The Call of the Blood

Hermione had kept Artois's letter in her hand, and now, as she danced in

spirit with Gaspare, and rejoiced not only in her own joy, but in his,

she thought suddenly of that sentence in it--"Life may seem to most of us

who think in the main a melancholy, even a tortured, thing." Life a

tortured thing! She was thinking now, exultantly thinking. Her thoughts

were leaping, spinning, crouching, whirling, rushing with Gaspare in the

sunshine. But life was a happy, a radiant reality. No dream, it was more

beautiful than any dream, as the clear, when lovely, is more lovely than

even that which is exquisite and vague. She had, of course, always known

that in the world there is much joy. Now she felt it, she felt all the

joy of the world. She felt the joy of sunshine and of blue, the joy of

love and of sympathy, the joy of health and of activity, the joy of sane

passion that fights not against any law of God or man, the joy of liberty

in a joyous land where the climate is kindly, and, despite poverty and

toil, there are songs upon the lips of men, there are tarantellas in

their sun-browned bodies, there are the fires of gayety in their bold,

dark eyes. Joy, joy twittered in the reed-flute of Sebastiano, and the

boys were joys made manifest. Hermione's eyes had filled with tears of

joy when among the olives she had heard the far-off drone of the

"Pastorale." Now they shone with a joy that was different, less subtly

sweet, perhaps, but more buoyant, more fearless, more careless. The glory

of the pagan world was round about her, and for a moment her heart was

like the heart of a nymph scattering roses in a Bacchic triumph.

Maurice moved beside her, and she heard him breathing quickly.

"What is it, Maurice?" she asked. "You--do you--"

"Yes," he answered, understanding the question she had not fully asked.

"It drives me almost mad to sit still and see those boys. Gaspare's like

a merry devil tempting one."

As if Gaspare had understood what Maurice said, he suddenly spun round

from his companions, and began to dance in front of Maurice and Hermione,

provocatively, invitingly, bending his head towards them, and laughing

almost in their faces, but without a trace of impertinence. He did not

speak, though his lips were parted, showing two rows of even, tiny teeth,

but his radiant eyes called to them, scolded them for their inactivity,

chaffed them for it, wondered how long it would last, and seemed to deny

that it could last forever.