The Call of the Blood

"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?