The Net: A Novel | Page 3

you and
me, I envy him his lot so much that it almost spoils for me the pleasure
of this unique journey."
"You are an original!" murmured the priest, admiringly, but it was
evident that his thirst for knowledge of the outside world was not to be
so easily quenched, for he began to question his traveling companion
closely regarding America, Paris, the journey thence, the ship which
bore him to Palermo, and a dozen other subjects upon which his active
mind preyed. He was full of the gossip of the countryside, moreover,
and Norvin learned much of interest about Sicily and the disposition of
her people. One phenomenon to which the good man referred with the
extremest wonder was Blake's intimacy with a Sicilian nobleman. How

an American signore had become such a close friend of the illustrious
Conte, who was almost a stranger, even to his own people, seemed very
puzzling indeed, until Norvin explained that they had been together
almost constantly during the past three years.
"We met quite by chance, but we quickly became friends--what in my
country we call chums--and we have been inseparable ever since."
"And you, then, are also a great artist?"
Blake laughed at the indirect compliment to his friend.
"I am not an artist at all. I have been exiled to Europe for three years,
upon my mother's orders. She has her own ideas regarding a man's
education and wishes me to acquire a Continental polish. My ability to
tell you all this shows that I have at least made progress with the
languages, although I have doubts about the practical value of anything
else I have learned. Martel has taught me Italian; I have taught him
English. We use both, and sometimes we understand each other. My
three years are up now, and once I have seen my good friend safely
married I shall return to America and begin the serious business of
life."
"You are then in business? My mother's cousin, Alfio Amato, is
likewise a business man. He deals in fruit. Beware of him, for he would
sell you rotten oranges and swear by the saints that they were
excellent."
"Like Martel, I have land which I lease. I am, or I will be, a
cotton-planter."
This opened a new field of inquiry for the priest, who was making the
most of it when the train drew into a station and was stormed by a
horde of chattering country folk. The platform swarmed with vividly
dressed women, most of whom carried bundles wrapped up in
variegated handkerchiefs, and all of whom were tremendously excited
at the prospect of travel. Lean-visaged, swarthy men peered forth from
the folds of shawls or from beneath shapeless caps of many colors; a
pair of carabinieri idled past, a soldier in jaunty feathered hat posed
before the contadini. Dogs, donkeys, fowls added their clamor to the
high-pitched voices.
Twilight had settled and lights were kindling in the village, while the
heights above were growing black against a rose-pink and
mother-of-pearl sky. The air was cool and fragrant with the odor of

growing things and the open sea glowed with a subdued, pulsating fire.
The capo stazione rushed madly back and forth striving by voice and
gesture to hasten the movements of his passengers.
"Partenza! Pronto!" he cried, then blew furiously upon his bugle.
After a series of shudders and convulsions the train began to hiss and
clank and finally crept on into the twilight, while the priest sat knee to
knee with his companion and resumed his endless questioning.
It was considerably after dark when Norvin Blake alighted at San
Sebastiano, to be greeted effusively by a young man of about his own
age who came charging through the gloom and embraced him with a
great hug.
"So! At last you come!" Savigno cried. "I have been here these three
hours eating my heart out, and every time I inquired of that head of a
cabbage in yonder he said, 'Pazienza! The world was not made in a
day!'
"'But when? When?' I kept repeating, and he could only assure me that
your train was approaching with the speed of the wind. The saints in
heaven--even the superintendent of the railway himself--could not tell
the exact hour of its arrival, which, it seems, is never twice the same.
And now, yourself? You are well?"
"Never better. And you? But there is no need to ask. You look
disgustingly contented. One would think you were already married."
Martel Savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military
mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back.
"It is good to be among my own people. I find, after all, that I am a
Sicilian. But let me tell you, that train is not always