The Call of the Blood

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

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"I moved a little," he answered, after a slight pause.

"And you did stretch out your hand and murmur something."

"It was that--'don't leave me alone.'"

"Perhaps. I couldn't hear. It was such a murmur."

"And you only moved a little? How stupid of me to think you were getting
up to go away!"

"When one is half asleep one has odd ideas often."

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.

"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."

"Of course--go. But won't it be rather late after tea?"

"Oh no. I've often been in at sunset."

"How delicious the water must look then! Maurice!"

"Yes?"

"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!"

Her face was glowing with the anticipation of pleasure. Every little
thing done with him was an enchantment after the weeks of separation.

"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--"

"All right," she said.

She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

"How lucky you men are! You can do anything. And there's no fuss. Ah,
there's poor Emile, patiently waiting!"

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 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.

"Sleeping all this time?" he said.

"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?"

"Si, signora."

"Then ask Gaspare to bring it."

"Gaspare--he isn't here, signora. But I'll bring it."

She went away.

"Where's Gaspare, I wonder?" said Hermione. "Have you seen him, Emile?"

"No."

"Perhaps he's sleeping, too. He sleeps generally among the hens."

She looked round the corner into the out-house.

"No, he isn't there. Have you sent him anywhere, Maurice?"

"I? No. Where should I--"

"I only thought you looked as if you knew where he was."

"No. But he may have gone out after birds and forgotten the time. Here's
tea!"

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 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.

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?

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.

Tea was over and Gaspare had not returned. The clock he had bought at the
fair struck five.

"I ought to be going," Artois said.

There was reluctance in his voice. Hermione noticed it and knew what he
was feeling.

"You must come up again very soon," she said.

"Yes, monsieur, come to-morrow, won't you?" Maurice seconded her.

The thought of what was going to happen before to-morrow made it seem to
him a very long way off.

Hermione looked pleased.

"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."

"No, no," said Maurice. "Do come to-morrow."

"Thank you very much. I can't pretend that I do not wish to come. And,
now that donkey-boy--has he climbed up, I wonder?"

"I'll go and see," said Maurice.

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.

"We'll never part from Gaspare," Maurice thought, as he looked and
understood.

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.

"You will come to-morrow, then?" Maurice said to him at parting.

"I haven't the courage to refuse," Artois replied. "Good-bye."

He had already shaken Maurice's hand, but now he extended his hand again.

"It is good of you to make me so welcome," he said.

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.

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.

"Dear old Emile!" Hermione said. "He's been happy to-day. You've made him
very happy, Maurice. Bless you for it!"

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.

"And you?" she said, at last, as he was silent. "Are you really going
down to bathe? Isn't it too late?"

"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.

"Will you take Tito?"

"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."

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.

"I shall be a little late back, I suppose," he said.

"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."

"Yes. Let's say nine."

Still he did not move to go.

"Have you been happy to-day, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes, very--since this morning."

"Since?"

"Yes. This morning I--"

She stopped.

"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?"

"About--about the child?"

"Yes."

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.

"I'm perfectly happy now," she said. "Perfectly happy."

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.

"Good-bye, Hermione," he said.

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:

"What is it, Maurice?"

"We shall come back to Sicily, I suppose, sha'n't we, some time or
other?"

"Surely. Many times, I hope."

"Suppose--one can never tell what will happen--suppose one of us were to
die here?"

"Yes," she said, soberly.

"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."

He swung the bathing-dress and the towels up over 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.

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.

"Gaspare!" Maurice said to him.

He held out his hand and grasped the boy's hot hand.

"I sha'n't forget your faithful service," he said. "Thank you, Gaspare."

He wanted to say more, to find other and far different words. But he
could not.

"Let me come with you, signorino."

The boy's voice was intensely, almost savagely, earnest.

"No. You must stay with the signora."

"I want to come with you."

His great eyes were fastened on his padrone's face.

"I have always been with you."

"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."

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 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.

"Mayn't I come with you, signorino?"

"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?"

"Va bene, signorino."

The boy seemed convinced, but he suffered and did not try to conceal it.

"Now I must go," Maurice said.

He shook Gaspare's hand.

"Have you got the revolver, signorino?" said the boy.

"No. I am not going to fight with Salvatore."

"How do you know what Salvatore will do?"

Maurice looked down upon the stones that lay on the narrow path.

"My revolver can have nothing to do with Maddalena's father," he said.

He sighed.

"That's how it is, Gaspare. Addio!"

"Addio, signorino."

Maurice went on down the path into the shadow of the trees. Presently he
turned. Gaspare stood quite still, looking after him.

"Signorino!" he called. "May I not come? I want to come with you."

Maurice waved his hand towards the mountain-side.

"Go to the signora," he called back. "And look out for me to-night.
Addio, Gaspare!"

The boy's "Addio!" came to him sadly through the gathering shadows of the
evening.

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 holding his gun. He came slowly towards her, lifted his hat,
and was going on without a word, but she stopped him.

"Why, Gaspare," she said, lightly, "you forgot us to-day. How was that?"

"Signora?"

Again she saw the curious, almost ugly, look of obstinacy, which she had
already noticed, come into his face.

"You didn't remember about tea-time!"

"Signora," he answered, "I am sorry."

He looked at her fixedly while he spoke.

"I am sorry," he said again.

"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?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Niente."

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.

"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."

"No, signora," he answered, earnestly; "you must never go away from us
again. You should never have gone away from us."

The deep solemnity of his great eyes startled her. He put on his hat and
went away round the angle of the cottage.

"What can be the matter with him?" she thought.

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 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!

"I must cheer them all up," she thought to herself. "This beautiful time
mustn't end dismally."

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.

"He is not in his right place there," she thought.

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
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?

What were those women's feelings towards God?

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?

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.

But Maurice was beside her then.

Those whose lives had been ruined by great tragedies, when they looked
out upon the shining world what must they think, feel?

She strove to imagine. Their conception of God must surely be very
different from hers.

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 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.

She could not realize sorrow to-day. She must see the sunlight even in
the deliberate visions conjured up by her imagination.

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.

"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, 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!

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.

"Signora!"

Hermione started and turned her head.

"Lucrezia! What is it?"

"What time is it, signora?"

Hermione looked at her watch.

"Nearly eight o'clock. An hour still before supper."

"I've got everything ready."

"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."

Lucrezia smiled, but only for an instant. Then she stood with an anxious
face, twisting her apron.

"Signora!"

"Yes? What is it?"

"Would you mind--may I--"

She stopped.

"Why, Lucrezia, are you afraid of me? I've certainly been away too long!"

"No, no, signora, but--" Tears hung in her eyes. "Will you let me go away
if I promise to be back by nine?"

"But you can't go to Marechiaro in--"

"No, signora. I only want to go to the mountain over there under Castel
Vecchio. I want to go to the Madonna."

Hermione took one of the girl's hands.

"To the Madonna della Rocca?"

"Si, signora."

"I understand."

"I have a candle to burn to the Madonna. If I go now I can be back before
nine."

She stood gazing pathetically, like a big child, at her padrona.

"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."

Lucrezia suddenly forgot distinctions, threw her arms round Hermione, and
began to sob.

"Hush, you must be brave!"

She smoothed the girl's dark hair gently.

"Have you got your candle?"

"Si."

She showed it.

"Let us go quickly, then. Where's Gaspare?"

"Close to the house, signora, on the mountain. One cannot speak with him
to-day."

"Why not?"

"Non lo so. But he is terrible to-day!"

So Lucrezia had noticed Gaspare's strangeness, too, even in the midst of
her sorrow!

"Gaspare!" Hermione called.

There was no answer.

"Gaspare!"

She called louder.

"Si, signora!"

The voice came from somewhere behind the house.

"I am going for a walk with Lucrezia. We shall be back at nine. Tell the
padrone if he comes."

"Si, signora."

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.

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.

"He can't play it like Sebastiano, signora!" she said.

The little tune had brought back all her sorrow.

"Perhaps we shall soon hear Sebastiano play it again," said Hermione.

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.

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