Maurice was like the peasants, not like the Palermitan aristocracy. He
was near to the breast of Sicily, of that mother of many nations, who had
come to conquer, and had fought, and bled, and died, or been expelled,
but had left indefaceable traces behind them, traces of Norman of Greek
of Arab. He was no cosmopolitan with characteristics blurred; he was of
the soil. Well, she loved the soil dearly. The almond blossomed from it.
The olive gave its fruit, and the vine its generous blood, and the orange
its gold, at the word of the soil, the dear, warm earth of Sicily. She
thought of Maurice's warm hands, brown now as Gaspare's. How she loved
his hands, and his eyes that shone with the lustre of the south! Had not
this soil, in very truth, given those hands and those eyes to her? She
felt that it had. She loved it more for the gift. She had reaped and
garnered in her blessed Sicilian harvest.
Lucrezia came to her round the angle of the cottage, knowing she was
alone. Lucrezia was mending a hole in a sock for Gaspare. Now she sat
down on the seat under the window, divided from Hermione by the terrace,
but able to see her, to feel companionship. Had the padrone been there
Lucrezia would not have ventured to come. Gaspare had often explained to
her her very humble position in the household. But Gaspare and the
padrone were away on the mountain-top, and she could not resist being
near to her padrona, for whom she already felt a very real affection and
admiration.
"Is it a big hole, Lucrezia?" said Hermione, smiling at her.
"Si, signora."
Lucrezia put her thumb through it, holding it up on her fist.
"Gaspare's holes are always big."
She spoke as if in praise.
"Gaspare is strong," she added. "But Sebastiano is stronger."
As she said the last words a dreamy look came into her round face, and
she dropped the hand that held the stocking into her lap.
"Sebastiano is hard like the rocks, signora."
"Hard-hearted, Lucrezia."
Lucrezia said nothing.
"You like Sebastiano, Lucrezia?"
Lucrezia reddened under her brown skin.
"Si, signora."
"So do I. He's always been a good friend of mine."
Lucrezia shifted along the seat until she was nearly opposite to where
Hermione was sitting.
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-five, signora."
"I suppose he will be marrying soon, won't he? The men all marry young
round about Marechiaro."