The Call of the Blood

"When I am in Sicily I shall see at once, I shall know," he thought. "But

till then--"

And he gave up the faint attempt to analyze the possible feelings of

another, and sank again into the curious peace of convalescence.

And Hermione wrote to her husband, telling him of her plan, calling upon

him with the fearless enthusiasm that was characteristic of her to

welcome it and to rejoice, with her, in Artois's returning health and

speedy presence in Sicily.

Maurice read this letter on the terrace alone. Gaspare had gone down on

the donkey to Marechiaro to buy a bottle of Marsala, which Lucrezia

demanded for the making of a zampaglione, and Lucrezia was upon the

mountain-side spreading linen to dry in the sun. It was nearly the end of

May now, and the trees in the ravine were thick with all their leaves.

The stream that ran down through the shadows towards the sea was a tiny

trickle of water, and the long, black snakes were coming boldly forth

from their winter hiding-places to sun themselves among the bowlders that

skirted the mountain tracks.

"I can't tell for certain," Hermione wrote, "how soon we shall arrive,

but Emile is picking up strength every day, and I think, I pray, it may

not be long. I dare to hope that we shall be with you about the second

week of June. Oh, Maurice, something in me is almost mad with joy, is

like Gaspare dancing the tarantella, when I think of coming up the

mountain-side again with you as I came that first day, that first day of

my real life. Tell Sebastiano he must play the 'Pastorale' to welcome me.

And you--but I seem to feel your dear welcome here, to feel your hands

holding mine, to see your eyes looking at me like Sicily. Isn't it

strange? I feel out here in Africa as if you were Sicily. But you are,

indeed, for me. You are Sicily, you are the sun, you are everything that

means joy to me, that means music, that means hope and peace. Buon

riposo, my dearest one. Can you feel--can you--how happy I am to-night?"

The second week in June! Maurice stood holding the letter in his hand.

The fair of San Felice would take place during the second week in June.

That was what he was thinking, not of Artois's convalescence, not of his

coming to Sicily. If Hermione arrived before June 11th, could he go to

the fair with Maddalena? He might go, of course. He might tell Hermione.

She would say "Go!" She believed in him and had never tried to curb his

freedom. A less suspicious woman than she was had surely never lived. But

if she were in Sicily, if he knew that she was there in the house of the

priest, waiting to welcome him at night when he came back from the fair,

it would--it would--He laid the letter down. There was a burning heat of

impatience, of anxiety, within him. Now that he had received this letter

he understood with what intensity he had been looking forward to this day

at the fair, to this last festa of his Sicilian life.