The Net: A Novel | Page 6

how
happy we intend being."
"I've no doubt. And that makes it quite certain to end our comradeship."
"You croak like a raven!" declared the Sicilian. "What has soured
you?"
"Nothing. I am a wise young man, that's all. You see, happiness is
all-sufficient; it needs nothing to complete itself. It is a wall beyond
which the owner does not care to wander, so, when you are quite happy
with the new Countess, you will forget your friends of unmarried
days."
"Would you then have me unhappily married?"
"By no means. I am full of regrets at losing you, nothing more."
"It is plain, then, that you also must marry. Is there no admirable
American lady?"
"Any quantity of them, but I don't care much for women except in an

impersonal sort of way, or perhaps I don't attract them. I might enjoy
falling in love if it were not such a tedious process."
"It is not necessarily tedious. One may love with the suddenness of an
explosion. I have done so, many times."
"I know you have, but you are a Sicilian; we go about such things in a
dignified and respectable manner. Love is a serious matter with us. We
don't explode."
"Yes. When you love, you marry; and you marry in the same way you
buy a farm. But we have blood in our veins and lime in our bones. I
have loved many women to distraction; there is only one whom I would
marry."
Ricardo entered at the moment, and the Count arose with a word of
apology to his guest. He spoke earnestly with his overseer, but, as they
were separated from him by the full width of the great room, Blake
overheard no more than a word now and then. They were speaking in
the Sicilian dialect, moreover, which was unfamiliar to him, yet he
caught the mention of Ippolito, one of the men who had met him at the
station, also of an orange-grove, and the word "Mafioso." Then he
heard Martel say:
"The shells for the new rifle--Ippolito is a bad shot--take plenty."
When Ricardo had gone and the Count had returned to his seat, Norvin
fancied he detected once more that grave look he had surprised in his
friend's countenance upon their arrival at the castello.
"What were you telling Ricardo about rifles and cartridges?" he
inquired.
"Eh? It was nothing. We are forced to guard our oranges; there are
thieves about. I have been too long away from Martinello."
Later, as Norvin Blake composed himself to sleep he wondered idly if
Martel had told him the whole truth. He recalled again the faint, grave
lines that had gathered about the Count's eyes, where there had never
been aught but wrinkles of merriment, and he recalled also that word
"Mafioso." It conjured memories of certain tales he had heard of
Sicilian outlawry and brigandage, and of that evil, shadowy society of
"Friends" which he understood dominated this island. There was a story
about the old Count's death also, but Martel had never told him much.
Norvin tried to remember what it was, but sleep was heavy upon him
and he soon gave up.

II
A CONFESSION AND A PROMISE

Norvin Blake slept soundly, as befitted a healthy young man with less
than the usual number of cares upon his mind, and, notwithstanding the
fact that he had retired at a late hour, somewhat worn by his journey, he
awoke earlier than usual. Still lacking an adequate idea of his
surroundings, he arose and, flinging back the blinds of his window,
looked out upon a scene which set him to dressing eagerly.
The big front door of the hall below was barred when he came down,
and only yielded to his efforts with a clanging which would have
awakened any one except Martel, letting him out upon a well-kept
terrace beneath which the hills fell away in majestic sweeps and curves
to the coast-line far beneath.
It was a true Sicilian morning, filled with a dazzling glory of color, and
although it was not early, from a countryman's point of view, the dewy
freshness had not entirely faded, and rosy tints still lingered in the
valleys and against the Calabrian coast in the distance. An odor of
myrtle and jessamine came from a garden beneath the outer terrace wall,
and on either side of the manor rose wooded hills the lower slopes of
which were laid out in vineyards and groves of citrus fruits.
Having in full measure the normal man's unaffected appreciation of
nature, Blake found himself wondering how Martel could ever leave
this spot for the artificialities of Paris. The Count was amply able to
live where he chose, and it was no love for art which had kept him in