It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Maurice and Gaspare said
good-bye to Maddalena and her father on the road by Isola Bella.
Salvatore had left the three donkeys at Cattaro, and had come the rest of
the way on foot, while Maddalena rode Gaspare's beast.
"The donkey you bought is for Maddalena," Maurice had said to him.
And the fisherman had burst into effusive thanks. But already he had his
eye on a possible customer in Cattaro. As soon as the Inglese had gone
back to his own country the donkey would be resold at a good price. What
did a fisherman want with donkeys, and how was an animal to be stabled on
the Sirens' Isle? As soon as the Inglese was gone, Salvatore meant to put
a fine sum of money into his pocket.
"Addio, signorino!" he said, sweeping off his hat with the wild,
half-impudent gesture that was peculiar to him. "I kiss your hand and I
kiss the hand of your signora."
He bent down his head as if he were going to translate the formal phrase
into an action, but Maurice drew back.
"Addio, Salvatore," he said.
His voice was low.
"Addio, Maddalena!" he added.
She murmured something in reply. Salvatore looked keenly from one to the
other.
"Are you tired, Maddalena?" he asked, with a sort of rough suspicion.
"Si," she answered.
She followed him slowly across the railway line towards the sea, while
Maurice and Gaspare turned their donkeys' heads towards the mountain.
They rode upward in silence. Gaspare was sleepy. His head nodded loosely
as he rode, but his hands never let go their careful hold of the clock.
Round about him his many purchases were carefully disposed, fastened
elaborately to the big saddle. The roses, faded now, were still above his
ears. Maurice rode behind. He was not sleepy. He felt as if he would
never sleep again.
As they drew nearer to the house of the priest, Gaspare pulled himself
together with an effort, half-turned on his donkey, and looked round at
his padrone.
"Signorino!"
"Si."
"Do you think the signora will be asleep?"
"I don't know. I suppose so."
The boy looked wise.
"I do not think so," he said, firmly.
"What--at three o'clock in the morning!"
"I think the signora will be on the terrace watching for us."
Maurice's lips twitched.
"Chi lo sa?" he replied.
He tried to speak carelessly, but where was his habitual carelessness of
spirit, his carelessness of a boy now? He felt that he had lost it
forever, lost it in that last hour of the fair.
"Signorino!"
"Well?"
"Where were you and Maddalena when I was helping with the fireworks?"
"Close by."
"Did you see them all? Did you see the Regina Margherita?"
"Si."
"I looked round for you, but I could not see you."
"There was such a crowd and it was dark."
"Yes. Then you were there, where I left you?"
"We may have moved a little, but we were not far off."
"I cannot think why I could not find you when the fireworks were over."
"It was the crowd. I thought it best to go to the stable without
searching for you. I knew you and Salvatore would be there."
The boy was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"Salvatore was very angry when he saw me come into the stable without
you."
"Why?"
"He said I ought not to have left my padrone."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him I would not be spoken to by him. If you had not come in just
then I think there would have been a baruffa. Salvatore is a bad man, and
always ready with his knife. And he had been drinking."
"He was quiet enough coming home."
"I do not like his being so quiet."
"What does it matter?"
Again there was a pause. Then Gaspare said:
"Now that the signora has come back we shall not go any more to the Casa
delle Sirene, shall we?"
"No, I don't suppose we shall go any more."
"It is better like that, signorino. It is much better that we do not go."
Maurice said nothing.
"We have been there too often," added Gaspare. "I am glad the signora has
come back. I am sorry she ever went away."
"It was not our fault that she went," Maurice said, in a hard voice like
that of a man trying to justify something, to defend himself against some
accusation. "We did not want the signora to go."
"No, signore."
Gaspare's voice sounded almost apologetic. He was a little startled by
his padrone's tone.
"It was a pity she went," he continued. "The poor signora----"
"Why is it such a pity?" Maurice interrupted, almost roughly, almost
suspiciously. "Why do you say 'the poor signora'?"
Gaspare stared at him with open surprise.
"I only meant----"
"The signora wished to go to Africa. She decided for herself. There is no
reason to call her the poor signora."
"No, signore."
The boy's voice recalled Maurice to prudence.
"It was very good of her to go," he said, more quietly. "Perhaps she has
saved the life of the sick signore by going."
"Si, signore."
Gaspare said no more, but as they rode up, drawing ever nearer to the
bare mountain-side and the house of the priest, Maurice's heart
reiterated the thought of the boy. Why had Hermione ever gone? What a
madness it had all been, her going, his staying! He knew it now for a
madness, a madness of the summer, of the hot, the burning south. In this
terrible quiet of the mountains, without the sun, without the laughter
and the voices and the movement of men, he understood that he had been
mad, that there had been something in him, not all himself, which had run
wild, despising restraint. And he had known that it was running wild, and
he had thought to let it go just so far and no farther. He had set a
limit of time to his wildness and its deeds. And he had set another
limit. Surely he had. He had not ever meant to go too far. And then, just
when he had said to himself "E' finito!" the irrevocable was at hand, the
moment of delirium in which all things that should have been remembered
were forgotten. What had led him? What spirit of evil? Or had he been
led at all? Had not he rather deliberately forced his way to the tragic
goal whither, through all these sunlit days, these starry nights, his
feet had been tending?
He looked upon himself as a man looks upon a stranger whom he has seen
commit a crime which he could never have committed. Mentally he took
himself into custody, he tried, he condemned himself. In this hour of
acute reaction the cool justice of the Englishman judged the passionate
impulse of the Sicilian, even marvelled at it, and the heart of the
dancing Faun cried: "What am I--what am I really?" and did not find the
answer.
"Signorino?"
"Yes, Gaspare."
"When we get to that rock we shall see the house."
"I know."
How eagerly he had looked upward to the little white house on the
mountain on that first day in Sicily, with what joy of anticipation, with
what an exquisite sense of liberty and of peace! The drowsy wail of the
"Pastorale" had come floating down to him over the olive-trees almost
like a melody that stole from paradise. But now he dreaded the turn of
the path. He dreaded to see the terrace wall, the snowy building it
protected. And he felt as if he were drawing near to a terror, and as if
he could not face it, did not know how to face it.
"Signorino, there is no light! Look!"
"The signora and Lucrezia must be asleep at this hour."
"If they are, what are we to do? Shall we wake them?"
"No, no."
He spoke quickly, in hope of a respite.
"We will wait--we will not disturb them."
Gaspare looked down at the parcel he was holding with such anxious care.
"I would like to play the 'Tre Colori,'" he said. "I would like the
first thing the signora hears when she wakes to be the 'Tre Colori.'"
"Hush! We must be very quiet."
The noise made on the path by the tripping feet of the donkeys was almost
intolerable to him. It must surely wake the deepest sleeper. They were
now on the last ascent where the mountain-side was bare. Some stones
rattled downward, causing a sharp, continuous sound. It was answered by
another sound, which made both Gaspare and Maurice draw rein and pull up.
As on that first day in Sicily Maurice had been welcomed by the
"Pastorale," so he was welcomed by it now. What an irony that was to him!
For an instant his lips curved in a bitter smile. But the smile died away
as he realized things, and a strange sadness took hold of his heart. For
it was not the ceramella that he heard in this still hour, but a piano
played softly, monotonously, with a dreamy tenderness that made it surely
one with the tenderness of the deep night. And he knew that Hermione had
been watching, that she had heard him coming, that this was her welcome,
a welcome from the depths of her pure, true heart. How much the music
told him! How clearly it spoke to him! And how its caress flagellated his
bare soul! Hermione had returned expectant of welcome and had found
nothing, and instead of coming out upon the terrace, instead of showing
surprise, vexation, jealous curiosity, of assuming the injured air that
even a good woman can scarcely resist displaying in a moment of acute
disappointment, she sent forth this delicate salutation to him from afar,
the sweetest that she knew, the one she herself loved best.
Tears came into his eyes as he listened. Then he shut his eyes and said
to himself, shuddering:
"Oh, you beast! You beast!"
"It is the signora!" said Gaspare, turning round on his donkey. "She does
not know we are here, and she is playing to keep herself awake."
He looked down at his clock, and his eyes began to shine.
"I am glad the signora is awake!" he said. "Signorino, let us get off the
donkeys and leave them at the arch, and let us go in without any noise."
"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," Maurice said.
Directly he had heard the music he had known that Hermione was aware of
their approach.
"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she would have come out to
meet us. Let us leave the donkeys!"
He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed his example.
"Now, signore!"
The boy took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe to the terrace, making
him crouch down close to the open French window. The "Pastorale" was
louder here. It never ceased, but returned again and again with the
delicious monotony that made it memorable and wove a spell round those
who loved it. As he listened to it, Maurice fancied he could hear the
breathing of the player, and he felt that she was listening, too,
listening tensely for footsteps on the terrace.
Gaspare looked up at him with bright eyes. The boy's whole face was alive
with a gay and mischievous happiness, as he turned the handle at the back
of his clock slowly, slowly, till at last it would turn no more. Then
there tinkled forth to join the "Pastorale" the clear, trilling melody of
the "Tre Colori."
The music in the room ceased abruptly. There was a rustling sound as the
player moved. Then Hermione's voice, with something trembling through it
that was half a sob, half a little burst of happy laughter, called out:
"Gaspare, how dare you interrupt my concert?"
"Signora! Signora!" cried Gaspare, and, springing up, he darted into the
sitting-room.
But Maurice, though he lifted himself up quickly, stood where he was with
his hand set hard against the wall of the house. He heard Gaspare kiss
Hermione's hand. Then he heard her say:
"But, but, Gaspare----"
He took his hand from the wall with an effort. His feet seemed glued to
the ground, but at last he was in the room.
"Hermione!" he said.
"Maurice!"
He felt her strong hands, strong and yet soft like all the woman, on his.
"Cento di questi giorni!" she said. "Ah, but it is better than all the
birthdays in the world!"
He wanted to kiss her--not to please her, but for himself he wanted to
kiss her--but he dared not. He felt that if his lips were to touch
hers--she must know. To excuse his avoidance of the natural greeting he
looked at Gaspare.
"I know!" she whispered. "You haven't forgotten!"
She was alluding to that morning on the terrace when he came up from the
fishing. They loosed their hands. Gaspare set the clock playing again.
"What a beauty!" Hermione said, glad to hide her emotion for a moment
till she and Maurice could be alone. "What a marvel! Where did you find
it, Gaspare--at the fair?"
"Si, signora!"
Solemnly he handed it, still playing brightly, to his padrona, just a
little reluctantly, perhaps, but very gallantly.
"It is for you, signora."
"A present--oh, Gaspare!"
Again her voice was veiled. She put out her hand and touched the boy's
hand.
"Grazie! How sweetly it plays! You thought of me!"
There was a silence till the tune was finished. Then Maurice said:
"Hermione, I don't know what to say. That we should be at the fair the
day you arrived! Why--why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you write?"
"You didn't know, then!"
The words came very quickly, very eagerly.
"Know! Didn't Lucrezia tell you that we had no idea?"
"Poor Lucrezia! She's in a dreadful condition. I found her in the
village."
"No!" Maurice cried, thankful to turn the conversation from himself,
though only for an instant. "I specially told her to stay here. I
specially----"
"Well, but, poor thing, as you weren't expecting me! But I wrote,
Maurice, I wrote a letter telling you everything, the hour we were
coming--"
"It's Don Paolo!" exclaimed Gaspare, angrily. "He hides away the letters.
He lets them lie sometimes in his office for months. To-morrow I will go
and tell him what I think; I will turn out every drawer."
"It is too bad!" Maurice said.
"Then you never had it?"
"Hermione"--he stared at the open door--"you think we should have gone to
the fair if----"
"No, no, I never thought so. I only wondered. It all seemed so strange."
"It is too horrible!" Maurice said, with heavy emphasis. "And Artois--no
rooms ready for him! What can he have thought?"
"As I did, that there had been a mistake. What does it matter now? Just
at the moment I was dreadfully--oh, dreadfully disappointed. I saw
Gaspare at the fair. And you saw me, Gaspare?"
"Si, signora. I ran all the way to the station, but the train had gone."
"But I didn't see you, Maurice. Where were you?"
Gaspare opened his lips to speak, but Maurice did not give him time.
"I was there, too, in the fair."
"But of course you weren't looking at the train?"
"Of course not. And when Gaspare told me, it was too late to do anything.
We couldn't get back in time, and the donkeys were tired, and so----"
"Oh, I'm glad you didn't hurry back. What good would it have done then?"
There was a touch of constraint in her voice.
"You must have thought I should be in bed."
"Yes, we did."
"And so I ought to be now. I believe I am tremendously tired, but--but
I'm so tremendously something else that I hardly know."
The constraint had gone.
"The signora is happy because she is back in my country," Gaspare
remarked, with pride and an air of shrewdness.
He nodded his head. The faded roses shook above his ears. Hermione smiled
at him.
"He knows all about it," she said. "Well, if we are ever to go to
bed----"
Gaspare looked from her to his padrone.
"Buona notte, signora," he said, gravely. "Buona notte, signorino. Buon
riposo!"
"Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to hear that again. I do
love the clock, Gaspare."
The boy beamed at her and went reluctantly away to find the donkeys. At
that moment Maurice would have given almost anything to keep him. He
dreaded unspeakably to be alone with Hermione. But it had to be. He must
face it. He must seem natural, happy.
"Shall I put the clock down?" he asked.
He went to her, took the clock, carried it to the writing-table, and put
it down.
"Gaspare was so happy to bring it to you."
He turned. He felt desperate. He came to Hermione and put out his hands.
"I feel so bad that we weren't here," he said.
"That is it!"
There was a sound of deep relief in her voice. Then she had been puzzled
by his demeanor! He must be natural; but how? It seemed to him as if
never in all his life could he have felt innocent, careless, brave. Now
he was made of cowardice. He was like a dog that crawls with its belly to
the floor. He got hold of Hermione's hands.
"I feel--I feel horribly, horribly bad!"
Speaking the absolute truth, his voice was absolutely sincere, and he
deceived her utterly.
"Maurice," she said, "I believe it's upset you so much that--that you are
shy of me."
She laughed happily.
"Shy--of me!"
He tried to laugh, too, and kissed her abruptly, awkwardly. All his
natural grace was gone from him. But when he kissed her she did not know
it; her lips clung to his with a tender passion, a fealty that terrified
him.
"She must know!" he thought. "She must feel the truth. My lips must tell
it to her."
And when at last they drew away from each other his eyes asked her
furiously a question, asked it of her eyes.
"What is it, Maurice?"
He said nothing. She dropped her eyes and reddened slowly, till she
looked much younger than usual, strangely like a girl.
"You haven't--you haven't----"
There was a sound of reserve in her voice, and yet a sound of triumph,
too. She looked up at him again.
"Do you guess that I have something to tell you?" she said, slowly.
"Something to tell me?" he repeated, dully.
He was so intent on himself, on his own evil-doing, that it seemed to him
as if everything must have some connection with it.
"Ah," she said, quickly; "no, I see you weren't."
"What is it?" he asked, but without real interest.
"I can't tell you now," she said.
Gaspare went by the window leading the donkeys.
"Buona notte, signora!"
It was a very happy voice.
"Buona notte, Gaspare. Sleep well."
Maurice caught at the last words.
"We must sleep," he said. "To-morrow we'll--we'll----"
"Tell each other everything. Yes, to-morrow!"
She put her arm through his.
"Maurice, if you knew how I feel!"
"Yes?" he said, trying to make his voice eager, buoyant. "Yes?"
"If you knew how I've been longing to be back! And so often I've thought
that I never should be here with you again, just in the way we were!"
He cleared his throat.
"Why?"
"It is so difficult to repeat a great, an intense happiness, I think. But
we will, we are repeating it, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"When I got to the station to-day, and--and you weren't there, I had a
dreadful foreboding. It was foolish. The explanation of your not being
there was so simple. Of course I might have guessed it."
"Of course."
"But in the first moment I felt as if you weren't there because I had
lost you forever, because you had been taken away from me forever. It was
such an intense feeling that it frightened me--it frightened me horribly.
Put your arm round me, Maurice. Let me feel what an idiot I have been!"
He obeyed her and put his arm round her, and he felt as if his arm must
tell her what she had not learned from his lips. And she thought that now
he must know the truth she had not told him.
"Don't think of dreadful things," he said.
"I won't any more. I don't think I could with you. To me you always mean
the sun, light, and life, and all that is brave and beautiful!"
He took his arm away from her.
"Come, we must sleep, Hermione!" he said. "It's nearly dawn. I can almost
see the smoke on Etna."
He shut the French window and drew the bolt.
She had gone into the bedroom and was standing by the dressing-table. She
did not know why, but a great shyness had come upon her. It was like a
cloud enveloping her. Never before had she felt like this with Maurice,
not even when they were first married. She had loved him too utterly to
be shy with him. Maurice was still in the sitting-room, fastening the
shutters of the window. She heard the creak of wood, the clatter of the
iron bar falling into the fastener. Now he would come.
But he did not come. He was moving about in the room. She heard papers
rustling, then the lid of the piano shut down. He was putting everything
in order.
This orderliness was so unusual in Maurice that it made a disagreeable
impression upon her. She began to feel as if he did not want to come into
the bedroom, as if he were trying to put off the moment of coming. She
remembered that he had seemed shy of her. What had come to them both
to-night? Her instinct moved her to break through this painful, this
absurd constraint.
"Maurice!" she called.
"Yes."
His voice sounded odd to her, almost like the voice of some other man,
some stranger.
"Aren't you coming?"
"Yes. Hermione."
But still he did not come. After a moment, he said:
"It's awfully hot to-night!"
"After Africa it seems quite cool to me."
"Does it? I've been--since you've been away I've been sleeping nearly
always out-of-doors on the terrace."
Now he came to the doorway and stood there. He looked at the white room,
at Hermione. She had on a white tea-gown. It seemed to him that
everything here was white, everything but his soul. He felt as if he
could not come into this room, could not sleep here to-night, as if it
would be a desecration. When he stood in the doorway the painful shyness
returned to her.
"Have you?" she said.
"Yes."
"Do you--would you rather sleep there to-night?"
She did not mean to say it. It was the last thing she wished to say. Yet
she said it. It seemed to her that she was forced to say it.
"Well, it's much cooler there."
She was silent.
"I could just put one or two rugs and cushions on the seat by the wall,"
he said. "I shall sleep like a top. I'm awfully tired!"
"But--but the sun will soon be up, won't it?"
"Oh--then I can come in."
"All right."
"I'll take the rugs from the sitting-room. I say--how's Artois?"
"Much better, but he's still weak."
"Poor chap!"
"He'll ride up to-morrow on a donkey."
"Good! I'm--I'm most awfully sorry about his rooms."
"What does it matter? I've made them quite nice already. He's perfectly
comfortable."
"I'm glad. It's all--it's all been such a pity--about to-day, I mean."
"Don't let's think of it! Don't let's think of it any more."
A passionate sound had stolen into her voice. She moved a step towards
him. A sudden idea had come to her, an idea that stirred within her a
great happiness, that made a flame of joy spring up in her heart.
"Maurice, you--you----"
"What is it?" he asked.
"You aren't vexed at my staying away so long? You aren't vexed at my
bringing Emile back with me?"
"No, of course not," he said. "But--but I wish you hadn't gone away."
And then he disappeared into the sitting-room, collected the rugs and
cushions, opened the French window, and went out upon the terrace.
Presently he called out:
"I shall sleep as I am, Hermione, without undressing. I'm awfully done.
Good-night."
"Good-night!" she called.
There was a quiver in her voice. And yet that flame of happiness had not
quite died down. She said to herself:
"He doesn't want me to know. He's too proud. But he has been a little
jealous, perhaps." She remembered how Sicilian he was.
"But I'll make him forget it all," she thought, eagerly.
"To-morrow--to-morrow it will be all right. He's missed me, he's missed
me!"
That thought was very sweet to her. It seemed to explain all things; this
constraint of her husband, which had reacted upon her, this action of his
in preferring to sleep outside--everything. He had always been like a
boy. He was like a boy now. He could not conceal his feelings. He did not
doubt her. She knew that. But he had been a little jealous about her
friendship for Emile.
She undressed. When she was ready for bed she hesitated a moment. Then
she put a white shawl round her shoulders and stole quickly out of the
room. She came upon the terrace. The stars were waning. The gray of the
dawn was in the sky towards the east. Maurice, stretched upon the rugs,
with his face turned towards the terrace wall, was lying still. She went
to him, bent down, and kissed him.
"I love you," she whispered--"oh, so much!"
She did not wait, but went away at once. When she was gone he put up his
hand to his face. On his cheek there was a tear.
"God forgive me!" he said to himself. "God forgive me!"
His body was shaken by a sob.