The Call of the Blood - Page 41/317

"You've been yourself," he answered.

At this moment the path narrowed and he had to fall behind, and they did

not speak again till they had clambered up the last bit of the way, steep

almost as the side of a house, passed through the old ruined arch, and

came out upon the terrace before the Casa del Prete.

Sebastiano met them, still playing lustily upon his pipe, while the sweat

dripped from his sunburned face; but Lucrezia, suddenly overcome by

shyness, had disappeared round the corner of the cottage to the kitchen.

The donkey boys were resting on the stone seats in easy attitudes,

waiting for Gaspare's orders to unload, and looking forward to a drink of

the Monte Amato wine. When they had had it they meant to carry out a plan

devised by the radiant Gaspare, to dance a tarantella for the forestieri

while Sebastiano played the flute. But no hint of this intention was to

be given till the luggage had been taken down and carried into the house.

Their bright faces were all twinkling with the knowledge of their secret.

When at length Sebastiano had put down the ceramella and shaken Hermione

and Maurice warmly by the hand, and Gaspare had roughly, but with roars

of laughter, dragged Lucrezia into the light of day to be presented,

Hermione took her husband in to see their home. On the table in the

sitting-room lay a letter.

"A letter already!" she said.

There was a sound almost of vexation in her voice. The little white thing

lying there seemed to bring a breath of the world she wanted to forget

into their solitude.

"Who can have written?"

She took it up and felt contrition.

"It's from Emile!" she exclaimed. "How good of him to remember! This must

be his welcome."

"Read it, Hermione," said Maurice. "I'll look after Gaspare."

She laughed.

"Better not. He's here to look after us. But you'll soon understand him,

very soon, and he you. You speak different languages, but you both belong

to the south. Let him alone, Maurice. We'll read this together. I'm sure

it's for you as well as me."

And while Gaspare and the boys carried in the trunks she sat down by the

table and opened Emile's letter. It was very short, and was addressed

from Kairouan, where Artois had established himself for the spring in an

Arab house. She began reading it aloud in French: "This is a word--perhaps unwelcome, for I think I understand, dear

friend, something of what you are feeling and of what you desire

just now--a word of welcome to your garden of paradise. May there

never be an angel with a flaming sword to keep the gate against

you. Listen to the shepherds fluting, dream, or, better, live, as

you are grandly capable of living, under the old olives of Sicily.

Take your golden time boldly with both hands. Life may seem to most

of us who think in the main a melancholy, even a tortured thing,

but when it is not so for a while to one who can think as you can

think, the power of thought, of deep thought, intensifies its

glory. You will never enjoy as might a pagan, perhaps never as

might a saint. But you will enjoy as a generous-blooded woman with

a heart that only your friends--I should like to dare to say only

one friend--know in its rare entirety. There is an egoist here, in

the shadow of the mosques, who turns his face towards Mecca, and

prays that you may never leave your garden.

E. A."