The Call of the Blood
Page 166As Maurice sat there, under his skin, burned deep brown by the sun, there
rose a hot flush of red! Yes, he reddened at the thought of what he was
going to do, but still he meant to do it. He could not forego his
pleasure. He could not. There was something wild and imperious within him
that defied his better self at this moment. But the better self was not
dead. It was even startlingly alive, enough alive to stand almost aghast
at that which was going, it knew, to dominate it--to dominate it for a
time, but only for a time. On that he was resolved, as he was resolved to
have this one pleasure to which he had looked forward, to which he was
Maurice put a period to his sinning as he sat staring at the letter on
his knees. And the period which he put was the day of the fair at San
Felice. After that day this book of his wild youth was to be closed
forever.
After the day of the fair he would live rightly, sincerely, meeting as it
deserved to be met the utter sincerity of his wife. He would be, after
that date, entirely straight with her. He loved her. As he looked at her
letter he felt that he did love, must love, such love as hers. He was not
wilful. Well, after San Felice, he would control that wilfulness of his
heart, he would discipline it. He would do more, he would forget that it
existed. After San Felice!
With a sigh, like that of a burdened man, he got up, took the letter in
his hand, and went out up the mountain-side. There he tore the letter and
its envelope into fragments, and hid the fragments in a heap of stones
hot with the sun.
When Gaspare came in that evening with a string of little birds in his
the signora would arrive, Maurice answered "No."
"Then the signora will not be here for the fair, signorino?" said the
boy.
"I don't suppose--no, Gaspare, she will not be here for the fair."
"She would have written by now if she were coming.
"Yes, if she were coming she would certainly have written by now."