. I +only meant that—"</p> + +<p>"I know. Well, to-day you will understand that +all men are not forgetful, when you eat your fish."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia still looked very doubtful, but she said nothing +more.</p> + +<p>"There they are!" exclaimed Hermione.</p> + +<p>She waved her hand and cried out. Life suddenly +seemed quite different to her. These moving figures +peopled gloriously the desert waste, these ringing voices +filled with music the brooding silence of it. She murmured +to herself a verse of scripture, "Sorrow may endure +for a night, but joy cometh with the morning," +and she realized for the first time how absurdly sad and +deserted she had been feeling, how unreasonably forlorn. +By her present joy she measured her past—not +sorrow exactly; she could not call it that—her past +dreariness, and she said to herself with a little shock +almost of fear, "How terribly dependent I am!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" cried Lucrezia, as another shout of +laughter came up from the ravine, "how merry and +mad they are! They have had a good night's fishing."</p> + +<p>Hermione heard the laughter, but now it sounded a +little harsh in her ears.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," she thought, as she leaned upon the +terrace wall—"I wonder if he has missed me at all? I +wonder if men ever miss us as we miss them?"</p> + +<p>Her call, it seemed, had not been heard, nor her gesture +of welcome seen, but now Maurice looked up, waved +his cap, and shouted. Gaspare, too, took off his linen +hat with a stentorian cry of "Buon giorno, signora."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Signora!" said Lucrezia.</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Look! Was not I right? Are they carrying anything?"</p> + +<p>Hermione looked eagerly, almost passionately, at the +two figures now drawing near to the last ascent up the +bare mountain flank. Maurice had a stick in one hand, +the other hung empty at his side. Gaspare still waved +his hat wildly, holding it with both hands as a sailor +holds the signalling-flag.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," she said—"perhaps it wasn't a good night, +and they've caught nothing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, the sea was calm. They must have +taken—"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps their pockets are full of fish. I am sure +they are."</p> + +<p>She spoke with a cheerful assurance.</p> + +<p>"If they have caught any fish, I know your frying-pan +will be wanted," she said.</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?" said Lucrezia, with rather perfunctory +politeness.</p> + +<p>Secretly she thought that the padrona had only one +fault. She was a little obstinate sometimes, and disinclined +to be told the truth. And certainly she did not +know very much about men, although she had a husband.</p> + +<p>Through the old Norman arch came Delarey and Gaspare, +with hot faces and gay, shining eyes, splendidly +tired with their exertions and happy in the thought of +rest. Delarey took Hermione's hand in his. He would +have kissed her before Lucrezia and Gaspare, quite +naturally, but he felt that her hand stiffened slightly in +his as he leaned forward, and he forbore. She longed +for his kiss, but to receive it there would have spoiled a +joy. And kind and familiar though she was with those +beneath her, she could not bear to show the deeps of +her heart before them. To her his kiss after her lonely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +night would be an event. Did he know that? She +wondered.</p> + +<p>He still kept her hand in his as he began to tell her +about their expedition.</p> + +<p>"Did you enjoy it?" she asked, thinking what a boy +he looked in his eager, physical happiness.</p> + +<p>"Ask Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I need. Your eyes tell me."</p> + +<p>"I never enjoyed any night so much before, out there +under the moon. Why don't we always sleep out-of-doors?"</p> + +<p>"Shall we try some night on the terrace?"</p> + +<p>"By Jove, we will! What a lark!"</p> + +<p>"Did you go into the sea?"</p> + +<p>"I should think so! Ask Gaspare if I didn't beat +them all. I had to swim, too."</p> + +<p>"And the fish?" she said, trying to speak, carelessly.</p> + +<p>"They were stunning. We caught an awful lot, and +Mother Carmela cooked them to a T. I had an appetite, +I can tell you, Hermione, after being in the +sea."</p> + +<p>She was silent for a moment. Her hand had dropped +out of his. When she spoke again, she said:</p> + +<p>"And you slept in the caves?"</p> + +<p>"The others did."</p> + +<p>"And you?"</p> + +<p>"I couldn't sleep, so I went out on to the beach. But +I'll tell you all that presently. You won't be shocked, +Hermione, if I take a siesta now? I'm pretty well done—grandly +tired, don't you know. I think I could get +a lovely nap before collazione."</p> + +<p>"Come in, my dearest," she said. "Collazione a little +late, Lucrezia, not till half-past one."</p> + +<p>"And the fish, signora?" asked Lucrezia.</p> + +<p>"We've got quite enough without fish," said Hermione, +turning away.</p> + +<p>"Oh, by Jove!" Delarey said, as they went into the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +cottage, putting his hand into his jacket-pocket, "I've +got something for you, Hermione."</p> + +<p>"Fish!" she cried, eagerly, her whole face brightening. +"Lucre—"</p> + +<p>"Fish in my coat!" he interrupted, still not remembering. +"No, a letter. They gave it me from the village as +we came up. Here it is."</p> + +<p>He drew out a letter, gave it to her, and went into the +bedroom, while Hermione stood in the sitting-room by +the dining-table with the letter in her hand.</p> + +<p>It was from Artois, with the Kairouan postmark.</p> + +<p>"It's from Emile," she said.</p> + +<p>Maurice was closing the shutters, to make the bedroom +dark.</p> + +<p>"Is he still in Africa?" he asked, letting down the bar +with a clatter.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, opening the envelope. "Go to bed +like a good boy while I read it."</p> + +<p>She wanted his kiss so much that she did not go near +to him, and spoke with a lightness that was almost like +a feigned indifference. He thrust his gay face through +the doorway into the sunshine, and she saw the beads +of perspiration on his smooth brow above his laughing, +yet half-sleepy eyes.</p> + +<p>"Come and tuck me up afterwards!" he said, and +vanished.</p> + +<p>Hermione made a little movement as if to follow him, +but checked it and unfolded the letter.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p> +"4, <span class="smcap">Rue d'Abdul Kader, Kairouan.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">My dear Friend</span>,—This will be one of my dreary notes, but +you must forgive me. Do you ever feel a heavy cloud of apprehension +lowering over you, a sensation of approaching calamity, +as if you heard the footsteps of a deadly enemy stealthily approaching +you? Do you know what it is to lose courage, to +fear yourself, life, the future, to long to hear a word of sympathy +from a friendly voice, to long to lay hold of a friendly +hand? Are you ever like a child in the dark, your intellect no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +weapon against the dread of formless things? The African sun +is shining here as I sit under a palm-tree writing, with my servant, +Zerzour, squatting beside me. It is so clear that I can +almost count the veins in the leaves of the palms, so warm that +Zerzour has thrown off his burnous and kept on only his linen +shirt. And yet I am cold and seem to be in blackness. I write +to you to gain some courage if I can. But I have gained none +yet. I believe there must be a physical cause for my malaise, +and that I am going to have some dreadful illness, and perhaps +lay my bones here in the shadow of the mosques among the +sons of Islam. Write to me. Is the garden of paradise blooming +with flowers? Is the tree of knowledge of good weighed +down with fruit, and do you pluck the fruit boldly and eat it +every day? You told me in London to come over and see you. +I am not coming. Do not fear. But how I wish that I could +now, at this instant, see your strong face, touch your courageous +hand! There is a sensation of doom upon me. Laugh +at me as much as you like, but write to me. I feel cold—cold +in the sun.</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Emile</span>."<br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p>When she had finished reading this letter, Hermione +stood quite still with it in her hand, gazing at the white +paper on which this cry from Africa was traced. It +seemed to her that—a cry from across the sea for help +against some impending fate. She had often had +melancholy letters from Artois in the past, expressing +pessimistic views about life and literature, anxiety about +some book which he was writing and which he thought +was going to be a failure, anger against the follies of men, +the turn of French politics, or the degeneration of the +arts in modern times. Diatribes she was accustomed to, +and a definite melancholy from one who had not a gay +temperament. But this letter was different from all +the others. She sat down and read it again. For the +moment she had forgotten Maurice, and did not hear his +movements in the adjoining room. She was in Africa +under a palm-tree, looking into the face of a friend with +keen anxiety, trying to read the immediate future for +him there.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called, presently, without getting up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +from her seat, "I've had such a strange letter from +Emile. I'm afraid—I feel as if he were going to be +dreadfully ill or have an accident."</p> + +<p>There was no reply.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called again.</p> + +<p>Then she got up and looked into the bedroom. It +was nearly dark, but she could see her husband's black +head on the pillow and hear a sound of regular breathing. +He was asleep already; she had not received his +kiss or tucked him up. She felt absurdly unhappy, +as if she had missed a pleasure that could never come to +her again. That, she thought, is one of the penalties of +a great love, the passionate regret it spends on the tiny +things it has failed of. At this moment she fancied—no, +she felt sure—that there would always be a shadow in +her life. She had lost Maurice's kiss after his return from +his first absence since their marriage. And a kiss from +his lips still seemed to her a wonderful, almost a sacred +thing, not only a physical act, but an emblem of that +which was mysterious and lay behind the physical. +Why had she not let him kiss her on the terrace? Her +sensitive reserve had made her loss. For a moment she +thought she wished she had the careless mind of a +peasant. Lucrezia loved Sebastiano with passion, but +she would have let him kiss her in public and been proud +of it. What was the use of delicacy, of sensitiveness, in +the great, coarse thing called life? Even Maurice had not +shared her feeling. He was open as a boy, almost as a +peasant boy.</p> + +<p>She began to wonder about him. She often wondered +about him now in Sicily. In England she never had. +She had thought there that she knew him as he, perhaps, +could never know her. It seemed to her that she had +been almost arrogant, filled with a pride of intellect. She +was beginning to be humbler here, face to face with Etna.</p> + +<p>Let him sleep, mystery wrapped in the mystery of +slumber!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> + +<p>She sat down in the twilight, waiting till he should +wake, watching the darkness of his hair upon the pillow.</p> + +<p>Some time passed, and presently she heard a noise +upon the terrace. She got up softly, went into the +sitting-room, and looked out. Lucrezia was laying the +table for collazione.</p> + +<p>"Is it half-past one already?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"But the padrone is still asleep!"</p> + +<p>"So is Gaspare in the hay. Come and see, signora."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia took Hermione by the hand and led her +round the angle of the cottage. There, under the low +roof of the out-house, dressed only in his shirt and trousers +with his brown arms bare and his hair tumbled over his +damp forehead, lay Gaspare on a heap of hay close to +Tito, the donkey. Some hens were tripping and pecking +by his legs, and a black cat was curled up in the hollow +of his left armpit. He looked infinitely young, healthy, +and comfortable, like an embodied carelessness that had +flung itself down to its need.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could sleep like that," said Hermione.</p> + +<p>"Signora!" said Lucrezia, shocked. "You in the +stable with that white dress! Mamma mia! And the +hens!"</p> + +<p>"Hens, donkey, cat, hay, and all—I should love it. +But I'm too old ever to sleep like that. Don't wake +him!"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was stepping over to Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"And I won't wake the padrone. Let them both +sleep. They've been up all night. I'll eat alone. When +they wake we'll manage something for them. Perhaps +they'll sleep till evening, till dinner-time."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare will, signora. He can sleep the clock round +when he's tired."</p> + +<p>"And the padrone too, I dare say. All the better."</p> + +<p>She spoke cheerfully, then went to sit down to her +solitary meal.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> + +<p>The letter of Artois was her only company. She read +it again as she ate, and again felt as if it had been written +by a man over whom some real misfortune was impending. +The thought of his isolation in that remote African +city pained her warm heart. She compared it with her +own momentary solitude, and chided herself for minding—and +she did mind—the lonely meal. How much she +had—everything almost! And Artois, with his genius, +his fame, his liberty—how little he had! An Arab servant +for his companion, while she for hers had Maurice! +Her heart glowed with thankfulness, and, feeling how +rich she was, she felt a longing to give to others—a longing +to make every one happy, a longing specially to make +Emile happy. His letter was horribly sad. Each time +she looked at it she was made sad by it, even apprehensive. +She remembered their long and close friendship, +how she had sympathized with all his struggles, how she +had been proud of possessing his confidence and of being +asked to advise him on points connected with his work. +The past returned to her, kindling fires in her heart, till +she longed to be near him and to shed their warmth on +him. The African sun shone upon him and left him cold, +numb. How wonderful it was, she thought, that the +touch of a true friend's hand, the smile of the eyes of a +friend, could succeed where the sun failed. Sometimes +she thought of herself, of all human beings, as pygmies. +Now she felt that she came of a race of giants, whose +powers were illimitable. If only she could be under that +palm-tree for a moment beside Emile, she would be able +to test the power she knew was within her, the glorious +power that the sun lacked, to shed light and heat through +a human soul. With an instinctive gesture she stretched +out her hand as if to give Artois the touch he longed for. +It encountered only the air and dropped to her side. +She got up with a sigh.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Emile!" she said to herself. "If only I +could do something for him!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p> + +<p>The thought of Maurice sleeping calmly close to her +made her long to say "Thank you" for her great happiness +by performing some action of usefulness, some action +that would help another—Emile for choice—to happiness, +or, at least, to calm.</p> + +<p>This longing was for a moment so keen in her that it +was almost like an unconscious petition, like an unuttered +prayer in the heart, "Give me an opportunity to show +my gratitude."</p> + +<p>She stood by the wall for a moment, looking over into +the ravine and at the mountain flank opposite. Etna +was startlingly clear to-day. She fancied that if a fly +were to settle upon the snow on its summit she would be +able to see it. The sea was like a mirror in which lay +the reflection of the unclouded sky. It was not far to +Africa. She watched a bird pass towards the sea. +Perhaps it was flying to Kairouan, and would settle at +last on one of the white cupolas of the great mosque +there, the Mosque of Djama Kebir.</p> + +<p>What could she do for Emile? She could at least +write to him. She could renew her invitation to him to +come to Sicily.</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia!" she called, softly, lest she might waken +Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Signora?" said Lucrezia, appearing round the corner +of the cottage.</p> + +<p>"Please bring me out a pen and ink and writing-paper, +will you?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was standing beside Hermione. Now she +turned to go into the house. As she did so she said:</p> + +<p>"Ecco, Antonino from the post-office!"</p> + +<p>"Where?" asked Hermione.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia pointed to a little figure that was moving +quickly along the mountain-path towards the cottage.</p> + +<p>"There, signora. But why should he come? It is +not the hour for the post yet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No. Perhaps it is a telegram. Yes, it must be a +telegram."</p> + +<p>She glanced at the letter in her hand.</p> + +<p>"It's a telegram from Africa," she said, as if she knew.</p> + +<p>And at that moment she felt that she did know.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia regarded her with round-eyed amazement.</p> + +<p>"But, signora, how can you—"</p> + +<p>"There, Antonino has disappeared under the trees! +We shall see him in a minute among the rocks. I'll go to +meet him."</p> + +<p>And she went quickly to the archway, and looked +down the path where the lizards were darting to and fro +in the sunshine. Almost directly Antonino reappeared, +a small boy climbing steadily up the steep pathway, with +a leather bag slung over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Antonino!" she called to him. "Is it a telegram?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora!" he cried out.</p> + +<p>He came up to her, panting, opened the bag, and gave +her the folded paper.</p> + +<p>"Go and get something to drink," she said. "To eat, +too, if you're hungry."</p> + +<p>Antonino ran off eagerly, while Hermione tore open +the paper and read these words in French:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Monsieur Artois dangerously ill; fear may not recover; he +wished you to know.<br /> +<span class="smcap"> Max Berton</span>, Docteur Médecin, Kairouan."</p></div> + +<p>Hermione dropped the telegram. She did not feel at +all surprised. Indeed, she felt that she had been expecting +almost these very words, telling her of a tragedy +at which the letter she still held in her hand had hinted. +For a moment she stood there without being conscious of +any special sensation. Then she stooped, picked up the +telegram, and read it again. This time it seemed like an +answer to that unuttered prayer in her heart: "Give me +an opportunity to show my gratitude." She did not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +hesitate for a moment as to what she would do. She +would go to Kairouan, to close the eyes of her friend if +he must die, if not to nurse him back to life.</p> + +<p>Antonino was munching some bread and cheese and +had one hand round a glass full of red wine.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to write an answer," she said to him, "and +you must run with it."</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"Was it from Africa, signora?" asked Lucrezia.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia's jaw fell, and she stared in superstitious +amazement.</p> + +<p>"I wonder," Hermione thought, "if Maurice—"</p> + +<p>She went gently to the bedroom. He was still sleeping +calmly. His attitude of luxurious repose, the sound +of his quiet breathing, seemed strange to her eyes and +ears at this moment, strange and almost horrible. For +an instant she thought of waking him in order to tell +him her news and consult with him about the journey. +It never occurred to her to ask him whether there +should be a journey. But something held her back, as +one is held back from disturbing the slumber of a tired +child, and she returned to the sitting-room, wrote out +the following telegram:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Shall start for Kairouan at once; wire me Tunisia Palace +Hotel, Tunis,</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Madame Delarey</span>."</p></div> + +<p>and sent Antonino with it flying down the hill. Then +she got time-tables and a guide-book of Tunisia, and sat +down at her writing-table to make out the journey; while +Lucrezia, conscious that something unusual was afoot, +watched her with solemn eyes.</p> + +<p>Hermione found that she would gain nothing by +starting that night. By leaving early the next morning +she would arrive at Trapani in time to catch a +steamer which left at midnight for Tunis, reaching<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +Africa at nine on the following morning. From Tunis +a day's journey by train would bring her to Kairouan. +If the steamer were punctual she might be able to catch +a train immediately on her arrival at Tunis. If not, +she would have to spend one day there.</p> + +<p>Already she felt as if she were travelling. All sense +of peace had left her. She seemed to hear the shriek +of engines, the roar of trains in tunnels and under +bridges, to shake with the oscillation of the carriage, +to sway with the dip and rise of the action of the +steamer.</p> + +<p>Swiftly, as one in haste, she wrote down times of +departure and arrival: Cattaro to Messina, Messina to +Palermo, Palermo to Trapani, Trapani to Tunis, Tunis +to Kairouan, with the price of the ticket—a return +ticket. When that was done and she had laid down +her pen, she began for the first time to realize the +change a morsel of paper had made in her life, to realize +the fact of the closeness of her new knowledge of what +was and what was coming to Maurice's ignorance. The +travelling sensation within her, an intense interior restlessness, +made her long for action, for some ardent +occupation in which the body could take part. She +would have liked to begin at once to pack, but all her +things were in the bedroom where Maurice was sleeping. +Would he sleep forever? She longed for him to wake, +but she would not wake him. Everything could be +packed in an hour. There was no reason to begin now. +But how could she remain just sitting there in the +great tranquillity of this afternoon of spring, looking at +the long, calm line of Etna rising from the sea, while +Emile, perhaps, lay dying?</p> + +<p>She got up, went once more to the terrace, and began +to pace up and down under the awning. She had not +told Lucrezia that she was going on the morrow. Maurice +must know first. What would he say? How would +he take it? And what would he do? Even in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +midst of her now growing sorrow—for at first she had +hardly felt sorry, had hardly felt anything but that +intense restlessness which still possessed her—she was +preoccupied with that. She meant, when he woke, to +give him the telegram, and say simply that she must +go at once to Artois. That was all. She would not +ask, hint at anything else. She would just tell Maurice +that she could not leave her dearest friend to die alone +in an African city, tended only by an Arab, and a doctor +who came to earn his fee.</p> + +<p>And Maurice—what would he say? What would he—do?</p> + +<p>If only he would wake! There was something terrible +to her in the contrast between his condition and +hers at this moment.</p> + +<p>And what ought she to do if Maurice—?</p> + +<p>She broke off short in her mental arrangement of +possible happenings when Maurice should wake.</p> + +<p>The afternoon waned and still he slept. As she +watched the light changing on the sea, growing softer, +more wistful, and the long outline of Etna becoming +darker against the sky, Hermione felt a sort of unreasonable +despair taking possession of her. So few hours of +the day were left now, and on the morrow this Sicilian +life—a life that had been ideal—must come to an end for +a time, and perhaps forever. The abruptness of the +blow which had fallen had wakened in her sensitive +heart a painful, almost an exaggerated sense of the +uncertainty of the human fate. It seemed to her that +the joy which had been hers in these tranquil Sicilian +days, a joy more perfect than any she had conceived of, +was being broken off short, as if it could never be renewed. +With her anxiety for her friend mingled another +anxiety, more formless, but black and horrible in +its vagueness.</p> + +<p>"If this should be our last day together in Sicily!" +she thought, as she watched the light softening among<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +the hills and the shadows of the olive-trees lengthening +upon the ground.</p> + +<p>"If this should be our last night together in the house +of the priest!"</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that even with Maurice in another +place she could never know again such perfect peace and +joy, and her heart ached at the thought of leaving it.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow!" she thought. "Only a few hours and +this will all be over!"</p> + +<p>It seemed almost incredible. She felt that she could +not realize it thoroughly and yet that she realized it too +much, as in a nightmare one seems to feel both less and +more than in any tragedy of a wakeful hour.</p> + +<p>A few hours and it would all be over—and through +those hours Maurice slept.</p> + +<p>The twilight was falling when he stirred, muttered +some broken words, and opened his eyes. He heard no +sound, and thought it was early morning.</p> + +<p>"Hermione!" he said, softly.</p> + +<p>Then he lay still for a moment and remembered.</p> + +<p>"By Jove! it must be long past time for déjeuner!" +he thought.</p> + +<p>He sprang up and put his head into the sitting-room.</p> + +<p>"Hermione!" he called.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, from the terrace.</p> + +<p>"What's the time?"</p> + +<p>"Nearly dinner-time."</p> + +<p>He burst out laughing.</p> + +<p>"Didn't you think I was going to sleep forever?" he +said.</p> + +<p>"Almost," her voice said.</p> + +<p>He wondered a little why she did not come to him, +but only answered him from a distance.</p> + +<p>"I'll dress and be out in a moment," he called.</p> + +<p>"All right!"</p> + +<p>Now that Maurice was awake at last, Hermione's grief +at the lost afternoon became much more acute, but she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +was determined to conceal it. She remained where she +was just then because she had been startled by the sound +of her husband's voice, and was not sure of her power +of self-control. When, a few minutes later, he came out +upon the terrace with a half-amused, half-apologetic +look on his face, she felt safer. She resolved to waste +no time, but to tell him at once.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said, "while you've been sleeping I've +been living very fast and travelling very far."</p> + +<p>"How, Hermione? What do you mean?" he asked, +sitting down by the wall and looking at her with eyes +that still held shadows of sleep.</p> + +<p>"Something's happened to-day that's—that's going +to alter everything."</p> + +<p>He looked astonished.</p> + +<p>"Why, how grave you are! But what? What could +happen here?"</p> + +<p>"This came."</p> + +<p>She gave him the doctor's telegram. He read it +slowly aloud.</p> + +<p>"Artois!" he said. "Poor fellow! And out there in +Africa all alone!"</p> + +<p>He stopped speaking, looked at her, then leaned forward, +put his arm round her shoulder, and kissed her +gently.</p> + +<p>"I'm awfully sorry for you, Hermione," he said. +"Awfully sorry, I know how you must be feeling. +When did it come?"</p> + +<p>"Some hours ago."</p> + +<p>"And I've been sleeping! I feel a brute."</p> + +<p>He kissed her again.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you wake me?"</p> + +<p>"Just to share a grief? That would have been horrid +of me, Maurice!"</p> + +<p>He looked again at the telegram.</p> + +<p>"Did you wire?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course. Perhaps to-morrow, or in a day or two, +we shall have better news, that he's turned the corner. +He's a strong man, Hermione; he ought to recover. I +believe he'll recover."</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said. "I want to tell you something."</p> + +<p>"What, dear?"</p> + +<p>"I feel I must—I can't wait here for news."</p> + +<p>"But then—what will you do?"</p> + +<p>"While you've been sleeping I've been looking out +trains."</p> + +<p>"Trains! You don't mean—"</p> + +<p>"I must start for Kairouan to-morrow morning. +Read this, too."</p> + +<p>And she gave him Emile's letter.</p> + +<p>"Doesn't that make you feel his loneliness?" she +said, when he had finished it. "And think of it now—now +when perhaps he knows that he is dying."</p> + +<p>"You are going away," he said—"going away from +here!"</p> + +<p>His voice sounded as if he could not believe it.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow morning!" he added, more incredulously.</p> + +<p>"If I waited I might be too late."</p> + +<p>She was watching him with intent eyes, in which +there seemed to flame a great anxiety.</p> + +<p>"You know what friends we've been," she continued. +"Don't you think I ought to go?"</p> + +<p>"I—perhaps—yes, I see how you feel. Yes, I see. +But"—he got up—"to leave here to-morrow! I felt +as if—almost as if we'd been here always and should +live here for the rest of our lives."</p> + +<p>"I wish to Heaven we could!" she exclaimed, her voice +changing. "Oh, Maurice, if you knew how dreadful it is +to me to go!"</p> + +<p>"How far is Kairouan?"</p> + +<p>"If I catch the train at Tunis I can be there the day +after to-morrow."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And you are going to nurse him, of course?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, if—if I'm in time. Now I ought to pack before +dinner."</p> + +<p>"How beastly!" he said, just like a boy. "How utterly +beastly! I don't feel as if I could believe it all. +But you—what a trump you are, Hermione! To leave +this and travel all that way—not one woman in a hundred +would do it."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you for a friend?"</p> + +<p>"I!" he said, simply. "I don't know whether I +understand friendship as you do. I've had lots of +friends, of course, but one seemed to me very like another, +as long as they were jolly."</p> + +<p>"How Sicilian!" she thought.</p> + +<p>She had heard Gaspare speak of his boy friends in +much the same way.</p> + +<p>"Emile is more to me than any one in the world but +you," she said.</p> + +<p>Her voice changed, faltered on the last word, and she +walked along the terrace to the sitting-room window.</p> + +<p>"I must pack now," she said. "Then we can have +one more quiet time together after dinner."</p> + +<p>Her last words seemed to strike him, for he followed +her, and as she was going into the bedroom, he said:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—why shouldn't I—"</p> + +<p>But then he stopped.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Maurice!" she said, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Where's Gaspare?" he asked. "We'll make him +help with the packing. But you won't take much, will +you? It'll only be for a few days, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Who knows?"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Gaspare!" he called.</p> + +<p>"Che vuole?" answered a sleepy voice.</p> + +<p>"Come here."</p> + +<p>In a moment a languid figure appeared round the +corner. Maurice explained matters. Instantly Gaspare +became a thing of quicksilver. He darted to help<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +Hermione. Every nerve seemed quivering to be useful.</p> + +<p>"And the signore?" he said, presently, as he carried a +trunk into the room.</p> + +<p>"The signore!" said Hermione.</p> + +<p>"Is he going, too?"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" said Hermione, swiftly.</p> + +<p>She put her finger to her lips. Delarey was just coming +into the room.</p> + +<p>Gaspare said no more, but he shot a curious glance +from padrona to padrone as he knelt down to lay some +things in the trunk.</p> + +<p>By dinner-time Hermione's preparations were completed. +The one trunk she meant to take was packed. +How hateful it looked standing there in the white room +with the label hanging from the handle! She washed +her face and hands in cold water, and came out onto +the terrace where the dinner-table was laid. It was a +warm, still night, like the night of the fishing, and the +moon hung low in a clear sky.</p> + +<p>"How exquisite it is here!" she said to Maurice, as they +sat down. "We are in the very heart of calm, majestic +calm. Look at that one star over Etna, and the outlines +of the hills and of that old castle—"</p> + +<p>She stopped.</p> + +<p>"It brings a lump into my throat," she said, after a +little pause. "It's too beautiful and too still to-night."</p> + +<p>"I love being here," he said.</p> + +<p>They ate their dinner in silence for some time. Presently +Maurice began to crumble his bread.</p> + +<p>"Hermione," he said. "Look here—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Maurice."</p> + +<p>"I've been thinking—of course I scarcely know Artois, +and I could be of no earthly use, but I've been thinking +whether it would not be better for me to come to +Kairouan with you."</p> + +<p>For a moment Hermione's rugged face was lit up by a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> +fire of joy that made her look beautiful. Maurice went +on crumbling his bread.</p> + +<p>"I didn't say anything at first," he continued, "because +I—well, somehow I felt so fixed here, almost part +of the place, and I had never thought of going till it got +too hot, and especially not now, when the best time is +only just beginning. And then it all came so suddenly. +I was still more than half asleep, too, I believe," he +added, with a little laugh, "when you told me. But +now I've had time, and—why shouldn't I come, too, to +look after you?"</p> + +<p>As he went on speaking the light in Hermione's face +flickered and died out. It was when he laughed that it +vanished quite away.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Maurice," she said, quietly. "Thank you, +dear. I should love to have you with me, but it would +be a shame!"</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Why? Why—the best time here is only just beginning, +as you say. It would be selfish to drag you +across the sea to a sick-bed, or perhaps to a death-bed."</p> + +<p>"But the journey?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am accustomed to being a lonely woman. +Think how short a time we've been married! I've nearly +always travelled alone."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know," he said. "Of course there's no danger. +I didn't mean that, only—"</p> + +<p>"Only you were ready to be unselfish," she said. +"Bless you for it. But this time I want to be unselfish. +You must stay here to keep house, and I'll come back the +first moment I can—the very first. Let's try to think of +that—of the day when I come up the mountain again to +my—to our garden of paradise. All the time I'm away +I shall pray for the moment when I see these columns of +the terrace above me, and the geraniums, and—and the +white wall of our little—home."</p> + +<p>She stopped. Then she added:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "But you won't see me on the +terrace."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Because, of course, I shall come to the station to meet +you. That day will be a festa."</p> + +<p>She said nothing more. Her heart was very full, and +of conflicting feelings and of voices that spoke in contradiction +one of another. One or two of these voices +she longed to hush to silence, but they were persistent. +Then she tried not to listen to what they were saying. +But they were pitilessly distinct.</p> + +<p>Dinner was soon over, and Gaspare came to clear +away. His face was very grave, even troubled. He did +not like this abrupt departure of his padrona.</p> + +<p>"You will come back, signora?" he said, as he drew +away the cloth and prepared to fold up the table and +carry it in-doors.</p> + +<p>Hermione managed to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course, Gaspare! Did you think I was going +away forever?"</p> + +<p>"Africa is a long way off."</p> + +<p>"Only nine hours from Trapani. I may be back very +soon. Will you forget me?"</p> + +<p>"Did I forget my padrona when she was in England?" +the boy replied, his expressive face suddenly hardening +and his great eyes glittering with sullen fires.</p> + +<p>Hermione quickly laid her hand on his.</p> + +<p>"I was only laughing. You know your padrona trusts +you to remember her as she remembers you."</p> + +<p>Gaspare lifted up her hand quickly, kissed it, and +hurried away, lifting his own hand to his eyes.</p> + +<p>"These Sicilians know how to make one love them," +said Hermione, with a little catch in her voice. "I believe +that boy would die for me if necessary."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure he would," said Maurice. "But one doesn't +find a padrona like you every day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Let us walk to the arch," she said. "I must take +my last look at the mountains with you."</p> + +<p>Beyond the archway there was a large, flat rock, a +natural seat from which could be seen a range of mountains +that was invisible from the terrace. Hermione +often sat on this rock alone, looking at the distant peaks, +whose outlines stirred her imagination like a wild and barbarous +music. Now she drew down Maurice beside her +and kept his hand in hers. She was thinking of many +things, among others of the little episode that had just +taken place with Gaspare. His outburst of feeling, like +fire bursting up through a suddenly opened fissure in the +crust of the earth, had touched her and something more. +It had comforted her, and removed from her a shadowy +figure that had been approaching her, the figure of a +fear. She fixed her eyes on the mountains, dark under +the silver of the moon.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said. "Do you often try to read people?"</p> + +<p>The pleasant look of almost deprecating modesty that +Artois had noticed on the night when they dined together +in London came to Delarey's face.</p> + +<p>"I don't know that I do, Hermione," he said. "Is it +easy?"</p> + +<p>"I think—I'm thinking it especially to-night—that it +is horribly difficult. One's imagination seizes hold of +trifles, and magnifies them and distorts them. From +little things, little natural things, one deduces—I mean +one takes a midget and makes of it a monster. How one +ought to pray to see clear in people one loves! It's very +strange, but I think that sometimes, just because one +loves, one is ready to be afraid, to doubt, to exaggerate, +to think a thing is gone when it is there. In friendship +one is more ready to give things their proper value—perhaps +because everything is of less value. Do you know +that to-night I realize for the first time the enormous difference +there is between the love one gives in love and +the love one gives in friendship?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, Hermione?" he asked, simply.</p> + +<p>He was looking a little puzzled, but still reverential.</p> + +<p>"I love Emile as a friend. You know that."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Would you go to Kairouan if you didn't?"</p> + +<p>"If he were to die it would be a great sorrow, a great +loss to me. I pray that he may live. And yet—"</p> + +<p>Suddenly she took his other hand in hers.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Maurice, I've been thinking to-day, I'm thinking +now—suppose it were you who lay ill, perhaps dying! +Oh, the difference in my feeling, in my dread! If you +were to be taken from me, the gap in my life! There +would be nothing—nothing left."</p> + +<p>He put his arm round her, and was going to speak, but +she went on:</p> + +<p>"And if you were to be taken from me how terrible it +would be to feel that I'd ever had one unkind thought of +you, that I'd ever misinterpreted one look or word or +action of yours, that I'd ever, in my egoism or my greed, +striven to thwart one natural impulse of yours, or to +force you into travesty away from simplicity! Don't—don't +ever be unnatural or insincere with me, Maurice, +even for a moment, even for fear of hurting me. Be +always yourself, be the boy that you still are and that I +love you for being."</p> + +<p>She put her head on his shoulder, and he felt her body +trembling.</p> + +<p>"I think I'm always natural with you," he said.</p> + +<p>"You're as natural as Gaspare. Only once, and—and +that was my fault, I know; but you mean so much to +me, everything, and your honesty with me is like God +walking with me."</p> + +<p>She lifted her head and stood up.</p> + +<p>"Please God we'll have many more nights together +here," she said—"many more blessed, blessed nights. +The stillness of the hills is like all the truth of the world, +sifted from the falsehood and made into one beautiful +whole. Oh, Maurice, there is a Heaven on earth—when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +two people love each other in the midst of such a silence +as this."</p> + +<p>They went slowly back through the archway to the +terrace. Far below them the sea gleamed delicately, +almost like a pearl. In the distance, towering above the +sea, the snow of Etna gleamed more coldly, with a bleaker +purity, a suggestion of remote mysteries and of untrodden +heights. Above the snow of Etna shone the +star of evening. Beside the sea shone the little light in +the house of the sirens.</p> + +<p>And as they stood for a moment before the cottage in +the deep silence of the night, Hermione looked up at the +star above the snow. But Maurice looked down at the +little light beside the sea.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2> + + +<p>Only when Hermione was gone, when the train from +which she waved her hand had vanished along the line +that skirted the sea, and he saw Gaspare winking away +two tears that were about to fall on his brown cheeks, did +Maurice begin to realize the largeness of the change that +fate had wrought in his Sicilian life. He realized it more +sharply when he had climbed the mountain and stood +once more upon the terrace before the house of the priest. +Hermione's personality was so strong, so aboundingly vital, +that its withdrawal made an impression such as that +made by an intense silence suddenly succeeding a powerful +burst of music. Just at first Maurice felt startled, +almost puzzled like a child, inclined to knit his brows +and stare with wide eyes and wonder what could be +going to happen to him in a world that was altered. Now +he was conscious of being far away from the land where +he had been born and brought up, conscious of it as he +had not been before, even on his first day in Sicily. He +did not feel an alien. He had no sensation of exile. +But he felt, as he had not felt when with Hermione, the +glory of this world of sea and mountains, of olive-trees +and vineyards, the strangeness of its great welcome to +him, the magic of his readiness to give himself to it.</p> + +<p>He had been like a dancing faun in the sunshine and +the moonlight of Sicily. Now, for a moment, he stood +still, very still, and watched and listened, and was grave, +and was aware of himself, the figure in the foreground of +a picture that was marvellous.</p> + +<p>The enthusiasm of Hermione for Sicily, the flood of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +understanding of it, and feeling for it that she had +poured out in the past days of spring, instead of teaching +Maurice to see and to feel, seemed to have kept him back +from the comprehension to which they had been meant +to lead him. With Hermione, the watcher, he had been +but as a Sicilian, another Gaspare in a different rank of +life. Without Hermione he was Gaspare and something +more. It was as if he still danced in the tarantella, but +had now for the moment the power to stand and watch +his performance and see that it was wonderful.</p> + +<p>This was just at first, in the silence that followed the +music.</p> + +<p>He gazed at Etna, and thought: "How extraordinary +that I'm living up here on a mountain and looking at +the smoke from Etna, and that there's no English-speaking +person here but me!" He looked at Gaspare and +at Lucrezia, and thought: "What a queer trio of companions +we are! How strange and picturesque those two +would look in England, how different they are from the +English, and yet how at home with them I feel! By +Jove, it's wonderful!" And then he was thrilled by a +sense of romance, of adventure, that had never been his +when his English wife was there beside him, calling his +mind to walk with hers, his heart to beat with hers, calling +with the great sincerity of a very perfect love.</p> + +<p>"The poor signora!" said Gaspare. "I saw her beginning +to cry when the train went away. She loves my +country and cannot bear to leave it. She ought to live +here always, as I do."</p> + +<p>"Courage, Gaspare!" said Maurice, putting his hand +on the boy's shoulder. "She'll come back very soon."</p> + +<p>Gaspare lifted his hand to his eyes, then drew out a +red-and-yellow handkerchief with "Caro mio" embroidered +on it and frankly wiped them.</p> + +<p>"The poor signora!" he repeated. "She did not like +to leave us."</p> + +<p>"Let's think of her return," said Maurice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> + +<p>He turned away suddenly from the terrace and went +into the house.</p> + +<p>When he was there, looking at the pictures and books, +at the open piano with some music on it, at a piece of +embroidery with a needle stuck through the half-finished +petal of a flower, he began to feel deserted. The day was +before him. What was he going to do? What was +there for him to do? For a moment he felt what he +would have called "stranded." He was immensely +accustomed to Hermione, and her splendid vitality of +mind and body filled up the interstices of a day with such +ease that one did not notice that interstices existed, or +think they could exist. Her physical health and her +ardent mind worked hand-in-hand to create around her +an atmosphere into which boredom could not come, yet +from which bustle was excluded. Maurice felt the silence +within the house to be rather dreary than peaceful. He +touched the piano, endeavoring to play with one finger +the tune of "O sole mio!" He took up two or three +books, pulled the needle out of Hermione's embroidery, +then stuck it in again. The feeling of loss began to grow +upon him. Oddly enough, he thought, he had not felt +it very strongly at the station when the train ran out. +Nor had it been with him upon the terrace. There he +had been rather conscious of change than of loss—of +change that was not without excitement. But now—He +began to think of the days ahead of him with a faint +apprehension.</p> + +<p>"But I'll live out-of-doors," he said to himself. "It's +only in the house that I feel bad like this. I'll live out-of-doors +and take lots of exercise, and I shall be all right."</p> + +<p>He had again taken up a book, almost without knowing +it, and now, holding it in his hand, he went to the +head of the steps leading to the terrace and looked out. +Gaspare was sitting by the wall with a very dismal face. +He stared silently at his master for a minute. Then he +said:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The signora should have taken us with her to Africa. +It would have been better."</p> + +<p>"It was impossible, Gaspare," Maurice said, rather +hastily. "She is going to a poor signore who is ill."</p> + +<p>"I know."</p> + +<p>The boy paused for a moment. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"Is the signore her brother?"</p> + +<p>"Her brother! No."</p> + +<p>"Is he a relation?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Is he very old?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not."</p> + +<p>Gaspare repeated:</p> + +<p>"The signora should have taken us with her to +Africa."</p> + +<p>This time he spoke with a certain doggedness. Maurice, +he scarcely knew why, felt slightly uncomfortable +and longed to create a diversion. He looked at the book +he was holding in his hand and saw that it was <i>The +Thousand and One Nights</i>, in Italian. He wanted to +do something definite, to distract his thoughts—more +than ever now after his conversation with Gaspare. +An idea occurred to him.</p> + +<p>"Come under the oak-trees, Gaspare," he said, "and +I'll read to you. It will be a lesson in accent. You +shall be my professore."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The response was listless, and Gaspare followed his +master with listless footsteps down the little path that +led to the grove of oak-trees that grew among giant +rocks, on which the lizards were basking.</p> + +<p>"There are stories of Africa in this book," said Maurice, +opening it.</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked more alert.</p> + +<p>"Of where the signora will be?"</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?"</p> + +<p>He lay down on the warm ground, set his back against<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> +a rock, opened the book at hazard, and began to read +slowly and carefully, while Gaspare, stretched on the +grass, listened, with his chin in the palm of his hand. +The story was of the fisherman and the Genie who was +confined in a casket, and soon Gaspare was entirely absorbed +by it. He kept his enormous brown eyes fixed +upon Maurice's face, and moved his lips, silently forming, +after him, the words of the tale. When it was finished +he said:</p> + +<p>"I should not like to be kept shut up like that, +signore. If I could not be free I would kill myself. I +will always be free."</p> + +<p>He stretched himself on the warm ground like a +young animal, then added:</p> + +<p>"I shall not take a wife—ever."</p> + +<p>Maurice shut the book and stretched himself, too, then +moved away from the rock, and lay at full length with +his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes, nearly +shut, fixed upon the glimmer of the sea.</p> + +<p>"Why not, Gasparino?"</p> + +<p>"Because if one has a wife one is not free."</p> + +<p>"Hm!"</p> + +<p>"If I had a wife I should be like the Mago Africano +when he was shut up in the box."</p> + +<p>"And I?" Maurice said, suddenly sitting up. "What +about me?"</p> + +<p>For the first time it seemed to occur to Gaspare that +he was speaking to a married man. He sat up, too.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but you—you are a signore and rich. It is different. +I am poor. I shall have many loves, first one +and then another, but I shall never take a wife. My +father wishes me to when I have finished the military +service, but"—and he laughed at his own ingenious +comparison—"I am like the Mago Africano when he +was let out of the casket. I am free, and I will never +let myself be stoppered-up as he did. Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly Maurice frowned.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It isn't like—" he began.</p> + +<p>Then he stopped. The lines in his forehead disappeared, +and he laughed.</p> + +<p>"I am pretty free here, too," he said. "At least, +I feel so."</p> + +<p>The dreariness that had come upon him inside the +cottage had disappeared now that he was in the open +air. As he looked down over the sloping mountain +flank—dotted with trees near him, but farther away +bare and sunbaked—to the sea with its magic coast-line, +that seemed to promise enchantments to wilful travellers +passing by upon the purple waters, as he turned his +eyes to the distant plain with its lemon groves, its +winding river, its little vague towns of narrow houses +from which thin trails of smoke went up, and let them +journey on to the great, smoking mountain lifting its +snows into the blue, and its grave, not insolent, panache, +he felt an immense sense of happy-go-lucky freedom +with the empty days before him. His intellect +was loose like a colt on a prairie. There was no one +near to catch it, to lead it to any special object, to +harness it and drive it onward in any fixed direction. +He need no longer feel respect for a cleverness greater +than his own, or try to understand subtleties of thought +and sensation that were really outside of his capacities. +He did not say this to himself, but whence sprang this +new and dancing feeling of emancipation that was coming +upon him? Why did he remember the story he +had just been reading, and think of himself for a moment +as a Genie emerging cloudily into the light of day +from a narrow prison which had been sunk beneath the +sea? Why? For, till now, he had never had any +consciousness of imprisonment. One only becomes conscious +of some things when one is freed from them. +Maurice's happy efforts to walk on the heights with the +enthusiasms of Hermione had surely never tired him, +but rather braced him. Yet, left alone with peasants,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +with Lucrezia and Gaspare, there was something in him, +some part of his nature, which began to frolic like a +child let out of school. He felt more utterly at his ease +than he had ever felt before. With these peasants he +could let his mind be perfectly lazy. To them he seemed +instructed, almost a god of knowledge.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Maurice laughed, showing his white teeth. +He stretched up his arms to the blue heaven and the +sun that sent its rays filtering down to him through the +leaves of the oak-trees, and he laughed again gently.</p> + +<p>"What is it, signore?"</p> + +<p>"It is good to live, Gaspare. It is good to be young +out here on the mountain-side, and to send learning +and problems and questions of conscience to the devil. +After all, real life is simple enough if only you'll let it +be. I believe the complications of life, half of them, +and its miseries too, more than half of them, are the +inventions of the brains of the men and women we call +clever. They can't let anything alone. They bother +about themselves and everybody else. By Jove, if you +knew how they talk about life in London! They'd +make you think it was the most complicated, rotten, +intriguing business imaginable; all misunderstandings +and cross-purposes, and the Lord knows what. But it +isn't. It's jolly simple, or it can be. Here we are, +you and I, and we aren't at loggerheads, and we've got +enough to eat and a pair of boots apiece, and the sun, +and the sea, and old Etna behaving nicely—and what +more do we want?"</p> + +<p>"Signore—"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"I don't understand English."</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" Delarey roared with laughter. "And +I've been talking English. Well, Gaspare, I can't say it +in Sicilian—can I? Let's see."</p> + +<p>He thought a minute. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"It's something like this. Life is simple and splen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>did +if you let it alone. But if you worry it—well, then, +like a dog, it bites you."</p> + +<p>He imitated a dog biting. Gaspare nodded seriously.</p> + +<p>"Mi piace la vita," he remarked, calmly.</p> + +<p>"E anche mi piace a me," said Maurice. "Now I'll +give you a lesson in English, and when the signora comes +back you can talk to her."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The afternoon had gone in a flash. Evening came +while they were still under the oak-trees, and the voice +of Lucrezia was heard calling from the terrace, with +the peculiar baaing intonation that is characteristic of +southern women of the lower classes.</p> + +<p>Gaspare baaed ironically in reply.</p> + +<p>"It isn't dinner-time already?" said Maurice, getting +up reluctantly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, meester sir, eef you pleesi," said Gaspare, with +conscious pride. "We go way."</p> + +<p>"Bravo. Well, I'm getting hungry."</p> + +<p>As Maurice sat alone at dinner on the terrace, while +Gaspare and Lucrezia ate and chattered in the kitchen, +he saw presently far down below the shining of the light +in the house of the sirens. It came out when the stars +came out, this tiny star of the sea. He felt a little +lonely as he sat there eating all by himself, and when +the light was kindled near the water, that lay like a +dream waiting to be sweetly disturbed by the moon, +he was pleased as by the greeting of a friend. The light +was company. He watched it while he ate. It was a +friendly light, more friendly than the light of the stars +to him. For he connected it with earthly things—things +a man could understand. He imagined Maddalena +in the cottage where he had slept preparing the +supper for Salvatore, who was presently going off to +sea to spear fish, or net them, or take them with lines +for the market on the morrow. There was bread and +cheese on the table, and the good red wine that could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +harm nobody, wine that had all the laughter of the +sun-rays in it. And the cottage door was open to the +sea. The breeze came in and made the little lamp that +burned beneath the Madonna flicker. He saw the big, +white bed, and the faces of the saints, of the actresses, +of the smiling babies that had watched him while he +slept. And he saw the face of his peasant hostess, the +face he had kissed in the dawn, ere he ran down among +the olive-trees to plunge into the sea. He saw the +eyes that were like black jewels, the little feathers of +gold in the hair about her brow. She was a pretty, +simple girl. He liked the look of curiosity in her eyes. +To her he was something touched with wonder, a man +from a far-off land. Yet she was at ease with him and +he with her. That drop of Sicilian blood in his veins +was worth something to him in this isle of the south. +It made him one with so much, with the sunburned +sons of the hills and of the sea-shore, with the sunburned +daughters of the soil. It made him one with +them—or more—one of them. He had had a kiss from +Sicily now—a kiss in the dawn by the sea, from lips +fresh with the sea wind and warm with the life that +is young. And what had it meant to him? He had +taken it carelessly with a laugh. He had washed it from +his lips in the sea. Now he remembered it, and, in +thought, he took the kiss again, but more slowly, more +seriously. And he took it at evening, at the coming of +night, instead of at dawn, at the coming of day—his +kiss from Sicily.</p> + +<p>He took it at evening.</p> + +<p>He had finished dinner now, and he pushed back his +chair and drew a cigar from his pocket. Then he +struck a match. As he was putting it to the cigar he +looked again towards the sea and saw the light.</p> + +<p>"Damn!"</p> + +<p>"Signore!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare came running.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I didn't call, Gaspare, I only said 'Mamma mia!' +because I burned my fingers."</p> + +<p>He struck another match and lit the cigar.</p> + +<p>"Signore—" Gaspare began, and stopped.</p> + +<p>"Yes? What is it?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, I—Lucrezia, you know, has relatives at +Castel Vecchio."</p> + +<p>Castel Vecchio was the nearest village, perched on +the hill-top opposite, twenty minutes' walk from the +cottage.</p> + +<p>"Ebbene?"</p> + +<p>"Ebbene, signorino, to-night there is a festa in their +house. It is the festa of Pancrazio, her cousin. Sebastiano +will be there to play, and they will dance, and—"</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia wants to go?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, but she is afraid to ask."</p> + +<p>"Afraid! Of course she can go, she must go. Tell +her. But at night can she come back alone?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, I am invited, but I said—I did not like the +first evening that the padrona is away—if you would +come they would take it as a great honor."</p> + +<p>"Go, Gaspare, take Lucrezia, and bring her back +safely."</p> + +<p>"And you, signore?"</p> + +<p>"I would come, too, but I think a stranger would +spoil the festa."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, signore, on the contrary—"</p> + +<p>"I know—you think I shall be sad alone."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"You are good to think of your padrone, but I shall +be quite content. You go with Lucrezia and come +back as late as you like. Tell Lucrezia! Off with you!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare hesitated no longer. In a few minutes he +had put on his best clothes and a soft hat, and stuck a +large, red rose above each ear. He came to say good-bye +with Lucrezia on his arm. Her head was wrapped +in a brilliant yellow-and-white shawl with saffron-col<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>ored +fringes. They went off together laughing and +skipping down the stony path like two children.</p> + +<p>When their footsteps died away Delarey, who had +walked to the archway to see them off, returned slowly +to the terrace and began to pace up and down, puffing +at his cigar. The silence was profound. The rising +moon cast its pale beams upon the white walls of the +cottage, the white seats of the terrace. There was no +wind. The leaves of the oaks and the olive-trees +beneath the wall were motionless. Nothing stirred. +Above the cottage the moonlight struck on the rocks, +showed the nakedness of the mountain-side. A curious +sense of solitude, such as he had never known before, +took possession of Delarey. It did not make him feel +sad at first, but only emancipated, free as he had never +yet felt free, like one free in a world that was curiously +young, curiously unfettered by any chains of civilization, +almost savagely, primitively free. So might an +animal feel ranging to and fro in a land where man had +not set foot. But he was an animal without its mate +in the wonderful breathless night. And the moonlight +grew about him as he walked, treading softly he scarce +knew why, to and fro, to and fro.</p> + +<p>Hermione was nearing the coast now. Soon she would +be on board the steamer and on her way across the sea +to Africa. She would be on her way to Africa—and to +Artois.</p> + +<p>Delarey recalled his conversation with Gaspare, when +the boy had asked him whether Artois was Hermione's +brother, or a relation, or whether he was old. He remembered +Gaspare's intonation when he said, almost +sternly, "The signora should have taken us with her +to Africa." Evidently he was astonished. Why? It +must have been because he—Delarey—had let his wife +go to visit a man in a distant city alone. Sicilians did +not understand certain things. He had realized his own +freedom—now he began to realize Hermione's. How<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +quickly she had made up her mind. While he was +sleeping she had decided everything. She had even +looked out the trains. It had never occurred to her to +ask him what to do. And she had not asked him to go +with her. Did he wish she had?</p> + +<p>A new feeling began to stir within him, unreasonable, +absurd. It had come to him with the night and his +absolute solitude in the night. It was not anger as yet. +It was a faint, dawning sense of injury, but so faint that +it did not rouse, but only touched gently, almost furtively, +some spirit drowsing within him, like a hand that +touches, then withdraws itself, then steals forward to +touch again.</p> + +<p>He began to walk a little faster up and down, always +keeping along the terrace wall.</p> + +<p>He was primitive man to-night, and primitive feelings +were astir in him. He had not known he possessed them, +yet he—the secret soul of him—did not shrink from them +in any surprise. To something in him, some part of him, +they came as things not unfamiliar.</p> + +<p>Suppose he had shown surprise at Hermione's project? +Suppose he had asked her not to go? Suppose he had +told her not to go? What would she have said? What +would she have done? He had never thought of objecting +to this journey, but he might have objected. Many +a man would have objected. This was their honeymoon—hers +and his. To many it would seem strange +that a wife should leave her husband during their honeymoon, +to travel across the sea to another man, a friend, +even if he were ill, perhaps dying. He did not doubt +Hermione. No one who knew her as he did could doubt +her, yet nevertheless, now that he was quite companionless +in the night, he felt deserted, he felt as if every one +else were linked with life, while he stood entirely alone. +Hermione was travelling to her friend. Lucrezia and +Gaspare had gone to their festa, to dance, to sing, to joke, +to make merry, to make love—who knew? Down in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +village the people were gossiping at one another's doors, +were lounging together in the piazza, were playing cards +in the caffès, were singing and striking the guitars under +the pepper-trees bathed in the rays of the moon. And +he—what was there for him in this night that woke up +desires for joy, for the sweetness of the life that sings in +the passionate aisles of the south?</p> + +<p>He stood still by the wall. Two or three lights twinkled +on the height where Castel Vecchio perched clinging +to its rock above the sea. Sebastiano was there setting +his lips to the ceramella, and shooting bold glances of +tyrannical love at Lucrezia out of his audacious eyes. +The peasants, dressed in their gala clothes, were forming +in a circle for the country dance. The master of the +ceremonies was shouting out his commands in bastard +French: "Tournez!" "À votre place!" "Prenez la donne!" +"Dansez toutes!" Eyes were sparkling, cheeks were +flushing, lips were parting as gay activity created warmth +in bodies and hearts. Then would come the tarantella, +with Gaspare spinning like a top and tripping like a +Folly in a veritable madness of movement. And as the +night wore on the dance would become wilder, the laughter +louder, the fire of jokes more fierce. Healths would +be drunk with clinking glasses, brindisi shouted, tricks +played. Cards would be got out. There would be a +group intent on "Scopa," another calling "Mi staio!" +"Carta da vente!" throwing down the soldi and picking +them up greedily in "Sette e mezzo." Stories would be +told, bets given and taken. The smoke would curl up +from the long, black cigars the Sicilians love. Dark-browed +men and women, wild-haired boys, and girls in +gay shawls, with great rings swinging from their ears, +would give themselves up as only southerners can to the +joy of the passing moment, forgetting poverty, hardship, +and toil, grinding taxation, all the cares and the sorrows +that encompass the peasant's life, forgetting the flight of +the hours, forgetting everything in the passion of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +festa, the dedication of all their powers to the laughing +worship of fun.</p> + +<p>Yes, the passing hour would be forgotten. That was +certain. It would be dawn ere Lucrezia and Gaspare +returned.</p> + +<p>Delarey's cigar was burned to a stump. He took it +from his lips and threw it with all his force over the wall +towards the sea. Then he put his hands on the wall and +leaned over it, fixing his eyes on the sea. The sense of +injury grew in him. He resented the joys of others in +this beautiful night, and he felt as if all the world were at +a festa, as if all the world were doing wonderful things in +the wonderful night, while he was left solitary to eat out +his heart beneath the moon. He did not reason against +his feelings and tell himself they were absurd. The +dancing faun does not reason in his moments of ennui. +He rebels. Delarey rebelled.</p> + +<p>He had been invited to the festa and he had refused to +go—almost eagerly he had refused. Why? There had +been something secret in his mind which had prompted +him. He had said—and even to himself—that he did +not go lest his presence might bring a disturbing element +into the peasants' gayety. But was that his reason?</p> + +<p>Leaning over the wall he looked down upon the sea. +The star that seemed caught in the sea smiled at him, +summoned him. Its gold was like the gold, the little +feathers of gold in the dark hair of a Sicilian girl singing +the song of the May beside the sea:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Maju torna, maju veni<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cu li belli soi ciureri—"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>He tried to hum the tune, but it had left his memory. +He longed to hear it once more under the olive-trees of +the Sirens' Isle.</p> + +<p>Again his thought went to Hermione. Very soon she +would be out there, far out on the silver of the sea. Had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> +she wanted him to go with her? He knew that she had. +Yet she had not asked him to go, had not hinted at his +going. Even she had refused to let him go. And he +had not pressed it. Something had held him back from +insisting, something secret, and something secret had +kept her from accepting his suggestion. She was going +to her greatest friend, to the man she had known intimately, +long before she had known him—Delarey—and +he was left alone. In England he had never had a +passing moment of jealousy of Artois; but now, to-night, +mingled with his creeping resentment against the joys +of the peasants, of those not far from him under the moon +of Sicily, there was a sensation of jealousy which came +from the knowledge that his wife was travelling to her +friend. That friend might be dead, or she might nurse +him back to life. Delarey thought of her by his bedside, +ministering to him, performing the intimate offices of the +attendant on a sick man, raising him up on his pillows, +putting a cool hand on his burning forehead, sitting by +him at night in the silence of a shadowy room, and quite +alone.</p> + +<p>He thought of all this, and the Sicilian that was in him +grew suddenly hot with a burning sense of anger, a burning +desire for action, preventive or revengeful. It was +quite unreasonable, as unreasonable as the vagrant impulse +of a child, but it was strong as the full-grown determination +of a man. Hermione had belonged to him. +She was his. And the old Sicilian blood in him protested +against that which would be if Artois were still +alive when she reached Africa.</p> + +<p>But it was too late now. He could do nothing. He +could only look at the shining sea on which the ship +would bear her that very night.</p> + +<p>His inaction and solitude began to torture him. If +he went in he knew he could not sleep. The mere thought +of the festa would prevent him from sleeping. Again he +looked at the lights of Castel Vecchio. He saw only one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +now, and imagined it set in the window of Pancrazio's +house. He even fancied that down the mountain-side +and across the ravine there floated to him the faint wail +of the ceramella playing a dance measure.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he knew that he could not remain all night +alone on the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>He went quickly into the cottage, got his soft hat, then +went from room to room, closing the windows and barring +the wooden shutters. When he had come out again +upon the steps and locked the cottage door he stood for +a moment hesitating with the large door-key in his hand. +He said to himself that he was going to the festa at Castel +Vecchio. Of course he was going there, to dance +the country dances and join in the songs of Sicily. He +slipped the key into his pocket and went down the steps +to the terrace. But there he hesitated again. He took +the key out of his pocket, looked at it as it lay in his hand, +then put it down on the sill of the sitting-room window.</p> + +<p>"If any one comes, there isn't very much to steal," he +thought. "And, perhaps—" Again he looked at the +lights of Castel Vecchio, then down towards the sea. The +star of the sea shone steadily and seemed to summon +him. He left the key on the window-sill, with a quick +gesture pulled his hat-brim down farther over his eyes, +hastened along the terrace, and, turning to the left beyond +the archway, took the path that led through the +olive-trees towards Isola Bella and the sea.</p> + +<p>Through the wonderful silence of the night among the +hills there came now a voice that was thrilling to his ears—the +voice of youth by the sea calling to the youth that +was in him.</p> + +<p>Hermione was travelling to her friend. Must he remain +quite friendless?</p> + +<p>All the way down to the sea he heard the calling of the +voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2> + + +<p>As dawn was breaking, Lucrezia and Gaspare climbed +slowly up the mountain-side towards the cottage. Lucrezia's +eyes were red, for she had just bidden good-bye +to Sebastiano, who was sailing that day for the +Lipari Isles, and she did not know how soon he would +be back. Sebastiano had not cried. He loved change, +and was radiant at the prospect of his voyage. But +Lucrezia's heart was torn. She knew Sebastiano, knew +his wild and adventurous spirit, his reckless passion for +life, and the gifts it scatters at the feet of lusty youth. +There were maidens in the Lipari Isles. They might be +beautiful. She had scarcely been jealous of Sebastiano +before her betrothal to him, for then she had had no +rights over him, and she was filled with the spirit of +humbleness that still dwells in the women of Sicily, the +spirit that whispers "Man may do what he will." But +now something had arisen within her to do battle with +that spirit. She wanted Sebastiano for her very own, +and the thought of his freedom when away tormented +her.</p> + +<p>Gaspare comforted her in perfunctory fashion.</p> + +<p>"What does it matter?" he said. "When you are +married you can keep him in the house, and make him +spin the flax for you."</p> + +<p>And he laughed aloud. But when they drew near to +the cottage he said:</p> + +<p>"Zitta, Lucrezia! The padrone is asleep. We must +steal in softly and not waken him."</p> + +<p>On tiptoe they crept along the terrace.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> + +<p>"He will have left the door open for us," whispered +Gaspare. "He has the revolver beside him and will not +have been afraid."</p> + +<p>But when they stood before the steps the door was +shut. Gaspare tried it gently. It was locked.</p> + +<p>"Phew!" he whistled. "We cannot get in, for we +cannot wake him."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia shivered. Sorrow had made her feel cold.</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" she began.</p> + +<p>But Gaspare's sharp eyes had spied the key lying on +the window-sill. He darted to it and picked it up. +Then he stared at the locked door and at Lucrezia.</p> + +<p>"But where is the padrone?" he said. "Oh, I know! +He locked the door on the inside and then put the key +out of the window. But why is the bedroom window +shut? He always sleeps with it open!"</p> + +<p>Quickly he thrust the key into the lock, opened the +door, and entered the dark sitting-room. Holding up +a warning hand to keep Lucrezia quiet, he tiptoed to +the bedroom door, opened it without noise, and disappeared, +leaving Lucrezia outside. After a minute or +two he came back.</p> + +<p>"It is all right. He is sleeping. Go to bed."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia turned to go.</p> + +<p>"And never mind getting up early to make the padrone's +coffee," Gaspare added. "I will do it. I am not +sleepy. I shall take the gun and go out after the birds."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia looked surprised. Gaspare was not in the +habit of relieving her of her duties. On the contrary, +he was a strict taskmaster. But she was tired and +preoccupied. So she made no remark and went off to +her room behind the house, walking heavily and untying +the handkerchief that was round her head.</p> + +<p>When she had gone, Gaspare stood by the table, thinking +deeply. He had lied to Lucrezia. The padrone was +not asleep. His bed had not been slept in. Where had +he gone? Where was he now?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Sicilian servant, if he cares for his padrone, feels +as if he had a proprietor's interest in him. He belongs +to his padrone and his padrone belongs to him. He +will allow nobody to interfere with his possession. He +is intensely jealous of any one who seeks to disturb the +intimacy between his padrone and himself, or to enter +into his padrone's life without frankly letting him know +it and the reason for it. The departure of Hermione had +given an additional impetus to Gaspare's always lively +sense of proprietorship in Maurice. He felt as if he had +been left in charge of his padrone, and had an almost +sacred responsibility to deliver him up to Hermione happy +and safe when she returned. This absence, therefore, +startled and perturbed him—more—made him feel guilty +of a lapse from his duty. Perhaps he should not have +gone to the festa. True, he had asked the padrone to +accompany him. But still—</p> + +<p>He went out onto the terrace and looked around him. +The dawn was faint and pale. Wreaths of mist, like +smoke trails, hung below him, obscuring the sea. The +ghostly cone of Etna loomed into the sky, extricating +itself from swaddling bands of clouds which shrouded +its lower flanks. The air was chilly upon this height, +and the aspect of things was gray and desolate, without +temptation, without enchantment, to lure men out +from their dwellings.</p> + +<p>What could have kept the padrone from his sleep till +this hour?</p> + +<p>Gaspare shivered a little as he stared over the wall. +He was thinking—thinking furiously. Although scarcely +educated at all, he was exceedingly sharp-witted, +and could read character almost as swiftly and surely +as an Arab. At this moment he was busily recalling +the book he had been reading for many weeks in Sicily, +the book of his padrone's character, written out for him +in words, in glances, in gestures, in likes and dislikes, +most clearly in actions. Mentally he turned the leaves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +until he came to the night of the fishing, to the waning +of the night, to the journey to the caves, to the dawn +when he woke upon the sand and found that the padrone +was not beside him. His brown hand tightened +on the stick he held, his brown eyes stared with the +glittering acuteness of a great bird's at the cloud trails +hiding the sea below him—hiding the sea, and all that +lay beside the sea.</p> + +<p>There was no one on the terrace. But there was a +figure for a moment on the mountain-side, leaping downward. +The ravine took it and hid it in a dark embrace. +Gaspare had found what he sought, a clew to guide him. +His hesitation was gone. In his uneducated and intuitive +mind there was no longer any room for a doubt. +He knew that his padrone was where he had been in +that other dawn, when he slipped away from the cave +where his companions were sleeping.</p> + +<p>Surefooted as a goat, and incited to abnormal activity +by a driving spirit within him that throbbed with closely +mingled curiosity, jealousy, and anger, Gaspare made +short work of the path in the ravine. In a few minutes +he came out on to the road by Isola Bella. On the shore +was a group of fishermen, all of them friends of his, getting +ready their fishing-tackle, and hauling down the +boats to the gray sea for the morning's work. Some of +them hailed him, but he took no notice, only pulled his +soft hat down sideways over his cheek, and hurried on +in the direction of Messina, keeping to the left side of +the road and away from the shore, till he gained the +summit of the hill from which the Caffè Berardi and +the caves were visible. There he stopped for a moment +and looked down. He saw no one upon the shore, but +at some distance upon the sea there was a black dot, a +fishing-boat. It was stationary. Gaspare knew that +its occupant must be hauling in his net.</p> + +<p>"Salvatore is out then!" he muttered to himself, as +he turned aside from the road onto the promontory,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +which was connected by the black wall of rock with +the land where stood the house of the sirens. This +wall, forbidding though it was, and descending sheer +into the deep sea on either side, had no terrors for him. +He dropped down to it with a sort of skilful carelessness, +then squatted on a stone, and quickly unlaced his +mountain boots, pulled his stockings off, slung them +with the boots round his neck, and stood up on his bare +feet. Then, balancing himself with his out-stretched +arms, he stepped boldly upon the wall. It was very +narrow. The sea surged through it. There was not +space on it to walk straight-footed, even with only one +foot at a time upon the rock. Gaspare was obliged to +plant his feet sideways, the toes and heels pointing to +the sea on either hand. But the length of the wall was +short, and he went across it almost as quickly as if he +had been walking upon the road. Heights and depths +had no terrors for him in his confident youth. And he +had been bred up among the rocks, and was a familiar +friend of the sea. A drop into it would have only meant +a morning bath. Having gained the farther side, he +put on his stockings and boots, grasped his stick, and +began to climb upward through the thickly growing +trees towards the house of the sirens. His instinct had +told him upon the terrace that the padrone was there. +Uneducated people have often marvellously retentive +memories for the things of every-day life. Gaspare remembered +the padrone's question about the little light +beside the sea, his answer to it, the way in which the +padrone had looked towards the trees when, in the +dawn, they stood upon the summit of the hill and he +pointed out the caves where they were going to sleep. +He remembered, too, from what direction the padrone +came towards the caffè when the sun was up—and he +knew.</p> + +<p>As he drew near to the cottage he walked carefully, +though still swiftly, but when he reached it he paused,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +bent forward his head, and listened. He was in the +tangle of coarse grass that grew right up to the north +wall of the cottage, and close to the angle which hid +from him the sea-side and the cottage door. At first he +heard nothing except the faint murmur of the sea upon +the rocks. His stillness now was as complete as had +been his previous activity, and in the one he was as +assured as in the other. Some five minutes passed. +Again and again, with a measured monotony, came to +him the regular lisp of the waves. The grass rustled +against his legs as the little wind of morning pushed its +way through it gently, and a bird chirped above his +head in the olive-trees and was answered by another +bird. And just then, as if in reply to the voices of the +birds, he heard the sound of human voices. They were +distant and faint almost as the lisp of the sea, and were +surely coming towards him from the sea.</p> + +<p>When Gaspare realized that the speakers were not in +the cottage he crept round the angle of the wall, slipped +across the open space that fronted the cottage door, +and, gaining the trees, stood still in almost exactly the +place where Maurice had stood when he watched Maddalena +in the dawn.</p> + +<p>The voices sounded again and nearer. There was a +little laugh in a girl's voice, then the dry twang of the +plucked strings of a guitar, then silence. After a minute +the guitar strings twanged again, and a girl's voice began +to sing a peasant song, "Zampagnaro."</p> + +<p>At the end of the verse there was an imitation of the +ceramella by the voice, humming, or rather whining, +bouche fermée. As it ceased a man's voice said:</p> + +<p>"Ancora! Ancora!"</p> + +<p>The girl's voice began the imitation again, and the +man's voice joined in grotesquely, exaggerating the +imitation farcically and closing it with a boyish shout.</p> + +<p>In response, standing under the trees, Gaspare +shouted. He had meant to keep silence; but the twang<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +of the guitar, with its suggestion of a festa, the singing +voices, the youthful laughter, and the final exclamation +ringing out in the dawn, overcame the angry and suspicious +spirit that had hitherto dominated him. The +boy's imp of fun was up and dancing within him. He +could not drive it out or lay it to rest.</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>His voice died away, and was answered by a silence +that seemed like a startled thing holding its breath.</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>He called again, lustily, leaped out from the trees, and +went running across the open space to the edge of the +plateau by the sea. A tiny path wound steeply down +from here to the rocks below, and on it, just under the +concealing crest of the land, stood the padrone with +Maddalena. Their hands were linked together, as if +they had caught at each other sharply for sympathy +or help. Their faces were tense and their lips parted. +But as they saw Gaspare's light figure leaping over the +hill edge, his dancing eyes fixed shrewdly, with a sort +of boyish scolding, upon them, their hands fell apart, +their faces relaxed.</p> + +<p>"Gasparino!" said Maurice. "It was you who called!"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>He came up to them. Maddalena's oval face had +flushed, and she dropped the full lids over her black +eyes as she said:</p> + +<p>"Buon giorno, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"Buon giorno, Donna Maddalena."</p> + +<p>Then they stood there for a moment in silence. Maurice +was the first to speak again.</p> + +<p>"But why did you come here?" he said. "How did +you know?"</p> + +<p>Already the sparkle of merriment had dropped out +of Gaspare's face as the feeling of jealousy, of not having +been completely trusted, returned to his mind.</p> + +<p>"Did not the signore wish me to know?" he said,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +almost gruffly, with a sort of sullen violence. "I am +sorry."</p> + +<p>Maurice touched the back of his hand, giving it a +gentle, half-humorous slap.</p> + +<p>"Don't be an ass, Gaspare. But how could you +guess where I had gone?"</p> + +<p>"Where did you go before, signore, when you could +not sleep?"</p> + +<p>At this thrust Maurice imitated Maddalena and reddened +slightly. It seemed to him as if he had been living +under glass while he had fancied himself enclosed in +rock that was impenetrable by human eyes. He tried +to laugh away his slight confusion.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, you are the most birbante boy in Sicily!" +he said. "You are like a Mago Africano."</p> + +<p>"Signorino, you should trust me," returned the boy, +sullenly.</p> + +<p>His own words seemed to move him, as if their sound +revealed to him the whole of the injury that had been +inflicted upon his amour propre, and suddenly angry +tears started into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I thought I was a servant of confidence" (un servitore +di confidenza), he added, bitterly.</p> + +<p>Maurice was amazed at the depth of feeling thus abruptly +shown to him. This was the first time he had been +permitted to look for a moment deep down into that +strange volcano, a young and passionate Sicilian heart. +As he looked, swift and short as was his glance, his +amazement died away. Narcissus saw himself in the +stream. Maurice saw, or believed he saw, his heart's +image, trembling perhaps and indistinct, far down in +the passion of Gaspare. So could he have been with +a padrone had fate made his situation in life a different +one. So could he have felt had something been concealed +from him.</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing in reply. Maddalena was there. +They walked in silence to the cottage door, and there,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +rather like a detected school-boy, he bade her good-bye, +and set out through the trees with Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"That's not the way, is it?" Maurice said, presently, +as the boy turned to the left.</p> + +<p>"How did you come, signore?"</p> + +<p>"I!"</p> + +<p>He hesitated. Then he saw the uselessness of striving +to keep up a master's pose with this servant of the +sea and of the hills.</p> + +<p>"I came by water," he said, smiling. "I swam, Gasparino."</p> + +<p>The boy answered the smile, and suddenly the tension +between them was broken, and they were at their ease +again.</p> + +<p>"I will show you another way, signore, if you are not +afraid."</p> + +<p>Maurice laughed out gayly.</p> + +<p>"The way of the rocks?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But you must go barefooted and be +as nimble as a goat."</p> + +<p>"Do you doubt me, Gasparino?"</p> + +<p>He looked at the boy hard, with a deliberately quizzing +kindness, that was gay but asked forgiveness, too, +and surely promised amendment.</p> + +<p>"I have never doubted my padrone."</p> + +<p>They said nothing more till they were at the wall of +rock. Then Gaspare seemed struck by hesitation.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—" he began. "You are not accustomed +to the rocks, signore, and—"</p> + +<p>"Silenzio!" cried Maurice, bending down and pulling +off his boots and stockings.</p> + +<p>"Do like this, signore!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare slung his boots and stockings round his neck. +Maurice imitated him.</p> + +<p>"And now give me your hand—so—without pulling."</p> + +<p>"But you hadn't—"</p> + +<p>"Give me your hand, signore!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was an order. Maurice obeyed it, feeling that in +these matters Gaspare had the right to command.</p> + +<p>"Walk as I do, signore, and keep step with me."</p> + +<p>"Bene!"</p> + +<p>"And look before you. Don't look down at the sea."</p> + +<p>"Va bene."</p> + +<p>A moment, and they were across. Maurice blew out +his breath.</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" he said, in English.</p> + +<p>He sat down on the grass, put his hand on his knees, +and looked back at the rock and at the precipices.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I can do that!" he said.</p> + +<p>Something within him was revelling, was dancing a +tarantella as the sun came up, lifting its blood-red rim +above the sea-line in the east. He looked over the trees.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena saw us!" he cried.</p> + +<p>He had caught sight of her among the olive-trees +watching them, with her two hands held flat against her +breast.</p> + +<p>"Addio, Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>The girl started, waved her hand, drew back, and +disappeared.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad she saw us."</p> + +<p>Gaspare laughed, but said nothing. They put on +their boots and stockings, and started briskly off towards +Monte Amato. When they had crossed the road, +and gained the winding path that led eventually into +the ravine, Maurice said:</p> + +<p>"Well, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"Well, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Have you forgiven me?"</p> + +<p>"It is not for a servant to forgive his padrone, signorino," +said the boy, but rather proudly.</p> + +<p>Maurice feared that his sense of injury was returning, +and continued, hastily:</p> + +<p>"It was like this, Gaspare. When you and Lucrezia +had gone I felt so dull all alone, and I thought, 'ev<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>ery +one is singing and dancing and laughing except +me.'"</p> + +<p>"But I asked you to accompany us, signorino," +Gaspare exclaimed, reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know, but—"</p> + +<p>"But you thought we did not want you. Well, then, +you do not know us!"</p> + +<p>"Now, Gaspare, don't be angry again. Remember +that the padrona has gone away and that I depend on +you for everything."</p> + +<p>At the last words Gaspare's face, which had been +lowering, brightened up a little. But he was not yet +entirely appeased.</p> + +<p>"You have Maddalena," he said.</p> + +<p>"She is only a girl."</p> + +<p>"Oh, girls are very nice."</p> + +<p>"Don't be ridiculous, Gaspare. I hardly know Maddalena."</p> + +<p>Gaspare laughed; not rudely, but as a boy laughs who +is sure he knows the world from the outer shell to inner +kernel.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore, why did you go down to the sea instead +of coming to the festa?"</p> + +<p>Maurice did not answer at once. He was asking himself +Gaspare's question. Why had he gone to the Sirens' +Isle? Gaspare continued:</p> + +<p>"May I say what I think, signore? You know I am +Sicilian, and I know the Sicilians."</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"Strangers should be careful what they do in my +country."</p> + +<p>"Madonna! You call me a stranger?"</p> + +<p>It was Maurice's turn to be angry. He spoke with sudden +heat. The idea that he was a stranger—a straniero—in +Sicily seemed to him ridiculous—almost offensive.</p> + +<p>"Well, signore, you have only been here a little while. +I was born here and have never been anywhere else."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is true. Go on then."</p> + +<p>"The men of Sicily are not like the English or the +Germans. They are jealous of their women. I have +been told that in your country, on festa days, if a man +likes a girl and she likes him he can take her for a walk. +Is it true?"</p> + +<p>"Quite true."</p> + +<p>"He cannot walk with her here. He cannot even +walk with her down the street of Marechiaro alone. It +would be a shame."</p> + +<p>"But there is no harm in it."</p> + +<p>"Who knows? It is not our custom. We walk with +our friends and the girls walk with their friends. If +Salvatore, the father of Maddalena, knew—"</p> + +<p>He did not finish his sentence, but, with sudden and +startling violence, made the gesture of drawing out a +knife and thrusting it upward into the body of an adversary. +Maurice stopped on the path. He felt as if +he had seen a murder.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" said Gaspare, calmly, dropping his hand, and +staring into Maurice's face with his enormous eyes, which +never fell before the gaze of another.</p> + +<p>"But—but—I mean no harm to Maddalena."</p> + +<p>"It does not matter."</p> + +<p>"But she did not tell me. She is ready to talk with +me."</p> + +<p>"She is a silly girl. She is flattered to see a stranger. +She does not think. Girls never think."</p> + +<p>He spoke with utter contempt:</p> + +<p>"Have you seen Salvatore, signore?"</p> + +<p>"No—yes."</p> + +<p>"You have seen him?"</p> + +<p>"Not to speak to. When I came down the cottage +was shut up. I waited—"</p> + +<p>"You hid, signore?"</p> + +<p>Maurice's face flushed. An angry word rose to his lips, +but he checked it and laughed, remembering that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +had to deal with a boy, and that Gaspare was devoted +to him.</p> + +<p>"Well, I waited among the trees—birbante!"</p> + +<p>"And you saw Salvatore?"</p> + +<p>"He came out and went down to the fishing."</p> + +<p>"Salvatore is a terrible man. He used to beat his wife +Teresa."</p> + +<p>"P'f! Would you have me be afraid of him?"</p> + +<p>Maurice's blood was up. Even his sense of romance +was excited. He felt that he was in the coils of an adventure, +and his heart leaped, but not with fear.</p> + +<p>"Fear is not for men. But the padrona has left you +with me because she trusts me and because I know +Sicily."</p> + +<p>It seemed to Maurice that he was with an inflexible +chaperon, against whose dominion it would be difficult, +if not useless, to struggle. They were walking on again, +and had come into the ravine. Water was slipping +down among the rocks, between the twisted trunks of +the olive-trees. Its soft sound, and the cool dimness in +this secret place, made Maurice suddenly realize that he +had passed the night without sleep, and that he would +be glad to rest. It was not the moment for combat, +and it was not unpleasant, after all—so he phrased it in +his mind—to be looked after, thought for, educated in +the etiquette of the Enchanted Isle by a son of its soil, +with its wild passions and its firm repressions linked +together in his heart.</p> + +<p>"Gasparino," he said, meekly. "I want you to look +after me. But don't be unkind to me. I'm older than +you, I know, but I feel awfully young here, and I do +want to have a little fun without doing any harm to +anybody, or getting any harm myself. One thing I +promise you, that I'll always trust you and tell you +what I'm up to. There! Have you quite forgiven me +now?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare's face became radiant. He felt that he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +done his duty, and that he was now properly respected +by one whom he looked up to and of whom he was not +merely the servant, but also the lawful guardian.</p> + +<p>They went up to the cottage singing in the morning +sunshine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2> + + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>Maurice lifted his head lazily from the hands that +served it as a pillow, and called out, sleepily:</p> + +<p>"Che cosa c'é?"</p> + +<p>"Where are you, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Down here under the oak-trees."</p> + +<p>He sank back again, and looked up at the section of +deep-blue sky that was visible through the leaves. +How he loved the blue, and gloried in the first strong +heat that girdled Sicily to-day, and whispered to his +happy body that summer was near, the true and fearless +summer that comes to southern lands. Through all his +veins there crept a subtle sense of well-being, as if every +drop of his blood were drowsily rejoicing. Three days +had passed, had glided by, three radiant nights, warm, +still, luxurious. And with each his sense of the south +had increased, and with each his consciousness of being +nearer to the breast of Sicily. In those days and nights +he had not looked into a book or glanced at a paper. +What had he done? He scarcely knew. He had lived +and felt about him the fingers of the sun touching him +like a lover. And he had chattered idly to Gaspare about +Sicilian things, always Sicilian things; about the fairs +and the festivals, Capo d'Anno and Carnevale, martedì +grasso with its <i>Tavulata</i>, the solemn family banquet at +which all the relations assemble and eat in company, +the feasts of the different saints, the peasant marriages +and baptisms, the superstitions—Gaspare did not call +them so—that are alive in Sicily, and that will surely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +live till Sicily is no more; the fear of the evil-eye and of +spells, and the best means of warding them off, the +"guaj di lu linu," the interpretation of dreams, the +power of the Mafia, the legends of the brigands, and the +vanished glory of Musolino. Gaspare talked without reserve +to his padrone, as to another Sicilian, and Maurice +was never weary of listening. All that was of Sicily +caught his mind and heart, was full of meaning to him, +and of irresistible fascination. He had heard the call +of the blood once for all and had once for all responded +to it.</p> + +<p>But the nights he had loved best. For then he slept +under the stars. When ten o'clock struck he and Gaspare +carried out one of the white beds onto the terrace, +and he slipped into it and lay looking up at the clear +sky, and at the dimness of the mountain flank, and at +the still silhouettes of the trees, till sleep took him, +while Gaspare, rolled up in a rug of many colors, snuggled +up on the seat by the wall with his head on a cushion +brought for him by the respectful Lucrezia. And +they awoke at dawn to see the last star fade above the +cone of Etna, and the first spears of the sun thrust up +out of the stillness of the sea.</p> + +<p>"Signorino, ecco la posta!"</p> + +<p>And Gaspare came running down from the terrace, +the wide brim of his white linen hat flapping round his +sun-browned face.</p> + +<p>"I don't want it, Gaspare. I don't want anything."</p> + +<p>"But I think there's a letter from the signora!"</p> + +<p>"From Africa?"</p> + +<p>Maurice sat up and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is from Kairouan. Sit down, Gaspare, and +I'll tell you what the padrona says."</p> + +<p>Gaspare squatted on his haunches like an Oriental, +not touching the ground with his body, and looked +eagerly at the letter that had come across the sea. He +adored his padrona, and was longing for news of her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +Already he had begun to send her picture post-cards, +laboriously written over. "Tanti saluti carissima Signora +Pertruni, a rividici, e suno il suo servo fidelisimo per +sempre—Martucci Gaspare. Adio! Adio! Ciao! Ciao!" +What would she say? And what message would she +send to him? His eyes sparkled with affectionate expectation.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p> +<span class="smcap">"Hotel de France, Kairouan.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">My Dearest</span>,—I cannot write very much, for all my moments +ought to be given up to nursing Emile. Thank God, I +arrived in time. Oh, Maurice, when I saw him I can't tell you how +thankful I was that I had not hesitated to make the journey, +that I had acted at once on my first impulse to come here. And +how I blessed God for having given me an unselfish husband +who trusted me completely, and who could understand what +true friendship between man and woman means, and what one +owes to a friend. You might so easily have misunderstood, +and you are so blessedly understanding. Thank you, dearest, +for seeing that it was right of me to go, and for thinking of +nothing but that. I feel so proud of you, and so proud to be +your wife. Well, I caught the train at Tunis mercifully, and +got here at evening. He is frightfully ill. I hardly recognized +him. But his mind is quite clear, though he suffers terribly. +He was poisoned by eating some tinned food, and peritonitis +has set in. We can't tell yet whether he will live or die. When +he saw me come in he gave me such a look of gratitude, although +he was writhing with pain, that I couldn't help crying. It +made me feel so ashamed of having had any hesitation in my +heart about coming away from our home and our happiness. +And it was difficult to give it all up, to come out of paradise. +That last night I felt as if I simply couldn't leave you, my +darling. But I'm glad and thankful I've done it. I have to +do everything for him. The doctor's rather an ass, very French +and excitable, but he does his best. But I have to see to +everything, and be always there to put on the poultices and the +ice, and—poor fellow, he does suffer so, but he's awfully brave +and determined to live. He says he will live if it's only to +prove that I came in time to save him. And yet, when I look +at him, I feel as if—but I won't give up hope. The heat here +is terrible, and tries him very much now he is so desperately ill, +and the flies—but I don't want to bother you with my troubles. +They're not very great—only one. Do you guess what that is? +I scarcely dare to think of Sicily. Whenever I do I feel such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> +a horrible ache in my heart. It seems to me as if I had not seen +your face or touched your hand for centuries, and sometimes—and +that's the worst of all—as if I never should again, as if +our time together and our love were a beautiful dream, and +God would never allow me to dream it again. That's a little +morbid, I know, but I think it's always like that with a great +happiness, a happiness that is quite complete. It seems almost +a miracle to have had it even for a moment, and one can scarcely +believe that one will be allowed to have it again. But, +please God, we will. We'll sit on the terrace again together, and +see the stars come out, and—The doctor's come and I must +stop. I'll write again almost directly. Good-night, my dearest. +Buon riposo. Do you remember when you first heard +that? Somehow, since then I always connect the words with +you. I won't send my love, because it's all in Sicily with you. +I'll send it instead to Gaspare. Tell him I feel happy that he +is with the padrone, because I know how faithful and devoted +he is. Tanti saluti a Lucrezia. Oh, Maurice, pray that I may +soon be back. You do want me, don't you?</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Hermione.</span>"<br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p>Maurice looked up from the letter and met Gaspare's +questioning eyes.</p> + +<p>"There's something for you," he said.</p> + +<p>And he read in Italian Hermione's message. Gaspare +beamed with pride and pleasure.</p> + +<p>"And the sick signore?" he asked. "Is he better?"</p> + +<p>Maurice explained how things were.</p> + +<p>"The signora is longing to come back to us," he said.</p> + +<p>"Of course she is," said Gaspare, calmly.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly he jumped up.</p> + +<p>"Signorino," he said. "I am going to write a letter +to the signora. She will like to have a letter from me. +She will think she is in Sicily."</p> + +<p>"And when you have finished, I will write," said +Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>And Gaspare ran off up the hill towards the cottage, +leaving his master alone.</p> + +<p>Maurice began to read the letter again, slowly. It made +him feel almost as if he were with Hermione. He seem<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>ed +to see her as he read, and he smiled. How good she +was and true, and how enthusiastic! When he had +finished the second reading of the letter he laid it down, +and put his hands behind his head again, and looked +up at the quivering blue. Then he thought of Artois. +He remembered his tall figure, his robust limbs, his +handsome, powerful face. It was strange to think that +he was desperately ill, perhaps dying. Death—what +must that be like? How deep the blue looked, as if +there were thousands of miles of it, as if it stretched +on and on forever! Artois, perhaps, was dying, but he +felt as if he could never die, never even be ill. He +stretched his body on the warm ground. The blue +seemed to deny the fact of death. He tried to imagine +Artois in bed in the heat of Africa, with the flies buzzing +round him. Then he looked again at the letter, +and reread that part in which Hermione wrote of her +duties as sick-nurse.</p> + +<p>"I have to see to everything, and be always there to +put on the poultices and the ice."</p> + +<p>He read those words again and again, and once more +he was conscious of a stirring of anger, of revolt, such +as he had felt on the night after Hermione's departure +when he was alone on the terrace. She was his wife, +his woman. What right had she to be tending another +man? His imagination began to work quickly now, +and he frowned as he looked up at the blue. He forgot +all the rest of Hermione's letter, all her love of him +and her longing to be back in Sicily with him, and +thought only of her friendship for Artois, of her ministrations +to Artois. And something within him sickened +at the thought of the intimacy between patient and +nurse, raged against it, till he felt revengeful. The wild +unreasonableness of his feeling did not occur to him +now. He hated that his wife should be performing these +offices for Artois; he hated that she had chosen to go +to him, that she had considered it to be her duty to go.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>Had it been only a sense of duty that had called her +to Africa?</p> + +<p>When he asked himself this question he could not +hesitate what answer to give. Even this new jealousy, +this jealousy of the Sicilian within him, could not trick +him into the belief that Hermione had wanted to leave +him.</p> + +<p>Yet his feeling of bitterness, of being wronged, persisted +and grew.</p> + +<p>When, after a very long time, Gaspare came to show +him a letter written in large, round hand, he was still +hot with the sense of injury. And a new question was +beginning to torment him. What must Artois think?</p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to write, signorino?" asked Gaspare, +when Maurice had read his letter and approved it.</p> + +<p>"I?" he said.</p> + +<p>He saw an expression of surprise on Gaspare's face.</p> + +<p>"Yes, of course. I'll write now. Help me up. I +feel so lazy!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare seized his hands and pulled, laughing. Maurice +stood up and stretched.</p> + +<p>"You are more lazy than I, signore," said Gaspare. +"Shall I write for you, too?"</p> + +<p>"No, no."</p> + +<p>He spoke abstractedly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know what to say?"</p> + +<p>Maurice looked at him swiftly. The boy had divined +the truth. In his present mood it would be difficult for +him to write to Hermione. Still, he must do it. He +went up to the cottage and sat down at the writing-table +with Hermione's letter beside him.</p> + +<p>He read it again carefully, then began to write. Now +he was faintly aware of the unreason of his previous +mood and quite resolved not to express it, but while +he was writing of his every-day life in Sicily a vision of +the sick-room in Africa came before him again. He +saw his wife shut in with Artois, tending him. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +night, warm and dark. The sick man was hot with +fever, and Hermione bent over him and laid her cool +hand on his forehead.</p> + +<p>Abruptly Maurice finished his letter and thrust it into +an envelope.</p> + +<p>"Here, Gaspare!" he said. "Take the donkey and +ride down with these to the post."</p> + +<p>"How quick you have been, signore! I believe my +letter to the signora is longer than yours."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it is. I don't know. Off with you!"</p> + +<p>When Gaspare was gone, Maurice felt restless, almost +as he had felt on the night when he had been left alone +on the terrace. Then he had been companioned by a +sensation of desertion, and had longed to break out into +some new life, to take an ally against the secret enemy +who was attacking him. He had wanted to have his +Emile Artois as Hermione had hers. That was the +truth of the matter. And his want had led him down +to the sea. And now again he looked towards the sea, +and again there was a call from it that summoned him.</p> + +<p>He had not seen Maddalena since Gaspare came to +seek him in the Sirens' Isle. He had scarcely wanted +to see her. The days had glided by in the company of +Gaspare, and no moment of them had been heavy or +had lagged upon its way.</p> + +<p>But now he heard again the call from the sea.</p> + +<p>Hermione was with her friend. Why should not he +have his? But he did not go down the path to the +ravine, for he thought of Gaspare. He had tricked him +once, while he slept in the cave, and once Gaspare had +tracked him to the sirens' house. They had spoken of +the matter of Maddalena. He knew Gaspare. If he +went off now to see Maddalena the boy would think +that the sending him to the post was a pretext, that he +had been deliberately got out of the way. Such a crime +could never be forgiven. Maurice knew enough about +the Sicilian character to be fully aware of that. And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +what had he to hide? Nothing. He must wait for +Gaspare, and then he could set out for the sea.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him a long time before he saw Tito, the +donkey, tripping among the stones, and heard Gaspare's +voice hailing him from below. He was impatient to +be off, and he shouted out:</p> + +<p>"Presto, Gaspare, presto!"</p> + +<p>He saw the boy's arm swing as he tapped Tito behind +with his switch, and the donkey's legs moving in a canter.</p> + +<p>"What is it, signorino? Has anything happened?"</p> + +<p>"No. But—Gaspare, I'm going down to the sea."</p> + +<p>"To bathe?"</p> + +<p>"I may bathe. I'm not sure. It depends upon how +I go."</p> + +<p>"You are going to the Casa delle Sirene?"</p> + +<p>Maurice nodded.</p> + +<p>"I didn't care to go off while you were away."</p> + +<p>"Do you wish me to come with you, signorino?"</p> + +<p>The boy's great eyes were searching him, yet he did +not feel uncomfortable, although he wished to stand well +with Gaspare. They were near akin, although different +in rank and education. Between their minds there was +a freemasonry of the south.</p> + +<p>"Do you want to come?" he said.</p> + +<p>"It's as you like, signore."</p> + +<p>He was silent for a moment; then he added:</p> + +<p>"Salvatore might be there now. Do you want him +to see you?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>A project began to form in his mind. If he took Gaspare +with him they might go to the cottage more naturally. +Gaspare knew Salvatore and could introduce +him, could say—well, that he wanted sometimes to go +out fishing and would take Salvatore's boat. Salvatore +would see a prospect of money. And he—Maurice—did +want to go out fishing. Suddenly he knew it. His +spirits rose and he clapped Gaspare on the back.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course I do. I want to know Salvatore. Come +along. We'll take his boat one day and go out fishing."</p> + +<p>Gaspare's grave face relaxed in a sly smile.</p> + +<p>"Signorino!" he said, shaking his hand to and fro +close to his nose. "Birbante!"</p> + +<p>There was a world of meaning in his voice. Maurice +laughed joyously. He began to feel like an ingenious +school-boy who was going to have a lark. There was +neither thought of evil nor even a secret stirring of +desire for it in him.</p> + +<p>"A rivederci, Lucrezia!" he cried.</p> + +<p>And they set off.</p> + +<p>When they were not far from the sea, Gaspare said:</p> + +<p>"Signorino, why do you like to come here? What +is the good of it?"</p> + +<p>They had been walking in silence. Evidently these +questions were the result of a process of thought which +had been going on in the boy's mind.</p> + +<p>"The good!" said Maurice. "What is the harm?"</p> + +<p>"Well, here in Sicily, when a man goes to see a girl +it is because he wants to love her."</p> + +<p>"In England it is different, Gaspare. In England +men and women can be friends. Why not?"</p> + +<p>"You want just to be a friend of Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. I like to talk to the people. I want to +understand them. Why shouldn't I be friends with +Maddalena as—as I am with Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lucrezia is your servant."</p> + +<p>"It's all the same."</p> + +<p>"But perhaps Maddalena doesn't know. We are +Sicilians here, signore."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? That Maddalena might—nonsense, +Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>There was a sound as of sudden pleasure, even sudden triumph, +in his voice.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure you understand our girls, signore?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If Maddalena does like me there's no harm in it. +She knows who I am now. She knows I—she knows +there is the signora."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. There is the signora. She is in Africa, +but she is coming back."</p> + +<p>"Of course!"</p> + +<p>"When the sick signore gets well?"</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing. He felt sure Gaspare was +wondering again, wondering that Hermione was in +Africa.</p> + +<p>"I cannot understand how it is in England," continued +the boy. "Here it is all quite different."</p> + +<p>Again jealousy stirred in Maurice and a sensation almost +of shame. For a moment he felt like a Sicilian +husband at whom his neighbors point the two fingers +of scorn, and he said something in his wrath which +was unworthy.</p> + +<p>"You see how it is," he said. "If the signora can go +to Africa to see her friend, I can come down here to see +mine. That is how it is with the English."</p> + +<p>He did not even try to keep the jealousy out of his +voice, his manner. Gaspare leaped to it.</p> + +<p>"You did not like the signora to go to Africa!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she will come back. It's all right," Maurice +answered, hastily. "But, while she is there, it would +be absurd if I might not speak to any one."</p> + +<p>Gaspare's burden of doubt, perhaps laid on his young +shoulders by his loyalty to his padrona, was evidently +lightened.</p> + +<p>"I see, signore," he said. "You can each have a +friend. But have you explained to Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>"If you think it necessary, I will explain."</p> + +<p>"It would be better, because she is Sicilian and she +must think you love her."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The boy looked at him keenly and smiled.</p> + +<p>"You would like her to think that?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>Maurice denied it vigorously, but Gaspare only shook +his head and said:</p> + +<p>"I know, I know. Girls are nicest when they think +that, because they are pleased and they want us to go +on. You think I see nothing, signorino, but I saw it +all in Maddalena's face. Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>And he laughed aloud, with the delight of a boy who +has discovered something, and feels that he is clever and +a man. And Maurice laughed too, not without a pride +that was joyous. The heart of his youth, the wild +heart, bounded within him, and the glory of the sun, +and the passionate blue of the sea seemed suddenly +deeper, more intense, more sympathetic, as if they felt +with him, as if they knew the rapture of youth, as if +they were created to call it forth, to condone its carelessness, +to urge it to some almost fierce fulfilment.</p> + +<p>"Salvatore is there, signorino."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>"I saw the smoke from his pipe. Look, there it is +again!"</p> + +<p>A tiny trail of smoke curled up; and faded in the blue.</p> + +<p>"I will go first because of Maddalena. Girls are silly. +If I do this at her she will understand. If not she may +show her father you have been here before."</p> + +<p>He closed one eye in a large and expressive wink.</p> + +<p>"Birbante!"</p> + +<p>"It is good to be birbante sometimes."</p> + +<p>He went out from the trees and Maurice heard his +voice, then a man's, then Maddalena's. He waited where +he was till he heard Gaspare say:</p> + +<p>"The padrone is just behind. Signorino, where are +you?"</p> + +<p>"Here!" he answered, coming into the open with a +careless air.</p> + +<p>Before the cottage door in the sunshine a great fishing-net +was drying, fastened to two wooden stakes. Near +it stood Salvatore, dressed in a dark-blue jersey, with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +soft black hat tilted over his left ear, above which was +stuck a yellow flower. Maddalena was in the doorway +looking very demure. It was evident that the wink of +Gaspare had been seen and comprehended. She stole a +glance at Maurice but did not move. Her father took +off his hat with an almost wildly polite gesture, and said, +in a loud voice:</p> + +<p>"Buona sera, signore."</p> + +<p>"Buona sera," replied Maurice, holding out his hand.</p> + +<p>Salvatore took it in a large grasp.</p> + +<p>"You are the signore who lives up on Monte Amato +with the English lady?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I know. She has gone to Africa."</p> + +<p>He stared at Maurice while he spoke, with small, twinkling +eyes, round which was a minute and intricate web +of wrinkles, and again Maurice felt almost—or was it +quite?—ashamed. What were these Sicilians thinking +of him?</p> + +<p>"The signora will be back almost directly," he said. +"Is this your daughter?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Maddalena. Bring a chair for the signore, +Maddalena."</p> + +<p>Maddalena obeyed. There was a slight flush on her +face and she did not look at Maurice. Gaspare stood +pulling gently at the stretched-out net, and smiling. +That he enjoyed the mild deceit of the situation was +evident. Maurice, too, felt amused and quite at his +ease now. His sensation of shame had fleeted away, +leaving only a conviction that Hermione's absence gave +him a right to snatch all the pleasure he could from the +hands of the passing hour.</p> + +<p>He drew out his cigar-case and offered it to Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"One day I want to come fishing with you if you'll +take me," he said.</p> + +<p>Salvatore looked eager. A prospect of money floated +before him:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can show you fine sport, signore," he answered, +taking one of the long Havanas and examining it with +almost voluptuous interest as he turned it round and +round in his salty, brown fingers. "But you should +come out at dawn, and it is far from the mountain to +the sea."</p> + +<p>"Couldn't I sleep here, so as to be ready?"</p> + +<p>He stole a glance at Maddalena. She was looking at +her feet, and twisting the front of her short dress, but +her lips were twitching with a smile which she tried to +repress.</p> + +<p>"Couldn't I sleep here to-night?" he added, boldly.</p> + +<p>Salvatore looked more eager. He loved money almost +as an Arab loves it, with anxious greed. Doubtless +Arab blood ran in his veins. It was easy to see from +whom Maddalena had inherited her Eastern appearance. +She reproduced, on a diminished scale, her father's outline +of face, but that which was gentle, mysterious, and +alluring in her, in him was informed with a rugged +wildness. There was something bird-like and predatory +in his boldly curving nose with its narrow nostrils, in +his hard-lipped mouth, full of splendid teeth, in his sharp +and pushing chin. His whole body, wide-shouldered +and deep-chested, as befitted a man of the sea, looked +savage and fierce, but full of an intensity of manhood +that was striking, and his gestures and movements, the +glance of his penetrating eyes, the turn of his well-poised +head, revealed a primitive and passionate nature, a nature +with something of the dagger in it, steely, sharp, and +deadly.</p> + +<p>"But, signore, our home is very poor. Look, signore!"</p> + +<p>A turkey strutted out through the doorway, elongating +its neck and looking nervously intent.</p> + +<p>"Ps—sh—sh—sh!"</p> + +<p>He shooed it away, furiously waving his arms.</p> + +<p>"And what could you eat? There is only bread and +wine."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And the yellow cheese!" said Maurice.</p> + +<p>"The—?" Salvatore looked sharply interrogative.</p> + +<p>"I mean, there is always cheese, isn't there, in Sicily, +cheese and macaroni? But if there isn't, it's all right. +Anything will do for me, and I'll buy all the fish we +take from you, and Maddalena here shall cook it for us +when we come back from the sea. Will you, Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The answer came in a very small voice.</p> + +<p>"The signore is too good."</p> + +<p>Salvatore was looking openly voracious now.</p> + +<p>"I can sleep on the floor."</p> + +<p>"No, signore. We have beds, we have two fine beds. +Come in and see."</p> + +<p>With not a little pride he led Maurice into the cottage, +and showed him the bed on which he had already slept.</p> + +<p>"That will be for the signore, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"Si—è molto bello."</p> + +<p>"Maddalena and I—we will sleep in the outer room."</p> + +<p>"And I, Salvatore?" demanded the boy.</p> + +<p>"You! Do you stay too?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. Don't I stay, signore?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, if Lucrezia won't be frightened."</p> + +<p>"It does not matter if she is. When we do not come +back she will keep Guglielmo, the contadino."</p> + +<p>"Of course you must stay. You can sleep with me. +And to-night we'll play cards and sing and dance. +Have you got any cards, Salvatore?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. They are dirty, but—"</p> + +<p>"That's all right. And we'll sit outside and tell +stories, stories of brigands and the sea. Salvatore, +when you know me, you'll know I'm a true Sicilian."</p> + +<p>He grasped Salvatore's hand, but he looked at Maddalena.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2> + + +<p>Night had come to the Sirens' Isle—a night that was +warm, gentle, and caressing. In the cottage two candles +were lit, and the wick was burning in the glass before +the Madonna. Outside the cottage door, on the flat +bit of ground that faced the wide sea, Salvatore and his +daughter, Maurice and Gaspare, were seated round the +table finishing their simple meal, for which Salvatore +had many times apologized. Their merry voices, their +hearty laughter rang out in the darkness, and below the +sea made answer, murmuring against the rocks.</p> + +<p>At the same moment in an Arab house Hermione bent +over a sick man, praying against death, whose footsteps +she seemed already to hear coming into the room and +approaching the bed on which he tossed, white with +agony. And when he was quiet for a little and ceased +from moving, she sat with her hand on his and thought +of Sicily, and pictured her husband alone under the +stars upon the terrace before the priest's house, and +imagined him thinking of her. The dry leaves of a +palm-tree under the window of the room creaked in the +light wind that blew over the flats, and she strove to +hear the delicate rustling of the leaves of olive-trees.</p> + +<p>Salvatore had little food to offer his guests, only +bread, cheese, and small, black olives; but there was +plenty of good red wine, and when the time of brindisi +was come Salvatore and Gaspare called for health after +health, and rivalled each other in wild poetic efforts, +improvising extravagant compliments to Maurice, to the +absent signora, to Maddalena, and even to themselves.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +And with each toast the wine went down till Maurice +called a halt.</p> + +<p>"I am a real Sicilian," he said. "But if I drink any +more I shall be under the table. Get out the cards, +Salvatore. Sette e mezzo, and I'll put down the stakes. +No one to go above twenty-five centesimi, with fifty for +the doubling. Gaspare's sure to win. He always does. +And I've just one cigar apiece. There's no wind. Bring +out the candles and let's play out here."</p> + +<p>Gaspare ran for the candles while Salvatore got the +cards, well-thumbed and dirty. Maddalena's long eyes +were dancing. Such a festa as this was rare in her life, +for, dwelling far from the village, she seldom went to +any dance or festivity. Her blood was warm with the +wine and with joy, and the youth in her seemed to flow +like the sea in a flood-tide. Scarcely ever before had +she seen her harsh father so riotously gay, so easy with +a stranger, and she knew in her heart that this was her +festival. Maurice's merry and ardent eyes told her that, +and Gaspare's smiling glances of boyish understanding. +She felt excited, almost light-headed, childishly proud of +herself. If only some of the girls of Marechiaro could +see, could know!</p> + +<p>When the cards were thrown upon the table, and +Maurice had dealt out a lira to each one of the players +as stakes, and cried, "Maddalena and I'll share against +you, Salvatore, and Gaspare!" she felt that she had +nothing more to wish for, that she was perfectly happy. +But she was happier still when, after a series of games, +Maurice pushed back his chair and said:</p> + +<p>"I've had enough. Salvatore, you are like Gaspare, +you have the devil's luck. Together you can't be +beaten. But now you play against each other and let's +see who wins. I'll put down twenty-five lire. Play till +one of you's won every soldo of it. Play all night if +you like."</p> + +<p>And he counted out the little paper notes on the table,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +giving two to Salvatore and two to Gaspare, and putting +one under a candlestick.</p> + +<p>"I'll keep the score," he added, pulling out a pencil +and a sheet of paper. "No play higher than fifty, with +a lira when one of you makes 'sette e mezzo' with under +four cards."</p> + +<p>"Per Dio!" cried Gaspare, flushed with excitement. +"Avanti, Salvatore!"</p> + +<p>"Avanti, Avanti!" cried Salvatore, in answer, pulling +his chair close up to the table, and leaning forward, +looking like a handsome bird of prey in the faint candlelight.</p> + +<p>They cut for deal and began to play, while Maddalena +and Maurice watched.</p> + +<p>When Sicilians gamble they forget everything but +the game and the money which it brings to them or +takes from them. Salvatore and Gaspare were at once +passionately intent on their cards, and as the night +drew on and fortune favored first one and then the +other, they lost all thought of everything except the +twenty-five lire which were at stake. When Maddalena +slipped away into the darkness they did not notice +her departure, and when Maurice laid down the paper on +which he had tried to keep the score, and followed her, +they were indifferent. They needed no score-keeper, +for they had Sicilian memories for money matters. +Over the table they leaned, the two candles, now burning +low, illuminating their intense faces, their violent +eyes, their brown hands that dealt and gathered up +the cards, and held them warily, alert for the cheating +that in Sicily, when possible, is ever part of the game.</p> + +<p>"Carta da cinquanta!"</p> + +<p>They had forgotten Maurice's limit for the stakes.</p> + +<p>"Carta da cento!"</p> + +<p>Their voices died away from Maurice's ears as he stole +through the darkness seeking Maddalena.</p> + +<p>Where had she gone, and why? The last question<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +he could surely answer, for as she stole past him silently, +her long, mysterious eyes, that seemed to hold in their +depths some enigma of the East, had rested on his +with a glance that was an invitation. They had not +boldly summoned him. They had lured him, as an +echo might, pathetic in its thrilling frailty. And now, +as he walked softly over the dry grass, he thought of +those eyes as he had first seen them in the pale light +that had preceded the dawn. Then they had been full +of curiosity, like a young animal's. Now surely they +were changed. Once they had asked a question. They +delivered a summons to-night. What was in them to-night? +The mystery of young maidenhood, southern, +sunlit, on the threshold of experience, waking to curious +knowledge, to a definite consciousness of the meaning +of its dreams, of the truth of its desires.</p> + +<p>When he was out of hearing of the card-players Maurice +stood still. He felt the breath of the sea on his face. +He heard the murmur of the sea everywhere around +him, a murmur that in its level monotony excited him, +thrilled him, as the level monotony of desert music +excites the African in the still places of the sand. His +pulses were beating, and there was an almost savage +light in his eyes. Something in the atmosphere of the +sea-bound retreat made him feel emancipated, as if he +had stepped out of the prison of civilized life into a +larger, more thoughtless existence, an existence for +which his inner nature fitted him, for which he had +surely been meant all these years that he had lived, unconscious +of what he really was and of what he really +needed.</p> + +<p>"How happy I could have been as a Sicilian fisherman!" +he thought. "How happy I could be now!"</p> + +<p>"St! St!"</p> + +<p>He looked round quickly.</p> + +<p>"St! St!"</p> + +<p>It must be Maddalena, but where was she? He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +moved forward till he was at the edge of the land where +the tiny path wound steeply downward to the sea. There +she was standing with her face turned in his direction, +and her lips opened to repeat the little summoning sound.</p> + +<p>"How did you know I was there?" he said, whispering, +as he joined her. "Did you hear me come?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"Then—"</p> + +<p>"Signorino, I felt that you were there."</p> + +<p>He smiled. It pleased him to think that he threw +out something, some invisible thread, perhaps, that +reached her and told her of his nearness. Such communication +made sympathy. He did not say it to himself, +but his sensation to-night was that everything was +in sympathy with him, the night with its stars, the sea +with its airs and voices, Maddalena with her long eyes +and her brown hands, and her knowledge of his presence +when she did not see or hear him.</p> + +<p>"Let us go down to the sea," he said.</p> + +<p>He longed to be nearer to that low and level sound +that moved and excited him in the night.</p> + +<p>"Father's boat is there," she said. "It is so calm +to-night that he did not bring it round into the bay."</p> + +<p>"If we go out in it for a minute, will he mind?"</p> + +<p>A sly look came into her face.</p> + +<p>"He will not know," she said. "With all that money +Gaspare and he will play till dawn. Per Dio, signore, +you are birbante!"</p> + +<p>She gave a little low laugh.</p> + +<p>"So you think I—"</p> + +<p>He stopped. What need was there to go on? She +had read him and was openly rejoicing in what she +thought his slyness.</p> + +<p>"And my father," she added, "is a fox of the sea, +signore. Ask Gaspare if there is another who is like +him. You will see! When they stop playing at dawn +the twenty-five lire will be in his pocket!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p> + +<p>She spoke with pride.</p> + +<p>"But Gaspare is so lucky," said Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare is only a boy. How can he cheat better +than my father?"</p> + +<p>"They cheat, then!"</p> + +<p>"Of course, when they can. Why not, madonna!"</p> + +<p>Maurice burst out laughing.</p> + +<p>"And you call me birbante!" he said.</p> + +<p>"To know what my father loves best! Signorino! +Signorino!"</p> + +<p>She shook her out-stretched forefinger to and fro near +her nose, smiling, with her head a little on one side like +a crafty child.</p> + +<p>"But why, Maddalena—why should I wish your father +to play cards till the dawn. Tell me that! Why should +not I wish him, all of us, to go to bed?"</p> + +<p>"You are not sleepy, signorino!"</p> + +<p>"I shall be in the morning when it's time to fish."</p> + +<p>"Then perhaps you will not fish."</p> + +<p>"But I must. That is why I have stayed here to-night, +to be ready to go to sea in the morning."</p> + +<p>She said nothing, only smiled again. He felt a longing +to shake her in joke. She was such a child now. +And yet a few minutes ago her dark eyes had lured him, +and he had felt almost as if in seeking her he sought a +mystery.</p> + +<p>"Don't you believe me?" he asked.</p> + +<p>But she only answered, with her little gesture of smiling +rebuke:</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>He did not protest, for now they were down by the +sea, and saw the fishing-boats swaying gently on the +water.</p> + +<p>"Get in Maddalena. I will row."</p> + +<p>He untied the rope, while she stepped lightly in, then +he pushed the boat off, jumping in himself from the +rocks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are like a fisherman, signore," said Maddalena.</p> + +<p>He smiled and drew the great bladed oars slowly +through the calm water, leaning towards her with each +stroke and looking into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I wish I were really a fisherman," he said, "like +your father!"</p> + +<p>"Why, signore?" she asked, in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Because it's a free life, because it's a life I should +love."</p> + +<p>She still looked at him with surprise.</p> + +<p>"But a fisherman has few soldi, signorino."</p> + +<p>"Maddalena," he said, letting the oars drift in the +water, "there's only one good thing in the world, and +that is to be free in a life that is natural to one."</p> + +<p>He drew up his feet onto the wooden bench and +clasped his hands round his knees, and sat thus, looking +at her while she faced him in the stern of the boat. +He had not turned the boat round. So Maddalena had +her face towards the land, while his was set towards the +open sea.</p> + +<p>"It isn't having many soldi that makes happiness," +he went on. "Gaspare thinks it is, and Lucrezia, and +I dare say your father would—"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, signore! In Sicily we all think so!"</p> + +<p>"And so they do in England. But it isn't true."</p> + +<p>"But if you have many soldi you can do anything."</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"No you can't. I have plenty of soldi, but I can't +always live here, I can't always live as I do now. Some +day I shall have to go away from Sicily—I shall have +to go back and live in London."</p> + +<p>As he said the last words he seemed to see London +rise up before him in the night, with shadowy domes +and towers and chimneys; he seemed to hear through +the exquisite silence of night upon the sea the mutter +of its many voices.</p> + +<p>"It's beastly there! It's beastly!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> + +<p>And he set his teeth almost viciously.</p> + +<p>"Why must you go, then, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Why? Oh, I have work to do."</p> + +<p>"But if you are rich why must you work?"</p> + +<p>"Well—I—I can't explain in Italian. But my father +expects me to."</p> + +<p>"To get more rich?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"But if you are rich why cannot you live as you +please?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Maddalena. But the rich scarcely +ever live really as they please, I think. Their soldi +won't let them, perhaps."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand, signore."</p> + +<p>"Well, a man must do something, must get on, and +if I lived always here I should do nothing but enjoy +myself."</p> + +<p>He was silent for a minute. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"And that's all I want to do, just to enjoy myself +here in the sun."</p> + +<p>"Are you happy here, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, tremendously happy."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Why—because it's Sicily here! Aren't you happy?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, signorino."</p> + +<p>She said it with simplicity and looked at him almost +as if she were inquiring of him whether she were happy +or not. That look tempted him.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know whether you are happy to-night?" +he asked, putting an emphasis on the last word, and +looking at her more steadily, almost cruelly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, to-night—it is a festa."</p> + +<p>"A festa? Why?"</p> + +<p>"Why? Because it is different from other nights. +On other nights I am alone with my father."</p> + +<p>"And to-night you are alone with me. Does that +make it a festa?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked down.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, signorino."</p> + +<p>The childish merriment and slyness had gone out of +her now, and there was a softness almost of sentimentality +in her attitude, as she drooped her head and moved +one hand to and fro on the gunwale of the boat, touching +the wood, now here, now there, as if she were picking +up something and dropping it gently into the sea.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Maurice wondered about Maddalena. He +wondered whether she had ever had a Sicilian lover, +whether she had one now.</p> + +<p>"You are not 'promised,' are you, Maddalena?" he +asked, leaning a little nearer to her. He saw the red +come into her brown skin. She shook her head without +looking up or speaking.</p> + +<p>"I wonder why," he said. "I think—I think there +must be men who want you."</p> + +<p>She slightly raised her head.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, there are, signore. But—but I must wait +till my father chooses one."</p> + +<p>"Your father will choose the man who is to be your +husband?"</p> + +<p>"Of course, signore."</p> + +<p>"But perhaps you won't like him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I shall have to like him, signore."</p> + +<p>She did not speak with any bitterness or sarcasm, but +with perfect simplicity. A feeling of pity that was certainly +not Sicilian but that came from the English blood +in him stole into Maurice's heart. Maddalena looked +so soft and young in the dim beauty of the night, so +ready to be cherished, to be treated tenderly, or with +the ardor that is the tender cruelty of passion, that her +childlike submission to the Sicilian code woke in him +an almost hot pugnacity. She would be given, perhaps, +to some hard brute of a fisherman who had scraped +together more soldi than his fellows, or to some coarse, +avaricious contadino who would make her toil till her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +beauty vanished, and she changed into a bowed, wrinkled +withered, sun-dried hag, while she was yet young in +years.</p> + +<p>"I wish," he said—"I wish, when you have to marry, +I could choose your husband, Maddalena."</p> + +<p>She lifted her head quite up and regarded him with +wonder.</p> + +<p>"You, signorino! Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because I would choose a man who would be very +good to you, who would love you and work for you and +always think of you, and never look at another woman. +That is how your husband should be."</p> + +<p>She looked more wondering.</p> + +<p>"Are you like that, then, signore?" she asked. "With +the signora?"</p> + +<p>Maurice unclasped his hands from his knees, and +dropped his feet down from the bench.</p> + +<p>"I!" he said, in a voice that had changed. "Oh—yes—I +don't know."</p> + +<p>He took the oars again and began to row farther out +to sea.</p> + +<p>"I was talking about you," he said, almost roughly.</p> + +<p>"I have never seen your signora," said Maddalena. +"What is she like?" Maurice saw Hermione before him +in the night, tall, flat, with her long arms, her rugged, +intelligent face, her enthusiastic brown eyes.</p> + +<p>"Is she pretty?" continued Maddalena. "Is she as +young as I am?"</p> + +<p>"She is good, Maddalena," Maurice answered.</p> + +<p>"Is she santa?"</p> + +<p>"I don't mean that. But she is good to every one."</p> + +<p>"But is she pretty, too?" she persisted. "And +young?"</p> + +<p>"She is not at all old. Some day you shall see—"</p> + +<p>He checked himself. He had been going to say, +"Some day you shall see her."</p> + +<p>"And she is very clever," he said, after a moment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Clever?" said Maddalena, evidently not understanding +what he meant.</p> + +<p>"She can understand many things and she has read +many books."</p> + +<p>"But what is the good of that? Why should a girl +read many books?"</p> + +<p>"She is not a girl."</p> + +<p>"Not a girl!"</p> + +<p>She looked at him with amazed eyes and her voice +was full of amazement.</p> + +<p>"How old are you, signorino?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"How old do you think?"</p> + +<p>She considered him carefully for a long time.</p> + +<p>"Old enough to make the visit," she said, at length.</p> + +<p>"The visit?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"What? Oh, do you mean to be a soldier?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"That would be twenty, wouldn't it?"</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"I am older than that. I am twenty-four."</p> + +<p>"Truly?"</p> + +<p>"Truly."</p> + +<p>"And is the signora twenty-four, too?"</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" Maurice exclaimed, with a sudden impatience +that was almost fierce. "Why do you keep on +talking about the signora to-night? This is your festa. +The signora is in Africa, a long way off—there—across +the sea." He stretched out his arm, and pointed towards +the wide waters above which the stars were watching. +"When she comes back you can see her, if you +wish—but now—"</p> + +<p>"When is she coming back?" asked the girl.</p> + +<p>There was an odd pertinacity in her character, almost +an obstinacy, despite her young softness and gentleness.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Maurice said, with difficulty controlling +his gathering impatience.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why did she go away?"</p> + +<p>"To nurse some one who is ill."</p> + +<p>"She went all alone across the sea?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Maddalena turned and looked into the dimness of the +sea with a sort of awe.</p> + +<p>"I should be afraid," she said, after a pause.</p> + +<p>And she shivered slightly.</p> + +<p>Maurice had let go the oars again. He felt a longing +to put his arm round her when he saw her shiver. The +night created many longings in him, a confusion of longings, +of which he was just becoming aware.</p> + +<p>"You are a child," he said, "and have never been +away from your 'paese.'"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have."</p> + +<p>"Where?"</p> + +<p>"I have been to the fair of San Felice."</p> + +<p>He smiled.</p> + +<p>"Oh—San Felice! And did you go in the train?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, signore. I went on a donkey. It was last +year, in June. It was beautiful. There were women +there in blue silk dresses with ear-rings as long as that"—she +measured their length in the air with her brown +fingers—"and there was a boy from Napoli, a real +Napolitano, who sang and danced as we do not dance +here. I was very happy that day. And I was given +an image of Sant' Abbondio."</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a sort of dignity, as if expecting +him to be impressed.</p> + +<p>"Carissima!" he whispered, almost under his breath.</p> + +<p>Her little air of pride, as of a travelled person, enchanted +him, even touched him, he scarcely knew why, +as he had never been enchanted or touched by any +London beauty.</p> + +<p>"I wish I had been at the fair with you. I would +have given you—"</p> + +<p>"What, signorino?" she interrupted, eagerly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A blue silk dress and a pair of ear-rings longer—much +longer—than those women wore."</p> + +<p>"Really, signorino? Really?"</p> + +<p>"Really and truly! Do you doubt me?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>She sighed.</p> + +<p>"How I wish you had been there! But this year—"</p> + +<p>She stopped, hesitating.</p> + +<p>"Yes—this year?"</p> + +<p>"In June there will be the fair again."</p> + +<p>He moved from his seat, softly and swiftly, turned the +boat's prow towards the open sea, then went and sat +down by her in the stern.</p> + +<p>"We will go there," he said, "you and I and Gaspare—"</p> + +<p>"And my father."</p> + +<p>"All of us together."</p> + +<p>"And if the signora is back?"</p> + +<p>Maurice was conscious of a desire that startled him +like a sudden stab from something small and sharp—the +desire that on that day Hermione should not be with him +in Sicily.</p> + +<p>"I dare say the signora will not be back."</p> + +<p>"But if she is, will she come, too?"</p> + +<p>"Do you think you would like it better if she came?"</p> + +<p>He was so close to her now that his shoulder touched +hers. Their faces were set seaward and were kissed by +the breath of the sea. Their eyes saw the same stars +and were kissed by the light of the stars. And the +subtle murmur of the tide spoke to them both as if they +were one.</p> + +<p>"Do you?" he repeated. "Do you think so?"</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?" she responded.</p> + +<p>He thought, when she said that, that her voice sounded +less simple than before.</p> + +<p>"You do know!" he said.</p> + +<p>She shook her head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You do!" he repeated.</p> + +<p>He stretched out his hand and took her hand. He +had to take it.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you tell me?"</p> + +<p>She had turned her head away from him, and now, +speaking as if to the sea, she said:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps if she was there you could not give me the +blue silk dress and the—and the ear-rings. Perhaps she +would not like it."</p> + +<p>For a moment he thought he was disappointed by her +answer. Then he knew that he loved it, for its utter +naturalness, its laughable naïveté. It seemed, too, to +set him right in his own eyes, to sweep away a creeping +feeling that had been beginning to trouble him. He +was playing with a child. That was all. There was no +harm in it. And when he had kissed her in the dawn +he had been kissing a child, playfully, kindly, as a big +brother might. And if he kissed her now it would mean +nothing to her. And if it did mean something—just a +little more—to him, that did not matter.</p> + +<p>"Bambina mia!" he said.</p> + +<p>"I am not a bambina," she said, turning towards him +again.</p> + +<p>"Yes you are."</p> + +<p>"Then you are a bambino."</p> + +<p>"Why not? I feel like a boy to-night, like a naughty +little boy."</p> + +<p>"Naughty, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, because I want to do something that I ought +not to do."</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"This, Maddalena."</p> + +<p>And he kissed her. It was the first time he had kissed +her in darkness, for on his second visit to the sirens' +house he had only taken her hand and held it, and that +was nothing. The kiss in the dawn had been light, gay, +a sort of laughing good-bye to a kind hostess who was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +of a class that, he supposed, thought little of kisses. +But this kiss in the night, on the sea, was different. Only +when he had given it did he understand how different it +was, how much more it meant to him. For Maddalena +returned it gently with her warm young lips, and her +response stirred something at his heart that was surely +the very essence of the life within him.</p> + +<p>He held her hands.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" he said, and there was in his voice a +startled sound. "Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>Again Hermione had risen up before him in the night, +almost as one who walked upon the sea. He was conscious +of wrong-doing. The innocence of his relation +with Maddalena seemed suddenly to be tarnished, and +the happiness of the starry night to be clouded. He +felt like one who, in summer, becomes aware of a heaviness +creeping into the atmosphere, the message of a +coming tempest that will presently transform the face +of nature. Surely there was a mist before the faces of +the stars.</p> + +<p>She said nothing, only looked at him as if she wanted +to know many things which only he could tell her, which +he had begun to tell her. That was her fascination for +his leaping youth, his wild heart of youth—this ignorance +and this desire to know. He had sat in spirit at the +feet of Hermione and loved her with a sort of boyish +humbleness. Now one sat at his feet. And the attitude +woke up in him a desire that was fierce in its intensity—the +desire to teach Maddalena the great realities of love.</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>Faintly there came to them a cry across the sea.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" Maurice said.</p> + +<p>He turned his head. In the darkness, high up, he saw a +light, descending, ascending, then describing a wild circle.</p> + +<p>"Hi—yi—yi—yi!"</p> + +<p>"Row back, signorino! They have done playing, and +my father will be angry."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p> + +<p>He moved, took the oars, and sent the boat towards +the island. The physical exertion calmed him, restored +him to himself.</p> + +<p>"After all," he thought, "there is no harm in it."</p> + +<p>And he laughed.</p> + +<p>"Which has won, Maddalena?" he said, looking back +at her over his shoulder, for he was standing up and +rowing with his face towards the land.</p> + +<p>"I hope it is my father, signorino. If he has got the +money he will not be angry; but if Gaspare has it—"</p> + +<p>"Your father is a fox of the sea, and can cheat better +than a boy. Don't be frightened."</p> + +<p>When they reached the land, Salvatore and Gaspare +met them. Gaspare's face was glum, but Salvatore's +small eyes were sparkling.</p> + +<p>"I have won it all—all!" he said. "Ecco!"</p> + +<p>And he held out his hand with the notes.</p> + +<p>"Salvatore is birbante!" said Gaspare, sullenly. "He +did not win it fairly. I saw him—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Gaspare!" said Maurice.</p> + +<p>He put his hand on the boy's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"To-morrow I'll give you the same," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"And now," he added, aloud, "let's go to bed. I've +been rowing Maddalena round the island and I'm tired. +I shall sleep like a top."</p> + +<p>As they went up the steep path he took Salvatore +familiarly by the arm.</p> + +<p>"You are too clever, Salvatore," he said. "You +play too well for Gaspare."</p> + +<p>Salvatore chuckled and handled the five-lire notes +voluptuously.</p> + +<p>"Cci basu li manu!" he said. "Cci basu li manu!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2> + + +<p>Maurice lay on the big bed in the inner room of the +siren's house, under the tiny light that burned before +Maria Addolorata. The door of the house was shut, +and he heard no more the murmur of the sea. Gaspare +was curled up on the floor, on a bed made of some old +sacking, with his head buried in his jacket, which he had +taken off to use as a pillow. In the far room Maddalena +and her father were asleep. Maurice could hear +their breathing, Maddalena's light and faint, Salvatore's +heavy and whistling, and degenerating now and then +into a sort of stifled snore. But sleep did not come to +Maurice. His eyes were open, and his clasped hands +supported his head. He was thinking, thinking almost +angrily.</p> + +<p>He loved joy as few Englishmen love it, but as many +southerners love it. His nature needed joy, was made +to be joyous. And such natures resent the intrusion +into their existence of any complications which make +for tragedy as northern natures seldom resent anything. +To-night Maurice had a grievance against fate, and he +was considering it wrathfully and not without confusion.</p> + +<p>Since he had kissed Maddalena in the night he was +disturbed, almost unhappy. And yet he was surely face +to face with something that was more than happiness. +The dancing faun was dimly aware that in his nature +there was not only the capacity for gayety, for the performance +of the tarantella, but also a capacity for violence +which he had never been conscious of when he +was in England. It had surely been developed within<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +him by the sun, by the coming of the heat in this delicious +land. It was like an intoxication of the blood, +something that went to head as well as heart. He +wondered what it meant, what it might lead him to. +Perhaps he had been faintly aware of its beginnings on +that day when jealousy dawned within him as he +thought of his wife, his woman, nursing her friend in +Africa. Now it was gathering strength like a stream +flooded by rains, but it was taking a different direction +in its course.</p> + +<p>He turned upon the pillow so that he could see the +light burning before the Madonna. The face of the +Madonna was faintly visible—a long, meek face with +downcast eyes. Maddalena crossed herself often when she +looked at that face. Maurice put up his hand to make +the sign, then dropped it with a heavy sigh. He was +not a Catholic. His religion—what was it? Sunworship +perhaps, the worship of the body, the worship of +whim. He did not know or care much. He felt so full +of life and energy that the far, far future after death +scarcely interested him. The present was his concern, +the present after that kiss in the night. He had loved +Hermione. Surely he loved her now. He did love her +now. And yet when he had kissed her he had never +been shaken by the headstrong sensation that had hold +of him to-night, the desire to run wild in love. He +looked up to Hermione. The feeling of reverence had +been a governing factor in his love for her. Now it +seemed to him that a feeling of reverence was a barrier +in the path of love, something to create awe, admiration, +respect, but scarcely the passion that irresistibly +draws man to woman. And yet he did love Hermione. +He was confused, horribly confused.</p> + +<p>For he knew that his longing was towards Maddalena.</p> + +<p>He would like to rise up in the dawn, to take her in +his arms, to carry her off in a boat upon the sea, or to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +set her on a mule and lead her up far away into the +recesses of the mountains. By rocky paths he would +lead her, beyond the olives and the vines, beyond the +last cottage of the contadini, up to some eyrie from +which they could look down upon the sunlit world. He +wanted to be in wildness with her, inexorably divided +from all the trammels of civilization. A desire of +savagery had hold upon him to-night. He did not go +into detail. He did not think of how they would pass +their days. Everything presented itself to him broadly, +tumultuously, with a surging, onward movement of +almost desperate advance.</p> + +<p>He wanted to teach those dark, inquiring young eyes +all that they asked to know, to set in them the light of +knowledge, to make them a woman's eyes.</p> + +<p>And that he could never do.</p> + +<p>His whole body was throbbing with heat, and tingling +with a desire of movement, of activity. The +knowledge that all this beating energy was doomed to +uselessness, was born to do nothing, tortured him.</p> + +<p>He tried to think steadily of Hermione, but he found +the effort a difficult one. She was remote from his +body, and that physical remoteness seemed to set her +far from his spirit, too. In him, though he did not +know it, was awake to-night the fickleness of the south, +of the southern spirit that forgets so quickly what is +no longer near to the southern body. The sun makes +bodily men, makes very strong the chariot of the flesh. +Sight and touch are needful, the actions of the body, to +keep the truly southern spirit true. Maurice could neither +touch nor see Hermione. In her unselfishness she had +committed the error of dividing herself from him. The +natural consequences of that self-sacrifice were springing +up now like the little yellow flowers in the grasses +of the lemon groves. With all her keen intelligence +she made the mistake of the enthusiast, that of reading +into those whom she loved her own shining qualities,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +of seeing her own sincerities, her own faithfulness, her +own strength, her own utter loyalty looking out on +her from them. She would probably have denied that +this was so, but so it was. At this very moment in +Africa, while she watched at the bedside of Artois, she +was thinking of her husband's love for her, loyalty to +her, and silently blessing him for it; she was thanking +God that she had drawn such a prize in the lottery of +life. And had she been already separated from Maurice +for six months she would never have dreamed of doubting +his perfect loyalty now that he had once loved her +and taken her to be his. The "all in all or not at all" +nature had been given to Hermione. She must live, +rejoice, suffer, die, according to that nature. She +knew much, but she did not know how to hold herself +back, how to be cautious where she loved, how to dissect +the thing she delighted in. She would never know +that, so she would never really know her husband, as +Artois might learn to know him, even had already +known him. She would never fully understand the tremendous +barriers set up between people by the different +strains of blood in them, the stern dividing lines that are +drawn between the different races of the earth. Her +nature told her that love can conquer all things. She +was too enthusiastic to be always far-seeing.</p> + +<p>So now, while Maurice lay beneath the tiny light in the +house of the sirens and was shaken by the wildness of +desire, and thought of a mountain pilgrimage far up +towards the sun with Maddalena in his arms, she sat +by Artois's bed and smiled to herself as she pictured +the house of the priest, watched over by the stars of +Sicily, and by her many prayers. Maurice was there, she +knew, waiting for her return, longing for it as she longed +for it. Artois turned on his pillow wearily, saw her, +and smiled.</p> + +<p>"You oughtn't to be here," he whispered. "But I +am glad you are here."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And I am glad, I am thankful I am here!" she said, +truly.</p> + +<p>"If there is a God," he said, "He will bless you for +this!"</p> + +<p>"Hush! You must try to sleep."</p> + +<p>She laid her hand in his.</p> + +<p>"God has blessed me," she thought, "for all my poor +little attempts at goodness, how far, far more than I +deserve!"</p> + +<p>And the gratitude within her was almost like an +ache, like a beautiful pain of the heart.</p> + +<p>In the morning Maurice put to sea with Gaspare and +Salvatore. He knew the silvery calm of dawn on a +day of sirocco. Everything was very still, in a warm +and heavy stillness of silver that made the sweat run +down at the least movement or effort. Masses of white, +feathery vapors floated low in the sky above the sea, +concealing the flanks of the mountains, but leaving +their summits clear. And these vapors, hanging like +veils with tattered edges, created a strange privacy +upon the sea, an atmosphere of eternal mysteries. As +the boat went out from the shore, urged by the powerful +arms of Salvatore, its occupants were silent. The +merriment and the ardor of the night, the passion of +cards and of desire, were gone, as if they had been +sucked up into the smoky wonder of the clouds, or +sucked down into the silver wonder of the sea.</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked drowsy and less happy than usual. +He had not yet recovered from his indignation at the +success of Salvatore's cheating, and Maurice, who had +not slept, felt the bounding life, the bounding fire of his +youth held in check as by the action of a spell. The +carelessness of excitement, of passion, was replaced by +another carelessness—the carelessness of dream. It +seemed to him now as if nothing mattered or ever could +matter. On the calm silver of a hushed and breathless +sea, beneath dense white vapors that hid the sky, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +was going out slowly, almost noiselessly, to a fate of +which he knew nothing, to a quiet emptiness, to a region +which held no voices to call him this way or that, no +hands to hold him, no eyes to regard him. His face +was damp with sweat. He leaned over the gunwale +and trailed his hand in the sea. It seemed to him unnaturally +warm. He glanced up at the clouds. Heaven +was blotted out. Was there a heaven? Last night he +had thought there must be—but that was long ago. +Was he sad? He scarcely knew. He was dull, as if +the blood in him had run almost dry. He was like a +sapless tree. Hermione and Maddalena—what were +they? Shadows rather than women. He looked steadily +at the sea. Was it the same element upon which +he had been only a few hours ago under the stars with +Maddalena? He could scarcely believe that it was the +same. Sirocco had him fast, sirocco that leaves many +Sicilians unchanged, unaffected, but that binds the stranger +with cords of cotton wool which keep him like a net +of steel.</p> + +<p>Gaspare lay down in the bottom of the boat, buried +his face in his arms, and gave himself again to sleep. +Salvatore looked at him, and then at Maurice, and +smiled with a fine irony.</p> + +<p>"He thought he would win, signore."</p> + +<p>"Cosa?" said Maurice, startled by the sound of a voice.</p> + +<p>"He thought that he could play better than I, signore."</p> + +<p>Salvatore closed one eye, and stuck his tongue a little +out of the left side of his mouth, then drew it in with a +clicking noise.</p> + +<p>"No one gets the better of me," he said. "They may +try. Many have tried, but in the end—"</p> + +<p>He shook his head, took his right hand from the oar +and flapped it up and down, then brought it downward +with force, as if beating some one, or something, to his +feet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I see," Maurice said, dully. "I see."</p> + +<p>He thought to himself that he had been cleverer than +Salvatore the preceding night, but he felt no sense of +triumph. He had divined the fisherman's passion and +turned it to his purpose. But what of that? Let the +man rejoice, if he could, in this dream. Let all men +do what they wished to do so long as he could be undisturbed. +He looked again at the sea, dropped his +hand into it once more.</p> + +<p>"Shall I let down a line, signore?"</p> + +<p>Salvatore's keen eyes were upon him. He shook his +head.</p> + +<p>"Not yet. I—" He hesitated.</p> + +<p>The still silver of the sea drew him. He touched his +forehead with his hand and felt the dampness on it.</p> + +<p>"I'm going in," he said.</p> + +<p>"Can you swim, signore?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, like a fish. Don't follow me with the boat. +Just let me swim out and come back. If I want you +I'll call. But don't follow me."</p> + +<p>Salvatore nodded appreciatively. He liked a good +swimmer, a real man of the sea.</p> + +<p>"And don't wake Gaspare, or he'll be after me."</p> + +<p>"Va bene!"</p> + +<p>Maurice stripped off his clothes, all the time looking +at the sea. Then he sat down on the gunwale of the +boat with his feet in the water. Salvatore had stopped +rowing. Gaspare still slept.</p> + +<p>It was curious to be going to give one's self to this +silent silver thing that waited so calmly for the gift. +He felt a sort of dull voluptuousness stealing over him +as he stared at the water. He wanted to get away +from his companions, from the boat, to be quite alone +with sirocco.</p> + +<p>"Addio Salvatore!" he said, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>"A rivederci, signore."</p> + +<p>He let himself down slowly into the water, feet fore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>most, +and swam slowly away into the dream that lay +before him.</p> + +<p>Even now that he was in it the water felt strangely +warm. He had not let his head go under, and the +sweat was still on his face. The boat lay behind +him. He did not think of it. He had forgotten it. +He felt himself to be alone, utterly alone with the +sea.</p> + +<p>He had always loved the sea, but in a boyish, wholly +natural way, as a delightful element, health-giving, +pleasure-giving, associating it with holiday times, with +bathing, fishing, boating, with sails on moonlight nights, +with yacht-races about the Isle of Wight in the company +of gay comrades. This sea of Sicily seemed different +to him to-day from other seas, more mysterious +and more fascinating, a sea of sirens about a Sirens' Isle. +Mechanically he swam through it, scarcely moving his +arms, with his chin low in the water—out towards the +horizon-line.</p> + +<p>He was swimming towards Africa.</p> + +<p>Presently that thought came into his mind, that he +was swimming towards Africa and Hermione, and away +from Maddalena. It seemed to him, then, as if the two +women on the opposite shores of this sea must know, +Hermione that he was coming to her, Maddalena that +he was abandoning her, and he began to think of them +both as intent upon his journey, the one feeling him +approach, the other feeling him recede. He swam more +slowly. A curious melancholy had overtaken him, a +deep depression of the spirit, such as often alternates in +the Sicilian character with the lively gayety that is sent +down upon its children by the sun. This lonely progress +in the sea was prophetic. He must leave Maddalena. +His friendship with her must come to an end, and soon. +Hermione would return, and then, in no long time, they +would leave the Casa del Prete and go back to England. +They would settle down somewhere, probably in London,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +and he would take up his work with his father, and the +Sicilian dream would be over.</p> + +<p>The vapors that hid the sky seemed to drop a little +lower down towards the sea, as if they were going to +enclose him.</p> + +<p>The Sicilian dream would be over. Was that possible? +He felt as if the earth of Sicily would not let him +go, as if, should the earth resign him, the sea of Sicily +would keep him. He dwelt on this last fancy, this keeping +of him by the sea. That would be strange, a quiet +end to all things. Never before had he consciously contemplated +his own death. The deep melancholy poured +into him by sirocco caused him to do so now. Almost +voluptuously he thought of death, a death in the sea of +Sicily near the rocks of the isle of the sirens. The light +would be kindled in the sirens' house and his eyes would +not see it. They would be closed by the cold fingers of +the sea. And Maddalena? The first time she had seen +him she had seen him sinking in the sea. How strange +if it should be so at the end, if the last time she saw him +she saw him sinking in the sea. She had cried out. +Would she cry out again or would she keep silence? +He wondered. For a moment he felt as if it were ordained +that thus he should die, and he let his body sink +in the water, throwing up his hands. He went down, +very far down, but he felt that Maddalena's eyes followed +him and that in them he saw terrors enthroned.</p> + +<p>Gaspare stirred in the boat, lifted his head from his +arms and looked sleepily around him. He saw Salvatore +lighting a pipe, bending forward over a spluttering +match which he held in a cage made of his joined hands. +He glanced away from him still sleepily, seeking the +padrone, but he saw only the empty seats of the boat, +the oars, the coiled-up nets, and lines for the fish.</p> + +<p>"Dove—?" he began.</p> + +<p>He sat up, stared wildly round.</p> + +<p>"Dov'è il padrone?" he cried out, shrilly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> + +<p>Salvatore started and dropped the match. Gaspare +sprang at him.</p> + +<p>"Dov'è il padrone? Dov'è il padrone?"</p> + +<p>"Sangue di—" began Salvatore.</p> + +<p>But the oath died upon his lips. His keen eyes had +swept the sea and perceived that it was empty. From +its silver the black dot which he had been admiringly +watching had disappeared. Gaspare had waked, had +asked his fierce question just as Maurice threw up his +hands and sank down in his travesty of death.</p> + +<p>"He was there! Madonna! He was there swimming +a moment ago!" exclaimed Salvatore.</p> + +<p>As he spoke he seized the oars, and with furious +strokes propelled the boat in the direction Maurice had +taken. But Gaspare would not wait. His instinct forbade +him to remain inactive.</p> + +<p>"May the Madonna turn her face from thee in the +hour of thy death!" he yelled at Salvatore.</p> + +<p>Then, with all his clothes on, he went over the side +into the sea.</p> + +<p>Maurice was an accomplished swimmer, and had ardently +practised swimming under water when he was a +boy. He could hold his breath for an exceptionally long +time, and now he strove to beat all his previous records. +With a few strokes he came up from the depths of the +sea towards the surface, then began swimming under +water, swimming vigorously, though in what direction +he knew not. At last he felt the imperative need of air, +and, coming up into the light again, he gasped, shook +his head, lifted his eyelids that were heavy with the +pressure of the water, heard a shrill cry, and felt a hand +grasp him fiercely.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" he gulped.</p> + +<p>He had not fully drawn breath yet.</p> + +<p>"Madonna! Madonna!"</p> + +<p>The hand still held him. The fingers were dug into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +his flesh. Then he heard a shout, and the boat came +up with Salvatore leaning over its side, glaring down at +him with fierce anxiety. He grasped the gunwale with +both hands. Gaspare trod water, caught him by the +legs, and violently assisted him upward. He tumbled +over the side into the boat. Gaspare came after him, +sank down in the bottom of the boat, caught him by +the arms, stared into his face, saw him smiling.</p> + +<p>"Sta bene Lei?" he cried. "Sta bene?"</p> + +<p>"Benissimo."</p> + +<p>The boy let go of him and, still staring at him, burst +into a passion of tears that seemed almost angry.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! What is it? What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>He put out his hand to touch the boy's dripping +clothes.</p> + +<p>"What has happened?"</p> + +<p>"Niente! Niente!" said Gaspare, between violent +sobs. "Mamma mia! Mamma mia!"</p> + +<p>He threw himself down in the bottom of the boat and +wept stormily, without shame, without any attempt to +check or conceal his emotion. As in the tarantella he +had given himself up utterly to joy, so now he gave +himself up utterly to something that seemed like despair. +He cried loudly. His whole body shook. The +sea-water ran down from his matted hair and mingled +with the tears that rushed over his brown cheeks.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" Maurice asked of Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"He thought the sea had taken you, signore."</p> + +<p>"That was it? Gaspare—"</p> + +<p>"Let him alone. Per Dio, signore, you gave me a +fright, too."</p> + +<p>"I was only swimming under water."</p> + +<p>He looked at Gaspare. He longed to do something +to comfort him, but he realized that such violence could +not be checked by anything. It must wear itself out.</p> + +<p>"And he thought I was dead!"</p> + +<p>"Per Dio! And if you had been!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>He wrinkled up his face and spat.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Has he got a knife on him?"</p> + +<p>He threw out his hand towards Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"I don't know to-day. He generally has."</p> + +<p>"I should have had it in me by now," said Salvatore.</p> + +<p>And he smiled at the weeping boy almost sweetly, as +if he could have found it in his heart to caress such a +murderer.</p> + +<p>"Row in to land," Maurice said.</p> + +<p>He began to put on his clothes. Salvatore turned +the boat round and they drew near to the rocks. The +vapors were lifting now, gathering themselves up to +reveal the blue of the sky, but the sea was still gray and +mysterious, and the land looked like a land in a dream. +Presently Gaspare put his fists to his eyes, lifted his +head, and sat up. He looked at his master gloomily, as +if in rebuke, and under this glance Maurice began to feel +guilty, as if he had done something wrong in yielding +to his strange impulses in the sea.</p> + +<p>"I was only swimming under water, Gaspare," he +said, apologetically.</p> + +<p>The boy said nothing.</p> + +<p>"I know now," continued Maurice, "that I shall never +come to any harm with you to look after me."</p> + +<p>Still Gaspare said nothing. He sat there on the floor +of the boat with his dripping clothes clinging to his body, +staring before him as if he were too deeply immersed in +gloomy thoughts to hear what was being said to him.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" Maurice exclaimed, moved by a sudden +impulse. "Do you think you would be very unhappy +away from your 'paese'?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare shifted forward suddenly. A light gleamed +in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"D'you think you could be happy with me in England?"</p> + +<p>He smiled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Si, signore!"</p> + +<p>"When we have to go away from Sicily I shall ask +the signora to let me take you with us."</p> + +<p>Gaspare said nothing, but he looked at Salvatore, +and his wet face was like a song of pride and triumph.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2> + + +<p>That day, ere he started with Gaspare for the house +of the priest, Maurice made a promise to Maddalena. He +pledged himself to go with her and her father to the +great fair of San Felice, which takes place annually in +the early days of June, when the throng of tourists has +departed, and the long heats of the summer have not +yet fully set in. He gave this promise in the presence +of Salvatore and Gaspare, and while he did so he was +making up his mind to something. That day at the fair +should be the day of his farewell to Maddalena. Hermione +must surely be coming back in June. It was impossible +that she could remain in Kairouan later. The +fury of the African summer would force her to leave +the sacred city, her mission of salvation either accomplished +or rendered forever futile by the death of her +friend. And then, when Hermione came, within a short +time no doubt they would start for England, taking +Gaspare with them. For Maurice really meant to keep +the boy in their service. After the strange scene of the +morning he felt as if Gaspare were one of the family, a +retainer with whose devoted protection he could never +dispense. Hermione, he was sure, would not object.</p> + +<p>Hermione would not object. As he thought that, +Maurice was conscious of a feeling such as sometimes +moves a child, upon whom a parent or guardian has laid +a gently restraining hand, violently to shrug his shoulders +and twist his body in the effort to get away and run +wild in freedom. He knew how utterly unreasonable +and contemptible his sensation was, yet he had it. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +sun had bred in him not merely a passion for complete +personal liberty, but for something more, for lawlessness. +For a moment he envied Gaspare, the peasant +boy, whose ardent youth was burdened with so few +duties to society, with so few obligations.</p> + +<p>What was expected of Gaspare? Only a willing +service, well paid, which he could leave forever at any +moment he pleased. To his family he must, no doubt, +give some of his earnings, but in return he was looked up +to by all, even by his father, as a little god. And in +everything else was not he free, wonderfully free in this +island of the south, able to be careless, unrestrained, +wild as a young hawk, yet to remain uncondemned, unwondered +at?</p> + +<p>And he—Maurice?</p> + +<p>He thought of Hermione's ardent and tenderly observant +eyes with a sort of terror. If she could know +or even suspect his feelings of the previous night, what +a tragedy he would be at once involved in! The very +splendor of Hermione's nature, the generous nobility +of her character, would make that tragedy the more +poignant. She felt with such intensity, she thought +she had so much. Careless though his own nature was, +doubly careless here in Sicily, Maurice almost sickened +at the idea of her ever suspecting the truth, that he was +capable of being strongly drawn towards a girl like +Maddalena, that he could feel as if a peasant who could +neither read nor write caught at something within him +that was like the essence of his life, like the core of that +by which he enjoyed, suffered, desired.</p> + +<p>But, of course, she would never suspect. And he +laughed at himself, and made the promise about the +fair, and, having made it and his resolution in regard +to it, almost violently resolved to take no thought for +the morrow, but to live carelessly and with gayety the +days that lay before him, the few more days of his utter +freedom in Sicily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> + +<p>After all, he was doing no wrong. He had lived and +was going to live innocently. And now that he realized +things, realized himself, he would be reasonable. He +would be careless, gay—yes, but not reckless, not utterly +reckless as he felt inclined to be.</p> + +<p>"What day of June is the fair?" he asked, looking at +Maddalena.</p> + +<p>"The 11th of June, signore," said Salvatore. "There +will be many donkeys there—good donkeys."</p> + +<p>Gaspare began to look fierce.</p> + +<p>"I think of buying a donkey," added Salvatore, +carelessly, with his small, shrewd eyes fixed upon Maurice's +face.</p> + +<p>Gaspare muttered something unintelligible.</p> + +<p>"How much do they cost?" said Maurice.</p> + +<p>"For a hundred lire you can get a very good donkey. +It would be useful to Maddalena. She could go to the +village sometimes then—she could go to Marechiaro to +gossip with the neighbors."</p> + +<p>"Has Maddalena broken her legs—Madonna!" burst +forth Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"Come along, Gaspare!" said Maurice, hastily.</p> + +<p>He bade good-bye to the fisherman and his daughter, +and set off with Gaspare through the trees.</p> + +<p>"Be nice to Salvatore," said Maurice, as they went +down towards the rocky wall.</p> + +<p>"But he wants to make you give him a donkey, signorino. +You do not know him. When he is with you +at the fair he will—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind. I say, Gaspare, I want—I want that +day at the fair to be a real festa. Don't let's have any +row on that day."</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked at him with surprised, inquiring eyes, +as if struck by his serious voice, by the insisting pressure +in it.</p> + +<p>"Why that day specially, signorino?" he asked, after +a pause.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, well—it will be my last day of—I mean that +the signora will be coming back from Africa by then, +and we shall—"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore?"</p> + +<p>"We sha'n't be able to run quite so wild as we do +now, you see. And, besides, we shall be going to England +very soon then."</p> + +<p>Gaspare's face lighted up.</p> + +<p>"Shall I see London, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Maurice.</p> + +<p>He felt a sickness at his heart.</p> + +<p>"I should like to live in London always," said Gaspare, +excitedly.</p> + +<p>"In London! You don't know it. In London you +will scarcely ever see the sun."</p> + +<p>"Aren't there theatres in London, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Theatres? Yes, of course. But there is no sea, +Gaspare, there are no mountains."</p> + +<p>"Are there many soldiers? Are there beautiful +women?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, there are plenty of soldiers and women."</p> + +<p>"I should like always to live in London," repeated +Gaspare, firmly.</p> + +<p>"Well—perhaps you will. But—remember—we are +all to be happy at the fair of San Felice."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But be careful, or Salvatore will make +you buy him a donkey. He had a wine-shop once, long +ago, in Marechiaro, and the wine—Per Dio, it was always +vino battezzato!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Salvatore always put water in it. He is cattivo—and +when he is angry—"</p> + +<p>"I know. You told me. But it doesn't matter. We +shall soon be going away, and then we sha'n't see him +any more."</p> + +<p>"Signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Well?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You—do you want to stay here always?"</p> + +<p>"I like being here."</p> + +<p>"Why do you want to stay?"</p> + +<p>For once Maurice felt as if he could not meet the boy's +great, steady eyes frankly. He looked away.</p> + +<p>"I like the sun," he answered. "I love it! I should +like to live in the sunshine forever."</p> + +<p>"And I should like to live always in London," reiterated +Gaspare. "You want to live here because you +have always been in London, and I want to live in +London because I have always been here. Ecco!"</p> + +<p>Maurice tried to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps that is it. We wish for what we can't +have. Dio mio!"</p> + +<p>He threw out his arms.</p> + +<p>"But, anyhow, I've not done with Sicily yet! Come +on, Gaspare! Now for the rocks! Ciao! Ciao! Ciao! +Morettina bella ciao!"</p> + +<p>He burst out into a song, but his voice hardly rang +true, and Gaspare looked at him again with a keen inquiry.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Artois was not yet destined to die. He said that +Hermione would not let him die, that with her by his +side it was useless for Death to approach him, to desire +him, to claim him. Perhaps her courage gave to +him the will to struggle against his enemy. The French +doctor, deeply, almost sentimentally interested in the +ardent woman who spoke his language with perfection +and carried out such instructions of his as she considered +sensible, with delicate care and strong thoroughness, +thought and said so.</p> + +<p>"But for madame," he said to Artois, "you would +have died, monsieur. And why? Because till she +came you had not the will to live. And it is the will +to live that assists the doctor."</p> + +<p>"I cannot be so ungallant as to die now," Artois re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>plied, +with a feeble but not sad smile. "Were I to do +so, madame would think me ungrateful. No, I shall +live. I feel now that I am going to live."</p> + +<p>And, in fact, from the night of Maurice's visit with +Gaspare to the house of the sirens he began to get better. +The inflammation abated, the temperature fell till +it was normal, the agony died away gradually from the +tormented body, and slowly, very slowly, the strength +that had ebbed began to return. One day, when the +doctor said that there was no more danger of any relapse, +Artois called Hermione and told her that now +she must think no more of him, but of herself; that she +must pack up her trunk and go back to her husband.</p> + +<p>"You have saved me, and I have killed your honeymoon," +he said, rather sadly. "That will always be +a regret in my life. But, now go, my dear friend, and +try to assuage your husband's wrath against me. How +he must hate me!"</p> + +<p>"Why, Emile?"</p> + +<p>"Are you really a woman? Yes, I know that. No +man could have tended me as you have. Yet, being +a woman, how can you ask that question?"</p> + +<p>"Maurice understands. He is blessedly understanding."</p> + +<p>"Don't try his blessed comprehension of you and of +me too far. You must go, indeed."</p> + +<p>"I will go."</p> + +<p>A shadow that he tried to keep back flitted across +Artois's pale face, over which the unkempt beard +straggled in a way that would have appalled his Parisian +barber. Hermione saw it.</p> + +<p>"I will go," she repeated, quietly, "when I can take +you with me."</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>"Hush! You are not to argue. Haven't you an +utter contempt for those who do things by halves? +Well, I have. When you can travel we'll go together."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Where?"</p> + +<p>"To Sicily. It will be hot there, but after this it +will seem cool as the Garden of Eden under those trees +where—but you remember! And there is always the +breeze from the sea. And then from there, very soon, +you can get a ship from Messina and go back to France, +to Marseilles. Don't talk, Emile. I am writing to-night +to tell Maurice."</p> + +<p>And she left the room with quick softness.</p> + +<p>Artois did not protest. He told himself that he had +not the strength to struggle against the tenderness +that surrounded him, that made it sweet to return to +life. But he wondered silently how Maurice would receive +him, how the dancing faun was bearing, would +bear, this interference with his new happiness.</p> + +<p>"When I am in Sicily I shall see at once, I shall +know," he thought. "But till then—"</p> + +<p>And he gave up the faint attempt to analyze the possible +feelings of another, and sank again into the curious +peace of convalescence.</p> + +<p>And Hermione wrote to her husband, telling him of +her plan, calling upon him with the fearless enthusiasm +that was characteristic of her to welcome it and to rejoice, +with her, in Artois's returning health and speedy +presence in Sicily.</p> + +<p>Maurice read this letter on the terrace alone. Gaspare +had gone down on the donkey to Marechiaro to +buy a bottle of Marsala, which Lucrezia demanded for +the making of a zampaglione, and Lucrezia was upon the +mountain-side spreading linen to dry in the sun. It +was nearly the end of May now, and the trees in the +ravine were thick with all their leaves. The stream +that ran down through the shadows towards the sea +was a tiny trickle of water, and the long, black snakes +were coming boldly forth from their winter hiding-places +to sun themselves among the bowlders that +skirted the mountain tracks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can't tell for certain," Hermione wrote, "how soon +we shall arrive, but Emile is picking up strength every +day, and I think, I pray, it may not be long. I dare +to hope that we shall be with you about the second +week of June. Oh, Maurice, something in me is almost +mad with joy, is like Gaspare dancing the tarantella, +when I think of coming up the mountain-side again +with you as I came that first day, that first day of my +real life. Tell Sebastiano he must play the 'Pastorale' +to welcome me. And you—but I seem to feel your +dear welcome here, to feel your hands holding mine, to +see your eyes looking at me like Sicily. Isn't it strange? +I feel out here in Africa as if you were Sicily. But you +are, indeed, for me. You are Sicily, you are the sun, you +are everything that means joy to me, that means music, +that means hope and peace. Buon riposo, my dearest +one. Can you feel—can you—how happy I am to-night?"</p> + +<p>The second week in June! Maurice stood holding the +letter in his hand. The fair of San Felice would take +place during the second week in June. That was what +he was thinking, not of Artois's convalescence, not of +his coming to Sicily. If Hermione arrived before +June 11th, could he go to the fair with Maddalena? He +might go, of course. He might tell Hermione. She +would say "Go!" She believed in him and had never +tried to curb his freedom. A less suspicious woman +than she was had surely never lived. But if she were +in Sicily, if he knew that she was there in the house of +the priest, waiting to welcome him at night when he +came back from the fair, it would—it would—He laid +the letter down. There was a burning heat of impatience, +of anxiety, within him. Now that he had received +this letter he understood with what intensity +he had been looking forward to this day at the fair, to +this last festa of his Sicilian life.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps they will not come so soon!" he said to him +self. "Perhaps they will not be here."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> + +<p>And then he began to think of Artois, to realize the +fact that he was coming with Hermione, that he would +be part of the final remnant of these Sicilian days.</p> + +<p>His feeling towards Artois in London had been sympathetic, +even almost reverential. He had looked at +him as if through Hermione's eyes, had regarded him +with a sort of boyish reverence. Hermione had said that +Artois was a great man, and Maurice had felt that he +was a great man, had mentally sat at his feet. Perhaps +in London he would be ready to sit at his feet again. +But was he ready to sit at his feet here in Sicily? As +he thought of Artois's penetrating eyes and cool, intellectual +face, of his air of authority, of his close intimacy +with Hermione, he felt almost afraid of him. +He did not want Artois to come here to Sicily. He +hated his coming. He almost dreaded it as the coming +of a spy. The presence of Artois would surely take +away all the savor of this wild, free life, would import +into it an element of the library, of the shut room, of +that intellectual existence which Maurice was learning to +think of as almost hateful.</p> + +<p>And Hermione called upon him to rejoice with her +over the fact that Artois would be able to accompany +her. How she misunderstood him! Good God! how +she misunderstood him! It seemed really as if she +believed that his mind was cast in precisely the same +mould as her own, as if she thought that because she +and he were married they must think and feel always +alike. How absurd that was, and how impossible!</p> + +<p>A sense of being near a prison door came upon him. +He threw Hermione's letter onto the writing-table, and +went out into the sun.</p> + +<p>When Gaspare returned that evening Maurice told him +the news from Africa. The boy's face lit up.</p> + +<p>"Oh, then shall we go to London?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" Maurice exclaimed, almost violently. "It +will all be different! Yes, we had better go to London!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Signorino."</p> + +<p>"Well, what is it, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"You do not like that signore to come here."</p> + +<p>"I—why not? Yes, I—"</p> + +<p>"No, signorino. I can see in your face that you do +not like it. Your face got quite black just now. But +if you do not like it why do you let him come? You +are the padrone here."</p> + +<p>"You don't understand. The signore is a friend of +mine."</p> + +<p>"But you said he was the friend of the signora."</p> + +<p>"So he is. He is the friend of both of us."</p> + +<p>Gaspare said nothing for a moment. His mind was +working busily. At last he said:</p> + +<p>"Then Maddalena—when the signora comes will she +be the friend of the signora, as well as your friend?"</p> + +<p>"Maddalena—that has nothing to do with it."</p> + +<p>"But Maddalena is your friend!"</p> + +<p>"That's quite different."</p> + +<p>"I do not understand how it is in England," Gaspare +said, gravely. "But"—and he nodded his head +wisely and spread out his hands—"I understand many +things, signorino, perhaps more than you think. You +do not want the signore to come. You are angry at +his coming."</p> + +<p>"He is a very kind signore," said Maurice, hastily. +"And he can speak dialetto."</p> + +<p>Gaspare smiled and shook his head again. But he +did not say anything more. For a moment Maurice had +an impulse to speak to him frankly, to admit him into +the intimacy of a friend. He was a Sicilian, although +he was only a boy. He was Sicilian and he would understand.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," he began.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"As you understand so much—"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Perhaps you—" He checked himself, realizing that +he was on the edge of doing an outrageous thing. "You +must know that the friends of the signora are my friends +and that I am always glad to welcome them."</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino! Va bene!"</p> + +<p>The boy began to look glum, understanding at once +that he was being played with.</p> + +<p>"I must go to give Tito his food."</p> + +<p>And he stuck his hands in his pockets and went away +round the corner of the cottage, whistling the tune of +the "Canzone di Marechiaro."</p> + +<p>Maurice began to feel as if he were in the dark, but +as if he were being watched there. He wondered how +clearly Gaspare read him, how much he knew. And +Artois? When he came, with his watchful eyes, there +would be another observer of the Sicilian change. He +did not much mind Gaspare, but he would hate Artois. +He grew hot at the mere thought of Artois being there +with him, observing, analyzing, playing the literary +man's part in this out-door life of the mountains and of +the sea.</p> + +<p>"I'm not a specimen," he said to himself, "and I'm +damned if I'll be treated as one!"</p> + +<p>It did not occur to him that he was anticipating that +which might never happen. He was as unreasonable +as a boy who foresees possible interference with his +pleasures.</p> + +<p>This decision of Hermione to bring with her to Sicily +Artois, and its communication to Maurice, pushed him +on to the recklessness which he had previously resolved +to hold in check. Had Hermione been returning to +him alone he would have felt that a gay and thoughtless +holiday time was coming to an end, but he must +have felt, too, that only tenderness and strong affection +were crossing the sea from Africa to bind him in chains +that already he had worn with happiness and peace. +But the knowledge that with Hermione was coming<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +Artois gave to him a definite vision of something that +was like a cage. Without consciously saying it to himself, +he had in London been vaguely aware of Artois's +coldness of feeling towards him. Had any one spoken +of it to him he would probably have denied that this +was so. There are hidden things in a man that he himself +does not say to himself that he knows of. But Maurice's +vision of a cage was conjured up by Artois's mental +attitude towards him in London, the attitude of the +observer who might, in certain circumstances, be cruel, +who was secretly ready to be cruel. And, anticipating +the unpleasant probable, he threw himself with the greater +violence into the enjoyment of his few more days of +complete liberty.</p> + +<p>He wrote to Hermione, expressing as naturally as he +could his ready acquiescence in her project, and then +gave himself up to the light-heartedness that came +with the flying moments of these last days of emancipation +in the sun. His mood was akin to the mood of +the rich man, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we +die." The music, he knew, must presently fail. The +tarantella must come to an end. Well, then he would +dance with his whole soul. He would not husband his +breath nor save his strength. He would be thoughtless +because for a moment he had thought too much, +too much for his nature of the dancing faun who had +been given for a brief space of time his rightful heritage.</p> + +<p>Each day now he went down to the sea.</p> + +<p>"How hot it is!" he would say to Gaspare. "If I +don't have a bath I shall be suffocated."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. At what time shall we go?"</p> + +<p>"After the siesta. It will be glorious in the sea to-day."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, it is good to be in the sea."</p> + +<p>The boy smiled, at last would sometimes laugh. He +loved his padrona, but he was a male and a Sicilian. +And the signora had gone across the sea to her friend.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +These visits to the sea seemed to him very natural. +He would have done the same as his padrone in similar +circumstances with a light heart, with no sense of doing +wrong. Only sometimes he raised a warning voice.</p> + +<p>"Signorino," he would say, "do not forget what I +have told you."</p> + +<p>"What, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"Salvatore is birbante. You think he likes you."</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't he like me?"</p> + +<p>"You are a forestiere. To him you are as nothing. +But he likes your money."</p> + +<p>"Well, then? I don't care whether he likes me or +not. What does it matter?"</p> + +<p>"Be careful, signorino. The Sicilian has a long hand. +Every one knows that. Even the Napoletano knows +that. I have a friend who was a soldier at Naples, +and—"</p> + +<p>"Come, now, Gaspare! What reason will there ever +be for Salvatore to turn against me?"</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino, va bene! But Salvatore is a +bad man when he thinks any one has tried to do him a +wrong. He has blood in his eyes then, and when we +Sicilians see through blood we do not care what we do—no, +not if all the world is looking at us."</p> + +<p>"I shall do no wrong to Salvatore. What do you +mean?"</p> + +<p>"Niente, signorino, niente!"</p> + +<p>"Stick the cloth on Tito, and put something in the +pannier. Al mare! Al mare!"</p> + +<p>The boy's warning rang in deaf ears. For Maurice +really meant what he said. He was reckless, perhaps, +but he was going to wrong no one, neither Salvatore, +nor Hermione, nor Maddalena. The coming of Artois +drove him into the arms of pleasure, but it would never +drive him into the arms of sin. For it was surely no +sin to make a little love in this land of the sun, to touch +a girl's hand, to snatch a kiss sometimes from the soft<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +lips of a girl, from whom he would never ask anything +more, whatever leaping desire might prompt him.</p> + +<p>And Salvatore was always at hand. He seldom put to +sea in these days unless Maurice went with him in the +boat. His greedy eyes shone with a light of satisfaction +when he saw Tito coming along the dusty white road +from Isola Bella, and at night, when he crossed himself +superstitiously before Maria Addolorata, he murmured +a prayer that more strangers might be wafted to his +"Paese," many strangers with money in their pockets +and folly in their hearts. Then let the sea be empty +of fish and the wind of the storm break up his boat—it +would not matter. He would still live well. He +might even at the last have money in the bank at +Marechiaro, houses in the village, a larger wine-shop than +Oreste in the Corso.</p> + +<p>But he kept his small eyes wide open and seldom let +Maddalena be long alone with the forestiere, and this +supervision began to irritate Maurice, to make him at +last feel hostile to Salvatore. He remembered Gaspare's +words about the fisherman—"To him you are as nothing. +But he likes your money"—and a longing to trick this +fox of the sea, who wanted to take all and make no +return, came to him.</p> + +<p>"Why can one never be free in this world?" he thought, +almost angrily. "Why must there always be some one +on the watch to see what one is doing, to interfere with +one's pleasure?"</p> + +<p>He began presently almost to hate Salvatore, who evidently +thought that Maurice was ready to wrong him, +and who, nevertheless, grasped greedily at every soldo +that came from the stranger's pocket, and touted perpetually +for more.</p> + +<p>His attitude was hideous. Maurice pretended not to +notice it, and was careful to keep on the most friendly +possible terms with him. But, while they acted their +parts, the secret sense of enmity grew steadily in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +two men, as things grow in the sun. When Maurice +saw the fisherman, with a smiling, bird's face, coming +to meet him as he climbed up through the trees to the +sirens' house, he sometimes longed to strike him. And +when Maurice went away with Gaspare in the night +towards the white road where Tito, tied to a stake, was +waiting to carry the empty pannier that had contained +a supper up the mountain to the house of the priest, +Salvatore stood handling his money, and murmuring:</p> + +<p>"Maledetto straniero! Madonna! Ma io sono più +birbante di Lei, mille volte più birbante, Dio mio!"</p> + +<p>And he laughed as he went towards the sirens' house. +It amused him to think that a stranger, an "Inglese," +fancied that he could play with a Sicilian, who had +never been "worsted," even by one of his own countrymen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2> + + +<p>Maurice had begun to dread the arrival of the post. +Artois was rapidly recovering his strength, and in each +of her letters Hermione wrote with a more glowing certainty +of her speedy return to Sicily, bringing the invalid +with her. Would they come before June 11th, +the day of the fair? That was the question which preoccupied +Maurice, which began to haunt him, and set +a light of anxiety in his eyes when he saw Antonino +climbing up the mountain-side with the letter-bag +slung over his shoulder. He felt as if he could not +forego this last festa. When it was over, when the +lights had gone out in the houses of San Felice, and +the music was silent, and the last rocket had burst in +the sky, showering down its sparks towards the gaping +faces of the peasants, he would be ready to give up this +free, unintellectual life, this life in which his youth ran +wild. He would resign himself to the inevitable, return +to the existence in which, till now, he had found +happiness, and try to find it there once more, try to +forget the strange voices that had called him, the +strange impulses that had prompted him. He would +go back to his old self, and seek pleasure in the old +paths, where he walked with those whom society would +call his "equals," and did not spend his days with men +who wrung their scant livelihood from the breast of the +earth and from the breast of the sea, with women whose +eyes, perhaps, were full of flickering fires, but who had +never turned the leaves of a printed book, or traced a +word upon paper. He would sit again at the feet of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> +people who were cleverer and more full of knowledge +than himself, and look up to them with reverence.</p> + +<p>But he must have his festa first. He counted upon +that. He desired that so strongly, almost so fiercely, +that he felt as if he could not bear to be thwarted, as +if, should fate interfere between him and the fulfilment +of this longing, he might do something almost desperate. +He looked forward to the fair with something +of the eagerness and the anticipation of a child expectant +of strange marvels, of wonderful and mysterious +happenings, and the name San Felice rang in +his ears with a music that was magical, suggesting +curious joys.</p> + +<p>He often talked about the fair to Gaspare, asking him +many questions which the boy was nothing loath to answer.</p> + +<p>To Gaspare the fair of San Felice was the great event +of the Sicilian year. He had only been to it twice; the +first time when he was but ten years old, and was +taken by an uncle who had gone to seek his fortune in +South America, and had come back for a year to his +native land to spend some of the money he had earned +as a cook, and afterwards as a restaurant proprietor, +in Buenos Ayres; the second time when he was sixteen, +and had succeeded in saving up a little of the money +given to him by travellers whom he had accompanied +as a guide on their excursions. And these two days +had been red-letter days in his life. His eyes shone +with excitement when he spoke of the festivities at San +Felice, of the bands of music—there were three "musics" +in the village; of the village beauties who sauntered +slowly up and down, dressed in brocades and +adorned with jewels which had been hoarded in the +family chests for generations, and were only taken out +to be worn at the fair and at wedding-feasts; of the +booths where all the desirable things of the world were +exposed for sale—rings, watches, chains, looking-glasses,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +clocks that sang and chimed with bells like church +towers, yellow shoes, and caps of all colors, handkerchiefs, +and shawls with fringes that, when worn, drooped +almost to the ground; ballads written by native +poets, relating the life and the trial of Musolino, the +famous brigand, his noble address to his captors, and +his despair when he was condemned to eternal confinement; +and the adventures of Giuseppe Moroni, called +"Il Niccheri" (illetterato), composed in eight-lined +verses, and full of the most startling and passionate +occurrences. There were donkeys, too—donkeys from +all parts of Sicily, mules from Girgenti, decorated with +red-and-yellow harness, with pyramids of plumes and +bells upon their heads, painted carts with pictures of +the miracles of the saints and the conquests of the +Saracens, turkeys and hens, and even cages containing +yellow birds that came from islands far away and that +sang with the sweetness of the angels. The ristoranti +were crowded with people, playing cards and eating +delicious food, and outside upon the pavements were +dozens of little tables at which you could sit, drinking +syrups of beautiful hues and watching at your ease the +marvels of the show. Here came boys from Naples to +sing and dance, peddlers with shining knives and elegant +walking-sticks for sale, fortune-tellers with your fate +already printed and neatly folded in an envelope, +sometimes a pigeon-man with a high black hat, who +made his doves hop from shoulder to shoulder along +a row of school-children, or a man with a monkey that +played antics to the sound of a grinding organ, and +that was dressed up in a red worsted jacket and a +pair of cloth trousers. And there were shooting-galleries +and puppet-shows and dancing-rooms, and at +night, when the darkness came, there were giuochi di +fuoco which lit up the whole sky, till you could see +Etna quite plainly.</p> + +<p>"E' veramente un paradiso!" concluded Gaspare.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A paradise!" echoed Maurice. "A paradise! I say, +Gaspare, why can't we always live in paradise? Why +can't life be one long festa?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so, signore. And the signora? Do you think +she will be here for the fair?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. But if she is here, I am not sure +that she will come to see it."</p> + +<p>"Why not, signorino? Will she stay with the sick +signore?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. But I don't think she will be here. She +does not say she will be here."</p> + +<p>"Do you want her to be here, signorino?" Gaspare +asked, abruptly.</p> + +<p>"Why do you ask such a question? Of course I am +happy, very happy, when the signora is here."</p> + +<p>As he said the words Maurice remembered how happy +he had been in the house of the priest alone with Hermione. +Indeed, he had thought that he was perfectly +happy, that he had nothing left to wish for. But that +seemed long ago. He wondered if he could ever again +feel that sense of perfect contentment. He could +scarcely believe so. A certain feverishness had stolen +into his Sicilian life. He felt often like a man in suspense, +uncertain of the future, almost apprehensive. +He no longer danced the tarantella with the careless +abandon of a boy. And yet he sometimes had a strange +consciousness that he was near to something that +might bring to him a joy such as he had never yet experienced.</p> + +<p>"I wish I knew what day Hermione is arriving," he +thought, almost fretfully. "I wish she wouldn't keep +me hung up in this condition of uncertainty. She +seems to think that I have nothing to do but just wait +here upon the pleasure of Artois."</p> + +<p>With that last thought the old sense of injury rose +in him again. This friend of Hermione's was spoiling +everything, was being put before every one. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +really monstrous that even during their honeymoon +this old friendship should intrude, should be allowed +to govern their actions and disturb their serenity. +Now that Artois was out of danger Maurice began to +forget how ill he had been, began sometimes to doubt +whether he had ever been so ill as Hermione supposed. +Perhaps Artois was one of those men who liked to have +a clever woman at his beck and call. These literary +fellows were often terribly exigent, eaten up with the +sense of their own importance. But he, Maurice, was +not going to allow himself to be made a cat's-paw of. +He would make Artois understand that he was not +going to permit his life to be interfered with by any +one.</p> + +<p>"I'll let him see that when he comes," he said to +himself. "I'll take a strong line. A man must be the +master of his own life if he's worth anything. These +Sicilians understand that."</p> + +<p>He began secretly to admire what before he had +thought almost hateful, the strong Arab characteristics +that linger on in many Sicilians, to think almost +weak and unmanly the Western attitude to woman.</p> + +<p>"I will be master," he said to himself again. "All +these Sicilians are wondering that I ever let Hermione +go to Africa. Perhaps they think I'm a muff to have +given in about it. And now, when Hermione comes +back with a man, they'll suppose—God knows what +they won't imagine!"</p> + +<p>He had begun so to identify himself with the Sicilians +about Marechiaro that he cared what they thought, was +becoming sensitive to their opinion of him as if he had +been one of themselves. One day Gaspare told him a +story of a contadino who had bought a house in the +village, but who, being unable to complete the payment, +had been turned out into the street.</p> + +<p>"And now, signorino," Gaspare concluded, "they +are all laughing at him in Marechiaro. He dare not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +show himself any more in the Piazza. When a man +cannot go any more into the Piazza—Madonna!"</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands +in a gesture of contemptuous pity.</p> + +<p>"E' finito!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Certo!" said Maurice.</p> + +<p>He was resolved that he would never be in such a +case. Hermione, he felt now, did not understand the +Sicilians as he understood them. If she did she would +not bring back Artois from Africa, she would not arrive +openly with him. But surely she ought to understand +that such an action would make people wonder, +would be likely to make them think that Artois was +something more than her friend. And then Maurice +thought of the day of their arrival, of his own descent +to the station, to wait upon the platform for the train. +Artois was not going to stay in the house of the priest. +That was impossible, as there was no guest-room. He +would put up at the hotel in Marechiaro. But that +would make little difference. He was to arrive with Hermione. +Every one would know that she had spent all +this time with him in Africa. Maurice grew hot as he +thought of the smiles on the Sicilian faces, of the looks +of astonishment at the strange doings of the forestieri. +Hermione's enthusiastic kindness was bringing her husband +almost to shame. It was a pity that people were +sometimes thoughtless in their eager desire to be generous +and sympathetic.</p> + +<p>One day, when Maurice had been brooding over this +matter of the Sicilian's view of Hermione's proceedings, +the spirit moved him to go down on foot to Marechiaro +to see if there were any letters for him at the post. It +was now June 7th. In four days would come the fair. +As the time for it drew near, his anxiety lest anything +should interfere to prevent his going to it with Maddalena +increased, and each day at post time he was filled +with a fever of impatience to know whether there would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +be a letter from Africa or not. Antonino generally appeared +about four o'clock, but the letters were in the +village long before then, and this afternoon Maurice felt +that he could not wait for the boy's coming. He had +a conviction that there was a letter, a decisive letter +from Hermione, fixing at last the date of her arrival +with Artois. He must have it in his hands at the first +possible moment. If he went himself to the post he +would know the truth at least an hour and a half sooner +than if he waited in the house of the priest. He resolved, +therefore, to go, got his hat and stick, and set +out, after telling Gaspare, who was watching for birds +with his gun, that he was going for a stroll on the mountain-side +and might be away for a couple of hours.</p> + +<p>It was a brilliant afternoon. The landscape looked +hard in the fiery sunshine, the shapes of the mountains +fierce and relentless, the dry watercourses almost bitter +in their barrenness. Already the devastation of +the summer was beginning to be apparent. All tenderness +had gone from the higher slopes of the mountains +which, jocund in spring and in autumn with growing +crops, were now bare and brown, and seamed like +the hide of a tropical reptile gleaming with metallic +hues. The lower slopes were still panoplied with the +green of vines and of trees, but the ground beneath the +trees was arid. The sun was coming into his dominion +with pride and cruelty, like a conqueror who loots +the land he takes to be his own.</p> + +<p>But Maurice did not mind the change, which drove +the tourists northward, and left Sicily to its own people. +He even rejoiced in it. As each day the heat increased +he was conscious of an increasing exultation, such as +surely the snakes and the lizards feel as they come out +of their hiding-places into the golden light. He was +filled with a glorious sense of expansion, as if his capabilities +grew larger, as if they were developed by heat +like certain plants. None of the miseries that afflict<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +many people in the violent summers which govern +southern lands were his. His skin did not peel, his +eyes did not become inflamed, nor did his head ache +under the action of the burning rays. They came to +him like brothers and he rejoiced in their company. +To-day, as he descended to Marechiaro, he revelled in +the sun. Its ruthlessness made him feel ruthless. He +was conscious of that. At this moment he was in absolutely +perfect physical health. His body was lithe +and supple, yet his legs and arms were hard with springing +muscle. His warm blood sang through his veins +like music through the pipes of an organ. His eyes +shone with the superb animation of youth that is radiantly +sound. For, despite his anxiety, his sometimes +almost fretful irritation when he thought about the +coming of Artois and the passing of his own freedom, +there were moments when he felt as if he could leap +with the sheer joy of life, as if he could lift up his arms +and burst forth into a wild song of praise to his divinity, +the sun. And this grand condition of health made him +feel ruthless, as the man who conquers and enters a +city in triumph feels ruthless. As he trod down towards +Marechiaro to-day, thinking of the letter that perhaps +awaited him, it seemed to him that it would be +monstrous if anything, if any one, were to interfere with +his day of joy, the day he was looking forward to with +such eager anticipation. He felt inclined to trample +over opposition. Yet what could he do if, by some +evil chance, Hermione and Artois arrived the day before +the fair, or on the very day of the fair? He hurried +his steps. He wanted to be in the village, to know +whether there was a letter for him from Africa.</p> + +<p>When he came into the village it was about half-past +two o'clock, and the long, narrow main street was deserted. +The owners of some of the antiquity shops had +already put up their shutters for the summer. Other +shops, still open, showed gaping doorways, through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +which no travellers passed. Inside, the proprietors were +dozing among their red brocades, their pottery, their +Sicilian jewelry and obscure pictures thick with dust, +guarded by squadrons of large, black flies, which droned +on walls and ceilings, crept over the tiled floors, and +clung to the draperies and laces which lay upon the +cabinets. In the shady little rooms of the barbers +small boys in linen jackets kept a drowsy vigil for the +proprietors, who were sleeping in some dark corner of +bedchamber or wine-shop. But no customer came to +send them flying. The sun made the beards push on +the brown Sicilian faces, but no one wanted to be shaved +before the evening fell. Two or three lads lounged by +on their way to the sea with towels and bathing-drawers +over their arms. A few women were spinning flax on +the door-lintels, or filling buckets of water from the +fountain. A few children were trying to play mysterious +games in the narrow alleys that led downward +to the sea and upward to the mountains on the left and +right of the street. A donkey brayed under an archway +as if to summon its master from his siesta. A cat +stole along the gutter, and vanished into a hole beneath +a shut door. But the village was almost like a dead +village, slain by the sun in his carelessness of pride.</p> + +<p>On his way to the post Maurice passed through the +Piazza that was the glory of Marechiaro and the place +of assemblage for its people. Here the music sounded +on festa days before the stone steps that led up to the +church of San Giuseppe. Here was the principal caffè, +the Caffè Nuovo, where granite and ices were to be had, +delicious yellow cakes, and chocolate made up into shapes +of crowing cocks, of pigs, of little men with hats, and +of saints with flowing robes. Here, too, was the club, +with chairs and sofas now covered with white, and long +tables adorned with illustrated journals and the papers +of Catania, of Messina, and Palermo. But at this hour +the caffè was closed and the club was empty. For the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +sun beat down with fury upon the open space with its +tiled pavement, and the seats let into the wall that +sheltered the Piazza from the precipice that frowned +above the sea were untenanted by loungers. As Maurice +went by he thought of Gaspare's words, "When a +man cannot go any more into the Piazza—Madonna, it +is finished!" This was the place where the public opinion +of Marechiaro was formed, where fame was made and +characters were taken away. He paused for an instant +by the church, then went on under the clock tower and +came to the post.</p> + +<p>"Any letters for me, Don Paolo?" he asked of the +postmaster.</p> + +<p>The old man saluted him languidly through the peep-hole.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, ce ne sono."</p> + +<p>He turned to seek for them while Maurice waited. He +heard the flies buzzing. Their noise was loud in his +ears. His heart beat strongly and he was gnawed by +suspense. Never before had he felt so anxious, so +impatient to know anything as he was now to know +if among the letters there was one from Hermione.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signore!"</p> + +<p>"Grazie!"</p> + +<p>Maurice took the packet.</p> + +<p>"A rivederci!"</p> + +<p>"A rivederlo, signore."</p> + +<p>He went away down the street. But now he had his +letters he did not look at them immediately. Something +held him back from looking at them until he had +come again into the Piazza. It was still deserted. He +went over to the seat by the wall, and sat down sideways, +so that he could look over the wall to the sea +immediately below him. Then, very slowly, he drew +out his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette, lit it, and +began to smoke like a man who was at ease and idle. +He glanced over the wall. At the foot of the precipice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +by the sea was the station of Cattaro, at which Hermione +and Artois would arrive when they came. He +could see the platform, some trucks of merchandise +standing on the rails, the white road winding by towards +San Felice and Etna. After a long look down he +turned at last to the packet from the post which he had +laid upon the hot stone at his side. The <i>Times</i>, the +"Pink 'un," the <i>Illustrated London News</i>, and three +letters. The first was obviously a bill forwarded from +London. The second was also from England. He +recognized the handwriting of his mother. The third? +He turned it over. Yes, it was from Hermione. His +instinct had not deceived him. He was certain, too, +that it did not deceive him now. He was certain that +this was the letter that fixed the date of her coming +with Artois. He opened the two other letters and +glanced over them, and then at last he tore the covering +from Hermione's. A swift, searching look was +enough. The letter dropped from his hand to the seat. +He had seen these words:</p> + +<p>"Isn't it splendid? Emile may leave at once. But +there is no good boat till the tenth. We shall take that, +and be at Cattaro on the eleventh at five o'clock in the +afternoon...."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it splendid?"</p> + +<p>For a moment he sat quite still in the glare of the +sun, mentally repeating to himself these words of his +wife. So the inevitable had happened. For he felt it +was inevitable. Fate was against him. He was not +to have his pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Come sta lei? Lei sta bene?"</p> + +<p>He started and looked up. He had heard no footstep. +Salvatore stood by him, smiling at him, Salvatore +with bare feet, and a fish-basket slung over his +arm.</p> + +<p>"Buon giorno, Salvatore!" he answered, with an effort.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p> + +<p>Salvatore looked at Maurice's cigarette, put down the +basket, and sat down on the seat by Maurice's side.</p> + +<p>"I haven't smoked to-day, signore," he began. "Dio +mio! But it must be good to have plenty of soldi!"</p> + +<p>"Ecco!"</p> + +<p>Maurice held out his cigarette-case.</p> + +<p>"Take two—three!"</p> + +<p>"Grazie, signore, mille grazie!"</p> + +<p>He took them greedily.</p> + +<p>"And the fair, signorino—only four days now to the +fair! I have been to order the donkeys for me and +Maddalena."</p> + +<p>"Davvero?" Maurice said, mechanically.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. From Angelo of the mill. He wanted +fifteen lire, but I laughed at him. I was with him a +good hour and I got them for nine. Per Dio! Fifteen +lire and to a Siciliano! For he didn't know you were +coming. I took care not to tell him that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you took care not to tell him that I was coming!"</p> + +<p>Maurice was looking over the wall at the platform of +the station far down below. He seemed to see himself +upon it, waiting for the train to glide in on the day of +the fair, waiting among the smiling Sicilian facchini.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Was not I right?"</p> + +<p>"Quite right."</p> + +<p>"Per Dio, signore, these are good cigarettes. Where +do they come from?"</p> + +<p>"From Cairo, in Egypt."</p> + +<p>"Egitto! They must cost a lot."</p> + +<p>He edged nearer to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"You must be very happy, signorino."</p> + +<p>"I!" Maurice laughed. "Madonna! Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because you are so rich!"</p> + +<p>There was a fawning sound in the fisherman's voice, +a fawning look in his small, screwed-up eyes.</p> + +<p>"To you it would be nothing to buy all the donkeys +at the fair of San Felice."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> + +<p>Maurice moved ever so little away from him.</p> + +<p>"Ah, signorino, if I had been born you how happy +I should be!"</p> + +<p>And he heaved a great sigh and puffed at the cigarette +voluptuously.</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing. He was still looking at the +railway platform. And now he seemed to see the train +gliding in on the day of the fair of San Felice.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>"Well, what is it, Salvatore?"</p> + +<p>"I have ordered the donkeys for ten o'clock. Then +we can go quietly. They will be at Isola Bella at ten +o'clock. I shall bring Maddalena round in the boat."</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>Salvatore chuckled.</p> + +<p>"She has got a surprise for you, signore."</p> + +<p>"A surprise?"</p> + +<p>"Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>His voice was listless, but now he looked at Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"I ought not to tell you, signore. But—if I do—you +won't ever tell her?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"A new gown, signorino, a beautiful new gown, made +by Maria Compagni here in the Corso. Will you be at +Isola Bella with Gaspare by ten o'clock on the day, +signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Salvatore!" Maurice said, in a loud, firm, almost +angry voice. "I will be there. Don't doubt it. Addio +Salvatore!"</p> + +<p>He got up.</p> + +<p>"A rivederci, signore. Ma—"</p> + +<p>He got up, too, and bent to pick up his fish-basket.</p> + +<p>"No, don't come with me. I'm going up now, +straight up by the Castello."</p> + +<p>"In all this heat? But it's steep there, signore, and +the path is all covered with stones. You'll never—"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That doesn't matter. I like the sun. Addio!"</p> + +<p>"And this evening, signorino? You are coming to +bathe this evening?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I don't think so. Don't wait for me. +Go to sea if you want to!"</p> + +<p>"Birbanti!" muttered the fisherman, as he watched +Maurice stride away across the Piazza, and strike up the +mountain-side by the tiny path that led to the Castello. +"You want to get me out of the way, do you? Birbanti! +Ah, you fine strangers from England! You think to come +here and find men that are babies, do you? men that—"</p> + +<p>He went off noiselessly on his bare feet, muttering to +himself with the half-smoked cigarette in his lean, brown +hand.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Maurice climbed rapidly up the steep track +over the stones in the eye of the sun. He had not lied +to Salvatore. While the fisherman had been speaking +to him he had come to a decision. A disgraceful decision +he knew it to be, but he would keep to it. Nothing +should prevent him from keeping to it. He would +be at Isola Bella on the day of the fair. He would go +to San Felice. He would stay there till the last rocket +burst in the sky over Etna, till the last song had been +sung, the last toast shouted, the last tarantella danced, +the last—kiss given—the last, the very last. He would +ignore this message from Africa. He would pretend he +had never received it. He would lie about it. Yes, +he would lie—but he would have his pleasure. He was +determined upon that, and nothing should shake him, +no qualms of conscience, no voices within him, no memories +of past days, no promptings of duty.</p> + +<p>He hurried up the stony path. He did not feel the +sun upon him. The sweat poured down over his face, +his body. He did not know it. His heart was set +hard, and he felt villanous, but he felt quite sure what +he was going to do, quite sure that he was going to the +fair despite that letter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + +<p>When he reached the priest's house he felt exhausted. +Without knowing it he had come up the mountain at +a racing pace. But he was not tired merely because +of that. He sank down in a chair in the sitting-room. +Lucrezia came and peeped at him.</p> + +<p>"Where is Gaspare?" he asked, putting his hand instinctively +over the pocket in which were the letters.</p> + +<p>"He is still out after the birds, signore. He has shot +five already."</p> + +<p>"Poor little wretches! And he's still out?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. He has gone on to Don Peppino's terreno +now. There are many birds there. How hot you +are, signorino! Shall I—"</p> + +<p>"No, no. Nothing, Lucrezia! Leave me alone!"</p> + +<p>She disappeared.</p> + +<p>Then Maurice drew the letters from his pocket and +slowly spread out Hermione's in his lap. He had not +read it through yet. He had only glanced at it and seen +what he had feared to see. Now he read it word by +word, very slowly and carefully. When he had come +to the end he kept it on his knee and sat for some time +quite still.</p> + +<p>In the letter Hermione asked him to go to the Hôtel +Regina Margherita at Marechiaro, and engage two good +rooms facing the sea for Artois, a bedroom and a sitting-room. +They were to be ready for the eleventh. She +wrote with her usual splendid frankness. Her soul was +made of sincerity as a sovereign is made of gold.</p> + +<p>"I know"—these were her words—"I know you will +try and make Emile's coming to Sicily a little festa. +Don't think I imagine you are personally delighted at +his coming, though I am sure you are delighted at his +recovery. He is my old friend, not yours, and I am +not such a fool as to suppose that you can care for +him at all as I do, who have known him intimately and +proved his loyalty and his nobility of nature. But I +think, I am certain, Maurice, that you will make his com<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>ing +a festa for my sake. He has suffered very much. +He is as weak almost as a child still. There's something +tremendously pathetic in the weakness of body of a +man so brilliant in mind, so powerful of soul. It goes +right to my heart as I think it would go to yours. Let +us make his return to life beautiful and blessed. Sha'n't +we? Put flowers in the rooms for me, won't you? +Make them look homey. Put some books about. But +I needn't tell you. We are one, you and I, and I +needn't tell you any more. It would be like telling +things to myself—as unnecessary as teaching an organ-grinder +how to turn the handle of his organ! Oh, Maurice, +I can laugh to-day! I could almost—<i>I</i>—get up and +dance the tarantella all alone here in my little, bare +room with no books and scarcely any flowers. And at +the station show Emile he is welcome. He is a little +diffident at coming. He fancies perhaps he will be in +the way. But one look of yours, one grasp of your +hand will drive it all out of him! God bless you, my +dearest. How he has blessed me in giving you to +me!"</p> + +<p>As Maurice sat there, under his skin, burned deep +brown by the sun, there rose a hot flush of red! Yes, +he reddened at the thought of what he was going to do, +but still he meant to do it. He could not forego his +pleasure. He could not. There was something wild +and imperious within him that defied his better self at +this moment. But the better self was not dead. It +was even startlingly alive, enough alive to stand almost +aghast at that which was going, it knew, to dominate +it—to dominate it for a time, but only for a time. On +that he was resolved, as he was resolved to have this +one pleasure to which he had looked forward, to which +he was looking forward now. Men often mentally put +a period to their sinning. Maurice put a period to his +sinning as he sat staring at the letter on his knees. And +the period which he put was the day of the fair at San<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +Felice. After that day this book of his wild youth was +to be closed forever.</p> + +<p>After the day of the fair he would live rightly, sincerely, +meeting as it deserved to be met the utter sincerity +of his wife. He would be, after that date, entirely +straight with her. He loved her. As he looked at her +letter he felt that he did love, must love, such love as +hers. He was not a bad man, but he was a wilful man. +The wild heart of youth in him was wilful. Well, after +San Felice, he would control that wilfulness of his heart, +he would discipline it. He would do more, he would forget +that it existed. After San Felice!</p> + +<p>With a sigh, like that of a burdened man, he got up, +took the letter in his hand, and went out up the mountain-side. +There he tore the letter and its envelope into +fragments, and hid the fragments in a heap of stones +hot with the sun.</p> + +<p>When Gaspare came in that evening with a string of +little birds in his hand and asked Maurice if there were +any letter from Africa to say when the signora would +arrive, Maurice answered "No."</p> + +<p>"Then the signora will not be here for the fair, signorino?" +said the boy.</p> + +<p>"I don't suppose—no, Gaspare, she will not be here +for the fair."</p> + +<p>"She would have written by now if she were coming.</p> + +<p>"Yes, if she were coming she would certainly have +written by now."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2> + + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino! Are you ready?"</p> + +<p>It was Gaspare's voice shouting vivaciously from the +sunny terrace, where Tito and another donkey, gayly caparisoned +and decorated with flowers and little streamers +of colored ribbon, were waiting before the steps.</p> + +<p>"Si, si! I'm coming in a moment!" replied Maurice's +voice from the bedroom.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia stood by the wall looking very dismal. She +longed to go to the fair, and that made her sad. But +there was also another reason for her depression. Sebastiano +was still away, and for many days he had not +written to her. This was bad enough. But there was +something worse. News had come to Marechiaro from +a sailor of Messina, a friend of Sebastiano's, that Sebastiano +was lingering in the Lipari Isles because he had +found a girl there, a pretty girl called Teodora Amalfi, +to whom he was paying attentions. And although +Lucrezia laughed at the story, and pretended to disbelieve +it, her heart was rent by jealousy and despair, +and a longing to travel away, to cross the sea, to tear +her lover from temptation, to—to speak for a few +moments quietly—oh, very quietly—with this Teodora. +Even now, while she stared at the donkeys, and at +Gaspare in his festa suit, with two large, pink roses +above his ears, she put up her hands instinctively to +her own ears, as if to pluck the ear-rings out of them, as +the Sicilian women of the lower classes do, deliberately, +sternly, before they begin to fight their rivals, women +who have taken their lovers or their husbands from them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p>Ah, if she were only in the Lipari Isles she would +speak with Teodora Amalfi, speak with her till the +blood flowed! She set her teeth, and her face looked +almost old in the sunshine.</p> + +<p>"Coraggio, Lucrezia!" laughed Gaspare. "He will +come back some day when—when he has sold enough +to the people of the isles! But where is the padrone, +Dio mio? Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>Maurice appeared at the sitting-room door and came +slowly down the steps.</p> + +<p>Gaspare stared. "Eccomi!"</p> + +<p>"Why, signorino, what is the matter? What has +happened?"</p> + +<p>"Happened? Nothing!"</p> + +<p>"Then why do you look so black?"</p> + +<p>"I! It's the shadow of the awning on my face."</p> + +<p>He smiled. He kept on smiling.</p> + +<p>"I say, Gasparino, how splendid the donkeys are! +And you, too!"</p> + +<p>He took hold of the boy by the shoulders and turned +him round.</p> + +<p>"Per Bacco! We shall make a fine show at the fair! +I've got money, lot's of money, to spend!"</p> + +<p>He showed his portfolio, full of dirty notes. Gaspare's +eyes began to sparkle.</p> + +<p>"Wait, signorino!"</p> + +<p>He lifted his hands to Maurice's striped flannel jacket +and thrust two large bunches of flowers and ferns into +the two button-holes, to right and left.</p> + +<p>"Bravo! Now, then."</p> + +<p>"No, no, signorino! Wait!"</p> + +<p>"More flowers! But where—what, over my ears, +too!"</p> + +<p>He began to laugh.</p> + +<p>"But—"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, si! To-day you must be a real Siciliano!"</p> + +<p>"Va bene!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> + +<p>He bent down his head to be decorated.</p> + +<p>"Pouf! They tickle! There, then! Now let's be +off!"</p> + +<p>He leaped onto Tito's back. Gaspare sprang up on +the other donkey.</p> + +<p>"Addio, Lucrezia!"</p> + +<p>Maurice turned to her.</p> + +<p>"Don't leave the house to-day."</p> + +<p>"No, signore," said poor Lucrezia, in a deplorable +voice.</p> + +<p>"Mind, now! Don't go down to Marechiaro this afternoon."</p> + +<p>There was an odd sound, almost of pleading, in his +voice.</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"I trust you to be here—remember."</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino!"</p> + +<p>"Ah—a—a—ah!" shouted Gaspare.</p> + +<p>They were off.</p> + +<p>"Signorino," said Gaspare, presently, when they were +in the shadow of the ravine, "why did you say all that +to Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>"All what?"</p> + +<p>"All that about not leaving the house to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—why—it's better to have some one there."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But why to-day specially?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. There's no particular reason."</p> + +<p>"I thought there was."</p> + +<p>"No, of course not. How could there be?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so."</p> + +<p>"If Lucrezia goes down to the village they'll be filling +her ears with that stupid gossip about Sebastiano and +that girl—Teodora."</p> + +<p>"It was for Lucrezia then, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, for Lucrezia. She's miserable enough already. +I don't want her to be a spectacle when—when the +signora returns."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I wonder when she is coming? I wonder why she +has not written all these days?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she'll soon come. We shall—we shall very soon +have her here with us."</p> + +<p>He tried to speak naturally, but found the effort +difficult, knowing what he knew, that in the evening +of that day Hermione would arrive at the house of the +priest and find no preparations made for her return, no +one to welcome her but Lucrezia—if, indeed, Lucrezia +obeyed his orders and refrained from descending to the +village on the chance of hearing some fresh news of her +fickle lover. And Artois! There were no rooms engaged +for him at the Hôtel Regina Margherita. There were +no flowers, no books. Maurice tingled—his whole body +tingled for a moment—and he felt like a man guilty of +some mean crime and arraigned before all the world. +Then he struck Tito with his switch, and began to gallop +down the steep path at a breakneck pace, sticking his +feet far out upon either side. He would forget. He +would put away these thoughts that were tormenting +him. He would enjoy this day of pleasure for which +he had sacrificed so much, for which he had trampled +down his self-respect in the dust.</p> + +<p>When they reached the road by Isola Bella, Salvatore's +boat was just coming round the point, vigorously propelled +by the fisherman's strong arms over the radiant +sea. It was a magnificent day, very hot but not sultry, +free from sirocco. The sky was deep blue, a passionate, +exciting blue that seemed vocal, as if it were saying +thrilling things to the world that lay beneath it. The +waveless sea was purple, a sea, indeed, of legend, a wine-dark, +lustrous, silken sea. Into it, just here along this +magic coast, was surely gathered all the wonder of color +of all the southern seas. They must be blanched to +make this marvel of glory, this immense jewel of God. +And the lemon groves were thick along the sea. And +the orange-trees stood in their decorative squadrons<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +drinking in the rays of the sun with an ecstatic submission. +And Etna, snowless Etna, rose to heaven out of +this morning world, with its base in the purple glory +and its feather of smoke in the calling blue, child of the +sea-god and of the god that looks down from the height, +majestically calm in the riot of splendor that set the +feet of June dancing in a great tarantella.</p> + +<p>As Maurice saw the wonder of sea and sky, the boat +coming in over the sea, with Maddalena in the stern +holding a bouquet of flowers, his heart leaped up and he +forgot for a moment the shadow in himself, the shadow +of his own unworthiness. He sprang off the donkey.</p> + +<p>"I'll go down to meet them!" he cried. "Catch hold +of Tito, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The railway line ran along the sea, between road and +beach. He had to cross it. In doing so one of his feet +struck the metal rail, which gave out a dry sound. He +looked down, suddenly recalled to a reality other than +the splendor of the morning, the rapture of this careless +festa day. And again he was conscious of the shadow. +Along this line, in a few hours, would come the train +bearing Hermione and Artois. Hermione would be at +the window, eagerly looking out, full of happy anticipation, +leaning to catch the first sight of his face, to receive +and return his smile of welcome. What would her +face be like when—? But Salvatore was hailing him +from the sea. Maddalena was waving her hand. The +thing was done. The die was cast. He had chosen +his lot. Fiercely he put away from him the thought +of Hermione, lifted his voice in an answering hail, his +hand in a salutation which he tried to make carelessly +joyous. The boat glided in between the flat rocks. +And then—then he was able to forget. For Maddalena's +long eyes were looking into his, with the joyousness +of a child's, and yet with something of the expectation +of a woman's, too. And her brown face was alive +with a new and delicious self-consciousness, asking him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> +to praise her for the surprise she had prepared, in his +honor surely, specially for him, and not for her comrades +and the public of the fair.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>He put out his hands to help her out. She stood on +the gunwale of the boat and jumped lightly down, with +a little laugh, onto the beach.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena! Per Dio! Ma che bellezza!"</p> + +<p>She laughed again, and stood there on the stones +before him smiling and watching him, with her head a +little on one side, and the hand that held the tight +bouquet of roses and ferns, round as a ring and red as +dawn, up to her lips, as if a sudden impulse prompted +her now to conceal something of her pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Le piace?"</p> + +<p>It came to him softly over the roses.</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing, but took her hand and looked +at her. Salvatore was fastening up the boat and putting +the oars into their places, and getting his jacket and hat.</p> + +<p>What a transformation it was, making an almost +new Maddalena! This festival dress was really quite +wonderful. He felt inclined to touch it here and there, +to turn Maddalena round for new aspects, as a child +turns round a marvellous doll.</p> + +<p>Maddalena wore a tudischina, a bodice of blue cotton +velvet, ornamented with yellow silken fringes, and opening +over the breast to show a section of snowy white +edged with little buttons of sparkling steel. Her petticoat—the +sinava—was of pea-green silk and thread, +and was partially covered by an apron, a real coquette +of an apron, white and green, with little pockets and +puckers, and a green rosette where the strings met round +the supple waist. Her sleeves were of white muslin, +bound with yellow silk ribbons, and her stockings were +blue, the color of the bodice. On her feet were shining +shoes of black leather, neatly tied with small, black +ribbons, and over her shoulders was a lovely shawl of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +blue and white with a pattern of flowers. She wore +nothing on her head, but in her ears were heavy ear-rings, +and round her neck was a thin silver chain with +bright-blue stones threaded on it here and there.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" Maurice said, at last. "You are a queen +to-day!"</p> + +<p>He stopped, then he added:</p> + +<p>"No, you are a siren to-day, the siren I once fancied +you might be."</p> + +<p>"A siren, signorino? What is that?"</p> + +<p>"An enchantress of the sea with a voice that makes +men—that makes men feel they cannot go, they cannot +leave it."</p> + +<p>Maddalena lifted the roses a little higher to hide her +face, but Maurice saw that her eyes were still smiling, +and it seemed to him that she looked even more radiantly +happy than when she had taken his hands to spring +down to the beach.</p> + +<p>Now Salvatore came up in his glory of a dark-blue +suit, with a gay shirt of pink-and-white striped cotton, +fastened at the throat with long, pink strings that had +tasselled ends, a scarlet bow-tie with a brass anchor and +the Italian flag thrust through it, yellow shoes, and a +black hat, placed well over the left ear. Upon the forefinger +of his left hand he displayed a thick snake-ring +of tarnished metal, and he had a large, overblown rose +in his button-hole. His mustaches had been carefully +waxed, his hair cropped, and his hawklike, subtle, and +yet violent face well washed for the great occasion. +With bold familiarity he seized Maurice's hand.</p> + +<p>"Buon giorno, signore. Come sta lei?"</p> + +<p>"Benissimo."</p> + +<p>"And Maddalena, signore? What do you think of +Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>He looked at his girl with a certain pride, and then +back at Maurice searchingly.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena is beautiful to-day," Maurice answered,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +quickly. He did not want to discuss her with her +father, whom he longed to be rid of, whom he meant to +get rid of if possible at the fair. Surely it would be easy +to give him the slip there. He would be drinking with +his companions, other fishermen and contadini, or playing +cards, or—yes, that was an idea!</p> + +<p>"Salvatore!" Maurice exclaimed, catching hold of the +fisherman's arm.</p> + +<p>"Signore?"</p> + +<p>"There'll be donkeys at the fair, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Donkeys—per Dio! Why, last year there were over +sixty, and—"</p> + +<p>"And isn't there a donkey auction sometimes, towards +the end of the day, when they go cheap?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore! Si, signore!"</p> + +<p>The fisherman's greedy little eyes were fixed on Maurice +with keen interrogation.</p> + +<p>"Don't let us forget that," Maurice said, returning his +gaze. "You're a good judge of a donkey?"</p> + +<p>Salvatore laughed.</p> + +<p>"Per Bacco! There won't be a man at San Felice +that can beat me at that!"</p> + +<p>"Then perhaps you can do something for me. Perhaps +you can buy me a donkey. Didn't I speak of it +before?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. For the signora to ride when she comes +back from Africa?"</p> + +<p>He smiled.</p> + +<p>"For a lady to ride," Maurice answered, looking at +Maddalena.</p> + +<p>Salvatore made a clicking noise with his tongue, a +noise that suggested eating. Then he spat vigorously +and took from his jacket-pocket a long, black cigar. +This was evidently going to be a great day for him.</p> + +<p>"Avanti, signorino! Avanti!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare was shouting and waving his hat frantically +from the road.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come along, Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>They left the beach and climbed the bank, Maddalena +walking carefully in the shining shoes, and holding her +green skirt well away from the bushes with both hands. +Maurice hurried across the railway line without looking +at it. He wanted to forget it. He was determined to +forget it, and what it was bringing to Cattaro that afternoon. +They reached the group of four donkeys which +were standing patiently in the dusty white road.</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" ejaculated Gaspare, as Maddalena +came full into his sight. "Madre mia! But you are +like a burgisa dressed for the wedding-day, Donna Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>He wagged his head at her till the big roses above his +ears shook like flowers in a wind.</p> + +<p>"Ora basta, ch' è tardu: jamu ad accumpagnari li +Zitti!" he continued, pronouncing the time-honored +sentence which, at a rustic wedding, gives the signal to +the musicians to stop their playing, and to the assembled +company the hint that the moment has come to +escort the bride to the new home which her bridegroom +has prepared for her.</p> + +<p>Maddalena laughed and blushed all over her face, +and Salvatore shouted out a verse of a marriage song +in high favor at Sicilian weddings:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"E cu saluti a li Zituzzi novi!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chi bellu 'nguaggiamentu furtunatu!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Firma la menti, custanti lu cori,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E si cci arriva a lu jornu biatu—"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Meanwhile, Maurice helped Maddalena onto her donkey, +and paid and dismissed the boy who had brought it +and Salvatore's beast from Marechiaro. Then he took +out his watch.</p> + +<p>"A quarter-past ten," he said. "Off we go! Now, +Gaspare—uno! due! tre!"</p> + +<p>They leaped simultaneously onto their donkeys, Sal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>vatore +clambered up on his, and the little cavalcade +started off on the long, white road that ran close along +the sea, Maddalena and Maurice in the van, Salvatore +and Gaspare behind. Just at first they all kept close +together, but Sicilians are very careful of their festa +clothes, and soon Salvatore and Gaspare dropped farther +behind to avoid the clouds of dust stirred up by the +tripping feet of the donkeys in front. Their chattering +voices died away, and when Maurice looked back he saw +them at a distance which rendered his privacy with +Maddalena more complete than anything he had dared +to hope for so early in the day. Yet now that they +were thus alone he felt as if he had nothing to say to +her. He did not feel exactly constrained, but it seemed +to him that, to-day, he could not talk the familiar commonplaces +to her, or pay her obvious compliments. +They might, they would please her, but something in +himself would resent them. This was to be such a +great day. He had wanted it with such ardor, he had +been so afraid of missing it, he had gained it at the cost +of so much self-respect, that it ought to be extraordinary +from dawn to dark, and he and Maddalena to be +unusual, intense—something, at least, more eager, more +happy, more intimate than usual in it.</p> + +<p>And then, too, as he looked at her riding along by the +sea, with her young head held rather high and a smile +of innocent pride in her eyes, he remembered that this +day was their good-bye. Maddalena did not know that. +Probably she did not think about the future. But he +knew it. They might meet again. They would doubtless +meet again. But it would all be different. He +would be a serious married man, who could no longer +frolic as if he were still a boy like Gaspare. This was +the last day of his intimate friendship with Maddalena.</p> + +<p>That seemed to him very strange. He had become +accustomed to her society, to her naïve curiosity, her +girlish, simple gayety, so accustomed to it all that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +could not imagine life without it, could scarcely realize +what life had been before he knew Maddalena. It +seemed to him that he must have always known Maddalena. +And she—what did she feel about that?</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>She turned her head and glanced at him, smiling, as +if she were sure of hearing something pleasant. To-day, +in her pretty festa dress, she looked intended for +happiness. Everything about her conveyed the suggestion +that she was expectant of joy. The expression +in her eyes was a summons to the world to be very +kind and good to her, to give her only pleasant things, +things that could not harm her.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena, do you feel as if you had known me +long?"</p> + +<p>She nodded her head.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"How long?"</p> + +<p>She spread out one hand with the fingers held apart.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore—but always! I feel as if I had known +you always."</p> + +<p>"And yet it's only a few days."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>She acquiesced calmly. The problem did not seem +to puzzle her, the problem of this feeling so ill-founded. +It was so. Very well, then—so it was.</p> + +<p>"And," he went on, "do you feel as if you would +always know me?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Of course."</p> + +<p>"But I shall go away, I am going away."</p> + +<p>For a moment her face clouded. But the influence +of joy was very strong upon her to-day, and the cloud +passed.</p> + +<p>"But you will come back, signorino. You will always +come back."</p> + +<p>"How do you know that?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<p>A pretty slyness crept into her face, showed in the +curve of the young lips, in the expression of the young +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Because you like to be here, because you like the +Siciliani. Isn't it true?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, almost passionately. "It's true! +Ah, Maddalena—"</p> + +<p>But at this moment a group of people from Marechiaro +suddenly appeared upon the road beside them, having +descended from the village by a mountain-path. There +were exclamations, salutations. Maddalena's gown was +carefully examined by the women of the party. The men +exchanged compliments with Maurice. Then Salvatore +and Gaspare, seeing friends, came galloping up, shouting, +in a cloud of dust. A cavalcade was formed, and +henceforth Maurice was unable to exchange any more +confidences with Maddalena. He felt vexed at first, but +the boisterous merriment of all these people, their glowing +anticipation of pleasure, soon infected him. His +heart was lightened of its burden and the spirit of the +careless boy awoke in him. He would take no thought +for the morrow, he would be able to take no thought so +long as he was in this jocund company. As they trotted +forward in a white mist along the shining sea Maurice +was one of the gayest among them. No laugh rang out +more frequently than his, no voice chatted more vivaciously. +The conscious effort which at first he had to +make seemed to give him an impetus, to send him onward +with a rush so that he outdistanced his companions. +Had any one observed him closely during that +ride to the fair he might well have thought that here +was a nature given over to happiness, a nature that was +utterly sunny in the sun.</p> + +<p>They passed through the town of Cattaro, where was +the station for Marechiaro. For a moment Maurice felt +a pang of self-contempt, and of something more, of something +that was tender, pitiful even, as he thought of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +Hermione's expectation disappointed. But it died away, +or he thrust it away. The long street was full of people, +either preparing to start for the fair themselves +or standing at their doors to watch their friends start. +Donkeys were being saddled and decorated with flowers. +Tall, painted carts were being harnessed to mules. +Visions of men being lathered and shaved, of women +having their hair dressed or their hair searched, Sicilian +fashion, of youths trying to curl upward scarcely +born mustaches, of children being hastily attired in +clothes which made them wriggle and squint, came to +the eyes from houses in which privacy was not so much +scorned as unthought of, utterly unknown. Turkeys +strolled in and out among the toilet-makers. Pigs accompanied +their mistresses from doorway to doorway +as dogs accompany the women of other countries. And +the cavalcade of the people of Marechiaro was hailed from +all sides with pleasantries and promises to meet at the +fair, with broad jokes or respectful salutations. Many +a "Benedicite!" or "C'ci basu li mano!" greeted Maurice. +Many a berretto was lifted from heads that he had never +seen to his knowledge before. He was made to feel +by all that he was among friends, and as he returned +the smiles and salutations he remembered the saying +Hermione had repeated: "Every Sicilian, even if he +wears a long cap and sleeps in a hut with the pigs, is a +gentleman," and he thought it very true.</p> + +<p>It seemed as if they would never get away from the +street. At every moment they halted. One man begged +them to wait a moment till his donkey was saddled, so +that he might join them. Another, a wine-shop keeper, +insisted on Maurice's testing his moscato, and thereupon +Maurice felt obliged to order glasses all round, to +the great delight of Gaspare, who always felt himself +to be glorified by the generosity of his padrone, and +who promptly took the proceedings in charge, measured +out the wine in appropriate quantities, handed it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +about, and constituted himself master of the ceremony. +Already, at eleven o'clock, brindisi were invented, and +Maurice was called upon to "drop into poetry." Then +Maddalena caught sight of some girl friends, and must +needs show them all her finery. For this purpose she +solemnly dismounted from her donkey to be closely +examined on the pavement, turned about, shook forth +her pea-green skirt, took off her chain for more minute +inspection, and measured the silken fringes of her shawl +in order to compare them with other shawls which were +hastily brought out from a house near-by.</p> + +<p>But Gaspare, always a little ruthless with women, +soon tired of such vanities.</p> + +<p>"Avanti! Avanti!" he shouted. "Dio mio! Le +donne sono pazze! Andiamo! Andiamo!"</p> + +<p>He hustled Maddalena, who yielded, blushing and +laughing, to his importunities, and at last they were +really off again, and drowned in a sea of odor as they +passed some buildings where lemons were being packed +to be shipped away from Sicily. This smell seemed to +Maurice to be the very breath of the island. He drank +it in eagerly. Lemons, lemons, and the sun! Oranges, +lemons, yellow flowers under the lemons, and the sun! +Always yellow, pale yellow, gold yellow, red-gold yellow, +and white, and silver-white, the white of the roads, +the silver-white of dusty olive leaves, and green, the dark, +lustrous, polished green of orange leaves, and purple +and blue, the purple of sea, the blue of sky. What a +riot of talk it was, and what a riot of color! It made +Maurice feel almost drunk. It was heady, this island of +the south—heady in the summer-time. It had a powerful +influence, an influence that was surely an excuse +for much. Ah, the stay-at-homes, who condemned the +far-off passions and violences of men! What did they +know of the various truths of the world? How should +one in Clapham judge one at the fair of San Felice? +Avanti! Avanti! Avanti along the blinding white road<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +by the sea, to the village on which great Etna looked +down, not harshly for all its majesty. Nature understood. +And God, who made Nature, who was behind +Nature—did not He understand? There is forgiveness +surely in great hearts, though the small hearts have no +space to hold it.</p> + +<p>Something like this Maurice thought for a moment, ere +a large thoughtlessness swept over him, bred of the sun +and the odors, the movement, the cries and laughter of +his companions, the gay gown and the happy glances +of Maddalena, even of the white dust that whirled up +from the feet of the cantering donkeys.</p> + +<p>And so, ever laughing, ever joking, gayly, almost +tumultuously, they rushed upon the fair.</p> + +<p>San Felice is a large village in the plain at the foot of +Etna. It lies near the sea between Catania and Messina, +but beyond the black and forbidding lava land. Its +patron saint, Protettore di San Felice, is Sant' Onofrio, +and this was his festival. In the large, old church in +the square, which was the centre of the life of the fiera, +his image, smothered in paint, sumptuously decorated +with red and gold and bunches of artificial flowers, was +exposed under a canopy with pillars; and thin squares +of paper reproducing its formal charms—the oval face +with large eyes and small, straight nose, the ample forehead, +crowned with hair that was brought down to a +point in the centre, the undulating, divided beard descending +upon the breast, one hand holding a book, the +other upraised in a blessing—were sold for a soldo to +all who would buy them.</p> + +<p>The first thing the party from Isola Bella and from +Marechiaro did, when they had stabled their donkeys +at Don Leontini's, in the Via Bocca di Leone, was to +pay the visit of etiquette to Sant' Onofrio. Their laughter +was stilled at the church doorway, through which +women and men draped in shawls, lads and little children, +were coming and going. Their faces assumed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +expressions of superstitious reverence and devotion. +And, going up one by one to the large image of the +saint, they contemplated it with awe, touched its hand +or the hem of its robe, made the sign of the cross, and +retreated, feeling that they were blessed for the day.</p> + +<p>Maddalena approached the saint with Maurice and +Gaspare. She and Gaspare touched the hand that held +the book, made the sign of the cross, then stared at Maurice +to see why he did nothing. He quickly followed +their example. Maddalena, who was pulling some of +the roses from her tight bouquet, whispered to him:</p> + +<p>"Sant' Onofrio will bring us good-fortune."</p> + +<p>"Davvero?" he whispered back.</p> + +<p>"Si! Si!" said Gaspare, nodding his head.</p> + +<p>While Maddalena laid her flowers upon the lap of +the saint, Gaspare bought from a boy three sheets of +paper containing Sant' Onofrio's reproduction, and three +more showing the effigies of San Filadelfo, Sant' Alfio, +and San Cirino.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, Donna Maddalena! Ecco, signorino!"</p> + +<p>He distributed his purchases, keeping two for himself. +These last he very carefully and solemnly folded +up and bestowed in the inner pocket of his jacket, +which contained a leather portfolio, given to him by +Maurice to carry his money in.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" he said, once more, as he buttoned the flap +of the pocket as a precaution against thieves.</p> + +<p>And with that final exclamation he dismissed all +serious thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Mangiamo, signorino!" he said. "Ora basta!"</p> + +<p>And they went forth into the sunshine. Salvatore +was talking to some fishermen from Catania upon the +steps. They cast curious glances at Maurice as he came +out with Maddalena, and, when Salvatore went off with +his daughter and the forestiere, they laughed among +themselves and exchanged some remarks that were evidently +merry. But Maurice did not heed them. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +was not a self-conscious man. And Maddalena was far +too happy to suppose that any one could be saying +nasty things about her.</p> + +<p>"Where are we going to eat?" asked Maurice.</p> + +<p>"This way, this way, signorino!" replied Gaspare, +elbowing a passage through the crowd. "You must +follow me. I know where to go. I have many friends +here."</p> + +<p>The truth of this statement was speedily made manifest. +Almost every third person they met saluted Gaspare, +some kissing him upon both cheeks, others grasping +his hand, others taking him familiarly by the arm. +Among the last was a tall boy with jet-black, curly hair +and a long, pale face, whom Gaspare promptly presented +to his padrone, by the name of Amedeo Buccini.</p> + +<p>"Amedeo is a parrucchiere, signorino," he said, "and +my compare, and the best dancer in San Felice. May +he eat with us?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>Gaspare informed Amedeo, who took off his hat, held +it in his hand, and smiled all over his face with pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Gaspare is my compare, signore," he affirmed. +"Compare, compare, compareddu"—he glanced at Gaspare, +who joined in with him:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Compare, compare, compareddu,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Io ti voglio molto bene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mangiamo sempre insieme—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mangiamo carne e riso<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E andiamo in Paradiso!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Carne e riso—si!" cried Maurice, laughing. "But +Paradise! Must you go to Paradise directly afterwards, +before the dancing and before the procession and before +the fireworks?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore," said Gaspare. "When we are very +old, when we cannot dance any more—non è vero, +Amedeo?—then we will go to Paradiso."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes," agreed the tall boy, quite seriously, "then we +will go to Paradiso."</p> + +<p>"And I, too," said Maurice; "and Maddalena, but not +till then."</p> + +<p>What a long time away that would be!</p> + +<p>"Here is the ristorante!"</p> + +<p>They had reached a long room with doors open onto +the square, opposite to the rows of booths which were +set up under the shadow of the church. Outside of it +were many small tables and numbers of chairs on which +people were sitting, contemplating the movement of the +crowd of buyers and sellers, smoking, drinking syrups, +gazzosa, and eating ices and flat biscuits.</p> + +<p>Gaspare guided them through the throng to a long +table set on a sanded floor.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signorino!"</p> + +<p>He installed Maurice at the top of the table.</p> + +<p>"And you sit here, Donna Maddalena."</p> + +<p>He placed her at Maurice's right hand, and was going +to sit down himself on the left, when Salvatore roughly +pushed in before him, seized the chair, sat in it, and +leaned his arms on the table with a loud laugh that +sounded defiant. An ugly look came into Gaspare's +face.</p> + +<p>"Macchè—" he began, angrily.</p> + +<p>But Maurice silenced him with a quick look.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, you come here, by Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>"Ma—"</p> + +<p>"Come along, Gasparino, and tell us what we are to +have. You must order everything. Where's the cameriere? +Cameriere! Cameriere!"</p> + +<p>He struck on his glass with a fork. A waiter came +running.</p> + +<p>"Don Gaspare will order for us all," said Maurice to +him, pointing to Gaspare.</p> + +<p>His diplomacy was successful. Gaspare's face cleared, +and in a moment he was immersed in an eager colloquy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +with the waiter, another friend of his from Marechiaro. +Amedeo Buccini took a place by Gaspare, and all those +from Marechiaro, who evidently considered that they +belonged to the Inglese's party for the day, arranged +themselves as they pleased and waited anxiously for the +coming of the macaroni.</p> + +<p>A certain formality now reigned over the assembly. +The movement of the road in the outside world by the +sea had stirred the blood, had loosened tongues and +quickened spirits. But a meal in a restaurant, with +a rich English signore presiding at the head of the +table, was an unaccustomed ceremony. Dark faces +that had been lit up with laughter now looked almost +ludicrously discreet. Brown hands which had been +in constant activity, talking as plainly, and more expressively, +than voices, now lay limply upon the white +cloth or were placed upon knees motionless as the knees +of statues. And all eyes were turned towards the giver +of the feast, mutely demanding of him a signal of conduct +to guide his inquiring guests. But Maurice, too, felt +for the moment tongue-tied. He was very sensitive to +influences, and his present position, between Maddalena +and her father, created within him a certain confusion +of feelings, an odd sensation of being between +two conflicting elements. He was conscious of affection +and of enmity, both close to him, both strong, the +one ready to show itself, the other determined to remain +in hiding. He glanced at Salvatore, and met the +fisherman's keen gaze. Behind the instant smile in +the glittering eyes he divined, rather than saw, the +shadow of his hatred. And for a moment he wondered. +Why should Salvatore hate him? It was reasonable +to hate a man for a wrong done, even for a wrong deliberately +contemplated with intention—the intention +of committing it. But he had done no real wrong to +Salvatore. Nor had he any evil intention with regard +to him or his. So far he had only brought pleasure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +into their lives, his life and Maddalena's—pleasure and +money. If there had been any secret pain engendered +by their mutual intercourse it was his. And this day +was the last of their intimacy, though Salvatore and +Maddalena did not know it. Suddenly a desire, an +almost weak desire, came to him to banish Salvatore's +distrust of him, a distrust which he was more conscious +of at this moment than ever before.</p> + +<p>He did not know of the muttered comments of the +fishermen from Catania as he and Maddalena passed +down the steps of the church of Sant' Onofrio. But +Salvatore's sharp ears had caught them and the laughter +that followed them, and his hot blood was on fire. +The words, the laughter had touched his sensitive Sicilian +pride—the pride of the man who means never to +be banished from the Piazza—as a knife touches a raw +wound. And as Maurice had set a limit to his sinning—his +insincerity to Hermione, his betrayal of her complete +trust in him, nothing more—so Salvatore now, +while he sat at meat with the Inglese, mentally put a +limit to his own complaisance, a complaisance which had +been born of his intense avarice. To-day he would get +all he could out of the Inglese—money, food, wine, a +donkey—who knew what? And then—good-bye to +soft speeches. Those fishermen, his friends, his comrades, +his world, in fact, should have their mouths shut +once for all. He knew how to look after his girl, and +they should know that he knew, they and all Marechiaro, +and all San Felice, and all Cattaro. His limit, like Maurice's, +was that day of the fair, and it was nearly reached. +For the hours were hurrying towards the night and farewells.</p> + +<p>Moved by his abrupt desire to stand well with everybody +during this last festa, Maurice began to speak to +Salvatore of the donkey auction. When would it begin?</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?"</p> + +<p>No one knew. In Sicily all feasts are movable.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> +Even mass may begin an hour too late or an hour too +early. One thought the donkey auction would start +at fourteen, another at sixteen o'clock. Gaspare was +imperiously certain, over the macaroni, which had now +made its appearance, that the hour was seventeen. +There were to be other auctions, auctions of wonderful +things. A clock that played music—the "Marcia +Reale" and the "Tre Colori"—was to be put up; suits +of clothes, too; boots, hats, a chair that rocked like a +boat on the sea, a revolver ornamented with ivory. +Already—no one knew when, for no one had missed +him—he had been to view these treasures. As he +spoke of them tongues were loosed and eyes shone +with excitement. Money was in the air. Prices were +passionately discussed, values debated. All down the +table went the words "soldi," "lire," "lire sterline," +"biglietti da cinque," "biglietti da dieci." Salvatore's +hatred died away, suffocated for the moment under the +weight of his avarice. A donkey—yes, he meant to get +a donkey with the stranger's money. But why stop +there? Why not have the clock and the rocking-chair +and the revolver? His sharpness of the Sicilian, a +sharpness almost as keen and sure as that of the Arab, +divined the intensity, the recklessness alive in the +Englishman to-day, bred of that limit, "my last day +of the careless life," to which his own limit was twin-brother, +but of which he knew nothing. And as Maurice +was intense to-day, because there were so few hours left +to him for intensity, so was Salvatore intense in a different +way, but for a similar reason. They were walking +in step without being aware of it. Or were they not +rather racing neck to neck, like passionate opponents?</p> + +<p>There was little time. Then they must use what +there was to the full. They must not let one single +moment find them lazy, indifferent.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 234px;"> +<a href="images/gs05.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs05_th.jpg" width="234" height="400" +alt=""'I AM CONTENT WITHOUT ANYTHING, SIGNORINO,' SHE SAID"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"'I AM CONTENT WITHOUT ANYTHING, SIGNORINO,' SHE SAID"</span> +</p> + +<p>Under the cover of the flood of talk Maurice turned +to Maddalena. She was taking no part in it, but was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> +eating her macaroni gently, as if it were a new and +wonderful food. So Maurice thought as he looked at her. +To-day there was something strange, almost pathetic, to +him in Maddalena, a softness, an innocent refinement +that made him imagine her in another life than hers, +and with other companions, in a life as free but less +hard, with companions as natural but less ruthless to +women.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena," he said to her. "They all want to +buy things at the auction."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"And you?"</p> + +<p>"I, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, don't you want to buy something?"</p> + +<p>He was testing her, testing her memory. She looked at +him above her fork, from which the macaroni streamed +down.</p> + +<p>"I am content without anything, signorino," she said.</p> + +<p>"Without the blue dress and the ear-rings, longer +than that?" He measured imaginary ear-rings in the +air. "Have you forgotten, Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>She blushed and bent over her plate. She had not +forgotten. All the day since she rose at dawn she +had been thinking of Maurice's old promise. But she did +not know that he remembered it, and his remembrance +of it came to her now as a lovely surprise. He bent his +head down nearer to her.</p> + +<p>"When they are all at the auction, we will go to buy +the blue dress and the ear-rings," he almost whispered. +"We will go by ourselves. Shall we?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>Her voice was very small and her cheeks still held +their flush. She glanced, with eyes that were unusually +conscious, to right and left of her, to see if the +neighbors had noticed their colloquy. And that look +of consciousness made Maurice suddenly understand that +this limit which he had put to his sinning—so he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> +called it with a sort of angry mental sincerity, summoned, +perhaps, to match the tremendous sincerity of +his wife which he was meeting with a lie to-day—his +sinning against Hermione was also a limit to something +else. Had he not sinned against Maddalena, sinned +when he had kissed her, when he had shown her that +he delighted to be with her? Was he not sinning now +when he promised to buy for her the most beautiful +things of the fair? For a moment he thought to himself +that his fault against Maddalena was more grave, +more unforgivable than his fault against Hermione. +But then a sudden anger that was like a storm, against +his own condemnation of himself, swept through him. +He had come out to-day to be recklessly happy, and +here he was giving himself up to gloom, to absurd self-torture. +Where was his natural careless temperament? +To-day his soul was full of shadows, like the +soul of a man going to meet a doom.</p> + +<p>"Where's the wine?" he called to Gaspare. "Wine, +cameriere, wine!"</p> + +<p>"You must not drink wine with the pasta, signorino!" +cried Gaspare. "Only afterwards, with the vitello."</p> + +<p>"Have you ordered vitello? Capital! But I've finished +my pasta and I'm thirsty. Well, what do you +want to buy at the auction, Gaspare, and you, Amedeo, +and you Salvatore?"</p> + +<p>He plunged into the talk and made Salvatore show +his keen desires, encouraging and playing with his +avarice, now holding it off for a moment, then coaxing +it as one coaxes an animal, stroking it, tempting it to +a forward movement. The wine went round now, for +the vitello was on the table, and the talk grew more +noisy, the laughter louder. Outside, too, the movement +and the tumult of the fair were increasing. Cries +of men selling their wares rose up, the hard melodies +of a piano-organ, and a strange and ecclesiastical chant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> +sung by three voices that, repeated again and again, at +last attracted Maurice's attention.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" he asked of Gaspare. "Are those +priests chanting?"</p> + +<p>"Priests! No, signore. Those are the Romani."</p> + +<p>"Romans here! What are they doing?"</p> + +<p>"They have a cart decorated with flags, signorino, +and they are selling lemon-water and ices. All the people +say that they are Romans and that is how they +sing in Rome."</p> + +<p>The long and lugubrious chant of the ice-venders rose +up again, strident and melancholy as a song chanted +over a corpse.</p> + +<p>"It's funny to sing like that to sell ices," Maurice said. +"It sounds like men at a funeral."</p> + +<p>"Oh, they are very good ices, signorino. The Romans +make splendid ices."</p> + +<p>Turkey followed the vitello.</p> + +<p>Maurice's guests were now completely at ease and perfectly +happy. The consciousness that all this was going +to be paid for, that they would not have to put +their hands in their pockets for a soldo, warmed their +hearts as the wine warmed their bodies. Amedeo's +long, white face was becoming radiant, and even Salvatore +softened towards the Inglese. A sort of respect, +almost furtive, came to him for the wealth that could +carelessly entertain this crowd of people, that could buy +clocks, chairs, donkeys at pleasure, and scarcely know +that soldi were gone, scarcely miss them. As he attacked +his share of the turkey vigorously, picking up +the bones with his fingers and tearing the flesh away +with his white teeth, he tried to realize what such +wealth must mean to the possessor of it, an effort continually +made by the sharp-witted, very poor man. +And this wealth—for the moment some of it was at his +command! To ask to-day would be to have. Instinctively +he knew that, and felt like one with money<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +in the bank. If only it might be so to-morrow and for +many days! He began to regret the limit, almost to +forget the sound of the laughter of the Catania fishermen +upon the steps of the church of Sant' Onofrio. His +pride was going to sleep, and his avarice was opening its +eyes wider.</p> + +<p>When the meal was over they went out onto the +pavement to take coffee in the open air. The throng +was much greater than it had been when they entered, +for people were continually arriving from the more distant +villages, and two trains had come in from Messina +and Catania. It was difficult to find a table. Indeed, +it might have been impossible had not Gaspare ruthlessly +dislodged a party of acquaintances who were comfortably +established around one in a prominent position.</p> + +<p>"I must have a table for my padrone," he said. "Go +along with you!"</p> + +<p>And they meekly went, smiling, and without ill-will—indeed, +almost as if they had received a compliment.</p> + +<p>"But, Gaspare," began Maurice, "I can't—"</p> + +<p>"Here is a chair for you, signorino. Take it quickly."</p> + +<p>"At any rate, let us offer them something."</p> + +<p>"Much better spare your soldi now, signorino, and +buy something at the auction. That clock plays the +'Tre Colori' just like a band."</p> + +<p>"Buy it. Here is some money."</p> + +<p>He thrust some notes into the boy's ready hand.</p> + +<p>"Grazie, signorino. Ecco la musica!"</p> + +<p>In the distance there rose the blare of a processional +march from "Aïda," and round the corner of the Via +di Polifemo came a throng of men and boys in dark +uniforms, with epaulets and cocked hats with flying +plumes, blowing with all their might into wind instruments +of enormous size.</p> + +<p>"That is the musica of the città, signore," explained +Amedeo. "Afterwards there will be the Musica Mascagni +and the Musica Leoncavallo."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mamma mia! And will they all play together?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore. They have quarrelled. At Pasqua we +had no music, and the archpriest was hooted by all in +the Piazza."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so. I think he had forbidden the Musica +Mascagni to play at Madre Lucia's funeral, and the +Musica Mascagni went to fight with the Musica della +città. To-day they will all play, because it is the festa +of the Santo Patrono, but even for him they will not +play together."</p> + +<p>The bandsmen had now taken their places upon a +wooden dais exactly opposite to the restaurant, and +were indulging in a military rendering of "Celeste Aïda," +which struck most of the Sicilians at the small tables +to a reverent silence. Maddalena's eyes had become +almost round with pleasure, Gaspare was singing the +air frankly with Amedeo, and even Salvatore seemed +soothed and humanized, as he sipped his coffee, puffed +at a thin cigar, and eyed the women who were slowly +sauntering up and down to show their finery. At the +windows of most of the neighboring houses appeared +parties of dignified gazers, important personages of the +town, who owned small balconies commanding the +piazza, and who now stepped forth upon these coigns +of vantage, and leaned upon the rails that they might +see and be seen by the less favored ones below. Amedeo +and Gaspare began to name these potentates. The +stout man with a gray mustache, white trousers, and a +plaid shawl over his shoulders was Signor Torloni, the +syndic of San Felice. The tall, angry-looking gentleman, +with bulging, black eyes and wrinkled cheeks, was +Signor Carata, the avvocato; and the lady in black and +a yellow shawl was his wife, who was the daughter of +the syndic. Close by was Signorina Maria Sacchetti, +the beauty of San Felice, already more than plump, but +with a good complexion, and hair so thick that it stood<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> +out from her satisfied face as if it were trained over a +trellis. She wore white, and long, thread gloves which +went above her elbows. Maddalena regarded her with +awe when Amedeo mentioned a rumor that she was +going to be "promised" to Dr. Marinelli, who was to +be seen at her side, wearing a Gibus hat and curling a +pair of gigantic black mustaches.</p> + +<p>Maurice listened to the music and the chatter which, +silenced by the arrival of the music, had now burst +forth again, with rather indifferent ears. He wanted to +get away somewhere and to be alone with Maddalena. +The day was passing on. Soon night would be falling. +The fair would be at an end. Then would come the +ride back, and then——But he did not care to look +forward into that future. He had not done so yet. +He would not do so now. It would be better, when the +time came, to rush upon it blindly. Preparation, forethought, +would only render him unnatural. And he +must seem natural, utterly natural, in his insincere surprise, +in his insincere regret.</p> + +<p>"Pay for the coffee, Gaspare," he said, giving the +boy some money. "Now I want to walk about and +see everything. Where are the donkeys?"</p> + +<p>He glanced at Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore," said Gaspare, "they are outside the +town in the watercourse that runs under the bridge—you +know, that broke down this spring where the line +is? They have only just finished mending it."</p> + +<p>"I remember your telling me."</p> + +<p>"And you were so glad the signora was travelling the +other way."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes."</p> + +<p>He spoke hastily. Salvatore was on his feet.</p> + +<p>"What hour have we?"</p> + +<p>Maurice looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Half-past two already! I say, Salvatore, you +mustn't forget the donkeys."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p> + +<p>Salvatore came close up to him.</p> + +<p>"Signore," he began, in a low voice, "what do you +wish me to do?"</p> + +<p>"Bid for a good donkey."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"For the best donkey they put up for sale."</p> + +<p>Salvatore began to look passionately eager.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. And if I get it?"</p> + +<p>"Come to me and I will give you the money to +pay."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. How high shall I go?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare was listening intently, with a hard face and +sullen eyes. His whole body seemed to be disapproving +what Maurice was doing. But he said nothing. Perhaps +he felt that to-day it would be useless to try to +govern the actions of his padrone.</p> + +<p>"How high? Well"—Maurice felt that, before Gaspare, +he must put a limit to his price, though he did not +care what it was—"say a hundred. Here, I'll give it +you now."</p> + +<p>He put his hand into his pocket and drew out his +portfolio.</p> + +<p>"There's the hundred."</p> + +<p>Salvatore took it eagerly, spread it over his hand, +stared at it, then folded it with fingers that seemed for +the moment almost delicate, and put it into the inside +pocket of his jacket. He meant to go presently and +show it to the fishermen of Catania, who had laughed +upon the steps of the church, and explain matters to +them a little. They thought him a fool. Well, he +would soon make them understand who was the fool.</p> + +<p>"Grazie, signore!"</p> + +<p>He said it through his teeth. Maurice turned to Gaspare. +He felt the boy's stern disapproval of what he +had done, and wanted, if possible, to make amends.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," he said, "here is a hundred lire for you. +I want you to go to the auction and to bid for anything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> +you think worth having. Buy something for your +mother and father, for the house, some nice things!"</p> + +<p>"Grazie, signore."</p> + +<p>He took the note, but without alacrity, and his face +was still lowering.</p> + +<p>"And you, signore?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Are you not coming with me to the auction? +It will be better for you to be there to choose the things."</p> + +<p>For an instant Maurice felt irritated. Was he never +to be allowed a moment alone with Maddalena?</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I'm no good at——" he began.</p> + +<p>Then he stopped. To-day he must be birbante—on +his guard. Once the auction was in full swing—so he +thought—Salvatore and Gaspare would be as they were +when they gambled beside the sea. They would forget +everything. It would be easy to escape. But till that +moment came he must be cautious.</p> + +<p>"Of course I'll come," he exclaimed, heartily. "But +you must do the bidding, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>The boy looked less sullen.</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino. I shall know best what the +things are worth. And Salvatore"—he glanced viciously +at the fisherman—"can go to the donkeys. I have +seen them. They are poor donkeys this year."</p> + +<p>Salvatore returned his vicious glance and said something +in dialect which Maurice did not understand. Gaspare's +face flushed, and he was about to burst into an +angry reply when Maurice touched his arm.</p> + +<p>"Come along, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>As they got up, he whispered:</p> + +<p>"Remember what I said about to-day!"</p> + +<p>"Macchè——"</p> + +<p>Maurice closed his fingers tightly on Gaspare's arm.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, you must remember! Afterwards what +you like, but not to-day. Andiamo!"</p> + +<p>They all got up. The Musica della città was now<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> +playing a violent jig, undoubtedly composed by Bellini, +who was considered almost as a child of San Felice, +having been born close by at Catania.</p> + +<p>"Where are the women in the wonderful blue dresses?" +Maurice asked, as they stepped into the road; "and the +ear-rings? I haven't seen them yet."</p> + +<p>"They will come towards evening, signorino," replied +Gaspare, "when it gets cool. They do not care +to be in the sun dressed like that. It might spoil their +things."</p> + +<p>Evidently the promenade of these proud beauties was +an important function.</p> + +<p>"We must not miss them," Maurice said to Maddalena.</p> + +<p>She looked conscious.</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"They will all be here this evening, signore," said +Amedeo, "for the giuochi di fuoco."</p> + +<p>"The giuochi di fuoco—they will be at the end?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. After the giuochi di fuoco it is all finished."</p> + +<p>Maurice stifled a sigh. "It is all finished," Amedeo had +said. But for him? For him there would be the ride +home up the mountain, the arrival upon the terrace +before the house of the priest. At what hour would he +be there? It would be very late, perhaps nearly at +dawn, in the cold, still, sad hour when vitality is at +its lowest. And Hermione? Would she be sleeping? +How would they meet? How would he——?</p> + +<p>"Andiamo! Andiamo!"</p> + +<p>He cried out almost angrily.</p> + +<p>"Which is the way?"</p> + +<p>"All the auctions are held outside the town, signore," +said Amedeo. "Follow me."</p> + +<p>Proudly he took the lead, glad to be useful and important +after the benefits that had been bestowed upon +him, and hoping secretly that perhaps the rich Inglese<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +would give him something to spend, too, since money +was so plentiful for donkeys and clocks.</p> + +<p>"They are in the fiume, near the sea and the railway +line."</p> + +<p>The railway line! When he heard that Maurice had +a moment's absurd sensation of reluctance, a desire to +hold back, such as comes to a man who is unexpectedly +asked to confront some danger. It seemed to him that +if he went to the watercourse he might be seen by Hermione +and Artois as they passed by on their way to +Marechiaro. But of course they were coming from Messina! +What a fool he was to-day! His recklessness +seemed to have deserted him just when he wanted it +most. To-day he was not himself. He was a coward. +What it was that made him a coward he did not tell +himself.</p> + +<p>"Then we can all go together," he said. "Salvatore +and all."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>Salvatore's voice was close at his ear, and he knew by +the sound of it that the fisherman was smiling.</p> + +<p>"We can all keep together, signore; then we shall be +more gay."</p> + +<p>They threaded their way through the throng. The +violent jig of Bellini died away gradually, till it was +faint in the distance. At the end of the narrow street +Maurice saw the large bulk of Etna. On this clear afternoon +it looked quite close, almost as if, when they got +out of the street, they would be at its very foot, and +would have to begin to climb. Maurice remembered his +wild longing to carry Maddalena off upon the sea, or to +some eyrie in the mountains, to be alone with her in +some savage place. Why not give all these people the +slip now—somehow—when the fun of the fair was at +its height, mount the donkeys and ride straight for the +huge mountain? There were caverns there and desolate +lava wastes; there were almost impenetrable beech<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> +forests. Sebastiano had told him tales of them, those +mighty forests that climbed up to green lawns looking +down upon the Lipari Isles. He thought of their silence +and their shadows, their beds made of the drifted leaves +of the autumn. There, would be no disturbance, no +clashing of wills and of interests, but calm and silence +and the time to love. He glanced at Maddalena. He +could hardly help imagining that she knew what he was +thinking of. Salvatore had dropped behind for a moment. +Maurice did not know it, but the fisherman had +caught sight of his comrades of Catania drinking in a +roadside wine-shop, and had stopped to show them the +note for a hundred francs, and to make them understand +the position of affairs between him and the forestiere. +Gaspare was talking eagerly to Amedeo about the things +that were likely to be put up for sale at the auction.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena," Maurice said to the girl, in a low voice, +"can you guess what I am thinking about?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"You see the mountain!"</p> + +<p>He pointed to the end of the little street.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"I am thinking that I should like to go there now +with you."</p> + +<p>"Ma, signorino—the fiera!"</p> + +<p>Her voice sounded plaintive with surprise and she +glanced at her pea-green skirt.</p> + +<p>"And this, signorino!"—she touched it carefully with +her slim fingers. "How could I go in this?"</p> + +<p>"When the fair is over, then, and you are in your +every-day gown, Maddalena, I should like to carry you +off to Etna."</p> + +<p>"They say there are briganti there."</p> + +<p>"Brigands—would you be afraid of them with me?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, signore. But what should we do there +on Etna far away from the sea and from Marechiaro?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We should"—he whispered in her ear, seizing this +chance almost angrily, almost defiantly, with the thought +of Salvatore in his mind—"we should love each other, +Maddalena. It is quiet in the beech forests on Etna. +No one would come to disturb us, and——"</p> + +<p>A chuckle close to his ear made him start. Salvatore's +hand was on his arm, and Salvatore's face, looking +wily and triumphant, was close to his.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare was wrong, there are splendid donkeys here. +I have been talking to some friends who have seen them."</p> + +<p>There was a tramp of heavy boots on the stones behind +them. The fishermen from Catania were coming +to see the fun. Salvatore was in glory. To get all and +give nothing was, in his opinion, to accomplish the legitimate +aim of a man's life. And his friends, those who +had dared to sneer and to whisper, and to imagine that +he was selling his daughter for money, now knew the +truth and were here to witness his ingenuity. Intoxicated +by his triumph, he began to show off his power +over the Inglese for the benefit of the tramplers behind. +He talked to Maurice with a loud familiarity, kept laying +his hand on Maurice's arm as they walked, and even called +him, with a half-jocose intonation, "compare." Maurice +sickened at his impertinence, but was obliged to endure +it with patience, and this act of patience brought to the +birth within him a sudden, fierce longing for revenge, a +longing to pay Salvatore out for his grossness, his greed, +his sly and leering affectation of playing the slave when +he was really indicating to his compatriots that he considered +himself the master. Again Maurice heard the call +of the Sicilian blood within him, but this time it did not +call him to the tarantella or to love. It called him to +strike a blow. But this blow could only be struck +through Maddalena, could only be struck if he were +traitor to Hermione. For a moment he saw everything +red. Again Salvatore called him "compare." Suddenly +Maurice could not bear it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't say that!" he said. "Don't call me that!"</p> + +<p>He had almost hissed the words out. Salvatore +started, and for an instant, as they walked side by side, +the two men looked at each other with eyes that told +the truth. Then Salvatore, without asking for any explanation +of Maurice's sudden outburst, said:</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signore, va bene! I thought for to-day +we were all compares. Scusi, scusi."</p> + +<p>There was a bitterness of irony in his voice. As he +finished he swept off his soft hat and then replaced it +more over his left ear than ever. Maurice knew at once +that he had done the unforgivable thing, that he had +stabbed a Sicilian's amour propre in the presence of witnesses +of his own blood. The fishermen from Catania +had heard. He knew it from Salvatore's manner, and +an odd sensation came to him that Salvatore had passed +sentence upon him. In silence, and mechanically, he +walked on to the end of the street. He felt like one +who, having done something swiftly, thoughtlessly, is +suddenly confronted with the irreparable, abruptly sees +the future spread out before him bathed in a flash of +crude light, the future transformed in a second by that +act of his as a landscape is transformed by an earthquake +or a calm sea by a hurricane.</p> + +<p>And when the watercourse came in sight, with its +crowd, its voices, and its multitude of beasts, he looked +at it dully for a moment, hardly realizing it.</p> + +<p>In Sicily the animal fairs are often held in the great +watercourses that stretch down from the foot of the +mountains to the sea, and that resemble huge highroads +in the making, roads upon which the stones have +been dumped ready for the steam-roller. In winter +there is sometimes a torrent of water rushing through +them, but in summer they are dry, and look like +wounds gashed in the thickly growing lemon and orange +groves. The trampling feet of beasts can do no harm +to the stones, and these watercourses in the summer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +season are of no use to anybody. They are, therefore, +often utilized at fair time. Cattle, donkeys, mules are +driven down to them in squadrons. Painted Sicilian +carts are ranged upon their banks, with sets of harness, +and the auctioneers, whose business it is to sell miscellaneous +articles, household furniture, stuffs, clocks, +ornaments, frequently descend into them, and mount +a heap of stones to gain command of their gaping audience +of contadini and the shrewder buyers from the +towns.</p> + +<p>The watercourse of San Felice was traversed at its +mouth by the railway line from Catania to Messina, +which crossed it on a long bridge supported by stone +pillars and buttresses, the bridge which, as Gaspare had +said, had recently collapsed and was now nearly built +up again. It was already in use, but the trains were +obliged to crawl over it at a snail's pace in order not to +shake the unfinished masonry, and men were stationed +at each end to signal to the driver whether he was to +stop or whether he might venture to go on. Beyond +the watercourse, upon the side opposite to the town of +San Felice, was a series of dense lemon groves, gained +by a sloping bank of bare, crumbling earth, on the top +of which, close to the line and exactly where it came +to the bridge, was a group of four old olive-trees with +gnarled, twisted trunks. These trees cast a patch of +pleasant shade, from which all the bustle of the fair was +visible, but at a distance, and as Maurice and his party +came out of the village on the opposite bank, he whispered +to Maddalena:</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore?"</p> + +<p>"Let's get away presently, you and I; let's go and +sit under those trees. I want to talk to you quietly."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore?"</p> + +<p>Her voice was lower even than his own.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signore! Ecco!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> + +<p>Salvatore was pointing to a crowd of donkeys.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>"What is it, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"That is the man who is going to sell the clock!"</p> + +<p>The boy's face was intent. His eyes were shining, +and his glum manner had vanished, under the influence +of a keen excitement. Maurice realized that very soon +he would be free. Once his friends were in the crowd of +buyers and sellers everything but the chance of a bargain +would be forgotten. His own blood quickened but +for a different reason.</p> + +<p>"What beautiful carts!" he said. "We have no such +carts in England!"</p> + +<p>"If you would like to buy a cart, signore——" began +Salvatore.</p> + +<p>But Gaspare interrupted with violence.</p> + +<p>"Macchè! What is the use of a cart to the signorino? +He is going away to England. How can he take a cart +with him in the train?"</p> + +<p>"He can leave the cart with me," said Salvatore, with +open impudence. "I can take care of it for the signore +as well as the donkey."</p> + +<p>"Macchè!" cried Gaspare, furiously.</p> + +<p>Maurice took him by the arm.</p> + +<p>"Help me down the bank! Come on!"</p> + +<p>He began to run, pulling Gaspare with him. When +they got to the bottom, he said:</p> + +<p>"It's all right, Gaspare. I'm not going to be such +a fool as to buy a cart. Now, then, which way are we +going?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, do you want to buy a very good donkey, a +very strong donkey, strong enough to carry three Germans +to the top of Etna? Come and see my donkey. +He is very cheap. I make a special price because the +signore is simpatico. All the English are simpatici. +Come this way, signore! Gaspare knows me. Gaspare +knows that I am not birbante."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino! Look at this clock! It plays +the 'Tre Colori.' It is worth twenty-five lire, but I will +make a special price for you because you love Sicily and +are like a Siciliano. Gaspare will tell you——"</p> + +<p>But Gaspare elbowed away his acquaintances roughly.</p> + +<p>"Let my padrone alone. He is not here to buy. He +is only here to see the fair. Come on, signorino! Do +not answer them. Do not take any notice. You must +not buy anything or you will be cheated. Let me make +the prices."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you make the prices. Per Bacco, how hot it +is!"</p> + +<p>Maurice pulled his hat down over his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena, you'll get a sunstroke!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh no, signore. I am accustomed to the sun."</p> + +<p>"But to-day it's terrific!"</p> + +<p>Indeed, the masses of stones in the watercourse seemed +to draw and to concentrate the sun-rays. The air was +alive with minute and dancing specks of light, and in +the distance, seen under the railway bridge, the sea +looked hot, a fiery blue that was surely sweating in the +glare of the afternoon. The crowd of donkeys, of cattle, +of pigs—there were many pigs on sale—looked both +dull and angry in the heat, and the swarms of Sicilians +who moved slowly about among them, examining them +critically, appraising their qualities and noting their defects, +perspired in their festa clothes, which were mostly +heavy and ill-adapted to summer-time. A small boy +passed by, bearing in his arms a struggling turkey. He +caught his foot in some stones, fell, bruised his forehead, +and burst out crying, while the indignant and terrified +bird broke away, leaving some feathers, and made off +violently towards Etna. There was a roar of laughter +from the people near. Some ran to catch the turkey, +others picked up the boy. Salvatore had stopped to +see this adventure, and was now at a little distance surrounded +by the Catanesi, who were evidently deter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>mined +to assist at his bidding for a donkey. The sight +of the note for a hundred lire had greatly increased their +respect for Salvatore, and with the Sicilian instinct to +go, and to stay, where money is, they now kept close +to their comrade, eying him almost with awe as one +in possession of a fortune. Maurice saw them presently +examining a group of donkeys. Salvatore, with an +autocratic air, and the wild gestures peculiar to him, +was evidently laying down the law as to what each animal +was worth. The fishermen stood by, listening attentively. +The fact of Salvatore's purchasing power +gave him the right to pronounce an opinion. He was in +glory. Maurice thanked Heaven for that. The man in +glory is often the forgetful man. Salvatore, he thought, +would not bother about his daughter and his banker +for a little while. But how to get rid of Gaspare and +Amedeo! It seemed to him that they would never +leave his side.</p> + +<p>There were many wooden stands covered with goods +for sale in the watercourse, with bales of stuff for suits +and dresses, with hats and caps, shirts, cravats, boots +and shoes, walking-sticks, shawls, household utensils, +crockery, everything the contadino needs and loves. +Gaspare, having money to lay out, considered it his +serious duty to examine everything that was to be +bought with slow minuteness. It did not matter +whether the goods were suited to a masculine taste or +not. He went into the mysteries of feminine attire +with almost as much assiduity as a mother displays +when buying a daughter's trousseau, and insisted upon +Maurice sharing his interest and caution. All sense of +humor, all boyish sprightliness vanished from him in +this important epoch of his life. The suspicion, the intensity +of the bargaining contadino came to the surface. +His usually bright face was quite altered. He looked +elderly, subtle, and almost Jewish as he slowly passed +from stall to stall, testing, weighing, measuring, appraising.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + +<p>It seemed to Maurice that this progress would never +end. Presently they reached a stand covered with +women's shawls and with aprons.</p> + +<p>"Shall I buy an apron for my mother, signorino?" +asked Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"Yes, certainly."</p> + +<p>Maurice did not know what else to say. The result of +his consent was terrible. For a full half-hour they +stood in the glaring sun, while Gaspare and Amedeo +solemnly tried on aprons over their suits in the midst +of a concourse of attentive contadini. In vain did Maurice +say: "That's a pretty one. I should take that one." +Some defect was always discoverable. The distant +mother's taste was evidently peculiar and not to be +easily suited, and Maurice, not being familiar with it, was +unable to combat such assertions of Gaspare as that +she objected to pink spots, or that she could never be +expected to put on an apron before the neighbors if the +stripes upon it were of different colors and there was no +stitching round the hem. For the first time since he was +in Sicily the heat began to affect him unpleasantly. +His head felt as if it were compressed in an iron band, +and the vision of Gaspare, eagerly bargaining, looking +Jewish, and revolving slowly in aprons of different colors, +shapes, and sizes, began to dance before his eyes. He +felt desperate, and suddenly resolved to be frank.</p> + +<p>"Macchè!" Gaspare was exclaiming, with indignant +gestures of protest to the elderly couple who were +in charge of the aprons; "it is not worth two soldi! +It is not fit to be thrown to the pigs, and you ask +me——"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"Two lire—Madonna! Sangue di San Pancrazio, they +ask me two lire! Macchè!" (He flung down the apron +passionately upon the stall.) "Go and find Lipari people +to buy your dirt; don't come to one from Marechiaro."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> + +<p>He took up another apron.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"One lira fifty? Madre mia, do you think I was born +in a grotto on Etna and have never——"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, listen to me!"</p> + +<p>"Scusi, signorino! I——"</p> + +<p>"I'm going over there to sit down in the shade for a +minute. After that wine I drank at dinner I'm a bit +sleepy."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Shall I come with you?"</p> + +<p>For once there was reluctance in his voice, and he +looked down at the blue-and-white apron he had on +with wistful eyes. It was a new joy to him to be bargaining +in the midst of an attentive throng of his compatriots.</p> + +<p>"No, no. You stay here and spend the money. Bid +for the clock when the auction comes on."</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore, but you must be here, too, then."</p> + +<p>"All right. Come and fetch me if you like. I shall +be over there under the trees."</p> + +<p>He waved his hand vaguely towards the lemon +groves.</p> + +<p>"Now, choose a good apron. Don't let them cheat +you."</p> + +<p>"Macchè!"</p> + +<p>The boy laughed loudly, and turned eagerly to the +stall again.</p> + +<p>"Come, Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>Maurice drew her quickly, anxiously, out of the crowd, +and they began to walk across the watercourse towards +the farther bank and the group of olive-trees. Salvatore +had forgotten them. So had Gaspare. Both father +and servant were taken by the fascination of the +fair. At last! But how late it must be! How many +hours had already fled away! Maurice scarcely dared to +look at his watch. He feared to see the time. While +they walked he said nothing to Maddalena, but when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +they reached the bank he took her arm and helped her +up it, and when they were at the top he drew a long +breath.</p> + +<p>"Are you tired, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Tired—yes, of all those people. Come and sit down, +Maddalena, under the olive-trees."</p> + +<p>He took her by the hand. Her hand was warm and +dry, pleasant to touch, to hold. As he felt it in his the +desire to strike at Salvatore revived within him. Salvatore +was laughing at him, was triumphing over him, +triumphing in the get-all and give-nothing policy which +he thought he was pursuing with such complete success. +Would it be very difficult to turn that success into +failure? Maurice wondered for a moment, then ceased to +wonder. Something in the touch of Maddalena's hand +told him that, if he chose, he could have his revenge +upon Salvatore, and he was assailed by a double temptation. +Both anger and love tempted him. If he +stooped to do evil he could gratify two of the strongest +desires in humanity, the desire to conquer in love and +the desire to triumph in hate. Salvatore thought him +such a fool, held him in such contempt! Something +within him was burning to-day as a cheek burns with +shame, something within him that was like the kernel +of him, like the soul of his manhood, which the fisherman +was sneering at. He did not say to himself strongly +that he did not care what such men thought of him. +He could not, for his nature was both reckless and sensitive. +He did care, as if he had been a Sicilian half +doubtful whether he dared to show his face in the piazza. +And he had another feeling, too, which had come to him +when Salvatore had answered his exclamation of irresistible +anger at being called "compare," the feeling that, +whether he sinned against the fisherman or not, the +fisherman meant to do him harm. The sensation might +be absurd, would have seemed to him probably absurd +in England. Here, in Sicily, it sprang up and he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +just to accept it, as a man accepts an instinct which +guides him, prompts him.</p> + +<p>Salvatore had turned down his thumb that day.</p> + +<p>Maurice was not afraid of him. Physically, he was +quite fearless. But this sensation of having been secretly +condemned made him feel hard, cruel, ready, perhaps, +to do a thing not natural to him, to sacrifice another +who had never done him wrong. At that moment it +seemed to him that it would be more manly to triumph +over Salvatore by a double betrayal than to "run +straight," conquer himself and let men not of his code +think of him as they would.</p> + +<p>Not of his code! But what was his code? Was it +that of England or that of Sicily? Which strain of +blood was governing him to-day? Which strain would +govern him finally? Artois would have had an interesting +specimen under his observant eyes had he been +at the fair of San Felice.</p> + +<p>Maddalena willingly obeyed Maurice's suggestion.</p> + +<p>"Get well into the shade," he said. "There's just +enough to hold us, if we sit close together. You don't +mind that, do you?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"Put your back against the trunk—there."</p> + +<p>He kept his hat off. Over the railway line from the +hot-looking sea there came a little breeze that just +moved his short hair and the feathers of gold about +Maddalena's brow. In the watercourse, but at some +distance, they saw the black crowd of men and women +and beasts swarming over the hot stones.</p> + +<p>"How can they?" Maurice muttered, as he looked +down.</p> + +<p>"Cosa?"</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking out loud. I meant how can they bargain +and bother hour after hour in all that sun!"</p> + +<p>"But, signorino, you would not have them pay too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +much!" she said, very seriously. "It is dreadful to +waste soldi."</p> + +<p>"I suppose—yes, of course it is. Oh, but there are +so many things worth more than soldi. Dio mio! Let's +forget all that!"</p> + +<p>He waved his hand towards the crowd, but he saw +that Maddalena was preoccupied. She glanced towards +the watercourse rather wistfully.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Maddalena? Ah, I know! The blue +dress and the ear-rings! Per Bacco!"</p> + +<p>"No, signore—no, signore!"</p> + +<p>She disclaimed quickly, reddening.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is. I had forgotten. But we can't go now. +Maddalena, we will buy them this evening. Directly +it gets cool we'll go, directly we've rested a little. But +don't think of them now. I've promised, and I always +keep a promise. Now, don't think of that any more!"</p> + +<p>He spoke with a sort of desperation. The fair seemed +to be his enemy, and he had thought that it would be +his friend. It was like a personage with a stronger +influence than his, an influence that could take away +that which he wished to retain, to fix upon himself.</p> + +<p>"No, signore," Maddalena said, meekly, but still +wistfully.</p> + +<p>"Do you care for a blue dress and a pair of ear-rings +more than you do for me?" cried Maurice, with sudden +roughness. "Are you like your father? Do you only +care for me for what you can get out of me? I believe +you do!"</p> + +<p>Maddalena looked startled, almost terrified, by his +outburst. Her lips trembled, but she gazed at him +steadily.</p> + +<p>"Non è vero."</p> + +<p>The words sounded almost stern.</p> + +<p>"I do—" he said. "I do want to be cared for a +little—just for myself."</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 236px;"> +<a href="images/gs06.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs06_th.jpg" width="236" height="400" +alt=""HE KEPT HIS HAND ON HERS AND HELD IT ON THE WARM +GROUND"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"HE KEPT HIS HAND ON HERS AND HELD IT ON THE WARM +GROUND"</span> +</p> + +<p>At that moment he had a sensation of loneliness like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> +that of an utterly unloved man. And yet at that moment +a great love was travelling to him—a love that +was complete and flawless. But he did not think of it. +He only thought that perhaps all this time he had been +deceived, that Maddalena, like her father, was merely +pleased to see him because he had money and could +spend it. He sickened.</p> + +<p>"Non è vero!" Maddalena repeated.</p> + +<p>Her lips still trembled. Maurice looked at her doubtfully, +yet with a sudden tenderness. Always when she +looked troubled, even for an instant, there came to him +the swift desire to protect her, to shield her.</p> + +<p>"But why should you care for me?" he said. "It +is better not. For I am going away, and probably you +will never see me again."</p> + +<p>Tears came into Maddalena's eyes. He did not know +whether they were summoned by his previous roughness +or his present pathos. He wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"Probably I shall never come back to Sicily again," +he said, with pressure.</p> + +<p>She said nothing.</p> + +<p>"It will be better not," he added. "Much better."</p> + +<p>Now he was speaking for himself.</p> + +<p>"There's something here, something that I love and +that's bad for me. I'm quite changed here. I'm like +another man."</p> + +<p>He saw a sort of childish surprise creeping into her face.</p> + +<p>"Why, signorino?" she murmured.</p> + +<p>He kept his hand on hers and held it on the warm +ground.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it is the sun," he said. "I lose my head +here, and I—lose my heart!"</p> + +<p>She still looked rather surprised, and again her ignorance +fascinated him. He thought that it was far more +attractive than any knowledge could have been.</p> + +<p>"I'm horribly happy here, but I oughtn't to be +happy."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, signorino? It is better to be happy."</p> + +<p>"Per Dio!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Now a deep desire to have his revenge upon Salvatore +came to him, but not at all because it would hurt +Salvatore. The cruelty had gone out of him. Maddalena's +eyes of a child had driven it away. He wanted +his revenge only because it would be an intense happiness +to him to have it. He wanted it because it would +satisfy an imperious desire of tender passion, not because +it would infuriate a man who hated him. He +forgot the father in the daughter.</p> + +<p>"Suppose I were quite poor, Maddalena!" he said.</p> + +<p>"But you are very rich, signorino."</p> + +<p>"But suppose I were poor, like Gaspare, for instance. +Suppose I were as I am, just the same, only a contadino, +or a fisherman, as your father is. And suppose—suppose"—he +hesitated—"suppose that I were not +married!"</p> + +<p>She said nothing. She was listening with deep but +still surprised attention.</p> + +<p>"Then I could—I could go to your father and ask +him——"</p> + +<p>He stopped.</p> + +<p>"What could you ask him, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Can't you guess?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"I might ask him to let me marry you. I should—if +it were like that—I should ask him to let me marry +you."</p> + +<p>"Davvero?"</p> + +<p>An expression of intense pleasure, and of something +more—of pride—had come into her face. She could +not divest herself imaginatively of her conception of +him as a rich forestiere, and she saw herself placed high +above "the other girls," turned into a lady.</p> + +<p>"Magari!" she murmured, drawing in her breath, +then breathing out.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You would be happy if I did that?"</p> + +<p>"Magari!" she said again.</p> + +<p>He did not know what the word meant, but he thought +it sounded like the most complete expression of satisfaction +he had ever heard.</p> + +<p>"I wish," he said, pressing her hand—"I wish I were +a Sicilian of Marechiaro."</p> + +<p>At this moment, while he was speaking, he heard in +the distance the shrill whistle of an engine. It ceased. +Then it rose again, piercing, prolonged, fierce surely with +inquiry. He put his hands to his ears.</p> + +<p>"How beastly that is!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>He hated it, not only for itself, but for the knowledge +it sharply recalled to his mind, the knowledge of exactly +what he was doing, and of the facts of his life, the +facts that the very near future held.</p> + +<p>"Why do they do that?" he added, with intense +irritation.</p> + +<p>"Because of the bridge, signorino. They want to +know if they can come upon the bridge. Look! There +is the man waving a flag. Now they can come. It is +the train from Palermo."</p> + +<p>"Palermo!" he said, sharply.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"But the train from Palermo comes the other way, +by Messina!"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But there are two, one by Messina +and one by Catania. Ecco!"</p> + +<p>From the lemon groves came the rattle of the approaching train.</p> + +<p>"But—but——"</p> + +<p>He caught at his watch, pulled it out.</p> + +<p>Five o'clock!</p> + +<p>He had taken his hand from Maddalena's, and now +he made a movement as if to get up. But he did not +get up. Instead, he pressed back against the olive-tree, +upon whose trunk he was leaning, as if he wished<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +to force himself into the gnarled wood of it. He had +an instinct to hide. The train came on very slowly. +During the two or three minutes that elapsed before it +was in his view Maurice lived very rapidly. He felt sure +that Hermione and Artois were in the train. Hermione +had said that they would arrive at Cattaro at five-thirty. +She had not said which way they were coming. +Maurice had assumed that they would come from Messina +because Hermione had gone away by that route. +It was a natural error. But now? If they were at the +carriage window! If they saw him! And surely they +must see him. The olive-trees were close to the line +and on a level with it. He could not get away. If he +got up he would be more easily seen. Hermione would +call out to him. If he pretended not to hear she might, +she probably would, get out of the train at the San +Felice station and come into the fair. She was impulsive. +It was just the sort of thing she might do. +She would do it. He was sure she would do it. He +looked at the watercourse hard. The crowd of people +was not very far off. He thought he detected the form +of Gaspare. Yes, it was Gaspare. He and Amedeo were +on the outskirts of the crowd near the railway bridge. +As he gazed, the train whistled once more, and he saw +Gaspare turn round and look towards the sea. He held +his breath.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signorino. Viene!"</p> + +<p>Maddalena touched his arm, kept her hand upon it. +She was deeply interested in this event, the traversing by +the train of the unfinished bridge. Maurice was thankful +for that. At least she did not notice his violent +perturbation.</p> + +<p>"Look, signorino! Look!"</p> + +<p>In despite of himself, Maurice obeyed her. He wanted +not to look, but he could not help looking. The engine, +still whistling, crept out from the embrace of the +lemon-trees, with the dingy line of carriages behind it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> +At most of the windows there were heads of people +looking out. Third class—he saw soldiers, contadini. +Second class—no one. Now the first-class carriages +were coming. They were close to him.</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>He had seen Hermione. She was standing up, with +her two hands resting on the door-frame and her head +and shoulders outside of the carriage. Maurice sat absolutely +still and stared at her, stared at her almost as +if she were a stranger passing by. She was looking +at the watercourse, at the crowd, eagerly. Her face, +much browner than when she had left Sicily, was alight +with excitement, with happiness. She was radiant. +Yet he thought she looked old, older at least than he +had remembered. Suddenly, as the train came very +slowly upon the bridge, she drew in to speak to some +one behind her, and he saw vaguely Artois, pale, with +a long beard. He was seated, and he, too, was gazing +out at the fair. He looked ill, but he, too, looked happy, +much happier than he had in London. He put up a thin +hand and stroked his beard, and Maurice saw wrinkles +coming round his eyes as he smiled at something Hermione +said to him. The train came to the middle of +the bridge and stopped.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" murmured Maddalena. "The man at the +other end has signalled!"</p> + +<p>Maurice looked again at the watercourse. Gaspare +was beyond the crowd now, and was staring at the train +with interest, like Maddalena. Would it never go on? +Maurice set his teeth and cursed it silently. And his +soul said; "Go on! Go on!" again and again. "Go on! +Go on!" Now Hermione was once more leaning out. +Surely she must see Gaspare. A man waved a flag. +The train jerked back, jangled, crept forward once +more, this time a little faster. In a moment they would +begone. Thank God! But what was Hermione doing? +She started. She leaned further forward, staring into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> +the watercourse. Maurice saw her face changing. A +look of intense surprise, of intense inquiry, came into it. +She took one hand swiftly from the door, put it behind +her—ah, she had a pair of opera-glasses at her +eyes now! The train went on faster. It was nearly +off the bridge. But she was waving her hand. She +was calling. She had seen Gaspare. And he? Maurice +saw him start forward as if to run to the bridge. But +the train was gone. The boy stopped, hesitated, then +dashed away across the stones.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Signorino!" repeated Maddalena. "Look at Gaspare! +Is he mad? Look! How he is running!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare reached the bank, darted up it, and disappeared +into the village.</p> + +<p>"Signorino, what is the matter?"</p> + +<p>Maddalena pulled his sleeve. She was looking almost +alarmed.</p> + +<p>"Matter? Nothing."</p> + +<p>Maurice got up. He could not remain still. It was +all over now. The fair was at an end for him. Gaspare +would reach the station before the train went on, would +explain matters. Hermione would get out. Already +Maurice seemed to see her coming down to the watercourse, +walking with her characteristic slow vigor. It +did not occur to him at first that Hermione might refuse +to leave Artois. Something in him knew that she was +coming. Fate had interfered now imperiously. Once +he had cheated fate. That was when he came to the +fair despite Hermione's letter. Now fate was going +to have her revenge upon him. He looked at Maddalena. +Was fate working for her, to protect her? +Would his loss be her gain? He did not know, for he +did not know what would have been the course of his +own conduct if fate had not interfered. He had been +trifling, letting the current take him. It might have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +taken him far, but—now Hermione was coming. It was +all over and the sun was still up, still shining upon the +sea.</p> + +<p>"Let us go into the fair. It is cooler now."</p> + +<p>He tried to speak lightly.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>Maddalena shook out her skirt and began to smile. +She was thinking of the blue dress and the ear-rings. +They went down into the watercourse.</p> + +<p>"Signorino, what can have been the matter with +Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know."</p> + +<p>"He was looking at the train."</p> + +<p>"Was he? Perhaps he saw a friend in it. Yes, that +must have been it. He saw a friend in the train."</p> + +<p>He stared across the watercourse towards the village, +seeking two figures, and he was conscious now of two +feelings that fought within him, of two desires: a desire +that Hermione should not come, and a desire that she +should come. He wanted, he even longed, to have his +evening with Maddalena. Yet he wanted Hermione to +get out of the train when Gaspare told her that he—Maurice—was +at San Felice. If she did not get out she +would be putting Artois before him. The pale face at +the window, the eyes that smiled when Hermione turned +familiarly round to speak, had stirred within him the +jealousy of which he had already been conscious more +than once. But now actual vision had made it fiercer. +The woman who had leaned out looking at the fair +belonged to him. He felt intensely that she was his +property. Maddalena spoke to him again, two or +three times. He did not hear her. He was seeing the +wrinkles that came round the eyes of Artois when he +smiled.</p> + +<p>"Where are we going, signorino? Are we going back +to the town?"</p> + +<p>Instinctively, Maurice was following in the direction<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +taken by Gaspare. He wanted to meet fate half-way, +to still, by action, the tumult of feeling within him.</p> + +<p>"Aren't the best things to be bought there?" he replied. +"By the church where all those booths are? +I think so."</p> + +<p>Maddalena began to walk a little faster. The moment +had come. Already she felt the blue dress rustling +about her limbs, the ear-rings swinging in her ears.</p> + +<p>Maurice did not try to hold her back. Nor did it occur +to him that it would be wise to meet Hermione without +Maddalena. He had done no actual wrong, and the +pale face of Artois had made him defiant. Hermione +came to him with her friend. He would come to her +with his. He did not think of Maddalena as a weapon +exactly, but he did feel as if, without her, he would be +at a disadvantage when he and Hermione met.</p> + +<p>They were in the first street now. People were beginning +to flow back from the watercourse towards the +centre of the fair. They walked in a crowd and could +not see far before them. But Maurice thought he would +know when Hermione was near him, that he would feel +her approach. The crowd went on slowly, retarding +them, but at last they were near to the church of Sant' +Onofrio and could hear the sound of music. The "Intermezzo" +from "Cavalleria Rusticana" was being +played by the Musica Mascagni. Suddenly, Maurice +started. He had felt a pull at his arm.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare was by his side, streaming with perspiration +and looking violently excited.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>He stopped, cast a swift look round. Gaspare was +alone.</p> + +<p>"Signorino"—the boy was breathing hard—"the signora"—he +gulped—"the signora has come back."</p> + +<p>The time had come for acting. Maurice feigned surprise.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The signora! What are you saying? The signora +is in Africa."</p> + +<p>"No, signore! She is here!"</p> + +<p>"Here in San Felice!"</p> + +<p>"No, signore! But she was in the train. I saw her +at the window. She waved her hand to me and called +out—when the train was on the bridge. I ran to the +station; I ran fast, but when I got there the train had +just gone. The signora has come back, and we are not +there to meet her!"</p> + +<p>His eyes were tragic. Evidently he felt that their +absence was a matter of immense importance, was a +catastrophe.</p> + +<p>"The signora here!" Maurice repeated, trying to make +his voice amazed. "But why did she not tell us? +Why did not she say that she was coming?"</p> + +<p>He looked at Gaspare, but only for an instant. He +felt afraid to meet his great, searching eyes.</p> + +<p>"Non lo so."</p> + +<p>Maddalena stood by in silence. The bright look of +anticipation had gone out of her face, and was replaced +by a confused and slightly anxious expression.</p> + +<p>"I can't understand it," Maurice said, heavily. "I +can't—was the signora alone, or did you see some one +with her?"</p> + +<p>"The sick signore? I did not see him. I saw only +the signora standing at the window, waving her hand—così!"</p> + +<p>He waved his hand.</p> + +<p>"Madonna!" Maurice said, mechanically.</p> + +<p>"What are we to do, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Do! What can we do? The train has gone!"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But shall I fetch the donkeys?"</p> + +<p>Maurice stole a glance at Maddalena. She was looking +frankly piteous.</p> + +<p>"Have you got the clock yet?" he asked Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"No, signore."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> + +<p>Gaspare began to look rather miserable, too.</p> + +<p>"It has not been put up. Perhaps they are putting +it up now."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," Maurice said, hastily, "we can't be back +to meet the signora now. Even if we went at once we +should be hours late—and the donkeys are tired, perhaps. +They will go slowly unless they have a proper +rest. It is a dreadful pity, but I think if the signora +knew she would wish us to stay now till the fair is over. +She would not wish to spoil your pleasure. Do you +think she would?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore. The signora always wishes people to +be happy."</p> + +<p>"Even if we went at once it would be night before +we got back."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"I think we had better stay—at any rate till the +auction is finished and we have had something to eat. +Then we will go."</p> + +<p>"Va bene."</p> + +<p>The boy sounded doubtful.</p> + +<p>"La povera signora!" he said. "How disappointed +she will be! She did want to speak to me. Her face +was all red; she was so excited when she saw me, and +her mouth was wide open like that!"</p> + +<p>He made a grimace, with earnest, heart-felt sincerity.</p> + +<p>"It cannot be helped. To-night we will explain +everything and make the signora quite happy. Look +here! Buy something for her. Buy her a present at +the auction!"</p> + +<p>"Signorino!" Gaspare cried. "I will give her the +clock that plays the 'Tre Colori'! Then she will be +happy again. Shall I?"</p> + +<p>"Si, si. And meet me in the market-place. Then +we will eat something and we will start for home."</p> + +<p>The boy darted away towards the watercourse. His +heart was light again. He had something to do for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +signora, something that would make her very happy. +Ah, when she heard the clock playing the "Tre Colori"! +Mamma mia!</p> + +<p>He tore towards the watercourse in an agony lest he +should be too late.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Night was falling over the fair. The blue dress and +the ear-rings had been chosen and paid for. The promenade +of the beauties in the famous inherited brocades +had taken place with éclat before the church of Sant' +Onofrio. Salvatore had acquired a donkey of strange +beauty and wondrous strength, and Gaspare had reappeared +in the piazza accompanied by Amedeo, both +laden with purchases and shining with excitement and +happiness. Gaspare's pockets were bulging, and he walked +carefully, carrying in his hands a tortured-looking parcel.</p> + +<p>"Dov'è il mio padrone?" he asked, as he and Amedeo +pushed through the dense throng. "Dov'è il mio padrone?"</p> + +<p>He spied Maurice and Maddalena sitting before the ristorante +listening to the performance of a small Neapolitan +boy with a cropped head, who was singing street +songs in a powerful bass voice, and occasionally doing +a few steps of a melancholy dance upon the pavement. +The crowd billowed round them. A little way off the +"Musica della città," surrounded by a circle of colored +lamps, was playing a selection from the "Puritani." +The strange ecclesiastical chant of the Roman ice +venders rose up against the music as if in protest. And +these three definite and fighting melodies—of the Neapolitan, +the band, and the ice venders—detached themselves +from a foundation of ceaseless sound, contributed +by the hundreds of Sicilians who swarmed about the +ancient church, infested the narrow side streets of the +village, looked down from the small balconies and the +windows of the houses, and gathered in mobs in the +wine-shops and the trattorie.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino! Look!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare had reached Maurice, and now stood by the +little table at which his padrone and Maddalena were +sitting, and placed the tortured parcel tenderly upon it.</p> + +<p>"Is that the clock?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare did not reply in words, but his brown fingers +deftly removed the string and paper and undressed his +treasure.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>The clock was revealed, a great circle of blue and +white standing upon short, brass legs, and ticking loudly,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Speranza mia, non piangere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E il marinar fedele,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vedrai tornar dall' Africa<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tra un anno queste vele——"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>bawled the little boy from Naples. Gaspare seized the +clock, turned a handle, lifted his hand in a reverent gesture +bespeaking attention; there was a faint whirr, and +then, sure enough, the tune of the "Tre Colori" was tinkled +blithely forth.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" repeated Gaspare, triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia!" murmured Maddalena, almost exhausted +with the magic of the fair.</p> + +<p>"It's wonderful!" said Maurice.</p> + +<p>He, too, was a little tired, but not in body.</p> + +<p>Gaspare wound the clock again, and again the tune +was trilled forth, competing sturdily with the giant +noises of the fair, a little voice that made itself audible +by its clearness and precision.</p> + +<p>"Ecco!" repeated Gaspare. "Will not the signora +be happy when she sees what I have brought her from +the fair?"</p> + +<p>He sighed from sheer delight in his possession and +the thought of his padrona's joy and wonder in it.</p> + +<p>"Mangiamo?" he added, descending from heavenly +delights to earthly necessities.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, it is getting late," said Maurice. "The fireworks +will soon be beginning, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Not till ten, signorino. I have asked. There will +be dancing first. But—are we going to stay?"</p> + +<p>Maurice hesitated, but only for a second.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "Even if we went now the signora +would be in bed and asleep long before we got home. +We will stay to the end, the very end."</p> + +<p>"Then we can say 'Good-morning' to the signora +when we get home," said Gaspare.</p> + +<p>He was quite happy now that he had this marvellous +present to take back with him. He felt that it would +make all things right, would sweep away all lingering disappointment +at their absence and the want of welcome.</p> + +<p>Salvatore did not appear at the meal. He had gone +off to stable his new purchase with the other donkeys, +and now, having got a further sum of money out of the +Inglese, was drinking and playing cards with the fishermen +of Catania. But he knew where his girl and Maurice +were, and that Gaspare and Amedeo were with them. +And he knew, too, that the Inglese's signora had come +back. He told the news to the fishermen.</p> + +<p>"To-night, when he gets home, his 'cristiana' will be +waiting for him. Per Dio! it is over for him now. We +shall see little more of him."</p> + +<p>"And get little more from him!" said one of the fishermen, +who was jealous of Salvatore's good-fortune.</p> + +<p>Salvatore laughed loudly. He had drunk a good +deal of wine and he had had a great deal of money +given to him.</p> + +<p>"I shall find another English fool, perhaps!" he said. +"Chi lo sa?"</p> + +<p>"And his cristiana?" asked another fisherman. +"What is she like?"</p> + +<p>"Like!" cried Salvatore, pouring out another glass +of wine and spitting on the discolored floor, over which +hens were running; "what is any cristiana like?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p> + +<p>And he repeated the contadino's proverb:</p> + +<p>"'La mugghieri è comu la gatta: si l'accarizzi, idda +ti gratta!'"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps the Inglese will get scratched to-night," +said the first fisherman.</p> + +<p>"I don't mind," rejoined Salvatore. "Get us a fresh +pack of cards, Fortunato. I'll pay for 'em."</p> + +<p>And he flung down a lira on the wine-stained table.</p> + +<p>Gaspare, now quite relieved in his mind, gave himself +up with all his heart to the enjoyment of the last +hours of the fair, and was unwearied in calling on his +padrone to do the same. When the evening meal was +over he led the party forth into the crowd that was +gathered about the music; he took them to the shooting-tent, +and made them try their luck at the little figures +which calmly presented grotesquely painted profiles to +the eager aim of the contadini; he made them eat ices +which they bought at the beflagged cart of the ecclesiastical +Romans, whose eternally chanting voices made +upon Maurice a sinister impression, suggesting to his mind—he +knew not why—the thought of death. Finally, +prompted by Amedeo, he drew Maurice into a room where +there was dancing.</p> + +<p>It was crowded with men and women, was rather +dark and very hot. In a corner there was a grinding +organ, whose handle was turned by a perspiring man +in a long, woollen cap. Beside him, hunched up on a +window-sill, was a shepherd boy who accompanied the +organ upon a flute of reed. Round the walls stood a +throng of gazers, and in the middle of the floor the +dancers performed vigorously, dancing now a polka, +now a waltz, now a mazurka, now an elaborate country dance +in which sixteen or twenty people took part, +now a tarantella, called by many of the contadini "La +Fasola." No sooner had they entered the room than +Gaspare gently but firmly placed his arm round his +padrone's waist, took his left hand and began to turn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> +him about in a slow waltz, while Amedeo followed the +example given with Maddalena. Round and round +they went among the other couples. The organ in the +corner ground out a wheezy tune. The reed-flute of +the shepherd boy twittered, as perhaps, long ago, on +the great mountain that looked down in the night +above the village, a similar flute twittered from the +woods to Empedocles climbing upward for the last time +towards the plume of smoke that floated from the volcano. +And then Amedeo and Gaspare danced together +and Maurice's arm was about the waist of Maddalena.</p> + +<p>It was the first time that he had danced with her, +and the mutual act seemed to him to increase their +intimacy, to carry them a step forward in this short +and curious friendship which was now, surely, very +close to its end. They did not speak as they danced. +Maddalena's face was very solemn, like the face of one +taking part in an important ceremonial. And Maurice, +too, felt serious, even sad. The darkness and heat of +the room, the melancholy with which all the tunes of +a grinding organ seem impregnated, the complicated +sounds from the fair outside, from which now and again +the voices of the Roman ice-venders detached themselves, +even the tapping of the heavy boots of the dancers +upon the floor of brick—all things in this hour moved +him to a certain dreariness of the spirit which was +touched with sentimentality. This fair day was coming +to an end. He felt as if everything were coming to +an end.</p> + +<p>Every dog has his day. The old saying came to his +mind. "Every dog has his day—and mine is over."</p> + +<p>He saw in the dimness of the room the face of Hermione +at the railway carriage window. It was the face +of one on the edge of some great beginning. But she +did not know. Hermione did not know.</p> + +<p>The dance was over. Another was formed, a country dance. +Again Maurice was Maddalena's partner. Then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> +came "La Fasola," in which Amedeo proudly showed +forth his well-known genius and Gaspare rivalled him. +But Maurice thought it was not like the tarantella upon +the terrace before the house of the priest. The brilliancy, +the gayety of that rapture in the sun were not +present here among farewells. A longing to be in the +open air under the stars came to him, and when at last +the grinding organ stopped he said to Gaspare:</p> + +<p>"I'm going outside. You'll find me there when +you've finished dancing."</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino. In a quarter of an hour the +fireworks will be beginning."</p> + +<p>"And then we must start off at once."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The organ struck up again and Amedeo took hold of +Gaspare by the waist.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena, come out with me."</p> + +<p>She followed him. She was tired. Festivals were +few in her life, and the many excitements of this long +day had told upon her, but her fatigue was the fatigue +of happiness. They sat down on a wooden bench set +against the outer wall of the house. No one else was +sitting there, but many people were passing to and fro, +and they could see the lamps round the "Musica Leoncavallo," +and hear it fighting and conquering the twitter +of the shepherd boy's flute and the weary wheezing +of the organ within the house. A great, looming darkness +rising towards the stars dominated the humming +village. Etna was watching over the last glories of the +fair.</p> + +<p>"Have you been happy to-day, Maddalena?" Maurice +asked.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, very happy. And you?"</p> + +<p>He did not answer.</p> + +<p>"It will all be very different to-morrow," he said.</p> + +<p>He was trying to realize to-morrow, but he could not.</p> + +<p>"We need not think of to-morrow," Maddalena said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p> + +<p>She arranged her skirt with her hands, and crossed +one foot over the other.</p> + +<p>"Do you always live for the day?" Maurice asked her.</p> + +<p>She did not understand him.</p> + +<p>"I do not want to think of to-morrow," she said. +"There will be no fair then."</p> + +<p>"And you would like always to be at the fair?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, always."</p> + +<p>There was a great conviction in her simple statement.</p> + +<p>"And you, signorino?"</p> + +<p>She was curious about him to-night.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what I should like," he said.</p> + +<p>He looked up at the great darkness of Etna, and +again a longing came to him to climb up, far up, into +those beech forests that looked towards the Isles of +Lipari. He wanted greater freedom. Even the fair +was prison.</p> + +<p>"But I think," he said, after a pause—"I think I +should like to carry you off, Maddalena, up there, far +up on Etna."</p> + +<p>He remembered his feeling when he had put his arms +round her in the dance. It had been like putting his +arms round ignorance that wanted to be knowledge. +Who would be Maddalena's teacher? Not he. And +yet he had almost intended to have his revenge upon +Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"Shall we go now?" he said. "Shall we go off to +Etna, Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>"Signorino!"</p> + +<p>She gave a little laugh.</p> + +<p>"We must go home after the fireworks."</p> + +<p>"Why should we? Why should we not take the +donkeys now? Gaspare is dancing. Your father is +playing cards. No one would notice. Shall we? Shall +we go now and get the donkeys, Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>But she replied:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A girl can only go like that with a man when she is +married."</p> + +<p>"That's not true," he said. "She can go like that +with a man she loves."</p> + +<p>"But then she is wicked, and the Madonna will not +hear her when she prays, signorino."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you do anything for a man you really +loved? Wouldn't you forget everything? Wouldn't you +forget even the Madonna?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him.</p> + +<p>"Non lo so."</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that he was answered.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you forget the Madonna for me?" he +whispered, leaning towards her.</p> + +<p>There was a loud report close to them, a whizzing +noise, a deep murmur from the crowd, and in the clear +sky above Etna the first rocket burst, showering down +a cataract of golden stars, which streamed towards the +earth, leaving trails of fire behind them.</p> + +<p>The sound of the grinding organ and of the shepherd +boy's flute ceased in the dancing-room, and the +crowd within rushed out into the market-place.</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino! Come with me! We cannot +see properly here! I know where to go. There +will be wheels of fire, and masses of flowers, and a picture +of the Regina Margherita. Presto! Presto!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare had hold of Maurice by the arm.</p> + +<p>"E' finito!" Maurice murmured.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that the last day of his wild youth +was at an end.</p> + +<p>"E' finito!" he repeated.</p> + +<p>But there was still an hour.</p> + +<p>And who can tell what an hour will bring forth?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2> + + +<p>It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Maurice +and Gaspare said good-bye to Maddalena and her father +on the road by Isola Bella. Salvatore had left the three +donkeys at Cattaro, and had come the rest of the way +on foot, while Maddalena rode Gaspare's beast.</p> + +<p>"The donkey you bought is for Maddalena," Maurice +had said to him.</p> + +<p>And the fisherman had burst into effusive thanks. +But already he had his eye on a possible customer in +Cattaro. As soon as the Inglese had gone back to his +own country the donkey would be resold at a good +price. What did a fisherman want with donkeys, and +how was an animal to be stabled on the Sirens' Isle? +As soon as the Inglese was gone, Salvatore meant to +put a fine sum of money into his pocket.</p> + +<p>"Addio, signorino!" he said, sweeping off his hat with +the wild, half-impudent gesture that was peculiar to +him. "I kiss your hand and I kiss the hand of your +signora."</p> + +<p>He bent down his head as if he were going to translate +the formal phrase into an action, but Maurice drew +back.</p> + +<p>"Addio, Salvatore," he said.</p> + +<p>His voice was low.</p> + +<p>"Addio, Maddalena!" he added.</p> + +<p>She murmured something in reply. Salvatore looked +keenly from one to the other.</p> + +<p>"Are you tired, Maddalena?" he asked, with a sort +of rough suspicion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Si," she answered.</p> + +<p>She followed him slowly across the railway line towards +the sea, while Maurice and Gaspare turned their +donkeys' heads towards the mountain.</p> + +<p>They rode upward in silence. Gaspare was sleepy. +His head nodded loosely as he rode, but his hands +never let go their careful hold of the clock. Round +about him his many purchases were carefully disposed, +fastened elaborately to the big saddle. The roses, +faded now, were still above his ears. Maurice rode behind. +He was not sleepy. He felt as if he would never +sleep again.</p> + +<p>As they drew nearer to the house of the priest, Gaspare +pulled himself together with an effort, half-turned +on his donkey, and looked round at his padrone.</p> + +<p>"Signorino!"</p> + +<p>"Si."</p> + +<p>"Do you think the signora will be asleep?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I suppose so."</p> + +<p>The boy looked wise.</p> + +<p>"I do not think so," he said, firmly.</p> + +<p>"What—at three o'clock in the morning!"</p> + +<p>"I think the signora will be on the terrace watching +for us."</p> + +<p>Maurice's lips twitched.</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?" he replied.</p> + +<p>He tried to speak carelessly, but where was his habitual +carelessness of spirit, his carelessness of a boy +now? He felt that he had lost it forever, lost it in that +last hour of the fair.</p> + +<p>"Signorino!"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Where were you and Maddalena when I was helping +with the fireworks?"</p> + +<p>"Close by."</p> + +<p>"Did you see them all? Did you see the Regina +Margherita?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Si."</p> + +<p>"I looked round for you, but I could not see you."</p> + +<p>"There was such a crowd and it was dark."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Then you were there, where I left you?"</p> + +<p>"We may have moved a little, but we were not far off."</p> + +<p>"I cannot think why I could not find you when the +fireworks were over."</p> + +<p>"It was the crowd. I thought it best to go to the +stable without searching for you. I knew you and Salvatore +would be there."</p> + +<p>The boy was silent for a moment. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"Salvatore was very angry when he saw me come into +the stable without you."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"He said I ought not to have left my padrone."</p> + +<p>"And what did you say?"</p> + +<p>"I told him I would not be spoken to by him. If you +had not come in just then I think there would have been +a baruffa. Salvatore is a bad man, and always ready +with his knife. And he had been drinking."</p> + +<p>"He was quiet enough coming home."</p> + +<p>"I do not like his being so quiet."</p> + +<p>"What does it matter?"</p> + +<p>Again there was a pause. Then Gaspare said:</p> + +<p>"Now that the signora has come back we shall not go +any more to the Casa delle Sirene, shall we?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't suppose we shall go any more."</p> + +<p>"It is better like that, signorino. It is much better +that we do not go."</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing.</p> + +<p>"We have been there too often," added Gaspare. "I +am glad the signora has come back. I am sorry she +ever went away."</p> + +<p>"It was not our fault that she went," Maurice said, in a +hard voice like that of a man trying to justify something, +to defend himself against some accusation. "We did +not want the signora to go."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>Gaspare's voice sounded almost apologetic. He was +a little startled by his padrone's tone.</p> + +<p>"It was a pity she went," he continued. "The poor +signora——"</p> + +<p>"Why is it such a pity?" Maurice interrupted, almost +roughly, almost suspiciously. "Why do you say 'the +poor signora'?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare stared at him with open surprise.</p> + +<p>"I only meant——"</p> + +<p>"The signora wished to go to Africa. She decided for +herself. There is no reason to call her the poor signora."</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>The boy's voice recalled Maurice to prudence.</p> + +<p>"It was very good of her to go," he said, more quietly. +"Perhaps she has saved the life of the sick signore by +going."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>Gaspare said no more, but as they rode up, drawing +ever nearer to the bare mountain-side and the house of +the priest, Maurice's heart reiterated the thought of the +boy. Why had Hermione ever gone? What a madness +it had all been, her going, his staying! He knew it now +for a madness, a madness of the summer, of the hot, the +burning south. In this terrible quiet of the mountains, +without the sun, without the laughter and the voices +and the movement of men, he understood that he had +been mad, that there had been something in him, not +all himself, which had run wild, despising restraint. +And he had known that it was running wild, and he had +thought to let it go just so far and no farther. He had +set a limit of time to his wildness and its deeds. And +he had set another limit. Surely he had. He had not +ever meant to go too far. And then, just when he had +said to himself "E' finito!" the irrevocable was at hand, +the moment of delirium in which all things that should +have been remembered were forgotten. What had led<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +him? What spirit of evil? Or had he been led at all? +Had not he rather deliberately forced his way to the +tragic goal whither, through all these sunlit days, these +starry nights, his feet had been tending?</p> + +<p>He looked upon himself as a man looks upon a stranger +whom he has seen commit a crime which he could never +have committed. Mentally he took himself into custody, +he tried, he condemned himself. In this hour of acute +reaction the cool justice of the Englishman judged the +passionate impulse of the Sicilian, even marvelled at it, +and the heart of the dancing Faun cried: "What am I—what +am I really?" and did not find the answer.</p> + +<p>"Signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"When we get to that rock we shall see the house."</p> + +<p>"I know."</p> + +<p>How eagerly he had looked upward to the little white +house on the mountain on that first day in Sicily, with +what joy of anticipation, with what an exquisite sense +of liberty and of peace! The drowsy wail of the "Pastorale" +had come floating down to him over the olive-trees +almost like a melody that stole from paradise. +But now he dreaded the turn of the path. He dreaded +to see the terrace wall, the snowy building it protected. +And he felt as if he were drawing near to a terror, and +as if he could not face it, did not know how to face it.</p> + +<p>"Signorino, there is no light! Look!"</p> + +<p>"The signora and Lucrezia must be asleep at this +hour."</p> + +<p>"If they are, what are we to do? Shall we wake +them?"</p> + +<p>"No, no."</p> + +<p>He spoke quickly, in hope of a respite.</p> + +<p>"We will wait—we will not disturb them."</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked down at the parcel he was holding +with such anxious care.</p> + +<p>"I would like to play the 'Tre Colori,'" he said. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> +would like the first thing the signora hears when she +wakes to be the 'Tre Colori.'"</p> + +<p>"Hush! We must be very quiet."</p> + +<p>The noise made on the path by the tripping feet of the +donkeys was almost intolerable to him. It must surely +wake the deepest sleeper. They were now on the last +ascent where the mountain-side was bare. Some stones +rattled downward, causing a sharp, continuous sound. +It was answered by another sound, which made both +Gaspare and Maurice draw rein and pull up.</p> + +<p>As on that first day in Sicily Maurice had been welcomed +by the "Pastorale," so he was welcomed by it now. +What an irony that was to him! For an instant his lips +curved in a bitter smile. But the smile died away as he +realized things, and a strange sadness took hold of his +heart. For it was not the ceramella that he heard in +this still hour, but a piano played softly, monotonously, +with a dreamy tenderness that made it surely one with +the tenderness of the deep night. And he knew that +Hermione had been watching, that she had heard him +coming, that this was her welcome, a welcome from the +depths of her pure, true heart. How much the music +told him! How clearly it spoke to him! And how its +caress flagellated his bare soul! Hermione had returned +expectant of welcome and had found nothing, and instead +of coming out upon the terrace, instead of showing +surprise, vexation, jealous curiosity, of assuming the +injured air that even a good woman can scarcely resist +displaying in a moment of acute disappointment, she +sent forth this delicate salutation to him from afar, the +sweetest that she knew, the one she herself loved best.</p> + +<p>Tears came into his eyes as he listened. Then he shut +his eyes and said to himself, shuddering:</p> + +<p>"Oh, you beast! You beast!"</p> + +<p>"It is the signora!" said Gaspare, turning round on +his donkey. "She does not know we are here, and she +is playing to keep herself awake."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked down at his clock, and his eyes began to +shine.</p> + +<p>"I am glad the signora is awake!" he said. "Signorino, +let us get off the donkeys and leave them at the arch, +and let us go in without any noise."</p> + +<p>"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," +Maurice said.</p> + +<p>Directly he had heard the music he had known that +Hermione was aware of their approach.</p> + +<p>"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she +would have come out to meet us. Let us leave the +donkeys!"</p> + +<p>He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed +his example.</p> + +<p>"Now, signore!"</p> + +<p>The boy took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe +to the terrace, making him crouch down close to the +open French window. The "Pastorale" was louder here. +It never ceased, but returned again and again with the +delicious monotony that made it memorable and wove +a spell round those who loved it. As he listened to it, +Maurice fancied he could hear the breathing of the player, +and he felt that she was listening, too, listening tensely +for footsteps on the terrace.</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked up at him with bright eyes. The +boy's whole face was alive with a gay and mischievous +happiness, as he turned the handle at the back of his +clock slowly, slowly, till at last it would turn no more. +Then there tinkled forth to join the "Pastorale" the clear, +trilling melody of the "Tre Colori."</p> + +<p>The music in the room ceased abruptly. There was a +rustling sound as the player moved. Then Hermione's +voice, with something trembling through it that was half +a sob, half a little burst of happy laughter, called out:</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, how dare you interrupt my concert?"</p> + +<p>"Signora! Signora!" cried Gaspare, and, springing +up, he darted into the sitting-room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Maurice, though he lifted himself up quickly, stood +where he was with his hand set hard against the wall of +the house. He heard Gaspare kiss Hermione's hand. +Then he heard her say:</p> + +<p>"But, but, Gaspare——"</p> + +<p>He took his hand from the wall with an effort. His +feet seemed glued to the ground, but at last he was in +the room.</p> + +<p>"Hermione!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!"</p> + +<p>He felt her strong hands, strong and yet soft like all +the woman, on his.</p> + +<p>"Cento di questi giorni!" she said. "Ah, but it is +better than all the birthdays in the world!"</p> + +<p>He wanted to kiss her—not to please her, but for himself +he wanted to kiss her—but he dared not. He felt +that if his lips were to touch hers—she must know. To +excuse his avoidance of the natural greeting he looked +at Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"I know!" she whispered. "You haven't forgotten!"</p> + +<p>She was alluding to that morning on the terrace when +he came up from the fishing. They loosed their hands. +Gaspare set the clock playing again.</p> + +<p>"What a beauty!" Hermione said, glad to hide her +emotion for a moment till she and Maurice could be +alone. "What a marvel! Where did you find it, Gaspare—at +the fair?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora!"</p> + +<p>Solemnly he handed it, still playing brightly, to his +padrona, just a little reluctantly, perhaps, but very gallantly.</p> + +<p>"It is for you, signora."</p> + +<p>"A present—oh, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>Again her voice was veiled. She put out her hand +and touched the boy's hand.</p> + +<p>"Grazie! How sweetly it plays! You thought of +me!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a silence till the tune was finished. Then +Maurice said:</p> + +<p>"Hermione, I don't know what to say. That we +should be at the fair the day you arrived! Why—why +didn't you tell me? Why didn't you write?"</p> + +<p>"You didn't know, then!"</p> + +<p>The words came very quickly, very eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Know! Didn't Lucrezia tell you that we had no +idea?"</p> + +<p>"Poor Lucrezia! She's in a dreadful condition. I +found her in the village."</p> + +<p>"No!" Maurice cried, thankful to turn the conversation +from himself, though only for an instant. "I specially +told her to stay here. I specially——"</p> + +<p>"Well, but, poor thing, as you weren't expecting me! +But I wrote, Maurice, I wrote a letter telling you everything, +the hour we were coming—"</p> + +<p>"It's Don Paolo!" exclaimed Gaspare, angrily. "He +hides away the letters. He lets them lie sometimes in +his office for months. To-morrow I will go and tell him +what I think; I will turn out every drawer."</p> + +<p>"It is too bad!" Maurice said.</p> + +<p>"Then you never had it?"</p> + +<p>"Hermione"—he stared at the open door—"you +think we should have gone to the fair if——"</p> + +<p>"No, no, I never thought so. I only wondered. It +all seemed so strange."</p> + +<p>"It is too horrible!" Maurice said, with heavy emphasis. +"And Artois—no rooms ready for him! What +can he have thought?"</p> + +<p>"As I did, that there had been a mistake. What +does it matter now? Just at the moment I was dreadfully—oh, +dreadfully disappointed. I saw Gaspare at the +fair. And you saw me, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora. I ran all the way to the station, but the +train had gone."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't see you, Maurice. Where were you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> + +<p>Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but Maurice did not +give him time.</p> + +<p>"I was there, too, in the fair."</p> + +<p>"But of course you weren't looking at the train?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not. And when Gaspare told me, it was +too late to do anything. We couldn't get back in time, +and the donkeys were tired, and so——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm glad you didn't hurry back. What good +would it have done then?"</p> + +<p>There was a touch of constraint in her voice.</p> + +<p>"You must have thought I should be in bed."</p> + +<p>"Yes, we did."</p> + +<p>"And so I ought to be now. I believe I am tremendously +tired, but—but I'm so tremendously something +else that I hardly know."</p> + +<p>The constraint had gone.</p> + +<p>"The signora is happy because she is back in my +country," Gaspare remarked, with pride and an air of +shrewdness.</p> + +<p>He nodded his head. The faded roses shook above +his ears. Hermione smiled at him.</p> + +<p>"He knows all about it," she said. "Well, if we are +ever to go to bed——"</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked from her to his padrone.</p> + +<p>"Buona notte, signora," he said, gravely. "Buona +notte, signorino. Buon riposo!"</p> + +<p>"Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to +hear that again. I do love the clock, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>The boy beamed at her and went reluctantly away to +find the donkeys. At that moment Maurice would have +given almost anything to keep him. He dreaded unspeakably +to be alone with Hermione. But it had to +be. He must face it. He must seem natural, happy.</p> + +<p>"Shall I put the clock down?" he asked.</p> + +<p>He went to her, took the clock, carried it to the +writing-table, and put it down.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare was so happy to bring it to you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> + +<p>He turned. He felt desperate. He came to Hermione +and put out his hands.</p> + +<p>"I feel so bad that we weren't here," he said.</p> + +<p>"That is it!"</p> + +<p>There was a sound of deep relief in her voice. Then +she had been puzzled by his demeanor! He must be +natural; but how? It seemed to him as if never in all +his life could he have felt innocent, careless, brave. +Now he was made of cowardice. He was like a dog +that crawls with its belly to the floor. He got hold of +Hermione's hands.</p> + +<p>"I feel—I feel horribly, horribly bad!"</p> + +<p>Speaking the absolute truth, his voice was absolutely +sincere, and he deceived her utterly.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said, "I believe it's upset you so much +that—that you are shy of me."</p> + +<p>She laughed happily.</p> + +<p>"Shy—of me!"</p> + +<p>He tried to laugh, too, and kissed her abruptly, awkwardly. +All his natural grace was gone from him. But +when he kissed her she did not know it; her lips clung +to his with a tender passion, a fealty that terrified him.</p> + +<p>"She must know!" he thought. "She must feel the +truth. My lips must tell it to her."</p> + +<p>And when at last they drew away from each other +his eyes asked her furiously a question, asked it of her +eyes.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>He said nothing. She dropped her eyes and reddened +slowly, till she looked much younger than usual, +strangely like a girl.</p> + +<p>"You haven't—you haven't——"</p> + +<p>There was a sound of reserve in her voice, and yet a +sound of triumph, too. She looked up at him again.</p> + +<p>"Do you guess that I have something to tell you?" +she said, slowly.</p> + +<p>"Something to tell me?" he repeated, dully.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span></p> + +<p>He was so intent on himself, on his own evil-doing, +that it seemed to him as if everything must have some +connection with it.</p> + +<p>"Ah," she said, quickly; "no, I see you weren't."</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asked, but without real interest.</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you now," she said.</p> + +<p>Gaspare went by the window leading the donkeys.</p> + +<p>"Buona notte, signora!"</p> + +<p>It was a very happy voice.</p> + +<p>"Buona notte, Gaspare. Sleep well."</p> + +<p>Maurice caught at the last words.</p> + +<p>"We must sleep," he said. "To-morrow we'll—we'll——"</p> + +<p>"Tell each other everything. Yes, to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>She put her arm through his.</p> + +<p>"Maurice, if you knew how I feel!"</p> + +<p>"Yes?" he said, trying to make his voice eager, +buoyant. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>"If you knew how I've been longing to be back! +And so often I've thought that I never should be here +with you again, just in the way we were!"</p> + +<p>He cleared his throat.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"It is so difficult to repeat a great, an intense happiness, +I think. But we will, we are repeating it, aren't +we?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"When I got to the station to-day, and—and you +weren't there, I had a dreadful foreboding. It was foolish. +The explanation of your not being there was so +simple. Of course I might have guessed it."</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"But in the first moment I felt as if you weren't there +because I had lost you forever, because you had been +taken away from me forever. It was such an intense +feeling that it frightened me—it frightened me horribly. +Put your arm round me, Maurice. Let me feel what +an idiot I have been!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> + +<p>He obeyed her and put his arm round her, and he felt +as if his arm must tell her what she had not learned +from his lips. And she thought that now he must +know the truth she had not told him.</p> + +<p>"Don't think of dreadful things," he said.</p> + +<p>"I won't any more. I don't think I could with you. +To me you always mean the sun, light, and life, and all +that is brave and beautiful!"</p> + +<p>He took his arm away from her.</p> + +<p>"Come, we must sleep, Hermione!" he said. "It's +nearly dawn. I can almost see the smoke on Etna."</p> + +<p>He shut the French window and drew the bolt.</p> + +<p>She had gone into the bedroom and was standing by +the dressing-table. She did not know why, but a great +shyness had come upon her. It was like a cloud enveloping +her. Never before had she felt like this with +Maurice, not even when they were first married. She +had loved him too utterly to be shy with him. Maurice +was still in the sitting-room, fastening the shutters of the +window. She heard the creak of wood, the clatter of +the iron bar falling into the fastener. Now he would +come.</p> + +<p>But he did not come. He was moving about in the +room. She heard papers rustling, then the lid of the +piano shut down. He was putting everything in order.</p> + +<p>This orderliness was so unusual in Maurice that it made +a disagreeable impression upon her. She began to feel +as if he did not want to come into the bedroom, as if +he were trying to put off the moment of coming. She +remembered that he had seemed shy of her. What had +come to them both to-night? Her instinct moved her +to break through this painful, this absurd constraint.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she called.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>His voice sounded odd to her, almost like the voice +of some other man, some stranger.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you coming?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes. Hermione."</p> + +<p>But still he did not come. After a moment, he said:</p> + +<p>"It's awfully hot to-night!"</p> + +<p>"After Africa it seems quite cool to me."</p> + +<p>"Does it? I've been—since you've been away I've +been sleeping nearly always out-of-doors on the terrace."</p> + +<p>Now he came to the doorway and stood there. He +looked at the white room, at Hermione. She had on +a white tea-gown. It seemed to him that everything +here was white, everything but his soul. He felt as if +he could not come into this room, could not sleep here +to-night, as if it would be a desecration. When he +stood in the doorway the painful shyness returned to +her.</p> + +<p>"Have you?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Do you—would you rather sleep there to-night?"</p> + +<p>She did not mean to say it. It was the last thing she +wished to say. Yet she said it. It seemed to her that +she was forced to say it.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's much cooler there."</p> + +<p>She was silent.</p> + +<p>"I could just put one or two rugs and cushions on +the seat by the wall," he said. "I shall sleep like a +top. I'm awfully tired!"</p> + +<p>"But—but the sun will soon be up, won't it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—then I can come in."</p> + +<p>"All right."</p> + +<p>"I'll take the rugs from the sitting-room. I say—how's +Artois?"</p> + +<p>"Much better, but he's still weak."</p> + +<p>"Poor chap!"</p> + +<p>"He'll ride up to-morrow on a donkey."</p> + +<p>"Good! I'm—I'm most awfully sorry about his +rooms."</p> + +<p>"What does it matter? I've made them quite nice +already. He's perfectly comfortable."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm glad. It's all—it's all been such a pity—about +to-day, I mean."</p> + +<p>"Don't let's think of it! Don't let's think of it any +more."</p> + +<p>A passionate sound had stolen into her voice. She +moved a step towards him. A sudden idea had come +to her, an idea that stirred within her a great happiness, +that made a flame of joy spring up in her heart.</p> + +<p>"Maurice, you—you——"</p> + +<p>"What is it?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"You aren't vexed at my staying away so long? +You aren't vexed at my bringing Emile back with +me?"</p> + +<p>"No, of course not," he said. "But—but I wish you +hadn't gone away."</p> + +<p>And then he disappeared into the sitting-room, collected +the rugs and cushions, opened the French window, +and went out upon the terrace. Presently he +called out:</p> + +<p>"I shall sleep as I am, Hermione, without undressing. +I'm awfully done. Good-night."</p> + +<p>"Good-night!" she called.</p> + +<p>There was a quiver in her voice. And yet that flame +of happiness had not quite died down. She said to herself:</p> + +<p>"He doesn't want me to know. He's too proud. But +he has been a little jealous, perhaps." She remembered +how Sicilian he was.</p> + +<p>"But I'll make him forget it all," she thought, eagerly. +"To-morrow—to-morrow it will be all right. He's +missed me, he's missed me!"</p> + +<p>That thought was very sweet to her. It seemed to +explain all things; this constraint of her husband, which +had reacted upon her, this action of his in preferring to +sleep outside—everything. He had always been like a +boy. He was like a boy now. He could not conceal +his feelings. He did not doubt her. She knew that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> +But he had been a little jealous about her friendship +for Emile.</p> + +<p>She undressed. When she was ready for bed she +hesitated a moment. Then she put a white shawl +round her shoulders and stole quickly out of the room. +She came upon the terrace. The stars were waning. +The gray of the dawn was in the sky towards the east. +Maurice, stretched upon the rugs, with his face turned +towards the terrace wall, was lying still. She went to +him, bent down, and kissed him.</p> + +<p>"I love you," she whispered—"oh, so much!"</p> + +<p>She did not wait, but went away at once. When she +was gone he put up his hand to his face. On his cheek +there was a tear.</p> + +<p>"God forgive me!" he said to himself. "God forgive +me!"</p> + +<p>His body was shaken by a sob.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2> + + +<p>When the sun came up over the rim of the sea Maurice +ceased from his pretence of sleep, raised himself on +his elbow, then sat upright and looked over the ravine to +the rocks of the Sirens' Isle. The name seemed to him +now a fatal name, and everything connected with his +sojourn in Sicily fatal. Surely there had been a malign +spirit at work. In this early morning hour his brain, +though unrefreshed by sleep, was almost unnaturally +clear, feverishly busy. Something had met him when +he first set foot in Sicily—so he thought now—had met +him with a fixed and evil purpose. And that purpose +had never been abandoned.</p> + +<p>Old superstitions, inherited perhaps from a long chain +of credulous Sicilian ancestors, were stirring in him. +He did not laugh at his idea, as a pure-blooded Englishman +would have laughed. He pondered it. He cherished +it.</p> + +<p>On his very first evening in Sicily the spirit had led +him to the wall, had directed his gaze to the far-off +light in the house of the sirens. He remembered how +strangely the little light had fascinated his eyes, and +his mind through his eyes, how he had asked what it +was, how, when Hermione had called him to come in +to sleep, he had turned upon the steps to gaze down on +it once more. Then he had not known why he gazed. +Now he knew. The spirit that had met him by the +sea in Sicily had whispered to him to look, and he had +obeyed because he could not do otherwise.</p> + +<p>He dwelt upon that thought, that he had obeyed be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span>cause +he had been obliged to obey. It was a palliative +to his mental misery and his hatred of himself. The +fatalism that is linked with superstition got hold upon +him and comforted him a little. He had not been a +free agent. He had had to do as he had done. Everything +had been arranged so that he might sin. The +night of the fishing had prepared the way for the night +of the fair. If Hermione had stayed—but of course +she had not stayed. The spirit that had kept him in +Sicily had sent her across the sea to Africa. In the +full flush of his hot-blooded youth, intoxicated by his +first knowledge of the sun and of love, he had been left +quite alone. Newly married, he had been abandoned +by his wife for a good, even perhaps a noble, reason. +Still, he had been abandoned—to himself and the keeping +of that spirit. Was it any wonder that he had +fallen? He strove to think that it was not. In the +night he had cowered before Hermione and had been +cruel with himself. Now, in the sunshine, he showed +fight. He strove to find excuses for himself. If he +did not find excuses he felt that he could not face the +day, face Hermione in sunlight.</p> + +<p>And now that the spirit had led him thus far, surely +its work was done, surely it would leave him alone. He +tried to believe that.</p> + +<p>Then he thought of Maddalena.</p> + +<p>She was there, down there where the rising sun +glittered on the sea. She surely was awake, as he was +awake. She was thinking, wondering—perhaps weeping.</p> + +<p>He got up. He could not look at the sea any more. +The name "House of the Sirens" suddenly seemed to +him a terrible misnomer, now that he thought of Maddalena +perhaps weeping by the sea.</p> + +<p>He had his revenge upon Salvatore, but at what a +cost!</p> + +<p>Salvatore! The fisherman's face rose up before him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> +If he ever knew! Maurice remembered his sensation that +already, before he had done the fisherman any wrong, +the fisherman had condemned him. Now there was a +reason for condemnation. He had no physical fear of +Salvatore. He was not a man to be physically afraid +of another man. But if Salvatore ever knew he might +tell. He might tell Hermione. That thought brought +with it to Maurice a cold as of winter. The malign spirit +might still have a purpose in connection with him, might +still be near him full of intention. He felt afraid of the +Sicily he had loved. He longed to leave it. He thought +of it as an isle of fear, where terrors walked in the midst +of the glory of the sunshine, where fatality lurked beside +the purple sea.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!"</p> + +<p>He started. Hermione was on the steps of the sitting-room.</p> + +<p>"You're not sleeping!" he said.</p> + +<p>He felt as if she had been there reading all his thoughts.</p> + +<p>"And you!" she answered.</p> + +<p>"The sun woke me."</p> + +<p>He lied instinctively. All his life with her would be +a lie now, could never be anything else—unless——</p> + +<p>He looked at her hard and long in the eyes for the +first time since they had met after her return. Suppose +he were to tell her, now, at once, in the stillness, the +wonderful innocence and clearness of the dawn! For +a moment he felt that it would be an exquisite relief, +a casting down of an intolerable burden. She had such +a splendid nature. She loved sincerity as she loved +God. To her it was the one great essential quality, +whose presence or absence made or marred the beauty +of a human soul. He knew that.</p> + +<p>"Why do you look at me like that?" she said, coming +down to him with the look of slow strength that was +always characteristic of her.</p> + +<p>He dropped his eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't know. How do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"As if you had something to tell me."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—perhaps I have," he answered.</p> + +<p>He was on the verge, the very verge of confession. +She put her arm through his. When she touched him +the impulse waned, but it did not die utterly away.</p> + +<p>"Tell it me," she said. "I love to hear everything +you tell me. I don't think you could ever tell me anything +that I should not understand."</p> + +<p>"Are you—are you sure?"</p> + +<p>"I think so."</p> + +<p>"But"—he suddenly remembered some words of +hers that, till then, he had forgotten—"but you had +something to tell me."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I want to hear it."</p> + +<p>He could not speak yet. Perhaps presently he would +be able to.</p> + +<p>"Let us go up to the top of the mountain," she answered. +"I feel as if we could see the whole island from +there. And up there we shall get all the wind of the +morning."</p> + +<p>They turned towards the steep, bare slope and +climbed it, while the sun rose higher, as if attending +them. At the summit there was a heap of stones.</p> + +<p>"Let us sit here," Hermione said. "We can see +everything from here, all the glories of the dawn."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He was so intensely preoccupied by the debate within +him that he did not remember that it was here, among +these stones where they were sitting, that he had hidden +the fragments of Hermione's letter from Africa telling +him of her return on the day of the fair.</p> + +<p>They sat down with their faces towards the sea. +The air up here was exquisitely cool. In the pellucid +clearness of dawn the coast-line looked enchanted, fairy-like +and full of delicate mystery. And its fading, in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> +far distance, was like a calling voice. Behind them the +ranges of mountains held a few filmy white clouds, like +laces, about their rugged peaks. The sea was a pale +blue stillness, shot with soft grays and mauves and +pinks, and dotted here and there with black specks that +were the boats of fishermen.</p> + +<p>Hermione sat with her hands clasped round her knees. +Her face, browned by the African sun, was intense with +feeling.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, at last, "I can tell you here."</p> + +<p>She looked at the sea, the coast-line, then turned her +head and gazed at the mountains.</p> + +<p>"We looked at them together," she continued—"that +last evening before I went away. Do you remember, +Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"From the arch. It is better up here. Always, +when I am very happy or very sad, my instinct would +be to seek a mountain-top. The sight of great spaces +seen from a height teaches one, I think."</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"Not to be an egoist in one's joy; not to be a craven +in one's sorrow. You see, a great view suggests the +world, the vastness of things, the multiplicity of life. +I think that must be it. And of course it reminds one, +too, that one will soon be going away."</p> + +<p>"Going away?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. 'The mountains will endure'—but we—!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you mean death."</p> + +<p>"Yes. What is it makes one think most of death +when—when life, new life, is very near?"</p> + +<p>She had been gazing at the mountains and the sea, +but now she turned and looked into his face.</p> + +<p>"Don't you understand what I have to tell you?" +she asked.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. He was still wondering whether +he would dare to tell her of his sin. And he did not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> +know. At one moment he thought that he could do +it, at another that he would rather throw himself over +the precipice of the mountain than do it.</p> + +<p>"I don't understand it at all."</p> + +<p>There was a lack of interest in his voice, but she did +not notice it. She was full of the wonder of the morning, +the wonder of being again with him, and the wonder +of what she had to tell him.</p> + +<p>"Maurice"—she put her hand on his—"the night I was +crossing the sea to Africa I knew. All these days I have +kept this secret from you because I could not write it. +It seemed to me too sacred. I felt I must be with you +when I told it. That night upon the sea I was very +sad. I could not sleep. I was on deck looking always +back, towards Sicily and you. And just when the +dawn was coming I—I knew that a child was coming, +too, a child of mine and yours."</p> + +<p>She was silent. Her hand pressed his, and now she +was again looking towards the sea. And it seemed to +him that her face was new, that it was already the face +of a mother.</p> + +<p>He said nothing and he did not move. He looked +down at the heap of stones by which they were sitting, +and his eyes rested on a piece of paper covered with +writing. It was a fragment of Hermione's letter to him. +As he saw it something sharp and cold like a weapon +made of ice, seemed to be plunged into him. He got +up, pulling hard at her hand. She obeyed his hand.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" she said, as they stood together. "You +look——"</p> + +<p>He had become pale. He knew it.</p> + +<p>"Hermione!" he said.</p> + +<p>He was actually panting as if he had been running. +He moved a few steps towards the edge of the summit. +She followed him.</p> + +<p>"You are angry that I didn't tell you! But—I +wanted to say it. I wanted to—to——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span></p> + +<p>She lifted his hands to her lips.</p> + +<p>"Thank you for giving me a child," she said.</p> + +<p>Then tears came into his eyes and ran down over his +cheeks. That he should be thanked by her—that +scourged the genuine good in him till surely blood started +under the strokes.</p> + +<p>"Don't thank me!" he said. "Don't do that! I +won't have it!"</p> + +<p>His voice sounded angry.</p> + +<p>"I won't ever let you thank me for anything," he +went on. "You must understand that."</p> + +<p>He was on the edge of some violent, some almost +hysterical outburst. He thought of Gaspare casting +himself down in the boat that morning when he had +feared that his padrone was drowned. So he longed to +cast himself down and cry. But he had the strength +to check his impulse. Only, the checking of it seemed +to turn him for a moment into something made not of +flesh and blood but of iron. And this thing of iron was +voiceless.</p> + +<p>She knew that he was feeling intensely and respected +his silence. But at last it began almost to frighten her. +The boyish look she loved had gone out of his face. A +stern man stood beside her, a man she had never seen +before.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said, at length. "What is it? I think +you are suffering."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said.</p> + +<p>"But—but aren't you glad? Surely you are glad?"</p> + +<p>To her the word seemed mean, poverty-stricken. She +changed it.</p> + +<p>"Surely you are thankful?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he answered, at last. "I am thinking +that I don't know that I am worthy to be a father."</p> + +<p>He himself had fixed a limit. Now, God was putting +a period to his wild youth. And the heart—was that +changed within him?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span></p> + +<p>Too much was happening. The cup was being filled +too full. A great longing came to him to get away, far +away, and be alone. If it had been any other day he +would have gone off into the mountains, by himself, +have stayed out till night came, have walked, climbed, +till he was exhausted. But to-day he could not do that. +And soon Artois would be coming. He felt as if something +must snap in brain or heart.</p> + +<p>And he had not slept. How he wished that he could +sleep for a little while and forget everything. In sleep +one knows nothing. He longed to be able to sleep.</p> + +<p>"I understand that," she said. "But you are worthy, +my dear one."</p> + +<p>When she said that he knew that he could never tell +her.</p> + +<p>"I must try," he muttered. "I'll try—from to-day."</p> + +<p>She did not talk to him any more. Her instinct told +her not to. Almost directly they were walking down +to the priest's house. She did not know which of them +had moved first.</p> + +<p>When they got there they found Lucrezia up. Her +eyes were red, but she smiled at Hermione. Then she +looked at the padrone with alarm. She expected him +to blame her for having disobeyed his orders of the day +before. But he had forgotten all about that.</p> + +<p>"Get breakfast, Lucrezia," Hermione said. "We'll +have it on the terrace. And presently we must have a +talk. The sick signore is coming up to-day for collazione. +We must have a very nice collazione, but +something wholesome."</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia went away to the kitchen thankfully. She +had heard bad news of Sebastiano yesterday in the +village. He was openly in love with the girl in the +Lipari Isles. Her heart was almost breaking, but the +return of the padrona comforted her a little. Now she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> +had some one to whom she could tell her trouble, some +one who would sympathize.</p> + +<p>"I'll go and take a bath, Hermione," Maurice said.</p> + +<p>And he, too, disappeared.</p> + +<p>Hermione went to talk to Gaspare and tell him what +to get in Marechiaro.</p> + +<p>When breakfast was ready Maurice came back looking +less pale, but still unboyish. All the bright sparkle to +which Hermione was accustomed had gone out of him. +She wondered why. She had expected the change in +him to be a passing thing, but it persisted.</p> + +<p>At breakfast it was obviously difficult for him to talk. +She sought a reason for his strangeness. Presently she +thought again of Artois. Could he be the reason? Or +was Maurice now merely preoccupied by that great, +new knowledge that there would soon be a third life +mingled with theirs? She wondered exactly what he +felt about that. He was really such a boy at heart despite +his set face of to-day. Perhaps he dreaded the +idea of responsibility. His agitation upon the mountain-top +had been intense. Perhaps he was rendered +unhappy by the thought of fatherhood. Or was it +Emile?</p> + +<p>When breakfast was over, and he was smoking, she +said to him:</p> + +<p>"Maurice, I want to ask you something."</p> + +<p>A startled look came into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"What?" he said, quickly.</p> + +<p>He threw his cigarette away and turned towards her, +with a sort of tenseness that suggested to her a man +bracing himself for some ordeal.</p> + +<p>"Only about Emile."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" he said.</p> + +<p>He took another cigarette, and his attitude at once +looked easier. She wondered why.</p> + +<p>"You don't mind about Emile being here, do you?"</p> + +<p>Maurice was nearly answering quickly that he was de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span>lighted +to welcome him. But a suddenly born shrewdness +prevented him. To-day, like a guilty man, he was +painfully conscious, painfully alert. He knew that +Hermione was wondering about him, and realized that +her question afforded him an opportunity to be deceptive +and yet to seem quite natural and truthful. He could +not be as he had been, to-day. The effort was far too +difficult for him. Hermione's question showed him a +plausible excuse for his peculiarity of demeanor and +conduct. He seized it.</p> + +<p>"I think it was very natural for you to bring him," he +answered.</p> + +<p>He lit the cigarette. His hand was trembling slightly.</p> + +<p>"But—but you had rather I hadn't brought him?"</p> + +<p>As Maurice began to act a part an old feeling returned +to him, and almost turned his lie into truth.</p> + +<p>"You could hardly expect me to wish to have Artois +with us here, could you, Hermione?" he said, slowly.</p> + +<p>She scarcely knew whether she were most pained or +pleased. She was pained that anything she had done +had clouded his happiness, but she was intensely glad +to think he loved to be quite alone with her.</p> + +<p>"No, I felt that. But I felt, too, as if it would be cruel +to stop short, unworthy in us."</p> + +<p>"In us?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. You let me go to Africa. You might have +asked me, you might even have told me, not to go. I +did not think of it at the time. Everything went so +quickly. But I have thought of it since. And, knowing +that, realizing it, I feel that you had your part, a +great part, in Emile's rescue. For I do believe, Maurice, +that if I had not gone he would have died."</p> + +<p>"Then I am glad you went."</p> + +<p>He spoke perfunctorily, almost formally. Hermione +felt chilled.</p> + +<p>"It seemed to me that, having begun to do a good +work, it would be finer, stronger, to carry it quite through,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> +to put aside our own desires and think of another who +had passed through a great ordeal. Was I wrong, Maurice? +Emile is still very weak, very dependent. Ought +I to have said, 'Now I see you're not going to die, I'll +leave you at once.' Wouldn't it have been rather selfish, +even rather brutal?"</p> + +<p>His reply startled her.</p> + +<p>"Have you—have you ever thought of where we are?" +he said.</p> + +<p>"Where we are!"</p> + +<p>"Of the people we are living among?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I understand."</p> + +<p>He cleared his throat.</p> + +<p>"They're Sicilians. They don't see things as the +English do," he said.</p> + +<p>There was a silence. Hermione felt a heat rush over +her, over all her body and face. She did not speak, +because, if she had, she might have said something +vehement, even headstrong, such as she had never said, +surely never would say, to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"Of course I understand. It's not that," he added.</p> + +<p>"No, it couldn't be that," she said. "You needn't +tell me."</p> + +<p>The hot feeling stayed with her. She tried to control +it.</p> + +<p>"You surely can't mind what ignorant people out +here think of an utterly innocent action!" she said, at +last, very quietly.</p> + +<p>But even as she spoke she remembered the Sicilian +blood in him.</p> + +<p>"You have minded it!" she said. "You do mind +now."</p> + +<p>And suddenly she felt very tender over him, as she +might have felt over a child. In his face she could not +see the boy to-day, but his words set the boy, the inmost +nature of the boy that he still surely was, before +her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span></p> + +<p>The sense of humor in her seemed to be laughing and +wiping away a tear at the same time.</p> + +<p>She moved her chair close to his.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," she said. "Do you know that sometimes +you make me feel horribly old and motherly?"</p> + +<p>"Do I?" he said.</p> + +<p>"You do to-day, and yet—do you know that I have +been thinking since I came back that you are looking +older, much older than when I went away?"</p> + +<p>"Is that Artois?" he said, looking over the wall to +the mountain-side beyond the ravine.</p> + +<p>Hermione got up, leaned upon the wall, and followed +his eyes.</p> + +<p>"I think it must be. I told Gaspare to go to the +hotel when he fetched the provisions in Marechiaro and +tell Emile it would be best to come up in the cool. +Yes, it is he, and Gaspare is with him! Maurice, you +don't mind so very much?"</p> + +<p>She put her arm through his.</p> + +<p>"These people can't talk when they see how ill he +looks. And if they do—oh, Maurice, what does it matter? +Surely there's only one thing in the world that +matters, and that is whether one can look one's own +conscience in the face and say, 'I've nothing to be +ashamed of!'"</p> + +<p>Maurice longed to get away from the touch of her arm. +He remembered the fragment of paper he had seen +among the stones on the mountain-side. He must go +up there alone directly he had a moment of freedom. +But now—Artois! He stared at the distant donkeys. +His brain felt dry and shrivelled, his body both feverish +and tired. How could he support this long day's +necessities? It seemed to him that he had not the +strength and resolution to endure them. And Artois was +so brilliant! Maurice thought of him at that moment +as a sort of monster of intellectuality, terrifying and repellent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't you think so?" Hermione said.</p> + +<p>"I dare say," he answered. "But I dare say, I suppose—very +few of us can do that. We can't expect to +be perfect, and other people oughtn't to expect it of us."</p> + +<p>His voice had changed. Before, it had been almost +an accusing voice and insincere. Now it was surely a +voice that pleaded, and it was absolutely sincere. Hermione +remembered how in London long ago the humility +of Maurice had touched her. He had stood out from +the mass of conceited men because of his beauty and his +simple readiness to sit at the feet of others. And surely +the simplicity, the humility, still persisted beautifully +in him.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I should ever expect anything of you +that you wouldn't give me," she said to him. "Anything +of loyalty, of straightness, or of manhood. Often +you seem to me a boy, and yet, I know, if a danger +came to me, or a trouble, I could lean on you and you +would never fail me. That's what a woman loves to +feel when she has given herself to a man, that he knows +how to take care of her, and that he cares to take care +of her."</p> + +<p>Her body was touching his. He felt himself stiffen. +The mental pain he suffered under the lash of her words +affected his body, and his knowledge of the necessity +to hide all that was in his mind caused his body to long +for isolation, to shrink from any contact with another.</p> + +<p>"I hope," he said, trying to make his voice natural +and simple——"I hope you'll never be in trouble or in +danger, Hermione."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I could mind very much if you were +there, if I could just touch your hand."</p> + +<p>"Here they come!" he said. "I hope Artois isn't +very tired with the ride. We ought to have had Sebastiano +here to play the 'Pastorale' for him."</p> + +<p>"Ah! Sebastiano!" said Hermione. "He's playing +it for some one else in the Lipari Islands. Poor Lu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>crezia! +Maurice, I love Sicily and all things Sicilian. You +know how much! But—but I'm glad you've got some +drops of English blood in your veins. I'm glad you +aren't all Sicilian."</p> + +<p>"Come," he said. "Let us go to the arch and meet +him."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2> + + +<p>"So this is your Garden of Paradise?" Artois said.</p> + +<p>He got off his donkey slowly at the archway, and +stood for a moment, after shaking them both by the +hand, looking at the narrow terrace, bathed in sunshine +despite the shelter of the awning, at the columns, +at the towering rocks which dominated the grove of +oak-trees, and at the low, white-walled cottage.</p> + +<p>"The garden from which you came to save my life," +he added.</p> + +<p>He turned to Maurice.</p> + +<p>"I am grateful and I am ashamed," he said. "I was +not your friend, monsieur, but you have treated me +with more than friendship. I thank you in words now, +but my hope is that some day I shall be given the opportunity +to thank you with an act."</p> + +<p>He held out his hand again to Maurice. There had been +a certain formality in his speech, but there was a warmth +in his manner that was not formal. As Maurice held his +hand the eyes of the two men met, and each took swift +note of the change in the other.</p> + +<p>Artois's appearance was softened by his illness. In +health he looked authoritative, leonine, very sure of himself, +piercingly observant, sometimes melancholy, but +not anxious. His manner, never blustering or offensive, +was usually dominating, the manner of one who had +the right to rule in the things of the intellect. Now he +seemed much gentler, less intellectual, more emotional. +One received, at a first meeting with him, the sensation +rather of coming into contact with a man of heart than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> +with a man of brains. Maurice felt the change at once, +and was surprised by it. Outwardly the novelist was +greatly altered. His tall frame was shrunken and +slightly bent. The face was pale and drawn, the eyes +were sunken, the large-boned body was frightfully thin +and looked uncertain when it moved. As Maurice gazed +he realized that this man had been to the door of death, +almost over the threshold of the door.</p> + +<p>And Artois? He saw a change in the Mercury whom +he had last seen at the door of the London restaurant, +a change that startled him.</p> + +<p>"Come into our Garden of Paradise and rest," said +Hermione. "Lean on my arm, Emile."</p> + +<p>"May I?" Artois asked of Maurice, with a faint smile +that was almost pathetic.</p> + +<p>"Please do. You must be tired!"</p> + +<p>Hermione and Artois walked slowly forward to the +terrace, arm linked in arm. Maurice was about to follow +them when he felt a hand catch hold of him, a hand +that was hot and imperative.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! What is it?"</p> + +<p>"Signorino, signorino, I must speak to you!"</p> + +<p>Startled, Maurice looked into the boy's flushed face. +The great eyes searched him fiercely.</p> + +<p>"Put the donkeys in the stable," Maurice said. "I'll +come."</p> + +<p>"Come behind the house, signorino. Ah, Madonna!"</p> + +<p>The last exclamation was breathed out with an intensity +that was like the intensity of despair. The +boy's look and manner were tragic.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," Maurice said, "what——?"</p> + +<p>He saw Hermione turning towards him.</p> + +<p>"I'll come in a minute, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"Madonna!" repeated the boy. "Madonna!"</p> + +<p>He held up his hands and let them drop to his sides. +Then he muttered something—a long sentence—in dialect. +His voice sounded like a miserable old man's.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah—ah!"</p> + +<p>He called to the donkeys and drove them forward to +the out-house. Maurice followed.</p> + +<p>What had happened? Gaspare had the manner, the +look, of one confronted by a terror from which there was +no escape. His eyes had surely at the same time rebuked +and furiously pitied his master. What did they +mean?</p> + +<p>"This is our Garden of Paradise!" Hermione was saying +as Maurice came up to her and Artois. "Do you +wonder that we love it?"</p> + +<p>"I wonder that you left it." Artois replied.</p> + +<p>He was sunk in a deep straw chair, a chaise longue +piled up with cushions, facing the great and radiant +view. After he had spoken he sighed.</p> + +<p>"I don't think," he said, "that either of you really +know that this is Eden. That knowledge has been reserved +for the interloper, for me."</p> + +<p>Hermione sat down close to him. Maurice was standing +by the wall, listening furtively to the noises from the +out-house, where Gaspare was unsaddling the donkeys. +Artois glanced at him, and was more sharply conscious +of change in him. To Artois this place, after the long +journey, which had sorely tried his feeble body, seemed +an enchanted place of peace, a veritable Elysian Field +in which the saddest, the most driven man must surely +forget his pain and learn how to rest and to be joyful +in repose. But he felt that his host, the man who had +been living in paradise, who ought surely to have been +learning its blessed lessons through sunlit days and +starry nights, was restless like a man in a city, was anxious, +was intensely ill at ease. Once, watching this +man, Artois had thought of the messenger, poised on +winged feet, radiantly ready for movement that would +be exquisite because it would be obedient. This man +still looked ready for flight, but for a flight how different! +As Artois was thinking this Maurice moved.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Excuse me just for an instant!" he said. "I want +to speak to Gaspare."</p> + +<p>He saw now that Gaspare was taking into the cottage +the provisions that had been carried up by the donkey +from Marechiaro.</p> + +<p>"I—I told him to do something for me in the village," +he added, "and I want just to know—"</p> + +<p>He looked at them, almost defiantly, as if he challenged +them not to believe what he had said. Then, +without finishing his sentence, he went quickly into the +cottage.</p> + +<p>"You have chosen your garden well," Artois said to +Hermione directly they were alone. "No other sea has +ever given to me such an impression of tenderness and +magical space as this; no other sea has surely ever had +a horizon-line so distant from those who look as this."</p> + +<p>He went on talking about the beauty, leading her with +him. He feared lest she might begin to speak about +her husband.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Maurice had reached the mountain-side behind +the house and was waiting there for Gaspare. He +heard the boy's voice in the kitchen speaking to Lucrezia, +angrily it seemed by the sound. Then the voice +ceased and Gaspare appeared for an instant at the +kitchen door, making violent motions with his arms +towards the mountain. He disappeared. What did he +want? What did he mean? The gestures had been imperative. +Maurice looked round. A little way up the +mountain there was a large, closed building, like a barn, +built of stones. It belonged to a contadino, but Maurice +had never seen it open, or seen any one going to or coming +from it. As he stared at it an idea occurred to him. +Perhaps Gaspare meant him to go and wait there, behind +the barn, so that Lucrezia should not see or hear +their colloquy. He resolved to do this, and went swiftly +up the hill-side. When he was in the shadow of the +building he waited. He did not know what was the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> +matter, what Gaspare wanted, but he realized that something +had occurred which had stirred the boy to the +depths. This something must have occurred while he +was at Marechiaro. Before he had time mentally to +make a list of possible events in Marechiaro, Maurice +heard light feet running swiftly up the mountain, and +Gaspare came round the corner, still with the look of +tragedy, a wild, almost terrible look in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Signorino," he began at once, in a low voice that +was full of the pressure of an intense excitement. "Tell +me! Where were you last night when we were making +the fireworks go off?"</p> + +<p>Maurice felt the blood mount to his face.</p> + +<p>"Close to where you left me," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore! Oh, signore!"</p> + +<p>It was almost a cry. The sweat was pouring down +the boy's face.</p> + +<p>"Ma non è mia colpa! Non è mia colpa!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? What has happened, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"I have seen Salvatore."</p> + +<p>His voice was more quiet now. He fixed his eyes +almost sternly on his padrone, as if in the effort to read +his very soul.</p> + +<p>"Well? Well, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>Maurice was almost stammering now. He guessed—he +knew what was coming.</p> + +<p>"Salvatore came up to me just before I got to the +village. I heard him calling, 'Stop!' I stood still. +We were on the path not far from the fountain. There +was a broken branch on the ground, a branch of olive. +Salvatore said: 'Suppose that is your padrone, that +branch there!' and he spat on it. He spat on it, signore, +he spat—and he spat."</p> + +<p>Maurice knew now.</p> + +<p>"Go on!" he said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span></p> + +<p>And this time there was no uncertainty in his voice. +Gaspare was breathing hard. His breast rose and +fell.</p> + +<p>"I was going to strike him in the face, but he caught +my hand, and then—Signorino, signorino, what have +you done?"</p> + +<p>His voice rose. He began to look uncontrolled, distracted, +wild, as if he might do some frantic thing.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>Maurice had him by the arms.</p> + +<p>"Why did you?" panted the boy. "Why did you?"</p> + +<p>"Then Salvatore knows?"</p> + +<p>Maurice saw that any denial was useless.</p> + +<p>"He knows! He knows!"</p> + +<p>If Maurice had not held Gaspare tightly the boy would +have flung himself down headlong on the ground, to +burst into one of those storms of weeping which swept +upon him when he was fiercely wrought up. But Maurice +would not let him have this relief.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Listen to me! What is he going to do? +What is Salvatore going to do?"</p> + +<p>"Santa Madonna! Santa Madonna!"</p> + +<p>The boy rocked himself to and fro. He began to invoke +the Madonna and the saints. He was beside himself, +was almost like one mad.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare—in the name of God——!"</p> + +<p>"H'sh!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly the boy kept still. His face changed, +hardened. His body became tense. With his hand +still held up in a warning gesture, he crept to the edge +of the barn and looked round it.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" Maurice whispered.</p> + +<p>Gaspare stole back.</p> + +<p>"It is only Lucrezia. She is spreading the linen. I +thought——"</p> + +<p>"What is Salvatore going to do?"</p> + +<p>"Unless you go down to the sea to meet him this even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span>ing, +signorino, he is coming up here to-night to tell everything +to the signora."</p> + +<p>Maurice went white.</p> + +<p>"I shall go," he said. "I shall go down to the sea."</p> + +<p>"Madonna! Madonna!"</p> + +<p>"He won't come now? He won't come this morning?"</p> + +<p>Maurice spoke almost breathlessly, with his hands on +the boy's hands which streamed with sweat. Gaspare +shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I told him if he came up I would meet him in the +path and kill him."</p> + +<p>The boy had out a knife.</p> + +<p>Maurice put his arm round Gaspare's shoulder. At +that moment he really loved the boy.</p> + +<p>"Will he come?"</p> + +<p>"Only if you do not go."</p> + +<p>"I shall go."</p> + +<p>"I will come with you, signorino."</p> + +<p>"No. I must go alone."</p> + +<p>"I will come with you!"</p> + +<p>A dogged obstinacy hardened his whole face, made +even his shining eyes look cold, like stones.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, you are to stay with the signora. I may +miss Salvatore going down. While I am gone he may +come up here. The signora is not to speak with him. +He is not to come to her."</p> + +<p>Gaspare hesitated. He was torn in two by his dual +affection, his dual sense of the watchful fidelity he owed +to his padrone and to his padrona.</p> + +<p>"Va bene," he said, at last, in a half whisper.</p> + +<p>He hung down his head like one exhausted.</p> + +<p>"How will it finish?" he murmured, as if to himself. +"How will it finish?"</p> + +<p>"I must go," Maurice said. "I must go now. Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We must be careful, you and I, to-day. We must +not let the signora, Lucrezia, any one suspect that—that +we are not just as usual. Do you see?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The boy nodded. His eyes now looked tired.</p> + +<p>"And try to keep a lookout, when you can, without +drawing the attention of the signora. Salvatore might +change his mind and come up. The signora is not to +know. She is never to know. Do you think"—he +hesitated—"do you think Salvatore has told any one?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so."</p> + +<p>The boy was silent. Then he lifted his hands again +and said:</p> + +<p>"Signorino! Signorino!"</p> + +<p>And Maurice seemed to hear at that moment the voice +of an accusing angel.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," he said, "I was mad. We men—we are +mad sometimes. But now I must be sane. I must do +what I can to—I must do what I can—and you must +help me."</p> + +<p>He held out his hand. Gaspare took it. The grasp +of it was strong, that of a man. It seemed to reassure +the boy.</p> + +<p>"I will always help my padrone," he said.</p> + +<p>Then they went down the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps very strange—Maurice thought it was—but +he felt now less tired, less confused, more master of +himself than he had before he had spoken with Gaspare. +He even felt less miserable. Face to face with an immediate +and very threatening danger, courage leaped up +in him, a certain violence of resolve which cleared away +clouds and braced his whole being. He had to fight. +There was no way out. Well, then, he would fight. +He had played the villain, perhaps, but he would not +play the poltroon. He did not know what he was going +to do, what he could do, but he must act, and act decisively. +His wild youth responded to this call made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> +upon it. There was a new light in his eyes as he went +down to the cottage, as he came upon the terrace.</p> + +<p>Artois noticed it at once, was aware at once that in +this marvellous peace to which Hermione had brought +him there were elements which had nothing to do with +peace.</p> + +<p>"What hast thou to do with peace? Turn thee behind +me."</p> + +<p>These words from the Bible came into his mind as he +looked into the eyes of his host, and he felt that Hermione +and he were surely near to some drama of which +they knew nothing, of which Hermione, perhaps, suspected +nothing.</p> + +<p>Maurice acted his part. The tonic of near danger gave +him strength, even gave him at first a certain subtlety. +From the terrace he could see far over the mountain +flanks. As one on a tower he watched for the approach +of his enemy from the sea, but he did not neglect his +two companions. For he was fighting already. When +he seemed natural in his cordiality to his guest, when +he spoke and laughed, when he apologized for the misfortune +of the previous day, he was fighting. The battle +with circumstances was joined. He must bear himself +bravely in it. He must not allow himself to be +overwhelmed.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, there came presently a moment which +brought with it a sense of fear.</p> + +<p>Hermione got up to go into the house.</p> + +<p>"I must see what Lucrezia is doing," she said. "Your +collazione must not be a fiasco, Emile."</p> + +<p>"Nothing could be a fiasco here, I think," he answered.</p> + +<p>She laughed happily.</p> + +<p>"But poor Lucrezia is not in paradise," she said. +"Ah, why can't every one be happy when one is happy +one's self? I always think of that when I——"</p> + +<p>She did not finish her sentence in words. Her look<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> +at the two men concluded it. Then she turned and +went into the house.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with Lucrezia?" asked Artois.</p> + +<p>"Oh, she—she's in love with a shepherd called Sebastiano."</p> + +<p>"And he's treating her badly?"</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid so. He went to the Lipari Isles, and he +doesn't come back."</p> + +<p>"A girl there keeps him captive?"</p> + +<p>"It seems so."</p> + +<p>"Faithful women must not expect to have a perfect +time in Sicily," Artois said.</p> + +<p>As he spoke he noticed that a change came in his +companion's face. It was fleeting, but it was marked. +It made Artois think:</p> + +<p>"This man understands Sicilian faithlessness in love."</p> + +<p>It made him, too, remember sharply some words of +his own said long ago in London:</p> + +<p>"I love the South, but I distrust what I love, and I +see the South in him."</p> + +<p>There was a silence between the two men. Heat was +growing in the long summer day, heat that lapped them +in the influence of the South. Africa had been hotter, +but this seemed the breast of the South, full of glory +and of languor, and of that strange and subtle influence +which inclines the heart of man to passion and the body +of man to yield to its desires. It was glorious, this +wonderful magic of the South, but was it wholesome for +Northern men? Was it not full of danger? As he looked +at the great, shining waste of the sea, purple and gold, +dark and intense and jewelled, at the outline of Etna, +at the barbaric ruin of the Saracenic castle on the cliff +opposite, like a cry from the dead ages echoing out of +the quivering blue, at the man before him leaning against +the blinding white wall above the steep bank of the +ravine, Artois said to himself that the South was dangerous +to young, full-blooded men, was dangerous, to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +such a man as Delarey. And he asked himself the +question, "What has this man been doing here in this +glorious loneliness of the South, while his wife has been +saving my life in Africa?" And a sense of reproach, almost +of alarm, smote him. For he had called Hermione +away. In the terrible solitude that comes near to the +soul with the footfalls of death he had not been strong +enough to be silent. He had cried out, and his friend +had heard and had answered. And Delarey had been +left alone with the sun.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you must feel as if I were your enemy," +he said.</p> + +<p>And as he spoke he was thinking, "Have I been this +man's enemy?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. Why?"</p> + +<p>"I deprived you of your wife. You've been all alone +here."</p> + +<p>"I made friends of the Sicilians."</p> + +<p>Maurice spoke lightly, but through his mind ran the +thought, "What an enemy this man has been to me, +without knowing it!"</p> + +<p>"They are easy to get on with," said Artois. "When +I was in Sicily I learned to love them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, love!" said Maurice, hastily.</p> + +<p>He checked himself.</p> + +<p>"That's rather a strong word, but I like them. They're +a delightful race."</p> + +<p>"Have you found out their faults?"</p> + +<p>Both men were trying to hide themselves in their +words.</p> + +<p>"What are their faults, do you think?" Maurice said.</p> + +<p>He looked over the wall and saw, far off on the path +by the ravine, a black speck moving.</p> + +<p>"Treachery when they do not trust; sensuality, violence, +if they think themselves wronged."</p> + +<p>"Are—are those faults? I understand them. They +seem almost to belong to the sun."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span></p> + +<p>Artois had not been looking at Maurice. The sound of +Maurice's voice now made him aware that the speaker +had turned away from him. He glanced up and saw his +companion staring over the wall across the ravine. What +was he gazing at? Artois wondered.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the sun is perhaps partly responsible for them. +Then you have become such a sun-worshipper that——"</p> + +<p>"No, no, I don't say that," Maurice interrupted.</p> + +<p>He looked round and met Artois's observant eyes. +He had dreaded having those eyes fixed upon him.</p> + +<p>"But I think—I think things done in such a place, +such an island as this, shouldn't be judged too severely, +shouldn't be judged, I mean, quite as we might judge +them, say, in England."</p> + +<p>He looked embarrassed as he ended, and shifted his +gaze from his companion.</p> + +<p>"I agree with you," Artois said.</p> + +<p>Maurice looked at him again, almost eagerly. An odd +feeling came to him that this man, who unwittingly had +done him a deadly harm, would be able to understand +what perhaps no woman could ever understand, the +tyranny of the senses in a man, their fierce tyranny in +the sunlit lands. Had he been so wicked? Would +Artois think so? And the punishment that was perhaps +coming—did he deserve that it should be terrible? He +wondered, almost like a boy. But Hermione was not +with them. When she was there he did not wonder. +He felt that he deserved lashes unnumbered.</p> + +<p>And Artois—he began to feel almost clairvoyant. The +new softness that had come to him with the pain of the +body, that had been developed by the blessed rest from +pain that was convalescence, had not stricken his faculty +of seeing clear in others, but it had changed, at any rate +for a time, the sentiments that followed upon the exercise +of that faculty. Scorn and contempt were less +near to him than they had been. Pity was nearer. He +felt now almost sure that Delarey had fallen into some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> +trouble while Hermione was in Africa, that he was oppressed +at this moment by some great uneasiness or +even fear, that he was secretly cursing some imprudence, +and that his last words were a sort of surreptitious plea +for forgiveness, thrown out to the Powers of the air, to +the Spirits of the void, to whatever shadowy presences +are about the guilty man ready to condemn his sin. +He felt, too, that he owed much to Delarey. In a +sense it might be said that he owed to him his life. +For Delarey had allowed Hermione to come to Africa, +and if Hermione had not come the end for him, Artois, +might well have been death.</p> + +<p>"I should like to say something to you, monsieur," +he said. "It is rather difficult to say, because I do not +wish it to seem formal, when the feeling that prompts +it is not formal."</p> + +<p>Maurice was again looking over the wall, watching with +intensity the black speck that was slowly approaching +on the little path.</p> + +<p>"What is it, monsieur?" he asked, quickly.</p> + +<p>"I owe you a debt—indeed I do. You must not +deny it. Through your magnanimous action in permitting +your wife to leave you, you, perhaps indirectly, +saved my life. For, without her aid, I do not think I +could have recovered. Of her nobility and devotion +I will not, because I cannot adequately, speak. But I +wish to say to you that if ever I can do you a service +of any kind I will do it."</p> + +<p>As he finished Maurice, who was looking at him now, +saw a veil over his big eyes. Could it—could it possibly +be a veil of tears!</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he answered.</p> + +<p>He tried to speak warmly, cordially. But his heart +said to him: "You can do nothing for me now. It is +all too late!"</p> + +<p>Yet the words and the emotion of Artois were some +slight relief to him. He was able to feel that in this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> +man he had no secret enemy, but, if need be, a +friend.</p> + +<p>"You have a nice fellow as servant," Artois said, to +change the conversation.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare—yes. He's loyal. I intend to ask Hermione +to let me take him to England with us."</p> + +<p>He paused, then added, with an anxious curiosity:</p> + +<p>"Did you talk to him much as you came up?"</p> + +<p>He wondered whether the novelist had noticed Gaspare's +agitation or whether the boy had been subtle +enough to conceal it.</p> + +<p>"Not very much. The path is narrow, and I rode +in front. He sang most of the time, those melancholy +songs of Sicily that came surely long ago across the sea +from Africa."</p> + +<p>"They nearly always sing on the mountains when +they are with the donkeys."</p> + +<p>"Dirges of the sun. There is a sadness of the sun +as well as a joy."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>As Maurice answered, he thought, "How well I know +that now!" And as he looked at the black figure drawing +nearer in the sunshine it seemed to him that there +was a terror in that gold which he had often worshipped. +If that figure should be Salvatore! He strained his +eyes. At one moment he fancied that he recognized +the wild, free, rather strutting walk of the fisherman. +At another he believed that his fear had played him a +trick, that the movements of the figure were those of +an old man, some plodding contadino of the hills. +Artois wondered increasingly what he was looking at. +A silence fell between them. Artois lay back in the +chaise longue and gazed up at the blue, then at the section +of distant sea which was visible above the rim of +the wall though the intervening mountain land was +hidden. It was a paradise up here. And to have it +with the great love of a woman, what an experience that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> +must be for any man! It seemed to him strange that +such an experience had been the gift of the gods to +their messenger, their Mercury. What had it meant to +him? What did it mean to him now? Something had +changed him. Was it that? In the man by the wall +Artois did not see any longer the bright youth he remembered. +Yet the youth was still there, the supple +grace, the beauty, bronzed now by the long heats of +the sun. It was the expression that had changed. In +cities one sees anxious-looking men everywhere. In +London Delarey had stood out from the crowd not only +because of his beauty of the South, but because of his +light-hearted expression, the spirit of youth in his eyes. +And now here, in this reality that seemed almost like a +dream in its perfection, in this reality of the South, there +was a look of strain in his eyes and in his whole body. +The man had contradicted his surroundings in London—now +he contradicted his surroundings here.</p> + +<p>While Artois was thinking this Maurice's expression +suddenly changed, his attitude became easier. He turned +round from the wall, and Artois saw that the keen anxiety +had gone out of his eyes. Gaspare was below with +his gun pretending to look for birds, and had made a +sign that the approaching figure was not that of Salvatore. +Maurice's momentary sense of relief was so great +that it threw him off his guard.</p> + +<p>"What can have been happening beyond the wall?" +Artois thought.</p> + +<p>He felt as if a drama had been played out there and +the dénouement had been happy.</p> + +<p>Hermione came back at this moment.</p> + +<p>"Poor Lucrezia!" she said. "She's plucky, but Sebastiano +is making her suffer horribly."</p> + +<p>"Here!" said Artois, almost involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"It does seem almost impossible, I know."</p> + +<p>She sat down again near him and smiled at her husband.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are coming back to health, Emile. And Maurice +and I—well, we are in our garden. It seems wrong, terribly +wrong, that any one should suffer here. But Lucrezia +loves like a Sicilian. What violence there is in +these people!"</p> + +<p>"England must not judge them."</p> + +<p>He looked at Maurice.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" asked Hermione. "Something you +two were talking about when I was in the kitchen?"</p> + +<p>Maurice looked uneasy.</p> + +<p>"I was only saying that I think the sun—the South +has an influence," he said, "and that——"</p> + +<p>"An influence!" exclaimed Hermione. "Of course it +has! Emile, you would have seen that influence at +work if you had been with us on our first day in Sicily. +Your tarantella, Maurice!"</p> + +<p>She smiled again happily, but her husband did not +answer her smile.</p> + +<p>"What was that?" said Artois. "You never told me +in Africa."</p> + +<p>"The boys danced a tarantella here on the terrace to +welcome us, and it drove Maurice so mad that he sprang +up and danced too. And the strange thing was that he +danced as well as any of them. His blood called him, +and he obeyed the call."</p> + +<p>She looked at Artois to remind him of his words.</p> + +<p>"It's good when the blood calls one to the tarantella, +isn't it?" she asked him. "I think it's the most wildly +innocent expression of extreme joy in the world. And +yet"—her expressive face changed, and into her prominent +brown eyes there stole a half-whimsical, half-earnest +look—"at the end—Maurice, do you know that I was +almost frightened that day at the end?"</p> + +<p>"Frightened! Why?" he said.</p> + +<p>He got up from the terrace-seat and sat down in a +straw chair.</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a href="images/gs07.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs07_th.jpg" width="400" height="271" +alt=""'BUT I SOON LEARNED TO DELIGHT IN—IN MY SICILIAN,' SHE SAID, TENDERLY"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"'BUT I SOON LEARNED TO DELIGHT IN—IN MY SICILIAN,' SHE SAID, TENDERLY"</span> +</p> + +<p>"Why?" he repeated, crossing one leg over the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> +other and laying his brown hands on the arms of the +chair.</p> + +<p>"I had a feeling that you were escaping from me in +the tarantella. Wasn't it absurd?"</p> + +<p>He looked slightly puzzled. She turned to Artois.</p> + +<p>"Can you imagine what I felt, Emile? He danced +so well that I seemed to see before me a pure-blooded +Sicilian. It almost frightened me!"</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>"But I soon learned to delight in—in my Sicilian," +she said, tenderly.</p> + +<p>She felt so happy, so at ease, and she was so completely +natural, that it did not occur to her that though +she was with her husband and her most intimate friend +the two men were really strangers to each other.</p> + +<p>"You'll find that I'm quite English, when we are +back in London," Maurice said. There was a cold sound +of determination in his voice.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I don't want you to lose what you have +gained here," Hermione protested, half laughingly, half +tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Gained!" Maurice said, still in the prosaic voice. "I +don't think a Sicilian would be much good in England. +We—we don't want romance there. We want cool-headed, +practical men who can work, and who've no +nonsense about them."</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she said, amazed. "What a cold douche! +And from you! Why, what has happened to you while +I've been away?"</p> + +<p>"Happened to me?" he said, quickly. "Nothing. +What should happen to me here?"</p> + +<p>"Do you—are you beginning to long for England and +English ways?"</p> + +<p>"I think it's time I began to do something," he said, +resolutely. "I think I've had a long enough holiday."</p> + +<p>He was trying to put the past behind him. He was +trying to rush into the new life, the life in which there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> +would be no more wildness, no more yielding to the hot +impulses that were surely showered down out of the sun. +Mentally he was leaving the Enchanted Island already. +It was fading away, sinking into its purple sea, sinking +out of his sight with his wild heart of youth, while he, +cold, calm, resolute man, was facing the steady life befitting +an Englishman, the life of work, of social duties, +of husband and father, with a money-making ambition +and a stake in his country.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you're right," Hermione said.</p> + +<p>But there was a sound of disappointment in her voice. +Till now Maurice had always shared her Sicilian enthusiasms, +had even run before them, lighter-footed than she +in the race towards the sunshine. It was difficult to accommodate +herself to this abrupt change.</p> + +<p>"But don't let us think of going to-day," she added. +"Remember—I have only just come back."</p> + +<p>"And I!" said Artois. "Be merciful to an invalid, +Monsieur Delarey!"</p> + +<p>He spoke lightly, but he felt fully conscious now that +his suspicion was well founded. Maurice was uneasy, unhappy. +He wanted to get away from this peace that +held no peace for him. He wanted to put something +behind him. To a man like Artois, Maurice was a boy. +He might try to be subtle, he might even be subtle—for +him. But to this acute and trained observer of the +human comedy he could not for long be deceptive.</p> + +<p>During his severe illness the mind of Artois had often +been clouded, had been dispossessed of its throne by +the clamor of the body's pain. And afterwards, when +the agony passed and the fever abated, the mind had +been lulled, charmed into a stagnant state that was +delicious. But now it began to go again to its business. +It began to work with the old rapidity that had for a +time been lost. And as this power came back and was +felt thoroughly, very consciously by this very conscious +man, he took alarm. What affected or threatened De<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span>larey +must affect, threaten Hermione. Whether he were +one with her or not she was one with him. The feeling +of Artois towards the woman who had shown him such +noble, such unusual friendship was exquisitely delicate +and intensely strong. Unmingled with any bodily passion, +it was, or so it seemed to him, the more delicate +and strong on that account. He was a man who had an +instinctive hatred of heroics. His taste revolted from +them as it revolted from violence in literature. They +seemed to him a coarseness, a crudity of the soul, and +almost inevitably linked with secret falseness. But he +was conscious that to protect from sorrow or shame the +woman who had protected him in his dark hour he would +be willing to make any sacrifice. There would be no +limit to what he would be ready to do now, in this +moment, for Hermione. He knew that, and he took +the alarm. Till now he had been feeling curiosity about +the change in Delarey. Now he felt the touch of fear.</p> + +<p>Something had happened to change Maurice while Hermione +had been in Africa. He had heard, perhaps, the +call of the blood. All that he had said, and all that he +had felt, on the night when he had met Maurice for the +first time in London, came back to Artois. He had +prophesied, vaguely perhaps. Had his prophecy already +been fulfilled? In this great and shining peace of nature +Maurice was not at peace. And now all sense of peace +deserted Artois. Again, and fiercely now, he felt the +danger of the South, and he added to his light words +some words that were not light.</p> + +<p>"But I am really no longer an invalid," he said. "And +I must be getting northward very soon. I need the +bracing air, the Spartan touch of the cold that the +Sybarite in me dreads. Perhaps we all need them."</p> + +<p>"If you go on like this, you two," Hermione exclaimed, +"you will make me feel as if it were degraded to +wish to live anywhere except at Clapham Junction or +the North Pole. Let us be happy as we are, where we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> +are, to-day and—yes, call me weak if you like—and to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>Maurice made no answer to this challenge, but Artois +covered his silence, and kept the talk going on safe +topics till Gaspare came to the terrace to lay the cloth +for collazione.</p> + +<p>It was past noon now, and the heat was brimming up +like a flood over the land. Flies buzzed about the +terrace, buzzed against the white walls and ceilings of +the cottage, winding their tiny, sultry horns ceaselessly, +musicians of the sun. The red geraniums in the stone +pots beneath the broken columns drooped their dry +heads. The lizards darted and stopped, darted and +stopped upon the wall and the white seats where the +tiles were burning to the touch. There was no moving +figure on the baked mountains, no moving vessel on the +shining sea. No smoke came from the snowless lips of +Etna. It was as if the fires of the sun had beaten down +and slain the fires of the earth.</p> + +<p>Gaspare moved to and fro slowly, spreading the cloth, +arranging the pots of flowers, the glasses, forks, and +knives upon it. In his face there was little vivacity. +But now and then his great eyes searched the hot world +that lay beneath them, and Artois thought he saw in +them the watchfulness, the strained anxiety that had +been in Maurice's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Some one must be coming," he thought. "Or they +must be expecting some one to come, these two."</p> + +<p>"Do you ever have visitors here?" he asked, carelessly.</p> + +<p>"Visitors! Emile, why are we here? Do you anticipate +a knock and 'If you please, ma'am, Mrs. and +the Misses Watson'? Good Heavens—visitors on Monte +Amato!"</p> + +<p>He smiled, but he persisted.</p> + +<p>"Never a contadino, or a shepherd, or"—he looked +down at the sea—"or a fisherman with his basket of +sarde?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span></p> + +<p>Maurice moved in his chair, and Gaspare, hearing a +word he knew, looked hard at the speaker.</p> + +<p>"Oh, we sometimes have the people of the hills to see +us," said Hermione. "But we don't call them 'visitors.' +As to fishermen—here they are!"</p> + +<p>She pointed to her husband and Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"But they eat all the fish they catch, and we never +see the fin of even one at the cottage."</p> + +<p>Collazione was ready now. Hermione helped Artois +up from his chaise longue, and they went to the table +under the awning.</p> + +<p>"You must sit facing the view, Emile," Hermione +said.</p> + +<p>"What a dining-room!" Artois exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Now he could see over the wall. His gaze wandered +over the mountain-sides, travelled down to the land that +lay along the edge of the sea.</p> + +<p>"Have you been fishing much since I've been away, +Maurice?" Hermione asked, as they began to eat.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. I went several times. What wine do you +like, Monsieur Artois?"</p> + +<p>He tried to change the conversation, but Hermione, +quite innocently, returned to the subject.</p> + +<p>"They fish at night, you know, Emile, all along that +coast by Isola Bella and on to the point there that looks +like an island, where the House of the Sirens is."</p> + +<p>A tortured look went across Maurice's face. He had +begun to eat, but now he stopped for a moment like a +man suddenly paralyzed.</p> + +<p>"The House of the Sirens!" said Artois. "Then there +are sirens here? I could well believe it. Have you +seen them, Monsieur Maurice, at night, when you have +been fishing?"</p> + +<p>He had been gazing at the coast, but now he turned +towards his host. Maurice began hastily to eat again.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid not. But we didn't look out for them. +We were prosaic and thought of nothing but the fish."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And is there really a house down there?" said +Artois.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Hermione. "It used to be a ruin, but +now it's built up and occupied. Gaspare"—she spoke +to him as he was taking a dish from the table—"who is +it lives in the Casa delle Sirene now? You told me, but +I've forgotten."</p> + +<p>A heavy, obstinate look came into the boy's face, +transforming it. The question startled him, and he +had not understood a word of the conversation which +had led up to it. What had they been talking about? +He glanced furtively at his master. Maurice did not look +at him.</p> + +<p>"Salvatore and Maddalena, signora," he answered, +after a pause.</p> + +<p>Then he took the dish and went into the house.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with Gaspare?" said Hermione. +"I never saw him look like that before—quite ugly. +Doesn't he like these people?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," replied Maurice. "Why—why, they're +quite friends of ours. We saw them at the fair only +yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Well, then, why should Gaspare look like that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Artois, who saw the discomfort of his host, +"perhaps there is some family feud that you know +nothing of. When I was in Sicily I found the people +singularly subtle. They can gossip terribly, but they +can keep a secret when they choose. If I had won the +real friendship of a Sicilian, I would rather trust him +with my secret than a man of any other race. They are +not only loyal—that is not enough—but they are also +very intelligent."</p> + +<p>"Yes, they are both—the good ones," said Hermione. +"I would trust Gaspare through thick and thin. If +they were only as stanch in love as they can be in +friendship!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare came out again with another course. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> +ugly expression had gone from his face, but he still +looked unusually grave.</p> + +<p>"Ah, when the senses are roused they are changed +beings," Artois said. "They hate and resent governance +from outside, but their blood governs them."</p> + +<p>"Our blood governs us when the time comes—do you +remember?"</p> + +<p>Hermione had said the words before she remembered +the circumstances in which they had been spoken and +of whom they were said. Directly she had uttered them +she remembered.</p> + +<p>"What was that?" Maurice asked, before Artois could +reply.</p> + +<p>He had seen a suddenly conscious look in Hermione's +face, and instantly he was aware of a feeling of jealousy +within him.</p> + +<p>"What was that?" he repeated, looking quickly from +one to the other.</p> + +<p>"Something I remember saying to your wife," Artois +answered. "We were talking about human nature—a +small subject, monsieur, isn't it?—and I think I expressed +the view of a fatalist. At any rate, I did say +that—that our blood governs us when the time comes."</p> + +<p>"The time?" Maurice asked.</p> + +<p>His feeling of jealousy died away, and was replaced +by a keen personal interest unmingled with suspicions of +another.</p> + +<p>"Well, I confess it sometimes seems to me as if, when +a certain hour strikes, a certain deed must be committed +by a certain man or woman. It is perhaps their hour +of madness. They may repent it to the day of their +death. But can they in that hour avoid that deed? +Sometimes, when I witness the tragic scenes that occur +abruptly, unexpectedly, in the comedy of life, I am +moved to wonder."</p> + +<p>"Then you should be very forgiving, Emile," Hermione +said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And you?" he asked. "Are you, or would you be, +forgiving?"</p> + +<p>Maurice leaned forward on the table and looked at his +wife with intensity.</p> + +<p>"I hope so, but I don't think it would be for that—I +mean because I thought the deed might not have been +avoided. I think I should forgive because I pitied so, +because I know how desperately unhappy I should be +myself if I were to do a hateful thing, a thing that was +exceptional, that was not natural to my nature as I had +generally known it. When one really does love cleanliness, +to have thrown one's self down deliberately in the +mud, to see, to feel, that one is soiled from head to foot—that +must be terrible. I think I should forgive because +I pitied so. What do you say, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>It was like a return to their talk in London at +Caminiti's restaurant, when Hermione and Artois discussed +topics that interested them, and Maurice listened +until Hermione appealed to him for his opinion. But +now he was more deeply interested than his companions.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he said. "I don't know about pitying +and forgiving, but I expect you're right, Hermione."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"In what you say about—about the person who's +done the wrong thing feeling awful afterwards. And I +think Monsieur Artois is right, too—about the hour of +madness. I'm sure he is right. Sometimes an hour +comes and one seems to forget everything in it. One +seems not to be really one's self in it, but somebody else, +and—and—"</p> + +<p>Suddenly he seemed to become aware that, whereas +Hermione and Artois had been considering a subject +impersonally, he was introducing the personal element +into the conversation. He stopped short, looked quickly +from Hermione to Artois, and said:</p> + +<p>"What I mean is that I imagine it's so, and that I've +known fellows—in London, you know—who've done<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span> +such odd things that I can only explain it like that. +They must have—well, they must have gone practically +mad for the moment. You—you see what I mean, +Hermione?"</p> + +<p>The question was uneasy.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I think we can control ourselves. If we +couldn't, remorse would lose half its meaning. I could +never feel remorse because I had been mad—horror, +perhaps, but not remorse. It seems to me that remorse +is our sorrow for our own weakness, the heart's cry of +'I need not have done the hateful thing, and I did it, +I chose to do it!' But I could pity, I could pity, and +forgive because of my pity."</p> + +<p>Gaspare came out with coffee.</p> + +<p>"And then, Emile, you must have a siesta," said +Hermione. "This is a tiring day for you. Maurice and +I will leave you quite alone in the sitting-room."</p> + +<p>"I don't think I could sleep," said Artois.</p> + +<p>He was feeling oddly excited, and attributed the +sensation to his weak state of health. For so long he +had been shut up, isolated from the world, that even +this coming out was an event. He was accustomed to +examine his feelings calmly, critically, to track them to +their sources. He tried to do so now.</p> + +<p>"I must beware of my own extra sensitiveness," he +said to himself. "I'm still weak. I am not normal. +I may see things distorted. I may exaggerate, turn +the small into the great. At least half of what I think +and feel to-day may come from my peculiar state."</p> + +<p>Thus he tried to raise up barriers against his feeling +that Delarey had got into some terrible trouble during +the absence of Hermione, that he was now stricken with +remorse, and that he was also in active dread of something, +perhaps of some Nemesis.</p> + +<p>"All this may be imagination," Artois thought, as +he sipped his coffee. But he said again:</p> + +<p>"I don't think I could sleep. I feel abnormally alive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> +to-day. Do you know the sensation, as if one were too +quick, as if all the nerves were standing at attention?"</p> + +<p>"Then our peace here does not soothe you?" Hermione +said.</p> + +<p>"If I must be truthful—no," he answered.</p> + +<p>He met Maurice's restless glance.</p> + +<p>"I think I've had enough coffee," he added. "Coffee +stimulates the nerves too much at certain times."</p> + +<p>Maurice finished his and asked for another cup.</p> + +<p>"He isn't afraid of being overstimulated," said Hermione. +"But, Emile, you ought to sleep. You'll be +dead tired this evening when you ride down."</p> + +<p>"This evening," Hermione had said. Maurice wondered +suddenly how late Artois was going to stay at the +cottage.</p> + +<p>"Oh no, it will be cool," Artois said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Maurice said. "Towards five we get a little +wind from the sea nearly always, even sooner sometimes. +I—I usually go down to bathe about that +time."</p> + +<p>"I must begin to bathe, too," Hermione said.</p> + +<p>"What—to-day!" Maurice said, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Oh no. Emile is here to-day."</p> + +<p>Then Artois did not mean to go till late. But he—Maurice—must +go down to the sea before nightfall.</p> + +<p>"Unless I bathe," he said, trying to speak naturally—"unless +I bathe I feel the heat too much at night. A +dip in the sea does wonders for me."</p> + +<p>"And in such a sea!" said Artois. "You must have +your dip to-day. I shall go directly that little wind +you speak of comes. I told a boy to come up from the +village at four to lead the donkey down."</p> + +<p>He smiled deprecatingly.</p> + +<p>"Dreadful to be such a weakling, isn't it?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Hush. Don't talk, like that. It's all going away. +Strength is coming. You'll soon be your old self. But +you've got to look forward all the time."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hermione spoke with a warmth, an energy that +braced. She spoke to Artois, but Maurice, eager to grasp +at any comfort, strove to take the words to himself. +This evening the climax of his Sicilian tragedy must +come. And then? Beyond, might there not be the +calm, the happiness of a sane life? He must look forward, +he would look forward.</p> + +<p>But when he looked, there stood Maddalena weeping.</p> + +<p>He hated himself. He loved happiness, he longed for +it, but he knew he had lost his right to it, if any man +ever has such a right. He had created suffering. How +dared he expect, how dared he even wish, to escape from +suffering?</p> + +<p>"Now, Emile," Hermione said, "you have really got +to go in and lie down whether you feel sleepy or not. +Don't protest. Maurice and I have hardly seen anything +of each other yet. We want to get rid of you."</p> + +<p>She spoke laughingly, and laughingly he obeyed her. +When she had settled him comfortably in the sitting-room<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">she came out again to the terrace where her husband</span><br /> +was standing, looking towards the sea. She had +a rug over her arm and was holding two cushions.</p> + +<p>"I thought you and I might go down and take our +siesta under the oak-trees, Maurice. Would you like +that?"</p> + +<p>He was longing to get away, to go up to the heap of +stones on the mountain-top and set a match to the +fragments of Hermione's letter, which the dangerous +wind might disturb, might bring out into the light of +day. But he acquiesced at once. He would go later—if +not this afternoon, then at night when he came back +from the sea. They went down and spread the rug +under the shadow of the oaks.</p> + +<p>"I used to read to Gaspare here," he said. "When +you were away in Africa."</p> + +<p>"What did you read?"</p> + +<p>"The <i>Arabian Nights</i>."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span></p> + +<p>She stretched herself on the rug.</p> + +<p>"To lie here and read the <i>Arabian Nights</i>! And you +want to go away, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"I think it's time to go. If I stayed too long here +I should become fit for nothing."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's true, I dare say. But—Maurice, it's so +strange—I have a feeling as if you would always be in +Sicily. I know it's absurd, and yet I have it. I feel +as if you belonged to Sicily, and Sicily did not mean +to part from you."</p> + +<p>"That can't be. How could I stay here always?"</p> + +<p>"I know."</p> + +<p>"Unless," he said, as if some new thought had started +suddenly into his mind—"unless I were—"</p> + +<p>He stopped. He had remembered his sensation in +the sea that gray morning of sirocco. He had remembered +how he had played at dying.</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him and understood.</p> + +<p>"Maurice—don't! I—I can't bear that!"</p> + +<p>"Not one of us can know," he answered.</p> + +<p>"I—I thought of that once," she said—"long ago, +on the first night that we were here. I don't know why—but +perhaps it was because I was so happy. I think +it must have been that. I suppose, in this world, there +must aways be dread in one's happiness, the thought +it may stop soon, it may end. But why should it? +Is God cruel? I think He wants us to be happy."</p> + +<p>"If he wants us—"</p> + +<p>"And that we prevent ourselves from being happy. +But we won't do that, Maurice—you and I—will we?"</p> + +<p>He did not answer.</p> + +<p>"This world—nature—is so wonderfully beautiful, so +happily beautiful. Surely we can learn to be happy, +to keep happy in it. Look at that sky, that sea! Look +at the plain over there by the foot of Etna, and the +coast-line fading away, and Etna. The God who created<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> +it all must have meant men to be happy in such a world. +It isn't my brain tells me that, Maurice, it's my heart, my +whole heart that you have made whole. And I know +it tells the truth."</p> + +<p>Her words were terrible to him. The sound of a step, +a figure standing before her, a few Sicilian words—and +all this world in which she gloried would be changed +for her. But she must not know. He felt that he +would be willing to die to keep her ignorant of the +truth forever.</p> + +<p>"Now we must try to sleep," he said, to prevent her +from speaking any more of the words that were torturing +him. "We must have our siesta. I had very little +sleep last night."</p> + +<p>"And I had none at all. But now—we're together."</p> + +<p>He arranged the cushion for her. They lay in soft +shadow and could see the shining world. The distant +gleams upon the sea spoke to her. She fancied them +voices rising out of the dream of the waters, voices from +the breast of nature that was the breast of God, saying +that she was not in error, that God did mean men to +be happy, that they could be happy if they would learn +of Him.</p> + +<p>She watched those gleams until she fell asleep.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2> + + +<p>When Hermione woke it was four o'clock. She sat +up on the rug, looked down over the mountain flank to +the sea, then turned and saw her husband. He was +lying with his face half buried in his folded arms.</p> + +<p>"Maurice!" she said, softly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, lifting his face.</p> + +<p>"Then you weren't asleep!"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Have you been asleep?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>She looked at her watch.</p> + +<p>"All this time! It's four. What a disgraceful siesta! +But I was really tired after the long journey and the +night."</p> + +<p>She stood up. He followed her example and threw +the rug over his arm.</p> + +<p>"Emile will think we've deserted him and aren't going +to give him any tea."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>They began to walk up the track towards the terrace.</p> + +<p>"Maurice," Hermione said, presently, more thoroughly +wide-awake now. "Did you get up while I was asleep? +Did you begin to move away from me, and did I stop +you, or was it a dream? I have a kind of vague recollection—or +is it only imagination?—of stretching out +my hand and saying, 'Don't leave me alone—don't +leave me alone!'"</p> + +<p>"I moved a little," he answered, after a slight pause.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And you did stretch out your hand and murmur something."</p> + +<p>"It was that—'don't leave me alone.'"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. I couldn't hear. It was such a murmur."</p> + +<p>"And you only moved a little? How stupid of me +to think you were getting up to go away!"</p> + +<p>"When one is half asleep one has odd ideas often."</p> + +<p>He did not tell her that he had been getting up softly, +hoping to steal away to the mountain-top and destroy +the fragments of her letter, hidden there, while she slept.</p> + +<p>"You won't mind," he added, "if I go down to bathe +this evening. I sha'n't sleep properly to-night unless +I do."</p> + +<p>"Of course—go. But won't it be rather late after +tea?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. I've often been in at sunset."</p> + +<p>"How delicious the water must look then! Maurice!"</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Shall I come with you? Shall I bathe, too? It +would be lovely, refreshing, after this heat! It would +wash away all the dust of the train!"</p> + +<p>Her face was glowing with the anticipation of pleasure. +Every little thing done with him was an enchantment +after the weeks of separation.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't think you'd better, Hermione," he answered, +hastily. "I—you—there might be people. I—I +must rig you up something first, a tent of some kind. +Gaspare and I will do it. I can't have my wife—"</p> + +<p>"All right," she said.</p> + +<p>She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.</p> + +<p>"How lucky you men are! You can do anything. +And there's no fuss. Ah, there's poor Emile, patiently +waiting!"</p> + +<p>Artois was already established once more in the +chaise longue. He greeted them with a smile that was +gentle, almost tender. Those evil feelings to which he +had been a prey in London had died away. He loved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span> +now to see the happiness in Hermione's face. His illness +had swept out his selfishness, and in it he had +proved her affection. He did not think that he could +ever be jealous of her again.</p> + +<p>"Sleeping all this time?" he said.</p> + +<p>"I was. I'm ashamed of myself. My hair is full of +mountain-side, but you must forgive me, Emile. Ah, +there's Lucrezia! Is tea ready, Lucrezia?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"Then ask Gaspare to bring it."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare—he isn't here, signora. But I'll bring it."</p> + +<p>She went away.</p> + +<p>"Where's Gaspare, I wonder?" said Hermione. "Have +you seen him, Emile?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he's sleeping, too. He sleeps generally +among the hens."</p> + +<p>She looked round the corner into the out-house.</p> + +<p>"No, he isn't there. Have you sent him anywhere, +Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"I? No. Where should I—"</p> + +<p>"I only thought you looked as if you knew where he +was."</p> + +<p>"No. But he may have gone out after birds and +forgotten the time. Here's tea!"</p> + +<p>These few words had renewed in Maurice the fever of +impatience to get away and meet his enemy. This waiting, +this acting of a part, this suspense, were almost +unbearable. All the time that Hermione slept he had +been thinking, turning over again and again in his mind +the coming scene, trying to imagine how it would be, +how violent or how deadly, trying to decide exactly +what line of conduct he should pursue. What would +Salvatore demand? What would he say or do? And +where would they meet? If Salvatore waited for his +coming they would meet at the House of the Sirens. +And Maddalena? She would be there. His heart<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span> +sickened. He was ready to face a man—but not Maddalena. +He thought of Gaspare's story of the fallen +olive-branch upon which Salvatore had spat. It was +strange to be here in this calm place with these two +happy people, wife and friend, and to wonder what was +waiting for him down there by the sea.</p> + +<p>How lonely our souls are!—something like that he +thought. Circumstances were turning him away from +his thoughtless youth. He had imagined it sinking +down out of his sight into the purple sea, with the magic +island in which it had danced the tarantella and heard +the voice of the siren. But was it not leaving him, +vanishing from him while still his feet trod the island +and his eyes saw her legendary mountains?</p> + +<p>Gaspare, he knew, was on the watch. That was why +he was absent from his duties. But the hour was at +hand when he would be relieved. The evening was +coming. Maurice was glad. He was ready to face even +violence, but he felt that he could not for much longer +endure suspense and play the quiet host and husband.</p> + +<p>Tea was over and Gaspare had not returned. The +clock he had bought at the fair struck five.</p> + +<p>"I ought to be going," Artois said.</p> + +<p>There was reluctance in his voice. Hermione noticed +it and knew what he was feeling.</p> + +<p>"You must come up again very soon," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, monsieur, come to-morrow, won't you?" Maurice +seconded her.</p> + +<p>The thought of what was going to happen before to-morrow +made it seem to him a very long way off.</p> + +<p>Hermione looked pleased.</p> + +<p>"I must not be a bore," Artois answered. "I must +not remind you and myself of limpets. There are rocks +in your garden which might suggest the comparison. I +think to-morrow I ought to stay quietly in Marechiaro."</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Maurice. "Do come to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Thank you very much. I can't pretend that I do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span> +not wish to come. And, now that donkey-boy—has he +climbed up, I wonder?"</p> + +<p>"I'll go and see," said Maurice.</p> + +<p>He was feverishly impatient to get rid of Artois. He +hurried to the arch. A long way off, near the path that +led up from the ravine, he saw a figure with a gun. He +was not sure, but he was almost sure that it was Gaspare. +It must be he. The gun made him look, indeed, a sentinel. +If Salvatore came the boy would stop him, stop +him, if need be, at the cost of his own life. Maurice felt +sure of that, and realized the danger of setting such +faithfulness and violence to be sentinel. He stood for +a moment looking at the figure. Yes, he knew it now +for Gaspare. The boy had forgotten tea-time, had forgotten +everything, in his desire to carry out his padrone's +instructions. The signora was not to know. She was +never to know. And Salvatore might come. Very +well, then, he was there in the sun—ready.</p> + +<p>"We'll never part from Gaspare," Maurice thought, as +he looked and understood.</p> + +<p>He saw no other figure. The donkey-boy had perhaps +forgotten his mission or had started late. Maurice +chafed bitterly at the delay. But he could not well +leave his guest on this first day of his coming to Monte +Amato, more especially after the events of the preceding +day. To do so would seem discourteous. He returned +to the terrace ill at ease, but strove to disguise his restlessness. +It was nearly six o'clock when the boy at last +appeared. Artois at once bade Hermione and Maurice +good-bye and mounted his donkey.</p> + +<p>"You will come to-morrow, then?" Maurice said to him +at parting.</p> + +<p>"I haven't the courage to refuse," Artois replied. +"Good-bye."</p> + +<p>He had already shaken Maurice's hand, but now he +extended his hand again.</p> + +<p>"It is good of you to make me so welcome," he said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span></p> + +<p>He paused, holding Maurice's hand in his. Both Hermione +and Maurice thought he was going to say something +more, but he glanced at her, dropped his host's hand, +lifted his soft hat, and signed to the boy to lead the +donkey away.</p> + +<p>Hermione and Maurice followed to the arch, and from +there watched him riding slowly down till he was out of +sight. Maurice looked for Gaspare, but did not see him. +He must have moved into the shadow of the ravine.</p> + +<p>"Dear old Emile!" Hermione said. "He's been happy +to-day. You've made him very happy, Maurice. Bless +you for it!"</p> + +<p>Maurice said nothing. Now the moment had arrived +when he could go he felt a strange reluctance to say +good-bye to Hermione, even for a short time. So much +might—must—happen before he saw her again that +evening.</p> + +<p>"And you?" she said, at last, as he was silent. "Are +you really going down to bathe? Isn't it too late?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. I must have a dip. It will do me all the +good in the world." He tried to speak buoyantly, but +the words seemed to himself to come heavily from his +tongue.</p> + +<p>"Will you take Tito?"</p> + +<p>"I—no, I think I'll walk. I shall get down quicker, +and I like going into the sea when I'm hot. I'll just +fetch my bathing things."</p> + +<p>They walked back together to the house. Maurice +wondered what had suddenly come to him. He felt +horribly sad now—yet he wished to get the scene that +awaited him over. He was longing to have it over. +He went into the house, got his bathing-dress and towels, +and came out again onto the terrace.</p> + +<p>"I shall be a little late back, I suppose," he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes. It's six o'clock now. Shall we dine at half-past +eight—or better say nine? That will give you +plenty of time to come up quietly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes. Let's say nine."</p> + +<p>Still he did not move to go.</p> + +<p>"Have you been happy to-day, Hermione?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes, very—since this morning."</p> + +<p>"Since?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. This morning I—"</p> + +<p>She stopped.</p> + +<p>"I was a little puzzled," she said, after a minute, with +her usual frankness. "Tell me, Maurice—you weren't +made unhappy by—by what I told you?"</p> + +<p>"About—about the child?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>He did not answer with words, but he put his arms +about her and kissed her, as he had not kissed her since +she went away to Africa. She shut her eyes. Presently +she felt the pressure of his arms relax.</p> + +<p>"I'm perfectly happy now," she said. "Perfectly +happy."</p> + +<p>He moved away a step or two. His face was flushed, +and she thought that he looked younger, that the boyish +expression she loved had come back to him.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Hermione," he said.</p> + +<p>Still he did not go. She thought that he had something +more to say but did not know how to say it. She +felt so certain of this that she said:</p> + +<p>"What is it, Maurice?"</p> + +<p>"We shall come back to Sicily, I suppose, sha'n't we, +some time or other?"</p> + +<p>"Surely. Many times, I hope."</p> + +<p>"Suppose—one can never tell what will happen—suppose +one of us were to die here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, soberly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think it would be good to lie there where +we lay this afternoon, under the oak-trees, in sight of +Etna and the sea? I think it would. Good-bye, +Hermione."</p> + +<p>He swung the bathing-dress and the towels up over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> +his shoulder and went away through the arch. She +followed and watched him springing down the mountain-side. +Just before he reached the ravine he turned and +waved his hand to her. His movements, that last +gesture, were brimful of energy and of life. He acted +better then than he had that day upon the terrace. +But the sense of progress, the feeling that he was going +to meet fate in the person of Salvatore, quickened the +blood within him. At last the suspense would be over. +At last he would be obliged to play not the actor but the +man. He longed to be down by the sea. The youth in +him rose up at the thought of action, and his last farewell +to Hermione, looking down to him from the arch, +was bold and almost careless.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had he got into the ravine before he met +Gaspare. He stopped. The boy's face was aflame with +expression as he stood, holding his gun, in front of his +padrone.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" Maurice said to him.</p> + +<p>He held out his hand and grasped the boy's hot hand.</p> + +<p>"I sha'n't forget your faithful service," he said. +"Thank you, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>He wanted to say more, to find other and far different +words. But he could not.</p> + +<p>"Let me come with you, signorino."</p> + +<p>The boy's voice was intensely, almost savagely, +earnest.</p> + +<p>"No. You must stay with the signora."</p> + +<p>"I want to come with you."</p> + +<p>His great eyes were fastened on his padrone's face.</p> + +<p>"I have always been with you."</p> + +<p>"But you were with the signora first. You were her +servant. You must stay with her now. Remember one +thing, Gaspare—the signora is never to know."</p> + +<p>The boy nodded. His eyes still held Maurice. They +glittered as if with leaping fires. That deep and passionate +spirit of Sicilian loyalty, which is almost savage in its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> +intensity and heedless of danger, which is ready to go to +hell with, or for, a friend or a master who is beloved and +believed in, was awake in Gaspare, illuminated him at +this moment. The peasant boy looked noble.</p> + +<p>"Mayn't I come with you, signorino?"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," Maurice said, "I must leave some one with +the padrona. Salvatore might come still. I may miss +him going down. Whom can I trust to stop Salvatore, +if he comes, but you? You see?"</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signorino."</p> + +<p>The boy seemed convinced, but he suffered and did +not try to conceal it.</p> + +<p>"Now I must go," Maurice said.</p> + +<p>He shook Gaspare's hand.</p> + +<p>"Have you got the revolver, signorino?" said the boy.</p> + +<p>"No. I am not going to fight with Salvatore."</p> + +<p>"How do you know what Salvatore will do?"</p> + +<p>Maurice looked down upon the stones that lay on the +narrow path.</p> + +<p>"My revolver can have nothing to do with Maddalena's +father," he said.</p> + +<p>He sighed.</p> + +<p>"That's how it is, Gaspare. Addio!"</p> + +<p>"Addio, signorino."</p> + +<p>Maurice went on down the path into the shadow of the +trees. Presently he turned. Gaspare stood quite still, +looking after him.</p> + +<p>"Signorino!" he called. "May I not come? I want +to come with you."</p> + +<p>Maurice waved his hand towards the mountain-side.</p> + +<p>"Go to the signora," he called back. "And look out +for me to-night. Addio, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The boy's "Addio!" came to him sadly through the +gathering shadows of the evening.</p> + +<p>Presently Hermione, who was sitting alone on the +terrace with a book in her lap which she was not reading, +saw Gaspare walking listlessly through the archway<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span> +holding his gun. He came slowly towards her, lifted his +hat, and was going on without a word, but she stopped +him.</p> + +<p>"Why, Gaspare," she said, lightly, "you forgot us +to-day. How was that?"</p> + +<p>"Signora?"</p> + +<p>Again she saw the curious, almost ugly, look of obstinacy, +which she had already noticed, come into his face.</p> + +<p>"You didn't remember about tea-time!"</p> + +<p>"Signora," he answered, "I am sorry."</p> + +<p>He looked at her fixedly while he spoke.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," he said again.</p> + +<p>"Never mind," Hermione said, unable to blame him +on this first day of her return. "I dare say you have +got out of regular habits while I've been away. What +have you been doing all the time?"</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Niente."</p> + +<p>Again she wondered what was the matter with the +boy to-day. Where were his life and gayety? Where +was his sense of fun? He used to be always joking, +singing. But now he was serious, almost heavy in +demeanor.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," she said, jokingly, "I think you've all become +very solemn without me. I am the old person of +the party, but I begin to believe that it is I who keep you +lively. I mustn't go away again."</p> + +<p>"No, signora," he answered, earnestly; "you must +never go away from us again. You should never have +gone away from us."</p> + +<p>The deep solemnity of his great eyes startled her. He +put on his hat and went away round the angle of the +cottage.</p> + +<p>"What can be the matter with him?" she thought.</p> + +<p>She remained sitting there on the terrace, wondering. +Now she thought over things quietly, it struck her as +strange the fact that she had left behind her in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span> +priest's house three light-hearted people, and had come +back to find Lucrezia drowned in sorrow, Gaspare solemn, +even mysterious in his manner, and her husband—but +here her thoughts paused, not labelling Maurice. At first +he had puzzled her the most. But she thought she had +found reasons for the change—a passing one, she felt +sure—in him. He had secretly resented her absence, +and, though utterly free from any ignoble suspicion of +her, he had felt boyishly jealous of her friendship with +Emile. That was very natural. For this was their +honeymoon. She considered it their honeymoon prolonged, +delightfully prolonged, beyond any fashionable +limit. Lucrezia's depression was easily comprehensible. +The change in her husband she accounted for; but now +here was Gaspare looking dismal!</p> + +<p>"I must cheer them all up," she thought to herself. +"This beautiful time mustn't end dismally."</p> + +<p>And then she thought of the inevitable departure. +Was Maurice looking forward to it, desiring it? He had +spoken that day as if he wished to be off. In London +she had been able to imagine him in the South, in the +highway of the sun. But now that she was here in +Sicily she could not imagine him in London.</p> + +<p>"He is not in his right place there," she thought.</p> + +<p>Yet they must go, and soon. She knew that they +were going, and yet she could not feel that they were +going. What she had said under the oak-trees was true. +In the spring her tender imagination had played softly +with the idea of Sicily's joy in the possession of her son, +of Maurice. Would Sicily part from him without an effort +to retain him? Would Sicily let him go? She smiled +to herself at her fancies. But if Sicily kept him, how +would she keep him? The smile left her lips and her +eyes as she thought of Maurice's suggestion. That would +be too horrible. God would not allow that. And yet +what tragedies He allowed to come into the lives of +others. She faced certain facts, as she sat there, facts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span> +permitted, or deliberately brought about by the Divine +Will. The scourge of war—that sowed sorrows over a +land as the sower in the field scatters seeds. She, like +others, had sat at home and read of battles in which +thousands of men had been killed, and she had grieved—or +had she really grieved, grieved with her heart? +She began to wonder, thinking of Maurice's veiled allusion +to the possibility of his death. He was the spirit of +youth to her. And all the boys slain in battle! Had +not each one of them represented the spirit of youth to +some one, to some woman—mother, sister, wife, lover?</p> + +<p>What were those women's feelings towards God?</p> + +<p>She wondered. She wondered exceedingly. And presently +a terrible thought came into her mind. It was +this. How can one forgive God if He snatches away the +spirit of youth that one loves?</p> + +<p>Under the shadow of the oak-trees she had lain that +day and looked out upon the shining world—upon the +waters, upon the plains, upon the mountains, upon the +calling coast-line and the deep passion of the blue. +And she had felt the infinite love of God. When she had +thought of God, she had thought of Him as the great +Provider of happiness, as One who desired, with a heart +too large and generous for the mere accurate conception +of man, the joy of man.</p> + +<p>But Maurice was beside her then.</p> + +<p>Those whose lives had been ruined by great tragedies, +when they looked out upon the shining world what must +they think, feel?</p> + +<p>She strove to imagine. Their conception of God must +surely be very different from hers.</p> + +<p>Once she had been almost unable to believe that God +could choose her to be the recipient of a supreme happiness. +But we accustom ourselves with a wonderful +readiness to a happy fate. She had come back—she +had been allowed to return to the Garden of Paradise. +And this fact had given to her a confidence in life which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span> +was almost audacious. So now, even while she imagined +the sorrows of others, half strove to imagine what her +own sorrows might be, her inner feeling was still one of +confidence. She looked out on the shining world, and +in her heart was the shining world. She looked out on +the glory of the blue, and in her heart was the glory of +the blue. The world shone for her because she had +Maurice. She knew that. But there was light in it. +There would always be light whatever happened to any +human creature. There would always be the sun, the +great symbol of joy. It rose even upon the battle-field +where the heaps of the dead were lying.</p> + +<p>She could not realize sorrow to-day. She must see +the sunlight even in the deliberate visions conjured up +by her imagination.</p> + +<p>Gaspare did not reappear. For a long time she was +alone. She watched the changing of the light, the +softening of the great landscape as the evening approached. +Sometimes she thought of Maurice's last +words about being laid to rest some day in the shadows +of the oak-trees, in sight of Etna and the sea. When +the years had gone, perhaps they would lie together in +Sicily, wrapped in the final siesta of the body. Perhaps +the unborn child, of whose beginning she was mystically +conscious, would lay them to rest there.</p> + +<p>"Buon riposo." She loved the Sicilian good-night. +Better than any text she would love to have those +simple words written above her sleeping-place and his. +"Buon riposo!"—she murmured the words to herself as +she looked at the quiet of the hills, at the quiet of the +sea. The glory of the world was inspiring, but the peace +of the world was almost more uplifting, she thought. +Far off, in the plain, she discerned tiny trails of smoke +from Sicilian houses among the orange-trees beside the +sea. The gold was fading. The color of the waters was +growing paler, gentler, the color of the sky less passionate. +The last point of the coast-line was only a shadow now,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span> +scarcely that. Somewhere was the sunset, its wonder +unseen by her, but realized because of this growing tenderness, +that was like a benediction falling upon her from +a distant love, intent to shield her and her little home +from sorrow and from danger. Nature was whispering +her "Buon riposo!" Her hushed voice spoke withdrawn +among the mountains, withdrawn upon the +spaces of the sea. The heat of the golden day was +blessed, but after it how blessed was the cool of the dim +night!</p> + +<p>Again she thought that the God who had placed man +in the magnificent scheme of the world must have intended +and wished him to be always happy there. Nature +seemed to be telling her this, and her heart was convinced +by Nature, though the story of the Old Testament +had sometimes left her smiling or left her wondering. +Men had written a Bible. God had written a +Bible, too. And here she read its pages and was made +strong by it.</p> + +<p>"Signora!"</p> + +<p>Hermione started and turned her head.</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia! What is it?"</p> + +<p>"What time is it, signora?"</p> + +<p>Hermione looked at her watch.</p> + +<p>"Nearly eight o'clock. An hour still before supper."</p> + +<p>"I've got everything ready."</p> + +<p>"To-night we've only cold things, haven't we? You +made us a very nice collazione. The French signore +praised your cooking, and he's very particular, as French +people generally are. So you ought to be proud of yourself."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia smiled, but only for an instant. Then she +stood with an anxious face, twisting her apron.</p> + +<p>"Signora!"</p> + +<p>"Yes? What is it?"</p> + +<p>"Would you mind—may I—"</p> + +<p>She stopped.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, Lucrezia, are you afraid of me? I've certainly +been away too long!"</p> + +<p>"No, no, signora, but—" Tears hung in her eyes. +"Will you let me go away if I promise to be back by +nine?"</p> + +<p>"But you can't go to Marechiaro in—"</p> + +<p>"No, signora. I only want to go to the mountain +over there under Castel Vecchio. I want to go to the +Madonna."</p> + +<p>Hermione took one of the girl's hands.</p> + +<p>"To the Madonna della Rocca?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"I understand."</p> + +<p>"I have a candle to burn to the Madonna. If I go +now I can be back before nine."</p> + +<p>She stood gazing pathetically, like a big child, at her +padrona.</p> + +<p>"Lucrezia," Hermione said, moved to a great pity by +her own great happiness, "would you mind if I came, too? +I think I should like to say a prayer for you to-night. +I am not a Catholic, but my prayer cannot hurt you."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia suddenly forgot distinctions, threw her arms +round Hermione, and began to sob.</p> + +<p>"Hush, you must be brave!"</p> + +<p>She smoothed the girl's dark hair gently.</p> + +<p>"Have you got your candle?"</p> + +<p>"Si."</p> + +<p>She showed it.</p> + +<p>"Let us go quickly, then. Where's Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>"Close to the house, signora, on the mountain. One +cannot speak with him to-day."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so. But he is terrible to-day!"</p> + +<p>So Lucrezia had noticed Gaspare's strangeness, too, +even in the midst of her sorrow!</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" Hermione called.</p> + +<p>There was no answer.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She called louder.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora!"</p> + +<p>The voice came from somewhere behind the house.</p> + +<p>"I am going for a walk with Lucrezia. We shall be +back at nine. Tell the padrone if he comes."</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>The two women set out without seeing Gaspare. They +walked in silence down the mountain-path. Lucrezia +held her candle carefully, like one in a procession. She +was not sobbing now. There were no tears in her eyes. +The companionship and the sympathy of her padrona +had given her some courage, some hope, had taken away +from her the desolate feeling, the sensation of abandonment +which had been torturing her. And then she had +an almost blind faith in the Madonna della Rocca. And +the padrona was going to pray, too. She was not a +Catholic, but she was a lady and she was good. The +Madonna della Rocca must surely be influenced by her +petition.</p> + +<p>So Lucrezia plucked up a little courage. The activity +of the walk helped her. She knew the solace of +movement. And perhaps, without being conscious of +it, she was influenced by the soft beauty of the evening, +by the peace of the hills. But as they crossed the +ravine they heard the tinkle of bells, and a procession of +goats tripped by them, following a boy who was twittering +upon a flute. He was playing the tune of the +tarantella, that tune which Hermione associated with +careless joy in the sun. He passed down into the +shadows of the trees, and gradually the airy rapture of +his fluting and the tinkle of the goat-bells died away +towards Marechiaro. Then Hermione saw tears rolling +down over Lucrezia's brown cheeks.</p> + +<p>"He can't play it like Sebastiano, signora!" she +said.</p> + +<p>The little tune had brought back all her sorrow.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Perhaps we shall soon hear Sebastiano play it again," +said Hermione.</p> + +<p>They began to climb upward on the far side of the ravine +towards the fierce silhouette of the Saracenic castle +on the height. Beneath the great crag on which it was +perched was the shrine of the Madonna della Rocca. +Night was coming now, and the little lamp before the +shrine shone gently, throwing a ray of light upon the +stones of the path. When they reached it, Lucrezia +crossed herself, and they stood together for a moment +looking at the faded painting of the Madonna, almost +effaced against its rocky background. Within the glass +that sheltered it stood vases of artificial flowers, and on +the ledge outside the glass were two or three bunches of +real flowers, placed there by peasants returning to their +homes in Castel Vecchio from their labors in the vineyards +and the orchards. There were also two branches +with clustering, red-gold oranges lying among the flowers. +It was a strange, wild place. The precipice of rock, +which the castello dominated, leaned slightly forward +above the head of the Madonna, as if it meditated overwhelming +her. But she smiled gently, as if she had no +fear of it, bending down her pale eyes to the child who +lay upon her girlish knees. Among the bowlders, the +wild cactus showed its spiked leaves, and in the daytime +the long black snakes sunned themselves upon the +stones.</p> + +<p>To Hermione this lonely and faded Madonna, smiling +calmly beneath the savagely frowning rock upon which +dead men had built long years ago a barbarous fastness, +was touching in her solitude. There was something +appealing in her frailness, in her thin, anæmic calm. +How long had she been here? How long would she +remain? She was fading away, as things fade in the +night. Yet she had probably endured for years, would +still be here for years to come, would be here to receive +the wild flowers of peasant children, the prayers of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span> +peasant lovers, the adoration of the poor, who, having +very little here, put their faith in far-off worlds, where +they will have harvests surely without reaping in the +heat of the sun, where they will have good wine without +laboring in the vineyards, where they will be able to rest +without the thought coming to them, "If to-day I rest, +to-morrow I shall starve."</p> + +<p>As Hermione looked at the painting lit by the little +lamp, at the gifts of the flowers and the fruit, she began +to feel as if indeed a woman dwelt there, in that niche +of the crag, as if a heart were there, a soul to pity, an +ear to listen.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia knelt down quietly, lit her candle, turned it +upside down till the hot wax dripped onto the rock and +made a foundation for it, then stuck it upright, crossed +herself silently, and began to pray. Her lips moved +quickly. The candle-flame flickered for a moment, then +burned steadily, sending its thin fire up towards the +evening star. After a moment Hermione knelt down +beside her.</p> + +<p>She had never before prayed at a shrine. It was +curious to be kneeling under this savage wall of rock +above which the evening star showed itself in the clear +heaven of night. She looked at the star and at the +Madonna, then at the little bunches of flowers, and at +Lucrezia's candle. These gifts of the poor moved her +heart. Poverty giving is beautiful. She thought that, +and was almost ashamed of the comfort of her life. She +wished she had brought a candle, too. Then she bent +her head and began to pray that Sebastiano might remember +Lucrezia and return to her. To make her +prayer more earnest, she tried to realize Lucrezia's sorrow +by putting herself in Lucrezia's place, and Maurice +in Sebastiano's. It was such a natural effort as people +make every day, every hour. If Maurice had forgotten +her in absence, had given his love to another, had not +cared to return to her! If she were alone now in Sicily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span> +while he was somewhere else, happy with some one +else!</p> + +<p>Suddenly the wildness of this place where she knelt +became terrible to her. She felt the horror of solitude, +of approaching darkness. The outlines of the rocks and +of the ruined castle looked threatening, alarming. The +pale light of the lamp before the shrine and of Lucrezia's +votive candle drew to them not only the fluttering night-moths, +but the spirits of desolation and of hollow grief +that dwell among the waste places and among the hills. +Night seemed no more beneficent, but dreary as a spectre +that came to rob the world of all that made it beautiful. +The loneliness of deserted women encompassed her. +Was there any other loneliness comparable to it?</p> + +<p>She felt sure that there was not, and she found herself +praying not only for Lucrezia, but for all women who +were sad because they loved, for all women who were +deserted by those whom they loved, or who had lost +those whom they loved.</p> + +<p>At first she believed that she was addressing her +prayer to the Madonna della Rocca, the Blessed Virgin +of the Rocks, whose pale image was before her. But +presently she knew that her words, the words of her lips +and the more passionate words of her heart, were going +out to a Being before whom the sun burned as a lamp +and the moon as a votive taper. She was thinking of +women, she was praying for women, but she was no +longer praying to a woman. It seemed to her as if she +was so ardent a suitor that she pushed past the Holy +Mother of God into the presence of God Himself. He +had created women. He had created the love of women. +To Him she would, she must, appeal.</p> + +<p>Often she had prayed before, but never as now, never +with such passion, with such a sensation of personally +pleading. The effort of her heart was like the effort of +womanhood. It seemed to her—and she had no feeling +that this was blasphemous—as if God knew, understood,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span> +everything of the world He had created except perhaps +this—the inmost agony some women suffer, as if she, +perhaps, could make Him understand this by her prayer. +And she strove to recount this agony, to make it clear to +God.</p> + +<p>Was it a presumptuous effort? She did not feel that +it was. And now she felt selfless. She was no more +thinking of herself, was no longer obliged to concentrate +her thoughts and her imagination upon herself and the +one she loved best. She had passed beyond that, as she +had passed beyond the Madonna della Rocca. She was +the voice and the heart not of a woman, but of woman +praying in the night to the God who had made woman +and the night.</p> + +<p>From behind a rock Gaspare watched the two praying +women. He had not forgotten his padrone's words, +and when Hermione and Lucrezia set off from the cottage +he had followed them, faithful to his trust. Intent +upon their errand, they had not seen him. His step was +light among the stones, and he had kept at a distance. +Now he stood still, gazing at them as they prayed.</p> + +<p>Gaspare did not believe in priests. Very few Sicilians +do. An uncle of his was a priest's son, and he had other +reasons, quite sufficient to his mind, for being incredulous +of the sanctity of those who celebrated the mass to which +he seldom went. But he believed in God, and he believed +superstitiously in the efficacy of the Madonna and +in the powers of the saints. Once his little brother had +fallen dangerously ill on the festa of San Giorgio, the +santo patrono of Castel Vecchio. He had gone to the +festa, and had given all his money, five lire, to the saint +to heal his brother. Next day the child was well. In +misfortune he would probably utter a prayer, or burn a +candle, himself. That Lucrezia might think that she +had reason to pray he understood, though he doubted +whether the Madonna and all the saints could do much +for the reclamation of his friend Sebastiano. But why<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span> +should the padrona kneel there out-of-doors sending up +such earnest petitions? She was not a Catholic. He +had never seen her pray before. He looked on with +wonder, presently with discomfort, almost with anger. +To-night he was what he would himself have called +"nervoso," and anything that irritated his already +strung-up nerves roused his temper. He was in anxiety +about his padrone, and he wanted to be back at the +priest's house, he wanted to see his padrone again at the +earliest possible moment. The sight of his padrona +committing an unusual action alarmed him. Was she, +then, afraid as he was afraid? Did she know, suspect +anything? His experience of women was that whenever +they were in trouble they went for comfort and advice +to the Madonna and the saints.</p> + +<p>He grew more and more uneasy. Presently he drew +softly a little nearer. It was getting late. Night had +fallen. He must know the result of the padrone's interview +with Salvatore, and he could not leave the padrona. +Well, then—! He crept nearer and nearer till at last he +was close to the shrine and could see the Madonna smiling. +Then he crossed himself and said, softly:</p> + +<p>"Signora!"</p> + +<p>Hermione did not hear him. She was wrapped in the +passion of her prayer.</p> + +<p>"Signora!"</p> + +<p>He bent forward and touched her on the shoulder. +She started, turned her head, and rose to her feet.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She looked startled. This abrupt recall to the world +confused her for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! What is it? The padrone?"</p> + +<p>He took off his cap.</p> + +<p>"Signora, do you know how late it is?"</p> + +<p>"Has the padrone come back?"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was on her feet, too. The tears were in her +eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Scusi, signora!" said Gaspare.</p> + +<p>Hermione began to look more natural.</p> + +<p>"Has the padrone come back and sent you for us?"</p> + +<p>"He did not send me, signora. It was getting dark. +I thought it best to come. But I expect he is back. I +expect he is waiting for us now."</p> + +<p>"You came to guard me?"</p> + +<p>She smiled. She liked his watchfulness.</p> + +<p>"What's the time?"</p> + +<p>She looked at her watch.</p> + +<p>"Why, it is nine already! We must hurry. Come, +Lucrezia!"</p> + +<p>They went quickly down the path.</p> + +<p>They did not talk as they went. Gaspare led the way. +It was obvious that he was in great haste. Sometimes +he forgot that the padrona was not so light-footed as he +was, and sprang on so swiftly that she called to him to +wait. When at last they came in sight of the arch +Hermione and Lucrezia were panting.</p> + +<p>"The padrone will—forgive us—when—he—sees how +we have—hurried," said Hermione, laughing at her own +fatigue. "Go on, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She stood for a moment leaning against the arch.</p> + +<p>"And you go quickly, Lucrezia, and get the supper. +The padrone—will be—hungry after his bath."</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia went off to the back of the house. Then +Hermione drew a long breath, recovered herself, and +walked to the terrace.</p> + +<p>Gaspare met her with flaming eyes.</p> + +<p>"The padrone is not here, signora. The padrone has +not come back!"</p> + +<p>He stood and stared at her.</p> + +<p>It was not yet very dark. They stood in a sort of soft +obscurity in which all objects could be seen, not with +sharp clearness, but distinctly.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure, Gaspare?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Si, signora! The padrone has not come back. He +is not here."</p> + +<p>The boy's voice sounded angry, Hermione thought. +It startled her. And the way he looked at her startled +her too.</p> + +<p>"You have looked in the house? Maurice!" she called. +"Maurice!"</p> + +<p>"I say the padrone is not here, signora!"</p> + +<p>Never before had Gaspare spoken to Hermione like +this, in a tone almost that she ought to have resented. +She did not resent it, but it filled her with a creeping +uneasiness.</p> + +<p>"What time is it? Nearly half-past nine. He ought +to be here by now."</p> + +<p>The boy nodded, keeping his flaming eyes on her.</p> + +<p>"I said nine to give him lots of time to get cool, and +change his clothes, and—it's very odd."</p> + +<p>"I will go down to the sea, signora. A rivederci."</p> + +<p>He swung round to go, but Hermione caught his arm.</p> + +<p>"No; don't go. Wait a moment, Gaspare. Don't +leave me like this!"</p> + +<p>She detained him.</p> + +<p>"Why, what's the matter? What—what are you +afraid of?"</p> + +<p>Instantly there came into his face the ugly, obstinate +look she had already noticed, and wondered at, that day.</p> + +<p>"What are you afraid of, Gaspare?" she repeated.</p> + +<p>Her voice vibrated with a strength of feeling that as +yet she herself scarcely understood.</p> + +<p>"Niente!" the boy replied, doggedly.</p> + +<p>"Well, but then"—she laughed—"why shouldn't +the padrone be a few minutes late? It would be absurd +to go down. You might miss him on the way."</p> + +<p>Gaspare said nothing. He stood there with his arms +hanging and the ugly look still on his face.</p> + +<p>"Mightn't you? Mightn't you, Gaspare, if he came +up by Marechiaro?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"Well, then—"</p> + +<p>They stood there in silence for a minute. Hermione +broke it.</p> + +<p>"He—you know how splendidly the padrone swims," +she said. "Don't you, Gaspare?"</p> + +<p>The boy said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, why don't you answer when I speak to +you?"</p> + +<p>"Because I've got nothing to say, signora."</p> + +<p>His tone was almost rude. At that moment he nearly +hated Hermione for holding him by the arm. If she +had been a man he would have struck her off and gone.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she said, but not angrily.</p> + +<p>Her instinct told her that he was obliged to be utterly +natural just then under the spell of some violent feeling. +She knew he loved his padrone. The feeling must be +one of anxiety. But it was absurd to be so anxious. +It was ridiculous, hysterical. She said to herself that it +was Gaspare's excitement that was affecting her. She +was catching his mood.</p> + +<p>"My dear Gaspare," she said, "we must just wait. +The padrone will be here in a minute. Perhaps he has +come up by Marechiaro. Very likely he has looked in at +the hotel to see how the sick signore is after his day up +here. That is it, I feel sure."</p> + +<p>She looked at him for agreement and met his stern +and flaming eyes, utterly unmoved by what she had said, +utterly unconvinced. At this moment she could not +deny that this untrained, untutored nature had power +over hers. She let go his arm and sat down by the wall.</p> + +<p>"Let us wait out here for a minute," she said.</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signora."</p> + +<p>He stood there quite still, but she felt as if in this unnatural +stillness there was violent movement, and she +looked away from him. It was fully night now. She +gazed down at the ravine. By that way Maurice would<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span> +come, unless he really had gone to Marechiaro to see +Artois. She had suggested to Gaspare that this might +be the reason of Maurice's delay, but she knew that she +did not think it was. Yet what other reason could there +be? He swam splendidly. She said that to herself. She +kept on saying it. Why?</p> + +<p>Slowly the minutes crept by. The silence around +them was intense, yet she felt no calm, no peace in it. +Like the stillness of Gaspare it seemed to be violent. It +began to frighten her. She began to wish for movement, +for sound. Presently a light shone in the cottage.</p> + +<p>"Signora! Signora!"</p> + +<p>Lucrezia's voice was calling.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Supper is quite ready, signora."</p> + +<p>"The signore has not come back yet. He is a little +late."</p> + +<p>Lucrezia came to the top of the steps.</p> + +<p>"Where can the signore be, signora?" she said. "It +only takes—"</p> + +<p>Her voice died suddenly away. Hermione looked +quickly at Gaspare, and saw that he was gazing ferociously +at Lucrezia as if to bid her be silent.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" Hermione said, suddenly getting up.</p> + +<p>"Signora?"</p> + +<p>"I—it's odd the signore's not coming."</p> + +<p>The boy answered nothing.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—perhaps there really has been an—an accident."</p> + +<p>She tried to speak lightly.</p> + +<p>"I don't think he would keep me waiting like this +if—"</p> + +<p>"I will go down to the sea," the boy said. "Signora, +let me go down to the sea!"</p> + +<p>There was a fury of pleading in his voice. Hermione +hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she answered:</p> + +<p>"Yes, you shall go. Stop, Gaspare!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span></p> + +<p>He had moved towards the arch.</p> + +<p>"I'm coming with you."</p> + +<p>"You, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You cannot come! You are not to come!"</p> + +<p>He was actually commanding her—his padrona.</p> + +<p>"You are not to come, signora!" he repeated, violently.</p> + +<p>"But I am coming," she said.</p> + +<p>They stood facing each other. It was like a battle, +Gaspare's manner, his words, the tone in which they +were spoken—all made her understand that there was +some sinister terror in his soul. She did not ask what +it was. She did not dare to ask. But she said again:</p> + +<p>"I am coming with you, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>He stared at her and knew that from that decision +there was no appeal. If he went she would accompany +him.</p> + +<p>"Let us wait here, signora," he said. "The padrone +will be coming presently. We had better wait here."</p> + +<p>But now she was as determined on activity as before +she had been—or seemed—anxious for patience.</p> + +<p>"I am going," she answered. "If you like to let me +go alone you can."</p> + +<p>She spoke very quietly, but there was a thrill in her +voice. The boy saw it was useless just then to pit his +will against hers. He dropped his head, and the ugly +look came back to his face, but he made no reply.</p> + +<p>"We shall be back very soon, Lucrezia. We are going +a little way down to meet the padrone. Come, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She spoke to him gently, kindly, almost pleadingly. +He made an odd sound. It was not a word, nor was it +a sob. She had never heard anything like it before. +It seemed to her to be like a smothered outcry of a heart +torn by some acute emotion.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she said. "We shall meet him. We +shall meet him in the ravine!"</p> + +<p>Then they set out. As she was going, Hermione cast<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span> +a look down towards the sea. Always at this hour, +when night had come, a light shone there, the light in +the siren's house. To-night that little spark was not +kindled. She saw only the darkness. She stopped.</p> + +<p>"Why," she said, "there's no light!"</p> + +<p>"Signora?"</p> + +<p>She pointed over the wall.</p> + +<p>"There's no light!" she repeated.</p> + +<p>This little fact—she did not know why—frightened +her.</p> + +<p>"Signora, I am going!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she said. "Give me your hand to help +me down the path. It's so dark. Isn't it?"</p> + +<p>She put out her hand. The boy's hand was cold.</p> + +<p>They set out towards the sea.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2> + + +<p>They did not talk as they went down the steep mountain-side, +but when they reached the entrance of the ravine +Gaspare stopped abruptly and took his cold hand +away from his padrona's hand.</p> + +<p>"Signora," he said, almost in a whisper. "Let me go +alone!"</p> + +<p>They were under the shade of the trees here and it was +much darker than upon the mountain-side. Hermione +could not see the boy's face plainly. She came close up +to him.</p> + +<p>"Why do you want to go alone?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Without knowing it, she, too, spoke in an under-voice.</p> + +<p>"What is it you are afraid of?" she added.</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "you are. Your hand is quite cold."</p> + +<p>"Let me go alone, signora."</p> + +<p>"No, Gaspare. There is nothing to be afraid of, I +believe. But if—if there should have been an accident, +I ought to be there. The padrone is my husband, remember."</p> + +<p>She went on and he followed her.</p> + +<p>Hermione had spoken firmly, even almost cheerfully, +to comfort the boy, whose uneasiness was surely greater +than the occasion called for. So many little things may +happen to delay a man. And Maurice might really have +made the détour to Marechiaro on his way home. If he +had, then they would miss him by taking this path +through the ravine. Hermione knew that, but she did +not hesitate to take it. She could not remain inactive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span> +to-night. Patience was out of her reach. It was only +by making a strong effort that she had succeeded in +waiting that short time on the terrace. Now she could +wait no longer. She was driven. Although she had not +yet sincerely acknowledged it to herself, fear was gradually +taking possession of her, a fear such as she had +never yet known or even imagined.</p> + +<p>She had never yet known or imagined such a fear. +That she felt. But she had another feeling, contradictory, +surely. It began to seem to her as if this fear, +which was now coming upon her, had been near her for a +long time, ever since the night when she knew that she +was going to Africa. Had she not even expressed it to +Maurice?</p> + +<p>Those beautiful days and nights of perfect happiness—can +they ever come again? Had she not thought that +many times? Was it not the voice of this fear which +had whispered those words, and others like them, to her +mind? And had there not been omens? Had there not +been omens?</p> + +<p>She heard Gaspare's feet behind her in the ravine, and +it seemed to her that she could tell by the sound of them +upon the many little loose stones that he was wild with +impatience, that he was secretly cursing her for obliging +him to go so slowly. Had he been alone he would have +sped down with a rapidity almost like that of travelling +light. She was strong, active. She was going fast. +Instinctively she went fast. But she was a woman, not +a boy.</p> + +<p>"I can't help it, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She was saying that mentally, saying it again and +again, as she hurried onward.</p> + +<p>Had there not been omens?</p> + +<p>That last letter of hers, whose loss had prevented Maurice +from meeting her on her return, from welcoming her! +When she had reached the station of Cattaro, and had +not seen him upon the platform, she had felt "I have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span> +lost him." Afterwards, directly almost, she had laughed +at the feeling as absurd. But she had had it. And +then, when at last he had come, she had been moved to +suggest that he might like to sleep outside upon the +terrace. And he had agreed to the suggestion. They +had not resumed their old, sweet relation of husband and +wife.</p> + +<p>Had there not been omens?</p> + +<p>And only an hour ago, scarcely that, not that, she +had knelt before the Madonna della Rocca and she had +prayed, she had prayed passionately for deserted women, +for women who loved and who had lost those whom they +loved.</p> + +<p>The fear was upon her fully now, and she fully knew +that it was. Why had she prayed for lonely, deserted +women? What had moved her to such a prayer?</p> + +<p>"Was I praying for myself?"</p> + +<p>At that thought a physical weakness came to her, +and she felt as if she could not go on. By the side of +the path, growing among pointed rocks, there was a +gnarled olive-tree, whose branches projected towards +her. Before she knew what she was doing she had +caught hold of one and stood still. So suddenly she had +stopped that Gaspare, unprepared, came up against her +in the dark.</p> + +<p>"Signora! What is the matter?"</p> + +<p>His voice was surely angry. For a moment she thought +of telling him to go on alone, quickly.</p> + +<p>"What is it, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing—only—I've walked so fast. Wait one +minute!"</p> + +<p>She felt the agony of his impatience, and it seemed +to her that she was treating him very cruelly to-night.</p> + +<p>"You know, Gaspare," she said, "it's not easy for +women—this rough walking, I mean. We've got our +skirts."</p> + +<p>She laughed. How unnatural, how horrible her laugh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span> +sounded in the darkness! He did not say any more. +She knew he was wondering why she had laughed like +that. After a moment she let go the branch. But her +legs were trembling, and she stumbled when she began +to walk on.</p> + +<p>"Signora, you are tired already. You had better +let me go alone."</p> + +<p>For the first time she told him a lie.</p> + +<p>"I should be afraid to wait here all by myself in the +night," she said. "I couldn't do that."</p> + +<p>"Who would come?"</p> + +<p>"I should be frightened."</p> + +<p>She thought she saw him look at her incredulously in +the dark, but was not sure.</p> + +<p>"Be kind to me to-night, Gaspare!" she said.</p> + +<p>She felt a sudden passionate need of gentleness, of +support, a woman's need of sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Won't you?" she added.</p> + +<p>"Signora!" he said.</p> + +<p>His voice sounded shocked, she thought; but in a +moment, when they came to an awkward bit of the +path, he put his hand under her arm, and very carefully, +almost tenderly, helped her over it. Tears rushed +into her eyes. For such a small thing she was crying! +She turned her head so that Gaspare should not see, +and tried to control her emotion. That terrible question +kept on returning to her heart.</p> + +<p>"Was I praying for myself when I prayed at the +shrine of the Madonna della Rocca?"</p> + +<p>Hermione was gifted, or cursed, with imagination, +and as she never made use of her imaginative faculty +in any of the arts, it was, perhaps, too much at the service +of her own life. In happiness it was a beautiful +handmaid, helping her to greater joy, but in unhappy, +or in only anxious moments, it was, as it usually is, a +cursed thing. It stood at her elbow, then, like a demon +full of suggestions that were terrible. With an inven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span>tiveness +that was diabolic it brought vividly before her +scenes to shake the stoutest courage. It painted the +future black. It showed her the world as a void. And +in that void she was as something falling, falling, yet +reaching nothing.</p> + +<p>Now it was with her in the ravine, and as she asked +questions, terrible questions, it gave her terrible answers. +And it reminded her of other omens—it told her these +facts were really omens—which till now she had not +thought of.</p> + +<p>Why had both she and Maurice been led to think and +to speak of death to-day?</p> + +<p>Upon the mountain-top the thought of death had +come to her when she looked at the glory of the dawn. +She had said to Maurice, "'The mountains will endure'—but +we!" Of course it was a truism, such a thing as +she might say at any time when she was confronted by +the profound stability of nature. Thousands of people +had said much the same thing on thousands of occasions. +Yet now the demon at her elbow whispered to her that +the remark had had a peculiar significance. She had +even said, "What is it makes one think most of death +when—when life, new life, is very near?"</p> + +<p>Existence is made up of loss and gain. New beings +rush into life day by day and hour by hour. Birth is +about us, but death is about us too. And when we are +given something, how often is something also taken +from us! Was that to be her fate?</p> + +<p>And Maurice—he had been led to speak of death, afterwards, +just as he was going away to the sea. She recalled +his words, or the demon whispered them over to +her:</p> + +<p>"'One can never tell what will happen—suppose one +of us were to die here? Don't you think it would be +good to lie there where we lay this afternoon, under the +oak-trees, in sight of Etna and the sea? I think it +would."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span></p> + +<p>They were his very last words, his who was so full of +life, who scarcely ever seemed to realize the possibility +of death. All through the day death had surely been +in the air about them. She remembered her dream, or +quasi-dream. In it she had spoken. She had muttered +an appeal, "Don't leave me alone!" and at another time +she had tried to realize Maurice in England and had failed. +She had felt as if Sicily would never let him go. And +when she had spoken her thought he had hinted that +Sicily could only keep him by holding him in arms of +earth, holding him in those arms that keep the body of +man forever.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was ordained that her Sicilian should never +leave the island that he loved. In all their Sicilian days +how seldom had she thought of their future life together +in England! Always she had seen herself with Maurice in +the south. He had seemed to belong to the south, and +she had brought him to the south. And now—would +the south let him go? The thought of the sirens of +legend flitted through her mind. They called men to +destruction. She imagined them sitting among the +rocks near the Casa della Sirene, calling—calling to her +Sicilian.</p> + +<p>Long ago, when she first knew him well and loved his +beauty, she had sometimes thought of him as a being +of legend. She had let her fancy play about him tenderly, +happily. He had been Mercury, Endymion, a +dancing faun, Cupid vanishing from Psyche as the dawn +came. And now she let a cruel fancy have its will for +a moment. She imagined the sirens calling among the +rocks, and Maurice listening to their summons, and going +to his destruction. The darkness of the ravine helped +the demon who hurried with her down the narrow path, +whispering in her ears. But though she yielded for a +time to the nightmare spell, common-sense had not utterly +deserted her, and presently it made its voice heard. +She began to say to herself that in giving way to such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span> +fantastic fears she was being unworthy of herself, almost +contemptible. In former times she had never +been a foolish woman or weak. She had, on the contrary, +been strong and sensible, although unconventional +and enthusiastic. Many people had leaned upon her, +even strong people. Artois was one. And she had +never yet failed any one.</p> + +<p>"I must not fail myself," she suddenly thought. "I +must not be a fool because I love."</p> + +<p>She loved very much, and she had been separated +from her lover very soon. Her eagerness to return to +him had been so intense that it had made her afraid. +Yet she had returned, been with him again. Her fear +in Africa that they would perhaps never be together +again in their Sicilian home had been groundless. She +remembered how it had often tormented her, especially +at night in the dark. She had passed agonizing hours, +for no reason. Her imagination had persecuted her. +Now it was trying to persecute her more cruelly. Suddenly +she resolved not to let it have its way. Why was +she so frightened at a delay that might be explained in +a moment and in the simplest manner? Why was she +frightened at all?</p> + +<p>Gaspare's foot struck a stone and sent it flying down +the path past her.</p> + +<p>Ah! it had been Gaspare. His face, his manner, had +startled her, had first inclined her to fear.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she said.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Come up beside me. There's room now."</p> + +<p>The boy joined her.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," she continued, "do you know that when +we meet the padrone, you and I, we shall look like two +fools?"</p> + +<p>"Meet the padrone?" he repeated, sullenly.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He'll laugh at us for rushing down like this. +He'll think we've gone quite mad."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span></p> + +<p>Silence was the only response she had.</p> + +<p>"Won't he?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Non lo so."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Gaspare!" she exclaimed. "Don't—don't be +like this to-night. Do you know that you are frightening +me?"</p> + +<p>He did not answer.</p> + +<p>"What is the matter with you? What has been the +matter with you all day?"</p> + +<p>"Niente."</p> + +<p>His voice was hard, and he fell behind again.</p> + +<p>Hermione knew that he was concealing something +from her. She wondered what it was. It must be +something surely in connection with his anxiety. Her +mind worked rapidly. Maurice—the sea—bathing—Gaspare's +fear—Maurice and Gaspare had bathed together +often while she had been in Africa.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," she said. "Walk beside me—I wish it."</p> + +<p>He came up reluctantly.</p> + +<p>"You've bathed with the padrone lately?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"Many times?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora."</p> + +<p>"Have you ever noticed that he was tired in the sea, +or afterwards, or that bathing seemed to make him ill +in any way?"</p> + +<p>"Tired, signora?"</p> + +<p>"You know there's a thing, in English we call it cramp. +Sometimes it seizes the best swimmers. It's a dreadful +pain, I believe, and the limbs refuse to move. You've +never—when he's been swimming with you, the padrone +has never had anything of that kind, has he? It wasn't +that which made you frightened this evening when he +didn't come?"</p> + +<p>She had unwittingly given the boy the chance to +save her from any worse suspicion. With Sicilian +sharpness he seized it. Till now he had been in a di<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span>lemma, +and it was that which had made him sullen, almost +rude. His position was a difficult one. He had +to keep his padrone's confidence. Yet he could not—physically +he could not—stay on the mountain when he +knew that some tragedy was probably being enacted, +or had already been enacted by the sea. He was devoured +by an anxiety which he could not share and +ought not to show because it was caused by the knowledge +which he was solemnly pledged to conceal. This +remark of Hermione gave him a chance of shifting it +from the shoulders of the truth to the shoulders of a lie. +He remembered the morning of sirocco, his fear, his passion +of tears in the boat. The memory seemed almost to +make the lie he was going to tell the truth.</p> + +<p>"Si, signora. It was that."</p> + +<p>His voice was no longer sullen.</p> + +<p>"The padrone had an attack like that?"</p> + +<p>Again the terrible fear came back to her.</p> + +<p>"Signora, it was one morning."</p> + +<p>"Used you to bathe in the morning?"</p> + +<p>A hot flush came in Gaspare's face, but Hermione did +not see it in the darkness.</p> + +<p>"Once we did, signora. We had been fishing."</p> + +<p>"Go on. Tell me!"</p> + +<p>Then Gaspare related the incident of his padrone's +sinking in the sea. Only he made Maurice's travesty appear +a real catastrophe. Hermione listened with painful +attention. So Maurice had nearly died, had been into +the jaws of death, while she had been in Africa! Her +fears there had been less ill-founded than she had thought. +A horror came upon her as she heard Gaspare's story.</p> + +<p>"And then, signora, I cried," he ended. "I cried."</p> + +<p>"You cried?"</p> + +<p>"I thought I never could stop crying again."</p> + +<p>How different from an English boy's reticence was +this frank confession! and yet what English boy was +ever more manly than this mountain lad?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why—but then you saved the padrone's life! God +bless you!"</p> + +<p>Hermione had stopped, and she now put her hand +on Gaspare's arm.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signora, there were two of us. We had the +boat."</p> + +<p>"But"—another thought came to her—"but, Gaspare, +after such a thing as that, how could you let the +padrone go down to bathe alone?"</p> + +<p>Gaspare, a moment before credited with a faithful +action, was now to be blamed for a faithless one. For +neither was he responsible, if strict truth were to be +regarded. But he had insisted on saving his padrone +from the sea when it was not necessary. And he knew +his own faithfulness and was secretly proud of it, as a +good woman knows and is proud of her honor. He had +borne the praise therefore. But one thing he could not +bear, and that was an imputation of faithlessness in +his stewardship.</p> + +<p>"It was not my fault, signora!" he cried, hotly. "I +wanted to go. I begged to go, but the padrone would +not let me."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>Hermione, peering in the darkness, thought she saw +the ugly look come again into the boy's face.</p> + +<p>"Why not, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, why not?"</p> + +<p>"He wished me to stay with you. He said: 'Stay +with the padrona, Gaspare. She will be all alone.'"</p> + +<p>"Did he? Well, Gaspare, it is not your fault. But +I never thought it was. You know that."</p> + +<p>She had heard in his voice that he was hurt.</p> + +<p>"Come! We must go on!"</p> + +<p>Her fear was now tangible. It had a definite form, +and with every moment it grew greater in the night, +towering over her, encompassing her about. For she had +hoped to meet Maurice coming up the ravine, and, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a></span> +each moment that went by, her hope of hearing his footstep +decreased, her conviction that something untoward +must have occurred grew more solid. Only once was +her terror abated. When they were not far from the +mouth of the ravine Gaspare suddenly seized her arm +from behind.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! What is it?" she said, startled.</p> + +<p>He held up one hand.</p> + +<p>"Zitta!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>Hermione listened, holding her breath. It was a +silent night, windless and calm. The trees had no +voices, the watercourse was dry, no longer musical with +the falling stream. Even the sea was dumb, or, if it +were not, murmured so softly that these two could not +hear it where they stood. And now, in this dark silence, +they heard a faint sound. It was surely a foot-fall upon +stones. Yes, it was.</p> + +<p>By the fierce joy that burst up in her heart Hermione +measured her previous fear.</p> + +<p>"It's he! It's the padrone!"</p> + +<p>She put her face close to Gaspare's and whispered the +words. He nodded. His eyes were shining.</p> + +<p>"Andiamo!" he whispered back.</p> + +<p>With a boy's impetuosity he wished to rush on and +meet the truant pilgrim from the sea, but Hermione +held him back. She could not bear to lose that sweet +sound, the foot-fall on the stones, coming nearer every +moment.</p> + +<p>"No. Let's wait for him here! Let's give him a +surprise."</p> + +<p>"Va bene!"</p> + +<p>His body was quivering with suppressed movement. +But they waited. The step was slow, or so it seemed to +Hermione as she listened again, like the step of a tired +man. Maurice seldom walked like that, she thought. +He was light-footed, swift. His actions were ardent as +were his eyes. But it must be he! Of course it was he!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a></span> +He was languid after a long swim, and was walking slowly +for fear of getting hot. That must be it. The walker +drew nearer, the crunch of the stones was louder under +his feet.</p> + +<p>"It isn't the padrone!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare had spoken. All the light had gone out of +his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Si! Si! It is he!"</p> + +<p>Hermione contradicted him.</p> + +<p>"No, signora. It is a contadino."</p> + +<p>Her joy was failing. Although she contradicted Gaspare, +she began to feel that he was right. This step +was heavy, weary, an old man's step. It could not be +her Mercury coming up to his home on the mountain. +But still she waited. Presently there detached itself +from the darkness a faint figure, bent, crowned with a +long Sicilian cap.</p> + +<p>"Andiamo!"</p> + +<p>This time she did not keep Gaspare back. Without +a word they went on. As they came to the figure it +stopped. She did not even glance at it, but as she went +by it she heard an old, croaky voice say:</p> + +<p>"Benedicite!"</p> + +<p>Never before had the Sicilian greeting sounded horrible +in her ears. She did not reply to it. She could +not. And Gaspare said nothing. They hastened on +in silence till they reached the high-road by Isola Bella, +the road where Maurice had met Maddalena on the morning +of the fair.</p> + +<p>It was deserted. The thick white dust upon it looked +ghastly at their feet. Now they could hear the faint +and regular murmur of the oily sea by which the fishermen's +boats were drawn up, and discern, far away on +the right, the serpentine lights of Cattaro.</p> + +<p>"Where do you go to bathe?" Hermione asked, always +speaking in a hushed voice. "Here, by Isola +Bella?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked down at the rocks of the tiny island, at +the dimness of the spreading sea. Till now she had +always gloried in its beauty, but to-night it looked to +her mysterious and cruel.</p> + +<p>"No, signora."</p> + +<p>"Where then?"</p> + +<p>"Farther on—a little. I will go."</p> + +<p>His voice was full of hesitation. He did not know +what to do.</p> + +<p>"Please, signora, stay here. Sit on the bank by the +line. I will go and be back in a moment. I can run. +It is better. If you come we shall take much longer."</p> + +<p>"Go, Gaspare!" she said. "But—stop—where do +you bathe exactly?"</p> + +<p>"Quite near, signora."</p> + +<p>"In that little bay underneath the promontory where +the Casa delle Sirene is?"</p> + +<p>"Sometimes there and sometimes farther on by the +caves. A rivederla!"</p> + +<p>The white dust flew up from the road as he disappeared.</p> + +<p>Hermione did not sit down on the bank. She had +never meant to wait by Isola Bella, but she let him go +because what he had said was true, and she did not +wish to delay him. If anything serious had occurred +every moment might be valuable. After a short pause +she followed him. As she walked she looked continually +at the sea. Presently the road mounted and she came +in sight of the sheltered bay in which Maurice had heard +Maddalena's cry when he was fishing. A stone wall +skirted the road here. Some twenty feet below was +the railway line laid on a bank which sloped abruptly +to the curving beach. She leaned her hands upon the +wall and looked down, thinking she might see Gaspare. +But he was not there. The dark, still sea, protected by +the two promontories, and by an islet of rock in the +middle of the bay, made no sound here. It lay motion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span>less +as a pool in a forest under the stars. To the left +the jutting land, with its turmoil of jagged rocks, was a +black mystery. As she stood by the wall, Hermione +felt horribly lonely, horribly deserted. She wished she +had not let Gaspare go. Yet she dreaded his return. +What might he have to tell her? Now that she was +here by the sea she felt how impossible it was for Maurice +to have been delayed upon the shore. For there +was no one here. The fishermen were up in the village. +The contadini had long since left their work. No one +passed upon the road. There was nothing, there could +have been nothing to keep a man here. She felt as if +it were already midnight, the deepest hour of darkness +and of silence.</p> + +<p>As she took her hands from the wall, and turned to +go on up the hill to the point which commanded the +open sea and the beginning of the Straits of Messina, +she was terrified. Suspicion was hardening into certainty. +Something dreadful must have happened to +Maurice.</p> + +<p>Her legs had begun to tremble again. All her body +felt weak and incapable, like the body of an old person +whose life was drawing to an end. The hill, not very +steep, faced her like a precipice, and it seemed to her +that she would not be able to mount it. In the road +the deep dust surely clung to her feet, refusing to let +her lift them. And she felt sick and contemptible, no +longer her own mistress either physically or mentally. +The voices within her that strove to whisper commonplaces +of consolation, saying that Maurice had gone to +Marechiaro, or that he had taken another path home, not +the path from Isola Bella, brought her no comfort. +The thing within her soul that knew what she, the human +being containing it, did not know, told her that +her terror had its reason, that she was not suffering in +this way without cause. It said, "Your terror is justified."</p> + +<p class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<a href="images/gs08.jpg"> +<img src="images/gs08_th.jpg" width="400" height="272" +alt=""SHE COULD SEE VAGUELY THE SHORE BY THE CAVES WHERE THE FISHERMEN HAD SLEPT IN THE +DAWN"" +title="Click to enlarge." /></a> +<span class="caption">"SHE COULD SEE VAGUELY THE SHORE BY THE CAVES WHERE THE FISHERMEN HAD SLEPT IN THE +DAWN"</span> +</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span></p> + +<p>At last she was at the top of the hill, and could see +vaguely the shore by the caves where the fishermen had +slept in the dawn. To her right was the path which +led to the wall of rock connecting the Sirens' Isle with +the main-land. She glanced at it, but did not think of +following it. Gaspare must have followed the descending +road. He must be down there on that beach searching, +calling his padrone's name, perhaps. She began +to descend slowly, still physically distressed. True to +her fixed idea that if there had been a disaster it must +be connected with the sea, she walked always close +to the wall, and looked always down to the sea. +Within a short time, two or three minutes, she came +in sight of the lakelike inlet, a miniature fiord which +lay at the feet of the woods where hid the Casa delle +Sirene. The water here looked black like ebony. She +stared down at it and saw a boat lying on the shore. +Then she gazed for a moment at the trees opposite from +which always, till to-night, had shone the lamp which she +and Maurice had seen from the terrace. All was dark. +The thickly growing trees did not move. Secret and +impenetrable seemed to her the hiding-place they made. +She could scarcely imagine that any one lived among +them. Yet doubtless the inhabitants of the Casa delle +Sirene were sleeping quietly there while she wandered +on the white road accompanied by her terror.</p> + +<p>She had stopped for a minute, and was just going to +walk on, when she heard a sound that, though faint +and distant, was sharp and imperative. It seemed to +her to be a violent beating on wood, and it was followed +by the calling of a voice. She waited. The sound died +away. She listened, straining her ears. In this absolutely +still night sound travelled far. At first she had +no idea from what direction came this noise which had +startled her. But almost immediately it was repeated, +and she knew that it must be some one striking violently +and repeatedly upon wood—probably a wooden door.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then again the call rang out. This time she recognized, +or thought she recognized, Gaspare's voice raised +angrily, fiercely, in a summons to someone. She looked +across the ebon water at the ebon mass of the trees on +its farther side, and realized swiftly that Gaspare must +be there. He had gone to the only house between the +two bathing-places to ask if its inhabitants had seen +anything of the padrone.</p> + +<p>This seemed to her to be a very natural and intelligent +action, and she waited eagerly and watched, hoping to +see a light shine out as Salvatore—yes, that had been +the name told to her by Gaspare—as Salvatore got up +from sleep and came to open. He might know something, +know at least at what hour Maurice had left the +sea.</p> + +<p>Again came the knocking and the call, again—four, +five times. Then there was a long silence. Always the +darkness reigned, unbroken by the earth-bound star, the +light she looked for. The silence began to seem to her +interminable. At first she thought that perhaps Gaspare +was having a colloquy with the owner of the house, +was learning something of Maurice. But presently she +began to believe that there could be no one in the house, +and that he had realized this. If so, he would have to +return either to the road or the beach. She could see +no boat moored to the shore opposite. He would come +by the wall of rock, then, unless he swam the inlet. She +went back a little way to a point from which dimly she +saw the wall, and waited there a few minutes. Surely +it would be dangerous to traverse that wall on such a +dark night! Now, to her other fear was added fear for +Gaspare. If an accident were to happen to him! Suddenly +she hastened back to the path which led from +the high-road along the spit of cultivated land to the +wall, turned from the road, traversed the spit, and went +down till she stood at the edge of the wall. She looked +at the black rock, the black sea that lay motionless far<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span> +down on either side of it. Surely Gaspare would not +venture to come this way. It seemed to her that to +do so would mean death, or, if not that, a dangerous +fall into the sea—and probably there were rocks below, +hidden under the surface of the water. But Gaspare +was daring. She knew that. He was as active as a +cat and did not know the meaning of fear for his own +safety. He might—</p> + +<p>Out of the darkness on the land beyond the wall, +something came, the form of some one hurrying.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The form stopped.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"Signora! What are you doing here? Madonna!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, don't come this way! You are not to come +this way."</p> + +<p>"Why are you here, signora? I told you to wait for +me by Isola Bella."</p> + +<p>The startled voice was hard.</p> + +<p>"You are not to cross the wall. I won't have it."</p> + +<p>"The wall—it is nothing, signora. I have crossed it +many times. It is nothing for a man."</p> + +<p>"In the day, perhaps, but at night—don't, Gaspare—d'you +hear me?—you are not—"</p> + +<p>She stopped, holding her breath, for she saw him coming +lightly, poised on bare feet, straight as an arrow, +and balancing himself with his out-stretched arms.</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>She had shrieked out. Just as he was midway Gaspare +had looked down at the sea—the open sea on the +far side of the wall. Instantly his foot slipped, he lost +his balance and fell. She thought he had gone, but he +caught the wall with his hands, hung for a moment +suspended above the sea, then raised himself, as a gymnast +does on a parallel bar, slowly till his body was +above the wall. Then—Hermione did not know how—he +was beside her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span></p> + +<p>She caught hold of him with both hands. She felt +furiously angry.</p> + +<p>"How dare you disobey me?" she said, panting and +trembling. "How dare you—"</p> + +<p>But his eyes silenced her. She broke off, staring at +him. All the healthy color had left his face. There +was a leaden hue upon it.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare—are you—you aren't hurt—you—"</p> + +<p>"Let me go, signora! Let me go!"</p> + +<p>She let him go instantly.</p> + +<p>"What is it? Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>He pointed to the beach.</p> + +<p>"To the boat. There's—down there in the water—there's +something in the water!"</p> + +<p>"Something?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Wait in the road."</p> + +<p>He rushed away from her, and she heard him saying: +"Madonna! Madonna! Madonna!"—crying it out as +he ran.</p> + +<p>Something in the water! She felt as if her heart stood +still for a century, then at last beat again somewhere +up in her throat, choking her. Something—could Gaspare +have seen what? She moved on a step. One of her +feet was on the wall, the other still on the firm earth. +She leaned down and tried to look over into the sea beyond, +the sea close to the wall. But her head swam. +Had she not moved back hastily, obedient to an imperious +instinct of self-preservation, she would have +fallen. She sat down, there where she had been standing, +and dropped her face into her hands close to her +knees, and kept quite still. She felt as if she were in +a train going through a tunnel. Her ears were full of +a roaring clamor. How long she sat and heard tumult +she did not know. When she looked up the night seemed +to her to be much darker than before, intensely +dark. Yet all the stars were there in the sky. No +clouds had come to hide them. She tried to get up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span> +quickly, but there was surely something wrong with +her body. It would not obey her will at first. Presently +she lay down, turned over on her side, put both +hands on the ground, and with an effort, awkward as +that of a cripple, hoisted herself up and stood on her +feet. Gaspare had said, "Wait in the road." She +must find the road. That was what she must do.</p> + +<p>"Wait in the road—wait in the road." She kept on +saying that to herself. But she could not remember for +a moment where the road was. She could only think of +rock, of water black like ebony. The road was white. +She must look for something white. And when she +found it she must wait. Presently, while she thought +she was looking, she found that she was walking in the +dust. It flew up into her nostrils, dry and acrid. Then +she began to recover herself and to realize more clearly +what she was doing.</p> + +<p>She did not know yet. She knew nothing yet. The +night was dark, the sea was dark. Gaspare had only +cast one swift glance down before his foot had slipped. +It was impossible that he could have seen what it was +that was there in the water. And she was always inclined +to let her imagination run riot. God isn't cruel. +She had said that under the oak-trees, and it was true. +It must be true.</p> + +<p>"I've never done God any harm," she was saying to +herself now. "I've never meant to. I've always tried +to do the right thing. God knows that! God wouldn't +be cruel to me."</p> + +<p>In this moment all the subtlety of her mind deserted +her, all that in her might have been called "cleverness." +She was reduced to an extraordinary simplicity like +that of a child, or a very instinctive, uneducated person.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I'm bad," she thought. "And God—He +isn't bad. He wouldn't wish to hurt me. He +wouldn't wish to kill me."</p> + +<p>She was walking on mechanically while she thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span> +this, but presently she remembered again that Gaspare +had told her to wait in the road. She looked over the +wall down to the narrow strip of beach that edged the +inlet between the main-land and the Sirens' Isle. The +boat which she had seen there was gone. Gaspare had +taken it. She stood staring at the place where the boat +had been. Then she sought a means of descending to +that strip of beach. She would wait there. A little +lower down the road some of the masonry of the wall +had been broken away, perhaps by a winter flood, and +at this point there was a faint track, trodden by fishermen's +feet, leading down to the line. Hermione got over +the wall at this point and was soon on the beach, standing +almost on the spot where Maurice had stripped off +his clothes in the night to seek the voice that had cried +out to him in the darkness. She waited here. Gaspare +would presently come back. His arms were strong. He +could row fast. She would only have to wait a few +minutes. In a few minutes she would know. She +strained her eyes to catch sight of the boat rounding +the promontory as it returned from the open sea. At +first she stood, but presently, as the minutes went by +and the boat did not come, her sense of physical weakness +returned and she sat down on the stones with her +feet almost touching the water.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare knows now," she thought. "I don't know, +but Gaspare knows."</p> + +<p>That seemed to her strange, that any one should know +the truth of this thing before she did. For what did it +matter to any one but her? Maurice was hers—was so +absolutely hers that she felt as if no one else had any +concern in him. He was Gaspare's padrone. Gaspare +loved him as a Sicilian may love his padrone. Others +in England, too, loved him—his mother, his father. But +what was any love compared with the love of the one +woman to whom he belonged. His mother had her husband. +Gaspare—he was a boy. He would love some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span> +girl presently; he would marry. No, she was right. The +truth about that "something in the water" only concerned +her. God's dealing with this creature of his to-night +only really mattered to her.</p> + +<p>As she waited, pressing her hands on the stones and +looking always at the point of the dark land round +which the boat must come, a strange and terrible feeling +came to her, a feeling that she knew she ought to +drive out of her soul, but that she was powerless to expel.</p> + +<p>She felt as if at this moment God were on His trial +before her—before a poor woman who loved.</p> + +<p>"If God has taken Maurice from me," she thought, +"He is cruel, frightfully cruel, and I cannot love Him. +If He has not taken Maurice from me, He is the God +who is love, the God I can, I must worship!"</p> + +<p>Which God was he?</p> + +<p>The vast scheme of the world narrowed; the wide +horizons vanished. There was nothing beyond the limit +of her heart. She felt, as almost all believing human +beings feel in such moments, that God's attention was +entirely concentrated upon her life, that no other claimed +His care, begged for His pity, demanded His tenderness +because hers was so intense.</p> + +<p>Did God wish to lose her love? Surely not! Then +He could not commit this frightful act which she feared. +He had not committed it.</p> + +<p>A sort of relief crept through her as she thought this. +Her agony of apprehension was suddenly lessened, was +almost driven out.</p> + +<p>God wants to be loved by the beings He has created. +Then He would not deliberately, arbitrarily destroy a +love already existing in the heart of one of them—a love +thankful to Him, enthusiastically grateful for happiness +bestowed by Him.</p> + +<p>Beyond the darkness of the point there came out of +the dimness of the night that brooded above the open +sea a moving darkness, and Hermione heard the splash<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span> +of oars in the calm water. She got up quickly. Now +her body was trembling again. She stared at the boat +as if she would force it to yield its secret to her eyes. +But that was only for an instant. Then her ears seemed +to be seeking the truth, seeking it from the sound of the +oars in the water!</p> + +<p>There was no rhythmic regularity in the music they +made, no steadiness, no—no—</p> + +<p>She listened passionately, instinctively bending down +her head sideways. It seemed to her that she was listening +to a drunken man rowing. Now there was a quick +beating of the oars in the water, then silence, then a +heavy splash as if one of the oars had escaped from an +uncertain hand, then some uneven strokes, one oar +striking the water after the other.</p> + +<p>"But Gaspare is a contadino," she said to herself, +"not a fisherman. Gaspare is a contadino and—"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she called out. "Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The boat stopped midway in the mouth of the inlet.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Is it you?"</p> + +<p>She saw a dark figure standing up in the boat.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, is it you?" she cried, more loudly.</p> + +<p>"Si."</p> + +<p>Was it Gaspare's voice? She did not recognize it. +Yet the voice had answered "Yes." The boat still remained +motionless on the water midway between shore +and shore. She did not speak again; she was afraid to +speak. She stood and stared at the boat and at the +motionless figure standing up in it. Why did not he +row in to land? What was he doing there? She stared +at the boat and at the figure standing in it till she could +see nothing. Then she shut her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she called, keeping her eyes shut. "What +are you doing? Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>There was no reply.</p> + +<p>She opened her eyes, and now she could see the boat +again and the rower.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" she cried, with all her strength, to the +black figure. "Why don't you row to the shore? Why +don't you come to me?"</p> + +<p>"Vengo!"</p> + +<p>Loudly the word came to her, loudly and sullenly as +if the boy were angry with her, almost hated her. It +was followed by a fierce splash of oars. The boat shot +forward, coming straight towards her. Then suddenly +the oars ceased from moving, the dark figure of the +rower fell down in a heap, and she heard cries, like cries +of despair, and broken exclamations, and then a long +sound of furious weeping.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare! Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>Her voice was strangled in her throat and died away.</p> + +<p>"And then, signora, I cried—I cried!"</p> + +<p>When had Gaspare said that to her? And why had +he cried?</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>It came from her lips in a whisper almost inaudible +to herself.</p> + +<p>Then she rushed forward into the dark water.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h2> + + +<p>Late that night Dr. Marini, the doctor of the commune +of Marechiaro, was roused from sleep in his house +in the Corso by a violent knocking on his street door. +He turned over in his bed, muttered a curse, then lay +still for a moment and listened. The knocking was renewed +more violently. Evidently the person who stood +without was determined to gain admission. There was +no help for it. The good doctor, who was no longer +young, dropped his weary legs to the floor, walked across +to the open window, and thrust his head out of it. A +man was standing below.</p> + +<p>"What is it? What do you want?" said the doctor, +in a grumbling voice. "Is it another baby? Upon my +word, these—"</p> + +<p>"Signor Dottore, come down, come down instantly! +The signore of Monte Amato, the signore of the Casa +del Prete has had an accident. You must come at once. +I will go to fetch a donkey."</p> + +<p>The doctor leaned farther out of the window.</p> + +<p>"An accident! What—?"</p> + +<p>But the man, a fisherman of Marechiaro, was already +gone, and the doctor saw only the narrow, deserted +street, black with the shadows of the tall houses.</p> + +<p>He drew in quickly and began to dress himself with +some expedition. An accident, and to a forestiere! +There would be money in this case. He regretted his +lost sleep less now and cursed no more, though he +thought of the ride up into the mountains with a good +deal of self-pity. It was no joke to be a badly paid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[Pg 431]</a></span> +Sicilian doctor, he thought, as he tugged at his trousers +buttons, and fastened the white front that covered the +breast of his flannel shirt, and adjusted the cuffs which +he took out of a small drawer. Without lighting a +candle he went down-stairs, fumbled about, and found +his case of instruments. Then he opened the street +door and waited, yawning on the stone pavement. In +two or three minutes he heard the tripping tip-tap of a +donkey's hoofs, and the fisherman came up leading a +donkey apparently as disinclined for a nocturnal flitting +as the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Giuseppe, it's you, is it?"</p> + +<p>"Si, Signor Dottore!"</p> + +<p>"What's this accident?"</p> + +<p>The fisherman looked grave and crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"Oh, signore, it is terrible! They say the poor signore +is dead!"</p> + +<p>"Dead!" exclaimed the doctor, startled. "You said +is was an accident. Dead you say now?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, he is dead beyond a doubt. I was going to +the fishing when I heard dreadful cries in the water by +the inlet—you know, by Salvatore's terreno!"</p> + +<p>"In the water?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. I went down quickly and I found Gaspare, +the signore's—"</p> + +<p>"I know—I know!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare in a boat with the padrone lying at the bottom, +and the signora standing up to her middle in the +sea."</p> + +<p>"Z't! z't!" exclaimed the doctor, "the signora in the +sea! Is she mad?"</p> + +<p>"Signor Dottore, how do I know? I brought the +boat to shore. Gaspare was like one crazed. Then we +lifted the signore out upon the stones. Oh, he is dead, +Signor Dottore; dead beyond a doubt. They had found +him in the sea—"</p> + +<p>"They?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[Pg 432]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Gaspare—under the rocks between Salvatore's terreno +and the main-land. He had all his clothes on. He +must have been there in the dark—"</p> + +<p>"Why should he go in the dark?"</p> + +<p>"How do I know, Signor Dottore?—and have fallen, +and struck his head against the rocks. For there was +a wound and—"</p> + +<p>"The body should not have been moved from where +it lay till the Pretore had seen it. Gaspare should have +left the body."</p> + +<p>"But perhaps the povero signore is not really dead, +after all! Madonna! How—"</p> + +<p>"Come! come! we must not delay! One minute! I +will get some lint and—"</p> + +<p>He disappeared into the house. Almost directly he +came out again with a package under his arm and a +long, black cigar lighted in his mouth.</p> + +<p>"Take these, Giuseppe! Carry them carefully. Now +then!"</p> + +<p>He hoisted himself onto the donkey.</p> + +<p>"A-ah! A-ah!"</p> + +<p>They set off, the fisherman walking on naked feet beside +the donkey.</p> + +<p>"Then we have to go down to the sea?"</p> + +<p>"No, Signor Dottore. There were others on the road, +Antonio and—"</p> + +<p>"The rest of you going to the boats—I know. Well?"</p> + +<p>"And the signora would have him carried up to Monte +Amato."</p> + +<p>"She could give directions?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. She ordered everything. When she +came out of the sea she was all wet, the poor signora, +but she was calm. I called the others. When they saw +the signore they all cried out. They knew him. Some +of them had been to the fishing with him. Oh, they +were sorry! They all began to speak and to try to—"</p> + +<p>"Diavolo! They could only make things worse! If<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[Pg 433]</a></span> +the breath of life was in the signore's body they would +drive it out. Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>"But the signora stopped them. She told them to +be silent and to carry the signore up to the Casa del +Prete. Signore, she—the povera signora—she took his +head in her hands. She held his head and she never +cried, not a tear!"</p> + +<p>The man brushed his hand across his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Povera signora! Povera signora!" murmured the +doctor.</p> + +<p>"And she comforted Gaspare, too!" Giuseppe added. +"She put her arm round him and told him to be brave, +and help her. She made him walk by her and put his +hand under the padrone's shoulder. Madonna!"</p> + +<p>They turned away from the village into a narrow +path that led into the hills.</p> + +<p>"And I came to fetch you, Signor Dottore. Perhaps +the povero signore is not really dead. Perhaps you can +save him, Signor Dottore!"</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?" replied the doctor.</p> + +<p>He had let his cigar go out and did not know it.</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?" he repeated, mechanically.</p> + +<p>Then they went on in silence—till they reached the +shoulder of the mountain under Castel Vecchio. From +here they could see across the ravine to the steep slope +of Monte Amato. Upon it, high up, a light shone, and +presently a second light detached itself from the first, +moved a little way, and then was stationary.</p> + +<p>Giuseppe pointed.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, Signor Dottore! They have carried the poor +signore up."</p> + +<p>The second light moved waveringly back towards the +first.</p> + +<p>"They are carrying him into the house, Signor Dottore. +Madonna! And all this to happen in the night!"</p> + +<p>The doctor nodded without speaking. He was watching +the lights up there in that lonely place. He was not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[Pg 434]</a></span> +a man of strong imagination, and was accustomed to +look on misery, the misery of the poor. But to-night he +felt a certain solemnity descend upon him as he rode by +these dark by-paths up into the bosom of the hills. +Perhaps part of this feeling came from the fact that his +mission had to do with strangers, with rich people from +a distant country who had come to his island for pleasure, +and who were now suddenly involved in tragedy in +the midst of their amusement. But also he had a certain +sense of personal sympathy. He had known Hermione +on her former visit to Sicily and had liked her; +and though this time he had seen scarcely anything of +her he had seen enough to be aware that she was very +happy with her young husband. Maurice, too, he had +seen, full of the joy of youth and of bounding health. +And now all that was put out, if Giuseppe's account +were true. It was a pity, a sad pity.</p> + +<p>The donkey crossed the mouth of the ravine, and +picked its way upward carefully amid the loose stones. +In the ravine a little owl hooted twice.</p> + +<p>"Giuseppe!" said the doctor.</p> + +<p>"Signore?"</p> + +<p>"The signora has been away, hasn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Si signore. In Africa."</p> + +<p>"Nursing that sick stranger. And now directly she +comes back here's this happening to her! Per Dio!"</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Somebody must have looked on the povera signora +with the evil-eye, Signor Dottore."</p> + +<p>Giuseppe crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"It seems so," the doctor replied, gravely.</p> + +<p>He was almost as superstitious as the contadini among +whom he labored.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, Signor Dottore!"</p> + +<p>The doctor looked up. At the arch stood a figure +holding a little lamp. Almost immediately, two more +figures appeared behind it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[Pg 435]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Il dottore! Ecco il dottore!"</p> + +<p>There was a murmur of voices in the dark. As the +donkey came up the excited fishermen crowded round, +all speaking at once.</p> + +<p>"He is dead, Signor Dottore. The povero signore is +dead!"</p> + +<p>"Let the Signor Dottore come to him, Beppe! What +do you know? Let the—"</p> + +<p>"Sure enough he is dead! Why, he must have been +in the water a good hour. He is all swollen with the +water and—"</p> + +<p>"It is his head, Signor Dottore! If it had not been +for his coming against the rocks he would not have been +hurt. Per Dio, he can swim like a fish, the povero signorino. +I have seen him swim. Why, even Peppino—"</p> + +<p>"The signora wants us all to go away, Signor Dottore. +She begs us to go and leave her alone with the povero +signore!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare is in such a state! You would not know +him. And the povera signora, she is all dripping wet. +She has been into the sea, and now she has carried the +head of the povero signore all the way up the mountain. +She would not let any one—"</p> + +<p>A succession of cries came out of the darkness, hysterical +cries that ended in prolonged sobbing.</p> + +<p>"That is Lucrezia!" cried one of the fishermen. +"Madonna! That is Lucrezia!"</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia! Mamma mia!"</p> + +<p>Their voices were loud in the night. The doctor pushed +his way between the men and came onto the terrace +in front of the steps that led into the sitting-room.</p> + +<p>Gaspare was standing there alone. His face was almost +unrecognizable. It looked battered, puffy, and +inflamed, as if he had been drinking and fighting. There +were no tears in his eyes now, but long, violent sobs +shook his body from time to time, and his blistered lips +opened and shut mechanically with each sob. He stared<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[Pg 436]</a></span> +dully at the doctor, but did not say a word, or move to +get out of the way.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" said the doctor. "Where is the padrona?"</p> + +<p>The boy sobbed and sobbed, always in the same dry +and terribly mechanical way.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" repeated the doctor, touching him. "Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"E' morto!" the boy suddenly cried out, in a loud +voice.</p> + +<p>And he flung himself down on the ground.</p> + +<p>The doctor felt a thrill of cold in his veins. He went +up the steps into the little sitting-room. As he did so +Hermione came to the door of the bedroom. Her dripping +skirts clung about her. She looked quite calm. +Without greeting the doctor she said, quietly:</p> + +<p>"You heard what Gaspare said?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora, ma—"</p> + +<p>The doctor stopped, staring at her. He began to feel +almost dazed. The fishermen had followed him and +stood crowding together on the steps and staring into +the room.</p> + +<p>"He is dead. I am sorry you came all this way."</p> + +<p>They stood there facing one another. From the +kitchen came the sound of Lucrezia's cries. Hermione +put her hands up to her ears.</p> + +<p>"Please—please—oh, there should be a little silence +here now!" she said.</p> + +<p>For the first time there was a sound of something like +despair in her voice.</p> + +<p>"Let me come in, signora!" stammered the doctor. +"Let me come in and examine him."</p> + +<p>"He is dead."</p> + +<p>"Well, but let me. I must!"</p> + +<p>"Please come in," she said.</p> + +<p>The doctor turned round to the fishermen.</p> + +<p>"Go, one of you, and make that girl keep quiet," he +said, angrily. "Take her away out of the house<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[Pg 437]</a></span>—directly! +Do you hear? And the rest of you stay +outside, and don't make a sound."</p> + +<p>The fishermen slunk a little way back into the darkness, +while Giuseppe, walking on the toes of his bare feet, +and glancing nervously at the furniture and the pictures +upon the walls, crossed the room and disappeared into +the kitchen. Then the doctor laid down his cigar on a +table and went into the bedroom whither Hermione had +preceded him.</p> + +<p>There was a lighted candle on the white chest of +drawers. The window and the shutters of the room +were closed against the glances of the fishermen. On +one of the two beds—Hermione's—lay the body of a +man dripping with water. The doctor took the candle +in his hand, went to this bed and leaned down, then set +down the candle at the bedhead and made a brief examination. +He found at once that Gaspare had spoken +the truth. This man had been dead for some time. +Nevertheless, something—he scarcely knew what—kept +the doctor there by the bed for some moments before +he pronounced his verdict. Never before had he felt so +great a reluctance to speak the simple words that would +convey a great truth. He fingered his shirt-front uneasily, +and stared at the body on the bed and at the +wet sheets and pillows. Meanwhile, Hermione had sat +down on a chair near the door that opened into what +had been Maurice's dressing-room, and folded her hands +in her lap. The doctor did not look towards her, but he +felt her presence painfully. Lucrezia's cries had died +away, and there was complete silence for a brief space +of time.</p> + +<p>The body on the bed was swollen, but not very much, +the face was sodden, the hair plastered to the head, and +on the left temple there was a large wound, evidently, +as the doctor had seen, caused by the forehead striking +violently against a hard, resisting substance. It was +not the sea alone which had killed this man. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[Pg 438]</a></span> +the sea and the rock in the sea. He had fallen, been +stunned and then drowned. The doctor knew the place +where he had been found. The explanation of the +tragedy was very simple—very simple.</p> + +<p>While the doctor was thinking this, and fingering his +shirt-front mechanically, and bracing himself to turn +towards the quiet woman in the chair, he heard a loud, +dry noise in the sitting-room, then in the bedroom. +Gaspare had come in, and was standing at the foot of +the bed, sobbing and staring at the doctor with hopeless +eyes, that yet asked a last question, begged desperately +for a lie.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The woman in the chair whispered to him. He took +no notice.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>She got up and crossed over to the boy, and took one +of his hands.</p> + +<p>"It's no use," she said. "Perhaps he is happy."</p> + +<p>Then the boy began to cry passionately. Tears poured +out of his eyes while he held his padrona's hand. +The doctor got up.</p> + +<p>"He is dead, signora," he said.</p> + +<p>"We knew it," Hermione replied.</p> + +<p>She looked at the doctor for a minute. Then she +said:</p> + +<p>"Hush, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>The doctor stood by the bed.</p> + +<p>"Scusi, signora," he said, "but—but will you take +him into the next room?"</p> + +<p>He pointed to Gaspare, who shivered as he wept.</p> + +<p>"I must make a further examination."</p> + +<p>"Why? You see that he is dead."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but—there are certain formalities."</p> + +<p>He stopped.</p> + +<p>"Formalities!" she said. "He is dead."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But—but the authorities will have to be in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[Pg 439]</a></span>formed. +I am very sorry. I should wish to leave everything +undisturbed."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean? Gaspare! Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>"But—according to the law, our law, the body should +never have been moved. It should have been left where +it was found until—"</p> + +<p>"We could not leave him in the sea."</p> + +<p>She still spoke quite quietly, but the doctor felt as if +he could not go on.</p> + +<p>"Since it is done—" he began.</p> + +<p>He pulled himself together with an effort.</p> + +<p>"There will have to be an inquiry, signora—the cause +of death will have to be ascertained."</p> + +<p>"You see it. He was coming from the island. He +fell and was drowned. It is very simple."</p> + +<p>"Yes, no doubt. Still, there must be an inquiry. +Gaspare will have to explain—"</p> + +<p>He looked at the weeping boy, then at the woman +who stood there holding the boy's hand in hers.</p> + +<p>"But that will be for to-morrow," he muttered, fingering +his shirt-front and looking down. "That will be for +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>As he went out he added:</p> + +<p>"Signora, do not remain in your wet clothes."</p> + +<p>"I—oh, thank you. They do not matter."</p> + +<p>She did not follow him into the next room. As he +went down the steps to the terrace the sound of Gaspare's +passionate weeping followed him into the night.</p> + +<p>When the doctor was on the donkey and was riding +out through the arch, after a brief colloquy with the +fishermen and with Giuseppe, whom he had told to remain +at the cottage for the rest of the night, he suddenly +remembered the cigar which he had left upon the table, +and he pulled up.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Signor Dottore?" said one of the fishermen.</p> + +<p>"I've left something, but—never mind. It does not +matter."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[Pg 440]</a></span></p> + +<p>He rode on again.</p> + +<p>"It does not matter," he repeated.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of the English signora standing beside +the bed in her wet skirts and holding the hand of +the weeping boy.</p> + +<p>It was the first time in his life that he had ever sacrificed +a good cigar.</p> + +<p>He wondered why he did so now, but he did not care +to return just then to the Casa del Prete.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[Pg 441]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h2> + + +<p>Hermione longed for quiet, for absolute silence.</p> + +<p>It seemed strange to her that she still longed for anything—strange +and almost horrible, almost inhuman. +But she did long for that, to be able to sit beside her +dead husband and to be undisturbed, to hear no voice +speaking, no human movement, to see no one. If it +had been possible she would have closed the cottage +against every one, even against Gaspare and Lucrezia. +But it was not possible. Destiny did not choose that +she should have this calm, this silence. It had seemed +to her, when fear first came upon her, as if no one but +herself had any real concern with Maurice, as if her love +conferred upon her a monopoly. This monopoly had +been one of joy. Now it should be one of sorrow. But +now it did not exist. She was not weeping for Maurice. +But others were. She had no one to go to. But others +came to her, clung to her. She could not rid herself of +the human burden.</p> + +<p>She might have been selfish, determined, she might +have driven the mourners out. But—and that was +strange, too—she found herself pitying them, trying to +use her intellect to soothe them.</p> + +<p>Lucrezia was terrified, almost like one assailed suddenly +by robbers, terrified and half incredulous. When +her hysteria subsided she was at first unbelieving.</p> + +<p>"He cannot be really dead, signora!" she sobbed to +Hermione. "The povero signorino. He was so gay! +He was so—"</p> + +<p>She talked and talked, as Sicilians do when face to +face with tragedy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[Pg 442]</a></span></p> + +<p>She recalled Maurice's characteristics, his kindness, his +love of climbing, fishing, bathing, his love of the sun—all +his love of life.</p> + +<p>Hermione had to listen to the story with that body +lying on her bed.</p> + +<p>Gaspare's grief was speechless, but needed comfort +more. There was an element in it of fury which Hermione +realized without rightly understanding. She +supposed it was the fury of a boy from whom something +is taken by one whom he cannot attack.</p> + +<p>For God is beyond our reach.</p> + +<p>She could not understand the conflict going on in the +boy's heart and mind.</p> + +<p>He knew that this death was probably no natural +death, but a murder.</p> + +<p>Neither Maddalena nor her father had been in the +Casa delle Sirene when he knocked upon the door in the +night. Salvatore had sent Maddalena to spend the +night with relations in Marechiaro, on the pretext that +he was going to sail to Messina on some business. And +he had actually sailed before Gaspare's arrival on the +island. But Gaspare knew that there had been a meeting, +and he knew what the Sicilian is when he is wronged. +The words "vengeance is mine!" are taken in Sicily by +each wronged man into his own mouth, and Salvatore +was notoriously savage and passionate.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[Pg 443]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What was he going to do?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"Hush, Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>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 ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[Pg 444]</a></span>plained +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.</p> + +<p>Presently the clock Gaspare had brought from the +fair chimed, then played the "Tre Colori." Lucrezia +had set it to play that evening when she was waiting for +the padrone to return from the sea.</p> + +<p>When he heard the tinkling tune Gaspare lifted his +head and listened till it was over. It recalled to him +all the glories of the fair. He saw his padrone before +him. He remembered how he had decorated Maurice +with flowers, and he felt as if his heart would break.</p> + +<p>"The povero signorino! the povero signorino!" he +cried, in a choked voice. "And I put roses above his ears! +Si, signora, I did! I said he should be a real Siciliano!"</p> + +<p>He began to rock himself to and fro. His whole body +shook, and his face had a frantic expression that suggested +violence.</p> + +<p>"I put roses above his ears!" he repeated. "That +day he was a real Siciliano!"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare—Gaspare—hush! Don't! Don't!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[Pg 445]</a></span></p> + +<p>She held his hand and went on speaking softly.</p> + +<p>"We must be quiet in here. We must remember to +be quiet. It isn't our fault, Gaspare. We did all we +could to make him happy. We ought to be glad of +that. You did everything you could, and he loved you +for it. He was happy with us. I think he was. I +think he was happy till the very end. And that is something +to be glad of. Don't you think he was very +happy here?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signora!" the boy whispered, with twitching lips.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I came back in time," Hermione said, looking +at the dark hair on the pillow. "It might have happened +before, while I was away. I'm glad we had one +more day together."</p> + +<p>Suddenly, as she said that, something in the mere +sound of the words seemed to reveal more clearly to her +heart what had befallen her, and for the first time she +began to cry and to remember. She remembered all +Maurice's tenderness for her, all his little acts of kindness. +They seemed to pass rapidly in procession through +her mind on their way to her heart. Not one surely was +absent. How kind to her he had always been! And he +could never be kind to her again. And she could never +be kind to him—never again.</p> + +<p>Her tears went on falling quietly. She did not sob +like Gaspare. But she felt that now she had begun to +cry she would never be able to stop again; that she +would go on crying till she, too, died.</p> + +<p>Gaspare looked up at her.</p> + +<p>"Signora!" he said. "Signora!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly he got up, as if to go out of the room, out +of the house. The sight of his padrona's tears had +driven him nearly mad with the desire to wreak vengeance +upon Salvatore. For a moment his body seemed +to get beyond his control. His eyes saw blood, and his +hand darted down to his belt, and caught at the knife +that was there, and drew it out. When Hermione saw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[Pg 446]</a></span> +the knife she thought the boy was going to kill himself +with it. She sprang up, went swiftly to Gaspare, and +put her hand on it over his hand.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, what are you doing?" she said.</p> + +<p>For a moment his face was horrible in its savagery. +He opened his mouth, still keeping his grasp on the +knife, which she tried to wrest from him.</p> + +<p>"Lasci andare! Lasci andare!" he said, beginning to +struggle with her.</p> + +<p>"No, Gaspare."</p> + +<p>"Allora—"</p> + +<p>He paused with his mouth open.</p> + +<p>At that moment he was on the very verge of a revelation +of the truth. He was on the point of telling +Hermione that he was sure that the padrone had been +murdered, and that he meant to avenge the murder. +Hermione believed that for the moment he was mad, +and was determined to destroy himself in her presence. +It was useless to pit her strength against his. In a physical +struggle she must be overcome. Her only chance +was to subdue him by other means.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," she said, quickly, breathlessly, pointing +to the bed. "Don't you think the padrone would have +wished you to take care of me now? He trusted you. +I think he would. I think he would rather you were +with me than any one else in the whole world. You +must take care of me. You must take care of me. You +must never leave me!"</p> + +<p>The boy looked at her. His face changed, grew +softer.</p> + +<p>"I've got nobody now," she added. "Nobody but +you."</p> + +<p>The knife fell on the floor.</p> + +<p>In that moment Gaspare's resolve was taken. The +battle within him was over. He must protect the +padrona. The padrone would have wished it. Then +he must let Salvatore go.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[Pg 447]</a></span></p> + +<p>He bent down and kissed Hermione's hand.</p> + +<p>"Lei non piange!" he muttered. "Forse Dio la aiuterà."</p> + +<p>In the morning, early, Hermione left the body for +the first time, went into the dressing-room, changed her +clothes, then came back and said to Gaspare:</p> + +<p>"I am going a little way up the mountain, Gaspare. +I shall not be long. No, don't come with me. Stay +with him. Are you dreadfully tired?"</p> + +<p>"No, signora."</p> + +<p>"We shall be able to rest presently," she said.</p> + +<p>She was thinking of the time when they would take +Maurice from her. She left Gaspare sitting near the bed, +and went out onto the terrace. Lucrezia and Gaspare, +both thoroughly tired out, were sleeping soundly. She +was thankful for that. Soon, she knew, she would have +to be with people, to talk, to make arrangements. But +now she had a short spell of solitude.</p> + +<p>She went slowly up the mountain-side till she was +near the top. Then she sat down on a rock and looked +out towards the sea.</p> + +<p>The world was not awake yet, although the sun was +coming. Etna was like a great phantom, the waters at +its foot were pale in their tranquillity. The air was +fresh, but there was no wind to rustle the leaves of the +oak-trees, upon whose crested heads Hermione gazed +down with quiet, tearless eyes.</p> + +<p>She had a strange feeling of being out of the world, +as if she had left it, but still had the power to see it. +She wondered if Maurice felt like that.</p> + +<p>He had said it would be good to lie beneath those oak-trees +in sight of Etna and the sea. How she wished that +she could lay his body there, alone, away from all other +dead. But that was impossible, she supposed. She remembered +the doctor's words. What were they going +to do? She did not know anything about Italian procedure +in such an event. Would they take him away?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[Pg 448]</a></span> +She had no intention of trying to resist anything, of +offering any opposition. It would be useless, and besides +he had gone away. Already he was far off. She +did not feel, as many women do, that so long as they +are with the body of their dead they are also with the +soul. She would like to keep the dear body, to have it +always near to her, to live close to the spot where it was +committed to the earth. But Maurice was gone. Her +Mercury had winged his way from her, obedient to a +summons that she had not heard. Always she had +thought of him as swift, and swiftly, without warning, +he had left her. He had died young. Was that wonderful? +She thought not. No; age could have nothing +to say to him, could hold no commerce with him. +He had been born to be young and never to be anything +else. It seemed to her now strange that she had not +felt this, foreseen that it must be so. And yet, only +yesterday, she had imagined a far future, and their child +laying them in the ground of Sicily, side by side, and +murmuring "Buon riposo" above their mutual sleep.</p> + +<p>Their child! A life had been taken from her. Soon +a life would be given to her. Was that what is called +compensation? Perhaps so. Many strange thoughts, +come she could not tell why, were passing through her +mind as she sat upon this height in the dawn. The +thought of compensation recalled to her the Book of +Job. Everything was taken from Job; not only his +flocks and his herds, but his sons and his daughters. +And then at the last he was compensated. He was +given new flocks and herds and new sons and daughters. +And it was supposed to be well with Job. If it was well +with Job, then Job had been a man without a heart.</p> + +<p>Never could she be compensated for this loss, which +she was trying to realize, but which she would not be +able to realize until the days went by, and the nights, +the days and the nights of the ordinary life, when tragedy +was supposed to be over and done with, and people<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[Pg 449]</a></span> +would say, and no doubt sincerely believe, that she was +"getting accustomed" to her loss.</p> + +<p>Thinking of Job led her on to think of God's dealings +with His creatures.</p> + +<p>Hermione was a woman who clung to no special +religion, but she had always, all her life, had a very +strong personal consciousness of a directing Power in +the world, had always had an innate conviction that +this directing Power followed with deep interest the life +of each individual in the scheme of His creation. She +had always felt, she felt now, that God knew everything +about her and her life, was aware of all her feelings, was +constantly intent upon her.</p> + +<p>He was intent. But was He kindly or was He cruelly +intent?</p> + +<p>Surely He had been dreadfully cruel to her!</p> + +<p>Only yesterday she had been wondering what bereaved +women felt about God. Now she was one of these women.</p> + +<p>"Was Maurice dead?" she thought—"was he already +dead when I was praying before the shrine of the Madonna +della Rocca?"</p> + +<p>She longed to know. Yet she scarcely knew why she +longed. It was like a strange, almost unnatural curiosity +which she could not at first explain to herself. +But presently her mind grew clearer and she connected +this question with that other question—of God and +what He really was, what He really felt towards His +creatures, towards her.</p> + +<p>Had God allowed her to pray like that, with all her +heart and soul, and then immediately afterwards deliberately +delivered her over to the fate of desolate +women, or had Maurice been already dead? If that were +so, and it must surely have been so, for when she prayed +it was already night, she had been led to pray for herself +ignorantly, and God had taken away her joy before He had +heard her prayer. If He had heard it first He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[Pg 450]</a></span> +surely could not have dealt so cruelly with her—so +cruelly! No human being could have, she thought, +even the most hard-hearted.</p> + +<p>But perhaps God was not all-powerful.</p> + +<p>She remembered that once in London she had asked +a clever and good clergyman if, looking around upon +the state of things in the world, he was able to believe +without difficulty that the world was governed by an +all-wise, all-powerful, and all-merciful God. And his +reply to her had been, "I sometimes wonder whether +God is all-powerful—yet." She had not pursued the +subject, but she had not forgotten this answer; and she +thought of it now.</p> + +<p>Was there a conflict in the regions beyond the world +which was the only one she knew? Had an enemy done +this thing, an enemy not only of hers, but of God's, an +enemy who had power over God?</p> + +<p>That thought was almost more terrible than the +thought that God had been cruel to her.</p> + +<p>She sat for a long time wondering, thinking, but not +praying. She did not feel as if she could ever pray any +more. The world was lighted up by the sun. The sea +began to gleam, the coast-line to grow more distinct, the +outlines of the mountains and of the Saracenic Castle +on the height opposite to her more hard and more barbaric +against the deepening blue. She saw smoke coming +from the mouth of Etna, sideways, as if blown towards +the sea. A shepherd boy piped somewhere below +her. And still the tune was the tarantella. She listened +to it—the tarantella. So short a time ago Maurice +had danced with the boys upon the terrace! How can +such life be so easily extinguished? How can such joy +be not merely clouded but utterly destroyed? A moment, +and from the body everything is expelled; light +from the eyes, speech from the lips, movement from the +limbs, joy, passion from the heart. How can such a +thing be?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[Pg 451]</a></span></p> + +<p>The little shepherd boy played on and on. He was +nearer now. He was ascending the slope of the mountain, +coming up towards heaven with his little happy +tune. She heard him presently among the oak-trees +immediately below her, passing almost at her feet.</p> + +<p>To Hermione the thin sound of the reed-flute always +had suggested Arcady. Even now it suggested Arcady—the +Arcady of the imagination: wide soft airs, blue +skies and seas, eternal sunshine and delicious shade, +and happiness where is a sweet noise of waters and of +birds, a sweet and deep breathing of kind and bounteous +nature.</p> + +<p>And that little boy with the flute would die. His +foot might slip now as he came upward, and no more +could he play souls into Arcady!</p> + +<p>The tune wound away to her left, like a gay and careless +living thing that was travelling ever upward, then +once more came towards her. But now it was above +her. She turned her head and she saw the little player +against the blue. He was on a rock, and for a moment +he stood still. On his head was a long woollen cap, +hanging over at one side. It made Hermione think of +the woollen cap she had seen come out of the darkness +of the ravine as she waited with Gaspare for the padrone. +Against the blue, standing on the gray and sunlit rock, +with the flute at his lips, and his tiny, deep-brown fingers +moving swiftly, he looked at one with the mountain +and yet almost unearthly, almost as if the blue had +given birth to him for a moment, and in a moment +would draw him back again into the womb of its wonder. +His goats were all around him, treading delicately +among the rocks. As Hermione watched he turned and +went away into the blue, and the tarantella went away +into the blue with him.</p> + +<p>Her Sicilian and his tarantella, the tarantella of his +joy in Sicily—they had gone away into the blue.</p> + +<p>She looked at it, deep, quivering, passionate, intense;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[Pg 452]</a></span> +thousands and thousands of miles of blue! And she +listened as she looked; listened for some far-off tarantella, +for some echo of a fainting tarantella, that might +be a message to her, a message left on the sweet air of +the enchanted island, telling her where the winged feet +of her beloved one mounted towards the sun.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[Pg 453]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h2> + + +<p>Giuseppe came to fetch Hermione from the mountain. +He had a note in his hand and also a message to +give. The authorities were already at the cottage; the +Pretore of Marechiaro with his Cancelliere, Dr. Marini +and the Maresciallo of the Carabinieri.</p> + +<p>"They have come already?" Hermione said. "So soon?"</p> + +<p>She took the note. It was from Artois.</p> + +<p>"There is a boy waiting, signora," said Giuseppe. +"Gaspare is with the Signor Pretore."</p> + +<p>She opened Emile's note.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"I cannot write anything except this—do you wish me to +come?—E."</p></div> + +<p>"Do I wish him to come?" she thought.</p> + +<p>She repeated the words mentally several times, while +the fisherman stood by her, staring at her with sympathy. +Then she went down to the cottage.</p> + +<p>Dr. Marini met her on the terrace. He looked embarrassed. +He was expecting a terrible scene.</p> + +<p>"Signora," he said, "I am very sorry, but—but I am +obliged to perform my duty."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. "Of course. What is it?"</p> + +<p>"As there is a hospital in Marechiaro—"</p> + +<p>He stopped.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" she said.</p> + +<p>"The autopsy of the body must take place there. +Otherwise I could have—"</p> + +<p>"You have come to take him away," she said. "I +understand. Very well."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[Pg 454]</a></span></p> + +<p>But they could not take him away, these people. For +he was gone; he had gone away into the blue.</p> + +<p>The doctor looked relieved, though surprised, at her +apparent nonchalance.</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry, signora," he said—"very sorry."</p> + +<p>"Must I see the Pretore?" she said.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid so, signora. They will want to ask you +a few questions. The body ought not to have been +moved from the place where—"</p> + +<p>"We could not leave him in the sea," she said, as she +had said in the night.</p> + +<p>"No, no. You will only just have to say—"</p> + +<p>"I will tell them what I know. He went down to bathe."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But the Pretore will want to know why he +went to Salvatore's terreno."</p> + +<p>"I suppose he bathed from there. He knew the people +in the Casa delle Sirene, I believe."</p> + +<p>She spoke indifferently. It seemed to her so utterly +useless, this inquiry by strangers into the cause of her +sorrow.</p> + +<p>"I must just write something," she added.</p> + +<p>She went up the steps into the sitting-room. Gaspare +was there with three men—the Pretore, the Cancelliere +and the Maresciallo. As she came in the strangers +turned and saluted her with grave politeness, all +looking earnestly at her with their dark eyes. But Gaspare +did not look at her. He had the ugly expression +on his face that Hermione had noticed the day before.</p> + +<p>"Will you please allow me to write a line to a friend?" +Hermione said. "Then I shall be ready to answer your +questions."</p> + +<p>"Certainly, signora," said the Pretore; "we are very +sorry to disturb you, but it is our duty."</p> + +<p>He had gray hair and a dark mustache, and his black +eyes looked as if they had been varnished.</p> + +<p>Hermione went to the writing-table, while the men +stood in silence filling up the little room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[Pg 455]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What shall I say?" she thought.</p> + +<p>She heard the boots of the Cancelliere creak as he +shifted his feet upon the floor. The Maresciallo cleared +his throat. There was a moment of hesitation. Then +he went to the steps and spat upon the terrace.</p> + +<p>"Don't come yet," she wrote, slowly.</p> + +<p>Then she turned round.</p> + +<p>"How long will your inquiry take, do you think, +signore?" she asked of the Pretore. "When will—when +can the funeral take place?"</p> + +<p>"Signora, I trust to-morrow. I hope—I do not suppose +there will be any reason to suspect, after what Dr. +Marini has told us and we have seen, that the death was +anything but an accident—an accident which we all most +deeply grieve for."</p> + +<p>"It was an accident."</p> + +<p>She stood by the table with the pen in her hand.</p> + +<p>"I suppose—I suppose he must be buried in the +Campo Santo?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Do you wish to convey the body to England, signora?"</p> + +<p>"Oh no. He loved Sicily. He wished to stay always +here, I think, although—"</p> + +<p>She broke off.</p> + +<p>"I could never take him away from Sicily. But there +is a place here—under the oak-trees. He was very fond +of it."</p> + +<p>Gaspare began to sob, then controlled himself with a +desperate effort, turned round and stood with his face +to the wall.</p> + +<p>"I suppose, if I could buy a piece of land there, it +could not be permitted—?"</p> + +<p>She looked at the Pretore.</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry, signora, such a thing could not possibly +be allowed. If the body is buried here it must be +in the Campo Santo."</p> + +<p>"Thank you."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[Pg 456]</a></span></p> + +<p>She turned to the table and wrote after "Don't come +yet":</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"They are taking him away now to the hospital in the village. +I shall come down. I think the funeral will be to-morrow. +They tell me he must be buried in the Campo Santo. I +should have liked him to lie here under the oak-trees."</p> + +<p> +"<span class="smcap">Hermione.</span>"<br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p>When Artois read this note tears came into his eyes.</p> + +<p>No event in his life had shocked him so much as the +death of Delarey.</p> + +<p>It had shocked both his intellect and his heart. And +yet his intellect could hardly accept it as a fact. When, +early that morning, one of the servants of the Hôtel +Regina Margherita had rushed into his room to tell him, +he had refused to believe it. But then he had seen the +fishermen, and finally Dr. Marini. And he had been +obliged to believe. His natural impulse was to go to +his friend in her trouble as she had come to him in his. +But he checked it. His agony had been physical. Hers +was of the affections, and how far greater than his had +ever been! He could not bear to think of it. A great +and generous indignation seized him, an indignation +against the catastrophes of life. That this should be +Hermione's reward for her noble unselfishness roused +in him something that was like fury; and then there followed +a more torturing fury against himself.</p> + +<p>He had deprived her of days and weeks of happiness. +Such a short span of joy had been allotted to her, and +he had not allowed her to have even that. He had +called her away. He dared not trust himself to write +any word of sympathy. It seemed to him that to do +so would be a hideous irony, and he sent the line in +pencil which she had received. And then he walked up +and down in his little sitting-room, raging against himself, +hating himself.</p> + +<p>In his now bitterly acute consideration of his friend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[Pg 457]</a></span>ship +with Hermione he realized that he had always been +selfish, always the egoist claiming rather than the generous +donor. He had taken his burdens to her, not +weakly, for he was not a weak man, but with a desire +to be eased of some of their weight. He had always +been calling upon her for sympathy, and she had always +been lavishly responding, scattering upon him the wealth +of her great heart.</p> + +<p>And now he had deprived her of nearly all the golden +time that had been stored up for her by the decree of +the Gods, of God, of Fate, of—whatever it was that +ruled, that gave and that deprived.</p> + +<p>A bitterness of shame gripped him. He felt like a +criminal. He said to himself that the selfish man is a +criminal.</p> + +<p>"She will hate me," he said to himself. "She must. +She can't help it."</p> + +<p>Again the egoist was awake and speaking within him. +He realized that immediately and felt almost a fear of +this persistence of character. What is the use of cleverness, +of clear sight into others, even of genius, when the +self of a man declines to change, declines to be what is +not despicable?</p> + +<p>"Mon Dieu!" he thought, passionately. "And even +now I must be thinking of my cursed self!"</p> + +<p>He was beset by an intensity of desire to do something +for Hermione. For once in his life his heart, the +heart she believed in and he was inclined to doubt or to +despise, drove him as it might have driven a boy, even +such a one as Maurice. It seemed to him that unless he +could do something to make atonement he could never +be with Hermione again, could never bear to be with +her again. But what could he do?</p> + +<p>"At least," he thought, "I may be able to spare her +something to-day. I may be able to arrange with these +people about the funeral, about all the practical things +that are so frightful a burden to the living who have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[Pg 458]</a></span> +loved the dead, in the last moments before the dead are +given to the custody of the earth."</p> + +<p>And then he thought of the inquiry, of the autopsy. +Could he not help her, spare her perhaps, in connection +with them?</p> + +<p>Despite his weakness of body he felt feverishly active, +feverishly desirous to be of practical use. If he could +do something he would think less, too; and there were +thoughts which seemed furtively trying to press themselves +forward in the chambers of his mind, but which, +as yet, he was, also furtively, pushing back, striving to +keep in the dark place from which they desired to +emerge.</p> + +<p>Artois knew Sicily well, and he knew that such a +death as this would demand an inquiry, might raise +suspicions in the minds of the authorities of Marechiaro. +And in his own mind?</p> + +<p>He was a mentally courageous man, but he longed +now to leave Marechiaro, to leave Sicily at once, carrying +Hermione with him. A great dread was not actually +with him, but was very near to him.</p> + +<p>Presently something, he did not know what, drew +him to the window of his bedroom which looked out +towards the main street of the village. As he came to +it he heard a dull murmur of voices, and saw the Sicilians +crowding to their doors and windows, and coming out +upon their balconies.</p> + +<p>The body of Maurice was being borne to the hospital +which was at the far end of the town. As soon as he +realized that, Artois closed his window. He could not +look with the curious on that procession. He went back +into his sitting-room, which faced the sea. But he felt +the procession going past, and was enveloped in the +black wonder of death.</p> + +<p>That he should be alive and Delarey dead! How extraordinary +that was! For he had been close to death, +so close that it would have seemed quite natural to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[Pg 459]</a></span> +him to die. Had not Hermione come to him, he thought, +he would almost, at the crucial stage in his illness, have +preferred to die. It would have been a far easier, far +simpler act than the return to health and his former +powers. And now he stood here alive, looking at the +sea, and Delarey's dead body was being carried to the +hospital.</p> + +<p>Was the fact that he was alive the cause of the fact +that Delarey was dead? Abruptly one of those furtive +thoughts had leaped forward out of its dark place and +challenged him boldly, even with a horrible brutality. +Too late now to try to force it back. It must be faced, +be dealt with.</p> + +<p>Again, and much more strongly than on the previous +day, Artois felt that in Hermione's absence the Sicilian +life of the dead man had not run smoothly, that there +had been some episode of which she knew nothing, that +he, Artois, had been right in his suspicions at the cottage. +Delarey had been in fear of something, had been +on the watch. When he had sat by the wall he had +been tortured by some tremendous anxiety.</p> + +<p>He had gone down to the sea to bathe. That was +natural enough. And he had been found dead under +a precipice of rock in the sea. The place was a dangerous +one, they said. A man might easily fall from the +rock in the night. Yes; but why should he be there?</p> + +<p>That thought now recurred again and again to the +mind of Artois. Why had Delarey been at the place +where he had met his death? The authorities of Marechiaro +were going to inquire into that, were probably +down at the sea now. Suppose there had been some +tragic episode? Suppose they should find out what it +was?</p> + +<p>He saw Hermione in the midst of her grief the central +figure of some dreadful scandal, and his heart sickened.</p> + +<p>But then he told himself that perhaps he was being +led by his imagination. He had thought that possible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[Pg 460]</a></span> +yesterday. To-day, after what had occurred, he thought +it less likely. This sudden death seemed to tell him that +his mind had been walking in the right track. Left +alone in Sicily, Delarey might have run wild. He might +have gone too far. This death might be a vengeance.</p> + +<p>Artois was deeply interested in all human happenings, +but he was not a vulgarly curious man. He was not +curious now, he was only afraid for Hermione. He +longed to protect her from any further grief. If there +were a dreadful truth to know, and if, by knowing it, +he could guard her more efficiently, he wished to know +it. But his instinct was to get her away from Sicily at +once, directly the funeral was over and the necessary +arrangements could be made. For himself, he would +rather go in ignorance. He did not wish to add to the +heavy burden of his remorse.</p> + +<p>There came at this moment a knock at his door.</p> + +<p>"Avanti!" he said.</p> + +<p>The waiter of the hotel came in.</p> + +<p>"Signore," he said. "The poor signora is here."</p> + +<p>"In the hotel?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. They have taken the body of the +signore to the hospital. Everybody was in the street +to see it pass. And now the poor signora has come +here. She has taken the rooms above you on the little +terrace."</p> + +<p>"The signora is going to stay here?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. They say, if the Signor Pretore allows +after the inquiry is over, the funeral will be to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Artois looked at the man closely. He was a young +fellow, handsome and gentler-looking than are most Sicilians. +Artois wondered what the people of Marechiaro +were saying. He knew how they must be gossiping on +such an occasion. And then it was summer, when they +have little or nothing to do, no forestieri to divide their +attentions and to call their ever-ready suspicions in +various directions. The minds of the whole community<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[Pg 461]</a></span> +must undoubtedly be fixed upon this tragic episode and +its cause.</p> + +<p>"If the Pretore allows?" Artois said. "But surely +there can be no difficulty? The poor signore fell from +the rock and was drowned."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The man stood there. Evidently he was anxious to +talk.</p> + +<p>"The Signor Pretore has gone down to the place now, +signore, with the Cancelliere and the Maresciallo. They +have taken Gaspare with them."</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!"</p> + +<p>Artois thought of this boy, Maurice's companion during +Hermione's absence.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Gaspare has to show them the exact +place where he found the poor signore."</p> + +<p>"I suppose the inquiry will soon be over?"</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?"</p> + +<p>"Well, but what is there to do? Whom can they inquire +of? It was a lonely place, wasn't it? No one +was there."</p> + +<p>"Chi lo sa?"</p> + +<p>"If there had been any one, surely the signore would +have been rescued at once? Did not every one here love +the signore? He was like one of you, wasn't he, one of +the Sicilians?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Maddalena has been crying about the +signore."</p> + +<p>"Maddalena?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, the daughter of Salvatore, the fisherman, +who lives at the Casa delle Sirene."</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>Artois paused; then he said:</p> + +<p>"Were she and her—Salvatore is her father, you +say?"</p> + +<p>"Her father, signore."</p> + +<p>"Were they at the Casa delle Sirene yesterday?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[Pg 462]</a></span></p> + +<p>Artois spoke quietly, almost carelessly, as if merely +to say something, but without special intention.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena was here in the town with her relations. +And they say Salvatore is at Messina. This morning +Maddalena went home. She was crying. Every one +saw her crying for the signore."</p> + +<p>"That is very natural if she knew him."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, signore, she knew him. Why, they were all +at the fair of San Felice together only the day before."</p> + +<p>"Then, of course, she would cry."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>The man put his hand on the door.</p> + +<p>"If the signora wishes to see me at any time I am +here," said Artois. "But, of course, I shall not disturb +her. But if I can do anything to help her—about the +funeral, for instance—"</p> + +<p>"The signora is giving all the directions now. The +poor signore is to be buried in the high part of the Campo +Santo by the wall. Those who are not Catholics are +buried there, and the poor signore was not a Catholic. +What a pity!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Ferdinando."</p> + +<p>The man went out slowly, as if he were reluctant to +stop the conversation.</p> + +<p>So the villagers were beginning to gossip already! +Ferdinando had not said so, but Artois knew his Sicily +well enough to read the silences that had made significant +his words. Maddalena had been crying for the +signore. Everybody had seen Maddalena crying for +the signore. That was enough. By this time the village +would be in a ferment, every woman at her door +talking it over with her next-door neighbor, every man +in the Piazza, or in one of the wine-shops.</p> + +<p>Maddalena—a Sicilian girl—weeping, and Delarey's +body found among the rocks at night in a lonely place +close to her cottage. Artois divined something of the +truth and hated himself the more. The blood, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[Pg 463]</a></span> +Sicilian blood in Delarey, had called to him in the sunshine +when he was left alone, and he had, no doubt, +obeyed the call. How far had he gone? How strongly +had he been governed? Probably Artois would never +know. Long ago he had prophesied, vaguely perhaps, +still he had prophesied. And now had he not engineered +perhaps the fulfilment of his own prophecy?</p> + +<p>But at all costs Hermione must be spared any knowledge +of that fulfilment.</p> + +<p>He longed to go to her and to guard her door against +the Sicilians. But surely in such a moment they would +not speak to her of any suspicions, of any certainties, +even if they had them. She would surely be the last +person to hear anything, unless—he thought of the "authorities"—of +the Pretore, the Cancelliere, the Maresciallo, +and suddenly it occurred to him to ride down to +the sea. If the inquiry had yielded any terrible result +he might do something to protect Hermione. If not, +he might be able to prepare her. She must not receive +any coarse shock from these strangers in the midst of +her agony.</p> + +<p>He got his hat, opened his door, and went quietly +down-stairs. He did not wish to see Hermione before +he went. Perhaps he would return with his mind relieved +of its heaviest burden, and then at least he could +meet her eyes without a furtive guilt in his.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs he met Ferdinando.</p> + +<p>"Can you get me a donkey, Ferdinando?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"I don't want a boy. Just get me a donkey, and I +shall go for a short ride. You say the signora has not +asked for me?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore."</p> + +<p>"If she does, explain to her that I have gone out, as +I did not like to disturb her."</p> + +<p>Hermione might think him heartless to go out riding +at such a time. He would risk that. He would risk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[Pg 464]</a></span> +anything to spare her the last, the nameless agony that +would be hers if what he suspected were true, and she +were to learn of it, to know that all these people round +her knew it.</p> + +<p>That Hermione should be outraged, that the sacredness +of her despair should be profaned, and the holiness +of her memories utterly polluted—Artois felt he would +give his life willingly to prevent that.</p> + +<p>When the donkey came he set off at once. He had +drawn his broad-brimmed hat down low over his pale +face, and he looked neither to right nor left, as he was +carried down the long and narrow street, followed by +the searching glances of the inhabitants, who, as he +had surmised, were all out, engaged in eager conversation, +and anxiously waiting for the return of the Pretore +and his assistants, and the announcement of the result +of the autopsy. His appearance gave them a fresh +topic to discuss. They fell upon it like starveling dogs +on a piece of offal found in the gutter.</p> + +<p>Once out of the village, Artois felt a little safer, a little +easier; but he longed to be in the train with Hermione, +carrying her far from the chance of that most cruel fate +in life—the fate of disillusion, of the loss of holy belief +in the truth of one beloved.</p> + +<p>When presently he reached the high-road by Isola +Bella he encountered the fisherman, Giuseppe, who had +spent the night at the Casa del Prete.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to see the place where the poor +signore was found, signore?" asked the man.</p> + +<p>"Si," said Artois. "I was his friend. I wish to see +the Pretore, to hear how it happened. Can I? Are +they there, he and the others?"</p> + +<p>"They are in the Casa delle Sirene, signore. They +are waiting to see if Salvatore comes back this morning +from Messina."</p> + +<p>"And his daughter? Is she there?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But she knows nothing. She was in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[Pg 465]</a></span> +the village. She can only cry. She is crying for the +poor signore."</p> + +<p>Again that statement. It was becoming a refrain in +the ears of Artois.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare is angry with her," added the fisherman. +"I believe he would like to kill her."</p> + +<p>"It makes him sad to see her crying, perhaps," said +Artois. "Gaspare loved the signore."</p> + +<p>He saluted the fisherman and rode on. But the man +followed and kept by his side.</p> + +<p>"I will take you across in a boat, signore," he said.</p> + +<p>"Grazie."</p> + +<p>Artois struck the donkey and made it trot on in the +dust.</p> + +<p>Giuseppe rowed him across the inlet and to the far +side of the Sirens' Isle, from which the little path wound +upward to the cottage. Here, among the rocks, a boat +was moored.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signore!" cried Giuseppe. "Salvatore has +come back from Messina! Here is his boat!"</p> + +<p>Artois felt a pang of anxiety, of regret. He wished +he had been there before the fisherman had returned. +As he got out of the boat he said:</p> + +<p>"Did Salvatore know the signore well?"</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. The poor signore used to go out fishing +with Salvatore. They say in the village that he +gave Salvatore much money."</p> + +<p>"The signore was generous to every one."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But he did not give donkeys to every +one."</p> + +<p>"Donkeys? What do you mean, Giuseppe?"</p> + +<p>"He gave Salvatore a donkey, a fine donkey. He +bought it at the fair of San Felice."</p> + +<p>Artois said no more. Slowly, for he was still very +weak, and the heat was becoming fierce as the morning +wore on, he walked up the steep path and came to the +plateau before the Casa delle Sirene.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[Pg 466]</a></span></p> + +<p>A group of people stood there: the Pretore, the Cancelliere, +the Maresciallo, Gaspare, and Salvatore. They +seemed to be in strong conversation, but directly Artois +appeared there was a silence, and they all turned and +stared at him as if in wonder. Then Gaspare came forward +and took off his hat.</p> + +<p>The boy looked haggard with grief, and angry and +obstinate, desperately obstinate.</p> + +<p>"Signore," he said. "You know my padrone! Tell +them—"</p> + +<p>But the Pretore interrupted him with an air of importance.</p> + +<p>"It is my duty to make an inquiry," he said. "Who +is this signore?"</p> + +<p>Artois explained that he was an intimate friend of +the signora and had known her husband before his marriage.</p> + +<p>"I have come to hear if you are satisfied, as no doubt +you are, Signor Pretore," he said, "that this terrible +death was caused by an accident. The poor signora +naturally wishes that this necessary business should be +finished as soon as possible. It is unavoidable, I know, +but it can only add to her unhappiness. I am sure, +signore, that you will do your best to conclude the inquiry +without delay. Forgive me for saying this. But +I know Sicily, and know that I can always rely on the +chivalry of Sicilian gentlemen where an unhappy lady +is concerned."</p> + +<p>He spoke intentionally with a certain pomp, and held +his hat in his hand while he was speaking.</p> + +<p>The Pretore looked pleased and flattered.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, Signor Barone," he said. "Certainly. +We all grieve for the poor signora."</p> + +<p>"You will allow me to stay?" said Artois.</p> + +<p>"I see no objection," said the Pretore.</p> + +<p>He glanced at the Cancelliere, a small, pale man, with +restless eyes and a pointed chin that looked like a weapon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[Pg 467]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Niente, niente!" said the Cancelliere, obsequiously.</p> + +<p>He was reading Artois with intense sharpness. The +Maresciallo, a broad, heavily built man, with an enormous +mustache, uttered a deep "Buon giorno, Signor +Barone," and stood calmly staring. He looked like a +magnificent bull, with his short, strong brown neck, +and low-growing hair that seemed to have been freshly +crimped. Gaspare stood close to Artois, as if he felt +that they were allies and must keep together. Salvatore +was a few paces off.</p> + +<p>Artois glanced at him now with a carefully concealed +curiosity. Instantly the fisherman said:</p> + +<p>"Povero signorino! Povero signorino! Mamma mia! +and only two days ago we were all at the fair together! +And he was so generous, Signor Barone." He moved +a little nearer, but Artois saw him glance swiftly at +Gaspare, like a man fearful of violence and ready to +repel it. "He paid for everything. We could all keep +our soldi in our pockets. And he gave Maddalena a +beautiful blue dress, and he gave me a donkey. Dio +mio! We have lost a benefactor. If the poor signorino +had lived he would have given me a new boat. +He had promised me a boat. For he would come +fishing with me nearly every day. He was like a compare—"</p> + +<p>Salvatore stopped abruptly. His eyes were again on +Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"And you say," began the Pretore, with a certain +heavy pomposity, "that you did not see the signore at +all yesterday?"</p> + +<p>"No, signore. I suppose he came down after I had +started for Messina."</p> + +<p>"What did you go to Messina for?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, I went to see my nephew, Guido, who is in +the hospital. He has—"</p> + +<p>"Non fa niente! non fa niente!" interrupted the Cancelliere.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[Pg 468]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Non fa niente! What time did you start?" said the +Pretore.</p> + +<p>The Maresciallo cleared his throat with great elaboration, +and spat with power twice.</p> + +<p>"Signor Pretore, I do not know. I did not look at +the clock. But it was before sunset—it was well before +sunset."</p> + +<p>"And the signore only came down from the Casa del +Prete very late," interposed Artois, quietly. "I was +there and kept him. It was quite evening before he +started."</p> + +<p>An expression of surprise went over Salvatore's face +and vanished. He had realized that for some reason +this stranger was his ally.</p> + +<p>"Had you any reason to suppose the signore was +coming to fish with you yesterday?" asked the Pretore +of Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"No, signore. I thought as the signora was back the +poor signore would stay with her at the house."</p> + +<p>"Naturally, naturally!" said the Cancelliere.</p> + +<p>"Naturally! It seems the signore had several times +passed across the rocks, from which he appears to have +fallen, without any difficulty," remarked the Pretore.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore," said Gaspare.</p> + +<p>He looked at Salvatore, seemed to make a great effort, +then added:</p> + +<p>"But never when it was dark, signore. And I was +always with him. He used to take my hand."</p> + +<p>His chest began to heave.</p> + +<p>"Corragio, Gaspare!" said Artois to him, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>His strong intuition enabled him to understand +something of the conflict that was raging in the boy. +He had seen his glances at Salvatore, and felt that he +was longing to fly at the fisherman, that he only restrained +himself with agony from some ferocious violence.</p> + +<p>The Pretore remained silent for a moment. It was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span> +evident that he was at a loss. He wished to appear +acute, but the inquiry yielded nothing for the exercise +of his talents.</p> + +<p>At last he said:</p> + +<p>"Did any one see you going to Messina? Is there any +corroboration of your statement that you started before +the signore came down here?"</p> + +<p>"Do you think I am not speaking the truth, Signor +Pretore?" said Salvatore, proudly. "Why should I lie? +The poor signore was my benefactor. If I had known +he was coming I should have been here to receive him. +Why, he has eaten in my house! He has slept in my +house. I tell you we were as brothers."</p> + +<p>"Si, si," said the Cancelliere.</p> + +<p>Gaspare set his teeth, walked away to the edge of the +plateau, and stood looking out to sea.</p> + +<p>"Then no one saw you?" persisted the Pretore.</p> + +<p>"Non lo so," said Salvatore. "I did not think of +such things. I wanted to go to Messina, so I sent Maddalena +to pass the night in the village, and I took the +boat. What else should I do?"</p> + +<p>"Va bene! Va bene!" said the Cancelliere.</p> + +<p>The Maresciallo cleared his throat again. That, and +the ceremony which invariably followed, were his only +contributions to this official proceeding.</p> + +<p>The Pretore, receiving no assistance from his colleagues, +seemed doubtful what more to do. It was evident +to Artois that he was faintly suspicious, that he was +not thoroughly satisfied about the cause of this death.</p> + +<p>"Your daughter seems very upset about all this," +he said to Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"Mamma mia! And how should she not? Why, Signor +Pretore, we loved the poor signore. We would +have thrown ourselves into the sea for him. When we +saw him coming down from the mountain to us it was +as if we saw God coming down from heaven."</p> + +<p>"Certo! Certo!" said the Cancelliere.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I think every one who knew the signore at all grew +to be very fond of him," said Artois, quietly. "He was +greatly beloved here by every one."</p> + +<p>His manner to the Pretore was very civil, even respectful. +Evidently it had its effect upon that personage. +Every one here seemed to be assured that this +death was merely an accident, could only have been an +accident. He did not know what more to do.</p> + +<p>"Va bene!" he said at last, with some reluctance. +"We shall see what the doctors say when the autopsy +is concluded. Let us hope that nothing will be discovered. +I do not wish to distress the poor signora. +At the same time I must do my duty. That is evident."</p> + +<p>"It seems to me you have done it with admirable +thoroughness," said Artois.</p> + +<p>"Grazie, Signor Barone, grazie!"</p> + +<p>"Grazie, grazie, Signor Barone!" added the Cancelliere.</p> + +<p>"Grazie, Signor Barone!" said the deep voice of the +Maresciallo.</p> + +<p>The authorities now slowly prepared to take their departure.</p> + +<p>"You are coming with us, Signor Barone?" said the +Pretore.</p> + +<p>Artois was about to say yes, when he saw pass across +the aperture of the doorway of the cottage the figure of +a girl with bent head. It disappeared immediately.</p> + +<p>"That must be Maddalena!" he thought.</p> + +<p>"Scusi, signore," he said, "but I have been seriously +ill. The ride down here has tired me, and I should be +glad to rest for a few minutes longer, if—" He looked +at Salvatore.</p> + +<p>"I will fetch a chair for the signore!" said the fisherman, +quickly.</p> + +<p>He did not know what this stranger wanted, but he +felt instinctively that it was nothing that would be +harmful to him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Pretore and his companions, after polite inquiries +as to the illness of Artois, took their leave with many +salutations. Only Gaspare remained on the edge of the +plateau staring at the sea. As Salvatore went to fetch +the chair Artois went over to the boy.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Si!" said the boy.</p> + +<p>"I want you to go up with the Pretore. Go to the +signora. Tell her the inquiry is finished. It will relieve +her to know."</p> + +<p>"You will come with me, signore?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>The boy turned and looked him full in the face.</p> + +<p>"Why do you stay?"</p> + +<p>For a moment Artois did not speak. He was considering +rapidly what to say, how to treat Gaspare. +He was now sure that there had been a tragedy, with +which the people of the sirens' house were, somehow, +connected. He was sure that Gaspare either knew or +suspected what had happened, yet meant to conceal his +knowledge despite his obvious hatred for the fisherman. +Was the boy's reason for this strange caution, this +strange secretiveness, akin to his—Artois's—desire? +Was the boy trying to protect his padrona or the memory +of his padrone? Artois wondered. Then he said:</p> + +<p>"Gaspare, I shall only stay a few minutes. We must +have no gossip that can get to the padrona's ears. We +understand each other, I think, you and I. We want +the same thing. Men can keep silence, but girls talk. +I wish to see Maddalena for a minute."</p> + +<p>"Ma—"</p> + +<p>Gaspare stared at him almost fiercely. But something +in the face of Artois inspired him with confidence. +Suddenly his reserve disappeared. He put his hand on +Artois's arm.</p> + +<p>"Tell Maddalena to be silent and not to go on crying, +signore," he said, violently. "Tell her that if she does<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span> +not stop crying I will come down here in the night and +kill her."</p> + +<p>"Go, Gaspare! The Pretore is wondering—go!"</p> + +<p>Gaspare went down over the edge of the land and disappeared +towards the sea.</p> + +<p>"Ecco, signore!"</p> + +<p>Salvatore reappeared from the cottage carrying a +chair which he set down under an olive-tree, the same +tree by which Maddalena had stood when Maurice first +saw her in the dawn.</p> + +<p>"Grazie."</p> + +<p>Artois sat down. He was very tired, but he scarcely +knew it. The fisherman stood by him, looking at him +with a sort of shifty expectation, and Artois, as he +noticed the hard Arab type of the man's face, the glitter +of the small, cunning eyes, the nervous alertness of the +thin, sensitive hands, understood a great deal about +Salvatore. He knew Arabs well. He had slept under +their tents, had seen them in joy and in anger, had +witnessed scenes displaying fully their innate carelessness +of human life. This fisherman was almost as much +Arab as Sicilian. The blend scarcely made for gentleness. +If such a man were wronged, he would be quick +and subtle in revenge. Nothing would stay him. But +had Maurice wronged him? Artois meant to assume +knowledge and to act upon his assumption. His instinct +advised him that in doing so he would be doing +the best thing possible for the protection of Hermione.</p> + +<p>"Can you make much money here?" he said, sharply +yet carelessly.</p> + +<p>The fisherman moved as if startled.</p> + +<p>"Signore!"</p> + +<p>"They tell me Sicily's a poor land for the poor. Isn't +that so?"</p> + +<p>Salvatore recovered himself.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, si, signore, one earns nothing. It is a +hard life, Per Dio!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span></p> + +<p>He stopped and stared hard at the stranger with his +hands on his hips. His eyes, his whole expression and +attitude said, "What are you up to?"</p> + +<p>"America is the country for a sharp-witted man to +make his fortune in," said Artois, returning his gaze.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. Many go from here. I know many +who are working in America. But one must have +money to pay the ticket."</p> + +<p>"Yes. This terreno belongs to you?"</p> + +<p>"Only the bit where the house stands, signore. And +it is all rocks. It is no use to any one. And in winter +the winds come over it. Why, it would take years of +work to turn it into anything. And I am not a contadino. +Once I had a wine-shop, but I am a man of +the sea."</p> + +<p>"But you are a man with sharp wits. I should think +you would do well in America. Others do, and why not +you?"</p> + +<p>They looked at each other hard for a full minute. +Then Salvatore said, slowly:</p> + +<p>"Signore, I will tell you the truth. It is the truth. +I would swear it with sea-water on my lips. If I had +the money I would go to America. I would take the +first ship."</p> + +<p>"And your daughter, Maddalena? You couldn't +leave her behind you?"</p> + +<p>"Signore, if I were ever to go to America you may +be sure I should take Maddalena with me."</p> + +<p>"I think you would," Artois said, still looking at the +man full in the eyes. "I think it would be wiser to take +Maddalena with you."</p> + +<p>Salvatore looked away.</p> + +<p>"If I had the money, signore, I would buy the tickets +to-morrow. Here I can make nothing, and it is a hard +life, always on the sea. And in America you get good +pay. A man can earn eight lire a day there, they tell +me."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have not seen your daughter yet," Artois said, +abruptly.</p> + +<p>"No, signore, she is not well to-day. And the Signor +Pretore frightened her. She will stay in the house to-day."</p> + +<p>"But I should like to see her for a moment."</p> + +<p>"Signore, I am very sorry, but—"</p> + +<p>Artois turned round in the chair and looked towards +the house. The door, which had been open, was now +shut.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena is praying, signore. She is praying to +the Madonna for the soul of the dead signore."</p> + +<p>For the first time Artois noticed in the hard, bird-like +face of the fisherman a sign of emotion, almost of +softness.</p> + +<p>"We must not disturb her, signore."</p> + +<p>Artois got up and went a few steps nearer to the +cottage.</p> + +<p>"Can one see the place where the signore's body was +found?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore, from the other side, among the trees."</p> + +<p>"I will come back in a moment," said Artois.</p> + +<p>He walked away from the fisherman and entered the +wood, circling the cottage. The fisherman did not +come with him. Artois's instinct had told him that +the man would not care to come on such an errand. As +Artois passed at the back of the cottage he noticed an +open window, and paused near it in the long grass. +From within there came the sound of a woman's voice, +murmuring. It was frequently interrupted by sobs. +After a moment Artois went close to the window, and +said, but without showing himself:</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>The murmuring voice stopped.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!"</p> + +<p>There was silence.</p> + +<p>"Maddalena!" Artois said. "Are you listening?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span></p> + +<p>He heard a faint movement as if the woman within +came nearer to the casement.</p> + +<p>"If you loved the dead signore, if you care for his +memory, do not talk of your grief for him to others. +Pray for him, and be silent for him. If you are silent +the Holy Mother will hear your prayers."</p> + +<p>As he said the last words Artois made his deep voice +sound mysterious, mystical.</p> + +<p>Then he went away softly among the thickly growing +trees.</p> + +<p>When he saw Salvatore again, still standing upon the +plateau, he beckoned to him without coming into the +open.</p> + +<p>"Bring the boat round to the inlet," he said. "I +will cross from there."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore."</p> + +<p>"And as we cross we can speak a little more about +America."</p> + +<p>The fisherman stared at him, with a faint smile that +showed a gleam of sharp, white teeth.</p> + +<p>"Si, signore—a little more about America."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h2> + + +<p>A night and a day had passed, and still Artois had +not seen Hermione. The autopsy had been finished, +and had revealed nothing to change the theory of Dr. +Marini as to the determining cause of death. The English +stranger had been crossing the dangerous wall of +rock, probably in darkness, had fallen, been stunned +upon the rocks in the sea beneath, and drowned before +he recovered consciousness.</p> + +<p>Gaspare said nothing. Salvatore held his peace and +began his preparations for America. And Maddalena, +if she wept, wept now in secret; if she prayed, prayed +in the lonely house of the sirens, near the window which +had so often given a star to the eyes that looked down +from the terrace of the Casa del Prete.</p> + +<p>There was gossip in Marechiaro, and the Pretore still +preserved his air of faint suspicion. But that would +probably soon vanish under the influence of the Cancelliere, +with whom Artois had had some private conversation. +The burial had been allowed, and very +early in the morning of the day following that of +Hermione's arrival at the hotel it took place from the +hospital.</p> + +<p>Few people knew the hour, and most were still asleep +when the coffin was carried down the street, followed +only by Hermione, and by Gaspare in a black, ready-made +suit that had been bought in the village of Cattaro. +Hermione would not allow any one else to follow her +dead, and as Maurice had been a Protestant there was no +service. This shocked Gaspare, and added to his grief,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> +till Hermione explained that her husband had been of a +different religion from that of Sicily, a religion with different +rites.</p> + +<p>"But we can pray for him, Gaspare," she said. "He +loved us, and perhaps he will know what we are +doing."</p> + +<p>The thought seemed to soothe the boy. He kneeled +down by his padrona under the wall of the Campo Santo +by which Protestants were buried, and whispered a +petition for the repose of the soul of his padrone. Into +the gap of earth, where now the coffin lay, he had thrown +roses from his father's little terreno near the village. +His tears fell fast, and his prayer was scarcely more than +a broken murmur of "Povero signorino—povero signorino—Dio +ci mandi buon riposo in Paradiso." Hermione +could not pray although she was in the attitude +of supplication; but when she heard the words of Gaspare +she murmured them too. "Buon riposo!" The +sweet Sicilian good-night—she said it now in the +stillness of the lonely dawn. And her tears fell fast +with those of the boy who had loved and served his +master.</p> + +<p>When the funeral was over she walked up the mountain +with Gaspare to the Casa del Prete, and from there, +on the following day, she sent a message to Artois, asking +him if he would come to see her.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"I don't ask you to forgive me for not seeing you before," she +wrote. "We understand each other and do not need explanations. +I wanted to see nobody. Come at any hour when you +feel that you would like to.</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Hermione</span>."<br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p>Artois rode up in the cool of the day, towards +evening.</p> + +<p>He was met upon the terrace by Gaspare.</p> + +<p>"The signora is on the mountain, signore," he said. +"If you go up you will find her, the povero signora. +She is all alone upon the mountain."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I will go, Gaspare. I have told Maddalena. I think +she will be silent."</p> + +<p>The boy dropped his eyes. His unreserve of the +island had not endured. It had been a momentary +impulse, and now the impulse had died away.</p> + +<p>"Va bene, signore," he muttered.</p> + +<p>He had evidently nothing more to say, yet Artois did +not leave him immediately.</p> + +<p>"Gaspare," he said, "the signora will not stay here +through the great heat, will she?"</p> + +<p>"Non lo so, signore."</p> + +<p>"She ought to go away. It will be better if she goes +away."</p> + +<p>"Si, signore. But perhaps she will not like to leave +the povero signorino."</p> + +<p>Tears came into the boy's eyes. He turned away +and went to the wall, and looked over into the ravine, +and thought of many things: of readings under the oak-trees, +of the tarantella, of how he and the padrone had +come up from the fishing singing in the sunshine. His +heart was full, and he felt dazed. He was so accustomed +to being always with his padrone that he did not +know how he was to go on without him. He did not +remember his former life, before the padrone came. +Everything seemed to have begun for him on that +morning when the train with the padrone and the padrona +in it ran into the station of Cattaro. And now +everything seemed to have finished.</p> + +<p>Artois did not say any more to him, but walked slowly +up the mountain leaning on his stick. Close to the +top, by a heap of stones that was something like a cairn, +he saw, presently, a woman sitting. As he came nearer +she turned her head and saw him. She did not move. +The soft rays of the evening sun fell on her, and showed +him that her square and rugged face was pale and +grave and, he thought, empty-looking, as if something +had deprived it of its former possession, the ardent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> +vitality, the generous enthusiasm, the look of swiftness +he had loved.</p> + +<p>When he came up to her he could only say: +"Hermione, my friend—"</p> + +<p>The loneliness of this mountain summit was a fit +setting for her loneliness, and these two solitudes, of +nature and of this woman's soul, took hold of Artois +and made him feel as if he were infinitely small, as if +he could not matter to either. He loved nature, and +he loved this woman. And of what use were he and +his love to them?</p> + +<p>She stretched up her hand to him, and he bent down +and took it and held it.</p> + +<p>"You said some day I should leave my Garden of +Paradise, Emile."</p> + +<p>"Don't hurt me with my own words," he said.</p> + +<p>"Sit by me."</p> + +<p>He sat down on the warm ground close to the heap +of stones.</p> + +<p>"You said I should leave the garden, but I don't +think you meant like this. Did you?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said.</p> + +<p>"I think you thought we should be unhappy together. +Well, we were never that. We were always +very happy. I like to think of that. I come up here +to think of that; of our happiness, and that we were +always kind and tender to each other. Emile, if we +hadn't been, if we had ever had even one quarrel, even +once said cruel things to each other, I don't think +I could bear it now. But we never did. God did +watch us then, I think. God was with me so long as +Maurice was with me. But I feel as if God had gone +away from me with Maurice, as if they had gone together. +Do you think any other woman has ever felt +like that?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I am worthy to know how some women +feel," he said, almost falteringly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I thought perhaps God would have stayed with me +to help me, but I feel as if He hadn't. I feel as if He +had only been able to love me so long as Maurice was +with me."</p> + +<p>"That feeling will pass away."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps when my child comes," she said, very +simply.</p> + +<p>Artois had not known about the coming of the child, +but Hermione did not remember that now.</p> + +<p>"Your child!" he said.</p> + +<p>"I am glad I came back in time to tell him about the +child," she said. "I think at first he was almost frightened. +He was such a boy, you see. He was the very +spirit of youth, wasn't he? And perhaps that—but at +the end he seemed happy. He kissed me as if he loved +not only me. Do you understand, Emile? He seemed +to kiss me the last time—for us both. Some day I shall +tell my baby that."</p> + +<p>She was silent for a little while. She looked out over +the great view, now falling into a strange repose. This +was the land he had loved, the land he had belonged +to.</p> + +<p>"I should like to hear the 'Pastorale' now," she said, +presently. "But Sebastiano—" A new thought seemed +to strike her. "I wonder how some women can bear +their sorrows," she said. "Don't you, Emile?"</p> + +<p>"What sorrows do you mean?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Such a sorrow as poor Lucrezia has to bear. Maurice +always loved me. Lucrezia knows that Sebastiano +loves some one else. I ought to be trying to comfort +Lucrezia. I did try. I did go to pray with her. But +that was before. I can't pray now, because I can't feel +sure of almost anything. I sometimes think that this +happened without God's meaning it to happen."</p> + +<p>"God!" Artois said, moved by an irresistible impulse. +"And the gods, the old pagan gods?"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she said, understanding. "We called him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span> +Mercury. Yes, it is as if he had gone to them, as if +they had recalled their messenger. In the spring, before +I went to Africa, I often used to think of legends, +and put him—my Sicilian—"</p> + +<p>She did not go on. Yet her voice had not faltered. +There was no contortion of sorrow in her face. There +was a sort of soft calmness about her almost akin to +the calmness of the evening. It was the more remarkable +in her because she was not usually a tranquil woman. +Artois had never known her before in deep grief. +But he had known her in joy, and then she had been +rather enthusiastic than serene. Something of her +eager humanity had left her now. She made upon +him a strange impression, almost as of some one he had +never previously had any intercourse with. And yet +she was being wonderfully natural with him, as natural +as if she were alone.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do, my friend?" he said, +after a long silence.</p> + +<p>"Nothing. I have no wish to do anything. I shall +just wait—for our child."</p> + +<p>"But where will you wait? You cannot wait here. +The heat would weaken you. In your condition it +would be dangerous."</p> + +<p>"He spoke of going. It hurt me for a moment, I +remember. I had a wish to stay here forever then. It +seemed to me that this little bit of earth and rock was +the happiest place in all the world. Yes, I will go, +Emile, but I shall come back. I shall bring our child +here."</p> + +<p>He did not combat this intention then, for he was +too thankful to have gained her assent to the departure +for which he longed. The further future must take +care of itself.</p> + +<p>"I will take you to Italy, to Switzerland, wherever +you wish to go."</p> + +<p>"I have no wish for any other place. But I will go<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span> +somewhere in Italy. Wherever it is cool and silent will +do. But I must be far away from people; and when +you have taken me there, dear Emile, you must leave +me there."</p> + +<p>"Quite alone?"</p> + +<p>"Gaspare will be with me. I shall always keep Gaspare. +Maurice and he were like two brothers in their +happiness. I know they loved each other, and I know +Gaspare loves me."</p> + +<p>Artois only said:</p> + +<p>"I trust the boy."</p> + +<p>The word "trust" seemed to wake Hermione into +a stronger life.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Emile," she said, "once you distrusted the +south. I remember your very words. You said, 'I +love the south, but I distrust what I love, and I see +the south in him.' I want to tell you, I want you to +know, how perfect he was always to me. He loved joy, +but his joy was always innocent. There was always +something of the child in him. He was unconscious of +himself. He never understood his own beauty. He never +realized that he was worthy of worship. His thought +was to reverence and to worship others. He loved life +and the sun—oh, how he loved them! I don't think +any one can ever have loved life and the sun as he did, +ever will love them as he did. But he was never selfish. +He was just quite natural. He was the deathless +boy. Emile, have you noticed anything about me—since?"</p> + +<p>"What, Hermione?"</p> + +<p>"How much older I look now. He was like my +youth, and my youth has gone with him."</p> + +<p>"Will it not revive—when—?"</p> + +<p>"No, never. I don't wish it to. Gaspare gathered +roses, all the best roses from his father's little bit of +land, to throw into the grave. And I want my youth +to lie there with my Sicilian under Gaspare's roses. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span> +feel as if that would be a tender companionship. I +gave everything to him when he was alive, and I don't +want to keep anything back now. I would like the sun +to be with him under Gaspare's roses. And yet I know +he's elsewhere. I can't explain. But two days ago at +dawn I heard a child playing the tarantella, and it +seemed to me as if my Sicilian had been taken away +by the blue, by the blue of Sicily. I shall often come +back to the blue. I shall often sit here again. For +it was here that I heard the beating of the heart of +youth. And there's no other music like that. Is there, +Emile?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said.</p> + +<p>Had the music been wild? He suspected that the +harmony she worshipped had passed on into the hideous +crash of discords. And whose had been the fault? Who +creates human nature as it is? In what workshop, of +what brain, are forged the mad impulses of the wild +heart of youth, are mixed together subtly the divine +aspirations which leap like the winged Mercury to the +heights, and the powerful appetites which lead the body +into the dark places of the earth? And why is the Giver +of the divine the permitter of those tremendous passions, +which are not without their glory, but which +wreck so many human lives?</p> + +<p>Perhaps a reason may be found in the sacredness of +pity. Evil and agony are the manure from which +spring some of the whitest lilies that have ever bloomed +beneath that enigmatic blue which roofs the terror and +the triumph of the world. And while human beings +know how to pity, human beings will always believe in +a merciful God.</p> + +<p>A strange thought to come into such a mind as Artois's! +Yet it came in the twilight, and with it a sense +of tears such as he had never felt before.</p> + +<p>With the twilight had come a little wind from Etna. +It made something near him flutter, something white,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span> +a morsel of paper among the stones by which he was +sitting. He looked down and saw writing, and bent to +pick the paper up.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Emile may leave at once. But there is no good boat till the +10th. We shall take that...."</p></div> + +<p>Hermione's writing!</p> + +<p>Artois understood at once. Maurice had had Hermione's +letter. He had known they were coming from Africa, +and he had gone to the fair despite that knowledge. +He had gone with the girl who wept and prayed beside +the sea.</p> + +<p>His hand closed over the paper.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Emile? What have you picked up?"</p> + +<p>"Only a little bit of paper."</p> + +<p>He spoke quietly, tore it into tiny fragments and let +them go upon the wind.</p> + +<p>"When will you come with me, Hermione? When +shall we go to Italy?"</p> + +<p>"I am saying 'a rivederci' now"—she dropped her +voice—"and buon riposo."</p> + +<p>The white fragments blew away into the gathering +night, separated from one another by the careful wind.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Three days later Hermione and Artois left Sicily, and +Gaspare, leaning out of the window of the train, looked +his last on the Isle of the Sirens. A fisherman on the +beach by the inlet, not Salvatore, recognized the boy +and waved a friendly hand. But Gaspare did not see +him.</p> + +<p>There they had fished! There they had bathed! +There they had drunk the good red wine of Amato and +called for brindisi! There they had lain on the warm +sand of the caves! There they had raced together to +Madre Carmela and her frying-pan! There they had +shouted "O sole mio!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span></p> + +<p>There—there they had been young together!</p> + +<p>The shining sea was blotted out from the boy's eyes +by tears.</p> + +<p>"Povero signorino!" he whispered. "Povero signorino!"</p> + +<p>And then, as his "Paese" vanished, he added for the +last time the words which he had whispered in the dawn +by the grave of his padrone, "Dio ci mandi buon riposo +in Paradiso."</p> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE BLOOD***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 20157-h.txt or 20157-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/1/5/20157">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/1/5/20157</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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