Had it been only a sense of duty that had called her to Africa?
When he asked himself this question he could not hesitate what answer to
give. Even this new jealousy, this jealousy of the Sicilian within him,
could not trick him into the belief that Hermione had wanted to leave
him.
Yet his feeling of bitterness, of being wronged, persisted and grew.
When, after a very long time, Gaspare came to show him a letter written
in large, round hand, he was still hot with the sense of injury. And a
new question was beginning to torment him. What must Artois think?
"Aren't you going to write, signorino?" asked Gaspare, when Maurice had
read his letter and approved it.
"I?" he said.
He saw an expression of surprise on Gaspare's face.
"Yes, of course. I'll write now. Help me up. I feel so lazy!"
Gaspare seized his hands and pulled, laughing. Maurice stood up and
stretched.
"You are more lazy than I, signore," said Gaspare. "Shall I write for
you, too?"
"No, no."
He spoke abstractedly.
"Don't you know what to say?"
Maurice looked at him swiftly. The boy had divined the truth. In his
present mood it would be difficult for him to write to Hermione. Still,
he must do it. He went up to the cottage and sat down at the
writing-table with Hermione's letter beside him.
He read it again carefully, then began to write. Now he was faintly aware
of the unreason of his previous mood and quite resolved not to express
it, but while he was writing of his every-day life in Sicily a vision of
the sick-room in Africa came before him again. He saw his wife shut in
with Artois, tending him. It was night, warm and dark. The sick man was
hot with fever, and Hermione bent over him and laid her cool hand on his
forehead.
Abruptly Maurice finished his letter and thrust it into an envelope.
"Here, Gaspare!" he said. "Take the donkey and ride down with these to
the post."
"How quick you have been, signore! I believe my letter to the signora is
longer than yours."
"Perhaps it is. I don't know. Off with you!"
When Gaspare was gone, Maurice felt restless, almost as he had felt on
the night when he had been left alone on the terrace. Then he had been
companioned by a sensation of desertion, and had longed to break out into
some new life, to take an ally against the secret enemy who was attacking
him. He had wanted to have his Emile Artois as Hermione had hers. That
was the truth of the matter. And his want had led him down to the sea.
And now again he looked towards the sea, and again there was a call from
it that summoned him.