The Call of the Blood
Page 178"And I, too," said Maurice; "and Maddalena, but not till then."
What a long time away that would be!
"Here is the ristorante!"
They had reached a long room with doors open onto the square, opposite to
the rows of booths which were set up under the shadow of the church.
Outside of it were many small tables and numbers of chairs on which
people were sitting, contemplating the movement of the crowd of buyers
and sellers, smoking, drinking syrups, gazzosa, and eating ices and flat
biscuits.
Gaspare guided them through the throng to a long table set on a sanded
floor.
"Ecco, signorino!"
He installed Maurice at the top of the table.
"And you sit here, Donna Maddalena."
He placed her at Maurice's right hand, and was going to sit down himself
on the left, when Salvatore roughly pushed in before him, seized the
sounded defiant. An ugly look came into Gaspare's face.
"Macchè--" he began, angrily.
But Maurice silenced him with a quick look.
"Gaspare, you come here, by Maddalena!"
"Ma--"
"Come along, Gasparino, and tell us what we are to have. You must order
everything. Where's the cameriere? Cameriere! Cameriere!"
He struck on his glass with a fork. A waiter came running.
"Don Gaspare will order for us all," said Maurice to him, pointing to
Gaspare.
His diplomacy was successful. Gaspare's face cleared, and in a moment he
was immersed in an eager colloquy with the waiter, another friend of his
from Marechiaro. Amedeo Buccini took a place by Gaspare, and all those
from Marechiaro, who evidently considered that they belonged to the
Inglese's party for the day, arranged themselves as they pleased and
A certain formality now reigned over the assembly. The movement of the
road in the outside world by the sea had stirred the blood, had loosened
tongues and quickened spirits. But a meal in a restaurant, with a rich
English signore presiding at the head of the table, was an unaccustomed
ceremony. Dark faces that had been lit up with laughter now looked almost
ludicrously discreet. Brown hands which had been in constant activity,
talking as plainly, and more expressively, than voices, now lay limply
upon the white cloth or were placed upon knees motionless as the knees of
statues. And all eyes were turned towards the giver of the feast, mutely
demanding of him a signal of conduct to guide his inquiring guests. But
Maurice, too, felt for the moment tongue-tied. He was very sensitive to
influences, and his present position, between Maddalena and her father,
created within him a certain confusion of feelings, an odd sensation of
being between two conflicting elements. He was conscious of affection and
of enmity, both close to him, both strong, the one ready to show itself,
met the fisherman's keen gaze. Behind the instant smile in the glittering
eyes he divined, rather than saw, the shadow of his hatred. And for a
moment he wondered. Why should Salvatore hate him? It was reasonable to
hate a man for a wrong done, even for a wrong deliberately contemplated
with intention--the intention of committing it. But he had done no real
wrong to Salvatore. Nor had he any evil intention with regard to him or
his. So far he had only brought pleasure into their lives, his life and
Maddalena's--pleasure and money. If there had been any secret pain
engendered by their mutual intercourse it was his. And this day was the
last of their intimacy, though Salvatore and Maddalena did not know it.
Suddenly a desire, an almost weak desire, came to him to banish
Salvatore's distrust of him, a distrust which he was more conscious of at
this moment than ever before.