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"Ruffo says so. Ruffo told me so." "Boys say anything." "Do you mean it is not true?" Maddalena's face was now almost devoid of expression. She had set her knees wide apart and planted her hands on them. "Do you mean that?" repeated Hermione. "Boys " "I know it is true. You knew Gaspare in Sicily. You come from Marechiaro." At the mention of the last word light broke into Maddalena's face.
Vere, too, noticed the variations of his demeanor. "Gaspare was very 'jumpy' to-day in the boat," she said, one evening, after returning from a sail; "I wonder what's the matter with him. Do you think he can be in love, Madre?" "I don't know. But he is fidanzato, Vere, with a girl in Marechiaro, you remember?" "Yes, but that lasts forever.
She felt excited, almost light-headed, childishly proud of herself. If only some of the girls of Marechiaro could see, could know! When the cards were thrown upon the table, and Maurice had dealt out a lira to each one of the players as stakes, and cried, "Maddalena and I'll share against you, Salvatore, and Gaspare!" she felt that she had nothing more to wish for, that she was perfectly happy.
The padrone is my husband, remember." She went on and he followed her. Hermione had spoken firmly, even almost cheerfully, to comfort the boy, whose uneasiness was surely greater than the occasion called for. So many little things may happen to delay a man. And Maurice might really have made the détour to Marechiaro on his way home.
"Oh, there are plenty of soldiers and women." "I should like always to live in London," repeated Gaspare, firmly. "Well perhaps you will. But remember we are all to be happy at the fair of San Felice." "Si, signore. But be careful, or Salvatore will make you buy him a donkey. He had a wine-shop once, long ago, in Marechiaro, and the wine Per Dio, it was always vino battezzato!"
Then let the sea be empty of fish and the wind of the storm break up his boat it would not matter. He would still live well. He might even at the last have money in the bank at Marechiaro, houses in the village, a larger wine-shop than Oreste in the Corso.
"Niente!" the boy replied, doggedly. "Well, but then" she laughed "why shouldn't the padrone be a few minutes late? It would be absurd to go down. You might miss him on the way." Gaspare said nothing. He stood there with his arms hanging and the ugly look still on his face. "Mightn't you? Mightn't you, Gaspare, if he came up by Marechiaro?" "Si, signora." "Well, then "
What he wanted, and what his mind or was it rather what his ears and his tongue and his lips? took, and held and revelled in, was the Sicilian dialect spoken by Lucrezia and Gaspare when they were together, spoken by the peasants of Marechiaro and of the mountains.
He realized it. But he was no longer much afraid. So many years had passed that even if Hermione revisited Marechiaro he believed there would be little or no danger now of her ever learning the truth. It had never been known in the village, and if it had been suspected, all the suspicions must have long ago died down. He had been successful in his protection. He was thankful for that.
He passed down into the shadows of the trees, and gradually the airy rapture of his fluting and the tinkle of the goat-bells died away towards Marechiaro. Then Hermione saw tears rolling down over Lucrezia's brown cheeks. "He can't play it like Sebastiano, signora!" she said. The little tune had brought back all her sorrow. "Perhaps we shall soon hear Sebastiano play it again," said Hermione.
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