He hurried up the stony path. He did not feel the sun upon him. The sweat
poured down over his face, his body. He did not know it. His heart was
set hard, and he felt villanous, but he felt quite sure what he was going
to do, quite sure that he was going to the fair despite that letter.
When he reached the priest's house he felt exhausted. Without knowing it
he had come up the mountain at a racing pace. But he was not tired merely
because of that. He sank down in a chair in the sitting-room. Lucrezia
came and peeped at him.
"Where is Gaspare?" he asked, putting his hand instinctively over the
pocket in which were the letters.
"He is still out after the birds, signore. He has shot five already."
"Poor little wretches! And he's still out?"
"Si, signore. He has gone on to Don Peppino's terreno now. There are many
birds there. How hot you are, signorino! Shall I--"
"No, no. Nothing, Lucrezia! Leave me alone!"
She disappeared.
Then Maurice drew the letters from his pocket and slowly spread out
Hermione's in his lap. He had not read it through yet. He had only
glanced at it and seen what he had feared to see. Now he read it word by
word, very slowly and carefully. When he had come to the end he kept it
on his knee and sat for some time quite still.
In the letter Hermione asked him to go to the Hôtel Regina Margherita at
Marechiaro, and engage two good rooms facing the sea for Artois, a
bedroom and a sitting-room. They were to be ready for the eleventh. She
wrote with her usual splendid frankness. Her soul was made of sincerity
as a sovereign is made of gold.
"I know"--these were her words--"I know you will try and make Emile's
coming to Sicily a little festa. Don't think I imagine you are personally
delighted at his coming, though I am sure you are delighted at his
recovery. He is my old friend, not yours, and I am not such a fool as to
suppose that you can care for him at all as I do, who have known him
intimately and proved his loyalty and his nobility of nature. But I
think, I am certain, Maurice, that you will make his coming a festa for
my sake. He has suffered very much. He is as weak almost as a child
still. There's something tremendously pathetic in the weakness of body of
a man so brilliant in mind, so powerful of soul. It goes right to my
heart as I think it would go to yours. Let us make his return to life
beautiful and blessed. Sha'n't we? Put flowers in the rooms for me, won't
you? Make them look homey. Put some books about. But I needn't tell you.
We are one, you and I, and I needn't tell you any more. It would be like
telling things to myself--as unnecessary as teaching an organ-grinder how
to turn the handle of his organ! Oh, Maurice, I can laugh to-day! I could
almost--I--get up and dance the tarantella all alone here in my little,
bare room with no books and scarcely any flowers. And at the station show
Emile he is welcome. He is a little diffident at coming. He fancies
perhaps he will be in the way. But one look of yours, one grasp of your
hand will drive it all out of him! God bless you, my dearest. How he has
blessed me in giving you to me!"