The Call of the Blood - Page 269/317

Existence is made up of loss and gain. New beings rush into life day by

day and hour by hour. Birth is about us, but death is about us too. And

when we are given something, how often is something also taken from us!

Was that to be her fate?

And Maurice--he had been led to speak of death, afterwards, just as he

was going away to the sea. She recalled his words, or the demon whispered

them over to her: "'One can never tell what will happen--suppose one of us were to die

here? Don't you think it would be good to lie there where we lay this

afternoon, under the oak-trees, in sight of Etna and the sea? I think it

would."

They were his very last words, his who was so full of life, who scarcely

ever seemed to realize the possibility of death. All through the day

death had surely been in the air about them. She remembered her dream, or

quasi-dream. In it she had spoken. She had muttered an appeal, "Don't

leave me alone!" and at another time she had tried to realize Maurice in

England and had failed. She had felt as if Sicily would never let him go.

And when she had spoken her thought he had hinted that Sicily could only

keep him by holding him in arms of earth, holding him in those arms that

keep the body of man forever.

Perhaps it was ordained that her Sicilian should never leave the island

that he loved. In all their Sicilian days how seldom had she thought of

their future life together in England! Always she had seen herself with

Maurice in the south. He had seemed to belong to the south, and she had

brought him to the south. And now--would the south let him go? The

thought of the sirens of legend flitted through her mind. They called men

to destruction. She imagined them sitting among the rocks near the Casa

della Sirene, calling--calling to her Sicilian.

Long ago, when she first knew him well and loved his beauty, she had

sometimes thought of him as a being of legend. She had let her fancy play

about him tenderly, happily. He had been Mercury, Endymion, a dancing

faun, Cupid vanishing from Psyche as the dawn came. And now she let a

cruel fancy have its will for a moment. She imagined the sirens calling

among the rocks, and Maurice listening to their summons, and going to his

destruction. The darkness of the ravine helped the demon who hurried with

her down the narrow path, whispering in her ears. But though she yielded

for a time to the nightmare spell, common-sense had not utterly deserted

her, and presently it made its voice heard. She began to say to herself

that in giving way to such fantastic fears she was being unworthy of

herself, almost contemptible. In former times she had never been a

foolish woman or weak. She had, on the contrary, been strong and

sensible, although unconventional and enthusiastic. Many people had

leaned upon her, even strong people. Artois was one. And she had never

yet failed any one.