The Call of the Blood - Page 160/317

One day, when Maurice had been brooding over this matter of the

Sicilian's view of Hermione's proceedings, the spirit moved him to go

down on foot to Marechiaro to see if there were any letters for him at

the post. It was now June 7th. In four days would come the fair. As the

time for it drew near, his anxiety lest anything should interfere to

prevent his going to it with Maddalena increased, and each day at post

time he was filled with a fever of impatience to know whether there

would be a letter from Africa or not. Antonino generally appeared about

four o'clock, but the letters were in the village long before then, and

this afternoon Maurice felt that he could not wait for the boy's coming.

He had a conviction that there was a letter, a decisive letter from

Hermione, fixing at last the date of her arrival with Artois. He must

have it in his hands at the first possible moment. If he went himself to

the post he would know the truth at least an hour and a half sooner than

if he waited in the house of the priest. He resolved, therefore, to go,

got his hat and stick, and set out, after telling Gaspare, who was

watching for birds with his gun, that he was going for a stroll on the

mountain-side and might be away for a couple of hours.

It was a brilliant afternoon. The landscape looked hard in the fiery

sunshine, the shapes of the mountains fierce and relentless, the dry

watercourses almost bitter in their barrenness. Already the devastation

of the summer was beginning to be apparent. All tenderness had gone from

the higher slopes of the mountains which, jocund in spring and in autumn

with growing crops, were now bare and brown, and seamed like the hide of

a tropical reptile gleaming with metallic hues. The lower slopes were

still panoplied with the green of vines and of trees, but the ground

beneath the trees was arid. The sun was coming into his dominion with

pride and cruelty, like a conqueror who loots the land he takes to be his

own.

But Maurice did not mind the change, which drove the tourists northward,

and left Sicily to its own people. He even rejoiced in it. As each day

the heat increased he was conscious of an increasing exultation, such as

surely the snakes and the lizards feel as they come out of their

hiding-places into the golden light. He was filled with a glorious sense

of expansion, as if his capabilities grew larger, as if they were

developed by heat like certain plants. None of the miseries that afflict

many people in the violent summers which govern southern lands were his.

His skin did not peel, his eyes did not become inflamed, nor did his head

ache under the action of the burning rays. They came to him like brothers

and he rejoiced in their company. To-day, as he descended to Marechiaro,

he revelled in the sun. Its ruthlessness made him feel ruthless. He was

conscious of that. At this moment he was in absolutely perfect physical

health. His body was lithe and supple, yet his legs and arms were hard

with springing muscle. His warm blood sang through his veins like music

through the pipes of an organ. His eyes shone with the superb animation

of youth that is radiantly sound. For, despite his anxiety, his sometimes

almost fretful irritation when he thought about the coming of Artois and

the passing of his own freedom, there were moments when he felt as if he

could leap with the sheer joy of life, as if he could lift up his arms

and burst forth into a wild song of praise to his divinity, the sun. And

this grand condition of health made him feel ruthless, as the man who

conquers and enters a city in triumph feels ruthless. As he trod down

towards Marechiaro to-day, thinking of the letter that perhaps awaited

him, it seemed to him that it would be monstrous if anything, if any one,

were to interfere with his day of joy, the day he was looking forward to

with such eager anticipation. He felt inclined to trample over

opposition. Yet what could he do if, by some evil chance, Hermione and

Artois arrived the day before the fair, or on the very day of the fair?

He hurried his steps. He wanted to be in the village, to know whether

there was a letter for him from Africa.