"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 wishedto 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 intothe 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 havetaken 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 directiontaken 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—così!"
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 thesignora, 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 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.
"Dov'è il mio padrone?" he asked, as he and Amedeo pushed through the dense throng. "Dov'è 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 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.
"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' AfricaTra un anno queste vele——"
"Speranza mia, non piangere,E il marinar fedele,Vedrai tornar dall' AfricaTra 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 è 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.
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 turnhim 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.
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.
Every dog has his day. The old saying came to his mind. "Every dog has his day—and mine is over."
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.
The dance was over. Another was formed, a country dance. Again Maurice was Maddalena's partner. Thencame "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:
"I'm going outside. You'll find me there when you've finished dancing."
"Va bene, signorino. In a quarter of an hour the fireworks will be beginning."
"And then we must start off at once."
"Si, signore."
The organ struck up again and Amedeo took hold of Gaspare by the waist.
"Maddalena, come out with me."
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.
"Have you been happy to-day, Maddalena?" Maurice asked.
"Si, signore, very happy. And you?"
He did not answer.
"It will all be very different to-morrow," he said.
He was trying to realize to-morrow, but he could not.
"We need not think of to-morrow," Maddalena said.
She arranged her skirt with her hands, and crossed one foot over the other.
"Do you always live for the day?" Maurice asked her.
She did not understand him.
"I do not want to think of to-morrow," she said. "There will be no fair then."
"And you would like always to be at the fair?"
"Si, signore, always."
There was a great conviction in her simple statement.
"And you, signorino?"
She was curious about him to-night.
"I don't know what I should like," he said.
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.
"But I think," he said, after a pause—"I think I should like to carry you off, Maddalena, up there, far up on Etna."
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.
"Shall we go now?" he said. "Shall we go off to Etna, Maddalena?"
"Signorino!"
She gave a little laugh.
"We must go home after the fireworks."
"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?"
But she replied:
"A girl can only go like that with a man when she is married."
"That's not true," he said. "She can go like that with a man she loves."
"But then she is wicked, and the Madonna will not hear her when she prays, signorino."
"Wouldn't you do anything for a man you really loved? Wouldn't you forget everything? Wouldn't you forget even the Madonna?"
She looked at him.
"Non lo so."
It seemed to him that he was answered.
"Wouldn't you forget the Madonna for me?" he whispered, leaning towards her.
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.
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.
"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!"
Gaspare had hold of Maurice by the arm.
"E' finito!" Maurice murmured.
It seemed to him that the last day of his wild youth was at an end.
"E' finito!" he repeated.
But there was still an hour.
And who can tell what an hour will bring forth?
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.
"The donkey you bought is for Maddalena," Maurice had said to him.
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.
"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."
He bent down his head as if he were going to translate the formal phrase into an action, but Maurice drew back.
"Addio, Salvatore," he said.
His voice was low.
"Addio, Maddalena!" he added.
She murmured something in reply. Salvatore looked keenly from one to the other.
"Are you tired, Maddalena?" he asked, with a sort of rough suspicion.
"Si," she answered.
She followed him slowly across the railway line towards the sea, while Maurice and Gaspare turned their donkeys' heads towards the mountain.
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.
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.
"Signorino!"
"Si."
"Do you think the signora will be asleep?"
"I don't know. I suppose so."
The boy looked wise.
"I do not think so," he said, firmly.
"What—at three o'clock in the morning!"
"I think the signora will be on the terrace watching for us."
Maurice's lips twitched.
"Chi lo sa?" he replied.
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.
"Signorino!"
"Well?"
"Where were you and Maddalena when I was helping with the fireworks?"
"Close by."
"Did you see them all? Did you see the Regina Margherita?"
"Si."
"I looked round for you, but I could not see you."
"There was such a crowd and it was dark."
"Yes. Then you were there, where I left you?"
"We may have moved a little, but we were not far off."
"I cannot think why I could not find you when the fireworks were over."
"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."
The boy was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"Salvatore was very angry when he saw me come into the stable without you."
"Why?"
"He said I ought not to have left my padrone."
"And what did you say?"
"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."
"He was quiet enough coming home."
"I do not like his being so quiet."
"What does it matter?"
Again there was a pause. Then Gaspare said:
"Now that the signora has come back we shall not go any more to the Casa delle Sirene, shall we?"
"No, I don't suppose we shall go any more."
"It is better like that, signorino. It is much better that we do not go."
Maurice said nothing.
"We have been there too often," added Gaspare. "I am glad the signora has come back. I am sorry she ever went away."
"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."
"No, signore."
Gaspare's voice sounded almost apologetic. He was a little startled by his padrone's tone.
"It was a pity she went," he continued. "The poor signora——"
"Why is it such a pity?" Maurice interrupted, almost roughly, almost suspiciously. "Why do you say 'the poor signora'?"
Gaspare stared at him with open surprise.
"I only meant——"
"The signora wished to go to Africa. She decided for herself. There is no reason to call her the poor signora."
"No, signore."
The boy's voice recalled Maurice to prudence.
"It was very good of her to go," he said, more quietly. "Perhaps she has saved the life of the sick signore by going."
"Si, signore."
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 ledhim? 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?
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.
"Signorino?"
"Yes, Gaspare."
"When we get to that rock we shall see the house."
"I know."
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.
"Signorino, there is no light! Look!"
"The signora and Lucrezia must be asleep at this hour."
"If they are, what are we to do? Shall we wake them?"
"No, no."
He spoke quickly, in hope of a respite.
"We will wait—we will not disturb them."
Gaspare looked down at the parcel he was holding with such anxious care.
"I would like to play the 'Tre Colori,'" he said. "Iwould like the first thing the signora hears when she wakes to be the 'Tre Colori.'"
"Hush! We must be very quiet."
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.
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.
Tears came into his eyes as he listened. Then he shut his eyes and said to himself, shuddering:
"Oh, you beast! You beast!"
"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."
He looked down at his clock, and his eyes began to shine.
"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."
"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," Maurice said.
Directly he had heard the music he had known that Hermione was aware of their approach.
"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she would have come out to meet us. Let us leave the donkeys!"
He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed his example.
"Now, signore!"
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.
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."
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:
"Gaspare, how dare you interrupt my concert?"
"Signora! Signora!" cried Gaspare, and, springing up, he darted into the sitting-room.
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:
"But, but, Gaspare——"
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.
"Hermione!" he said.
"Maurice!"
He felt her strong hands, strong and yet soft like all the woman, on his.
"Cento di questi giorni!" she said. "Ah, but it is better than all the birthdays in the world!"
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.
"I know!" she whispered. "You haven't forgotten!"
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.
"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?"
"Si, signora!"
Solemnly he handed it, still playing brightly, to his padrona, just a little reluctantly, perhaps, but very gallantly.
"It is for you, signora."
"A present—oh, Gaspare!"
Again her voice was veiled. She put out her hand and touched the boy's hand.
"Grazie! How sweetly it plays! You thought of me!"
There was a silence till the tune was finished. Then Maurice said:
"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?"
"You didn't know, then!"
The words came very quickly, very eagerly.
"Know! Didn't Lucrezia tell you that we had no idea?"
"Poor Lucrezia! She's in a dreadful condition. I found her in the village."
"No!" Maurice cried, thankful to turn the conversation from himself, though only for an instant. "I specially told her to stay here. I specially——"
"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—"
"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."
"It is too bad!" Maurice said.
"Then you never had it?"
"Hermione"—he stared at the open door—"you think we should have gone to the fair if——"
"No, no, I never thought so. I only wondered. It all seemed so strange."
"It is too horrible!" Maurice said, with heavy emphasis. "And Artois—no rooms ready for him! What can he have thought?"
"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?"
"Si, signora. I ran all the way to the station, but the train had gone."
"But I didn't see you, Maurice. Where were you?"
Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but Maurice did not give him time.
"I was there, too, in the fair."
"But of course you weren't looking at the train?"
"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——"
"Oh, I'm glad you didn't hurry back. What good would it have done then?"
There was a touch of constraint in her voice.
"You must have thought I should be in bed."
"Yes, we did."
"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."
The constraint had gone.
"The signora is happy because she is back in my country," Gaspare remarked, with pride and an air of shrewdness.
He nodded his head. The faded roses shook above his ears. Hermione smiled at him.
"He knows all about it," she said. "Well, if we are ever to go to bed——"
Gaspare looked from her to his padrone.
"Buona notte, signora," he said, gravely. "Buona notte, signorino. Buon riposo!"
"Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to hear that again. I do love the clock, Gaspare."
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.
"Shall I put the clock down?" he asked.
He went to her, took the clock, carried it to the writing-table, and put it down.
"Gaspare was so happy to bring it to you."
He turned. He felt desperate. He came to Hermione and put out his hands.
"I feel so bad that we weren't here," he said.
"That is it!"
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.
"I feel—I feel horribly, horribly bad!"
Speaking the absolute truth, his voice was absolutely sincere, and he deceived her utterly.
"Maurice," she said, "I believe it's upset you so much that—that you are shy of me."
She laughed happily.
"Shy—of me!"
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.
"She must know!" he thought. "She must feel the truth. My lips must tell it to her."
And when at last they drew away from each other his eyes asked her furiously a question, asked it of her eyes.
"What is it, Maurice?"
He said nothing. She dropped her eyes and reddened slowly, till she looked much younger than usual, strangely like a girl.
"You haven't—you haven't——"
There was a sound of reserve in her voice, and yet a sound of triumph, too. She looked up at him again.
"Do you guess that I have something to tell you?" she said, slowly.
"Something to tell me?" he repeated, dully.
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.
"Ah," she said, quickly; "no, I see you weren't."
"What is it?" he asked, but without real interest.
"I can't tell you now," she said.
Gaspare went by the window leading the donkeys.
"Buona notte, signora!"
It was a very happy voice.
"Buona notte, Gaspare. Sleep well."
Maurice caught at the last words.
"We must sleep," he said. "To-morrow we'll—we'll——"
"Tell each other everything. Yes, to-morrow!"
She put her arm through his.
"Maurice, if you knew how I feel!"
"Yes?" he said, trying to make his voice eager, buoyant. "Yes?"
"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!"
He cleared his throat.
"Why?"
"It is so difficult to repeat a great, an intense happiness, I think. But we will, we are repeating it, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"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."
"Of course."
"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!"
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.
"Don't think of dreadful things," he said.
"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!"
He took his arm away from her.
"Come, we must sleep, Hermione!" he said. "It's nearly dawn. I can almost see the smoke on Etna."
He shut the French window and drew the bolt.
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.
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.
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.
"Maurice!" she called.
"Yes."
His voice sounded odd to her, almost like the voice of some other man, some stranger.
"Aren't you coming?"
"Yes. Hermione."
But still he did not come. After a moment, he said:
"It's awfully hot to-night!"
"After Africa it seems quite cool to me."
"Does it? I've been—since you've been away I've been sleeping nearly always out-of-doors on the terrace."
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.
"Have you?" she said.
"Yes."
"Do you—would you rather sleep there to-night?"
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.
"Well, it's much cooler there."
She was silent.
"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!"
"But—but the sun will soon be up, won't it?"
"Oh—then I can come in."
"All right."
"I'll take the rugs from the sitting-room. I say—how's Artois?"
"Much better, but he's still weak."
"Poor chap!"
"He'll ride up to-morrow on a donkey."
"Good! I'm—I'm most awfully sorry about his rooms."
"What does it matter? I've made them quite nice already. He's perfectly comfortable."
"I'm glad. It's all—it's all been such a pity—about to-day, I mean."
"Don't let's think of it! Don't let's think of it any more."
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.
"Maurice, you—you——"
"What is it?" he asked.
"You aren't vexed at my staying away so long? You aren't vexed at my bringing Emile back with me?"
"No, of course not," he said. "But—but I wish you hadn't gone away."
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:
"I shall sleep as I am, Hermione, without undressing. I'm awfully done. Good-night."
"Good-night!" she called.
There was a quiver in her voice. And yet that flame of happiness had not quite died down. She said to herself:
"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.
"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!"
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.But he had been a little jealous about her friendship for Emile.
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.
"I love you," she whispered—"oh, so much!"
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.
"God forgive me!" he said to himself. "God forgive me!"
His body was shaken by a sob.