The Call of the Blood

When the funeral was over she walked up the mountain with Gaspare to the

Casa del Prete, and from there, on the following day, she sent a message

to Artois, asking him if he would come to see her.

"I don't ask you to forgive me for not seeing you before," she

wrote. "We understand each other and do not need explanations. I

wanted to see nobody. Come at any hour when you feel that you would

like to.

HERMIONE."

Artois rode up in the cool of the day, towards evening.

He was met upon the terrace by Gaspare.

"The signora is on the mountain, signore," he said. "If you go up you

will find her, the povero signora. She is all alone upon the mountain."

"I will go, Gaspare. I have told Maddalena. I think she will be silent."

The boy dropped his eyes. His unreserve of the island had not endured. It

had been a momentary impulse, and now the impulse had died away.

"Va bene, signore," he muttered.

He had evidently nothing more to say, yet Artois did not leave him

immediately.

"Gaspare," he said, "the signora will not stay here through the great

heat, will she?"

"Non lo so, signore."

"She ought to go away. It will be better if she goes away."

"Si, signore. But perhaps she will not like to leave the povero

signorino."

Tears came into the boy's eyes. He turned away and went to the wall, and

looked over into the ravine, and thought of many things: of readings

under the oak-trees, of the tarantella, of how he and the padrone had

come up from the fishing singing in the sunshine. His heart was full, and

he felt dazed. He was so accustomed to being always with his padrone that

he did not know how he was to go on without him. He did not remember his

former life, before the padrone came. Everything seemed to have begun for

him on that morning when the train with the padrone and the padrona in it

ran into the station of Cattaro. And now everything seemed to have

finished.

Artois did not say any more to him, but walked slowly up the mountain

leaning on his stick. Close to the top, by a heap of stones that was

something like a cairn, he saw, presently, a woman sitting. As he came

nearer she turned her head and saw him. She did not move. The soft rays

of the evening sun fell on her, and showed him that her square and rugged

face was pale and grave and, he thought, empty-looking, as if something

had deprived it of its former possession, the ardent vitality, the

generous enthusiasm, the look of swiftness he had loved.