The Call of the Blood

"Mon Dieu!" he thought, passionately. "And even now I must be thinking of

my cursed self!"

He was beset by an intensity of desire to do something for Hermione. For

once in his life his heart, the heart she believed in and he was inclined

to doubt or to despise, drove him as it might have driven a boy, even

such a one as Maurice. It seemed to him that unless he could do something

to make atonement he could never be with Hermione again, could never bear

to be with her again. But what could he do?

"At least," he thought, "I may be able to spare her something to-day. I

may be able to arrange with these people about the funeral, about all the

practical things that are so frightful a burden to the living who have

loved the dead, in the last moments before the dead are given to the

custody of the earth."

And then he thought of the inquiry, of the autopsy. Could he not help

her, spare her perhaps, in connection with them?

Despite his weakness of body he felt feverishly active, feverishly

desirous to be of practical use. If he could do something he would think

less, too; and there were thoughts which seemed furtively trying to press

themselves forward in the chambers of his mind, but which, as yet, he

was, also furtively, pushing back, striving to keep in the dark place

from which they desired to emerge.

Artois knew Sicily well, and he knew that such a death as this would

demand an inquiry, might raise suspicions in the minds of the authorities

of Marechiaro. And in his own mind?

He was a mentally courageous man, but he longed now to leave Marechiaro,

to leave Sicily at once, carrying Hermione with him. A great dread was

not actually with him, but was very near to him.

Presently something, he did not know what, drew him to the window of his

bedroom which looked out towards the main street of the village. As he

came to it he heard a dull murmur of voices, and saw the Sicilians

crowding to their doors and windows, and coming out upon their balconies.

The body of Maurice was being borne to the hospital which was at the far

end of the town. As soon as he realized that, Artois closed his window.

He could not look with the curious on that procession. He went back into

his sitting-room, which faced the sea. But he felt the procession going

past, and was enveloped in the black wonder of death.