The Call of the Blood

R >> Robert Smythe Hichens >> The Call of the Blood

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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.

Maddalena willingly obeyed Maurice's suggestion.

"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?"

"No, signore."

"Put your back against the trunk--there."

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.

"How can they?" Maurice muttered, as he looked down.

"Cosa?"

He laughed.

"I was thinking out loud. I meant how can they bargain and bother hour
after hour in all that sun!"

"But, signorino, you would not have them pay too much!" she said, very
seriously. "It is dreadful to waste soldi."

"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!"

He waved his hand towards the crowd, but he saw that Maddalena was
preoccupied. She glanced towards the watercourse rather wistfully.

"What is it, Maddalena? Ah, I know! The blue dress and the ear-rings! Per
Bacco!"

"No, signore--no, signore!"

She disclaimed quickly, reddening.

"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!"

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.

"No, signore," Maddalena said, meekly, but still wistfully.

"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!"

Maddalena looked startled, almost terrified, by his outburst. Her lips
trembled, but she gazed at him steadily.

"Non e vero."

The words sounded almost stern.

"I do--" he said. "I do want to be cared for a little--just for myself."

[Illustration: "HE KEPT HIS HAND ON HERS AND HELD IT ON THE WARM GROUND"]

At that moment he had a sensation of loneliness like 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.

"Non e vero!" Maddalena repeated.

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.

"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."

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.

"Probably I shall never come back to Sicily again," he said, with
pressure.

She said nothing.

"It will be better not," he added. "Much better."

Now he was speaking for himself.

"There's something here, something that I love and that's bad for me. I'm
quite changed here. I'm like another man."

He saw a sort of childish surprise creeping into her face.

"Why, signorino?" she murmured.

He kept his hand on hers and held it on the warm ground.

"Perhaps it is the sun," he said. "I lose my head here, and I--lose my
heart!"

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.

"I'm horribly happy here, but I oughtn't to be happy."

"Why, signorino? It is better to be happy."

"Per Dio!" he exclaimed.

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.

"Suppose I were quite poor, Maddalena!" he said.

"But you are very rich, signorino."

"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!"

She said nothing. She was listening with deep but still surprised
attention.

"Then I could--I could go to your father and ask him----"

He stopped.

"What could you ask him, signorino?"

"Can't you guess?"

"No, signore."

"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."

"Davvero?"

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.

"Magari!" she murmured, drawing in her breath, then breathing out.

"You would be happy if I did that?"

"Magari!" she said again.

He did not know what the word meant, but he thought it sounded like the
most complete expression of satisfaction he had ever heard.

"I wish," he said, pressing her hand--"I wish I were a Sicilian of
Marechiaro."

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.

"How beastly that is!" he exclaimed.

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.

"Why do they do that?" he added, with intense irritation.

"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."

"Palermo!" he said, sharply.

"Si, signore."

"But the train from Palermo comes the other way, by Messina!"

"Si, signore. But there are two, one by Messina and one by Catania.
Ecco!"

From the lemon groves came the rattle of the approaching train.

"But--but----"

He caught at his watch, pulled it out.

Five o'clock!

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 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.

"Ecco, signorino. Viene!"

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.

"Look, signorino! Look!"

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.
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.

"Ah!"

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.

"Ecco!" murmured Maddalena. "The man at the other end has signalled!"

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
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.

"Signorino! Signorino!"

Maurice said nothing.

"Signorino!" repeated Maddalena. "Look at Gaspare! Is he mad? Look! How
he is running!"

Gaspare reached the bank, darted up it, and disappeared into the village.

"Signorino, what is the matter?"

Maddalena pulled his sleeve. She was looking almost alarmed.

"Matter? Nothing."

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 taken him far, but--now Hermione was coming. It was all
over and the sun was still up, still shining upon the sea.

"Let us go into the fair. It is cooler now."

He tried to speak lightly.

"Si, signore."

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.

"Signorino, what can have been the matter with Gaspare?"

"I don't know."

"He was looking at the train."

"Was he? Perhaps he saw a friend in it. Yes, that must have been it. He
saw a friend in the train."

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.

"Where are we going, signorino? Are we going back to the town?"

Instinctively, Maurice was following in the direction taken by Gaspare.
He wanted to meet fate half-way, to still, by action, the tumult of
feeling within him.

"Aren't the best things to be bought there?" he replied. "By the church
where all those booths are? I think so."

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.

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.

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.

"Signorino! Signorino!"

Gaspare was by his side, streaming with perspiration and looking
violently excited.

"Gaspare!"

He stopped, cast a swift look round. Gaspare was alone.

"Signorino"--the boy was breathing hard--"the signora"--he gulped--"the
signora has come back."

The time had come for acting. Maurice feigned surprise.

"The signora! What are you saying? The signora is in Africa."

"No, signore! She is here!"

"Here in San Felice!"

"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!"

His eyes were tragic. Evidently he felt that their absence was a matter
of immense importance, was a catastrophe.

"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?"

He looked at Gaspare, but only for an instant. He felt afraid to meet his
great, searching eyes.

"Non lo so."

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.

"I can't understand it," Maurice said, heavily. "I can't--was the signora
alone, or did you see some one with her?"

"The sick signore? I did not see him. I saw only the signora standing at
the window, waving her hand--cosi!"

He waved his hand.

"Madonna!" Maurice said, mechanically.

"What are we to do, signorino?"

"Do! What can we do? The train has gone!"

"Si, signore. But shall I fetch the donkeys?"

Maurice stole a glance at Maddalena. She was looking frankly piteous.

"Have you got the clock yet?" he asked Gaspare.

"No, signore."

Gaspare began to look rather miserable, too.

"It has not been put up. Perhaps they are putting it up now."

"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?"

"No, signore. The signora always wishes people to be happy."

"Even if we went at once it would be night before we got back."

"Si, signore."

"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."

"Va bene."

The boy sounded doubtful.

"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!"

He made a grimace, with earnest, heart-felt sincerity.

"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!"

"Signorino!" Gaspare cried. "I will give her the clock that plays the
'Tre Colori'! Then she will be happy again. Shall I?"

"Si, si. And meet me in the market-place. Then we will eat something and
we will start for home."

The boy darted away towards the watercourse. His heart was light again.
He had something to do for the signora, something that would make her
very happy. Ah, when she heard the clock playing the "Tre Colori"! Mamma
mia!

He tore towards the watercourse in an agony lest he should be too late.

* * * * *

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 eclat 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.

"Dov'e il mio padrone?" he asked, as he and Amedeo pushed through the
dense throng. "Dov'e il mio padrone?"

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 citta," 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.

"Signorino! Signorino! Look!"

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.

"Is that the clock?"

Gaspare did not reply in words, but his brown fingers deftly removed the
string and paper and undressed his treasure.

"Ecco!" he exclaimed.

The clock was revealed, a great circle of blue and white standing upon
short, brass legs, and ticking loudly,

"Speranza mia, non piangere,
E il marinar fedele,
Vedrai tornar dall' Africa
Tra un anno queste vele----"

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.

"Ecco!" repeated Gaspare, triumphantly.

"Mamma mia!" murmured Maddalena, almost exhausted with the magic of the
fair.

"It's wonderful!" said Maurice.

He, too, was a little tired, but not in body.

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.

"Ecco!" repeated Gaspare. "Will not the signora be happy when she sees
what I have brought her from the fair?"

He sighed from sheer delight in his possession and the thought of his
padrona's joy and wonder in it.

"Mangiamo?" he added, descending from heavenly delights to earthly
necessities.

"Yes, it is getting late," said Maurice. "The fireworks will soon be
beginning, I suppose."

"Not till ten, signorino. I have asked. There will be dancing first.
But--are we going to stay?"

Maurice hesitated, but only for a second.

"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."

"Then we can say 'Good-morning' to the signora when we get home," said
Gaspare.

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.

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.

"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."

"And get little more from him!" said one of the fishermen, who was
jealous of Salvatore's good-fortune.

Salvatore laughed loudly. He had drunk a good deal of wine and he had had
a great deal of money given to him.

"I shall find another English fool, perhaps!" he said. "Chi lo sa?"

"And his cristiana?" asked another fisherman. "What is she like?"

"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?"

And he repeated the contadino's proverb:

"'La mugghieri e comu la gatta: si l'accarizzi, idda ti gratta!'"

"Perhaps the Inglese will get scratched to-night," said the first
fisherman.

"I don't mind," rejoined Salvatore. "Get us a fresh pack of cards,
Fortunato. I'll pay for 'em."

And he flung down a lira on the wine-stained table.

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.

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