She could not realize sorrow to-day. She must see the sunlight even in
the deliberate visions conjured up by her imagination.
Gaspare did not reappear. For a long time she was alone. She watched the
changing of the light, the softening of the great landscape as the
evening approached. Sometimes she thought of Maurice's last words about
being laid to rest some day in the shadows of the oak-trees, in sight of
Etna and the sea. When the years had gone, perhaps they would lie
together in Sicily, wrapped in the final siesta of the body. Perhaps the
unborn child, of whose beginning she was mystically conscious, would lay
them to rest there.
"Buon riposo." She loved the Sicilian good-night. Better than any text
she would love to have those simple words written above her
sleeping-place and his. "Buon riposo!"--she murmured the words to herself
as she looked at the quiet of the hills, at the quiet of the sea. The
glory of the world was inspiring, but the peace of the world was almost
more uplifting, she thought. Far off, in the plain, she discerned tiny
trails of smoke from Sicilian houses among the orange-trees beside the
sea. The gold was fading. The color of the waters was growing paler,
gentler, the color of the sky less passionate. The last point of the
coast-line was only a shadow now, scarcely that. Somewhere was the
sunset, its wonder unseen by her, but realized because of this growing
tenderness, that was like a benediction falling upon her from a distant
love, intent to shield her and her little home from sorrow and from
danger. Nature was whispering her "Buon riposo!" Her hushed voice spoke
withdrawn among the mountains, withdrawn upon the spaces of the sea. The
heat of the golden day was blessed, but after it how blessed was the cool
of the dim night!
Again she thought that the God who had placed man in the magnificent
scheme of the world must have intended and wished him to be always happy
there. Nature seemed to be telling her this, and her heart was convinced
by Nature, though the story of the Old Testament had sometimes left her
smiling or left her wondering. Men had written a Bible. God had written a
Bible, too. And here she read its pages and was made strong by it.
"Signora!"
Hermione started and turned her head.
"Lucrezia! What is it?"
"What time is it, signora?"
Hermione looked at her watch.
"Nearly eight o'clock. An hour still before supper."