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The Complete Works of F. Marion Crawford

TO LEEWARD

by

F. MARION CRAWFORD

With Frontispiece







P. F. Collier & Son
New York

Copyright 1883 And 1892
By F. Marion Crawford

All Rights Reserved




                      TO
                   My Uncle
                  SAMUEL WARD
                  OF NEW YORK
    THIS NOVEL IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED




[Illustration: THE LAST RAYS OF THE SUN SHONE HORIZONTALLY ACROSS THE
TERRACE.]




TO LEEWARD.




CHAPTER I.


There are two Romes. There is the Rome of the intelligent foreigner,
consisting of excavations, monuments, tramways, hotels, typhoid fever,
incense, and wax candles; and there is the Rome within, a city of
antique customs, good and bad, a town full of aristocratic prejudices,
of intrigues, of religion, of old-fashioned honour and new-fashioned
scandal, of happiness and unhappiness, of just people and unjust.
Besides all this, there is a very modern court and a government of the
future, which may almost be said to make up together a third city.

Moreover, these several coexistent cities, and their corresponding
inhabitants, are subdivided to an infinity of gradations, in order to
contain all and make room for all. The foreigner who hunts excavations
does not cross the path of the foreigner who sniffs after incense, any
more than the primeval aristocrat sits down to dinner with the
representative of fashionable scandal; any more than the just man would
ever allow the unjust to be introduced to him. They all enjoy so
thoroughly the freedom to ignore each other that they would not for
worlds endanger the safety of the barrier that separates them. Of
course, as they all say, this state of things cannot last. There must
ultimately be an amalgamation, a deluge, a unity, fraternity and
equality; a state of things in which we shall say, "Sois mon frere, ou
je te tue,"--a future glorious, disgusting, or dull, according as you
look at it. But, meanwhile, it is all very charming, and there is plenty
for every one to enjoy, and an abundance for every one to abuse.

When Marcantonio Carantoni saw his sister married to a Frenchman, he was
exceedingly glad that she had not married an Englishman, a Turk, a Jew,
or an infidel. The Vicomte de Charleroi was, and is, a gentleman; rather
easy-going, perhaps, and inclined to look upon republics in general, and
the French republic in particular, with the lenient eye of the man who
owns land and desires peace first--and a monarchy afterwards, whenever
convenient. But in these days it is not altogether worthy of blame that
a man should look after his worldly interests and goods; for how else
can the aristocracy expect to make any headway against the stream of
grimy bourgeois, who sell everything at a profit, while the nobles buy
everything at a loss? So Marcantonio is satisfied with his
brother-in-law, and just now is particularly delighted because Charleroi
has got himself appointed to a post in Rome; and he goes to see his
sister every day, for he is very fond of her.

In truth, it is not surprising that Marcantonio should like his sister,
for she is a very charming woman. She is beautiful, too, in a grand way,
with her auburn hair, and grey eyes, and fair skin; but no one can help
feeling that she might be quite as beautiful, and yet be anything but
charming; so many beautiful people are vain, or shy, or utterly idiotic.
Madame de Charleroi is something of a paragon, and has as many enemies
as most paragons have, but they can find nothing to feed their envy. She
was very unhappy years ago, but time has closed the wounds, or has
hidden them from sight, and her dearest friends can only say that she
was cold and showed very little heart. When the world says that a woman
is a piece of ice, you may generally be sure that she is both beautiful
and good, so that it can find nothing worse to say. Marcantonio
Carantoni's sister is a paragon, and there are only two things to be
said against her,--she did not marry Charleroi for love, and she has not
done half the things in the world that she might have done.

On the January afternoon which marks the opening of this story, the
brother and sister sat together in a small boudoir in the Carantoni
palace; there was room for all in the great house, and as Marcantonio
was not married, it was natural that his sister and her husband, with
their children, governesses, servants, and horses should occupy the
untenanted part of the ancestral mansion. Up in the second story there
is a room such as you would not expect to find within those grey and
ancient walls, where the lower windows are heavily grated, and huge
stone coats of arms frown forbiddingly from above. It is a room all sun
and flowers and modern furniture, though not of the more hideous type of
newness,--modern in the sense of comfortable, well padded and well
aired. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the closed windows, and
there was a small wood fire in the narrow fireplace. The Vicomtesse de
Charleroi sat warming her toes, and her brother was rolling a cigarette
as he looked at her. A short silence had succeeded a somewhat animated
discussion. She looked at the fire, and he looked at her.

"My dear Diana," said Marcantonio at last, rising to get himself a
match, "what in the world can you have against her? We are not Hindoos,
you know, to talk about caste in these days; and even if that were the
objection, she comes of very proper people, I am sure, though they are
foreigners."

Madame moved her feet impatiently.

"Oh, you know it is not that!" she said petulantly. "As if I had not
married a foreigner myself! But then, if you had felt about it as I feel
about this, I would have thought twice"--

"Have I not thought twice--and three times?"

"Of course, yes--while your head is hot with this fancy. Yes, you have
probably thought a hundred times, at least, this very day. Listen to me,
my dear boy, and do what I tell you. Go away to Paris, or London, or
Vienna, for a fortnight, and then come back and tell me what you think
about it. Will you not do that--to please me?"

"But why?" objected Marcantonio, looking very uncomfortable, for he
hated to refuse his sister anything. "Seriously, why should I not marry
her? Is there anything against her? If there is, tell me."

Donna Diana rose rather wearily and went to the window.

"I wish you would abandon the whole idea," she said. "I am quite sure
you will repent when it is too late. I do not believe in these young
girls who occupy themselves with philosophy and the good of the human
race. Politics--well, we all have a finger in politics; but this
dreadful progressive thought--it is turning the world upside down."

"Oh--it is the philosophy that you do not like about her? Well, my dear
sister, that is exactly what I think so interesting. This young English
Hypatia"--

"Hypatia, indeed!" cried Donna Diana rather scornfully.

"Yes. Is she not learned?"

"Perhaps."

"And beautiful?"

"No,--certainly not. She is simply a little pretty."

Marcantonio shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course," he said, "you will not allow it." His sister looked round
quickly.

"That is rude," she said. In a moment her brother was by her side.

"Forgive me, Diana mia; you know I did not mean it. But you see I think
she is beautiful, and that is everything, after all."

"Yes," answered she, "I suppose it is everything, now. But philosophy is
not everything. Put her out of your head, dear boy, and do not say any
more rude things."

Marcantonio had the power to avoid being rude, but he was not able to
follow the other piece of advice. He could not put her out of his head.
On the contrary, he went out and shut himself up in his own rooms and
thought of her for a whole hour.

He was not at all like his sister in appearance, though he resembled her
somewhat in character. He was of middle height, sparely built, dark of
skin, and aquiline of feature; neither handsome nor ugly, but very
decidedly refined,--gentle of speech and kind of face. Without any more
vanity than most people, he was yet always a little more carefully
dressed than other men, and consequently passed for a dandy. Altogether,
he was a pleasant person to look at, but not especially remarkable at
first sight.

As regards his position, he bore an ancient name, dignified with the
title of marquis; he was an only son, and his parents were dead; he
owned the fine old palace in Rome and a good deal of land elsewhere; he
never gambled, and was generally considered to be rich, as fortunes go
in modern Italy. Of course, he was a good match, and many were the hints
he received, from time to time, to the effect that he would be very
acceptable as a son-in-law. Nevertheless he was not married, and he did
not particularly care for the society of women. In truth, women did not
find him very amenable, for he would not marry, and could not play
adoration well enough to please them. So they left him alone. Grave old
gentlemen nodded approvingly when they spoke of him, and his uncle the
cardinal regarded him as one of the mainstays of the clerical party. As
a matter of fact, he did not aspire to anything of the kind, and was
merely a very honest young nobleman of good education, who had not made
for himself any interest in life, but who nevertheless found life very
agreeable. Possessing many good qualities, he yet knew very well that he
had never been put to the test, nor required to show much strength of
character; and he did not wish to be put into any such position. His
sister was very fond of him, but she sometimes caught herself wishing he
would do something a little out of the everlasting common round of
social respectability. He was twenty-nine years old, and she was a year
younger.

Of late, however, it had become apparent that Marcantonio, Marchese
Carantoni, had not only found an interest in life, but had also
discovered in himself the strength of will necessary to its
prosecution. The dull regularity of his existence was shaken to its
foundations, and out of the vast social sea a figure had risen which was
destined to destroy the old order of things with him, and to create a
new one. There was no doubt about it; not so much because he himself
said so, as because his whole manner and being proclaimed the fact. He
was seriously in love. Worse than that, he was in love with a lady of
whom his sister did not approve, and he evidently meant to marry,
whether she liked it or not.

He was seriously in love; and, indeed, love ought always to be a serious
thing, or else it should be called by another name. There is a great
deal of very poor nonsense talked and written about love by persons only
vicariously acquainted with it; and it is a great pity, because there is
absolutely no subject so permanently interesting to humanity as love,
whether in life or in fiction. And there is no subject which deserves
more tenderness and delicacy, or which requires more strength in the
handling.

The relation of brother and sister is unlike any other. It represents
the only possible absolutely permanent and platonic affection between
young men and young women. Its foundation is in identity of blood
instead of in the spontaneous sympathy of the heart, and even when
brother and sister quarrel they understand each other. Lovers frequently
do not understand each other when they are on the best of terms, and
the small difference of opinion grows by that misunderstanding until it
makes an impassable gulf. Brothers and sisters may be estranged,
separated, divided by family quarrels or by the bloody exigencies of
civil war, but if once they are thrown together again the mysterious
attraction of consanguinity shows itself, and their life begins again
where it had been broken off by untoward fate.

Madame de Charleroi was inclined to be angry with Marcantonio, and when
he was gone she sat by the fire, wondering what he would be like when he
should be married. Somehow she had never thought of him as married,
certainly not as married to a pernicious young English girl, with all
sorts of queer ideas in her brain, and a tendency to sympathise with the
dynamite party. He might surely have chosen better than that. Donna
Diana was not a woman of narrow prejudices, but she really could not be
expected to be pleased at seeing her brother, a Catholic gentleman, bent
on uniting himself to a foreign girl with no fortune, no beauty--well,
not much--and a taste for explosives. He might surely have chosen
better.

Donna Diana thought of her father, and fancied what he would have said
to such a match, the strict old nobleman. And so, between her thoughts
and her memories the afternoon wore on, and she bethought herself that
it was time to go out.

The horses spun along the streets through the crisp golden air, and now
and then a ray of the lowering sun caught them as they dashed through
some open place on the way, making them look like burnished metal. And
the light touched Madame de Charleroi's beautiful face and auburn hair,
so that the people stood still to look at her as she passed,--for every
Roman knew Donna Diana Carantoni by sight, just as every Roman knows
every other Roman, man, woman and child, distinguishing lovingly between
the Romans of Rome and the Romans of the north. By and by the carriage
rolled through the iron gates of the Pincio, and along the drive to the
open terrace where the band plays, till it stood still behind the row of
stone posts, within hearing of the music. The place has been absolutely
described to death, and everybody knows exactly how it looks. There are
flowers, and a band-stand, and babies, and a view of St. Peter's.

The first person Donna Diana saw was her brother, standing
disconsolately by one of the short pillars and looking at each carriage
as it drove up. He was evidently waiting for some one who did not come.
His black moustache drooped sadly, and his face was so melancholy that
his sister smiled as she watched him.

Marcantonio was soon aware of her presence, but he had no intention of
showing it, and studiously kept his head turned towards the drive,
watching the line of carriages. Madame de Charleroi was quickly
surrounded by a crowd of men, all dressed precisely alike, and all
anxious to say something that might attract the attention of the famous
beauty. Presently they bored her, and her carriage moved on; whereupon
they pulled their hats off and began to chatter scandal amongst
themselves, after the manner of their kind. They nodded to Marcantonio
as they passed him in a body, and he was left alone. The sun was
setting, and there was a purple light over the flats behind the Vatican,
recently flooded by a rise in the Tiber. There was no longer any object
in waiting, and the young man sauntered slowly down the steps and the
steep drive to the Piazza del Popolo, and entered the Corso.

To tell the truth, he was disappointed, bored, annoyed, and angry, all
at once. He had fully expected to see her, and to find consolation in
some sweet words for the hard things his sister had said to him. Perhaps
also he had enjoyed the prospect of exhibiting himself to his sister in
the society of the lady in question,--for Marcantonio was obstinate, and
had just discovered the fact, so that he was anxious to show it. Men who
are new in fighting are sure to press every advantage, not having yet
learned their strength; but in the course of time they become more
generous. Marcantonio was therefore grievously chagrined at being
cheated of his small demonstration of independence, besides being a
little wounded in his pride, and honestly disappointed at not meeting
the young lady he meant to marry. In this state of mind he strolled down
the Corso, looked up at her windows, passed and repassed before the
house, and ultimately inquired of the confidential porter, who knew him,
whether she were at home. The porter said he had not seen the signorina,
but that one of the servants had told him she was indisposed. The
marchese bit his black moustache and went away in a sad mood.




CHAPTER II.


Miss Leonora Carnethy was suffering from an acute attack of
philosophical despair, which accounted for her not appearing with her
mother on the Pincio.

The immediate cause of the fit was the young lady's inability to
comprehend Hegel's statement that "Nothing is the same as Being;" and as
it was not only necessary to understand it, but also, in Miss Carnethy's
view, to reconcile it with some dozens of other philosophical
propositions all diametrically opposed to it and to each other, the
consequence of the attempt was the most chaotic and hopeless failure on
record in the annals of thought. Under these circumstances, Miss
Carnethy shut herself up in a dark room, went to bed, and agreed with
Hegel that Nothing was precisely the same as Being. She thus scattered
all the other philosophies to the angry airts of heaven at one fell
sweep, and she felt sure she was going to be a Hindoo.

This sounds a little vague, but nothing could be vaguer than Miss
Carnethy's state of mind. Having agreed with Mr. Herbert Spencer that
the grand main-spring of life is the pursuit of happiness, and that no
other motive has any real influence in human affairs, it was a little
hard to find that there was nothing in anything, after all. But then,
since her own being was also nothing, why should she trouble herself?
Evidently it was impossible for nothing to trouble itself, and so the
only possible peace must lie in realising her own nothingness, which
could be best accomplished by going to bed in a dark room. It was very
dreary, of course, but she felt it was good logic, and must tell in the
long run.

It had happened before. There had been days when she had reached the
same point by a different road, and had been satisfactorily roused by a
flash of intelligence shedding enough light in her darkened course to
give her a new direction. To-day, however, it was quite different. She
had certainly now reached the absolute end of all speculation, for she
was convinced of the general nothingness of all created strength and
life.

"For," said she, "I am quite sure that if I saw a train coming down upon
me now, I would not get out of the way,--unless, the train being
nothing, and I also nothing, two nothings should make something. But
Hegel does not say that, and of course he knew, or he would not have
understood that Nothing is the same as Being."

This kind of argument is irreproachable. It is like the old lady who
said she was so glad that she did not like spinach, because if she did
she would eat it, and, as she detested it, that would be very
unpleasant. There is no answer possible to a properly grounded
philosophical argument of this kind. On the whole, Miss Carnethy did the
right thing when she tried to realise the physical being of nothing.

This Leonora was no ordinary girl. She belonged to a small class of
young women who take a certain delight in being different from "the
rest"--higher, of course. She had the misfortune to be of a mixed race,
so far as blood was concerned, for her father was English and her mother
was a Russian. It would probably be hard to find people more utterly
unlike than these two, for the beef-eating conqueror is one, and the
fire-eating Tartar is quite another, while this unlucky child of an
international parentage had something of each. Her history--she was
twenty-two years of age, then--might be summed up in a very few words.
An English child, an Italian girl, a Russian woman. Her father had many
prejudices, and did not believe in much; her mother had no prejudices at
all, and believed in everything under the sun, and in a few things
besides, so that certain evilly disposed persons had even said of her
that she was superstitious.

There is something infinitely pathetic about such a growing to maturity
as had made Leonora Carnethy what she was. Imagine such an anomaly as a
poor little seed, of which no one can say whether it is a rose or a
nightshade, alternately treated as a fair blossom and as a poisonous
weed. Imagine a young girl, full of a certain fierce courage and
impatience of restraint, chafing under the moral flat iron of a
hopelessly proper father, whose mind is of the great levelling type and
his prejudices as mountains of stone in the midst, reared to heaven like
pyramids to impose a personal moral geography on the human landscape;
and imagine the same girl further possessed of certain truly British
instincts of continuity and unreasonable perseverance, eternally
offending by her persistence a mother whose strong point is a kind of
gymnastic superstition, a strange perversity of exuberant belief,
forcing itself into the place of principle where there is none,--imagine
a young girl in such a situation, in such a childhood, and it will not
seem strange that she should grow up to be a very odd woman.

The father and mother understood each other after a fashion, but neither
of them ever understood Leonora, and so Leonora tried to understand
herself. To this laudable end she devoured books and ideas of all sorts
and kinds, not always perceiving whether she took the poison first and
the antidote afterwards, or the contrary, or even whether she fed
entirely on poisons or entirely on antidotes. Poor child! she found
truth very hard to define, and the criticism exercised by pure reason a
very insufficient weapon. Moreover, like Job of old, she had friends and
comforters to help in making life hideous. She wondered to-day, as she
lay in her darkened room, whether any of them would come, and the
thought was unpleasant.

She had just made up her mind to ring the bell and tell her maid that
no one should be admitted, when the door opened after the least possible
apology for a knock, and she realised that she had thought of the
contingency too late.

"Dear Leonora!"

"Dearest Leonora!"

The room was so dark that the young ladies stood still at the door, as
they fired off the first shots of their brimming affection. Leonora
moved so as to see their dark figures against the light.

"Oh," she said, "is it you?"

She was not glad to see her dear friends, for her fits of philosophical
despair were real while they lasted, and she hated to be disturbed in
them. But as these two young women were her companions in the study of
universal hollowness, she felt that she must bear with them. So, after a
little hesitation she allowed them to let some light into the room, and
they sat down and held her hands.

"We want to talk to you about Infinite Time!"

"And Infinite Space!"

"I am persuaded," said the first young lady, "that our ideas of Time are
quite mistaken. This system of hours and minutes is not adapted to the
larger view."

"No," said Leonora, "for Time is evidently a portion of universal pure
Being, and is therefore Nothing. I am sure of it."

"No. Time is not Nothing,--it is Colour."

"How do you mean, dear?" asked Leonora in some surprise.

"I do not quite know, dearest, but I am sure it must be. It is quite
certain that Colour is a fundamental conception."

"Of course." There was a pause. Apparently the identity of Infinite Time
with Colour did not interest Miss Carnethy, who stared at the light
through the blinds between her two friends.

"It seems to me that we girls have no field nowadays," said she, rather
irrelevantly.

"An infinite field, dear."

"And infinite time, dearest."

"I would give anything I possess to be able to do anything for anybody,"
began Leonora. "We know so much about life in theory, and we know
nothing about it in practice. I wish mamma would even let me order the
dinner sometimes; it would be something. But of course it is all an
illusion, and nothing, and very infinite."

Poor Miss Carnethy turned on her pillow with a dreary look in her eyes.

"It will be different when you are married, dear," suggested one.

"Of course," acquiesced the other.

"But can you not see," objected Miss Carnethy, "that we shall never
marry men whose ideas are so high and beautiful as ours? And then, to be
tied forever to some miserable creature! Fancy not being understood!
What do these wretched society men care about the really great questions
of life?"

"About Time--"

"And Infinite Space--"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing!" cried Miss Carnethy in real distress.

"And yet it would be dreadful to be an old maid"--

"Perfectly dreadful, of course!" exclaimed all three, in a breath. Then
there was a short silence, during which Leonora moved uneasily, and
finally sat up, her heavy red hair falling all about her.

"By the bye," she said at last, "have you been out to-day, dears? What
have you been doing? Tell me all about it."

"We have been to Lady Smyth-Tompkins's tea. It was very empty."

"You mean very hollow, for there were many people there."

"Yes," said the other, "it was very hollow--empty--everything of that
sort. Then we went to drive on the Pincio."

"So very void."

"Yes. We saw Carantoni leaning against a post. I am sure he was thinking
of nothing. He looks just like a stuffed glove,--such an inane dandy!"

Miss Carnethy's blue eyes suddenly looked as though they were conscious
of something more than mere emptiness in the world. Her strong,
well-shaped red lips set themselves like a bent bow, and the shaft was
not long in flying.

"He is very pleasant to talk to," said she, "and besides--he really
dances beautifully." It was probably a standing grievance with her two
friends that Marcantonio did not dance with them, or Leonora could
scarcely have produced such an impression in so few words.

"What does he talk about?" asked one, with an affectation of
indifference.

"Oh, all sorts of things," answered Leonora. "He does not believe at all
in the greatest good of the greatest number. He says he has discovered
the Spencerian fallacy, as he calls it."

"Alas, then that also is nothing!"

"Absolutely nothing, dear," continued Leonora. "He says that, if there
is no morality beyond happiness"--

"Of course!"

--"then every individual has as much right to be happy as the whole
human race put together, since he is under no moral obligation to
anybody or anything, there being no abstract morality. Do you see? It is
very pretty. And then he says it follows that there is no absolute good
unless from a divine standard, which of course is pure nonsense, or
ought to be, if Hegel is right."

"Dear me! Of course it is!"

"And so, dears," concluded Leonora triumphantly, "we are all going to
the Devil do you see?" The association of ideas seemed exhilarating to
Miss Carnethy, and in truth the conclusion was probably suggested more
by her feelings than by her logic, if she really possessed any. She felt
better, and would put off the further consideration of Nothing and
Being to some more convenient season. She therefore gave her friends
some tea in her bedroom, and the conversation became more and more
earthly, and the subjects more and more minute, until they seemed to be
thoroughly within the grasp of the three young ladies.

At last they went, these two charming damsels, very much impressed with
Leonora's cleverness, and very much interested in her future,--which she
would only refer to in the vaguest terms possible. They were both
extremely fashionable young persons, possessed of dowries, good looks,
and various other charms, such as good birth, good manners, and the
like; and it would be futile to deny that they took a lively interest in
the doings of their world, however hollow and vain the cake appeared to
them between two bites.

"Are you going to-night, Leonora dear?" they inquired as they left her.

"Of course," answered Miss Carnethy. "I must hear the rest of the
'Spencerian fallacy' you know!"

When Leonora was alone she had a great many things to think of.

The atmosphere had cleared during the last hour, so far as philosophy
was concerned, and as she looked at herself in the glass, she was
wondering how she should look in the evening. Not vainly,--at least, not
so vainly as most girls with her advantages might have thought,--but
reflectively, the English side of her twofold nature having gained the
upper hand. For as she gazed into her own blue eyes, trying to search
and fathom her own soul, she was conscious of something that gave her
pleasure and hope,--something which she had treated scornfully enough in
her thoughts that very afternoon.

She knew, for her mother had told her, that Marcantonio Carantoni had
written to her parents, had called, had an interview, and had been told
that he should be an acceptable son-in-law, provided that he could
obtain Leonora's consent. She knew also that in the natural course of
things he would this very evening ask her to be his wife; and, lastly,
she knew very well that she would accept him.

She wondered vaguely how all those strange unsettled ideas of hers would
harmonise in a married life. How far should she and her husband ever
agree? She had a photograph of him in her desk, which he had given to
her mother, and which she had naturally stolen and hidden away. Now she
took it out and brought it to the window, and looked at it minutely,
wonderingly, as she had looked at herself in the mirror a moment
earlier.

Yes, he was a proper husband enough, with his bright honest eyes and his
brave aristocratic nose and black moustache. Not very intelligent,
perhaps, by the higher standard,--that everlasting "higher standard"
again,--but withal goodly and noble as a lover should be. A lover? What
weal and woe of heart-stirring romance that word used to suggest! And so
this was her lover, the one man of all others dreamed of as a future
divinity throughout her passionate girlhood. A creature of sighs and
stolen glances--ay, perhaps of stolen kisses--a lover should be;
breathing soft things and glancing hot glances. Was Marcantonio really
her lover?

He was so honest--and so rich! He could hardly want her for her dower's
sake,--no, she knew that was impossible. For her beauty's sake, then?
No, she was not so beautiful as that, and never could be, though the
fashion had changed and red hair was in vogue. A pretty conceit, that
mankind should make one half of creation fashionable at the expense of
the other! But it is so all the same, and always will be. However, even
with red hair, and an immense quantity of it, she was not a great
beauty.

Perhaps Marcantonio would have married a great beauty if he could have
met one who would accept him. It would not be nice, she thought, to
marry a man who could not have the best if he chose. To think that he
might ever look back and wish she were as beautiful as some one else!
But after much earnest consideration of the matter no image of "some one
else" rose to her mind, and she confessed with some triumph that she was
not jealous of any one; that he had chosen her for herself, and that she
was without rival so far as he was concerned. Not even her friends, the
one dark and classic, the other fair and dreamy, could boast of having
roused his interest. That was a great advantage.

But did she care for him--did she love him? Of course; how else should
it be possible for her, with her high ideas of man's goodness, to think
of ever consenting to marry him? Of course she loved him.

It was not exactly the kind of thing she expected, when she used to
think of love a year ago; when love was a detached ideal with wings and
arrows, and all manner of romantic and mythical attributes. But
considering how very hollow and barren she had demonstrated the world to
be, this thing had a certain life about it. It was a real sensation,
beyond a doubt, and not an unhappy one either.

The room grew dark and she sat a few moments, the photograph lying idly
in her hand. Out of the dusk, coming from the fairyland of her girl's
fancy, rose a figure, the figure of the ideal lover she used to evoke
before she knew Marcantonio Carantoni. He was a different sort of person
altogether, much taller and broader and fiercer; a very impossibility of
a man, coming towards her, and upsetting everything in his course;
trampling rough-shod over the mangled fragments of her former idols,
over society, over Marcantonio, over everything till he was close and
near her, touching her hand, touching her lips, clasping her to him in
fierce triumph, and bearing her away in a whirlwind of strength. A quick
sigh, and she let the photograph fall to the ground, sinking back in her
chair with a light in her eyes that overcame the darkness.

Dreamland, dreamland, what fools you make of us all! What strange
characters there are among the slides of your theatre, only awaiting the
nod of Sleep, the manager, to issue forth, and rant and rave, make love
and mischief, do battle and murder, play the scoundrel and the hero,
till our poor brains reel and the daylight is turned on again, and all
the players vanish into the thinnest of thin air!

Miss Carnethy rang for her maid, who brought lights and closed the
shutters and let down the curtains preparatory to dressing her mistress
for dinner. Leonora looked down and saw Marcantonio's photograph lying
where it had fallen. She picked it up and looked at it once more by the
candle light.

"Perhaps I shall refuse him after all," she thought, coldly enough, and
she put it back into the drawer of her desk.

Perhaps you are right, Miss Carnethy, and the world is stuffed with
sawdust.




CHAPTER III.


The soft thick air of the ball-room swayed rhythmically to the swell and
fall of the violins; the perfume of roses and lilies was whirled into
waves of sweetness, and the beating of many young hearts seemed to
tremble musically through the nameless harmony of instrument and voice,
and rustling silk, and gliding feet. In the passionately moving symphony
of sound and sight and touch, the whole weal and woe and longing of life
throbbed in a threefold pace.

The dwellers in an older world did well to call the dance divine, and to
make it the gift of a nimble goddess; truly, without a waltz the world
would have lacked a very divine element. Few people can really doubt
what the step was that David danced before the ark.

The ball was at a house where members of various parties met by common
consent as on neutral ground. There are few such houses in Rome, or,
indeed, anywhere else, as there are very few people clever enough, or
stupid enough, to manage such an establishment. Men of entirely inimical
convictions and associations will occasionally go to the house of a
great genius or a great fool, out of sheer curiosity, and are content
to enjoy themselves and even to talk to each other a little, when no one
is looking. It is neutral ground, and the white flag of the ball-dress
keeps the peace as it sweeps past the black cloth legs of clericals and
the grey cloth legs of the military contingent, past the legs of all
sorts and conditions of men elbowing each other for a front place with
the ladies.

Conspicuous by her height and rare magnificence of queenly beauty was
Madame de Charleroi, moving stately along as she rested her fingers on
the arm of a minister less than half her size. But there was a look of
weariness and preoccupation on her features that did not escape her dear
friends.

"Diana is certainly going to be thin and scraggy," remarked a
black-browed dame of Rome, fat and solid, a perfect triumph of the
flesh. She said it behind her fan to her neighbour.

"It is sad," said the other, "she is growing old."

"Ah yes," remarked her husband, who chanced to be standing by and was in
a bad humour, "she was born in 1844, the year you left school, my dear."
The black-browed lady smiled sweetly at her discomfited friend, who
looked unutterable scorn at her consort.

Donna Diana glanced uneasily about the room, expecting every moment to
see her brother appear with Miss Carnethy. She was very unhappy about
the whole affair, though she could not exactly explain to herself the
reason of what she felt. Miss Carnethy was rich, had a certain kind of
distinguished beauty about her, was young, well-born,--but all that did
not compensate in Madame de Charleroi's mind for the fact that she was a
heretic, a freethinker, a dabbler in progressist ideas, and--and--what?
She could not tell. It must be prejudice of the most absurd kind! She
would not submit to it a moment longer, and if the opportunity offered
she would go to Miss Carnethy and say something pleasant to her. Donna
Diana had a very kind and gentle Italian heart hidden away in her proud
bosom, and she had also a determination to be just and honest in all
situations,--most of all when she feared that her personal sympathies
were leading her away.

The diplomat at her side chatted pleasantly, perceiving that she was
wholly preoccupied; he talked quite as much to himself as to her, after
he had discovered that she was not listening. And Donna Diana determined
to do a kind action, and the swinging rhythm of the straining, surging
waltz was in her ears. She was just wondering idly enough what the
little diplomat had been saying to her during the last ten minutes, when
she saw her brother enter the room with Miss Carnethy on his arm. They
had met in one of the outer drawing-rooms and had come in to dance.
Donna Diana watched them as they caught the measure and whirled away.

"She is terribly interesting," remarked the little man beside her as he
noticed where she was looking.

"She is also decidedly a beauty," answered Madame de Charleroi, with the
calm authority of a woman whose looks have never been questioned.

People who are in love are proverbially amusing objects to the general
public. There is an air of shyness about them, or else a ridiculous
incapacity for perceiving the details of life, or at least an absurd
infatuation for each other, most refreshing to witness. There is no
mistaking the manner of them, if the thing is genuine.

The sadness that had been on Donna Diana's face, and which the
resolution to be civil to Miss Carnethy had momentarily dispelled,
returned now, as she watched the young couple. She remembered her own
courtship, and she fancied she saw similar conditions in the wooing now
going on under her eyes. Marcantonio was furiously in love, after his
manner, but she thought Leonora's face looked hard. How could she let
her brother marry a woman who did not love him? Her resolution to be
civil wavered.

But just then, as luck would have it, the waltz brought the pair near to
her. Marcantonio was talking pleasantly, with a quick smile that came
and went at every minute. Leonora stood looking down and toying with her
fan. One instant she looked up at him, and Donna Diana saw the look and
the quick-caught heave of the snowy neck.

"I do not know what it is," she said to herself, "but it is certainly
love of some kind." She moved towards them, steering her little
diplomat through the sea of silk and satin, jewels and lace.

"How do you do, Mademoiselle Carnethy?" she said, in a voice that was
meant to be kind, and was at least very civil.

Leonora stood somewhat in awe of the Vicomtesse de Charleroi, who was so
stately and beautiful and cold. But she was very much pleased at the
mark of attention. It was an approval, and an approval of the most
public kind. The few words they exchanged were therefore all that could
be desired. The vicomtesse nodded, smiled, nodded again, and sailed away
in the easy swinging cadence of the waltz. Marcantonio looked gratefully
after her. The air was warm and soft, and the light fluff from the linen
carpet hung like a summer haze over the people, and the hundreds of
candles, and the masses of flowers.

Marcantonio was silent. Something in the air told him that the time had
come for him to speak,--something in Miss Carnethy's look told him
plainly enough, he thought, that he was not to speak in vain. The last
notes of the waltz chased each other away and died, and the people fell
to walking about and talking. Marcantonio gave Leonora his arm, and the
pair moved off with the stream, and on through the great rooms till they
reached an apartment less crowded than the rest, and sat down near a
doorway.

The young man did not lack courage, and he was honestly in love with
Leonora. He felt little hesitation about speaking, and only wished to
put the question as frankly and as courteously as might be. As for her,
she was obliged to acknowledge that she was agitated, although she had
said to herself a hundred times that she would be as calm as though she
were talking about the weather. But now that the supreme moment had
come, a strange beating rose in her breast, and her face was as white as
her throat. She looked obstinately before her, seeing nothing, and
striving to appear to the world as though nothing were happening.
Marcantonio sat by her side, and glanced quickly at her two or three
times, with a very slight feeling of uncertainty as to the result of his
wooing,--very slight, but enough to make waiting impossible, where the
stake was so high.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in low and earnest tones, "I have the
permission of monsieur your father, and of madame your mother, to
address you upon a subject which very closely concerns my happiness.
Mademoiselle, will you be my wife?"

He sat leaning a little towards her, his hands folded together, and his
face illuminated for a moment with intense love and anxiety. But Miss
Carnethy did not see the look, and only heard the formal proposition his
words conveyed. She saw a man standing in the door near them; she knew
him--a Mr. Batiscombe, an English man of letters--and she wondered a
little whether he would have used the same phrases in asking a woman to
marry him,--whether all men would speak alike in such a case.

She had looked forward to this scene--more than once. Again the figure
of the ideal lover of her dreams came to her, and seemed to pour out
strong speech of love. Again she involuntarily drew a comparison in her
mind between Marcantonio and some one, something she could not define.
On a sudden all the honesty of her conscience sprang up and showed her
what she really felt.

A thousand times she had said to herself that she would never marry a
man she did not love; and for once that she had said it to herself, she
had said it ten times over to her friends, feeling that she was
inculcating a good and serviceable lesson. And now her conscience told
her that she did not love Marcantonio,--at least not truly, certainly
not as much as she would have liked to love. Then she remembered what
she had thought that afternoon. How was it possible that she could have
thought of him for a moment as her husband, if she did not love
him,--especially with her high standard about such things? Oh, that high
standard! With a quick transition of thought she made up her mind; but
there was a strange little feeling of pain in her, such as the prince
might have felt in the fairy tale when the ring pricked him.
Nevertheless, her mind was made up.

"Yes," she said very suddenly, turning so that she could almost see his
eyes, but not quite, for she instinctively dreaded to look him in the
face; "yes, I will be your wife."

"Merci, mademoiselle," he said. The room was nearly empty at the moment,
and Marcantonio took her passive hand and touched her fingers with his
lips, being quite sure that no one was looking. But the man who stood at
the door saw it.

"Such a good match, you know!" said some people, who had no prejudices.

"Such a special grace!" said the resident Anglo-American Catholics; "he
is quite sure to convert her!"

"Such a special grace!" exclaimed the resident Anglo-American
Protestants; "she is quite sure to lead him back!"

"Il faut toujours se mefier des saints," remarked Marcantonio's uncle,
concerning his nephew.

"Never trust red-haired women," said the man who had stood at the door.

The engagement made a sensation in Rome, a consummation very easily
attained, and very little to be desired. In places where the intercourse
between young marriageable men and young marriageable women is so
constrained as it is in modern Europe, a man's inclinations do not
escape comment, and a very small seed of truth grows, beneath the magic
incantations of society tea parties, to a very large bush of gossip.
Nevertheless these good people are always astonished when their
prophecies are fulfilled, and the bush bears fruit instead of vanishing
into emptiness; which shows that there is some capacity left in them for
distinguishing truth and untruth. Marcantonio's marriage had long been a
subject in every way to the taste of the chatterers, and though Madame
de Charleroi had accused her brother of hastiness, for lack of a better
reproach, it was nearly a year since his admiration for Miss Carnethy
had been first noticed. During that time every particular of her
parentage and fortune had been carefully sought after, especially by
those who had the least interest in the matter; and the universal
verdict had been that the Marchese Carantoni might, could, should, and
probably would, marry Miss Leonora Carnethy. And now that the engagement
was out, society grunted as a pig may when among the crab-oaks of
Perigord he has discovered a particularly fat and unctuous truffle.

Probably the happiest person was Marcantonio himself. He was an honest,
whole-souled man, and in his eyes Leonora was altogether the most
beautiful, the most accomplished, and the most charming woman in the
world. That he expressed himself with so much self-control and propriety
when he asked her to marry him was wholly due to the manner of his
education and training in the social proprieties. That a man should use
any language warmer or less guarded than that of absolutely respectful
and distant courtesy toward the lady he intended to make his wife was
not conceivable to him. In the privacy of his own rooms he worshipped
and adored her with all his might and main, but when he addressed her
in person it was as a subject addresses his sovereign; a tone of
respectful and submissive reverence and obedience pervaded his actions
and his words. He would have pleased a woman who loved sovereignty,
better than a woman who dreamed of a sovereign love.

But she was never out of his thoughts, and if he wooed her humbly, he
anticipated some submission on her part after marriage. He had no idea
of always allowing her mind to wander in the strange channels it seemed
to prefer. He thought such an intelligence capable of better things, and
he determined, half unconsciously at first, and as a matter of course,
that Miss Carnethy, the philosopher, should be known before long as the
Marchesa Carantoni, the Catholic. Gradually the idea grew upon him,
until he saw it as the grand object of his life, the great good deed he
was to do. His love consented to it, and was purified and beautified to
him in the thought that by it he should lead a great soul like hers to
truth and light. He was perfectly in earnest, as he always was in
matters of importance; for of all nations and peoples Italians have been
most accused of frivolity, heartlessness, and inconstancy, and of all
races they perhaps deserve the accusation least. They are the least
imaginative people on earth, apart from the creative arts, and the most
simple and earnest men in the matter of love. Northern races hate
Italians, and they fasten triumphantly on that unlucky Latin sinner who
falls first in their way as the prototype of his nation, and as the butt
of their own prejudice. In the eyes of most northern people all Italians
are liars; just as a typical Frenchman calls England "perfide Albion,"
and all Englishmen traitors and thieves. Who shall decide when such
doctors disagree? And is it not a proverb that there is honour among
thieves?

Marcantonio never spoke of these ideas of his to his friends when they
congratulated him on his engagement. He only looked supremely happy, and
told every one that he was, which was quite true. But his sister was to
him a great difficulty, for she evidently was disappointed and
displeased. He debated within himself how he should appease her, and he
determined to lay before her his views about Leonora's future. To that
intent he visited her in the boudoir, where they had so often talked
before the engagement.

Madame de Charleroi received him as usual, but there was a look in her
eyes that he was not accustomed to see there,--an expression of protest,
just inclining to coldness, which had the effect of rousing his instinct
of opposition. With his other friends he had found no occasion for being
combative, and his old manner had sufficed; but with his sister he found
himself involuntarily preparing for war, though his intentions were in
reality pacific enough. Marcantonio was very young, in spite of his nine
and twenty years. His manner now, as he met his sister, was a trifle
more formal than usual, and he bent his brows and pulled his black
moustache as he sat down.

"Carissima Diana," he began, "I must speak with you about my marriage,
and many things."

"Yes,--what is it?" asked his sister, calmly, as she turned a piece of
tapestry on her knee to finish the end of a needleful of silk.
Marcantonio had somehow expected her to say something that he could take
hold of and oppose. Her bland question confused him.

"You are not pleased," he began awkwardly.

"What would you have?" she asked, still busy with her work. "I am sure I
told you what I thought about it long ago."

"I want you to change your mind," said Marcantonio, delighted at the
first show of opposition. Madame de Charleroi raised her eyebrows, gave
a little sigh of annoyance, and turned towards him.

"I will always treat your wife with the highest consideration," she
said, as though that settled the matter and she wished to drop the
subject. But her brother was not satisfied.

"I wish you to love her, Diana; I wish you to treat her as your sister."

Donna Diana was silent, and Marcantonio shifted his position uneasily,
for he did not know exactly what to do, and he saw that he was failing
in his mission. But in a moment his heart guided him. He went and sat
beside her, and laid his hand on hers.

"We cannot quarrel, dear," he said. "But will you love her if I make her
like you--if I make her thoughts as beautiful as yours?"

Donna Diana's face softened as she turned to him and affectionately
pressed his hand.

"I will try to love her for your sake, dear boy," she answered gently;
and he kissed her fingers in thanks.

"Dear Diana," he said, "you are so good! But you know she is really not
at all like what you fancy her. She is full of heart, and so wonderfully
delicate and lovely,--and so marvellously intelligent. There is nothing
she does not know. She has read all the philosophies"--

"Yes, I know she has," interrupted his sister, as though deprecating the
discussion of Miss Carnethy's wisdom.

"But not as you think," he protested, catching the meaning of her tone.
"She has read them all, but she will take what is best from each, and I
am quite sure she will be a good Catholic before long."

"I really hope so," said Donna Diana seriously.

"Not that I should love her any the less if she were not," continued
Marcantonio, who was loth to feel that there could be any condition to
his love. "I should love her just as much if she were a Chinese,--just
as much, I am sure. But of course it would be much better."

"Of course," assented Diana, smiling a little at his enthusiasm.

Somehow the peace was made,--it is so easy to make peace when each can
trust the other, and knows it! Just as Madame de Charleroi had
determined to say something pleasant on the evening when her brother
offered himself to Leonora, so now she made up her mind to stand by
Marcantonio, and to help him in his married life by being as sympathetic
and as kind as possible.

In due time Marcantonio obtained the permission of the Church to unite
himself with his Protestant wife, and after a great many formalities the
wedding took place in the late spring, after Easter.

Weddings are tiresome things to talk about, and even the principal
persons concerned in them always wish them over as soon as possible.
What can be more trying for a young girl than to be set up to be stared
at by the hour, be-feathered and be-rigged in a multiplicity of
ornaments, made flimsy with tulle and lace, and ghastly with the
accumulation of white things, when she is pale enough already with the
acute fever of an exceedingly complicated state of mind? Or how can a
man possibly enjoy being envied, hated, loved, despised, and considered
a fool, by his rivals, his bride, the woman he has not married, and his
bachelor friends,--all in a breath? It is absurd to suppose that any one
with an intelligence above that of the average peacock can enjoy playing
a leading part in a matrimonial parade.

Marcantonio Carantoni and Leonora Carnethy were married, and one of her
intimate friends shed a tear as she observed how extremely empty a form
it was. But the other looked a little pale, and said she was quite sure
she could have chosen someone "better than that."




CHAPTER IV.


"Needles and pins, needles and pins,"--the rhyme is obvious, and very
old,--"When a man marries his trouble begins." Marcantonio is an
Italian, and his native language contains no precise equivalent of this
piece of wisdom, with which every English baby is made acquainted as
soon as it can know anything.

The real difficulty seems to be that there are as many different ways of
looking at marriage as there are people in the world. Marriage is
described as being either a holy bond or a social contract. Obviously a
holy bond implies at least a certain modicum of holiness on the part of
the bound; and it is not likely that a single and very simple form of
contract can ever cover the multifarious requirements and exigencies of
a thousand million human beings. A contract, in order to be
satisfactory, must be thoroughly understood and appreciated by the
parties who undertake it, and this seems to be a very unusual case in
the world.

When Marcantonio Carantoni married, he was possessed of very noble and
exalted ideas, totally unformulated, but, as he supposed, only requiring
the seal of experience to define, cement, and consolidate them. He
believed that his wife was to be the stately queen of his household, the
gentle partner of his deeds and thoughts, a loving listener to his
words. He pictured to himself a magnificence of goodness unattainable
for a man alone, but within easy reach of a man and a woman together; he
imagined a broad perfection of human relations which should be a
paradise on earth and an example of beatific possibility to the world.
He dreamed of that kind of happiness, which, as it undoubtedly passes
the bounds of experience, is aptly termed by poets transcendent, and is
regarded by men of the world as a nonsensical fiction. He saw visions in
his sleep, and waking believed them real, for he had a great capacity
for believing in all that was good; and as he was human he found
ceaseless delight in believing in these good things, more especially as
in store for himself. He had always been fond of the pleasant side of
life, and found no difficulty in conceiving of an infinite series of
pleasant situations, culminating in his union with Miss Leonora
Carnethy. He never analysed. Only pessimists analyse, and the best they
can accomplish thereby is to make other men even as themselves, critical
to see the darns in other people's clothes, and learned to spy out
infinitesimal mud-specks upon the garments of saints.

Marcantonio was young. There is a faculty which men acquire from mixing
with the world, which is not pessimism, nor analysis, nor indifference;
it is rather a knowledge of good and evil with a fair appreciation of
their proportion in human affairs. Nothing is more necessary to thought
than the generalising of laws; nothing is more pernicious than the
generalising of humanity into types, the torturing application of the
nineteenth century boot to the feet of all,--men, women, and children
alike. If men are only interesting for what they are, regardless of what
they may be, a day of any one's actual experience must be a thousand
times more interesting than all the fictions that ever were written. If
art consists in the accurate presentation of detail, then the highest
art is the petrifaction of nature, and the wax-works of an anatomical
museum are more artistically beautiful than all the marbles of Phidias
and Praxiteles. True art depends upon an a priori capacity for
distinguishing the beautiful from the ugly, and the grand from the
grotesque; and true knowledge of the world lies in the knowledge of good
and evil, not confounding the noble with the ignoble under one smearing
of mud, nor yet whitewashing the devil into an ill-gotten reputation for
cleanliness. The temptation of Saint Anthony may convey a righteous
moral lesson, but the temptation of Saint Anthony as described by his
namesake's pig would risk being too unsavoury to be wholesome.

But Marcantonio was young, and he troubled himself about none of these
things, supposing everything to be good, beautiful, and enduring,
excepting such things as were evidently bad, inasmuch as they were ugly
and disagreeable.

Now Miss Leonora Carnethy had long been given over to a sort of sleek,
cynic philosophy,--the kind of cynicism that uses lavender water in its
tub. Her dissatisfaction with the world was genuine, but she found means
to alleviate it in the small luxuries and amenities of her daily life.
She and her friends had talked the kernel out of life, or thought that
they had, but the shell was still fresh and well favoured. Leonora
herself was indeed subject to moods and fits of real unhappiness, for
she was far too intelligent a person not to long for something
beautiful, even when she was most convinced that life was ugly. There
were times when she dreamed of an ideal man who should win her, and love
her, and give her all the happiness she had missed. And again she would
dream of the freedom of the earth-bound soul from ills, and cares, and
thorns, and she would enter some silent Roman church and kneel for hours
before a dimly lighted altar, praying for rest, and peace, and
inspiration of holiness. But there was too much poetic feeling in her
religious outpourings. If religion is to be poetic, a very little thing
will destroy its harmony; some careless sacristan chatting with a crony
in the corner of the church, or a couple of thoughtless children
wrangling over a half-penny by the door, or any such little thing,
destroyed instantly the fair illusion that lay as balm upon her
unrestful soul. Religion must be real to every man if it is to stand the
test of reality.

Leonora's views of marriage were therefore more or less subject to her
moods. There were days, indeed, few and far between, when her better
intelligence got the upper hand of the fictitious fabric of so-called
philosophy which she had erected for herself. Then for a brief space she
thought of life very much as Marcantonio did, and she contemplated her
marriage as a noble and worthy career,--for marriage is a career to most
women of the world. But then, again, all her uncertainty returned
twofold upon her, and the only real thing was the dream of love, the
vision of a lover, and the hope of a realised passion. She was so strong
and radiantly human, that from the moment when her mind fell into
abeyance the material beauty of life sprang up in her heart, until,
being disappointed and cast down through not attaining the end of her
passionate dreams, she once more sank into a half-religious, half-poetic
melancholy. Nevertheless, the strongest element in her character was the
desire to be loved, not by every one, but by some one manly man, and
loved with all the strength he had, overwhelmingly. Her studies were a
refuge when she saw how improbable such a piece of sweet fortune was,
and, as might have been expected, they were far from regular and
systematic. She read a great deal, especially of such authors as had a
reputation for being profound rather than clear, and, as her mind had
received no kind of preliminary training, the result was eminently
unsatisfactory to herself. To Marcantonio, who knew more about the
opera than about philosophy, she seemed a miracle of learning, and she
loved to talk with him about theories, generally finding that, in spite
of his ignorance, he made extremely sensible remarks upon them. But he
always tried to lead her to different subjects, for, in spite of his
immense admiration for what he supposed to be her wisdom, he was aware
that it seemed very vague, and that it even occasionally bored him.

Leonora had acquired the unfortunate faculty of deceiving herself, and
when the fit was upon her she saw things obliquely. In spite of the
little prick of conscience that hurt her when she accepted Marcantonio's
offer, she had soon persuaded herself that she loved him, on the
principle that, since her "standard" was so very "high," she could not
possibly have demeaned herself to accepting a man she did not love. It
is a very fine thing to believe that we are so far removed from evil
that we cannot do wrong, and therefore that whatever we do is infallibly
right, no matter how our instincts may cry out against it. It is a most
comforting and comfortable vicious circle which we convert into a crown
of glory for ourselves on the smallest provocation. So when Leonora was
finally married to Marcantonio, she made herself believe that she loved
him, and all her vague theories were temporarily cast aside and trampled
upon in her determination to realise in him all the happiness she had
dreamed of in her ideal.

She had got a husband who did most truly love her, and whose one and
absorbing thought would be her happiness, but he was not exactly what
she had longed for. She mistook his courtesy for coldness, and his
deference for indifference, and since she had persuaded herself that she
loved him she wanted to find him a perfect fiery volcano of love and
jealousy. Marcantonio was nothing of the kind; he was calm, courteous,
and affectionate; he had not the slightest cause for jealousy, and, not
in the least understanding his wife, he was perfectly happy.

Of all tests of true love a honeymoon is the severest, and by every
right of sensible sequence ought to come last of all in the history of
married couples. It is the great destroyer of illusions, and the more
illusions there are the greater the destruction. Two people have seen
each other occasionally, perhaps for an hour every day,--and that is a
great deal in Europe,--during which meetings they have become more or
less deeply enamoured, each of the qualities of the other. People
notoriously behave very differently to the people they love and to the
world at large; but their behaviour to the world at large is the outcome
of their character, whereas their conduct to each other is the result,
or the concomitant, of a passion which may or may not be real, profound,
and good. But each has a great number of characteristics which
practically never appear during those hours of courtship. Suddenly the
two are married, and the lid of Pandora's box is hoisted high with a
vicious jerk that scares the little imps inside to the verge of
distraction, and they fly out incontinent, with an ill savour. If the
lid had been gently raised, the evil spirits would probably have issued
forth stealthily, and one at a time, without any great fuss, and might
not have been noticed. The two condemned ones travel together, eat
together, talk together, until in a single month they have exhausted a
list of bad qualities that should have lasted at least half a dozen
years under ordinary circumstances.

Marcantonio and Leonora travelled for a time, and at last agreed to
spend the remainder of the summer in some quiet seaside place in
Southern Italy. They soon discovered the fallacy of wandering about
Europe with a maid and a quantity of luggage, and they both hoped that
under the clear sky of the south they might find exactly what they
wanted. So they gravitated to Sorrento and hired a villa overhanging the
sea, and Marcantonio suggested vaguely that they might have some one to
stay with them if they found it dull. At this Leonora felt injured. The
idea of his finding life dull in her company!

"How can you possibly suggest such a thing?" she asked, in a hurt tone.

"Not for myself, my dear," said Marcantonio, with an affectionate smile.
"It struck me that you might not find it very amusing. I could never
find it dull where you are, ma bien aimee." And indeed he never did.
Leonora was pacified, as she almost always was when he was particularly
affectionate.

"But, of course," he continued, "you will enjoy the being able to read
and study your favourite books."

"I never want to read them now," said Leonora, who chanced that day to
be not very philosophically disposed. She had been perusing the latest
French impossibility,--she found it rather amusing to be allowed to have
what she liked now that she was married.

"I should be glad if you never read any more philosophy," said
Marcantonio, unwisely saying what was uppermost in his thoughts.

"Really, though," answered Leonora, "I know it all so very superficially
that I feel I must go back and be much more thorough. I think I shall
take a sound course of Voltaire and Hegel, and that sort of thing, this
summer."

Her husband was silent. He began to suspect his wife of being capable of
an occasional contradiction for the mere love of it. Besides, he saw no
particular connection between the two authors she named. But then he
knew very little about them. He looked at Leonora. There was not a trace
of unpleasant expression in her face, and she seemed to have merely made
the remark in the air, without the least intention of being
contradictory or captious. He liked to look at her, she was so fresh and
fair. Neither heat nor cold seemed to touch her delicate white
skin,--her hair was so thick and strong, and her blue eyes so bright.
She was the very incarnation of life. What if her features were not
quite classic in their proportion?

"I am not so beautiful as Diana," she said laughingly one day to
Marcantonio, "but I am sure I am much more alive than she is." He
laughed too, well pleased at the distinction drawn. He was glad that his
sister should be thought cold, and he believed that his wife loved him.
He kissed her hand tenderly.

They had been married two months when they came to stay in Sorrento. It
is a beautiful place. Perhaps in all the orange-scented south there is
none more perfect, more sweet with gardens and soft sea-breath, more
rich in ancient olive-groves, or more tenderly nestled in the breast of
a bountiful nature. A little place it is, backed and flanked by the
volcanic hills, but having before it the glory of the fairest water in
the world. Straight down from the orange gardens the cliffs fall to the
sea, and every villa and village has a descent, winding through caves
and by stairways to its own small sandy cove, where the boats lie in the
sun through the summer's noontide heat, to shoot out at morning and
evening into the coolness of the breezy bay. Among the warm, green fruit
trees the song-birds have their nests, and about the eaves of the
scattered houses the swallows wheel and race in quick, smooth circles.
Far along through the groves echoes the ancient song of the southern
peasant, older than the trees, older than the soil, older than poor old
Pompeii lying off there in the eternal ashes of her gorgeous sins. And
ever the sapphire sea kisses the feet of the cliffs as though wooing the
rocks to come down, and plunge in, and taste how good a thing it is to
be cool and wet all over.

To this place Marcantonio and his wife came at the beginning of July,
having picked up numerous possessions and a few servants in Rome. They
both had a taste for comfort, though they enjoyed the small privations
of travelling for a time. To luxurious people it is pleasant to be
uncomfortable when the fancy takes them, in order that they may the
better enjoy the tint of their purple and the softness of their fine
linen by the contrast. For contrast is the magnifying glass of the
senses.

At sunset they walked side by side in their terraced garden overlooking
the sea. They had travelled all night and had rested all day in
consequence, and now they were refreshed and alive to the magic things
about them.

"How green it is!" said Leonora, stopping to look at the thick trees.

"Yes," answered Marcantonio, "it is very green."

He was thinking of something else, and Leonora's very natural and simple
remark did not divert his thoughts. The cook had arrived with a touch of
the fever, and he was debating whether to send for the doctor at once or
to wait till the next day. For he was very good to his servants, and
took care of them. But Leonora wanted something more enthusiastic.

"But it is so very fresh and green!" she repeated. "Do you not see how
lovely it all is?" She laid her hand on his arm.

"Oui, cherie," said he, getting rid of the cook by an effort, "and green
is the colour of hope." Then it struck him that the saying was rather
commonplace, and he began to realise what she wanted. "It is a perfect
fairyland," he went on, "and we will enjoy it as long as we please. Are
you fond of sailing, my dear?"

"Oh, of all things!" exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically. "I love the
sea and the beautiful colours, and everything"--

She stopped short and put her arm through his and made him walk again.
She was conscious, perhaps, that she was making an effort,--why, she
could not tell,--and that she had not much to say.

"Marcantoine"--she began. They spoke French together, though she knew
Italian better. She thought his name long, but had not yet decided how
to abbreviate it.

"Yes, what would you say, my dear?" he asked pleasantly.

"I think I could--no--Marcantoine, now that we are married, are you
quite sure that you love me--quite, quite?" Marcantonio's face turned
strangely earnest and quiet. He looked into her eyes as he answered.

"Yes, my very dear wife, I am quite sure. And you, are you sure,
Leonora?"

"How serious you are!" she exclaimed, laughingly. "Well, perhaps I am
not so sure as you are,--but I think I could." Somehow he did not smile;
he took some things so seriously.

Honeymoon conversations are insignificant enough, but it would be well
if they were still more so. They should be limited by an international
law to the phrases contained in the works of M. Ollendorff.

"Is it a fine day, sir?"

"Yes, madam, it is a very fine day, but the baker has the green hat of
the officer."

"Has the baker also the red cow of the general's wife?"

"No, madam, the baker has not the red cow of the general's wife, but the
undertaker has the penknife of the aunt of the good butcher."

It would be hard for the most ill-disposed couple to quarrel if confined
to this simple elegance of dialectics, where truths of the broadest kind
are clothed in the purest and most energetic words. Young married people
are allowed too much latitude when they are turned loose upon a whole
language with a sort of standing order to make conversation. When they
have exhausted a certain fund of stock poetry and enthusiasm, they have
very little to fall back upon, except their personal relation to each
other; and unless they are equally serious or equally frivolous, the
discussion of such matters is apt to get them into trouble.

Like most Italians Marcantonio had difficulty in understanding English
humour. When Leonora said she was not quite sure she loved him, she had
meant it for a jest, and if the jest had a deeper meaning and a
possibility of truth for herself, that was no reason, she thought, why
Marcantonio should consider it no jest at all. She was somewhat annoyed,
and she made up her mind that there must be an element of Philistinism
in his character. She hated and feared Philistines, partly because they
were bores, and partly because she had met one or two of them who had
known vastly more than she did, and who had not scrupled to show it.
But, after all, how could Marcantonio be really like them? He did not
know very much, nor did he pretend to, and he had very good taste and
was altogether very nice,--no, he was not a Philistine; he loved her,
and that was the reason he was serious. All this she thought, springing
from one idea to another, and ending by drawing her arm closer through
his and moving along the terrace by his side.

The sun had set over there in front of them, and the air was cool and
purple with the afterglow. They stood by the wall and looked out
silently, without any further effort at conversation. Talking had been a
failure, probably because they were tired, and for a brief space they
were content to watch the clouds, and to listen to the swift rush of the
swallows and the faint, soft fall of the small waves on the sand far
below them. There they were, linked together, for better for worse, to
meet the joys and the sorrows of life hand in hand; to stand before the
world as representatives of their class, to play a part in public, and
in their homes to be all in all to each other, man and wife.

Man and wife! Ah me! for the greatness and the littleness of the bonds
those names stand for! Is there a man so poor and thin-souled in the
world that he has not dreamed of calling some woman "wife"? Is there any
wretch so mean and miserable in spirit that he has not looked on some
maiden and said, "I would marry her, if I could"? Or has any woman,
beautiful or ugly, fair or dark, straight or crooked, not thought once,
and more than once, that a man would come, and love her, and take her,
and marry her?

But have all the woes and ills of humanity, massed together and piled up
in their dismal weight, ever called forth one half the sorrow that has
ensued from this wedding and being wedded? Alas and alack for the tears
that have fallen thick and fast from women's eyes,--and for the tears
that have stood and burned in the eyes of strong men, good and bad! Who
shall count them, or who shall measure them? Who shall ever tell the
griefs that are beyond words, the sorrows that all earthly language,
wielded by all earthly genius, cannot tell? Will any man make bold to
say that he can describe what pain his neighbour feels? He may tell us
what he does, for he can see it; he may tell us what he thinks, for
perhaps he can guess it; but he cannot tell us what he suffers. The most
he can do is to strike the sad minor chord that in every man's heart
leads to a dirge and a death-song of his own.

A man who tries to tell of great suffering is rebuked. "No human
creature," says the critic, "could suffer as this man describes, and
live. There can therefore be no such suffering in the world." But does
any critic or reader or other intelligent person say, when he reads
about great happiness, "This joy is too much for humanity; there is no
such joy in the world"?

We shrink from suffering, in others as in ourselves, and we turn to
happiness and cannot get enough of it, so that however the tale ends, we
would have made it end yet more joyfully; for so would we do with our
own lives if we could. The strength of half mankind is spent in trying
to remedy mistakes made at the outset, and I suppose that there is not
one man in ten millions who is not striving to make himself happier, in
his own fashion. A man is only happy when he believes himself to be so,
in whatever way the proposition be turned, and no man believes himself
so happy but what he might be happier.

Marcantonio Carantoni was in just such a position. He was more than
contented, for he looked forward to much in the future that he had not
yet attained, and he looked forward to it with certainty. His wife
Leonora was trying hard to be as happy as he, but there had been a
doubt--a cruel, hot little doubt--in her soul from the first. She had
deceived herself--with the best intention--until she could hardly ever
be sure that what she felt was genuine. She had asked questions of her
heart until it was weary of answering them, and would as soon speak
false to her as true.

And here ends the prologue of this story.




CHAPTER V.


A few days after the arrival of the Carantoni establishment in Sorrento,
Leonora was sitting alone on a terrace of the villa with a book and a
great variety of small possessions in the way of needle-work, shawls,
cushions, flowers, parasols, fans, and a white cat. Marcantonio was gone
to the town alone, intending to buy more possessions; for Sorrento is
famous for its silk-weaving and its exquisite carved work of olive wood,
and Leonora loved knickknacks.

"I would give anything in the world for a sensation," she thought, as
she looked out over the sea.

It was towards evening, and the water was as smooth as glass and tinged
with red.

Marcantonio was right after all. It was very dull in Sorrento, with no
one but one's husband to speak to,--and he had made such a fuss about
the cook's illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and all that; but
life with the beauties of nature is so very tiresome after a time. She
longed for some of her friends,--even her mother, she thought, would be
a relief. But no one had called, excepting some very proper people of
the Roman set, who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary-ful of
diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at Castellamare.

She was wishing with all her might that some amusing person would call,
when, as though in answer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card.
Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some toothless old princess
of Rome or some other wearisome bore. But as she looked at the
name,--"Mr. Julius Batiscombe,"--she gave a little start and her light
fingers touched her lace and ribbons, and her thick hair, and she said
she would receive.

Mr. Julius Batiscombe was a man of five and thirty years of age, and a
person sure to attract attention anywhere. He was tall and looked
strong, but he trod as lightly as a woman; none of his movements were
clumsy or awkward. Not that he stepped daintily or affected any feminine
grace of movement; there was something in his build and proportion that
made it always seem easy for him to move, as though his strength were
perfectly under control.

People were divided in opinion concerning his appearance. Some said he
was handsome and some said he was coarse. Some said he was refined and
some said he looked ill-tempered. As a matter of fact he had a rather
small head, set upon a strong neck. His nose was large and broad, and
decidedly aquiline, and he had a remarkably clean-cut and determined
jaw. His mouth was comparatively too small for his face, but well
shaped and well closed, shaded by a black moustache of very moderate
dimensions. His blue eyes were set deep in his head and far apart. Of
hair he had an unusual quantity, of a blue black colour, and he brushed
it carefully. A single deep line scored its mark across, just above his
brows. He had an odd way of looking at things, hiding the half of the
iris under the upper lid, showing the white of the eye a little beneath
the  portion. His complexion was of that brilliant kind which
sometimes goes with black hair and blue eyes, and is known as an
especial characteristic of the Irish race. Moreover he was noticeably
well dressed, in a broad, neat fashion of quiet colour, and he wore no
jewelry nor ornament except an old seal ring.

Opinions varied almost as much about Mr. Julius Batiscombe's character
and reputation as about his claims to be thought good-looking. He had no
intimate friends, or was supposed to have none; and he never answered
many questions, because he asked none. It was known that he was an
Englishman or an Irishman by birth, but that he had never lived long in
his own country, whereas he seemed to have lived everywhere else under
the sun.

"I am so glad you came to-day, Mr. Batiscombe," said Leonora after he
was seated, and looking at him rather curiously.

He was the man who had stood in the doorway at the ball when Marcantonio
offered himself to her. She knew him as well as she knew most of the
stray foreigners who from time to time frequented Roman society. He had
been in Rome all that winter, and she had met him two years earlier,
when she first went out. He interested her, however, by a certain
reserve of manner and by an air of "having a story about him"--as young
ladies put it--which was unusual.

"I am very fortunate," he answered, with a slight inclination and a
polite smile. "I called entirely at random. Somebody said you were
coming here, and so I came to see if you had arrived."

"Yes," said Leonora, "we have been here several days, with all sorts of
troubles on our hands. It is such very hard work to settle down, you
know."

"What has been the trouble?" inquired Mr. Batiscombe, glancing at the
evidences of comfort that were scattered about.

"Oh--it is the cook," said Leonora with a little laugh; she was just
beginning to feel the novelty of housekeeping, and she laughed at the
mention of the cook, as though the idea amused her. "He has had a little
fever, and my husband was dreadfully anxious about him. But he is quite
recovered."

"I am very glad," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It must be a terrible bore to
have one's cook ill. Did you get anything to eat in the meanwhile?"

And so forth, and so on, through a few dozen inanities. He would not
make an original remark, being quite sure that Leonora would ultimately
turn the conversation to some congenial subject.

"Shall you be in Rome next winter, Mr. Batiscombe?" she asked at length
rather suddenly.

"It is rather doubtful," he answered slowly. "I am a great wanderer, you
know, Marchesa. I can never say with any certainty where I shall be
next."

He was looking at her and thinking what a splendid living thing she was,
with the evening sun on her red hair. That was all he thought, but it
gave him pleasure, and his glance lingered contentedly upon her, as upon
a picture or a statue. He supposed from her remark that she wanted him
to talk about himself, and he was willing to please her; but he was in
no hurry, for he feared she would move and show herself in a less
favourable light. She was so good to look at, that it was worth a visit
to see her; and yet she was not a great beauty.

"I was thinking a little of going to the East," he added presently.

"But you have been there, have you not?"

"Not for a long time; and it will bear revisiting often,--very often. I
mean to go there and study again as I did years ago. You have no idea
how interesting those things are." Mr. Batiscombe looked thoughtfully
out towards the sea.

"What are those things, as you call them?" asked Leonora.

"What many people call the 'wisdom of the East.' They make us the
compliment of implying that there is a 'wisdom of the West' also, which
seems unlikely."

"Dear me, what a sweeping remark!" exclaimed Leonora, rather startled.

"I will prove it," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It seems to me that in the West
no two wise men think alike; whereas in the East no two wise men think
differently. Is not that a kind of proof?"

"Not a very valuable proof," said the marchesa. "But I do not know much
about it."

"You have the reputation of knowing more about it than most people,
Marchesa," answered Batiscombe. "I have been told that you know
everything." Leonora blushed very slightly.

"What nonsense!" said she; "I might say the same of you."

"I observe that you do not, however," said he, laughing.

"I never flatter any one," she answered calmly.

"Obviously, there is but one thing for me to say," said Batiscombe still
smiling.

"What is that?"

"That no one could possibly flatter you, Marchesa,--since the truth is
no flattery."

"No, but imitation is," retorted Leonora, well pleased at having got a
small advantage of him.

"Very good," said Batiscombe; "but do you know who said so?"

"Shakespeare"--began Leonora, but she stopped. "No--I cannot tell."

"A man called Colton said it. He wrote a book called 'Lacon,' containing
innumerable reflections on things in general. He was a wandering
sea-parson and wrote books of travels. He died of a complication of
nautical and religious disorders--he confused the spirituous with the
spiritual--but he was a wise man for all that."

"I suppose you remembered all that for the sake of showing that you
really know everything," said Leonora, looking up from behind the fan
that shaded her eyes.

The last rays of the sun shone horizontally across the terrace. The book
she had been reading slipped from her lap. With a quick movement
Batiscombe caught it before it fell and laid it on the little table.
Leonora noticed the action and admired the ease of it. She was
altogether disposed to admire the man, though she would have confessed
that his conversation hitherto had not been at all remarkable. But there
was something in his manner that attracted her. He was quick and gentle,
and yet he looked so big and strong.

"Thanks," she said. "By the bye, are you going to spend the summer here,
or are you only passing?"

"I am only passing--literally passing, for I have come from the north,
and am going southward. I believe I am doing rather an original thing."

"You are generally supposed to be always doing original things," said
Leonora.

"At all events I am never bored," he answered, "which cannot be said of
most people. At present I am going round Italy in an open boat. It is
great fun. I started from Nice six weeks ago."

"How delightful! I should like it immensely!"

"Are you fond of sailing?"

"I enjoy it of all things," she answered. In spite of her remark to the
same effect made to Marcantonio on the day of their arrival, she had not
yet been on the water. He had been so anxious about the cook.

"There is a man-of-war to be launched at Castellamare the day after
to-morrow," said Batiscombe. "May I have the pleasure of taking you over
in my boat?"

At this moment Marcantonio appeared at the extremity of the terrace and
came towards them.

"Should you like to go?" asked Batiscombe quickly, in a lower voice. "If
so I will propose it at once." Leonora nodded, and her husband
approached.

"Marcantonio," she said, "you know Monsieur Batiscombe?"

"Mais certainement," cried Marcantonio cordially, and the two men shook
hands. Batiscombe was at least as much at home in French as his host,
and immediately attacked the subject.

"I came to propose to Madame la Marquise," he said, "that you should
come over to Castellamare in my boat the day after to-morrow to see the
launch. I trust the plan meets your approval?"

Marcantonio turned to his wife to inquire. She nodded to him; he nodded
to her.

"We should be charmed," said he.

And so the matter was arranged; they agreed about the hour, and Leonora
said she would bring the luncheon.

"Yes," said Marcantonio, "I am glad to say the cook"--

At this point Mr. Batiscombe rose to go, and the remark about the cook's
health was lost in the stir. Batiscombe bowed, smiled, bowed again, and
moved smoothly away across the terrace, disappearing with a final
inclination, and a sweep of his straw hat.

"He walks like a cat, that gentleman," said Marcantonio as he sat
himself down beside his wife.

"He is charming," said Leonora. "He has been so amusing." She looked at
her husband furtively to see how he took the remark.

"Perhaps," thought she, "he is one of those men who have to be managed
by being made jealous. I have read about them in novels."

But Marcantonio was very glad that she had been amused, and he merely
smiled pleasantly and said so. It never entered his head to suppose that
Leonora was not satisfied with his show of affection, because he knew in
himself that his love was perfectly real. There is a little vanity in
such men as Marcantonio, together with a great deal of honesty. Their
vanity makes them quite sure that the woman they love is satisfied, and
their honesty makes them think the woman would speak out if she were
not, just as they themselves would do.

Leonora had vanity enough of a certain kind, but it was not personal.
She doubted her own powers and gifts more than she need have done, and
there was enough uncertainty about her own affection to make her
uncertain of her husband's love. In the meanwhile she was bored since
Mr. Batiscombe had gone, and she wished Marcantonio would talk and amuse
her. But when he did begin to say something it was about local Roman
politics, and she understood nothing about that sort of thing. She
longed more and more for "a sensation." It would probably be different
to-morrow, for her moods seldom lasted long. But this evening it was
intolerable. She made the most absent-minded answers to her husband's
remarks, and seemed so impatient that he suggested she must be tired and
had better go to bed.

"But I am not tired at all--on the contrary," she objected. "There is
nothing to tire me here,--a little driving, a great deal of sitting on
the terrace, a great deal of reading, and very little conversation"--

"Very little conversation!" exclaimed Marcantonio. "Mais, ma chere, here
it is two hours we have been talking, without counting the visit of the
gentleman who walks like a cat--Bat--Botis--I cannot say his name, but I
know him."

"Ah, yes--Mr. Batiscombe. Yes," said Leonora languidly, "he was very
amusing. He talked about all sorts of things."

"Shall we ask him to pass a few days with us? I should be very glad, if
you like him."

Marcantonio was really delighted to do anything his wife might wish.
Leonora was touched. He was sitting beside her, and she put her arms
round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.

"You are so good," she said in a low voice. "Oh, I do not want anybody
else here at all. I only want you--but all of you--and I feel as though
I had not all yet."

For the moment she really loved him. He gently smoothed her hair with
his delicate, olive-tinted hand.

Meanwhile Mr. Julius Batiscombe had gone to his hotel, and, having eaten
his dinner, was sitting on the tiled terrace over the sea, with a cup of
coffee at his elbow, and a cigarette in his mouth. There were lamps on
the terrace, and there was starlight on the water, and Mr. Batiscombe
was alone at his small table.

"I wish I had not gone there. I wish I had not asked them to go to
Castellamare. I wish I were at sea in my boat." He said these things
over and over to himself, and now and again he smiled a little
scornfully, and sipped his coffee.

Julius Batiscombe was generally in trouble. He was a strong man in all
respects save one. He had conquered many difficulties in his life, and
by sheer determination had turned evil fortune into good, winning
himself a name and a position, and such a proportion of wealth as he
needed. Of good family, and brought up in luxury and refinement, he had
been left at twenty years of age without parents, without much money,
and without a profession. He knew some half dozen languages, ancient and
modern, and he had a certain premature knowledge of the world. But that
was his whole stock-in-trade excepting an indomitable will and
perseverance, combined with exceedingly good health, and a great desire
for the luxuries of life. He had lived in all sorts of ways and places,
getting his pen under control by endless literary hack-work. By and by
he tried his hand at journalism, and was successively addicted to three
or four papers, published in three or four languages in three or four
countries. Last of all he wrote a book which unexpectedly succeeded.
Since then the aspect of life had changed for him, and though he still
wandered, from force of habit, so to say, he no longer wandered in
search of a fortune. A pen and a few sheets of paper can be got
anywhere, and Julius Batiscombe set up his itinerary literary forge
wherever it best pleased him to work. He had fought with ill-luck, and
had conquered it, and now he felt the confidence of a man who has swum
through rough water and feels at last the smooth, clean sand beneath his
feet. His success had not turned his head in the least; he was too much
of an artist for that, striving always in his work to attain something
that ever seemed to escape him. But he now felt that he might some day
get nearer to what he aimed at, and there were moments, brief moments,
of genuine happiness, when he believed that there was wrought by his pen
some stroke of worth that should not perish. Ten minutes later he was
dissatisfied with it all, and collected his strength for a new effort,
still hoping, and striving, and labouring on, with his whole soul in his
work.

Strong in body and strong in determination, he was yet very weak in one
respect. He was eternally falling in love, everlastingly throwing
himself at the feet of some woman and making mischief which he
afterwards bitterly regretted. It seemed as though it were impossible
for him to live six months without some affair of a more or less serious
character. It made no difference whether he wandered off into the
recesses of the Italian mountains, or went into hermitage in the Black
Forest, or steamed and sweltered under a tropical sun; there was always
a feminine element at hand to make trouble for him.

It was not only the universal woman calling to him to follow, it was the
universal woman seizing him and carrying him away by main force. For it
was no matter of inclination. He struggled hard enough to deserve
victory, but without any perceptible result.

What gave him most pain was the dreary consciousness of his own
insincerity in his love-making, the consciousness that came to him
after the affair was over. While it lasted he was carried away and
blinded by a sort of madness that took possession of him and allowed him
no time for thought. But when it was over he remembered, bitterly
enough, how untrue it had all been, to himself and to the one woman whom
he had loved, and whom, down in the depths of his turbulent heart, he
loved still. His other loves were like horrible creations of black
magic, bodies with no soul, when he looked back on them. And yet while
they lasted they seemed to him real, and high, and noble.

At first he fought against every new inclination, and cursed his folly
in advance; and sometimes he conquered, but not always. If once the
fatal point were passed there was no salvation, for then he deceived
himself and the deception was complete. It was no wonder people thought
so differently about him. He had been known to do brave and generous
things, and things that showed the utmost delicacy of feeling and
courtesy of temper; and he had been known to act with a sheer, massive,
selfish disregard of other people, that made cynics look grave and
mild-eyed society idiots stare with horror. The fact was that Julius
Batiscombe in love was one person, and Julius Batiscombe out of love,
repentant and trying to make up to the world for the mischief he had
done, was quite another; and he knew it himself. He was perfectly
conscious of his own duality, and liked the one state,--the state of no
love,--and he loathed and detested the other both before and after.

And now he sat over his coffee, and the prophetic warning of his soul
told him that he was in danger, so that he was angry at himself and
feared the future. He had known Miss Carnethy, as has been said, for
some time, and had danced with her and sat beside her at dinner more
than once, without giving her a thought; he therefore had found it
perfectly natural to call when he discovered that she was at Sorrento.
But his impression after his visit was very different. The Marchesa
Carantoni was not Miss Carnethy at all.

She had looked so magnificent as she sat in the evening sunshine, and he
had gazed contentedly at her with a sense of artistic satisfaction,
thinking no evil. But now he could think of nothing else. The sun seemed
to rise again out of the dark sea, turning back on its course till it
was just above the horizon, with a warm golden light; by his side sat
the figure of a woman with glorious red hair, and he was speaking to
her; the whole scene was present to him as he sat there, and he knew
very well what it was that he felt. Why had he not known it at first? He
would surely have had the sense not to propose such a thing as a day
together. "A day together" had so often entailed so much misery.

Nevertheless he would not invent an excuse, nor go away suddenly. It
would be quite possible, he knew, and perhaps also he knew in his heart
that it would be altogether right. But it seemed so uncourteous, he was
really anxious to see the launch of the great ship and--and--he would
not be such a fool as to fancy he could not look at a woman without
falling in love with her on the spot. At his age! Five and thirty--he
seemed so old when he thought of all he had done in that time. No. He
would not only go with them, but he would be as agreeable as he could,
if only to show himself that he was at last above that kind of thing.

Some human hearts are like a great ship that has no anchor, nor any
means of making fast to moorings. The brave vessel sails through the
stormy ocean, straining and struggling fiercely, till she lies at last
within a fair harbour. But she has no anchor, and by and by the soft,
smooth tide washes her out to sea, so gently and cruelly, out among the
crests and the squalls and the rushing currents, and she must fain beat
to windward again or perish on the grim lee shore.

Julius Batiscombe went to bed that night knowing that he was adrift, and
yet denying it to himself; knowing that in a month, a week perhaps, he
should be in trouble--in love--pah! how he hated the idea!




CHAPTER VI.


During the time that elapsed between Mr. Batiscombe's visit and the
expedition to see the launch, Leonora had an access of the religious
humour. The little scene with her husband had made a deep impression on
her mind, and as was usual when she received impressions, she tried to
explain it and understand it and reason about it, until there was little
of it left. That is generally the way with those people who make a study
of themselves; when they have a good thought or a good impulse, they
dissect the life out of it and crow over the empty shell.

It was clear, thought Leonora, that the sudden outburst of affection
which made her tell her husband that she wanted "all of him" was the
result of some sensation of dissatisfaction, of some unfulfilled
necessity for a greater sympathy. But, if at the very beginning she had
not the key to his heart, if he did not wholly love her now, it was
clear that he never would at all. Why was it clear? Oh! never mind the
"why,"--it was quite clear. Moreover, if he could never love her wholly
as she wished and desired, she was manifestly a misunderstood woman, a
most unhappy wife, a condemned existence,--loving and not being loved in
return. And he, the heartless wretch, was anxious about the cook! Good
heavens! the cook--when his wife's happiness was in danger! In this
frame of mind there was evidently nothing more appropriate for her to do
than to take a prayer-book and to hide her face in a veil, and slip away
to the little church on the road, a hundred yards from the house. For a
wrecked existence, thought Leonora, there is no refuge like the Church.
She was not a Catholic, but that made no difference; in great distress
like this, she could very well be comforted by any kind of religion
short of her father's, which latter, to her exalted view, consisted of
four walls and a bucket of whitewash, seasoned with pious discourses and
an occasional psalm-tune.

What she could not see, what was really at the bottom of the small
tempest she rashly whirled up in her over-sensitive soul, was her own
disillusionment. She had deceived herself into believing that she loved
her husband, and the deception had cost her an effort. She was beginning
to realise that the time was at hand when she might strive in vain to
believe in her own sincerity, when her heart would not submit to any
further equivocation, and when she should know in earnest what
hollowness and weariness meant. As yet this was half unconscious, for it
seemed so easy to make herself the injured party.

Poor Marcantonio was not to blame. He was the happiest of mortals, and
went calmly on his way, doubting nothing and thinking that he was of
all mortal men the most supremely fortunate.

Meanwhile Leonora kneeled in the rough little church, solacing herself
with the catalogue of those ills she thought she was suffering. The
stones were hard; there was a wretched little knot of country people,
squalid and ill-savoured, who stared at the great lady for a moment, and
then went on with their rosaries. A dirty little boy with a cane twenty
feet long was poking a taper about and lighting lamps, and he dropped
some of the wax on Leonora's gown. But she never shrank nor looked
annoyed.

"All these things are very delightful," she said to herself, "if you
only consider them as mortifications of the flesh."

She remembered how often just such little annoyances had sent her out of
other churches disgusted and declaring that religion was a vain and
hollow thing; and now, because she could bear with them and was not
angry, she felt quite sure it was genuine.

"Yes," said she piously, as, an hour later, she picked her way home
through the dusty road, "yes, the Church is a great refuge. I will go
there every day."

Indeed, she was so resigned and subdued that evening at dinner, that
Marcantonio asked whether she had a headache.

"Oh no," she answered, "I am perfectly well, thank you."

"Because if you are indisposed, ma bien-aimee," continued her husband
with some anxiety, "we will not go to Castellamare to-morrow."

"I will certainly go," she said. "I would go if I had twenty headaches,"
she might have added, for it would have been true.

"The occasion will be so much the more brilliant, ma tres chere,"
remarked Marcantonio gallantly, as they went out into the garden under
the stars.

"It is a hollow sham," said Leonora to herself. "He does not mean it."

But whether it was the effect of the morning, or the magic influence of
Mr. Batiscombe's personality, is not certain; at all events when that
gentleman appeared at the appointed hour to announce that his boat was
in readiness, Leonora looked as though she had never known what care
meant. She doubtless still remembered all she had thought on the
previous afternoon, and she was still quite sure that her existence was
a wreck and a misery,--but then, she argued, why should we poor
misunderstood women not take such innocent pleasures as come in our way?
It would be very wrong not to accept humbly the little crumbs of
happiness,--and so on. So they went to Castellamare.

It is not far, but the wind seldom serves in the morning, and it was an
hour and a half before the six stout men in white clothes and straw hats
pulled the boat round the breakwater of the arsenal. Everything was
ready for the ceremony. Half a dozen Italian ironclads lay in the
harbour, decked from stem to stern with flags; the royal personages had
arrived, and were boring each other to death in a great temporary
balcony, gaudily decorated with red and gold, which had been reared on
the shore within reach of the nose of the new ship. The ship herself, a
huge, ungainly thing, painted red and bearing three enormous national
flags, lay like a stranded monster in the cradle, looking for all the
world like a prehistoric boiled lobster with its claws taken off. The
small water room opposite the arsenal was crowded with every kind of
craft, and little steamers arrived every few minutes from Naples to
swell the throng. The July sun beat fiercely down and there was not a
breath of air. The boatmen were all wrangling in a dozen southern
dialects, and no one seemed to know why the ceremony was delayed any
longer. Nevertheless, as is usual in such cases, there was half an hour
to wait before the thing could be done.

"I am afraid you will find this a dreadful bore," said Batiscombe to
Leonora in English, while Marcantonio was busy trying to make out some
of his friends on shore through a field-glass. Batiscombe had sat in the
stern-sheets to steer during the trip, and having Leonora on one side of
him and her husband on the other, had gone through an endless series of
polite platitudes. If it had not been that Leonora attracted him so much
he must himself have been bored to extinction. But then in that case he
would probably not have put himself in such a position at all.

"Oh, nothing of this kind bores me," said Leonora cheerfully.

"You say that as though there were many kinds of things that did,
though," observed Batiscombe, looking at her. It was a natural remark,
without any intention.

"Dear me, yes!" exclaimed Leonora. "Life is not all roses, you know."
She therewith assumed a thoughtful expression and looked away.

"I should not have supposed there were many thorns in your path,
Marchesa. Would it be indiscreet to inquire of what nature they may be?"

Leonora was silent, and put up her glass to examine the proceedings on
shore.

Batiscombe, who had come out that day with the sworn determination not
to say or do anything to increase the interest he felt in the Marchesa,
found himself wondering whether she were unhappy. The first and most
natural conclusion was that she had been married to Marcantonio by
designing parents, and that she did not care for him. Society said it
had been a love-match, but what will society not say? "Poor thing," he
thought, "I suppose she is miserable!"

"Forgive me," he said, in a low voice. "I did not know you were in
earnest."

Leonora blushed faintly and glanced quickly at him. He had the faculty
of saying little things to women that attracted their attention.

"What lots of poetry one might make about a launch," he said
laughing,--for it was necessary to change the subject,--"ship--dip;
ocean--motion; keel--feel; the rhymes are perfectly endless."

"Yes," said Leonora; "you might make a sonnet on the spot. Besides,
there is a great deal of sentiment about the launching of a great
man-of-war. The voyage of life--and that sort of thing--don't you know?
How hot it is!"

"I will have another awning up in a minute," and he directed the
sailors, helping to do the work himself. He stood upon the gunwale to do
it.

"I am sure you will fall," said Leonora, nervously. "Do sit down!"

"If I had a millstone round my neck there would be some object in
falling," said Batiscombe. "As it is, I should not even have the
satisfaction of drowning."

"What an idea! Should you like to be drowned?" she said, looking up to
him.

"Sometimes," he answered, still busy with the awning. Then he sat down
again.

"You should not say that sort of thing," said Leonora. "Besides, it is
rude to say you should like to be drowned when I am your guest."

"Great truths are not always pretty. But how could any man die better
than at your feet?" He laughed a little, and yet his voice had an
earnest ring to it. He had judged rightly when he foresaw that he must
fall in love with Leonora.

Marcantonio, who did not understand English, was watching the
proceedings on shore.

"Ah! it is magnificent!" he cried, with great enthusiasm. The royal
personage who was to christen the ship had just broken the bottle of
wine, and the little crowd of courtiers, officers, and maids of honour
clapped their hands and grinned. They all looked hot and miserable and
exhausted, but they grinned right nobly, like so many Cheshire cats.
There was a sound of knocking and hammering, a final shout of warning
from the dock officers, a slight trembling of the great hull, and then
the ship began to move, slowly at first, and ever more quickly, till
with a mighty rush and a plunge and a swirl she was out in the water.
The people yelled till they were hoarse, the boatmen cursed each other
by all the maledictions ever invented to meet the exigencies of a lost
humanity, the royal personages stood together on their platform looking
like a troupe of marionettes in a toy theatre, and congratulating each
other furiously as though they had done it all themselves; everything
was noise and sunshine and tepid water; Marcantonio was flourishing his
hat, and Leonora waved a little lace handkerchief, while Batiscombe sat
looking at her and wondering why he had never thought her beautiful
before. Indeed, she was superb in her simple, raw silk gown, with
fresh-cut roses at her waist.

"It seems to me, Marchese, that you are very enthusiastic," said
Batiscombe to Marcantonio.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the other, shrugging his shoulders, "one cheers
these things as one would cheer fireworks, or a race. It signifies
nothing."

"Oh, of course," said Leonora; "and besides, it is so pretty."

"I think it is horrible," said Batiscombe, suddenly.

"Why--what?"

"To see a nation squandering money in this way, when the taxes on land
are at sixty per cent. and more, and the people emigrating by the
shipload because they cannot live in their own homes."

"Oh, for that matter, you are right," said Marcantonio, turning grave in
a moment. "I could tell you a story about taxes."

"What is it?" asked Leonora. "Those things are so interesting."

"Last autumn I was in the Sabines; I have a place up there, altogether
ancient and dilapidated--a mere ruin. I own some of the land, and the
peasants own little vineyards. One day I saw by the roadside a poor old
man, a sort of village <DW35>, whom every one knew quite well. We used
to call him Cupido; he was half idiotic and quite old. He was weeping
bitterly, poor wretch, and I asked him what was the matter. He pointed
to a little plot of land by the road, inclosed by a stone wall, and said
the tax-gatherer had taken it from him. And then he cried again, and I
could not get anything more out of him."

"Poor creature!" exclaimed Leonora, sympathetically.

"Well," continued Marcantonio, "I made inquiries, and I found that he
had owned the little plot, and that the tax-gatherer had first seized
the wretched crop of maize--perhaps a bushel basket full--to pay the
tax; and then, as that did not cover his demands, he seized the land
itself and sold it or offered it for sale."

"Infamous!" cried Leonora, and the tears were in her eyes.

"A cheerful state of things," remarked Batiscombe, "when the whole crop
does not suffice to pay the taxes on the soil!"

"N'est-ce pas?" said Marcantonio. "Well, I provided for the poor old
man, but he died in the winter. It broke his heart."[1]

[Footnote 1: The author witnessed the facts here described in 1880.]

"I love the Italians," said Batiscombe; "but their ideas of economy are
peculiar. I suppose that without much metaphor or exaggeration one might
say that the poor <DW35>'s bushel of corn is gone into that ridiculous
ironclad over there."

"But of course it is," said Marcantonio. "The whole thing probably paid
for one rivet. You, who write books, Monsieur Batiscombe, put that into
a book and render it very pathetic."

"It needs little rendering to make it that," said Batiscombe, and he
looked at Leonora's eyes that were not yet dry.

By this time the royal marionettes had been bundled off to their boats,
and the crowd of small craft on the water began to disperse.
Batiscombe's six men fell to their oars and the boat shot out from the
breakwater. Presently they hoisted the bright lateen sails to the
breeze. Batiscombe perched himself on the weather rail, and took the
tiller, as the brave little craft heeled over and began to cut the
water. The wind fanned Leonora's cheek, and she said it was delightful.

Batiscombe suggested that they should run into one of the great green
caves that honeycomb the cliffs near Sorrento, and make it their
dining-room. So away they went, rejoicing to be out of the heat and the
noise. It was twelve o'clock, and far up among the orange groves the
little church bells rang out their midday chime, laughing together in
the white belfries for joy of the sunshine and the fair summer's day.

"I should like to be always sailing," said Leonora, who had now quite
forgotten her woes and enjoyed the change.

"Ma chere," said her husband, "there is nothing simpler."

"You always say that," she answered rather reproachfully; "but this is
the very first time I have been on the water since we came."

"My boat and my men are always at your disposal, Marchesa," said
Batiscombe, looking down at her, "and myself, too, if you will
condescend to employ me as your skipper."

"Thanks, you are very good," said she. "But I thought you were only
passing, and were to be off in a few days?" She glanced up at him, as
though she meant to be answered.

"Oh, it is very uncertain," said Batiscombe. "It depends," he added in a
lower voice and in English, "upon whether you will use the boat." It was
rather a bold stroke, but it told, and he was rewarded.

"I should like very much to go out again some day," she said.

Those little words and sentences, what danger signals they ought to be
to people about to fall in love! Batiscombe knew it; he knew well that
every such speech, in her native language and in a half voice, was one
step nearer to the inevitable end. But he was fast getting to the point
when, as far as he himself was concerned, the die would be cast. His
manner changed perceptibly during the day, as the influence gained
strength. His voice grew lower and he laughed less, while his eyes shone
curiously, even in the midday sun.

The boat ran into the cave, which was the largest on the shore, and
would admit the mast and the long yards without difficulty. Within the
light was green, and the water now and again plashed on the rocks. The
men steadied the craft with their oars and the party proceeded to lunch.
Most of "society" has a most excellent appetite, and when one reflects
how very hard society works to amuse itself, it is not surprising that
it should need generous nourishment. The unlucky cook had done his best,
and the result was satisfactory. There were all manner of things, and
some bottles of strong Falerno wine. Batiscombe drank water and very
little of it.

"Somebody has said," remarked Marcantonio with a laugh, "that one must
distrust the man who drinks water when other people drink wine. We shall
have to beware of you, Monsieur Batiscombe." He had learned the name
very well by this time.

"Perhaps there is truth in it," said Batiscombe, "but it is not my habit
I can assure you. The origin of the saying lies in the good old custom
of doctoring other people's draughts. The man who drank water at a feast
two hundred years ago was either afraid of being poisoned himself, or
was engaged in poisoning his neighbours."

"Oh, the dear, good old time!" exclaimed Leonora, eating her salad
daintily.

"Do you wish it were back again?" asked Batiscombe. "Are there many
people you would like to poison?"

"Oh, not that exactly," and she laughed. "But life must have been very
exciting and interesting then."

"Enfin," remarked Marcantonio, "I am very well pleased with it as it is.
There was no opera, no election, no launching of war-ships; and when you
went out you had to wear a patent safe on your head, in case anybody
wanted to break it for you. And then, there was generally some one who
did. Yes, indeed, it must have been charming, altogether ravishing.
Allez! give me the nineteenth century."

"I assure you, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, "life can be exceedingly
exciting and interesting now."

"I dare say," retorted Leonora, "for people who go round the world in
boats in search of adventures, and write books abusing their enemies.
But we--what do we ever do that is interesting or exciting? We stay at
home and pour tea."

"And in those days," answered Batiscombe, "the ladies stayed at home and
knit stockings, or if they were very clever they worked miles and miles
of embroidery and acres of tapestry. About once a month they were
allowed to look out of the window and see their relations beating each
other's brains out with iron clubs, and running each other through the
body with pointed sticks. As the Marchese says, it was absolutely
delightful, that kind of life."

"You are dreadfully prejudiced," said Leonora.

"But I am sure it was very nice."

And so they talked, and the men smoked a little, till they decided that
they had had enough of it, and the oars plashed in the water together,
sending the boat out again into the bright sun. In five minutes they
were at the landing belonging to the Carantoni villa. There was a deep
cleft in the cliffs just there, and the descent wound curiously in and
out of the rock, so that in many places you could only trace it from
below by the windows hewn in the solid stone to give light and air to
the passage. The rocks ran out a little at the base, and there were
steps carved for landing. There are few places so strikingly odd as this
landing to the Carantoni villa. Leonora said it was "eerie."

When it came to parting, the young couple were profuse in their thanks
to Mr. Batiscombe for the enchanting trip.

"I hope," said Marcantonio, "that you will come and dine with us very
soon, and change your mind about the water-drinking, and give us another
opportunity of thanking you."

"I have enjoyed it very, very much," said Leonora, giving Batiscombe her
hand. Their eyes met, and for the first time she noticed the curious
light in his glance. But he bowed very low and very elaborately, so to
say.

"You will keep your promise," he said, "and use the boat again?"

"Thanks so very much. But of course we will have a boat of our own now,
and so I should not think of asking you."

She smiled a little at him. Somehow he understood perfectly that he
could nevertheless induce her to accept his offer. He stood hat in hand
on the rocks as they disappeared into the dark stairway. Then he sprang
into the boat, and the men pulled lustily away.

He leaned back in the stern with his hand on the tiller and his eyes
half closed. In the bottom of the boat were the luncheon baskets, and
one of Leonora's roses had fallen from the stem and lay withering in the
hot July sun. Batiscombe picked it up, looked at it, pulled a leaf or
two, and threw it overboard, with a half sneer of dissatisfaction.

"They have forgotten the baskets, though," he thought to himself. "If
they had asked me to go up with them, as they should have done, I would
have had them carried up. As it is I will--I will wait till they write
for them. I could hardly take them myself." And he lighted a cigarette.

As Leonora mounted the stairway, leaning on her husband's arm, she
turned to get a glimpse of the boat gliding away in the distance. She
could just see it through one of the windows in the rock.

"Why did you not ask him to come up?" she inquired.

"Why did you not ask him, my angel?" returned Marcantonio.

"I thought you might not like it," she answered.

"Comment donc! He is very amiable, I am sure. But I thought you were
tired and had had enough of him,--in short, that you did not want him."

"Ah!" ejaculated Leonora. She felt a little curious sense of pleasure,
that was quite new to her, at the idea that her husband could have
seriously thought she did not want Mr. Batiscombe.

"Naturally," added Marcantonio, "we ought to have asked him."

"I suppose so," said she, indifferently enough.

"I will call on him to-morrow, and we will have him to dinner, if it is
agreeable to you, my dear."

"Oh yes--I do not mind at all," said Leonora. She was thinking about
something, and did not speak again till they reached the house.

It was very frivolous, but she was really thinking about the curious
expression of Mr. Batiscombe's eyes. She did not remember to have ever
seen anything exactly like it. Besides, she had known him, more or less,
for some time, and had never noticed it before. Perhaps it was the
reflection from the water. But she dreamed that night that she saw those
eyes very close to her, and the expression of them frightened her a
little, but was not altogether disagreeable.




CHAPTER VII.


Julius Batiscombe was a restless man by day and night, after the trip to
Castellamare. Marcantonio called upon him, but he was out, and then he
received an invitation to dinner from Leonora, with a postscript about
the unlucky baskets. He accepted the invitation. What else could he do?

But when the day came he regretted it. He wished he had refused and had
gone away. Then he made a fine resolution.

"I will not go to this dinner," he said to himself, savagely, as he
walked quickly up and down his room. "I will not go near her again. It
is not right, and I will not do it. I will sail over to Naples at once,
and send back a telegram of excuse, saying that a matter of the most
urgent importance keeps me there. So it is--I should think so--a matter
of very urgent importance. Oh! Julius Batiscombe, what an ass you are,
to be sure!" With that he crammed some things into a bag, sent for his
man, and descended in hot haste to the shore. There was no time to be
lost, for it was already four o'clock in the afternoon and the
invitation was for eight. He could just reach Naples and send his
telegram in time to prevent the Carantoni from waiting for him.

The lazy breeze was dying away, and he wished he had had the sense to
make up his mind sooner. But his men rowed lustily, and kept time, so
that the boat spun along fairly enough.

"I shall do it," said Julius Batiscombe to himself.

He was happy enough in the sensation that he was cheating his fate and
was about to escape a serious affection. Then he laughed at the comic
side of the case, and lit a cigar and blew great clouds of smoke over
his shoulder. But fate and Batiscombe were old enemies, and fate
generally got the better of it.

It chanced that on this very day Leonora and Marcantonio had determined
to go out in the new boat. For Marcantonio had wanted to give his wife a
surprise, and had got from Naples a beautiful clean-built launch. He had
said nothing about it, and had patiently borne her reproaches at his
indifference to sailing, until on the previous evening he had taken her
down the descent to the rocks and had shown her his purchase, which had
just arrived by the steamer. Of course she was enchanted, and determined
to make the most of it, for she was really fond of the water.
Accordingly, on this very day, she and her husband sallied forth with
six men,--for he had not dared to give her a smaller crew than Mr.
Batiscombe's. She was in such a hurry to go that she said she did not
mind the sun in the least,--oh dear, no! she rather liked it. And so it
came to pass that a few minutes after Julius had given his men the word
to fall to their oars at the little beach of the town of Sorrento, a
long low craft, painted in dark green and gold, and looking exceedingly
trim and "fit" with its long lateen yards and raking masts, shot out
from the cleft beneath Leonora's villa.

Batiscombe looked straight before him, steering by the Naples shore, and
intent on wasting neither time nor distance. He might have been out half
an hour or more when a remark from one of his crew made him look round,
and he was aware of a dark green boat two or three hundred yards astern,
but rapidly pulling up to him. He started, for though he could not see
the faces of the occupants, he recognised a parasol that Leonora had
taken to Castellamare.

"It is the new boat of the Marchese Carantoni," said the sailor who had
first spoken to Batiscombe. The man had seen it arrive by the steamer on
the previous evening, and had helped to put it into the water to be
rowed down to the villa. Batiscombe gave one more look and groaned
inwardly. He would make a fight for it, though, he thought. He
encouraged his men not to allow themselves to be overtaken by a parcel
of Neapolitans, as he derisively called the crew of Carantoni's boat.
His own men were tough fellows from the north of Italy, bearded, and
broad, and bronzed; but his boat, built for rougher weather and rougher
work than pleasure-rowing in the bay of Naples, was twice as heavy as
the slight green craft astern. His sturdy men set their teeth and tugged
hard, but the others gained on them.

Leonora and Marcantonio had recognised the cut of Batiscombe's boat and
crew from a distance; and, in profound ignorance of his amiable
intentions of flight, they imagined nothing more amusing than to race
him.

"If we cannot beat him," said Leonora, breathless with excitement, "I
will never come out in your boat again!"

She strained her eyes to make out if they were gaining way. Marcantonio
spoke to the men:--

    "Corraggio, Corraggio!
    Maccaroni con formaggio!"

The men repeated the rhyme to each other with a grin, and bent hard to
their work. They were not Neapolitans as Batiscombe called them, but
strong-backed, slim fishermen from the southern coast, as dark as Arabs
and as merry as thieves, enjoying a race of all things best in the
world, and well able to row it. Swiftly the dark green boat crept up to
her rival, and soon Batiscombe could hear the remarks of the men. His
own crew did their best, but it was a hopeless case.

"Monsieur Batiscombe, Monsieur Batiscombe," shouted Marcantonio, almost
as much excited as his wife, "we shall conquer you immediately!"

Julius turned and waved his hat, and made a gesture of submission. A
few lengths more and they were beside him. He raised his hand, and his
men hung on their oars.

"Kismet! it is my portion," he said to himself as he gave up the fight.

"But where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. Batiscombe?" asked
Leonora, who was delighted at having won the race. "You see it is no use
running away; we can catch you so easily."

"Yes," said Batiscombe, laughing recklessly at the hidden truth of her
words, "I see it is of no use, but I tried hard. It was a good race."

He turned in his seat and leaned over, looking at his friends. The boats
drifted together, and the men held them side by side, unshipping their
oars. Batiscombe admired the whole turnout, and complimented Leonora
upon it. Marcantonio was pleased with everything and everybody; he was
delighted that his wife should have had the small satisfaction of
victory, and he was proud that his boat had fulfilled his expectations.
So they floated along side by side, saying the pleasantest manner of
things possible to each other. Time flew by, and presently they turned
homewards.

"I wonder how long it will be," thought Batiscombe as he held the tiller
hard over and his boat swung about, "before I tell her where I was going
'in such a hurry'?" And he smiled in a grim sort of irony at himself,
for he knew that he was lost.

"Eight o'clock--don't forget!" cried Leonora. She had a pleasant voice
that carried far over the water. Batiscombe waved his hat, and smiled
and bowed. They were soon separated, and their courses became more and
more divergent as they neared the land.

Batiscombe swore a little over his dressing, quite quietly and to
himself, but he bestowed much care upon his appearance. He knew just how
much always depends on appearance at the outset, and how little it is to
be relied on at a later stage. So he gave an unusual amount of thought
to his tie, and was extremely fastidious about the flower in his coat.

As for Leonora, she was on the point of a change of mood. She had been
very gay and happy all day long, and the adventure with the boat had
still further raised her spirits. But that was all the more reason why
they should sink again before long, for her humours were mostly of short
duration, though of strong impulse. This evening she felt as though
there were something the matter, or as though something were going to
happen, and her gayety seemed to be the least bit fictitious to herself.
She and her husband stood on the terrace in the sunset, awaiting their
guest.

"My dear," said Marcantonio, "I am in despair. I shall be obliged to go
to Rome to-morrow or the next day. My uncle, the cardinal, writes me
that it is very important." Leonora's face fell; she had a sharp little
sense of pain.

"Oh, Marcantoine," she said, "do not go away now!"

"It is only for a day or two, my angel," he said, drawing her arm
through his.

"Must you really go?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Helas, yes."

"Then I will go with you," said she, in a determined tone.

"Ah, I thank you for the wish, cherie," he answered. "But you will tire
yourself, and be so hot and uncomfortable. See, I will only be away a
day and a half."

"But I do not want to be alone here without you," she pleaded. She could
not for her life have told why she was so distressed at the idea, but it
gave her pain, and she insisted.

"As you wish," said Marcantonio, kissing her hand. "I will make every
arrangement for your comfort, and do what I can to make the journey
pleasant."

He was a little surprised, but, manlike, he was flattered at his wife's
show of affection. There are moments in a woman's life when, whether she
loves her husband or not, she turns to him and holds to him with an
instinctive sense of reliance.

A moment later Julius Batiscombe was announced, and the three went in to
dinner. It was a strange position, though it is by no means an uncommon
one. A man, his wife, and another man, an outsider; the outsider loving
the woman, the husband supremely happy and unconscious, and the woman
feeling the evil influence, not altogether opposing it, and yet clinging
desperately to her husband's love. Three lives, all trembling in the
balance of weal and woe. But no one could have suspected it from their
appearance, for they were apparently the gayest and most thoughtless of
mortals.

The adventure in the afternoon, the expedition to Castellamare, the
baskets and even the cook,--then, the events of the past winter, their
many mutual acquaintances, and the whole unfathomable cyclopaedia of
society facts and fictions,--everything was reviewed in turn, and talked
of with witty comments, good-natured or ill-natured as the case might
be. Batiscombe was full of strange stories, generally about people they
all knew, but he was not a gossip by nature, and he avoided saying
disagreeable things. Leonora, on the other hand, would be gay and
brilliant for a few moments, and then would let fall some bitter saying
that sounded oddly to Batiscombe, though it made her husband laugh.

"You would have us believe you terribly disillusioned, Marchesa," said
Batiscombe, after one of these sallies. Leonora laughed, and her eyes
flashed again as she looked at him across the table.

"You, who are so fond of Eastern magic," she said, "should give back to
this age all the illusions we have lost."

"Were I to do so," answered Batiscombe, looking into her eyes as he
spoke, "I fear that you, who are so fond of Western philosophy, would
tear them all to pieces."

"My poor philosophy," exclaimed Leonora, "you will not let it alone. You
seem to think it is to blame for everything,--as if one could not try,
ever so humbly, to learn a little something for one's self, without
being always held up for it as an exception to the whole human race. It
is as if I were to attribute everything you say and do to the fact of
your having written a book--how many--two? three?" She laughed gayly. "I
do not know," she continued, "and I will never read anything more that
you write, because you laugh at my philosophy."

"It is better to laugh at it than to cry at it," said Marcantonio,
without meaning anything.

"Why should I cry at it?" asked Leonora quickly. Her husband did not
know how honestly she had shed tears and made herself miserable over it
all.

"You laugh now," he answered, "but imagine a little. All philosophers
are old and hideous, and wear"--

"For goodness' sake, Marchese," broke in Batiscombe, "do not paint the
devil on the wall, as the Germans say."

"The Germans need not paint the devil," retorted Marcantonio,
irrelevantly. "They need only look into the glass." He hated the whole
race.

"You might as well say that Italians need not go to the theatre," put in
Leonora, "because they are all actors." Her husband laughed
good-humouredly.

"You might as well say," said Batiscombe, "that Englishmen need not keep
horses because they are all donkeys. But please do not say it."

"No," said Leonora, "we will spare you. But you might say anything in
the world of that kind. It has no bearing on my philosophy."

"That is true," answered Marcantonio. "I said that philosophers were old
and hideous, but not that they were devils, actors, or donkeys. You
suggest the idea. I think they are probably all three."

"Provided you do not think so after I have become a philosopher," said
Leonora, "you may think what you please at present, mon ami."

"I think that you are altogether the most charming woman in the world,"
replied her husband, looking at her affectionately.

"Is it permitted to remark that the Marchese is not alone in that
opinion?" inquired Batiscombe, politely.

"No," said Leonora, demurely, "it is not permitted. And observe that an
English husband would not say that kind of thing in public, mon cher."

"Perhaps because they do not believe it in private," objected
Marcantonio.

"More likely for the reason I suggested," observed Batiscombe, "that we
are all donkeys."

"All?" asked Leonora. "But some of you are authors"--

"It is the same thing," said Batiscombe.

"Mon Dieu! there are times"--began Marcantonio.

"When you believe it?" inquired Batiscombe, laughing.

"Ah, no! you are unkind; but times when I should like to be an
Englishman."

"I have heard of such people," said Batiscombe, gravely, "but I have
never met one. You interest me, Marchese."

"You must not be so terribly disloyal," said Leonora. "You know I am
English, too,--at least, I was," she added, looking at Marcantonio.

"Precisely," said he. "The wife takes the nationality of the husband."

"I am not disloyal," answered Batiscombe. "I am very glad to be an
Englishman, but I cannot fancy any one else wishing to be one. I should
think every one would be perfectly contented with his own country. I
cannot imagine wanting to change my nationality any more than my
person."

"Evidently, you are well satisfied," said Leonora.

"Perfectly, thank you, for the present. When I am tired of myself I will
retire gracefully--or perhaps gracelessly; but I will retire. I am sure
I should never find another personality half as much in sympathy with my
ideas."

As they followed Leonora from the dining-room out upon the terrace,
Batiscombe watched her intently. There was a strength and ease about her
carriage that pleased his strong love of life and beauty. He noticed
what he had hardly noticed before, that her figure was a marvel of
proportion,--no wasp-waisted impossibility of lacing and high shoulders,
but strong and lithe, and instinct with elastic motion. He had seen her
lately always in some wrap, or lace, or mazy summer garment, whereas
this evening she was clad in close silk of a deep-red colour, with the
least possible trimming or marring line. The masses of her hair, too,
rich in red lights and deep shadows, were coiled close to her noble
head, and her dazzling throat just showed at the square cutting of her
dress.

"People must be wonderfully mistaken," thought Batiscombe. "She is
certainly, undeniably a great beauty, in her very peculiar way. Gad! I
should think so indeed!" which was the strongest expression of
affirmation in Julius Batiscombe's vocabulary.

It was no wonder she attracted him. For nearly two months he had been
wandering, chiefly in his boat on the salt water, and in that time he
had not so much as spoken to a woman. His conversation had been with
himself during all that time; and if he had enjoyed intensely the
freedom of heart and thought in the intellectual point of view, his
strong nature, always drawn to women when not plunged deep in work or
adventure, could not withstand the sudden magnetism now thrown upon it.
He knew and felt the evil of it, and he struggled as best he could, but
each fresh meeting made the chances of escape fewer and the danger more
desperate.

"Marry," said his best friend to him, when, now and then, in the course
of years, they met.

"How can I marry?" he would ask. "How can I ever hope to love one woman
again as a woman deserves to be loved?"

"Then go into a monastery and do no more mischief," returned the friend.
She was a woman.

"I am no saint," Julius would say, "but I will try to be." And ever he
tried and failed again.

They sat upon the terrace in the cool of the early night, with their
coffee and their cigarettes. There was a lull in their conversation, the
result of having talked so much at table.

"A propos of contentment," said Marcantonio, "we are very discontented
people. We are going to Rome to-morrow, or the next day."

Batiscombe was surprised. He paused with his coffee cup in one hand and
his cigarette in the other, as though expecting more.

"Of course it is only for a day or two," continued Marcantonio. "We
shall return immediately."

"Seriously, Marcantoine," said Leonora, "how long shall we have to
stay?"

"Oh--not very long," he said. "I will get the letter. Monsieur
Batiscombe will pardon me?" Batiscombe murmured something polite and
Marcantonio rose quickly and entered the house.

"Are you really going so soon?" Julius asked in English, when they were
alone, and Leonora could see the light in his eyes as he spoke. She
looked away, over the starlit sea.

"I am not quite sure," she said. "I think I ought to go."

"I hope you will not," said Batiscombe boldly. She turned and looked at
him again, with a little surprise in her face. Marcantonio came
back,--it was only a step to his study.

"Here it is," said Marcantonio, sitting down. "He says he thinks that a
day should do, if I could be with him all the time. You see, he is old
and wishes to put his affairs in order."

"I cannot see"--began Leonora, but stopped.

"Enfin," said Marcantonio, "it might happen to any one, I should think."

"Let us hope it may happen to all of us," remarked Batiscombe, for the
sake of saying something.

When it came to parting, Batiscombe made some polite remark about the
pleasure he had enjoyed.

"When do you go?" he asked, as he shook hands with Marcantonio.

"I think we will go to-morrow night,--n'est-ce-pas, Leonore?" He turned
to his wife, as though inquiring. She looked up from her seat in her
deep, cane arm-chair.

"To-morrow night? Oh yes--one day is like another--let us go then
to-morrow night."

She spoke indifferently enough, as was natural. Batiscombe supposed she
meant to go. He took his leave with many wishes to his hosts for a
pleasant journey.

Marcantonio lighted a cigarette and stood looking out over the water, by
his wife's side. She was quite silent, and fanned herself indolently
with a little straw fan decked with ribbons.

"Will you really go to-morrow night?" asked Marcantonio at last. He had
a way of dwelling on things that wearied Leonora. What possible
difference could it make whether they went to-morrow, or the day after?
"Because," he continued, "if you will be ready, I will make
arrangements."

"What arrangements?" asked Leonora languidly.

"I will write to the cardinal to say I am coming,--one must do that."

"You can telegraph."

"What is the use, when there is time for writing? Why should one waste a
franc in a telegram?" He had curious little economies of his own.

"A franc!" she exclaimed with a little laugh.

"And besides," he continued, not heeding her remark, "old gentlemen do
not like to receive telegrams. It gives on their nerves."

"Enfin," said she, weary of the question, "you can write that you will
go to-morrow night, if you like."

"And you--will you go then?" he asked.

"It depends," she answered. "I may be too tired."

Marcantonio knew very well that his wife was not easily fatigued; but
he said nothing, and by his silence closed the discussion. She was very
changeable, he thought; but then, he loved her very much, and she had a
right to be as changeable as she pleased. It was very good of her to
have wanted to go at all, and he would not think of pressing her to it.
He was a very sensible and unimaginative man, not at all given to
thinking about things he could not see, nor troubling himself about them
in the least. So he did not press Leonora now, and did not make himself
unhappy because she was a little changeable. The one thing he really
objected to was her pursuance of what he considered fruitless objects of
study; she had not opened a book of philosophy since their marriage, and
he was perfectly satisfied. Before he went to bed he wrote a line to his
uncle, Cardinal Carantoni, to say that he should arrive on the next day
but one.

Batiscombe strolled back to the town through the narrow lanes, fenced
into right and left by high walls. His thoughts were agreeable enough,
and he now and then hummed snatches of tunes with evident satisfaction.
What a magnificent creature she was! And clever too,--at least she
looked intelligent, and said very cutting things, as though she could
say many more if she liked; and she knew about most things that were
discussed, and was altogether exactly what her husband called her,--the
most charming woman in the world. Besides, he thought he could make a
friend of her. How foolish of him, he reflected, to suppose that very
afternoon that he must needs fall in love with her! Where was the
necessity? He had evidently been mistaken, too, about her relations with
her husband. It was clear that they adored each other, could not be
separated for a moment, since when he went to Rome on business she must
needs accompany him,--in July, too! Would she go? Probably. At all
events, he would not call for a week, when they would certainly have
come back. This he thought as he walked home.

But when he sat in his room at the hotel he remembered what he had
thought as he followed her out of the dining-room. He had not thought
then as he had an hour later. The magnetism of her glorious vitality had
been upon him, and he had envied Marcantonio with all his heart, right
sinfully.

"Some people call women changeable," he reflected as he blew out his
candles; "they are not half so changeable as we are, and some day I will
write a book to prove it."




CHAPTER VIII.


Leonora would not go to Rome when the moment came to decide. She was so
sorry, she said, but the weather had grown suddenly hotter and she
really did not feel as though it were possible. She tried to make up for
it to Marcantonio by being all that day a very model of devotion and
tenderness. She affected a practical mood, and listened with attention
while he explained to her the reasons for his going. She insisted on
seeing herself that he had a small package of sandwiches, and a bottle
of wine, and plenty of cigarettes to last him through the night; and
when he finally drove away, she would have driven with him to
Castellamare, but that she must have come back over the lonely road
alone. To tell the truth, she was a little ashamed of herself; she had
been so anxious to accompany him, and now she feared he might be
disappointed.

Marcantonio saw it all, and was grateful and affectionate, though he
begged her not to take so much trouble.

"En verite, mon ange," he said more than once, "I might be sailing for
Peru, you give yourself so much thought."

But she busied herself none the less, going about with a queer little
air of resignation that sat strangely on her face. He took an
affectionate leave of her.

"I will not receive any one, if any one calls," she said, as he was
going. He looked at her in some surprise.

"But why in the world?" he asked. "Who should call particularly? Not
even Monsieur Batiscombe,--he thinks you will go with me."

Leonora felt the least faint blush mount to her cheeks, but it was dark
in the hall of the villa, though it was only just dusk, and Marcantonio
could not see.

"Oh, not him," said Leonora. "Only I want to be alone when you are not
here." For a moment again she wished she were going.

"Enfin, my dear," he answered; "do as you prefer; it is very
amiable--very gentil--of you. Adieu, cherie!" and he got into the
carriage and rolled away.

But her words lay in his memory and would not be forgotten. Why should
she not want to see any one? Was there any one? Why had she been so very
anxious to accompany him, begging so hard that he would not leave her?
After all, the only person she could be afraid of was Batiscombe. He
wondered for one moment whether there had ever been anything between
them; he could remember to have seen them together more than once in the
winter, at balls. But then, they always met with such perfect frankness.
He had not watched them, to be sure, but he must have noticed anything
out of the way,--bah! it was ridiculous. Not that he wanted Batiscombe
as an intimate, for the man was certainly called dangerous. He had known
him for years, and had of course heard some of the stories about
him,--but then, there are stories about every one, and Batiscombe had
evidently become very serious since he had got himself a reputation.
Besides, to see him a little, as they did in Sorrento, it could do no
harm; it meant nothing, and he would think no more about it. He was not
going to begin life with the ridiculous whims of a jealous husband, when
he had married such an angel as Leonora--not he! Besides, Batiscombe--of
all people! If it had been his sister Diana, it would have been
different. Everybody knew that poor Batiscombe had loved her ten years
ago, when he was as poor as Job, and had nothing but a fair position in
society. But Marcantonio had been away then on his travels, being just
nineteen, and having been sent out into the world to learn French and
spend a little money on his own account.

Strange that he should almost have forgotten it! Not that it mattered in
the least. The man had loved his sister to distraction, but had soon
recognised the impossibility of such a match, and had gone away to make
his fortune. He had come to see Madame de Charleroi now and then of
late; Marcantonio knew that, but it was perfectly natural that they
should be the best of friends after so many years. How they had first
met, or what had passed between them, Marcantonio did not know, and
never troubled himself to ask; perhaps he feared lest it should pain his
sister to speak of it. But the whole story invested Batiscombe with a
sort of air of safety as regarded Leonora. He had certainly behaved well
about Diana, and nobody denied it. Nevertheless, it was best that he
should not see Diana too often, especially if he intended to live in
Rome, now that he had made his fortune. But Leonora--he might call if he
pleased, and amuse her in the dull summer days. Carantoni would not
begin life by playing the jealous husband. It was certainly odd, though,
that he should have thought so little about that old story. The fact
was, he had never seen so much of Batiscombe in his life as during the
last week or ten days.

Meanwhile, he rolled along the road to Castellamare, and, after a great
deal of shifting, found himself in the night train from Naples for Rome.
He ate his sandwiches and thought affectionately of his wife as he did
so; and then he lay down and slept the sleep of the just until morning.

When he reached the Palazzo Carantoni, the first piece of news he
received was that Madame de Charleroi was in the house, having arrived
the previous day alone,--that is to say, with her courier and her maid.
The old servant volunteered the information that the vicomtesse was
going to stay a week, or thereabouts, and had sent a note to the house
of his Eminence, Cardinal Carantoni, the night before. Marcantonio gave
instructions that she should be informed of his arrival, and that he
would come and see her later in the morning, and he retired to dress and
refresh himself.

He hated family councils, and he saw himself condemned to one, for there
was no doubt of the cardinal's intention, since Madame de Charleroi had
come, and had communicated with him. The cardinal was old, and felt the
need of settling his affairs and of talking them over with his only near
relations,--his nephew and his niece. For he was rich, and had money to
leave.

Marcantonio and his sister greeted each other affectionately, for they
were always glad to be together, and their meeting seemed to have been
unexpected. His Eminence had sent for each separately, and they had
arrived within twenty-four hours of each other,--Diana from Pegli and
Marcantonio from Sorrento. Of course, they talked of trivial matters,
for now that Diana had accepted the marriage there was nothing more to
be said about it. At twelve o'clock they drove to the cardinal's house,
through the hot, glaring streets of Rome, fringed with the red and white
awnings of the shops. The carriage rolled under the dark porch of the
palace, and the pair mounted the cool stairway and were soon ushered
through a succession of dusky halls and swinging red baize doors to
their uncle's study,--a curious, old-fashioned room in an inner angle of
the building. The blinds were drawn, and the occasional chirp of the
lazy little birds came up from the acacia trees in the courtyard.

The room was carpetless, with bright, smooth, red tiles; in the middle
was a huge writing table, covered with papers and books; on one end of
it stood a large black crucifix with a bronze Christ, and there was an
enormous inkstand of glass and brown wood. Around the walls were
mahogany bookcases, ornamented with light brass-work in the style of the
first empire, and filled with books and pamphlets. The room was cool and
dark and high, and as the brother and sister entered, their steps
clicked sharply on the clean, hard tiles. His Eminence sat in an
arm-chair at the writing table, clad in a loose, purple gown, and
wearing a minute scarlet skull cap.

He looked, indeed, as though his life were nearly spent; for, though his
dark eyes shone bright and penetrating from under the heavy brows, his
cheeks were thin and sunken, of the hue of wax, and his white hands were
transparent and discoloured between the knuckles. Marcantonio and Diana
touched the great sapphire on his finger with their lips, and then the
old man laid his hand on the head of each. They were his brother's
children, and he loved them dearly, after his crabbed old fashion; for
all the Carantoni are people of heart and kindness.

"My dear children," he began, when they were seated by his side on
straight-backed chairs that Marcantonio brought up to the table,--"my
dear children, I am growing very old and infirm, and I wanted to see you
here together before I leave you all."

A kind smile played fitfully over the waxen features, like the memory of
life that haunts a plaster mask. Diana laid her fingers gently on his
arm, and Marcantonio broke out into solicitous protestations. His uncle
was not yet sixty,--he had many years of life,--this was a passing
indisposition, a black humour, a melancholy. One should never expect to
live less than seventy years at the very least, he said, and that would
not be reached for a long time.

"Ah! no, dear uncle," he concluded, "you will surely live to see my sons
growing up to be men, and to marry Diana's little girls!"

The cardinal shook his head. That was not the way of it, he said. He
might die any day now, he said, in his meek voice; and it really sounded
as though he might, so that Donna Diana felt her eyes growing dim and
her heart big. She took one of the old man's thin hands in both of hers,
and he with the other pushed back the rich, heavy hair and smoothed it
tenderly. A marvellous picture in sooth they made,--the dying prelate in
his purple and scarlet, and the great unspeakable freshness and life of
the fair woman. Marcantonio passed his hand over his eyes and sighed as
he sat watching them.

Then his Eminence explained to the two what his chief plan was in
calling them to him now. He had made a deed, he said, which he wished
them both to understand. There were certain estates which he had
inherited from his mother,--their grandmother,--as being the second son.
These he earnestly desired to see incorporated in the property of the
Carantoni family. To that end he had made an act of gift, transferring
the lands to Marcantonio at once, on the condition that the cardinal
should continue to receive a certain income from them during his life.
This he insisted upon doing, as he feared lest after his death the lands
should be sold by the executors in order to divide the proceeds between
the two heirs. In order to make the present arrangement a fair one,
however, he at the same time gave to his niece Diana de Charleroi a sum
of money from his personal estate which was equal to the value of the
lands given to Marcantonio. Whatever they found after his death could
then be divided and distributed,--the lands being safe in the male line;
they might find something left after all.

Diana protested; she was very glad that the lands should be settled, but
she did not wish to accept a large sum of money in that way. In fact,
she begged her uncle to reconsider the matter. As for Marcantonio, he
looked grave and wished himself well out of it. He was practically to be
administrator of his uncle's property during the remainder of the
latter's lifetime, and he did not like it. However, as the arrangement
was for the ultimate good of his children, and as he had not Diana's
excuse for refusing on the ground of not wishing to take a gift,--since
it hardly was one,--there was nothing for him to do but to accept the
situation with a good grace.

"You do not deserve anything at all, my boy," said the cardinal, half
kindly, half in earnest, "because you married a heretic. But as I helped
you to obtain the permission, I must do something for you."

"But I," said Diana,--"I cannot take all this. It is not fair to
Marcantonio, for I ought to pay you the income of it, just as he is to
do."

"Nonsense, figlia mia," said the old man. "You need money more than he
does or ever will, with that husband of yours, who is always going from
one court to another on his nonsensical diplomatic errands. Ah! my
children, diplomacy is not what it used to be! Altri tempi--altri
tempi!"

The end of it was that the two young people agreed to their uncle's
provisions, and he insisted on their hearing and understanding all the
papers, to which end he sent for his secretary, a wizened little Roman
with grey hair and bright eyes and a fondness for snuff; and the
secretary read on for two good hours. The old man from time to time
nodded his head to Marcantonio or to Diana, as the one or the other was
referred to in the documents, and waved his pale thin hand in
appreciation of the completeness and simplicity of his arrangements. At
last the various deeds were signed, and a notary, whom the secretary had
provided, was called in from the antechamber where he had waited, and
attested the signatures and the general legality of the proceedings.
The cardinal was satisfied, and leaned back in his chair. He was one of
those old-fashioned noblemen who still believe in the divine right of
primogeniture and in the respectability of land as a possession. With
the modern laws concerning the division of estates,--the keen Napoleonic
knives that cut the strings of succession at every knot,--these
conservative aristocrats have infinite trouble; but they generally
manage to evade the spirit of the law, and to conform as little to the
letter of it as they can.

"Cara mia, one must submit," said Marcantonio to his sister, when they
were alone together. "Old men have strange fancies, and he has always
been good to us. What he said about my marriage was quite true. If he
had not helped me, I should have made a fiasco of it,--or done something
rash."

"I suppose so," said Diana, thoughtfully. "By the bye, are you
comfortable at Sorrento? How is Leonora?"

She was rather ashamed of not having asked the question before, but
Marcantonio was good-natured, and was glad that she had not said
anything hard. And, of course, the moment she mentioned his wife, he was
delighted at the chance to speak of what was nearest to his heart.

"Leonora is well and more than well," he answered. "Ah, she is an angel!
She has not read any philosophy since we married,--imagine! And she was
crazy to come with me to Rome--in this heat!--because she did not wish
to stay in Sorrento alone without me."

"Why did you not let her come, then?" asked Donna Diana.

"She was tired," he said, "and as I told her how fatiguing it was, she
made up her mind to stay. I shall go back to-morrow, I suppose. I wish I
could go to-night."

"So soon?" asked Diana. "But I have seen nothing of you, dear boy!"

"Why not come with me to Sorrento? Do come,--there is room for us all,
and for all your servants into the bargain, if you like to bring them."

Marcantonio was charmed with his idea; it seemed the most natural thing
in the world. Besides, he had longed for an opportunity of bringing
Diana and Leonora together. He was quite sure they would become bosom
friends. Diana hung back, however, and was less enthusiastic.

"I do not see how I could manage it," she said. "I have so many things
to do, and I must go back to Pegli, before long." Marcantonio sat down
beside her and took her hand affectionately.

"Cara Diana," he said coaxingly, "will you not come and make friends
with Leonora? It would be so kind of you, and she would feel it so
much!"

Madame de Charleroi hesitated; not so much on account of her reluctance
to stay with Leonora as because she knew that Julius Batiscombe was
somewhere in the neighbourhood of Naples. She avoided him always,
though she was his best and most faithful friend; for though she had
loved him once, there was not a trace of that left in her heart, and yet
she knew well enough that he loved her still. Her high and noble nature
could not understand so earthly a man as he; she could not conceive how
it was that through all his many affairs he still looked on her as the
one woman in the world; but nevertheless she knew that it was so, and
she therefore avoided him, not wishing to fan a hopeless passion. He
came to see her sometimes, and she was very kind to him, giving him the
best of advice, but she never encouraged him to come. So she was not
anxious to meet him. But the question of her relations with her brother
in the future seemed to make it now desirable that she should go with
him and "make friends" with his wife, as he expressed it.

"Well," she said at last, "I will go with you, and do what you wish."

Marcantonio was very grateful. He felt that his young wife must have
friends--young wives have so few--and he could desire no better friend
for her than his sister, the model of all goodness, gentleness, and
honour.

"Dearest sister," he said, "you are so good! And if you have much to do
here, I can put off going for a day, you know. You can do your little
errands in a day, can you not?"

"I might, perhaps," said she; "but must you not take some steps about
all this land of yours--or of our uncle's? Do you realise what a
position you have assumed, my dear boy? From this day you are absolutely
master of the estate, if you like,--but you are also absolutely
responsible for the payment of the income. You positively must see the
lawyers about it, and you may as well see them at once."

"It is not the whole income of the place that he takes," remarked
Marcantonio.

"That makes no difference," said Diana. "If you were to have it all, it
would be the same. You are bound to take care of it. Your own lawyer
knows nothing about this transaction. You may not be in Rome again for
three months. Make some provision for your absence. Who is to collect
your rents, in the first place?"

"I suppose somebody would," said Marcantonio laughing. "But you have a
much better head for business than I, Diana mia. Perhaps you are right."

"You manage things very well, caro mio, so long as they are under your
hand. But you hate to go and look after business when you want to be
doing something else."

"After all," he argued, "when a man is just married"--

"He ought to be specially careful of his affairs, for his children's
sake," interrupted Donna Diana with remarkable good sense.

She wanted a day or two in Rome, and she thought he was really remiss in
his management. She had rather a contempt for a man who cast everything
to the winds in order to be one more day with his wife. She did not
believe that his wife would have done as much for him.

The end of it was that he agreed to stay a little longer, at least one
day more than he had at first proposed; and he wrote an affectionate
letter to Leonora, half loving, half playful, explaining his position,
and telling her of his sister's coming, that she might be ready to
receive her. He added that he hoped to see them very affectionate and
intimate, for that Diana was the best friend his wife could have. If
Batiscombe had wanted to make a friendship between two women he would
not have gone about it in that way. Marcantonio was very young and
inexperienced, though he was also very good and honest. His sister saw
both sides of his character and understood them. Leonora saw, but only
understood the honesty of him. His inexperience she supposed to be a
sort of paternal, philistine, prosaic, humdrum capacity for harping on
unimportant things, and she already felt the most distinct aversion for
that phase of his nature.

Diana and Marcantonio went down by the night train, having stayed the
better half of a week in Rome. Marcantonio sent a telegram to Leonora in
the afternoon, to say that they would come. They had a compartment to
themselves, and as they sat with the windows all open, rushing along
through the quiet night, they fell into conversation about Sorrento.
Madame de Charleroi had taken off her hat, and the breeze fanned the
smooth masses of her hair into rough gold under the light of the lamp,
like the ripple on the sea at sunset. She was a little tired with the
many doings that had occupied her in Rome, and her face was pale as she
leaned back in the corner. Her brother looked at her as he spoke. 'Of
course,' he thought, 'there was never any one so beautiful as Diana.'
What he said was different.

"You should see Leonora; she is a perfect miracle,--more beautiful every
day. And though she has been on the water several times, she is not the
least sunburnt."

"Have you sailed much?" inquired Diana.

"A good deal. I bought Leonora a very good boat in Naples, and had it
fitted. It is so pretty. And before it came Monsieur Batiscombe took us
to Castellamare."

"Ah!" ejaculated Diana half interrogatively.

"Yes," answered Marcantonio. "He was very amiable, and then we had him
to dinner. You know him, Diana?" he asked, as one often asks questions
of which one knows the answer.

He did not remember having ever mentioned Batiscombe to her, but his
solitary journey to Rome a week earlier had set him thinking, in a lazy
fashion, and he wondered whether his sister ever thought of the man
after all these years.

"Oh yes," answered Madame de Charleroi. "I have known Batiscombe a long
time,--long before he was famous."

"Yes," said her brother, "I remember to have heard that he was once so
bold as to want you to marry him. Imagine to yourself a little! The wife
of an author."

There was nothing ill-natured in what Marcantonio said. In the prejudice
of his ancient name he was simply unable to imagine such a match. Diana
turned her grey eyes full upon him.

"My dear boy, do not say such absurd things. We are not in the age of
Colonna and Orsini any more. I came very near to marrying Julius
Batiscombe, in spite of your fifty titles, my dear brother."

Diana was a loyal woman, from the outer surface that the world saw, down
to the very core and holy of holies of her noble soul. She would not let
her brother believe that, if she had chosen it, she would have feared to
marry a poor literary hack.

"Do you mean to say, Diana, that you loved him?" asked Marcantonio in
great surprise.

"Even you must not ask me questions like that," said Diana, a little
coldly. "But this I will tell you,--it was not for any consideration of
birth, nor out of any regard of our dear father's anger, that I did not
marry Batiscombe. Once I was very near it. We are very good friends
now."

She turned a little in her seat and drew the blue woollen curtain across
the window to shield her from the draught.

"You do not mind meeting him?" asked Marcantonio, rather doubtfully.

To tell the truth he feared he had committed a mortal error, and was
taking his sister into the jaws of danger and unhappiness. He had never
suspected that she had entertained any idea of marrying Batiscombe.
Julius was a very agreeable man, very amiable, as Marcantonio would have
said. What a fearful thing if Diana were to take a fancy to him! Loyal
as she was to Charleroi, she did not care a straw for him,--her brother
knew it very well. Italian brothers are very watchful and Argus-eyed
about their sisters.

"Why should I mind?" asked Diana, looking at him again. "We are very
good friends. He comes to see me in Rome, every now and then. I do not
object in the least, and he is really very agreeable."

'Worse and worse!' thought Marcantonio. 'She wants to meet him and is
glad of the chance. But then, she is so good--what harm can it do?'
Between his idea that he ought to keep them apart, and his knowledge of
his sister's upright character, Marcantonio was in a sad quandary. It
always took him some time to grasp new situations,--and the idea that
Diana had ever loved Batiscombe was utterly new to him. True, she had
not said it; she had only said that she had been near to marrying him.




CHAPTER IX.


When Leonora was alone, she resolved to have a good fit of thinking.
Accordingly, the next morning after Marcantonio's departure she sat by
herself in a cool room, surrounded with books and dainty writing
materials,--thinking. The little white cat that her husband had
procured, because she liked animals, climbed to the back of her chair
and made passes at her head with its small, soft paws, seeming to
delight in touching her. She put up her hand and pulled the little
creature down to her lap.

"Pussy," said she, talking English to it, "were you ever in love?" She
kissed it softly and held it up to her fair cheek. "I wonder what it is
like," she said to herself. "I wonder whether being in love is always
like this! People who love always say they would die for each other. I
am not sure whether I would die for Marcantonio. He is very good.
Yes--of course--one's husband! Any woman would die for her husband. And
yet--if the knife were very sharp and cold,--or the poison very dreadful
to take,--I am not sure. Perhaps there might be some other way out of
it, and one would not have to die after all."

Poor Leonora, she made herself think she loved him, and then she
applied all kinds of tests to her love which it would not bear, being
but a very thin and pitiful little ghost of a love.

"I really believe," she said at last, kissing the cat and half closing
her eyes, "that there is not anything much in anything after all. Things
are not much more real than the shadows in the cave that Plato talks
about. Oh dear me! And then to have people think that one is clever!
They have such an absurd idea about it,--Marcantonio, I mean. Of course
it is the nicest thing in the world to be loved more than one
deserves,--but, on the other hand, it is just as terrible a bore to have
other people forever thinking you really worth more than you are. And
then, to have him think that my little bit of knowledge is dangerous! As
if so very little could help or hurt any one! I must know a great deal
more before it can do me any good. I think I will read something hard
to-day,--how pleasant it is to be alone!"

The last reflection came quite naturally, and she did not even pause and
think about it, the sudden interest she anticipated in reading having
chased away the dutifully affectionate ideas she made it her business to
build up concerning her husband. With characteristic quickness of
determination she rose, got herself a volume of Hegel's "Aesthetics," and
buried her whole mind in the question of subjective and objective art.

To a woman--or a man either--who has not what is called an interest in
life, all manner of things temporarily take the place which should be
occupied by the leading, absorbing thought. The things that are but
relaxations, amusements, or even unimportant bits of usefulness to the
thoroughly busy woman, to a woman like Leonora become in turn objects of
intense study and care, only to be cast aside and forgotten when the
next day brings in a new era of speculation, weariness, or excitement.
It is good to read many kinds of books, it is good to do many pleasant
and agreeable things, but it is emphatically not good to think many
kinds of thoughts. If a woman must change her opinions, it is well that
the change should be gradual and the result of careful study and
examination, instead of taking place according to the weather, the cut
of a gown, or the conversation of a stray caller. Men change their minds
as completely as women, but not so often, and above all not so quickly.
To be unchangeable is the quality of the idiot; to change too easily
belongs to children and lunatics; and the happy faculty of a sensible
judgment permitting a change for the better and forbidding a change for
the worse is the high privilege of the comparatively small class of
humanity who are neither fools nor madmen.

With Leonora to live was to change, and to change often. Brimming over
and exulting in strength of physical life, neither her mind nor her
nerves could keep pace with her vitality, and the result was the
inevitable one. After great excitement there was morbid reaction, and in
the state of rest there was a restless, insatiable craving for motion.
A strong man, ruthlessly ruling her by sheer superiority of massive
power, would have brought out all that was best in her, and would have
driven her to her very best weapons for defence. But her husband was
quite another sort of person. His love for her was by far the best thing
about him; save for that, he was not an interesting man. He was young
and very tactless, though full of good impulses and gentle courtesy to
her and to every one. But he wearied her with useless details, and made
her doubt whether his affectionate manner meant love or mere good
breeding. He had an entire incapacity for making any one believe that he
was capable of great things. His sister knew how real was his goodness
of heart and how generous he could be, and she knew also how much he
loved his wife. But she had no power to put into him the passionate,
burning romance which was precisely what Leonora most longed for; and
Diana did not believe that such a woman as Leonora would long be
satisfied with such a husband as Marcantonio.

Meanwhile the day wore on, and she read seriously, and had her midday
breakfast in solitude and tried to read again. But by and by she nodded
over her book and fell asleep in the humming heat of the summer's
afternoon. As she slept she dreamed of a strong, black-browed man who
kneeled there beside her in her own house, and who presently took her in
his arms and bore her fast down the dark stairs and passages through
the rocks to the sea, where a boat lay; and as he carried her his eyes
gleamed like burning stars, and she felt that her own grew big and
bright. And suddenly he would have leapt into the boat with her, but he
stumbled and fell, and she heard the deep roar of the waters in her ears
as they sank together.

She woke with a start. The white cat had climbed up and lay on her
shoulder, purring with all its might. That was evidently where the sound
of the sea came from. She laughed, a little startled at the dream and
amused at its cause. It had been so strange--so--so wicked. She was
shocked. How could her thoughts, of themselves unaided, have gone to
such a subject! Besides, it was not the first time. She had dreamed of
Julius Batiscombe before, and always of that strange look in his eyes,
gleaming wildly with something she could not understand.

"It is dreadful!" she exclaimed, rising and going to the window.

She had slept long, for the sun was low, and when she looked at her
watch it was six o'clock. She reflected that she had not been out all
day, and that she wanted a walk. She wrapped something thin and dark
over her white summer dress and left the house. The white kitten
followed her to the door, mewing sorrowfully, and wistfully waving its
little tail.

She walked slowly down the road musing on the odd thing she had dreamed,
and seeking in her mind for the reason and cause of it, finding fault
with herself for being able to dream such things. It is one thing to be
able to call up images of ideal men, and to tell the truth she strove
even against that; but it is quite another matter to find one particular
man so much in your thoughts that you dream of his running away with
you.

She looked up, and a little church was before her, the door being open.
She hesitated a moment; she had come out to walk, but it would be so
pleasant to kneel in the cool, quiet place, in the half lights and deep
shadows; to think, and think, and to pray sweet wordless heart-prayers,
half mystic, half religious; to pour out the confessions of her soul's
suffering, and to find, even for a brief space, that trust in something
unseen, which her troubled spirit could not give to earthly wisdom or
earthly love. She raised the curtain and entered.

It was a simple little church, with a floor of green and white tiles,
whereon stood rows of green benches and a few straw chairs. The light
was high, and the sun did not penetrate into the building. Everything
was very clean and cool. Over the altar was a great picture, neither bad
nor good, of a monk saint, dark in colour and inoffensive in
composition; there were two or three small chapels at the sides, and the
plain white arch of the roof was supported by two rows of square masonry
pillars.

When Leonora entered she saw that she was alone, and the anticipated
pleasure of religious exaltation was heightened by the sensation of
solitude. She stood one moment, and then, being sure that no one saw
her, she touched with her fingers the holy water in the basin by the
door and made the sign of the cross, bending her knee slightly towards
the altar. Had there been any one in the church she would perhaps not
have done so; but being alone she loved to experience the forms of a
religion in which she did not seriously believe, but in which she
trusted far more than she knew. She went forward, took a straw chair,
turned it round and kneeled on the tiles, burying her face in her hands.

At first, as she knelt there, she trembled with a strange emotion that
she loved,--a sort of wave of contrition, of faith, of penitence, and of
uncertainty, half painful and yet wholly delicious, that seemed to her
the sweetest and most salutary sensation in the world. It was just
painful enough to make the pleasure of it keener and rarer. She could
not have described it, but she loved it and sought it, when she was in
the humour. Gradually her troubles, real and fancied, would answer to
her command, and array themselves in rank and file for her inspection;
the domestic difficulties, small and snappish little knots of
mosquito-like annoyance, biting tiny bites to right and left, and with
little stings stinging their way to notice in the foreground; then the
troubles of the heart, the temptations of a wild, unspoken and ideal
love, streaming by her in the sweep of tempest and storm, stretching out
sweet faces and fierce hands to take her with them, and to bear her
away from hope of salvation or thought of heaven to the strange unknown
space beyond; then again the shapeless and awful host of her fancied
philosophies, now towering in fearful strength and menace to the sky,
and rending and tearing each other to empty nothing and howling
hollowness, now falling down to earth in miserable shapes and slinking
insignificantly away; but last and worst of all, there was a deep dark
shadow, the trouble of her heart, the certainty that she had made the
great mistake and done the irretrievable sin against truth, that she had
married a man she could never love, but whom--God forbid the
thought!--whom she might hate for the very lack he had of anything that
could deserve hating. And then all the pleasure of her exultation was
gone; and the dull, uncertain pain, that would not take shape because it
had no remedy, filled all her soul and mind and body; she had never felt
it as she felt it to-day, but she knew that each time she came to the
church to let her heart talk to her in the silence, this same pain had
come, sooner or later, and that each time it was stronger and more real.
She bent low under its weight, and the tears gathered and fell upon her
hands and on the rough straw chair.

       *       *       *       *       *

Julius Batiscombe had passed the day after the dinner in his boat,
sailing far out to sea in the early morning, among the crested waves and
the dancing sunbeams, smelling the salt smell gladly, and enjoying the
sharp, cool spray that flew up over the bows. And at noon, when the west
wind sprang up, he went about and ran homewards over the rolling water.
All that day he was thinking of Leonora, but he was persuading himself
that he could and would make her his friend, and that the sudden
attraction he had felt for her was nothing but a little natural sympathy
of minds, striving to assert itself.

He found these thoughts so agreeable and edifying that he determined to
repeat the experience on the following day, and test their reality by
their durability. But somehow the hours seemed longer, and before the
wind turned, as it does every day in summer on the southern coast, he
put the helm down, furled sail, and bade his men pull home. He was
discontented, and, having no one but himself to consult, he thought he
would try something else. Once in his room at the hotel he tried to
sleep, but he could not; he tried to read, but everything disgusted him;
he tried to write, and wrote nonsense. At six o'clock he went out for a
walk. It was not unnatural, perhaps, that he should take the road toward
Leonora's villa, between the high walls of the narrow lanes, for it was
still hot, and the dust lay thick in the road. Besides, he knew that
Leonora was away, and that consequently there would not be the
temptation to call upon her. For in spite of his visions of friendship
he felt an instinctive conviction that he ought not to see her.
Consequently, as he strolled along the road, smoking a cigarette and
studying the extremely varied types of the Sorrento beggar, he was
conscious of a comforting assurance that he was not in mischief.

At the end of half an hour he was passing the gate of the Carantoni
villa. He stopped a moment to look at the little vision of flowers and
orange-trees that gleamed so pleasantly through the iron rails, in
contrast to the dead monotony of stone walls in the lane. A servant was
coming toward the gate, and seeing Batiscombe standing there, opened it
wide and took off his hat. Batiscombe carelessly asked if the Signora
Marchesa were at home, expecting to be told that she was gone to Rome.

"No, Signore," returned the man; "the Signora Marchesa is this minute
gone out, it may be a quarter of an hour. Your excellency"--everybody is
an excellency in the south--"will probably find her in the little church
along the road, where she often goes." The man bowed, and Batiscombe
turned on his heel, not wishing to talk with him. But he turned toward
the church.

He walked very slowly, as though in hopes that Leonora would meet him as
she came home; and when he came to the door he stopped, as she had done,
hesitated, and went in. He trod softly, as Marcantonio had more than
once observed, and he did not disturb the silence of the place. He stood
still, holding his breath, and knowing that he ought not to stay, but
unable for his very life to move. His overhanging brow bent as he
watched her, and a curious look crossed his bronzed face, as though he
were pained, but felt both sympathy and pity for the kneeling woman. The
dead silence, the cold light from above, the half-prostrate figure of
Leonora clad in white with the dark lace thing just falling from her
splendid hair,--it all seemed like a strange scene in a play, and Julius
looked for the sake of looking, while his heart felt something deeper
than the artistic impression.

Leonora was bending low upon the seat of the straw chair, the bitter
tears trickling down through her white fingers, and her whole life
within her convulsed in the consciousness of sorrow. It had so long been
vague--this sad knowledge of an evil ever present, and yet ever eluding
her attempts to see it and understand it. But now it had come upon her
suddenly. After two months of wedded life she knew that she had made a
mistake beyond all repairing. She had tried hard to love Marcantonio,
she had tried hard to believe that she loved him, but the deception
could not last in her, and yet it seemed death to lose it. Sometimes she
could think almost indifferently of her marriage, talking to herself,
and asking questions of which she knew the answer, but to which she
hoped to find another. Did she love him? she would ask at such moments;
and she would answer that she thought so, well knowing that whatever
real love might be, it was not what she felt for him. But to-day it
seemed as though the veil were torn and she saw the dreadful truth. He
had left her for a day or two, and she had said it was so pleasant to
be alone. That was not love--ah, no! And that dreadful dream, too, that
haunted her still; it kept returning, with its sinful face, the face of
Julius Batiscombe. The whole unfaithfulness of herself to herself rushed
upon her overwhelmingly, relentlessly, till she could not bear it, but
bowed herself and sobbed aloud before the altar.

There was a slight noise behind her, and with an effort she controlled
herself, rose till she kneeled upright and merely bent her head upon her
hands, drawing the back of the chair towards her in the act. She had
been disturbed, and the sense of annoyance overmastered the expression
of her trouble for a moment. Gradually the consciousness of a presence
took possession of her, and she knew that some one was watching her; she
grew uneasy, tried to repeat a prayer mechanically for the sake of
thinking of something definite, failed, touched her hair half
surreptitiously with one hand, and finally rose from her knees. As she
turned to leave the church she met Julius Batiscombe's eyes, and she
started perceptibly. It was so precisely the expression she had seen in
her dream, little more than an hour since, that she was fairly
frightened, and would have turned and fled had there been any other way
out. But when she looked again she saw something that reassured her.
There was that which attracted, as well as that which frightened her.
She had the length of the church to walk, and she made up her mind that
she would not show that she was surprised, and would behave as though
nothing had happened. For she was a strong woman in such ways, and could
rely upon herself if not taken too much off her guard. Meanwhile
Batiscombe looked on the ground; for he was often conscious of the too
great boldness of his sight, and knew that it must be disagreeable to
her. So he moved a step or two, hat in hand, waiting for Leonora to pass
him, and prepared to follow if she showed any sign of wishing it. He
feared, however, that he had offended her by his inopportune appearance,
and he was prepared for a repulse. Nevertheless, after the first start
was over, she came boldly towards him, smiling rather sadly and looking
wonderfully beautiful; for the tears only made her eyes softer and
deeper, leaving a gentle shadow in them, just as the sea is bluer and
pleasanter in its blueness beneath the shade of an overhanging cliff.
She smiled, and passing out half looked at him again as he lifted the
green curtain for her. He smiled again, gravely, and followed her. When
they were on the steps, he bowed low again.

"How do you do, Mr. Batiscombe?" she said, quite naturally, holding out
her hand to him. But in the open air, his hand touching hers, she could
not help blushing a little when she thought of that dream an hour ago.

"You did not go to Rome, after all?" he said, as they began to walk
along the lane.

"No," she answered, "it was too hot. Do you often go to the little
church, Mr. Batiscombe? It is so nice and quiet there, is it not?"

She was determined to put a bold face on the matter. Besides, he perhaps
had not heard those sobs,--he had only seen her kneeling, perhaps, and
had not understood that she was crying. But Julius had seen all and
heard all, and was pondering deep in his heart the causes which could
make her unhappy, seeing she was young and, in his opinion,
beautiful,--married, as society said, to the man she loved, and not
lacking the goods of this world, while praying ardently for those of the
next.

"I have sometimes looked in," answered Batiscombe. "It was a chance that
took me there to-day."

"Yes?"

"Yes "--he glanced down sidelong at her face--"that is to say--not
altogether."

She was silent, walking serenely by his side.

"No, not altogether," he continued, determining suddenly on his course.
"The fact is, I was walking by your place, and a servant who was just
coming out told me you were in church, and then I went in. I suppose I
ought not to have done it," he added with a little laugh; "I am very
sorry I disturbed you. Pray forgive me."

"Not at all,--churches are free for every one. But why do you laugh?"

"At my own stupidity," he answered. "I might have known that when you go
to church at odd times you go to be alone, and not to have wandering
callers sent there after you."

"What makes you think that?" she asked, curious to know how much he had
noticed. She argued that if he had heard her crying he would think the
question natural, whereas, if he had not, he would not suspect anything
from it.

"Because you acted as though you thought you were alone," he said
seriously.

"I did think so," she said, blushing faintly. "Do you know? I was quite
startled when I saw you there."

"I saw you were," he answered, still very gravely, "and I am very
sorry."

"Do you remember what I said to you at Castellamare, Mr. Batiscombe?"

"Yes; you said that life was not all roses, and you said it in earnest."

"Yes," said Leonora. "You see I did. I am not always in earnest."

"Is it rude to ask how one distinguishes between your excellency in
earnest and your excellency in fun?" inquired Batiscombe, glad enough to
turn the conversation to a jest, for he judged Leonora to be rather
imprudent. Indeed, he wondered how she could have said what she had,
unless it were from a wish to face out the situation.

"You ought to be able to see," she answered, laughing lightly, "but when
you cannot, perhaps I will tell you."

"Pray do," said he. "I am very stupid about such things,--but then, I am
always in earnest, even when I want to be funny. Perhaps you might think
me most diverting when I am most in earnest."

"No," said Leonora, "I should not think that. I should think you might
be very unpleasant when you are in earnest--at least, from the things
you write."

"That is a doubtful compliment," remarked Julius, smiling.

"Is it? I cannot imagine anything more delightful than having the power
to be as unpleasant as you want to be."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Marchesa? I should be most happy, I
am sure,--short of poisoning your enemies, as you suggested the other
day."

"You ought not to draw the line," she said with a laugh.

"Oh, very well. I will do the poisoning too, if you wish it."

"Of course. What is the use of having friends if you cannot rely on them
to do anything you want?"

"If I could be one of your friends," he said gravely, "I am sure I would
not 'draw any line,' as you call it."

"With what seriousness you say that!" she exclaimed, very much amused.
She was nervous from the knowledge that he had found her out in the
church, and she laughed at anything rather recklessly. But Batiscombe
had turned grave again.

"Would you rather that one should ask such a privilege in jest?" he
asked.

"No indeed," said she, a little frightened at the point to which she had
brought him.

"Then I ask it very much in earnest," he answered.

"To be my friend?" she asked, looking straight before her.

"Yes, to be your friend," said he, watching her closely.

"Really? In earnest?"

"Really--in earnest," he answered. She stopped suddenly in the road.

"I accept," she said, frankly holding out her hand.

"I am very proud," he said quietly. He took off his hat and touched her
fingers with his lips. Then they walked on without a word for some
minutes.

"What a strange thing life is!" exclaimed Leonora, at last.

"Yes, it is very strange," he answered. "Here are we two, on the
smallest provocation, swearing eternal friendship on the high road, as
though we were going to storm a citadel, or head an Arctic expedition.
But I am really very glad, and very grateful."

Somehow the reflection did not sound light or flippant; and to tell the
truth, Leonora was thinking precisely the same thing, wondering inwardly
how she could possibly have gone to such a length with a mere
acquaintance. But the land of friendship was an untried territory for
Leonora, and she seemed to find in the idea a sudden rest from a sense
of danger. A friend could never be a lover,--she knew that! This was the
meaning of the dream. But she answered quietly enough.

"If things are real at all," she said, "they are as real at one time as
at another."

"Yes," answered Batiscombe. "Malakoff or Sorrento, it is all the same."




CHAPTER X.


"You will come in?" said Leonora when they reached the gate.

"Thanks; I should like to very much," answered Batiscombe, and he
followed her through the gate into the garden. They passed into the
house, and Leonora received from the servant a telegram which had come
when she was out. It was the one Marcantonio had dispatched when he had
decided to stay a few days in Rome and to bring his sister to Sorrento.

Leonora opened it quickly and glanced over the message. It was very
evident from her expression that she was annoyed and somewhat surprised.
Batiscombe looked away.

"It is too bad!" she exclaimed; her companion examined the handle of his
stick, as though there were something wrong with it. He was not curious,
and he had very good manners. Leonora folded the dispatch and put it
away.

"Let us go out again," she said, "it is so close indoors."

Batiscombe followed her in silence, obediently. They sat down among the
orange-trees on an old stone bench. The air was still and very warm, and
the lizards were taking their last peep at the sun wherever they could,
climbing up the trunks of the trees and the wall of the house to catch a
glimpse of him before he set.

"My husband telegraphs that he will be away some time," said Leonora
after a minute. "He has business that keeps him, and his sister is in
Rome."

"You must be very lonely here," remarked Batiscombe in answer.

"Do you know Madame de Charleroi?" asked Leonora, taking no notice of
the observation.

"Yes," said Batiscombe, "I know her. Somebody told me she was in Pegli."

"So she was. But she had to come to Rome on business, and now my husband
is going to bring her here."

"Indeed?" exclaimed Batiscombe. "To pass the summer?"

"Oh no; only for a week, I suppose. Do you know? I am rather glad; I
hardly know her at all, and she seems so hard to know."

"Hard to know?" repeated Julius. "Perhaps she is. It is always hard to
know very charming women."

"Is it?" asked Leonora, smiling at the frankness of the remark; it
seemed to her that he had found it easy enough to swear friendship with
her half an hour ago. "Is it? Is she such a very charming woman?"

"Yes, indeed," he answered.

"Yes to which question?"

"Both," said Julius. "Madame de Charleroi is charming, and it is very
hard to know women of her sort well. Think how long it is since I first
met you, Marchesa, and we are just beginning to know each other."

"Do you think we are?" asked Leonora. She was full of questions.

"I think so--yes. At least, I hope so," he said with a pleasant smile.

"If you were writing a book about us, Mr. Batiscombe, would you say that
we were beginning to know each other? no one would believe that we
stopped in the road and shook hands and swore to be friends. It would be
very amusing, would it not? I do not know why we did it; I wish you
would explain." She laughed a little, and stuck the point of her parasol
into the earth. Batiscombe laughed too.

"When people have known each other in society for a long time," he said,
"and then begin to be friends, there is always some ice to break, and it
always seems odd for a little while after it is broken."

"I suppose that is the reason that such things always seem improbable in
books, until you know about them yourself."

"Amusing books, and interesting ones, are made up of improbabilities,"
answered Julius. "And the people who write them are even more
improbable. It is always improbable that a man who has lived a great
deal should have the talent, or the patience if you like, to make
stories out of his own experience,--or that a man who has not seen a
great deal of the world should be able to evolve a good novel out of his
inner consciousness. The probabilities for most men are that they will
eat and drink and wear out their clothes and be buried. All those things
are a great bore to do, a greater bore to describe, and an intolerable
bore to read about. The most amusing books are either true stories of a
very exceptional kind, or else they are rank, glaring, stupendous
improbabilities, invented to illustrate a great theory, or a great play
of passions,--like Bulwer's 'Coming Race,' or Goethe's 'Faust.' I am
sure I am boring you dreadfully."

"Oh no!" cried Leonora, who was interested and taken out of herself by
his talk. "But I think I prefer the 'exceptional true stories,' as you
call them, like Shakespeare,--the historical part, I mean."

"The worst of it is," said Batiscombe, "that the true stories are
generally the ones that no one believes. Critics always say that such
things are a tissue of utter impossibilities."

"Oh, the critics," exclaimed Leonora; "they must be the most horrid
people. I wonder you authors let them live!"

"Thanks," said Batiscombe, laughing, "I was a critic myself before I was
an author, and I do not think I was a very horrid person."

"That is different," said Leonora. "Of course a man may do ever so many
things before he finds his real vocation."

"Authors owe a great deal to critics," continued Julius. "More men have
come to grief at their hands by over-praise than by too much
discouragement. A very little praise is often enough to ruin a man, and
a man who has much talent will always survive a great deal of abuse and
disappointment. If any one asked my advice about adopting literature as
a career, I would certainly tell him to have nothing to do with it; I
should be quite sure that if he were born to it nothing would keep him
from it for long."

"That is the way with other things," said Leonora, looking rather
wistfully away at the setting sun, just below the green leaves of the
orange grove. "It is the way with everything, good and bad. Some people
are born to be saints, and some people are quite sure to turn out the
most dreadful sinners, whatever they do."

"What a depressing theory!" exclaimed Batiscombe, who had much more
cause to think so than Leonora.

"Depressing is no name for it," she answered. "One makes such mistakes
in life, and then there is no way out of it but to make others."

"And the worst of it is, that one knows one is making them, and cannot
help it."

"Yes," said she, "one always knows,--if one only knew." Then she laughed
suddenly. "What a ridiculous speech!"

"No," said Batiscombe, "I understand exactly what you mean. Just when
one is doing the wrong thing, there is always a little instinct against
it. But it is often so very little, that one does not quite know it from
ever so many other instincts. And then, before one is quite sure that
one knows what is right,--before one's mind has time to think it over
logically,--one has done the wrong thing. At least, it seems afterwards
as if that were what happened; but I suppose it is because we are weak."

Leonora looked at Julius, who seemed deep in his thoughts. He had
exactly put her idea into words, but she could not tell whether he
believed what he said, or was merely amusing himself with his faculty
for explanation. He interested her extremely. It was just this kind of
introspection that most delighted her,--this cutting up and skinning of
conscience and soul. Nevertheless she did not think that Batiscombe was
the man to analyse his own actions. It was more likely, she thought,
that he was very clever, and could talk to please his listener. But he
interested her greatly, and she was curious to know how he had got his
knowledge of human nature.

"You must have had a wonderful life," she said, presently, saying aloud
what she was thinking, rather than hoping to draw him on to talk about
himself.

"Oh no--very commonplace, I assure you," said he, with a laugh that
sounded natural enough. "Only, you see, I have had to make capital of
what I know. But it spoils one's own enjoyment to analyse anything, and
I shall have to give it up, or resign myself to a miserable existence."

"I wonder whether you are right," said Leonora, reflectively.

"Of course I am," he answered gayly. "The man who carves the pheasant
does not enjoy it, but the man who eats it does."

"Then let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. Is that the end of
your experience?" asked Leonora, gloomily.

"Oh--well--if you put it so. Only if you do not eat and drink too much,
you may possibly not die until the day after to-morrow."

"Or you may spend your life in cooking the dinner, and die before it is
served?" suggested Leonora.

"Or anything--what carnal similes!" laughed Batiscombe. "But they are
very apt for any one who cares for eating. If that is really an
important enjoyment, it may as well stand as the type."

"Exactly--'if.' I am sure you do not think it is, nor that any material
satisfaction can possibly stand as a type, nor that we should enjoy
to-day without thought of to-morrow, nor a great many other things you
have said." She watched him as she spoke, and he liked to feel her eyes
on him.

"No," he answered, "you are quite right. I do not think those things at
all. But I am sure I generally do them," he added, smiling.

"But what do you think--really? Is there anything really high and noble
in the world? It all seems so little and so hollow, sometimes."

She sighed, thinking how, formerly, she had said such things
speculatively, and for the sake of raising an argument with her friends.
Batiscombe turned on the stone seat, so that he faced her.

"Of course there are high and noble things in the world," he answered.
"It is when you look into the small workings of the mind and soul, as
you have been making me do, that you lose sight of the great ones.
Material nature is most interesting under a microscope, and generally
most beautiful in great masses at a distance. But if you walk close to
the grandest cliff in nature, and flatten your face against it, and hold
your eye half an inch from the rock, the grandeur and the beauty are all
gone, and without a microscope wherewith to examine your particular
point, you will find the close inspection tiresome after a time. There
is no microscope for the soul, any more than for the heart, or the mind.
You gain nothing by looking too closely at it. It is ten to one that you
hit upon a diseased spot for your examination. It may amuse you for a
time to study other people's souls, because you can hardly get so near
to them as to lose all impression of the whole, as you can with
yourself. What does it matter what you know about your soul, so long as
you do what is right?"

"That sounds true," said Leonora, "but I suppose there is something
wrong about it."

"All good similes sound true," said Batiscombe, laughing. "That is the
reason why popular orators and preachers are so fond of them. The real
use of a simile is for an explanation; the moment you make an argument
upon it, you are revelling in words without logic, calling illustrations
facts and generally making game of your audience."

"What a discouraging person you are," said Leonora. "You make one almost
believe a thing, and then you turn round and tell one there is nothing
to believe after all."

"Not so bad as that," said Batiscombe, leaning back and clasping his
brown hands over his knee. "I have not said there was nothing to believe
in. Only take care you do not believe in anything because it bears a
tempting resemblance to something you like."

"That is ingenious, but I wish you would be positive about something. I
wish you would tell me, for instance, what you yourself believe in." Her
eyes turned towards him in the twilight. For the sun had gone down, and
the orange-trees brought the shadows early where the two were sitting.

"What I believe in?" he repeated. "I suppose that, apart from religious
matters, I believe most in sympathy and antipathy."

"That is not exactly a course of action or a rule of life," remarked
Leonora, smiling and looking away.

"No. But in nine cases out of ten they are what determine both. At all
events I believe in them. They always carry the day over logic,
philosophy, and all manner of calculation and forethought. You may
determine that it is your duty to like a person, you may induce yourself
to think that you do, and you may make every one believe you do; but if
you really do not--there is an end of it. And the reverse is just as
true."

"I should think every one knew that," said Leonora in an indifferent
way. But she was wondering why he had said it, whether he had any
suspicion of her own state of mind. "It is very safe to say you believe
in things of that sort--everybody does. You are a very indefinite
person, Mr. Batiscombe."

"What is the use of defining everything? Lots of people have been burned
alive, and have had their heads cut off for defining things they knew
nothing about. Of course they were quite sure they knew better; but
then, is it worth while to die for your personal opinion of an abstract
question?"

"It is very fine and noble, though," said Leonora.

"There is a tradition that it is fine and noble to 'die for' anything.
It sounds well. Every one admires it. But reflect that the common
murderer 'dies for' his individual views of the social state. The woman
who maintained that scissors were better than a knife for cutting an
apple suffered her husband to drown her rather than give up the point,
and as she sank her fingers still opened and closed, to imitate the
instrument she preferred. She 'died for' her opinion, just as much as
Savonarola or Giordano Bruno, whom my countrymen are so fond of raving
about."

"You know that is not what I mean," said Leonora. "I mean it is noble to
die for what is right."

"The question is, what is right? There are cases when it is eminently
heroic to sacrifice one's life."

"For instance?"

"For instance, to die for the liberty of one's own country,--for the
defence and safety of one's king, who represents the embodiment of the
social principle,--or for the honour of an innocent woman."

"But about liberty and one's king, and that sort of thing," said
Leonora, "where can you draw the line? There is no successful treason,
you know, because when it succeeds it is called by other names. There
must be a standard of absolute good--or something."

"I should think you must be a very unhappy person, Marchesa, if you are
always trying to draw a line and to define absolute good. What is the
use? Every one knows that it cannot be done."

Leonora was silent. It had interested her to hear the brilliant,
successful man, apparently so happy and contented with his lot, talk
seriously about the things she was always puzzling over. But what did it
come to? What was the use? Those were his last words.

The warm gloom of the night settled softly round them, laden with the
sweetness of the oranges and the aromatic scent of the late carnations.
Batiscombe could just see Leonora by his side, her head bent forward as
she rested her chin upon her hand. The indescribable atmosphere and
faint perfume that surrounds women of high beauty and degree intoxicated
him. She was so English in her beauty and so Russian in her delicate
exuberance of vitality; above all, she was so intensely feminine, that
Batiscombe felt his senses giving way to the magnetic influence. He
leaned forward in the dark till he was nearer to her, looking at the
faint outline of her face. Leonora sighed, and the gentle sound seemed
like the softened echo of past weeping.

"Marchesa," said Julius in a low voice, "can I really be your friend?
Will you let me help to make your life happier, if I can?"

Leonora felt the blood rise blushing to her face in the dark, and her
heart trembled in its beating. A friend! Oh, if she really could find a
strong, true friend to help her!

"How can you?" she asked faintly.

"I do not know," he answered. "Let me try. I will try very hard. I am
sure I can succeed."

She let him take her hand for one moment. It was a consent, not spoken,
but given and understood. Leonora rose to her feet, and they walked
silently toward the house.

"When may I come?" he asked, as he bade her good night. He spoke quite
naturally, as though it were already a matter of course that he should
see her every day. She hesitated a moment, standing in the doorway with
the warm light of the lamp upon her.

"Come at eleven," she said at last, and with a pleasant smile she left
him and went in.

The aspect of life seemed changed for her when he was gone. That
afternoon she had suffered intensely. Now there was a strange, calm
sense in her heart that soothed all her thoughts, and made the lonely
evening sweet and restful. She asked no questions, she made no
self-examination, she desired of herself no reasons for her conduct. It
was enough that the storm had passed and that the calm was come, she
knew not how. A man had spoken to her as no man ever spoke to her
before, and the earnestness of his words still rang in her ear. He was
loyal, strong, and true. He would be her friend,--he had asked it, she
had granted it.

She dined alone and read a little afterwards, closing her eyes now and
again to enjoy the peace that had descended upon her. For the first time
in many months she was happy, supremely, quietly happy, and she asked no
questions.

As for Batiscombe, he wandered homewards through the dark lanes, not
heeding or caring where he went. He was wholly absorbed in recalling the
events of the afternoon, revelling in the memory of Leonora's face and
looks and words. He, too, was wholly disinclined to reflect on the
possible consequences of his action; he took it as a matter of course
that he should keep his word and be indeed a friend to her; at all
events he thought neither of the future nor the past, but only ever and
ever of herself, clinging tenderly to the images he called up, and
asking nothing better than to call them up again, dreaming and waking.
He might be in love, or he might not,--the question no longer entered
his head. He was fascinated, charmed, and beside himself with enjoyment
of his thoughts.

It was the state he had dreaded a day or two ago. To avoid it he had
tried to escape, by a stratagem, beyond the possibility of seeing
Leonora again. He had cursed his folly in going to see her. He had
promised himself that he would not go again; he had reviewed his past
troubles, and had remembered how plausibly they had begun. And at last
he had fallen into the ancient trap, the snare of fair friendship set
out to catch men and women and to destroy them. But the mouth of the pit
was garnished with roses and lilies, sweet and innocent enough.

At eleven o'clock of the next day Julius was again with Leonora, and on
the day following and the day after that. They walked together, read
together, sailed together, and lunched together. A few stray callers
came in now and then, but as they never came twice, not one of them
thought it at all worthy of remark that Mr. Batiscombe should happen to
be calling at the same time.

Leonora found an extraordinary pleasure in his conversation. He had a
fund of varied study and experience from which to draw, that amused her
and made her think in new grooves; and when he talked about her ideas
and interests he always succeeded in showing them to her in a new light.
His comments were by turns light and sarcastic, and then again very
serious; and his general readiness to make things seem amusing made his
graver sayings doubly strong by contrast. He had a bold way of asserting
that accumulated knowledge was of very little importance as compared
with action, which would have sounded foolish enough from an ignorant
man; but Julius was far from ignorant. He had studied a great many
questions, and he possessed the faculty of speaking sensibly in a
general way about subjects of which he did not profess to know anything.
Most of all she found in him a ready sympathy and a love of human nature
and of life for life's sake, that were utterly different from the
artificial views she had cultivated. She found in him the strong love of
enjoyment and the activity of mind and body, that best harmonised with
her own real character; and in their long days together the hollowness
and emptiness of life never once recalled themselves to her memory,
except as things for her to wonder at and for Batiscombe to turn into
jest and laugh to scorn.

The whole situation was utterly new and unexpected to her. After the
first few days at Sorrento with her husband she had made up her mind
that the beauties of nature were very tedious, and that she would be
glad to go back to Rome and begin the duties of society,--anything,
rather than go on from day to day longing for a sensation, and finding
only a great deal of weariness. But now, in the discovery of a new
friend, a man of talent and tact, who made all gloomy musings seem
ridiculous by the side of his sanguine activity, the place was
transformed into a paradise for her. Not a day but brought some new
thought, some witty saying, some bit of novelty with it, so that she
found herself happy when she was alone in going over what they had said
and done together.

As for Marcantonio, she should be very glad when he came back. It seemed
to her that he must be much more amusing now, and that she could say
things to rouse him and make him talk. She wrote affectionate notes
every day, telling him how beautiful everything was, and how he was to
enjoy it, now that the first difficulties of settling were over. She
even said she had sent for the cook, and had ascertained that he was
very well, having had no return of the fever; she thought it must please
her husband to know that she was taking care of the household and
looking after the people.

In the meanwhile Batiscombe fell in love, studiously consoling his
conscience with the reflection that he was doing a good deed, and was
acting the part of a friend in making the time pass pleasantly for
Leonora in her solitude. But his conscience did not trouble him greatly,
though it would be sure to, by and by. At present everything was
swamped in a sea of glorious enjoyment, and he was no less really happy
than Leonora. Day after day began and ended alike, but yet ever
different. They never referred to the singularity of the arrangement by
which Julius came every day in the morning and stayed till dark. There
seemed no reason why they should not leave well alone, and enjoy each
other's society to the very utmost. And they did, most fully, each
wholly engrossed in the other.

At the end of a week Marcantonio telegraphed that he and his sister
would leave Rome by the night train and arrive in the morning. Leonora
in the innocence of her heart was glad, anticipating all manner of new
pleasure in her husband's society, the result of her own cure from
morbid ennui. But Batiscombe felt his heart sink within him.




CHAPTER XI.


The sun beat down fiercely as Marcantonio and Madame de Charleroi drove
up to the house at half-past ten o'clock. They had travelled all night,
but the beautiful Diana was not the less fair for being a little tired,
and as she descended from the carriage and went up the short steps to
the door, Leonora could not help admiring the perfect smoothness and
completeness of her appearance. Donna Diana did things in a stately
fashion, and it would have been a hard journey indeed that could ruffle
her lace or disturb the smooth coiling of her hair. Leonora herself was
apt to arrive a little dusty from a night in a train, and not altogether
serene, and she knew it; so that the absolutely finished completeness of
Madame de Charleroi struck her as enviable and much to be admired.

The two women kissed each other affectionately on either cheek, and then
Marcantonio came running up and bent over his wife's hand, and, when
Donna Diana was not looking, he just brushed Leonora's cheek in a rather
guilty fashion. Presently Leonora led Diana away to show her the rooms
destined for her, and to fuss a little over all the arrangements, as
women love to do when another woman is come to stay with them.
Marcantonio was busy for a few minutes, asking questions of the coachman
and the men-servants concerning the health of every individual in the
establishment, and then he also retired to his room, and the perspiring
grooms and servants raged furiously together with the luggage and
bundles for a while; and then the front door was closed again, and all
was cool and quiet.

Leonora left her husband and her sister-in-law to their toilet, and came
down stairs through the darkened halls to the drawing-room. She was
wondering whether Batiscombe would appear at his usual hour. Strange to
say they had not spoken of it on the previous evening,--probably because
they feared lest the mention of the subject should lead to some
discussion about the singular intimacy into which they had fallen, and
which neither wished to endanger. It would be just like Batiscombe to
come, she thought; it would be just like him to show himself at once as
her friend, and to establish the custom of coming every day.

She was not mistaken; at eleven o'clock the bell rang, and he was shown
in.

"I was quite sure you would come," she said, holding out her hand.

"Of course," said he. "I hope they have arrived safely?"

"Quite, thanks. They are making themselves beautiful at this moment,
though I think they must have done it on the way,--they arrived looking
as fresh as possible, all smiles and lavender and sunshine. I am so
glad they are come, you cannot think!"

"Yes, I should think you must be," assented Julius with less enthusiasm.

At that moment Marcantonio was shaving himself in the cool seclusion of
his dressing-room. He was going over in his mind the past and the
future, reflecting upon the absurd things he had said to Diana about
Batiscombe in the train, and wondering what he could do to make her stay
pleasant. Batiscombe must certainly be asked to the house, he thought,
if only to show his sister that he, Marcantonio, had no objection to her
meeting the man. It had been so thoroughly absurd to take up her speech
about the possibility of her having married him, and to build on it the
supposition that she had ever loved him. Bah! the fancy of a girl for
the romantic! Batiscombe was now a perfectly serious man--decidedly so.
Besides, Marcantonio began to dread very much the eternal trio between
his wife, his sister, and himself, from morning till night. If only he
had thought in time to ask some other man, it would have been such a
charming square party. His wife was always more brilliant and
good-tempered when there were outsiders present,--probably a peculiarity
of all women, he thought, excepting Diana. Supposing that Leonora took
it into her head to be dull or bored while Diana was there, how dreadful
it would be! It was clearly necessary that Diana should have a
favourable idea of the Carantoni household; that had been the whole
object in bringing her down. And if Leonora did not seem in good
spirits, Diana was sure to think he was not making his wife happy. The
idea grew in his mind; he was terribly afraid of what his sister might
think, seeing how she had opposed the match from the first. Really it
was absolutely necessary to ask some one to the house while she stayed.
But whom could he ask at such short notice? There was nobody but
Batiscombe within reach.

Marcantonio had finished shaving one side of his face, and took a fresh
razor for the other. There was a pause in his thoughts while he tested
the edge and applied more soap to his cheek. As he went to work again,
the original train of ideas continued.

Well! Batiscombe. Why not? He was a very amiable man, and Leonora liked
him. She would certainly not object. As for Diana, it was probable that
he would keep away from her most of the time. He would scarcely press
his company on her. Monsieur Batiscombe had tact, although he was a
crazy foreigner who went round the world in boats and wrote books. Bah!
it was so convenient! Just the very person--he knew everything, had seen
most things, and could talk like a mill-wheel. All those ridiculous
prejudices about Diana were absurd, and were an insult to her.
Batiscombe should be asked to stay a week.

Having successfully finished his shaving operations, Marcantonio sat
down to write a note to Julius while the thing was in his mind.
Otherwise, he reflected, he might forget to do it, and Batiscombe could
not be obtained until to-morrow. He wrote an invitation and signed it.
Then he reflected that it would be as well to speak to Leonora before
sending it. She did not know anything about that old story that had
happened when she was a little girl, and perhaps not even in Rome. It
was a mere formality, but it would be more courteous to ask her, before
sending the invitation. He would not ask Diana, however. She had herself
said, the night before, that she had no objection to meeting the man.
Very well, she should meet him very soon. He hurriedly finished dressing
and went down-stairs to find Leonora. Entering the drawing-room he found
her talking quietly with the very man he was thinking about.

"Mon Dieu! what a chance!" he exclaimed, cordially shaking Julius by the
hand. "Imagine! I was just writing you a note, when you were in the
house yourself!"

"Really?" ejaculated Batiscombe, in some astonishment. "How can I serve
you--since I am here in the flesh?"

"By remaining!" answered Marcantonio cheerfully. "I was in the act of
writing a very pressing invitation to you to stay a week with us, and
thus to make up the most agreeable party of four in the world. Madame
unites herself with me in the request, I am sure," added Carantoni,
turning to his wife, who looked rather pale.

"Mais certainement--we shall be charmed," said Leonora, utterly
astonished and confused by the suddenness of the situation.

She had herself thought how delightful such an arrangement would
be--more than once. But coming so suddenly, from her husband, without
her suggestion, it frightened her and did not seem quite natural. Her
voice did not sound very cordial as she spoke, but it was sufficient,
and her husband, being full of his idea, noticed nothing.

"You are very kind. It will really give me very great pleasure," said
Julius, controlling his voice wonderfully.

For he, too, was taken off his guard. Marcantonio was delighted. It was
such a wonderful piece of luck, he said, that Monsieur Batiscombe should
have called at that hour.

"But come with me, if madame permits," said he, "and I will show you
your room. You can send for your things in the afternoon."

Leonora was only too glad to be left alone for a moment, and the two men
went away, Marcantonio rubbing his hands at the success of his
arrangements for a pleasant week. With Batiscombe in the house the time
could not fail to pass pleasantly, he thought.

There are some men who seem to be pursued by an evil destiny that
continually forces them to do the wrong thing out of pure goodness of
heart. From an innocent desire to make his household pleasant for his
sister, and to amuse the wife of his heart, he had asked the man of all
others whom the one desired to avoid, and the other ought to have been
kept from, simply because he wanted somebody and the man happened to be
on the spot. And the whole thing had originated in a laudable desire to
see pleasant relations established between his wife and his sister, the
two persons in the whole world whom he most loved. Poor Marcantonio! He
was under an unlucky star.

Presently Batiscombe returned alone to the drawing-room, his host
remaining to give some orders about the luncheon. He looked curiously at
Leonora as he sat down opposite to her.

"This is very charming," he said, smiling. "It is so kind of you."

"I had nothing to do with it," said Leonora, avoiding his glance. "But
of course I am very glad. I was dreadfully afraid of being left alone
with my sister-in-law, and of course you will help me to make it
pleasant for her. Really, it is just like my husband,--he is so good."

"It would have been very miserable to have our good time cut short,"
said Julius reflectively, "and I suppose they would have thought it odd
if I went on calling every day at the same hour." Leonora blushed very
slightly.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose so. People have such ideas about the
appearances. You know I should not mind in the least if it were only my
husband; you might stay from morning till night, and we should all
enjoy it. But I am so afraid of Madame de Charleroi,--she is so
tremendously correct, you know."

From which piece of conversation it will be seen that Julius and Leonora
had grown intimate of late, and regarded things from a practical point
of view.

All this time Madame de Charleroi was in ignorance of the amiable
arrangement concluded by her brother, and was looking forward with
almost as much dislike as he had done to the family trio in which she
was to play a part during the week.

She understood Leonora to a certain extent. She had at least a very
strong presentiment that there would be trouble between her brother and
his wife; not an open disagreement nor anything dramatic, but the sort
of small worry and discord that begins slowly and surely, and finally
embitters the whole lives of people who are not suited to each other.
She had agreed to come down to Sorrento in order to "make friends" with
Leonora, as her brother had expressed it, and in her wisdom and
knowledge of the world she knew very well what a difficult task she had
undertaken, and how small was her chance of success. She foresaw that
she must be continually left alone with Leonora, for she understood her
brother well enough to suppose he would adopt that method of fostering
the friendship he desired. Poor dear Marcantonio had so very little
tact! Consequently Diana wished very much that some other person had
been asked to stay at the same time. Meanwhile she lay down for an hour
upon a sofa in her sitting-room, and thought the matter over.

Marcantonio, however, bethought him that in spite of Diana's expressed
willingness to meet Batiscombe, it might surprise her to find herself
suddenly living under the same roof with him. He therefore determined to
inform her of the fact before they all met at the midday breakfast. He
supposed she was busy with her toilet, and so he would not go himself;
he would send his wife. That was a good idea--it would be at once a
chance of throwing the two together. To this end he returned to the
drawing-room, where Leonora and Batiscombe were still talking, and with
an apology to the latter, he drew his wife aside for a moment.

"I think, my angel," he whispered, "that it would be better to tell
Diana that monsieur is here for a week. She is dressing at this moment.
Would you be so amiable as to go to her and say in the course of the
conversation that I have invited Monsieur Batiscombe? It would be very
good of you, my dear."

Leonora was not in the humour to refuse her husband anything. Everything
was bright and happy to her, now that she saw a means of defence
provided for her against the stately Diana, whom she feared. She had
recovered from her astonishment at the sudden invitation to Julius, and
she saw in it a kind intention on her husband's part, for which she was
grateful.

"Of course, mon ami," she answered, "I will do everything you like.
Only amuse Monsieur Batiscombe for a moment, and I will run to Diana,
and tell her what you wish."

"A thousand thanks!" exclaimed Marcantonio, and he turned to the task of
amusing Mr. Batiscombe, more delighted than ever.

Leonora knocked rather timidly at the door of Diana's sitting-room.

"It is I," she said, through the door; "may I come in?"

"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" exclaimed Diana, rising swiftly from her
couch, with a bright smile. She took Leonora's hand and led her to a
chair, and arranged the curtains a little, so as to make more light, and
then sat down by her side.

"You must be dreadfully tired," said Leonora, "and I ought not to
disturb you. I just wanted to see if you had everything you wanted."

"But everything--everything, I assure you," answered Diana. "I am so
very comfortable, and the view over the sea is exquisite, really de
toute beaute."

They made a wonderful contrast, as they sat side by side. Donna Diana's
perfect features were more mature than Leonora's, her bearing was more
noble, and her look more quiet and self-possessed. She wore a loose
peignoir of white, with lace and white silk ribbons, such as none but
perfect blondes can wear. But nothing could dim the dazzling whiteness
of her skin, or detract from her marvellous beauty. She was calm, and
statue-like, and it was only now and then that a glance from her deep
grey eyes betrayed the warm and sympathising heart within. A grand,
regal woman, fit to wear a crown or to have been the priestess of an
ancient people. She had it all from her mother, who had been like her,
though in a smaller mould, and had died, still young and beautiful, when
Diana and her brother were little children. It was impossible to imagine
her for a moment deprived of her perfect grace, and ease, and quiet.

Leonora was altogether more earthly. She moved well, but often
impetuously. Her extraordinary vitality, when not reduced by reaction to
a state of unnatural apathy, was forever seeking an outlet. She loved
the light and the stir of society life, while she amused herself with
reflecting on its emptiness. She was instinct with strength, and motion,
and elasticity. Her skin was always fresh, whether in heat or cold, but
from the enthusiasm with which she did things, she sometimes lost the
smoothness and correctness--as she would have called it--of her
appearance. And yet even at such times she had a strange charm and
fascination of her own. As she often said, she was far less beautiful
than Diana, but much more alive,--though with a life that might perhaps
be less strong and enduring than Diana's. Diana was a queen--Leonora a
brilliant and irresponsible princess.

They talked a little together, and Leonora found it easy to lead the
conversation to the plans she was making for the amusement of her
sister-in-law.

"By the bye," said she, "I ought to tell you. Mr. Julius Batiscombe is
staying here this week. I suppose you know him?"

Leonora had no idea of anything having existed in former times in the
way of sentiment between Diana and Julius. She was sent to convey a
piece of information, and she did it as well as she could, not even
looking at Diana as she spoke. Had she suspected anything she would have
watched her, and she could have seen the least possible trembling of the
eyelids, and the lightest imaginable shade of annoyance on her guest's
fair face.

"Oh yes," she said calmly, "I know him. I have known him a long time. So
he is staying with you?"

"Yes. He is so very agreeable, and Marcantonio wished it. He has been in
Sorrento some time, and he took us to Castellamare to see that ironclad
launched. He is so very clever."

"Because he took you in his boat?" laughed Diana. "Yes, my dear, a man
is clever indeed who can get such charming company."

Leonora was pleased with the little speech,--it sounded kindly, and as
Diana spoke she laid her hand softly on Leonora's.

"How cold your hands are," said Diana. And indeed they were chilled
through, though it was a very hot day in July. "'Cold hands, warm
heart,' you know, as the proverb says."

Leonora blushed a little. It seemed so odd to be talking about Julius
Batiscombe to a stranger that it frightened her a little, and she was
conscious that her heart beat faster. Nevertheless she wondered vaguely
why she felt the blood rise to her cheek. He was only her friend, and
the remark about the heart could have nothing to do with him.

But Diana supposed she changed colour because she was thinking of
Marcantonio. It was natural for a young bride to blush at the mention of
her heart, of course, and altogether charming. She patted the cold
little hand sympathetically and talked of something else. It is so easy
to misunderstand a blush. But Leonora felt as though she were being
patronised, which is the thing people of her stamp most bitterly resent
of all others; and accordingly there sprang up in her breast a little
breeze of opposition, which might by and by blow a gale.

When the party met in the drawing-room before the midday breakfast,
everything seemed arranged for the best, and Marcantonio rubbed his
hands with delight, and made numerous hospitable gestures as he walked
round the three lambs of his fold. Batiscombe rose and bowed low to
Madame de Charleroi. She nodded pleasantly as to an old acquaintance,
and gave him her hand. He turned a little pale under the sunburnt bronze
of his face.

"I am glad to see you," said she. "I thought you had probably been
shipwrecked in that boat of yours. It was in all the papers, you know."

"The sea would not be so ill-bred as to swallow me up before I had had
the honour of making my homage to you, madame," said Batiscombe with a
bow and a smile.

It is so easy to say pretty things in French, and as every one does it
no one ever knows the genuine from the spurious. Diana was well used to
Batiscombe's ways, and she laughed a little. But somehow Leonora did not
like the speech. The English part of her revolted against a generality
of gallant language, though her Russian blood made it quite possible for
her to accept such things as genuine when addressed to herself.

Breakfast was announced.

"Mon Dieu," exclaimed Marcantonio, smiling at everybody, "it is the most
charming quartette imaginable. But there arises a terrible question of
precedence. I must evidently give my arm to my wife or to my sister. It
is very grave. Mesdames, I pray you, select."

"Of course," said Leonora, "Diana is the guest. It is to her that you
must give your arm; and Monsieur Batiscombe must console himself as he
can."

Everybody smiled politely, as people do over the inanities of a very
cheerful and hospitable host.

"Thank you," said Batiscombe in English, as he and Leonora followed the
other couple into the breakfast-room at a little distance.

It became the duty of Batiscombe and the two ladies to make Marcantonio
believe that they were all enjoying themselves and each other
immensely; their duty it was--the sacred and unavoidable duty of society
towards its entertainers. Batiscombe found the situation very
unpleasant. Diana wished the week well over, and bore her part with the
unfaltering serenity and cheerfulness that well-bred sovereigns exhibit
when they are obliged to do some of the thousand disagreeable things
that make up most of their lives. Leonora was beginning to be quite sure
she could never like Diana. How could she like a woman who assumed airs
of superiority? Diana was not in the least like the young ladies whom
she knew in Rome, and whom, she promised herself, she would rule with a
rod of iron now that she was married. And Marcantonio smiled and said
all the pleasantest things he could imagine; and they were many, for
pleasantness was his strong point. Batiscombe seconded him to the best
of his ability, and every now and then reflected for an instant on the
extraordinary position in which he found himself.

Indeed, he had cause to wonder at the strangeness of fate. There he sat,
eating his breakfast between the woman who had dominated him all his
life, and the woman who fascinated him in the present, with ample
opportunity to compare them with each other, and a determination not to
do it. It seemed as though Diana's coming had roused his instincts of
contrariety, as it had in Leonora, though for quite different reasons.
Diana knew well enough, he thought, that she ruled him and could bring
him to her feet in a moment. Why, then, if she did not want him
herself, did she come and disturb his peace and happiness? She need not
have prevented him from enjoying the society of a charming woman, but
she undoubtedly would. He knew well enough that her presence must be a
check on the daily and hourly intercourse with Leonora which he just now
most desired. She would not believe in the friendship which had seemed
so real to Leonora and so possible to himself. She would watch him with
those grey eyes of hers that knew him so well, and when she had an
opportunity, she would give him a wholesome lecture on the error of his
ways. He knew Diana well, and she knew him better.

He was forced to confess that she was more beautiful, more stately, and
more perfect now, at eight and twenty, than she had been ten years ago
at eighteen; that, if she lifted her finger to him now, he would be more
entirely her servant and slave than ever before; and that in the bottom
of his heart he wished she would do so, as he wished no other thing in
the world. At the same time he knew perfectly well that she would not,
and he thought it was not fair of her to disturb an innocent friendship
which had, by force of circumstances, assumed a peculiar aspect. She
excited in him all the obstinacy which attends weakness--and Julius was
a weak man where women were concerned. And whether he would or not, he
made up his mind not to relinquish his daily enjoyment of talking to
Leonora for all the Dianas in the world,--if it were only to please his
own vanity.

The repast was somehow or other a success so far as Marcantonio was
concerned. He felt that everything was proceeding as it should, that all
his little plans had turned out well, and that he was a happy husband
and a happy brother. He was in complete ignorance of Julius Batiscombe's
daily visits to his wife during his absence. She had meant to tell him,
honestly, how pleasant it had all been, and how much she had enjoyed it;
but, somehow, the invitation to Batiscombe to stay in the house had made
her put it off. Marcantonio was so odd about some things, and he was
sure to want so many explanations; she could tell him just as well after
Diana and Batiscombe were gone; and then, of course, it could not matter
so much. She knew that Julius would never refer to all those days unless
she herself did. If only that terrible Diana did not see or find out!
How dreadful it would be to have her say anything to Marcantonio!




CHAPTER XII.


A country-house is a glass house. The more people there are staying in
it, the more fragile and delicate are the walls, and the more
probability there is that some one will be inspired by the Evil One to
throw stones. Sometimes it happens that two or three of a party fight a
pitched battle, and then some lucky lovers who have nothing to do with
the hostilities are forgotten and overlooked in the din of war. But if
there is one thing in the world more certain to get out than murder it
is love, righteous or unrighteous. Lovers who desire secrecy should
never go to country-houses together.

It seems to them as though each and every member of the household had
especially adopted a set of vile and pernicious habits; a determination
to be where they ought not, at all sorts of unexpected hours; to come
skulking round corners under the empty pretext of seeking shade, and to
be found lurking in wooded dells on pretence of studying natural
history. There is the matutinal fiend, who shaves at the window in the
grey dawn and sees people who have got up for an early walk; and,
verily, they feel like worms when they glance up and see his beak and
talons at the casement. There is also the demon that walketh in
darkness, smoking a midnight cigar on the lawn before going to bed.
There is the midday dragon, green-eyed and loathly to behold, who steals
out in old gloves and a parasol immediately after luncheon, because she
has left her glasses on the mossy seat under the trees, just out of
sight of the house, and must needs find them. There is the vile and
sickening bookworm, with his bland smile and unhealthy complexion, who
dives into the library in the middle of the summer's afternoon, and
ruthlessly opens the blinds to find a quotation, the eighteenth volume
of an uncut rarity in vellum; and who wrinkles disagreeably all over
when he observes the couple in the corner, staring like blushing owls in
the sudden glare.

And, besides all these, there are the low earth-spirits,--a swarm of
maids, butlers, grooms, stable-boys, and nurses,--who are supposed to
dwell somewhere, underground, and are everlastingly appearing, like
phantoms, noiseless and awful, with ears like vast trumpets of endless
capacity and eyes of incalculable magnifying power.

A country-house is a terrible test of all the great virtues of mankind
and a fearful reflector of all the vices. It is well to begin life in
the country with an adequate certainty that, whatever you do, you will
be found out, and that you will often be found out when you have done
nothing. And a villa hired in the orange gardens of Sorrento,
overhanging the murmuring sea and sweet with the breath of the rich
south, is not different in this respect from a Yorkshire manor-house, a
chateau in the south of France, or a "romantic retreat" on the Hudson
River.

For two or three days after the events just chronicled, Leonora and
Batiscombe managed successfully to spend several hours out of the
twenty-four in each other's society. Marcantonio was busy during a great
part of the time with correspondence concerning the politics of his
party, and once he went over to Naples to see an eminent person on
business. The four inmates of the house met at meals, and in the late
afternoon, when they generally went out in the boat. Donna Diana
occasionally sat with Leonora for an hour, and they talked to each other
studiously, Leonora trying her best to make the time pleasant for Diana,
and Diana doing what she could to cultivate her acquaintance with
Leonora. At the end of two days it was perfectly clear that the two
women would never be intimate. But they both concealed the fact from
Marcantonio; and he rubbed his hands, and wrote his letters, and bought
cartloads of things for his wife, in the comforting assurance that she
was very happy and inclined to follow his wishes in regard to his
sister.

But Diana was not given to looking after Leonora when she was out of her
sight, and she spent a great part of the day in writing letters, in
reading, and now and then in calling on a few acquaintances who lived
along the shore in the villas towards Castellamare. She was glad that
Batiscombe kept out of her way, but she did not exactly understand why
he did so. He was generally extremely anxious to see as much as possible
of her when he was in her neighbourhood. Could it be that he did not
love her any longer? That after all these years he had at last put her
out of his mind? Perhaps so. She was glad if it were so, most truly. She
had many times prayed with her whole soul that he might forget her. It
might be that the prayer was answered. At all events, he kept out of her
way, and she did not regret it, nor ever give him a sign to come to her.
She supposed that he spent his hours with Leonora or Marcantonio or
both, and there was no reason why he should not be intimate in the
house, so far as she herself was concerned.

One day it chanced that the wind was in the south-east, blowing a hot
blast and making everything very hazy and sultry that was out of its
reach, and covering everything it touched with a disagreeable mixture of
dust and hot dampness. Every one who has lived in Italy knows what the
sirocco is like, and the dismal stickiness it brings. It seems as
though the universe were under a press and some one were screwing it
down.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and Madame de Charleroi was
sitting in her small boudoir, trying to write a letter to her husband.
Unlike most Italians, she had not the habit of sleeping in the day, and
used the time when other people were taking a nap during the great heat
to keep up an extensive correspondence. She was a woman who had made
this one interest for herself, and thoroughly enjoyed being in constant
communication with a dozen intelligent people in all parts of the world.

It was excessively hot. Even she, who was southern born and did not mind
it, felt her brain grow dizzy and her fingers tired and clammy.
Leonora's white kitten had strayed into the room after lunch, and was
walking about near the door, squeaking now and then as though it did not
like the quarters and wanted to get out. For the mere sake of changing
her position, Diana laid down her pen and rose to open the door. As she
did so the cat jumped nimbly through, and a little breath of cooler air
blew in from the passage. Diana stood one moment as though enjoying it,
and then went out. She took a parasol in the hall, and walked slowly
down the garden. The sky was overcast with a dull leaden grey, and the
south-east wind blew under the trees, bad enough in itself, but
infinitely better than the close heat indoors. There was no one to be
seen, and Diana paced slowly along the gravel path. At the end of it
were the steps which led through the rocks to the sea.

She had gone down and come up again more than once with the rest of the
party in the evening, when they had been out in the boat, and she had
thought each time that it would be pleasant to come and sit in some of
the cool archways and look out over the sea in the heat of the day. She
felt sure, too, of being alone there; it was not a likely place for any
one to frequent at three o'clock in the afternoon. Diana closed her
parasol, and, just lifting the skirt of her white dress off the ground,
began to descend the broad stone steps, hewn out of the solid rock,
through a steep vaulted tunnel in the inside of the cliff. Here and
there a great arched window looked out, in which were cut wide seats.

She had passed through the darkest part of the descent, carefully
picking her way, when she suddenly found herself opposite to one of
these windows. She was startled to see two persons there, for she had
been certain that she would be alone. They were Leonora and Batiscombe,
sitting side by side under the arched opening. Hearing her tread they
both looked round, and Julius seemed to pick up from the floor something
which had probably fallen while they were talking. Then he remained
standing, and Diana, seeing she was discovered, advanced boldly toward
the pair. There was nothing so extraordinary in the situation after all,
but she had always supposed that Leonora slept in the afternoon while
Batiscombe and Marcantonio smoked and talked politics up-stairs. They
had certainly been sitting very near together, she thought, but the
sudden glare of the light and the distance which separated her from them
had prevented her from noticing their faces. As she came near, Leonora
rose also and spoke first. She held her back to the light, for she was
blushing deeply; but Batiscombe, who never blushed and rarely turned
pale, stood calmly pulling his moustache, as though it were all the
most natural thing in the world.

"I had always meant to tell you how delightful it is here," said
Leonora. "I am so glad you have found it out for yourself."

"En effet," answered Madame de Charleroi calmly smiling, "it is ideal."
She came under the arch and looked out, enjoying the sight of the sea
after the dark passages.

"And then," said Leonora, "it is strictly true that one is 'not at home'
when one is here,--if people call, it is very convenient. Nobody can
find one."

"Excepting Madame de Charleroi," said Batiscombe, who was very angry at
the interruption.

But he said it so pleasantly and with such an air of paying a
compliment, that Diana could not be offended; she only smiled a little
bitterly in her lofty way, remembering other times when he would have
given his right hand for a meeting of any kind with her.

In that moment a suspicion crossed Diana's mind. She understood the
meaning of his remark perfectly, in spite of the bow and the smile,
knowing, as she did, every intonation of his voice and every expression
of his face. She saw that he was angry, and she argued that Julius
preferred being with Leonora to being with herself. That was clearly the
reason why he kept out of her way; he spent his time with Leonora. If
Leonora attracted him, he was certainly at liberty to talk to her if he
pleased, but Diana thought it must be a strong attraction indeed that
kept him away from herself. It was long since he had missed an
opportunity of spending an hour with his old love.

Diana sat down beside Leonora, and Batiscombe leaned against the rock
and looked out over the sea, the fire dancing in his blue eyes, but his
face as calm as ever. Diana began to talk to Leonora.

"You are very fortunate in getting such a place," she said. "It is by
far the most beautiful on the whole shore."

"I wish it belonged to us," said Leonora. "I am sure I could come here
every year and never grow tired of it."

"Ah!" exclaimed Diana, "do you like it so very much then?"

"J'en raffole!" answered Leonora enthusiastically, "I am crazy about it.
And then, it is always so charming to have absolutely the best. As you
say, there is nothing like this place on the whole bay. I should like
always to have the best."

"But, madame," remarked Batiscombe, "it appears to me that you always
do. You have the talent of supremacy."

"What an idea! The talent of supremacy!"

"But that is precisely it," continued Julius. "It is a talent. Some
people are born with it--generally women."

"That is Monsieur Batiscombe's favourite theory," remarked Madame de
Charleroi, just glancing at him, "but he does not believe it the least
in the world."

"Is it true?" asked Leonora, innocently, looking up with an expression
that did not escape Diana. It was a sort of frightened look, as though
it really mattered to her what Batiscombe thought about women in
general.

"It pleases madame to be witty," answered Julius, glancing in his turn
at Diana. "I have not many theories, but I believe in them as a man who
is about to be guillotined believes in death."

"One cannot say more than that," laughed Leonora. "But how about the
supremacy of men? There have been more men in the world who have ruled
it than there have ever been women."

"Mon Dieu! Men give themselves much more trouble," he replied. "Women,
having the divine right given to them straight from Heaven, exercise it
without difficulty. A word, a cup of tea, a glance,--and the supremacy
of a woman is established. What could a man do with a cup of tea? Or, if
he looked at people by the hour together, could he rule them with a
glance? When a woman has the gift she finds little difficulty in using
it,--whereas the more of it a man has, the more trouble it is to him.
Men are so stupid!" And with this sweeping condemnation of his own sex,
Julius lit a cigarette, having obtained permission of the two ladies.

"You ought not to have many friends, with such ideas about men," said
Leonora.

"En effet," said Diana, "he has none."

"Not among men, at all events," said Julius. "I do not remember ever
having any. I do not sleep any the worse on that account, I assure you.
It is much more agreeable to have a number of pleasant acquaintances,
who expect nothing from you and from whom you expect nothing. Friendship
implies mutual obligations; I detest that."

Leonora laughed a little. He had such a vicious way of saying such
things, as though he thoroughly meant them. But then he was courteous
and gentle to every one, though she suspected he might be different if
he were angry. Diana knew very well that what he said was true, and that
he had led an isolated life among other men, fighting his way through
with his own hand and owing no man anything. She herself had for years
been his best friend and his only confidant, though he saw her rarely
enough. And now she felt as though even that one bond of his were to be
broken,--and whether she would or not, the thought gave her pain, and
she wished it could be otherwise.

"It is always far more amusing to detest things," said Leonora, "unless
you happen to want them." She was forgetting some of her indifferentism.

"It is certainly more blessed to abuse than to be abused," returned
Julius, "and, if one has the choice, it is as well to be the hammer and
not the anvil. I am an excessively good-natured person, and if I had
friends, they would make an anvil of me and beat my brains out,--and
then I should starve."

"Good-natured people are always made to suffer," said Leonora
thoughtfully. "I am not in the least good-natured."

"I remember," said Diana, "that Mr. Batiscombe used to say good-nature
was a mixture of laziness and vulgarity."

"Yes," answered Julius. "You have a good memory, madame. Good-nature is
a compound of the laziness that cannot say 'no,' and of the vulgarity
which desires to please every one indiscriminately. I suppose I possess
both those faults very finely developed."

"Fortunately," remarked Leonora, "goodness and good-nature are not the
same."

"Fortunately for you, Marchesa,--unfortunately for me," said Julius.

"It is too complicated--please explain," she answered.

"As you are so fortunate as to possess goodness without good-nature,"
said he, "you should be glad that the two are not one and the same,
since good-nature is not a desirable quality. I am good-natured, but not
good--I wish I were!"

"Ah, I see!" exclaimed Diana. "It was a compliment."

"Of course," said Julius.

"Of course; but your compliments are often complicated, as the Marchesa
says."

Diana smiled as she spoke. Batiscombe knew that she was repaying him for
the remark he had made when she had unexpectedly appeared twenty minutes
earlier.

"I can only repeat," he retorted, "that Madame de Charleroi has a good
memory."

Leonora was puzzled. She saw well enough that Diana and Julius were, or
had been, much more intimate than she had supposed. They understood each
other at a glance, by a word, and they seemed on the verge of
quarrelling politely over nothing. She devoutly wished that Diana would
go away, instead of spoiling her afternoon. But Diana leaned back
against the rock and crossed her feet and prepared to be comfortable.
She was evidently not going. Batiscombe stood motionless, with the easy
stolidity of a very strong man who does not wish to move, and Leonora
could see his bold profile against the grey haze of the sky. There was a
short silence after his last remark, during which Leonora felt uneasy:
something was in the atmosphere that made her anxious, and she did not
like the way Diana looked at Batiscombe, with an air of absolute
superiority, as though she could do anything she pleased with him.

"How dreadfully solemn we are," said Leonora, rather awkwardly. Julius
turned quickly with a laugh.

"Let us be gay," he said. "I hate solemnity, unless there is enough of
it to make me laugh. I remember being at a ball once that produced that
effect."

"Allons!" said Diana, "give us some of your reminiscences, Monsieur
Batiscombe. They ought to be interesting."

"Not so much as you think. But the ball was very funny. It was in
Guatemala, three years ago. I was invited to a huge thing by the
president--an entirely new president, too, who had just cut the throats
of the old president and of all his relations. I believe there was some
sort of revolution at the time, and when it was over the victorious
individual gave a ball. The refreshments were simple--brandy for the men
and rosolio for the ladies; there was no compromise in the shape of a
biscuit or a glass of water."

Leonora laughed, being willing to laugh at anything so as to encourage
Julius to talk.

"En verite, that was very amusing," remarked Diana coldly. Batiscombe
took no notice.

"The women sat round the room in a double row," he continued, "like a
court ball, excepting that they all smoked large cigars, and
industriously passed the liqueur. The men stood behind and gave their
undivided attention to the brandy. Not a soul spoke, and they all
scowled fiercely at the brandy, the rosolio, and each other. A ghastly
and tuneless quartette of instruments doled out a melancholy dirge,
slower than anything you ever heard at a funeral; and now and then some
enterprising and funereal man led out a less enterprising but equally
melancholy female in a strange step, like the tormented ghost of a waltz
in chains. It was so hideous that I went out and laughed till I almost
had a fit. I have never thought anything seemed very solemn since
then--it destroyed the proportion in my brain. A pauper's burial on a
rainy day in London is a wildly gay entertainment compared with that
ball."

Leonora laughed, and even Diana smiled; whereupon Julius was satisfied,
and relapsed into silence. But Leonora wanted conversation.

"What in the world took you to Guatemala, Mr. Batiscombe?" she asked.

"That is a question which I cannot answer, Marchesa," he replied. "I
believe I went there for some reason or other--chiefly because I could
go for nothing, and wanted to see something new."

"Can you always go to Guatemala for nothing?" asked Leonora. "It must be
very amusing."

"A steamer company offered me a free passage to any port in their
service," said Batiscombe; "and as the next ship went to Guatemala, I
sailed with her. It happened to be first on the list."

"What a queer idea!" exclaimed Leonora.

"You are too modest, Mr. Batiscombe," said Diana. "You ought to tell the
whole story--it is very interesting." Her voice was less cold than when
she had spoken last.

"Oh, do tell the story!" cried Leonora. "I adore autobiographies!"

"Mon Dieu!" said Julius, "there is very little to tell. I did a service
to a ship belonging to the company, and in acknowledgment they presented
me with a piece of plate and the free passage in question. Voila tout!
madame is too good when she says it was interesting."

"If Monsieur Batiscombe will not be so obliging as to relate the
experience, I will," said Diana. "He shall correct me if I make a
mistake."

Batiscombe looked annoyed. He was not fond of telling his own
adventures, and he hated to hear them told by other people. He could not
imagine why Diana wanted to hear the story. He was irritated already,
and her conduct seemed more and more inexplicable. Leonora looked at him
expectantly.

Who can understand a woman? It may be that Diana, who was really fond of
him in a strange fashion, was sorry for the position she had taken that
afternoon, and was willing to atone by giving him the credit before
Leonora of some fine action he had done.

"It was three years ago or more, in the winter," began Diana. "Monsieur
Batiscombe was travelling in a ship on the coast of America. There were
a hundred passengers on board, or more, and a crew of thirty-five. Is
that exact?"

Julius bent his head and turned away.

"Eh bien, there was a great storm--such as there are in the ocean. It is
horrible, you may imagine. The ship was driven on the rocks, a long
distance from the shore. A reef, you call it, n'est-ce-pas?"

"Yes," said Batiscombe. "Fifty or sixty yards from the shore."

"Good. What do they do? Six brave sailors volunteer to throw themselves
into the sea in a chaloupe--a miserable boat"--

"And monsieur was one of the volunteers"--exclaimed Leonora,
enthusiastically.

"Not at all, my dear friend. The boat overturns; the sailors are
immediately drowned; every one is in consternation. Then Monsieur
Batiscombe arrives; he says he will save everybody; he ties a thin
line--a mere string--to his waist; he throws himself to the sea. The
passengers scream as they cling to the ropes and the side, while the
vessel is beaten horribly on the reef. He struggles in the waves,
swimming; he is thrown down again and again in the breakers; he rises
and rushes on to the shore. Then he pulls the string, and after the
string a rope. A sailor ventures down and he also reaches the land. They
fasten the rope, and every one is saved--passengers, crew, captain, tout
le monde. Ah, Batiscombe, why are you not always doing such
things,--you, who can do them so well?"

Madame de Charleroi's grey eyes were wide and bright, and a very faint
colour rose to her cheeks as she told the story. The calm, regal woman
took a genuine delight in great actions, and as she turned to Julius at
the end there was a ring of real sympathy and friendship and regret in
her voice that it gave Leonora a strange sensation to hear.

"It was magnificently brave!" exclaimed Leonora in English, and she
looked at Julius as though she admired him with all her heart and soul.

She had always had a feeling that he had probably made himself
remarkable in such ways, but he always had told her that his life had
been uneventful. To think that this calm, smooth, well-dressed, fine
gentleman should have saved a whole shipload of lives by sheer strength
and courage! Ah, he was a man, indeed!

But Batiscombe never moved. He stood looking seaward, his eyelids half
closed, and a thoughtful look on his brown face. Indeed, he was thinking
deeply, but not so much of the old story Diana had been telling as of
herself. The strange appeal in her last words had touched the good chord
in his wayward heart, and he was thinking how fair his life might have
been with her,--and how dark it had been without her. And the old true
love rose up for one moment, hiding Leonora and the rest, and all the
intervening years, and sending hot words to his ready lips. He turned in
the act to speak, forgetting where he was,--then checked himself. Both
Leonora and Diana had seen that he was going to say something, for they
were watching him. He hesitated.

"I ought to thank you, madame," he said to Diana, "for gilding my
adventure so richly. But as for the thing itself, and the doing of such
things, the opportunity seldom offers, and the faculty for doing them is
the result of an excellent digestion and quiet nerves. Meanwhile it is
grown cooler, and the boats are below. Shall we go down, and sail a
little before dinner?"

The two ladies consented readily enough, and they all descended to the
landing and got into one of the boats and pushed away.

"I shall have quite a new sensation in future when I sail with you, Mr.
Batiscombe," said Leonora. "It would be impossible to be drowned with
you on board."

But Diana was pale again, and settled herself among the cushions in
silence.

Far up above, Marcantonio was interviewing the coachman on the terrace.
He looked down and saw the boat shoot out with the three members of his
household. He rubbed his hands smoothly together.

"Ha," he said to himself, "it is superb! What good friends they are all
growing to be! En verite, Batiscombe is a most amiable man, full of
tact."




CHAPTER XIII.


Late that evening Julius was sitting in a corner of the broad terrace
over the sea. The clouds had cleared away before the light easterly
breeze that springs up at night, and the stars shone brightly. Down in
the west the young moon had set, and the air was fresh and cool after
the long, hot day. Julius had drawn an arm-chair away from the house and
was smoking solemnly, in enjoyment of the night. He found that he had
much to think of. The rest of the household had gone to bed, or at all
events had retired to their rooms.

It had been a day of emotions with him, and that was unusual, to begin
with. His feeling for Leonora was growing to great proportions. He knew
that very well; and in spite of the momentary burst of passion, which,
if he had been alone with Madame de Charleroi, would have found
expression in words which he would have regretted and she would have
resented, he now felt that he was irritated against her and could not
forgive her inopportune interruption. All his opposition was roused; and
as if in despite of his old love he dwelt on the thoughts of the
present, and delighted in recalling the details of the fair Marchesa's
conversation, the quickly changing expression of her face, the tones of
her voice, the grace of her movements. She was so strong and living that
he felt his whole being permeated with the atmosphere and essence of her
life.

As he leaned back in his chair, he experienced a sensation by no means
new to him, of intense delight in existence, and he breathed in the soft
fresh air, and tasted that it was the breath of love.

A small, short step sounded on the tiles of the terrace, coming toward
his corner. He looked round quickly, and was aware of the tall and
graceful figure of Diana de Charleroi, muffled in something dark, but
unmistakable in its outline and stately presence. In a moment she was
beside him; he rose and threw away his cigarette, somewhat astonished.

"Get another chair," said she, in a low voice. "It is pleasant here."

He obeyed quickly and noiselessly, as he did everything. She had taken
his chair, and he sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak.

"I thought I should find you here, Julius," she said, calling him by his
Christian name without the smallest hesitation. "I wanted to speak to
you alone."

"You have the faculty of finding me," said Julius with a short, low
laugh.

"Since when is it so disagreeable to you?" asked Diana.

Julius was silent, for there was nothing he could say. He wished he had
said nothing at first,--it would have been much better. Diana
continued.

"You and I know each other well enough to talk freely," she said. "We
need not beat about the bush and say pretty things to each other, and I
forgive you for being rude, because I know you very well, and am willing
to sacrifice something. But I will not forgive you again if you are rude
in public. There are certain things one does not permit one's self, when
one is a gentleman."

"You are very good, Diana," said Batiscombe, humbly. "I am very sorry. I
lost my temper."

"Naturally," she answered coolly. "You always lose your temper,--you
always did,--and yet you fancy continually that you hide it. Let that
go. I have forgiven you for this time, because I am the best friend you
have."

"The only one," said Julius.

"Perhaps. You are well hated, I can tell you. Then treat me as a friend
in future, if you please, and not as an inquisitive acquaintance who
makes a point of annoying you for her own ends."

She spoke calmly, in a quiet, determined voice, without the slightest
hesitation or affectation. Julius bent his head.

"I always mean to," he said.

"Now listen to me," she continued. "I came upon you this afternoon by
pure accident. I do not owe you any apology for that, and you know very
well that I am the last person in the world to do things in that way, by
stealth. That is the reason I come to you here, at night, to tell you my
mind frankly."

"Yes," said Batiscombe, in a muffled voice, "I know."

"I came upon you by accident," said she, "and I made a discovery. You
pass your afternoons in the society of my sister-in-law, and you lose
your temper with me when I find you together,--though you always wish me
to understand that you prefer my society to that of any woman in the
world."

"Ah--how you express it!" exclaimed Julius.

"I express it as plainly as I can. I cannot help it if you do not like
it. It is all true. And the inference is perfectly clear. Do you see?"

"No," said Batiscombe.

"You do not? Very well, I will draw it for you."

She leaned back in the chair and looked at him; her eyes were accustomed
by this time to the gloom, and she could see him quite clearly in the
starlight. He moved uneasily.

"Pray go on," he said.

"The inference is this. You are making love to Leonora Carantoni."

"You shall not say that," said Batiscombe, between his teeth, still
looking fiercely at her.

"You might forbid a man to say it," answered Diana, in low, calm tones.
"And for anything I care you may forbid any other woman in the world to
say it. But you cannot forbid me. I have the right."

"In that case," said Julius, rising, and struggling to speak quietly,
"there is nothing I can do but to leave you, since I will certainly not
listen."

But Diana rose also, and laid her white hand on his arm, as though she
could have bowed the strong man to the earth if she chose. She seemed
taller than he in the power and determination of her gesture.

"Sit down instantly," she said, under her breath.

Julius obeyed silently and sullenly. Then Diana resumed her seat.

"I have the right, Julius," she continued, "not because you pretend to
have loved me for ten years,--nor because I once thought I might accept
your love,--nor yet because I am sometimes weak enough to like you
still, in a sisterly way. But I have the right because you are making
love to my brother's wife, because she is young and innocent, and
because there is not another human being in the world to stand by her,
or to give her any protection in her danger."

"If you think that, why do you not tell your brother so?"

"Do you call yourself intelligent? Do you call yourself a gentleman?"
exclaimed Diana in bitter scorn. "Would you have me destroy the peace of
my brother and of his wife, because you are doing a bad action, that has
not yet borne fruit? Do you think I am afraid of you? Of you?" She
repeated the word almost between her teeth.

"No," said Batiscombe, under his breath, "I do not. But I would like to
ask you a question."

"I will answer," said Diana.

"Why did you tell that absurd story about me this afternoon? Did you not
see it was just the very worst thing you could possibly do, from your
own point? That nothing rouses a woman's interest like such tales?"

"I promised to answer your question," said Diana, coldly, "and I will. I
told the story thoughtlessly, because I am a woman, and admire such
things quite independently of the person who has done them. Do not
flatter yourself that a woman like Leonora Carantoni will fall in love
with you because you are brave. But I dare say I did wrong, and I am
sorry for it. You have qualities which any one may admire, but you have
others which I despise."

"I despise them myself, sometimes," said Julius, almost to himself.

"Despise them always,--at least, and be consistent," answered Diana.
"But you will not. You like them, those bad qualities, and when you like
them, they make a miserable wretch of you, as they do now. You know well
enough, however cleverly you may deceive yourself, that you ought not to
be here. You stay,--you are a coward, besides being a great many worse
things which I leave you to understand."

Batiscombe's eyes flashed angrily in the starlight.

"You are cruel, Diana, and unkind," he said.

Diana was silent a moment, and she drew her dark lace shawl about her,
as though she were cold. When she spoke her voice was infinitely soft
and gentle.

"Do not say that, Julius. Do not say I am ever cruel to you,--for to
you, of all people in the world, I would be most kind."

Julius bent down and pressed his hands to his temples, and sighed
heavily.

"Oh, Diana," he groaned, "I know it, I know it."

"Then I will not say any more. Do this thing because it is right,--not
because I ask you to. Have I ever reproached you before, when you have
come to me of your own accord and told me your troubles? What right have
I to reproach you?"

Julius was silent. He knew in his heart that she had the right, because
he still loved her best. He sat immovable, his head buried in his hands.
Diana rose and stood beside him; she lightly laid her hand upon his
shoulder, allowing it to linger kindly for a moment, and then she turned
and moved away.

The spell was broken, and Batiscombe rose swiftly and followed her.
There was a light in the drawing-room that opened upon the terrace,
which Batiscombe had not noticed before. As they entered they found
Marcantonio with a candle, overturning books and papers as if in search
of something. He looked up with a curious expression of surprise in his
face, holding the candle before him.

"Ah!" he cried, "good-evening, my friends. You have been taking a little
air. Eh? I imagined that you were all asleep."

Madame de Charleroi smiled serenely at her brother. She knew it was an
accident, and that he had a habit of forgetting things and coming to
look for them. She said it had been hot all day, and she and Monsieur
Batiscombe had been enjoying the coolness of the terrace. Julius bowed
blandly and said good-night. But he suspected Marcantonio of having come
to watch his sister. They passed on, and Marcantonio stood for a moment
looking after them as they went out into the hall, where lights were
still burning. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Eh!" he exclaimed aloud to himself, in Italian, "I do not understand
anything about it--ma proprio niente." And he continued his search for
the missing letter, pondering deeply.

Batiscombe spent a sleepless night, which was very unusual with him. The
interview with Diana had made a deep impression on him at the time. He
knew that whenever she was at hand to exert her influence he should
succumb to it. But as the night wore on, the strength of the impression
diminished, and the old feeling of obstinate defiance gradually
returned. At all events, he thought, he would show her that her
suspicions were empty, and that nothing--no harm, at least--could come
of his intimacy with Leonora. He would also be sure that if Diana
interrupted another interview it could hardly be by accident. Such
accidents did not occur every day. In the early dawn he rose and went
down in his slippers to the sea, and bathed in the cool salt water, and
smoked a cigarette on the rocks, and another in the archway where the
scene of the previous afternoon had occurred. Then he went up to the
house and walked round it, and surveyed the various angles, and
terraces, and balconies, and eccentricities of patchwork architecture
that made up the dwelling. Suddenly he stopped as though an idea had
struck him.

Houses in the south have often as many as five or six broad terraces, of
various sizes and at various elevations, built from time to time to suit
the taste and convenience of the owners. The strong brown vines grow up
leafless from the ground till they reach the trellis, and then spread
out into luxuriant foliage and a multiplicity of rich fruit-bearing
branches, making a thick shade, into which even the noonday sun finds it
hard to penetrate. Julius had just observed that there was a large
terrace of this kind which he had not yet noticed, having been but a
very few days at liberty to wander alone about the place. It was as high
as the first floor, and on the side toward Castellamare, facing the sea.
He had been in Marcantonio's room, and knew that it did not open upon
this terrace, and Leonora's apartment was on the other side of the
house. Obviously this balcony belonged to Madame de Charleroi's rooms,
or was attached to some vacant part of the building. It struck him that
if it were vacant, it would be a very agreeable spot in which to pass
the afternoon. He thought he might mention it to Leonora that morning,
and find out if it were available, since their retreat in the rocks had
been invaded. It had the advantage of being large, so that people seated
upon it could not be seen from below, and the thick vines would prevent
their being seen from above.

He spoke to the Marchesa about it as soon as they were alone for a
moment after breakfast. She went quietly and surveyed the place,
ascertained that it corresponded with a set of rooms which were not in
use, the house being very large and irregular, and agreed that she
should spend the afternoon there with Julius, since the sun would then
be on the other side. There were long window-doors opening to the
ground, of which the blinds were fastened, and only the middle one was
left open to give access to the terrace. It was delightful, because it
was in the house, so to say, and open to every one, and yet no one knew
of it. Why should they not sit there? It was much better than going and
hiding in the rocks with an air of secrecy, in order to be annoyed by
that terrible Diana! Much better! Though, after all, they need not have
troubled themselves, for Diana went out at three o'clock in the carriage
to pay a visit.

Accordingly, Leonora and Julius passed a very pleasant afternoon
together, and when it was late they found Marcantonio, and made him go
out in the boat for an hour or two, and everything was very agreeable.
Marcantonio was greatly relieved at finding that his sister was away
from Batiscombe, and he talked his best, and really made Leonora take
an interest in his conversation. She could always find him better
company when she had been with Julius for some time and had said all the
things she wanted to say, and which Marcantonio would not have
understood.

The next day Marcantonio was obliged to go to Naples on very urgent
business. An ex-royalty who sympathised with Carantoni's party, and was
now in exile, had come to Naples for a day or two incognito--quite as
though he had never been a royalty at all, and Marcantonio felt it his
duty to go and salute the august personage according to ancient custom.
He therefore left the house at an early hour, to return at dusk. He
thought his sister and his wife could chaperone each other for a day
without danger. But he said to himself that if he had found Diana alone
with Batiscombe again he would not have gone.

The morning passed away as usual. Batiscombe, relying on the afternoon
for his hours with Leonora, only stayed down-stairs till she was joined
by Diana, and then retired to his room, where he wrote or read in
solitude, as the fancy took him. The three breakfasted together at one
o'clock; then Madame de Charleroi retired to her rooms, and in the
course of a quarter of an hour Leonora and Julius were installed for the
afternoon in their newly-found situation on the disused terrace.

Diana's boudoir was a corner room in the front of the house, facing the
sea, and opening, by one window, on a narrow stone balcony running the
whole length of the building; the other window was on the right side,
and if she could have undone the blinds she would have seen that it
opened upon the large terrace already mentioned. But the aforesaid
blinds had resisted her efforts, and, as she supposed that they were
closed for some purpose, she said nothing about it, merely opening the
glass to admit the air. Leonora, who did not know the house thoroughly,
and had a habit of leaving everything to the servants, was not aware of
this, and did not realise the exact position of Diana's sitting-room.
Batiscombe, of course, had taken her assurance that this side of the
house was uninhabited. Accordingly, it came to pass that when he and
Leonora installed themselves, they took up their position immediately
outside Diana's window, under the shadow of the wall.

Madame de Charleroi, on this particular day, did not go into her boudoir
at once, but spent some time in her bedroom. When she was ready to begin
writing, she passed through the door and sat at her desk. She at once
heard the sound of voices outside, but she did not listen, nor stop to
think who the talkers might be.

Presently, however, the continued sound annoyed her, forced its way
through the blinds, and prevented her from writing. They were speaking
English. She understood the language, being a cultivated woman of the
world, and the wife of a diplomatist, though she avoided speaking it.

The strong, earnest voice of Julius Batiscombe,--the pleading,
protesting, yet yielding tones of Leonora, always dominated by the
passionate eloquence of the man, and ever answering more weakly,--all
this she heard, and she sat stony and wild-eyed with horror, realising
in a moment the whole hideous proportions of the phrases.

Diana de Charleroi was the noblest and most honourable of women. Under
other circumstances, if the voices had been those of strangers or
indifferent people, she would not have hesitated an instant, but would
have given some unmistakable sign of her presence. But this thing was
too near her, it was a too horrible realisation of what she had dimly
foreseen as possible, when she had spoken such strong words two nights
earlier.

It was too utterly and unspeakably awful. Her brother's wife,--not three
months married,--and Julius Batiscombe, the man who had for ten years
loved herself,--or had made her believe it,--whom she herself had once
loved, and had never forgotten!

But Diana was no weak woman, to give way to trouble or danger in the
face of it. For a few minutes she bowed her head in her hands, trembling
from head to foot, and no longer hearing the quickly spoken words
outside. Then she rose to her feet, and made one step toward the closed
blinds.

No, she would not put them to open shame. Yet something must be done at
once. With one movement of her strong white fingers she overturned the
heavy olive-wood writing table upon the smooth tile floor with a crash
that sounded through the house. In the silence that followed, she heard
a moving of chairs outside, and the quick tread of departing feet. Then
she went swiftly to her room, heedless of the streaming ink upon the
floor, staining her long white gown, and trampling the litter of pens
and paper under foot. She threw herself upon her bed and lay quite
still, white as death, and staring at the ceiling.

All the disgrace to her brother's name,--to her own,--came suddenly upon
her, like a nightmare, a thing that no waking could cast off. All the
utter baseness and unfaithfulness of her old lover was before her,
making her scorn and loathe herself for ever having loved such a man,
even in the foolish haste of a romantic girlhood. Her eyes strained
wildly, striving to shed tears, and could not, and the whole possible
pain of human agony, passing the very pains of hell, got hold upon her
soul.

That night, at dinner, Leonora looked desperately ill. Her face was
white, save for a small red flush upon each cheek, and her eyes had a
strange, furtive look about them, avoiding all meeting with the look of
the other three persons at table. She said she had been in the sun, had
got a bad headache, and would go to bed immediately. She had only
insisted on being at dinner in order to greet her husband on his return
from Naples,--but when he touched her she shrank away, and said she was
nervous.

Batiscombe was pale, too, beneath his tan, and though he looked every
one in the face, his eyes were disagreeable to see, having an angry
glare in them, like those of a wild beast at bay. He spoke little and
drank more wine than usual, after the manner of Englishmen when they are
unhappy.

Diana was magnificent. Being often pale in the summer, no one saw any
especial change in her appearance, and she threw herself nobly into the
breach, asking all manner of questions of her brother concerning his
trip, and showing a reasonable amount of sympathy for Leonora. The
consequence was that Marcantonio was nearly satisfied, in spite of the
strong impression he at first received that something unpleasant had
occurred in his absence. But when he had an idea he dwelt upon it, and
he promised himself that he would ask many questions of his sister when
Leonora had gone to bed.

He accompanied his wife to her apartment when dinner was over, with a
solicitude which was perfectly genuine, but which made her tremble at
every turn. His careful anxiety lest she should over-tire herself upon
the stairs, lest there should be a draught in her room, or, in short,
lest anything should be omitted which could conduce to her immediate
recovery from the exposure to the sun--so dangerous in the south, he
kept repeating--made her almost certain that she was already suspected,
and that so much kindness was only preparatory to some dreadful outbreak
of reproach.

While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batiscombe out through the
drawing-room to the terrace. Neither spoke till they had reached the end
away from the house, where they had sat together two nights before.

"Julius Batiscombe," said Diana, her voice trembling with
strongly-mastered anger, "you will leave this house immediately."

"Why, if you please?" he asked, defiantly.

"You know very well why," she answered, turning full upon him. "Do not
ask questions, but go."

"I will do nothing of the kind," said he, folding his arms and facing
her. "You have no earthly reason to give, save your own caprice."

"I heard your conversation this afternoon outside my window. It was I
who made the noise you heard, to warn you to be silent." She made the
statement deliberately, choking down her anger, and looking him in the
eyes.

"I heard no noise--I was not outside your window," answered Julius,
telling the boldest lie of his life, and, to say the truth, one of very
few, for he never lied to save himself, with all his faults. "I was not
outside your window," he repeated, "and I am glad I was not. For, by
your own account, you heard the conversation first, and gave your signal
afterwards."

"Very well," said she. "I will not shame you by repeating the words I
involuntarily heard before I frightened you away. But you will leave
this house to-morrow all the same. You will also consider that in
future you have no title to cross my threshold, nor to bow to me in the
street." She turned swiftly, in utter scorn and disdain. Batiscombe
followed her to the door and into the drawing-room, where Marcantonio
met them, precisely as he had done before. It was too much for his newly
roused suspicions. Something had gone wrong, he was sure,--and why
should his sister and Batiscombe be everlastingly alone together on that
terrace at night?

"Ah!" he exclaimed, a little sarcastically, "you have again been taking
a little air? Well, well, the evenings are very agreeable. If you will,
we can sit outside, and monsieur and I will smoke a cigarette."

It was dreary enough, sitting together for an hour and more in the dark.
Madame de Charleroi would not speak to Batiscombe, and he confined
himself to asking questions of Marcantonio and to general remarks.
Marcantonio saw this, and decided that she was playing indifference in
public, because she saw enough of Batiscombe in private. The latter did
not force the position, but as soon as Donna Diana moved to go in, he
bade them both good-night, and went to his room and to his reflections.

There was a long silence after he was gone. Both the brother and sister
wanted to be sure that he was out of hearing. Diana spoke first, very
gently and kindly.

"Marcantonio," she said, "I have something very important to say to
you."

She threw a light paper shade over the bright lamp, and sat herself down
beside him on the sofa.




CHAPTER XIV.


During the four hours which had elapsed between Madame de Charleroi's
involuntary discovery in the afternoon and the dinner hour, she had
found time to collect her thoughts and to form a plan of action.

It was absolutely necessary to do something at once, and, if possible,
to understand afterwards how Leonora could have allowed herself in so
short a time to fall a victim to the eloquence and personal charms of
Julius Batiscombe. She wondered vaguely how it were all possible, but in
the meantime she knew that the mischief existed, and that she must do
her utmost to avert its growth and frightful consequences, since she
alone could be of use.

Her first impulse had been to go to the window and disclose herself,
whereby she thought she could have put Batiscombe to flight instantly.
He could hardly have stayed in the house with her after such a scene as
must have followed. But a proud instinct forbade her; she would not have
it appear that she could possibly stand to Julius in the position of
Leonora's rival. Nor could she have found it in her heart to inflict on
her sister-in-law the indelible disgrace of an exposure. All this passed
through her mind in a moment, and checked her first step towards the
window. She frightened the lovers away by upsetting her table, instead
of coming upon them herself, and she knew an hour later that she had
thereby lost the power of managing them by anything she could say to
Batiscombe. She would not--she could not--go to Leonora and force a
confession. Besides, what good would be gained? Leonora was a person to
be protected, not attacked. As for Julius, she knew perfectly well, when
she led him out to the terrace while Marcantonio was up-stairs, that he
would deny everything. He could do nothing else, and he did it boldly,
though it was of no use. But Diana thought it possible that he would
leave the house without a struggle, and abandon the position for a time.

If Julius had been a less passionate man, and a more accomplished
villain, if he had loved Leonora less ardently and more designingly, or
if he had been less furiously angry against Diana, he would have acted
differently. He would have lied just as he had done, but blandly and
with a great show of astonishment; he would have made a low bow,
answering Diana that he was at all times ready to obey her, and he would
have left the house in the morning, with an elaborate excuse to his
hosts. But Batiscombe was quite another sort of person. One of the
calmest and most diplomatic of men under ordinary circumstances, his
passion when roused was wholly uncontrollable. He was madly in love, and
madly angry, and he would have cheerfully fought the whole world
single-handed for the sake of his love, or of his anger, separately, let
alone in the present case, when both were roused to the fiercest pitch.

Diana knew him well, and, after the few words she had exchanged with him
on the terrace, she knew what to expect. And she had foreseen the
possibility of his refusal to leave the villa, and was prepared for it.
The only question of difficulty was to direct Marcantonio's whole anger
against Batiscombe, and to shield Leonora as far as possible; but
Marcantonio must be told of the danger, since Diana alone was unable to
avert it.

She sat beside him on the deep sofa in the drawing-room, and she laid
her hand affectionately on his, as though to give him some strength to
bear what was in store.

"It is very important," she said, "and you must be very patient. You
must give me your word that you will do nothing violent for at least a
day, for you will be very angry." She knew that, with all his good
nature, she could rely on his courage. He was not easily frightened,
after all. He looked earnestly at her, and his face was drawn into a
look of determination that sat oddly on his delicate and rather weak
features.

"Speak, Diana mia," he said simply. "I will do what I can for you." He
supposed, of course, that something had occurred between herself and
Batiscombe.

"It is not I," she said, "it is you who are concerned."

"I?" repeated her brother, in some astonishment.

"Yes. You are the person who must act in the matter. You must write a
little note to Batiscombe, and tell him that your wife's sudden
illness"--

"What? But it is only a little sun--a mere headache," interrupted
Marcantonio.

"No matter;--that your wife's sudden illness is so severe that you must
beg him to postpone the remainder of his visit to some future time."

Marcantonio looked more and more astonished.

"But I only asked him for a week. He will go of his own accord to-morrow
or the day after. I am sorry, Diana, but you said you did not mind
meeting him." He spoke seriously, with a puzzled expression on his face.

"It makes no difference," said Diana. "He must go to-morrow morning. He
has not behaved honourably to you since he has been in the house."

Her brother looked suddenly very grave, and his voice dropped as he
spoke.

"Has he insulted you, Diana?" he asked.

"Yes," said she, in low tones, "he has insulted me. But he has done
worse, he has insulted your wife in my hearing."

Marcantonio turned suddenly on the sofa, and grasped his sister's arm as
in a vise. His face turned a ghastly colour, and his voice trembled
violently.

"Diana--are you telling me the truth?"

Her grey eyes turned honestly and bravely to him.

"You and I never learned to tell lies, Marcantonio. It is true."

She knew well enough that he would never suspect his wife, nor ask a
question which could lead to such a conclusion. When she said that
Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, she spoke the absolute truth. What
greater insult can man offer an honest woman than by wittingly forcing
upon her an unlawful love?

Marcantonio looked at her one moment, and then sprang to his feet. At
that instant he could have killed Julius Batiscombe with his hands, as
perhaps Diana herself would have done. She seized his hand as he stood,
and drew him toward her.

"No," she said, understanding his thought, "remember your promise. You
must do nothing now--except write the note."

But Carantoni was in no condition to write notes. He broke away, and
walked wildly up and down the room, wringing his hands together, and
muttering furious ejaculations. He was too angry, too much surprised,
too much horrified at his own stupidity throughout the affair to be able
to think clearly. Diana sat motionless on the sofa, as angry, perhaps,
as he, in her own way, but full of pity and sympathy for him, and trying
to devise some means of helping him. She leaned forward, resting her
chin on her hand, and her eyes followed him anxiously in his quick,
irregular walk. And as she looked he seemed gradually to fall under her
influence, and went and sat in a deep chair away from her, and buried
his face.

Then Diana rose, and went to the table in the corner and arranged the
light, and wrote, herself, the note to Batiscombe, leaving a blank at
the foot for a signature. She looked round, and saw her brother watching
her.

"Come, dear boy," she said kindly, "I have written the note for you;
sign it, and I will see that he gets it in the morning."

Marcantonio rose and came to her with uncertain steps. He put his hand
on her shoulder a moment. Then he fell on his knees beside her, and
pressed her close to him, silently. Presently he rose, she put the pen
between his fingers, still trembling with his anger, and he signed the
note as best he could. She put it into an envelope, sealed it, and
directed it to Julius Batiscombe.

"He will be out of the house before we are up," she said in a tone of
certainty. "Go to bed, dear boy, and never let him trouble your peace
again."

"But I will trouble his peace," answered Marcantonio, bending his smooth
brows.

"We will see about that afterwards," said Diana. "If you think best to
fight him, I will not oppose you; but we will talk about it. We cannot
talk now. Good-night my dear, dear brother."

She kissed him on the forehead and held both his hands for a moment, and
then led him away. He obeyed mechanically, and they parted for the
night.

Diana often wished her brother were a stronger man in the ordinary
things of life, but she knew that he was honest, and no coward in
danger, and that he always spoke the truth and kept his word. It was
his fault that he always imagined every one to be as honest as himself
until the contrary was proved,--after which he never trusted the man
again.

Diana went slowly to her room and locked the door behind her. With a
candle in her hand she entered the boudoir and looked round upon the
scene of the catastrophe. The glass of the long window was still open,
and the refractory blinds still closed, the bolts rusted in, beyond her
strength to draw them. The servants had raised the desk upright and
washed away the ink from the tiles; there was no trace of disorder
visible. She could hardly realise that in this neat room, that very day,
only a few hours ago, she had passed through one of the most terrible
experiences of her life.

She sat down in the chair before the desk and bent her queenly head. She
had done her best for the right through that day, but it had all gone by
so very quickly that she doubted whether she had done wisely. It seemed
as though the burden of it all rested upon her--of the right and of the
wrong; and the burden was very heavy. May God in his mercy give strength
and courage to all brave women doing the right!

I think that ordinary women have more moral vanity than ordinary men;
but that very good men have more of it than very good women. A good man
always seems to have a conviction of goodness, to be quite sure when he
has done right, and to enjoy the sense of having done it. A woman's
sympathies are wider and reach further than a man's. When she has done
her best, there always is something more that she would do if she could,
and until that is done also she can never feel the comfortable delight
in godliness experienced by man, the grosser creature, who hedges his
possibilities more closely, and gets rid of his superfluous aspirations
by the logical demonstration of the unattainable. But the sphere of
ordinary women is narrower, and their sympathies are dispersed in a
greater multiplicity and divergence of small channels, so that a little
goodness, a little easy charity with a pretty name, is a luscious titbit
to the tongue that speaketh vanity.

It was a dreary night to every one of the four,--least of all perhaps to
Julius Batiscombe, whose fierce temper was thoroughly roused and would
not be calmed again for days, giving him a kind of wicked satisfaction
while it lasted. He spent most of the night at his window, smoking and
going over the scenes of the day, and the scenes of the future. His mind
ran in the direction of fighting,--to fight any one or anything would be
a rare satisfaction; and ever as he fancied some struggle possible the
hot blood rushed to his temples and longed for action, so that he bit
his cigar through and through, and clasped his hands together till the
veins stood out like ropes. He slept a little at last, and dreamed
savage dreams of hand-to-hand combat, and woke with the roar of cannon
in his ears. For he was a man of exaggerated fancies when his brain
worked unconsciously, like many men who have ended in celebrity or in
insane asylums.

The roar of the guns was only a servant knocking at his door, with hot
water and a note. He saw Diana's handwriting, and suspected a new move,
so that he was not altogether astonished by the contents. He understood
that she had made Marcantonio sign her writing--by what means he could
not tell--in order to force the position. There was evidently nothing to
be done but to go. He would not have left the villa for anything Diana
could have said, in his present humour, but it was impossible to bid
defiance to the master of the house. Besides, he supposed that since
Carantoni had invited him to leave, Diana had said something which would
lead to a challenge from her brother, which could naturally not be
delivered under his own roof.

He read the note through twice, and he went about his toilet with his
usual care, looking angrily at himself in the glass as he shaved, but
gradually composing his features to an appearance of calmness. Then he
put his things together, rang the bell, told the servant he was going to
Sorrento on business, and gave him a very handsome fee, requesting him
to bring the things to the hotel in the course of the day. Julius took
his hat and stick, and strolled out of the house toward the town.

Donna Diana and Marcantonio met in the morning. They saluted each other
with the quiet, mournful understanding of people who have a common
trouble, which they know must be spoken of, though they desire to put
off the evil moment. They were both pale, and Diana's eyes were shaded
by great dark rings that spoke of a sleepless night.

"Have you seen Leonora? How is she?" was her first question.

"Dio mio! She is very poorly. Poverina! It has made a terrible
impression on her. Of course I did not speak of the subject."

"Of course." Diana sighed and looked drearily at the window, as though
she wished she were outside, away, and beyond this trouble. She could
not know what Leonora would say or do if Marcantonio ever broached the
subject. "I do not think," said she, "that it will ever be necessary to
say anything about it. She will understand that you sent him out of the
house,--she will never see him again."

"Is he gone?" asked Marcantonio.

"Yes--early this morning. I sent to find out."

"Then there need be no time lost," said her brother. "I have just
written a note to De Lancray, at Castellamare. It is much better to have
a Frenchman in dealing with foreigners. He will be here by one o'clock,
and will arrange everything."

Diana had expected that Marcantonio would send for a friend to arrange
matters with Batiscombe. She did not look surprised.

"Have you sent the man yet?" she asked.

"He is getting a horse, I suppose. I have not heard him go."

"Tell him to wait five minutes. This is a serious affair, and we had
better act deliberately."

Diana intended to prevent the duel if possible. Marcantonio was willing
to humour her, and went out to stop the man. When he came back, she made
him sit down beside her.

She explained to him the situation very clearly. Batiscombe had insulted
Leonora, had done her a mortal offence. But Batiscombe was not the
important person in the case. Leonora was the important person. If
matters had been different, if, for instance, a man had run away with
another man's wife, then, of course, they must necessarily fight,--and
the woman made no difference, since her reputation would be already
destroyed. But it would be a terrible injury to a young wife to have her
husband fighting a duel about her before they had been married three
months. People always say there is not much smoke without a little fire;
society, being generally averse to standing up to be shot at, says that
a man in Marcantonio's position would not go out unless he had very
serious cause. Of course it would say in this case that the cause lay
with Leonora, that she should never have allowed a man enough intimacy
to give him a chance of insulting her, and so forth, and so on.

Diana would not use the argument of the Church's prohibition of
duelling. She knew that Leonora's welfare was the chiefest thing present
in her brother's mind, and that if she could show him that, for
Leonora's sake, he ought to leave Batiscombe alone, he would assuredly
conquer his anger and his pride. He had no sanguine and combative
instincts, like Julius; he did not like fighting for the enjoyment of
it, and if he could be convinced that his anger was unwise, he would
ultimately get the better of it, now that the first sharp moment of
wrath was over. To preserve Leonora's spotless fame was a much more
important thing than to punish an insolent foreigner for vainly
attempting to damage it, and thereby calling the attention of the world
to the fact that her reputation was capable of damage.

It was a hard fight, and Diana's patience never wearied through the
hours they talked together. More than once she thought it was lost, and
that Marcantonio would order the note to be dispatched. Nothing but the
real affection and trust that existed between her and her brother made
it possible for her to succeed. But at last he was convinced, and
silently went out and got the note he had written, and tore it up before
his sister. The die was cast, and he did not mention the subject again,
but went to see his wife. At her door he was told by her maid that
Leonora was asleep, which was not true. But he asked no questions, and
retired to his own room to solace himself as he might. He was too
deeply distressed to wonder why Diana did not go to Leonora and sit with
her.

Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she and Batiscombe had parted
on the previous evening before dinner. At table, as has been seen, she
had said little, and no one had seen her since except her husband, who
had gone to her in the morning. After his visit she rang for her maid
and told her to see that no one disturbed her, as she was going to sleep
again and would ring when she wanted anything.

At the moment when her husband was told she was not visible, she was
sitting in her dressing-room, just behind the closed blinds of the
window, listening to the monotonous, dry hum of the locusts in the
garden, and wondering whether anything would ever happen again in the
world. She was utterly dishevelled, her rich hair falling to her
shoulders and halfway to the ground in wildest disorder; the gay
 ribbons of her peignoir all untied and ruffled, her bare feet
half thrust into her gold-embroidered slippers, her hands lying idly in
her lap, as though there were nothing more for them to do. A strange,
wild figure, sitting there surrounded by all the gorgeous little
properties and knickknacks of a great lady's toilet.

Batiscombe was gone! Her husband had told her that he had been requested
to postpone the remainder of his visit indefinitely. Of course he had
gone, then. Marcantonio had supposed she would understand and be well
satisfied. But she had only turned and hidden her face in the
pillow,--as was perhaps natural to a very young woman when her husband
mentioned anything that gave her a sense of shame. She must have been
very much hurt by the insult, whatever it was, and she could not bear to
hear it mentioned. Marcantonio had not told his sister of this, thinking
it would be indelicate, and was nobody's business but his own and his
wife's.

Batiscombe was gone--when should she see him again? How could he reach
her, or she him? What was life to be like without him? And then the
dazed, disappointed, terrified look came again to her face, and she
stared at nothing, vacantly, and like a woman beside herself.

And oh, that other thought! How much did Marcantonio know? It was Diana,
of course, who had made that frightful noise--she could hear the crash
still sounding in her ears. She had remembered too late that corner
room, cut off from all the others opening on the terrace, and
communicating from within with Diana's bedroom--oh, the folly of it! If
only Diana were to come to her--she could kill her, she thought! She was
not so tall, perhaps, but she was much stronger--she was sure she could
kill her! But how much did Marcantonio know? Diana was so truthful, she
must have told him all. Those hateful people who always speak the truth!
Ah, if only Batiscombe could come back--or see her one moment before he
went. But he was gone already. If he could have seen her this morning,
she might have arranged--it was impossible yesterday afternoon, he was
so wild, so furiously, gloriously angry. It did her good to think of his
blazing eyes, and strong, set teeth just showing between his parted
lips. He was such a man among men! Never again--never--never, perhaps!
She might be shut up--made a prisoner--Heaven only knew what was in
store for her! Dreary, hopeless, no light, no life--no anything.

Hollow? She laughed dismally to herself. Yes, life was hollow indeed,
now--empty of all joy, or peace, or rest, forever and ever. Pray? How
could she pray? Prayer was an innocent amusement for idle young women,
with imaginary sins and plenty of time. But now--bah! nothing was
further from her thoughts. What could Heaven do for her? Heaven would
certainly not give her Batiscombe again. It would be wrong--ha! ha! of
course it was wrong; but what was life without him? What had all her
life been as compared with the happiness of the last fortnight,
culminating in the happiness of yesterday? It might be wrong, but it was
life; and all before had been mere existence--a miserable, vegetable,
hopeless existence.

The day dragged on; she took no thought of the hours, though she had
taken neither food nor drink since the night before. And always the maid
outside the door said she was asleep.

At five o'clock she could bear it no longer, but rang the bell and said
she would dress, as she felt much better. The maid told her that one of
the men had returned from Sorrento and wished to see her excellency, as
he had executed a commission for her.

Leonora stared a moment, guessed there was something behind the message,
and ordered the man to go into her sitting-room, whither she presently
went, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, that completely hid her
disarranged peignoir. The man handed her a small parcel and waited. She
turned her back, and, opening it, found a little olive-wood box, and
inside that there was a small note with neither address nor name on it.
She hastily closed the box again, and, turning carelessly, so that the
man could see her, she examined it by the window, as though criticising
the workmanship. She nodded to the man to go, but he stood looking at
her with a queer expression that frightened her. She understood that he
had examined the parcel on the way, probably; at all events, that he
must be bribed. She quickly opened a drawer of her secretary, found a
purse, and gave the fellow a gold piece. He grinned, bowed his thanks,
and retired. He was the man who had taken Batiscombe's things to town
that afternoon.

Leonora had no experience. In novels, people always bribed the servants;
it was most likely the proper thing--the safe thing--to do. The man
would not have gone away unless she had given him something, she
thought.

The note was brief to terseness. It conveyed in the fewest possible
words the information that the writer--name not mentioned--intended to
spend the day, in future, in a small boat with green oars--underlined
with a very black stroke--in the vicinity of a certain landing known to
both the writer and the receiver of the note--name of latter also not
mentioned. And the writer added, laconically, "No fee to bearer."

She ought to have read the note through before paying the man. But what
could she have done? He had stood staring at her, until he was paid.

Her heart gave a great leap. It was so like him, so daring, to send her
word at once. At least she should feel, now, that he was always there,
waiting for her--ready to help her at a moment's notice. If only she
could be with him on the soft, blue water, out in the sun! She could
fight now--she could face them all--for he was out there; at least, he
would be there to-morrow. She went back to her bedroom, and gave herself
up to her maid, and had strong tea and bread-and-butter brought to her,
while she dressed; and an hour later she sallied out, with all her usual
elasticity of step and motion, and all the marvellous freshness of face
that distinguished her from other women. She found her husband and Diana
together on the terrace.

Marcantonio's face softened and flushed with pleasure as he saw how
well and beautiful she looked. She, at least, he thought, had not
suffered long by all this trouble. It was so brave of her to forget it,
now that the man was gone; he was so glad to think that he could have
borne the brunt of it, and had saved her the pain of any discussion. But
he said little, just kissing her hand, and affectionately leading her to
a comfortable chair.

Diana, who had really carried the heat of the battle alone, and bore the
burden of the secret, was very quiet. She saw a little look of hardness
in Leonora's face which she had seen long before, but rarely. She said
kindly that she was very glad to see her up again, and hoped she was
entirely recovered. Marcantonio, said Diana, had been very anxious.

For an instant the two women faced each other, and Leonora thought she
was beginning to understand her sister-in-law.




CHAPTER XV.


From morning till night, under the broiling sun of August, a
wretched-looking boat plied slowly along the rocks in the neighbourhood
of the Carantoni landing. It was a miserable old tub, big enough to hold
three or four people at the most, and the solitary individual to whom it
seemed to belong propelled it slowly about with a pair of old green
oars. Now and then he would paddle under the shadow of the cliffs and
put down a line, angling for a stray mackerel or mullet, and sometimes
catching even one of those sharp-finned red fellows that the Neapolitan
fishermen called "cardinals." He did not seem to care much whether he
caught anything or not, but he apparently loved that particular part of
the coast, for he was never seen anywhere else. A big, shabby man, in
rough clothes, with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black
beard,--Julius Batiscombe as a fisherman,--brown as a berry, and growing
rough-fisted from constant handling of oars and lines and nets.

No one took any notice of him as he pottered about in his tub. The
watermen, who passed and repassed, knew him as the crazy Englishman who
found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun for the sake of
catching some wretched fish that he could buy in the market for half the
trouble. What did they care? They never fished there themselves, because
there were no fish,--a very good and simple reason,--and if a foolish
foreigner chose to register an old boat at the little fishing harbour
close by, and pay ten francs for the privilege, it was not their
business. Neapolitans and their congeners do not care much for anything
foreigners do, unless it happens to bring them money.

And in the evening when it was dark, Julius paddled away to Sorrento,
and, meeting his own boat on the way, pulled off his rough clothes,
jumped into the water for a swim, and dressed himself like a Christian
before going ashore. Save that he was growing a beard, and was almost
black with the sun, he was as much Julius Batiscombe as ever when he was
on land. He had no acquaintances in the hotel, and no one cared or asked
what he did with himself all day long.

It was said amongst the fishermen that he had been seen once or twice
rowing a foreign lady about, and they laughed at the idea of a "signore"
earning a franc by ferrying a passenger, just like one of
themselves--for, of course he was paid for it; it amused him, because he
was crazy, poveretto! And sometimes he was heard singing outlandish
songs to himself in the heat of the day as he paddled about under the
cliffs.

The time had sped quickly since Batiscombe had left the Carantoni
villa, and it was now the first week in August. Madame de Charleroi had
stayed nearly a week longer than she had intended, but at last had gone
back to Pegli, to Marcantonio's great regret, and to Leonora's
unspeakable relief. So long as Diana was in the house Leonora had been
obliged to steal occasions, few and far between, when she could safely
go down to the rocks and signal to the shabby man with the green oars to
come and take her off. Many and long and hot were the days when he
pulled his poor crazy craft about from dawn to dark, without catching a
sight of the strong lithe figure that he loved. But come when she would,
at morning, noon, or night, he was always there, ready to take her and
to slip off at a quick stroke to one of the many green caves that line
the shore; and there, for an hour or two, or as long as she might safely
stay, they spent happy moments together, the happier for being few,
forbidden, and somewhat dangerous.

As for the danger, though, there was not much of it. It would have been
hard, indeed, to recognise in the ill-clad boatman, with his stubbly
beard, and seedy cap of brown knitted wool, the fine gentleman whom the
natives stopped to look at in the street. Leonora, if any one had met
her on the landing, would have said she had taken the first passing
fisherman to row her about among the caves, and no one would have
suspected anything; and she used to laugh as she watched the progress of
his beard, knowing that each day made the disguise more complete.

Her own boat had given her some anxiety at first, but she had made
Marcantonio lend the whole equipage to a friend further down the bay,
telling him it was too hot to be on the water at present. And when Diana
was at last gone, she had most of the day to herself; for Marcantonio
was perpetually busy with letters, or trying horses, or going to Naples.
He always found his wife extremely charming when he had been away all
day, or shut up in his rooms, and preternaturally contradictory and
capricious when he was with her for long together, and he concluded that
she preferred a certain amount of solitude, and humoured her
accordingly. Never hearing of Batiscombe, he supposed he had left the
neighbourhood for parts unknown, and though he regretted not having had
an opportunity of shooting him, he knew in his heart that Diana's advice
had been good, and that it was best so. Now and then, when he thought of
Julius too long, he grew angry and paced quickly up and down his room;
but on the whole life was easy and pleasant enough, and his beloved
Leonora was the most charming of women, not half so capricious as some
of the wives of his friends.

How long this state of things might have continued it is impossible to
say, if a disturbing element had not been introduced. But the disturbing
element is seldom far to seek in such cases, and in due time it came.
There was a man in the service of the Marchesa Carantoni,--the same whom
Batiscombe had employed to take his things to Sorrento, and then to
convey the note to Leonora,--and the man's name was Temistocle, as
arrant a knave as ever opened palm for bribe. Carantoni had taken him in
Rome when he married, because he needed another man, and the fellow's
face was familiar to him. He had seen him in good houses, and had
noticed his extraordinary adroitness in waiting. The man's character was
not altogether satisfactory. He had received no recommendation from his
last place, but Marcantonio took him on trial and brought him to
Sorrento.

Temistocle had exceedingly sharp eyes, and Temistocle had an exceedingly
smooth tongue; he was understood among the servants to have made
economies, and his tastes were somewhat luxurious. He found Sorrento hot
and dull, and he cast about for something refreshing and amusing.

To take sea-baths had always been his chiefest ambition. It sounded well
to be able to say he had taken a course of sea-bathing. But the thing
was by no means easy at Sorrento. He could not bathe from his master's
landing, and it was a long distance to go round by the lanes to reach
another descent. At last, however, he discovered that he could climb
over the little point of rocks at the foot of the Carantoni villa, and
reach a small cove, where, in complete seclusion, he might enjoy himself
as he pleased. Accordingly, when he had finished serving the midday
breakfast he used to make a practice of going down to bathe. In his
little cove he hid his clothes carefully among the rocks and crept into
the water under the deep shadow of the overhanging cliff. He could not
swim a stroke, but he could sit just so that the water came up to his
chin, and his round black bullet head lay on the surface like a floating
football, scarcely visible to any one passing outside in the sun. From
this position it amused Temistocle to watch the boats and the fishermen
for an hour or two, enjoying the idea that they never dreamed of his
presence.

It chanced often, as he sat in the water, that Julius, in his outlandish
costume, paddled his old boat past Temistocle's retreat; and the sharp
eyes of the Roman servant were not long in discovering that the
fisherman was no fisherman at all. It was the easier to recognise
Batiscombe, as the man saw him when his beard was only a few days old.
From that day Temistocle watched his opportunity to descend when the
boat with the green oars had just passed, and would be out of the way
for some time.

There was never the smallest doubt in his mind of Batiscombe's intention
in thus disguising himself. The incident of the parcel, which he had
carefully opened and examined, Batiscombe's sudden departure, and
Leonora's simultaneous indisposition, all combined in his mind into one
harmonious whole, from which he proposed to himself to extract at least
a reasonable amount of money.

One day he was rewarded for his pains. The boat passed very near to the
mouth of his water-den, skirting the rocks at a great pace. He just saw
that Leonora was seated in the stern, and he incontinently ducked his
black head, and kept under water till he thought he must have drowned.
When at last he was obliged from sheer suffocation to bring his mouth to
the air, they were gone, and Temistocle sprang out of the water like
some dark evil genius of a low order, awaiting evolution into the
advanced condition of complete devildom. He was not long in dressing,
and in a few minutes he had got back to the landing, clambering quickly
over the rocks, and hurting himself, in his haste, at every step.

After that, he became more irregular in his habits, lurking in secret
places till he saw Leonora going toward the descent at the end of the
garden, and presently following her at a safe distance. He ascertained,
as he had expected, that Batiscombe spent his whole time within hail of
the landing, in the boat with the green oars, and that Leonora went down
and signalled to him, whenever she had a chance. Temistocle was so
delighted with the skill of the arrangement that for a long time he
could not prevail upon himself to interrupt it, even for the sake of the
bribe that must inevitably follow. But, one day, he needed money, and he
did not want to encroach upon his purse of savings, for he was a miserly
wretch as well as a knave. He had seen something pretty in the way of a
silk cap, which a stray pedlar had brought with other things, and he
thought he should enjoy bargaining for it the next time the pedlar came
with his wares. He knew that he should probably bargain for an hour and
then not buy it after all,--but nevertheless he might be weak, and then
he should like to feel that he had got the thing out of his betters by
his own skill, instead of squandering money from his hoard. He seldom
indulged in the luxury of buying what he fancied, but when he did he
generally made some one else pay for it. There was a certain refinement
of miserliness about him.

At first he imagined that it might be best to drop some hint to his
mistress, just enough to frighten her into paying for his silence. But
his calmer reflection told him that he would be thereby killing the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Batiscombe's ingenuity would make some
change in the arrangements and he would have to begin all over again.
Evidently the best thing was to make his master pay, and let the lovers
go quietly on their course, so that he could at any time produce
evidence of his veracity. He watched his opportunity. Marcantonio often
inquired whether the signora were in the house, or were gone out. If she
was out he supposed she had gone into the garden or to pay visits; he
never disturbed her arrangements, knowing how much she enjoyed being
perfectly free, and feeling sure she would not get into mischief. She
made a point of calling on everybody, telling him afterwards where she
had been, and the two or three hours she spent with Julius escaped
notice in her clever account of the spending of the day. Now and then
she would say she had been down to the rocks, in case her husband should
ever take it into his head to go and find her there, and she was quite
sure that by this time Julius was changed beyond recognition.

Temistocle had not long to wait. One day in August, Marcantonio chanced
to inquire of him where the marchesa might be. Temistocle was prepared;
with the utmost gravity and respect he dealt his blow, speaking as
though he were saying the most natural thing in the world.

"I suppose," he said, "that her excellency is gone out in the boat with
the Signor Batiscombe." He pronounced all the letters of the name, as
though it had been Italian; but it was unmistakable. Marcantonio turned
upon him in amazement.

"Animal!" he exclaimed, "are you drunk?"

"I, eccellenza?" cried Temistocle in hurt tones. "I drunk? Heaven
forbid."

"Then you are crazy," remarked Marcantonio, more and more astonished.
"The Signor Batiscombe is no longer here."

"Pardon me, eccellenza," retorted the servant respectfully. "I imagined
that your excellency knew. The Signor Batiscombe comes every day, and
takes the Signora Marchesa out in a boat. He is become a very strange
signore, for he dresses like a fisherman, and has let his beard grow as
long as this--so," the man explained, holding his hand a few inches from
his face. "Mi maraviglio, io!" he exclaimed, casting his eyes to the
ground.

Marcantonio was speechless with amazement and horror, and turned his
back upon the servant. A man less thoroughly a gentleman in every sense
would have fallen upon Temistocle and beaten him, then and there. By a
great effort, Marcantonio collected himself, and turned again.

"You have not to make any remarks upon the appearance of the Signor
Batiscombe," he said briefly. "Basta!"

Temistocle had nothing left but to bow and leave the room. He did not
understand his master in the least; he was just like a foreigner, he
thought.

But Marcantonio dropped into an arm-chair, the moment he was alone, as
though all the strength and life were suddenly gone from him. He could
not in the least realise the extent of the revelation contained in
Temistocle's words. He did not know what to do, and for the moment it
did not even strike him that there was anything to be done. In the
course of half an hour he grew calmer and began to review the situation.

He remembered distinctly every word of Diana's concerning the trouble
when Batiscombe was in the house. Diana had said very distinctly that
Julius had insulted Leonora--and Diana always spoke the truth.
Marcantonio had not asked her what the insult had been. He could not
bring himself to do it, and he did not want to know anything more. He
would have cheerfully fought with Batiscombe on the strength of his
sister's assertion, but she had dissuaded him, and now he was sorry for
it.

The servant had spoken with an air of conviction, as though he thought
it quite natural, and only wondered at Batiscombe's strange appearance.
There could not be any doubt about it, at all.

A new sensation took possession of Marcantonio--an utterly new passion,
which he did not recognise as part of himself. He was jealous. He did
not, he would not, understand the truth, but he would prevent his wife
from ever seeing Julius Batiscombe again, and then he would go in search
of him and wreak his vengeance without stint. At the same time he hoped
he might avoid a scene with Leonora. He was brave enough to fight the
man, but he shrank from telling his wife what he knew. It seemed so
brutal and uncourteous, and altogether contrary to his principles.

But, after all, he ought to ascertain whether Temistocle were
right--whether Julius really disguised himself. He would go and see.

No, he could not do that! He could not play the spy upon his wife--it
was low, ignoble, unworthy. He would find some other way. His brain swam
and it seemed too much for him. He grasped the arm of the chair and
rose to his feet in pure desperation, feeling that he must get out of
the way into his own rooms for a while, lest any one should see him in
his present state.

In the hall Marcantonio paused a moment, holding his hand to his head,
as though it hurt him, and as he waited the door opened, and Leonora
faced him, beaming with light, and life, and happiness. Marcantonio
looked at her one instant, and tried to speak; he would have said
something courteous, from force of habit. But the words choked him, and
losing all control of himself he turned and fled up the stairs, leaving
his wife staring in blank amazement.

Poor fellow! she thought, he had probably got a touch of the sun. She
hastened to her room and sent to inquire if the signore were ill, and if
she might come to him. They brought back word that he was dressing, and
that nothing was the matter. Then Leonora felt a cold chill descend to
her heart, the dreadful presentiment of a real terror, not far distant.
But when she met her husband in the evening at dinner, she did not dare
to refer to his strange behaviour in the hall.

During dinner he talked much as usual, except that he did not laugh at
all, and seemed very grave. There was a preternatural calm about him
that increased Leonora's fears. She knew him so little that she could
not be sure what he would do, whether anything had really occurred, or
whether he were subject to fits of insanity. He had looked like a
madman in the afternoon.

When they were alone, he offered her his arm, and led her out into the
air, and they sat down side by side in deep chairs. Marcantonio
leisurely lighted a cigarette, and puffed a few minutes in silence.

"Leonora," he said at last, "I have heard a curious thing, and I must
tell you immediately." His voice was even and cold; his whole manner was
different from anything she remembered in her experience of him; he was
more imposing, altogether more of a man and stronger. Leonora trembled
violently, knowing instinctively that he had discovered something. She
did not speak, but let him continue.

"I chanced to inquire if you were at home this afternoon, and the man
said he supposed you were gone out in the boat with Mr. Batiscombe, as
you did every day. Is it true? The man who told me said it as though it
were quite natural, as though every one in the house knew it except
myself."

Leonora was dumb for a moment. The accusation came so suddenly that she
was taken off her guard, besides being thoroughly frightened at her
husband's terrible calmness, so unlike his manner under ordinary
circumstances. She lay back in her low chair and tried to collect her
thoughts.

"The man had also observed," continued Marcantonio, turning his keen
dark eyes upon her, "that Monsieur Batiscombe had a beard, and was
dressed like a fisherman. Altogether, it was extremely curious."

Marcantonio and his sister always spoke the truth. Batiscombe never lied
in his life to save himself, but could do it boldly when it was
absolutely necessary to save some one else. He had no principle about
it, except that cowards told lies, and men did not,--that was the way he
put it. He was not afraid of anything himself, but for a woman he would
perjure himself by all the oaths in Christendom. It was his idea of
chivalry to women, and could not altogether be blamed. But Leonora by a
long apprenticeship to a very worldly mother, and owing to the singular
confusion of her ideas, had acquired a moral obliquity which she
defended to herself on the ground that the ultimate results she obtained
were intended to be good. The telling of untruths, she argued, was in
itself neither good nor bad; the consequences alone deserved to be
considered. But as the consequences of lies are not easily cast up into
totals of good and bad from the starting point, it sometimes occurred
that she got herself into trouble. However, she was not hampered by
prejudice, and she was a very clever woman, much cleverer than the great
majority, and she was just now in a very hard position. In a few minutes
she had made up her mind, and she answered Marcantonio fluently enough.

"Why," said she calmly, "should I not go out with Mr. Batiscombe when I
please? If he chooses to dress like a fisherman, I suppose he has the
right."

Marcantonio was rather staggered at her sudden confession. He had
expected a denial; but there she sat as calmly as possible, telling him
to his face that it was all true. However, he was not likely to lose his
nerve again now that he was face to face with the difficulty.

"It appears to me, Leonora," he said, "that when I have turned a man out
of my house for insulting you, it is sufficient reason"--

"For insulting me?" exclaimed Leonora in well-feigned astonishment. "Mr.
Batiscombe never insulted me! You must be dreaming." She laughed a small
dry laugh. But Marcantonio was not so easily put off.

"My sister," said he, "told me that Batiscombe insulted you in her
hearing. I have always known my sister to speak the truth. Perhaps you
will explain."

"What explanation do you want? You sent Mr. Batiscombe out of the house
on the pretence that I was ill. Of course Diana made you do it,--I do
not know how, nor what she said. You must talk it over with her. She was
probably sick of him, and wanted him out of the way."

Leonora spoke scornfully, and almost brutally, and Marcantonio's blood
began to grow hot.

"That is absurd," he said instantly. "Perhaps Monsieur Batiscombe would
not object to being confronted with me for five minutes?"

"I am sure he would not object," said Leonora, without hesitation. She
was quite certain of her lover's courage, at all events. She knew he
would face anybody.

"Meanwhile," said Marcantonio, "you will oblige me by giving up your
harmless habit of going out with him every day. I should have supposed
that you would at least have had the pride to deny it, after what
occurred when he was here." Marcantonio was angry, but he reasoned
rightly.

"You would have preferred that I should lie to you, my dear," said his
wife disdainfully, in the full virtue of having told half the truth--the
first half.

"I would not permit myself to apply such a word to anything you say,"
answered Marcantonio, with cold courtesy. "But I would have you observe
that you are mistaken with regard to my sister, and that if she told me
she heard the man insult you, he did. Perhaps you did not understand
what he said. It is the same. You will not meet him again at the
rocks--nor anywhere else."

"Why not? Why shall I not meet him?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows
in disdain.

"Because I forbid you." He spoke shortly, as if that ended the matter.

Leonora shrugged her shoulders a little, with an expression of pity,
and shifted her position, so as to face him.

"You forbid me, do you?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Mais oui! I forbid you to see him anywhere."

"Do you know what you are saying?" she asked, and there was a tone of
menace in her words.

"Oh, perfectly," answered her husband calmly; "and I will also take care
that you obey me--bien entendu!"

"Then it is war?" asked Leonora, as though she hoped it might be, and to
the knife.

"If you disobey, it is war," said Marcantonio, "but you will not."

"Why not?"

"Because I will prevent you. It is useless to prolong this discussion."

"Mon Dieu, I ask nothing better than to finish it as soon as possible,"
said Leonora.

"In that case, good-night," replied Marcantonio, rising.

"Good-night," answered Leonora, still seated. "I am not sleepy yet. You
are not afraid that Monsieur Batiscombe will be announced after you are
gone to bed?"

She spoke scornfully, as though trying to drive a wound with every word.
She thought she knew her husband, and she felt triumphant.

Marcantonio did not answer, and withdrew in silence. In a few hours his
whole character had developed, and he was a very different man from the
Marcantonio of that morning. He had passed through a few hours of a
desperate crisis, and had come out of it with an immovable determination
to clear up the whole affair, and to force his wife to break off her
intimacy with Batiscombe. Even now he could believe no evil,--only the
foolish infatuation of a young woman for a man who had the romantic
faculty strongly developed. It would cost an effort to break it
off,--and Leonora would be very much annoyed, of course,--but it must be
done. And so Marcantonio had gone about it in the boldest and simplest
way, by attacking her directly. He congratulated himself, for at one
stroke he had ascertained the truth of the servant's statement, and had
gone through the much dreaded scene with his wife. Henceforth she knew
what to expect; he had declared himself as a jealous husband, and had
said he would be obeyed. He went to bed in the consciousness that he had
done the best thing possible under the circumstances, and promising
himself an early explanation with Batiscombe.

But for all the success of this first move, he was wretchedly unhappy.
He still loved Leonora, as he would always love her, whatever she did,
with all his might and main, though he saw well enough that she did not
love him. But he was furiously jealous, and he swore by all the saints
in the calendar that she should never love any one else. His jealousy
had made a man of him.




CHAPTER XVI.


It was clear that after what had passed between Leonora and her husband,
the relations must assume the aspect described in diplomatic language as
"strained," to say the least of it. The two met many times in the course
of the day, and never referred to the subject of their difference; but
Leonora was well aware that she was watched. If ever she sallied out
into the garden, hoping to escape observation, her husband was at hand,
offering to accompany her. She once even went so far as to go down some
distance with him towards the rocks, she could not tell why,--perhaps
because it would have been a comfort to her to catch a glimpse of Julius
in the boat. But he was probably lurking behind the rocks, just out of
sight, and she could not see him. She knew that he still kept his watch
during half the day, not having yet invented a better plan,--for she was
in correspondence with him,--and in the meanwhile, until new
arrangements could be made, there was a bare chance that she might
escape for a moment in the morning and be able to see him. Her husband
never left her side in the afternoon.

Temistocle, the knave, had failed in his attempt to gain Marcantonio's
favour, as has been seen, but he now reaped a golden harvest from the
lovers, who paid him handsomely for carrying letters, with a reckless
feeling that if he betrayed them the deluge might come,--but that
without him they were utterly cut off from each other. He had at first
carefully opened one or two letters and skilfully closed them again, but
had desisted on finding that they were written in English, a language he
unfortunately did not understand. It was now his business to encourage
the correspondence to the best of his ability, in order that whenever it
should be convenient to spring the mine, he might have some letter
passing through his hands, which he could show to Marcantonio. He made a
bargain with an old man who had a little donkey cart, to hang about the
lane leading to the villa in the afternoon hours, when Temistocle, being
free from the cares of the pantry, found it convenient to play postman.
As the distance was considerable, and as Batiscombe always gave him a
gold piece for a letter, and Leonora another, he thought he could afford
himself ten sous a day for the hire of his primitive cab, without any
reckless extravagance.

The first letter he had carried was to Batiscombe. Leonora informed him
briefly of the scene with her husband, and begged that he would wait as
usual for a few days, or until something better could be devised. But he
waited in vain. Then he wrote and proposed that she should drive
somewhere and meet him. But she answered that her husband always drove
with her when she went out. He proposed to get into the garden at night,
to scale her window,--anything. But Marcantonio had bought a brace of
abominable English terriers that howled as though they had swallowed a
banshee. Marcantonio also kept pistols, and slept with his windows open.

Meanwhile Marcantonio would have given anything to catch Batiscombe and
call upon him for an explanation,--but he was afraid to leave his wife
for an hour, lest she should have an opportunity of going down to the
sea. He could never be quite certain whether Batiscombe were there or
not, for the latter had grown cautious and lay very quietly in his boat
just out of sight, knowing that Leonora would call if she wanted him,
according to the agreement, and he only came in the morning now and
waited till twelve o'clock, in order to be at home to receive her
letters in the afternoon. Yet Marcantonio would not employ a spy to
watch whether Batiscombe were on the water. He could not do that--it was
too utterly mean.

Leonora grew pale and thin. She was as thoroughly in love with Julius as
a woman of strong temper and impulse can be with the first man she has
ever cared for. She dreamed of him, thought of him, longed for him,
during every hour of the day and night. He was to her the realisation
of the strongest fancy of her life, the passionate, ruthless,
all-daring lover; and the consciousness of utter wrong that underlay her
feelings only lent the strength of moral desperation to her passion.
Having lost all right to other things, she had that left, and only that,
on which to rely for all the happiness the world owed her. She would go
to the end of it, and enjoy it all, now that she had found it; and
then--then she would die, she said to herself, and no one should suffer
by her fault. But she was long past the elementary stage, when love can
be put upon a block and modelled and shaped with tools, or pulled to
pieces, at will, being as yet but a fragile clay sketch and very
yielding. The clay had been done into marble, and the marble set up in
the inmost sanctuary of the temple,--and if the idol were broken the
pieces could not be joined, and the temple must be empty and bare
forever. It had come about very quickly--but what of that? Who shall say
that passion born in a moment, ready armed, is not so strong and
enduring as that which is evolved like man from a pitiful thing with a
tail--a mere flirtation, to the semblance of humanity, to the godlike
presence of true love?

Or who shall tell us that love is less a real thing, because it is evil
instead of being good? Devils are quite as real as angels, as I have no
doubt many of us will find in due time. Do not underrate the strength of
a thing because it is bad, nor doubt its reality because you do not like
its looks.

Leonora was in love with all her might, and it makes no difference in
the effect upon the individual whether love is lawful or not, so long as
it is thwarted and opposed at every turn. Her character, from being
vague and indistinct, reaching out after many things, and never wholly
grasping any, had suddenly become definite and full of a mature
purpose--the purpose to love Julius recklessly, without consideration or
question. The one real thing which remained possible for her had come,
dominating and crushing down the army of her most favourite unrealities.
The man she loved stood out from the chaotic darkness of the past and
from the dreary shadows of the present as a glorious figure of light,
magnificent in all that could be noblest; and she gave to him her soul,
her life, and her strength, without hesitation and without fear. She had
no remorse, no pity for her husband, no present consciousness of sin,
for she was too near the wrong, and too new to it, not to enjoy it.

The traditional hardened sinner, the very monstrosity and arch-deformity
of complicated vice, held up by preachers as a bugbear and a moral
scarecrow to the young, the creature without heart, conscience, or
capacity of good, does not enjoy his wickedness in the least. It has
lost its novelty for him and its sharp, peppery savour. The people who
really enjoy it are young; they are those who have tasted little of
life, and have yet all the sensibility and refinement of palate that
can distinguish between one sauce and another--between green, red, and
black pepper. They have dreamed of the pepper, have never been allowed
to have it, and have been fed on a kind of moral pap that disagreed with
them from childhood. Suddenly the spice is within their reach, and they
make to themselves a glorious feast of hot things, vaguely hoping that
they will recover from the indigestion before they are found out. And
sometimes they do, though the recovery is very painful--and sometimes
they do not.

Leonora had subsisted on what she could get in the way of enjoyment, but
her capacity far exceeded the supply that presented itself. She was not
one of those people who can live for days in happiness from one sight of
something beautiful, from a glimpse at a great picture, or from the
memory of one strain of music. She liked all that was artistic, and
especially that which was admirable for novelty, fineness of execution,
or boldness of conception. She was not impressed with the beauty of
small and unpretending things,--the art that amused her was necessarily
of the most brilliant kind. The people she liked were the stirring,
active, original people who either make history or make public fools of
themselves, or both. The philosophies she had dabbled in were such as
could produce in her a sensation of odd possibility rather than such as
could satisfy a logical intellect, and they resolved themselves into a
vast sea of aspirations, emotions, and potential passions, in which she
loved to disport herself, diving and splashing and floating,
like a magnificent sea-nymph in fullest enjoyment of her wild
vitality,--sitting, an hour afterwards, on some lonely rock, and
wringing her white hands to heaven in despair, because, being but half
divine, she was less goddess-like than the great goddesses of Olympus.

She could not help it if she grew pale and thin,--she was so wretched
without him; and, without his letters and the sense that he was not so
very far from her after all, she would have gone mad. She would sit for
hours in her room staring at nothing; or she would go through elaborate
processes of toilet before the glass, looking at herself and wondering
if he would find her changed,--perhaps that very day some chance would
offer, and she might see him. Everything was possible. That was the
colour he liked best, and that bit of jewelry,--put it on, in case he
should come. And again, she would change it all, because she would not
wear for her husband the things she wore for her sweet lover; and then
she would change once more, perhaps, and put back the colours and the
ornaments he loved, so that she might the better think of him while she
was with Marcantonio; she had a thousand idle thoughts and fancies which
she strove hard to train into the semblance of a little happiness, the
hollowest image of a little joy.

The days came and went miserably for nearly a fortnight. In all that
time Marcantonio watched her closely, never relaxing in his vigilance.
She might have escaped, perhaps, but she would have been missed in half
an hour, and she had not the courage to do anything so desperate,--the
time must come, she thought, when things should change. But meanwhile
she grew haggard and worn.

Marcantonio had abandoned the idea of sending for a friend to deal with
Batiscombe. What he had to say could, he thought, best be said directly,
and there could then be no difficulty in establishing a pretext for
fighting. But first of all he must keep his wife out of danger. Feeling
that he held her entirely at his mercy, he was willing to take some time
for deliberation. She could not see Julius, and it would be the best
possible test to ascertain how she bore the trial. Marcantonio had grown
hard and calculating in his jealousy, but he ground his teeth as he
watched her and saw that she was falling ill,--and it was not so much
for sympathy with her, as for anger that she should so love another. At
last he determined upon a new course.

"Leonora," he said briefly, one day, "we will leave this place
immediately, since it does not suit you. Will you be so amiable as to
give orders to have your things packed?"

Leonora started a little, and looked at him. It was not often that she
cared to look at him now.

"Why do you wish to go?" she asked at last.

"Because, as I said, this place does not suit you. You are
ill--miserable. Ma foi! do you think I will allow you to stay in a place
where you are always pale and eat nothing?"

"I am not ill," said she, "and I have a very good appetite. I do not
wish to go away. Besides, you have taken the villa for the whole summer.
It would be such a useless waste of money to move again."

"Ah! You become economical. It is very well; but economy does not enter
into this case at all. We will go to Cadenabbia, or to any place in the
lakes, where it is far cooler."

"I do not mind the heat," said Leonora, "as you know. Why not say at
once that you are tired of Sorrento, and wish to go away to please
yourself? It would be much simpler and more honest."

"Pardon me, my dear, I am perfectly well here. I could spend the rest of
my life at Sorrento. But you are not well--whatever the cause may
be--and there is a possibility that you may be better elsewhere. Donc"--

"Oh, of course," interrupted Leonora, "if you have made up your mind I
must submit. If you think you can make me more miserable anywhere else
than you can here, I must let you try. I hardly think you can. You might
be satisfied. Nevertheless, let us go."

"I do not wish to make you miserable, you know perfectly. I wish to make
you happy and free."

"Free?" repeated Leonora. "Indeed, you have a singular fashion of making
me free, to watch me day and night, as though I intended to run away
with your silver. Free, indeed! Free from what?"

She laughed, scornfully enough, in his face. It was the first time they
had approached any subject of this kind since the memorable night after
Marcantonio's discovery. But since he had made up his mind to take her
away he was willing to undergo another scene if it were absolutely
necessary.

"To make you free from the society of Monsieur Batiscombe," answered
Marcantonio boldly. "You can never be well until you are absolutely out
of his reach, and if I must go to the end of the world I will accomplish
that."

"You need not insult me in words," said Leonora, disdainfully. "You have
done it quite enough already by your deeds."

Marcantonio was silent for a moment. The speech hurt him, for he knew
how he believed in her innocence, and how it was his jealousy that now
prompted most of his actions. His voice changed a little as he answered,
and he was more like his old self than he had been for days.

"Leonora," he said, "I would not insult you for anything. But, would you
rather I were not a little jealous, since I really love you?"

Perhaps he spoke foolishly--perhaps he hoped to soften her heart: at all
events he spoke seriously enough, and laid his hand on hers. But she
did not like his touch and drew her fingers away.

"A little jealous!" she cried. "So little that I am kept like a prisoner
and watched like a political suspect! Be jealous--yes--since you say you
love me; but behave like a sensible creature. Moreover, you might make
sure that you had some cause for jealousy before coupling the name of
the first man you chance to dislike with mine. Is not that an insult?"

"Certainly it is--and if I did that you would be quite right," said he;
"but things are a little different. You do not understand Batiscombe--I
do. You have taken a fancy for him--so did I. But you push your fancy
too far. I now understand him, and I do not think him a proper friend
for you. You make difficulties, you insist upon seeing him. I forbid
you, and prevent you. You turn pale and ill, and I am angry that you
should be so foolish. Mon Dieu! I am angry--voila."

"One must certainly allow," said Leonora, with a sneer, "that you have a
singularly delicate way of stating your own case."

It was the best thing she could find to say, though she knew the sarcasm
was not merited. He wished once for all to put the matter clearly before
her, and he did it honestly and delicately, since he described her
passion as a "fancy," her strategy and secret meetings as "insisting
upon seeing" Mr. Batiscombe. It would be impossible to state such a
case more delicately if it had to be stated at all. A cleverer man, or
a less jealous man than Marcantonio, might have gone about it less
directly; and that is all that can be said. But he was a half-formed
character, as yet, with some good possibilities and hardly any bad ones.
He was naturally good, but good as yet without much experience, and his
teaching in the troubles of life had come upon him very suddenly. It had
never struck him that it could be difficult to manage a woman, and he
did not like the idea now that it was thrust upon him. The woman he had
made his wife would, he had supposed, be like his sister, of the kind
that manage themselves, and do it well; and if he had anticipated
exercising any influence over Leonora, it was influence of a very
different sort from that which he was now driven to exert. He had made
up his mind, however, that she must obey him now, or that he should
perish in the struggle, and a certain family obstinacy of purpose,
inherited from his father and all his race, suddenly made its appearance
and changed him from an easy-going, pleasant-spoken young fellow into a
very determined man, so far as his wife was concerned.

He had said that she should go at once, and go she should, without any
delay whatsoever. Instead of answering her sarcastic remark about his
indelicacy, he went obstinately back to his proposition.

"Let us not talk any more about it," he said, to cut the difficulty
short. "You will doubtless be so amiable as to give the necessary
orders about your things?"

Leonora shrugged her shoulders very slightly, as much as it is possible
for a great lady to do, and as much as would horrify a very strict
duenna.

"If you wish it," she said, "I must."

"Then we will start in two days, if it is agreeable to you."

"It is not agreeable to me," said Leonora, wearied to death by his
civility, "but we will start when you please,--in two days if you say
it."

She was casting about in her mind for some desperate means of seeing
Julius and assuring herself that he would follow her. Of course he would
do that, but she could not go without seeing him once more in Sorrento;
there was so much to be said that she could not write,--so very much!

The conversation with Marcantonio had taken place little more than an
hour before dinner. As he left the room Leonora glanced at the clock.
There was time yet,--if she could only get some conveyance. She might
see Julius and be back before dinner. She could make some excuse for not
dressing--if her husband noticed it, which was unlikely. He had gone to
his room, contrary to his custom, for he generally did not leave her
until she went to dress. His windows were towards the sea, and she could
slip out through the garden. It had rained a little, but that was no
matter. There would be the less dust.

A garden hat she sometimes wore hung in the hall, among her husband's
hats and whips and sticks; she snatched it quickly and went out, walking
leisurely for a few yards, till she was hidden by the orange-trees. Then
she gathered up her skirt a little and ran like a deer over the moist
path, through the gate that stood ajar, and down the narrow lane between
the high damp walls towards Sorrento, never looking behind her nor
pausing to take breath, for she feared that if she stopped to breathe
she might stop to think, and not do what she most wished to.

There are always little open carriages hanging about the lanes during
the height of the season, in the hope of picking up stray fares, and
before she had gone two hundred yards she overtook one of these, moving
lazily along. The man was all grins and alacrity at the mere sight of
her and pulled up, gesticulating wildly and leaning backward over his
box to arrange the cushions with one hand while he held the reins with
the other. The whole conveyance is so small that the driver can touch
every part of the inside with his hands from his seat. She sprang in and
told the man the name of Batiscombe's hotel, promising him anything if
he would drive fast. In six or seven minutes he brought her to the door,
and she told him to wait. She would have dismissed him at once and taken
another to return, but she found herself without money. She could borrow
something from Batiscombe.

He had chanced to tell her the number of his rooms one day, when she was
asking about the hotel, and now she luckily remembered it. Stopping the
first servant she met, she bade him show her the way. One of
Batiscombe's sailors, resplendent in dark-blue serge and a scarlet silk
handkerchief, was seated on a bench outside the door. He was a quick
fellow, and Julius employed him as his body servant. Sailors, he said,
were always cleaner than servants, and much neater.

The man sprang to his feet, saw the anxious expression in Leonora's face
and the general appearance of haste about her, and guessing that he
could not do wrong, opened the door and almost pushed her in, closing it
behind her and confronting the astonished hotel servant with a perfectly
grave face.

Sailors have good memories, especially for people who own boats, and the
man remembered Leonora perfectly well, having helped to row her to
Castellamare, and having raced her crew on the occasion when Batiscombe
had attempted a precipitous flight. In his opinion the Marchesa
Carantoni would not wish to be seen waiting outside his master's door,
whatever might be the errand which brought her in such hot hurry. The
hotel servant grumbled something about the franc he had expected for
bringing the lady up, and the stalwart seaman laughed at him so that he
cursed the whole race of sea-folk, and went away in anger of the
serio-comic, hotel kind.

Leonora found herself in Batiscombe's sitting-room. For Batiscombe was
a luxurious man, excepting when he was roughing it in earnest, and he
had made up his mind of late years that a human being could not exist in
less than two rooms, if he lived in rooms at all.

Leonora had not thought at all, from the moment when she had taken her
resolution in her own drawing-room until she found herself standing
before Julius Batiscombe in the hotel. At such times, women act first
and think afterwards, lest perchance the thinking should interfere with
the doing. But now that the thing was done, she realised at once the
whole importance of the step, and at the same time she understood with
what ease it had been accomplished. She saw how, with one bound, she was
out of her prison, and with the man she loved, and though she was
frightened at the magnitude of the deed, she knew that with him she
should find strength and comfort and happiness. What mattered the past?

She had not seen Julius for a fortnight, and though in that time she
knew that her love had increased tenfold, yet the outline of him had
lost distinctness, and she found him more than ever the man she had
dreamed of, and discovered, and loved. He was one of those men whose
magnificent vitality casts a sort of magnetic influence on their
surroundings, just as Leonora herself sometimes did. When Batiscombe was
away, his faults might be detected and criticised,--his selfishness,
his combativeness, his vanities. But when he was talking to people, and
chose to be agreeable, it was hard not to fall under the spell. He was
so eminently a man of action as well as of thought, that even those who
disliked him most were obliged to confess that he had certain large
qualities,--comforting themselves by describing them as "dangerous," as
perhaps they were, to himself and others.

And now Leonora looked upon him and knew how wholly and truly she loved
him, and how ready she was to sacrifice anything and anybody to her
love, even to herself and her own reputation and honour. With heroic
people that consideration of self might first be thrown to the winds;
but Leonora was not heroic. She was very passionate and sometimes very
foolish, but with all her "higher standard" she believed in the social
regulations and distinctions of life. It was the English part of her
nature, fighting for a show of Philistinism amidst so much that was the
very reverse. It was a strong passion indeed that could make her throw
it all away, or even think such a step possible.

It was not that she had yielded weakly to a first impression of
weariness after her marriage, and had at once begun to amuse herself
with the first man who crossed her path. Weariness alone, the mere
commonplace sensation of being bored, could never have led her to such a
length. A great variety of circumstances had combined to bring about her
destruction. The wild ideas of her girlhood, investing Marcantonio with
just enough romance to make him barely come within the line of her
"standard," but nerved and encouraged by the faculty she possessed for
deceiving herself, had led her into a rash marriage, in which she had
been helped and applauded by all those sensible people who think that
when money and position are combined on both sides, marriage must
necessarily be a good thing. Then followed the bitter disappointment and
collapse of all her theories and hopes, leaving a desperate void and a
certainty of misery, which gathered strength even from the command of
language she had acquired in the study of the imaginary nothingness of
everything. And at the very moment when there seemed nothing before her
but a dreary waste of years, an individual had appeared who realised the
dream she had lost.

And it is indeed a noble quality so long as it is locked close within
the treasury of the soul, and so long as one good woman, and one only,
holds the key. But of all the unutterable baseness in this world, there
is none more despicable than that of the man who makes one woman after
another believe that he loves her to distraction, as he never loved any
one else, well knowing, the while, that if the furies spare him to an
unhonoured old age, it is out of sheer contempt for the blear-eyed
Adonis, shambling weak-kneed to his grave with a flower in his
button-hole and a ghastly leer at the last woman he meets before death
overtakes him.

Leonora was a woman who was probably incapable of a second passion, and
the wholeness of the first might lend it some dignity, some simple
loftiness of disregard for lesser things, making it seem nobler for
being a single sin, sinned bravely for true love's sake. There were such
loves in the world long before Launcelot loved Guinevere, or Heloise was
laid in the grave with Abelard. But the world has no lack of men like
Julius Batiscombe, men in no way worthy of the women who love them, nor
ever able to be worthy.

Leonora had chosen, and she would not have given him up for all the joys
of paradise, any more than she would have believed a word against his
faithfulness and loyalty to herself. He had sworn--how could he deceive
her?




CHAPTER XVII.


When Leonora met her husband at dinner an hour later, her face was set,
for her mind was made up, and every moment hardened her determination.

Julius had said to her "come," and she would go to the very end of the
world if need be. He had stated the case with a show of fairness. She
must fully understand the step, he said, and that there was no return
possible from such an exile as they undertook together. She must abandon
everything, and not only her husband, but her mother, her father, her
position before the world, her whole luxurious, aristocratic existence.
She must rely on his arm alone to support her, and on his love to be her
only comfort and compensation. They must live an isolated life, whether
wandering, or resting in some quiet place where society never came. She
must also take the chance of his being killed by Marcantonio, who would
certainly make an effort to destroy him, and the chance was not small,
considering the provocation. If it happened that he fell, she would
certainly be left alone in the world. This was probably the strongest
argument with her against flight, but it had not weight enough to hold
her back, for she had the pride of a woman who had found a man ready to
fight for her, in these latter days when fighting is so terribly out of
fashion; and she felt in her heart that she should always be able to
prevent an encounter.

The resolution she had made had killed any doubt that might still have
remained as to the ultimate result of her love for Julius. Henceforth it
was her duty to kill doubts in order to be happy; and, indeed, there
were few left, for her love was very sincere and real. But if any should
arise she meant to smother them instantly. And now she remembered every
word her lover had spoken in that brief stolen interview, and she felt
no fear. Her face was set, and she looked defiantly at her husband. A
few hours more, she thought, and she should be free from him, from the
world, from everything--forever.

They would have gone at once, that very minute, but Batiscombe pointed
out that the time was ill chosen. She had been seen to come to the
hotel,--the servant who had shown her up-stairs had noticed her, perhaps
recognised her; in half an hour after the dinner hour she would be
missed at the villa, and they would surely be overtaken on land,
especially as there was no train at that time. Julius said his boat was
moored at the foot of the cliff below the hotel, but it would be
impossible to reach it without being observed by many people, some of
whom might recognise her. There was also no wind, the sea was oily with
a deadly calm, and the full moon, just rising, would make pursuit easy,
for though his boat could beat anything on the coast under canvas, she
was over heavy in the water for his six men to row at any speed.

But at midnight, when the easterly breeze was blowing from the land, he
would be down at the landing of her villa, ready. Marcantonio was always
asleep at that hour, for he rose betimes in the morning and went to bed
early. The dogs? Julius had thought of that, and sending his sailor
servant to the kitchen of the hotel, he obtained in a few minutes a
couple of solid lumps of meat, which he caused to be wrapped in paper
and then tied up in a silk handkerchief for her to carry. She might find
it hard, he said, to get anything of the kind in her own house. She was
fond of animals, and was sure she could manage to quiet the terriers in
a moment if she had something to give them. Besides, they knew her, and
would only bark a very little at first. The moon was full, to be sure,
but that could not be helped. Once on the water, nothing short of steam
could catch them, and that was not available at such short notice. She
should not hamper her flight with unnecessary things, he said, for if
any one were roused she might have to run for her life as far as the
beginning of the descent where he would be in waiting for her. These and
a hundred other little directions he had given her, with the quiet
forethought for details that was part of his remarkable intellect.

And now she sat opposite her husband at their small dinner-table,
looking hard and determined, but listening with more than usual
complacency to his talk, and striving to eat something, as Julius had
instructed her. She made such a good pretence that Marcantonio noticed
it approvingly.

"I am glad to see, my angel," he said, "that you are finding your
appetite again. It is most encouraging."

It was just like his want of tact, thought Leonora. It was just like him
to suppose that she would eat the more because he wanted her to do so,
and watched her! Dieu! What a nuisance to be always watched. It would
soon be over now, however, and she could afford to be indifferent.

"Oddly enough," said she, "I am hungry--I do not know why."

"Does any one know why they are hungry?" said Marcantonio, with a little
laugh. "It happens to me to take much exercise. I rise with the sun, I
walk, I ride, I dispatch my correspondence, I work like a dog--et puis,
at breakfast I eat nothing. No appetite. Good! Another day, I lie in bed
till ten o'clock, rise with a cigarette, read a novel, and--voyez donc,
how droll--I eat, perhaps, for four people. But I have often observed
that, if I eat a mayonnaise at dinner, I have no appetite the next day
at breakfast. It is extremely singular, for the cook makes the
mayonnaise of great delicacy."

What could it possibly matter whether Marcantonio were hungry or not,
or what he ate for dinner? But Leonora was glad to have him say
anything, so that she might be spared the effort of talking.

"It is true," she said, absently, "his mayonnaise is not bad."

She hoped he would go on; it was an easy, neutral subject--of many
ingredients, concerning each of which it would be possible to differ and
to raise a fresh discussion.

"Apropos," said Marcantonio, "the gardener's boy cut his finger very
badly this afternoon"--

"Apropos of mayonnaise?" Leonora could not help asking the question. His
conversation was so absurd.

"Ma foi! mayonnaise--vegetables--gardens--gardeners and the gardener's
boy--all that holds together. As I was saying, he cut his finger, and I
sent your maid to get something to bind it with."

"I hope she did not take one of my lace handkerchiefs," remarked
Leonora. "It would be just like her."

"It was not lace, I am sure," said Marcantonio, with an air of
conviction, as he helped himself to the salad which Temistocle handed
him. "But it looked very new. I hope she made no mistake."

The comic side of the situation suddenly forced itself on Leonora, as it
often will happen with people on the eve of great danger. A lackey in
Paris once danced a jig on the scaffold before he was broken on the
wheel. Leonora laughed aloud.

"Would it amuse you, for instance," inquired Marcantonio with a puzzled
look, "to have a good handkerchief destroyed to tie up the boy's
finger?"

It seemed so funny to Leonora to think that on the morrow her entire
stock of handkerchiefs would be at the disposal of all the gardeners in
Sorrento if they chanced to cut their fingers.

"No--not that," she said. "It is so odd that you should take so much
trouble about it--or care."

"Poor people," said Marcantonio, "one must do what one can for them."

And so their last conversation tottered to its end in a round of
domestic triviality, so that Leonora wondered how she could have borne
it so long. But, in truth, Marcantonio was so much afraid of rousing her
opposition that evening, after the scene that had taken place, that he
purposely avoided every intelligent subject, and did violence to his own
preference for the sake of keeping the peace. He liked to talk politics,
he liked to talk of Rome, of society, of a hundred things, but of late
he had found it very hard to talk peaceably about anything.

After dinner Marcantonio smoked, and Leonora sat beside him, with a
little worsted work which she did with a huge ivory needle. Her heart
beat fast as the hour approached when she must part from her husband.
She glanced at him from time to time, sitting there so unsuspecting of
any surprise, with his cigarette and his "Fanfulla," the witty Roman
paper that amused him so much. His delicate, dark features, a little
weak perhaps, looked handsome enough in the lamplight, and Leonora
thought for a moment that she had never seen him look so well. She was
already so far from him in her thoughts that she regarded him as from a
distance, with a certain abstracted consideration of his merits that was
new to her. Poor Marcantonio! A certain curiosity, which would have been
pity if she had allowed it, came over her. She wondered how he would
look when she was gone. Ten o'clock--two hours to midnight, and he never
saw her before nine in the morning now. Nine and two were eleven. In
eleven hours he must know--unless something happened. Would he rage and
storm, like a wild beast? Or would he break down and shed tears?
Neither, she thought. He did not love her--he was only jealous. Heavens!
thought she, if Julius had been in his position, and he in Julius's,
could things have ever got to this pass without some fearful outbreak?
Ah no! Julius was so hot-tempered and strong. Her thoughts went away
with her, and she heaved a quick short breath, suddenly interrupted in
the recollection of where she was. Marcantonio looked round.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked.

"Nothing--I was going to sneeze," said Leonora with a ready excuse.

"There is too much air," said he, rising and going toward the window.

He looked out for a moment. The first breath of the easterly wind was
coming over the mountains and just stirring a ripple on the moonlit bay.
It had rained early in the afternoon, and they had sat indoors on
account of the dampness. Marcantonio sniffed the breeze, said it was
damp, and closed the window.

"It must be late," said he. "En verite, it is twenty minutes to eleven!
I should not have thought it."

Leonora's heart beat fast.

"I suppose it is time to go to bed," she said, with enough indifference
to escape notice.

Marcantonio had not enjoyed the evening much, and was sleepy. Leonora
moved slowly about the room, touching a book here and a photograph there
as though to make the room comfortable for the night. Some women always
do it. Her blood was throbbing wildly--the last strong effort of
conscience was upon her. A great pity sprang up in her--a terrible
regret--a horror of great evil. Her resolutions, her love, her
determination to fly, her better self, all struggled and reeled
furiously together. She felt an irresistible impulse to throw herself at
her husband's feet, to confess everything, to implore his protection,
and forgiveness, and help. She turned towards him suddenly. He was in
the act of ringing the bell.

The sharp tinkle, sounding from far away through the open doors of the
house, checked her when she was on the very point of speaking. Almost
instantly, the quick tread of the servant was heard. He came, and the
supreme moment was over. The reality of her situation returned, and with
it the hardness it needed. The man had the candles ready in his hands,
and stood waiting to accompany Leonora to her door.

"Good-night, Marcantoine," said she, holding out her hand.

It was cold and clammy with intense excitement, and her face was pale to
the lips.

"Good-night, my angel," said he, touching his lips to her fingers, and
she passed from him. Just beyond the door she turned and looked back,
with a touch of sadness.

"Good-night," she said once more, faintly--for the last, the very last
time.

When Marcantonio was alone, he took his newspapers, and one or two
letters which had come by the late post, he looked carefully round the
room, to see that he had forgotten nothing, as he had a bad habit of
doing, and he marched gloomily off to his room, which was beyond
Leonora's, and separated from hers by her sitting-room. Her
dressing-room was on the other side of her bedroom, and had a separate
door, opening upon the head of the stairs.

As soon as Leonora had dismissed her maid for the night, she began to
make her preparations. She had a large silk bag, of many colours, made
like an old-fashioned purse, with heavy silver rings. She used it for
carrying her work, her books, or anything she needed when she went into
the garden to spend the morning. It seemed the best thing to take with
her now, for it would hold a good deal and was convenient. She filled it
with handkerchiefs, bottles of eau-de-cologne, and hairpins, and she put
in a tiny looking-glass in a silver case, which she had used all her
life. It was of no use to think of taking anything else, she thought,
since she must carry it all in her hand. Then she went over her jewels
and took her own, carefully setting aside all that her husband had given
her. She tied them up in a handkerchief with two hard knots,--the best
she knew how to make,--and she put them into the bag with the rest of
the things. Then she found her purse, and put into it all the money she
had, for it was her own, and she thought she might as well have it,--and
there was her cheque-book in the drawer of the writing-table. Of course
she could draw her own money just as well when--she did not finish the
sentence to herself.

Presently she went into the sitting-room, and listened at the small side
door which opened into Marcantonio's bedroom. She had taken an hour over
her preparations; it was half past eleven, and he was asleep,--she heard
his regular breathing distinctly. The full moon shone outside upon the
gravel walks, and the orange-trees, and the soft wind was blowing
steadily through the open windows. She paused one moment before she went
back, and she looked out at the scene, so sweet and peaceful in the
ivory moonlight. Far off in the town the clocks struck the half hour.
Julius must be already on the water, perhaps near the landing. She
hastened to her room, treading on tiptoe; her maid had left her in her
loose white peignoir; she must dress again, and dress quickly, or she
would be late.

It did not take long,--though she put the candle before her glass, and
dallied a little with a ribbon and a pin. The dress was soft and dark,
fitting closely to her figure. In reality she had selected it because it
had a pocket,--that would be such a convenient thing on a journey. A
hat--yes, she must have a hat, for of course they must land somewhere,
though a veil would be more convenient in the wind.

There was a great vase of carnations, gathered that day, that stood on a
little table by the window. At the last minute, Leonora stopped and took
one. She went back to the glass with the candle in her hand, and pinned
the flower in her dress, eying the effect critically. They were the
flowers he loved best,--it was an afterthought, and would please him.
She was ready, the bag hung over her arm, the package of meat for the
dogs in one hand, and a candle in the other. She blew out the remaining
lights as the clocks struck midnight, put the one she carried upon a
chair by the door, while she softly turned the latch, looked out
cautiously, and left the room. Once out of the passage and on the
stairs, she had no fear of being heard, and she descended rapidly. One
moment more and she was in the open air. The front door closed behind
her. Something touched her feet, and, looking down, she saw that the
white kitten had followed her out; she had not noticed it, poor thing,
and she could not risk opening the door again to put it back.

She glanced out into the moonlight from beneath the porch, and she was
frightened. It was only a step--a minute's run, if she ran fast, to the
beginning of the passage--but she hesitated and hung back. Oh, if the
last step were not so hard! If Julius had only met her at the door
instead of being down there--but he was even now at the head of the
steps. She realised his presence, and the garden was no longer a
solitude--she was not alone any more. The kitten mewed discontentedly.
She bethought herself of the dogs, picked up the little beast, and moved
quickly down the walk, running faster as she neared the end.

Her running on the path roused the terriers, prowling about among the
shrubbery in the warm night, and they sprang upon her not ten yards from
the mouth of the descent, barking furiously and snapping at her dress.
She dropped the parcel of meat instantly, but they did not see it at
once, and pursued her. In one moment more she was lifted from the ground
and held firmly in the mighty grasp of the strong man who stood ready,
and had run forward to meet her when the dogs sprang out. But, in the
quick act, the kitten fell to the ground almost between the enraged
terriers.

It was over in a minute. One frantic, piteous death-scream and the poor
little white cat lay dead on the gravel path, and the terriers sniffed
her little body disdainfully, as though congratulating each other on
their brave deed.

"Oh, Julius, they have killed my kitten!" cried Leonora in real
distress. They were already under the archway, and Batiscombe was urging
her to descend, but she clung to him, and stared back into the moonlight
at the dogs and her dead pet.

Julius himself was enraged at the thing--it was so wantonly cruel.

"Run on," said he, in a whisper; "I will settle them." He had reflected
quickly that they had only barked for a moment, and that any one who
heard them must have heard the cat also and would have taken no notice
of the noise.

At that very moment Marcantonio turned on his pillow, and, half waking,
swore to himself, as he had done every night of his life for weeks, that
he would send the dogs away in the morning. But all was still, and he
fell asleep again instantly.

Julius went back upon the path, and the terriers growled, still scenting
their vanquished prey. But he moved quickly and softly, speaking gently
to them in a low voice, and holding out his hand to them. He had a sort
of influence over animals, and they let him come close, pricking their
ears and sniffing about his legs. Suddenly, as they smelled at his
boots, he caught them by their necks in an iron grip, one in each hand,
and held them up at arm's length, struggling frantically, but utterly
incapable of making a sound.

"You killed her cat, did you, you brutes?" he muttered, savagely. "I
will kill you."

He broke their necks, one after the other, and threw their quivering
bodies far out under the orange-trees.

Leonora had watched him from the archway. She shuddered.

"They will not bark any more," said Julius, as he came to her.

"What strong hands you have!" she said.

A window opened, up in the house, a hundred yards away. Batiscombe's
quick ear caught the sound.

"Come, sweetheart," he whispered; "some one is stirring."

His arm was round her as he guided her down the first steps, tenderly
and strongly. She stumbled a little.

"Oh, Julius, I am so frightened!" she said piteously.

He stopped and took her off the ground as though she had been a child,
and bore her swiftly and surely through the dark way. She could see his
fiery blue eyes in the gloom, and in the flashes of white light as they
passed the windows and arches where the moon streamed in, and as she
looked she could feel her own grow big and dark; and she was frightened
and very happy. But she thought of that strange thing she had
dreamed--this very flight of hers exactly as it was to happen, so that
she hid her face against his coat and clung to him nervously.

"Put me down," she cried earnestly, as they emerged upon the flat rock
of the landing, "put me down, Julius,--I dreamed you fell here."

He obeyed her, and set her on her feet, still supporting her with his
arm about her waist. One passionate kiss--only one--and then they came
out from the shadow of the high cliff, and saw the boat riding lightly
in the moonlight, two sailors holding her off the rocks, and the rest
busy on board with the sails. The water plashed musically in the little
hollows, and from near by there came a deep, mysterious murmur out of
the many dark caves that lined the shore.

Leonora stepped lightly in, and Julius arranged the cushions about her
carefully. Neither of them spoke. With a few strong strokes of the oars
the boat shot out into the breeze from the lee of the gorge. The
foresail was already set, and jib and mainsail went up in a moment, wing
and wing, the tapering, lateen-yards pointing to right and left, like
the horns of a great, soft, white moth; the water rippled at the stern,
and curled up and lapped the rudder as the sails filled, and ever
swiftly and more swiftly the craft rushed down the bay in the glorious
moonlight, before the steady east wind.

Julius held the tiller with one hand, and the other lovingly supported
Leonora's head against his breast, as she lay along the cushions in the
stern.

"Darling," he said presently, "what was the dream about my falling at
the landing? You never told me."

She did not answer, but lay quite still.

"Dear one," he murmured, bending down, "are you so tired?
Leonora--sweetheart--speak to me!"

But the strain had been too strong, and Leonora lay in his arms, whiter
than death under the white moon, unconscious of Julius or of the sea.
Julius saw that she had fainted.




CHAPTER XVIII.


At half past eight on the following morning Temistocle found Leonora's
maid at the door of her mistress's room with an expression of blank
astonishment on her face that made him laugh. He often laughed, quietly,
without the least noise.

"You look exactly like a lay figure in a milliner's shop," he remarked.
"Except, indeed, that you look much more stupid."

The maid glared at him.

"The signora"--she began, and then trembled and looked round timidly.

"What about her?" inquired Temistocle, pricking up his ears.

The maid let her voice drop to a low whisper.

"She is not there," said she.

"Ebbene," said Temistocle with a grin, "what has happened to you? She is
probably gone out--gone to church. A good place for heretics, too."

"Macche," whispered the woman, "she has not slept in her bed, and
everything is upside down in the room."

"May the devil carry you off!" said Temistocle, suddenly changing his
voice, and whispering hoarsely. "Let me see--let me pass." He put down
the can of hot water he was taking to his master, and pushed past the
maid, into Leonora's bedroom.

"Bada," said the woman, going after him cautiously, "take care! The
signore might come in and find you."

"What harm is there?" asked the servant. And then he made a careful
survey of the premises, locking all the doors except the one by which
they had entered.

"It is true, what you said," he remarked, pushing the maid out of the
room. "An apoplexy on these foreigners who go away without telling one.
Fuori! Go along with you, my child. Ci penso io--I will look after all
this." And he locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and
took up his water-can.

"What are you doing?" asked the maid. Temistocle had seen a chance, and
took it.

"Look here," said he, rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his hand
together before the girl's eyes,--which means "money" in gesture
language--"look here. The signore accompanied the signora to the early
train from Castellamare this morning at half past four. They had a hired
carriage. She went away and forgot her jewels on the table. She is gone
to Rome on business,--they were talking about it last night. Do you
understand?"

"No," answered the woman looking puzzled, "you said she had gone out"--

"I said so to you," he answered with a sly grin, "but I will not say so
to any one else, nor you either. Remember that she went to Rome this
morning. It will be worth your while to remember that."

The woman smiled a cunning smile. She had hated her mistress, and would
have liked to make a scandal before all the other servants, but
Temistocle's advice would be more profitable. So they arranged the
matter between them and parted.

Marcantonio was seated at his writing-table when Temistocle entered. He
always got up very early, and did a great many things before he dressed.

Temistocle busied himself a moment about the room, and when he was ready
to go he came to the table and laid the key he had taken from Leonora's
door at his master's elbow.

"What is that?" asked Marcantonio, looking up.

"It is the key of the Signora Marchesa's bedroom, eccellenza," answered
Temistocle, edging away toward the door. "Her excellency must have gone
away very early, and she left her room open and all her jewelry strewed
about. So I locked the doors and brought you the key."

He was very near the door and could escape in a moment.

But Marcantonio did not move; his jaw dropped, and his colour changed to
a yellow waxen hue, which terrified the servant. But he did not move.
Temistocle continued.

"I told the servants not to be astonished, as you had accompanied the
Signora Marchesa to the early train for Rome before daybreak," he said,
putting his hand on the latch.

Marcantonio made as though he would rise. Temistocle slipped nimbly
through the door and closed it behind him, running away as though the
police were after him. But he knew that when Carantoni had recovered, he
would be amply rewarded for his wisdom. It often chances that villains
play a good and sensible part in life, which is quite as profitable as
villainy, and is always safer.

Marcantonio struggled to rise, and at last got upon his feet, staggering
like a man stunned by a physical blow. The door to Leonora's
sitting-room was open, but, beyond, the one to her bedroom was locked.
He had to go round by the passage, feeling his way as though he were
blind. At last he found the lock,--the key turned, and he entered.

It was just as she had left it. The white peignoir she had taken off
when she dressed for her flight lay in a heap upon the floor where she
had thrown it in her haste. The dismal, half-burned candles stood on the
dressing-table. The drawer from which she had taken the handkerchiefs
was half open. The windows were thrown back, and the blinds had not been
closed, so that the strong glare of the morning poured rudely in on the
confusion, and the flies buzzed about the scented soap and the bottle of
lavender and the pot of carnations in the corner.

Marcantonio dragged himself from one part of the room to another till he
stumbled against the table on which Leonora had left her scattered
jewelry,--all the things he had given her. He stood staring down at the
glittering gold and precious stones, unconsciously realising that they
were all his presents that she had left behind her. There was a strange
old Maltese cross of diamonds and sapphires among them, mounted in
silver. It had belonged to his mother, and he had given it to Leonora
with other things when he married her. His eyes fastened upon it, and
his hand crept across the table and took it.

He raised it to his white lips and kissed it once--twice; he would have
kissed it again, but the bow of his strength was bent too far and
snapped asunder. With a short, fierce cry he threw up his hands, and
fell prostrate on the smooth tiled floor, as a dead man might have
fallen.

He lay entirely unconscious for hours, so that when he at last came to
himself and struggled to move till he could sit up and stare about him,
the midday sun was pouring in, and the flies angrily tormented his
ghastly face, as though in derision of anything so miserable. For some
minutes he sat upon the floor, dazed and stupid with the oppression of
returning grief, as well as stunned from the physical pain resulting
from his fall. He was not hurt seriously, but he was bruised and weak.
At last he got to his feet, steadying himself by the table. He would
not see what was about him any more, for he knew it all, and the full
consciousness of his misfortune was on him. He regained his own room,
carefully locking Leonora's door behind him, and taking with him his
mother's diamond cross.

But the mere sense of grief could not long hold the mastery with a man
like Marcantonio. He had loved his wife too well not to resent the
injury and scorn, as well as weep over it. As he pondered, lying on his
bed, there arose in his breast a desperate and concentrated anger
against the man who had deprived him of what he best loved in the world,
the anger of a mind that has never reasoned much about anything, and
will carry unreason to any length when it comes. He must find his enemy;
that was the principal thought in his mind. That he would kill him when
he found him was a conclusion that seemed a matter of course.

But, in order to find him, it was necessary to move, to search, and turn
everything over. He turned on his pillow, feeling the first restless
stirrings of the demon that would by and by give him no peace by day or
night till the man was found and the blow struck. He turned over and
rang a bell by his bedside.

"Give me some coffee, and order the carriage," he said to the servant.

At the end of an hour, he found himself in the town, and inquired for
Batiscombe. It seemed as though fate favoured Carantoni at the outset,
for he found his name at once on the register of the hotel, and found
also the man who had waited on Julius. This servant had been told that a
lady had come in great haste soon after seven on the previous evening,
and had stayed more than half an hour. As soon as she was gone, Mr.
Batiscombe had sent for his bill and had ordered his boat to be ready at
eleven,--the servant had heard the order. The man guessed there was
something wrong from Marcantonio's face, but Batiscombe's sudden
departure had excited no remark. He had arrived late at night in his
boat, as many people had done, and as the moon was full it was natural
enough that he should sail away as he had come. People arrive
continually at Sorrento in yachts, and no one takes any notice of them.

His luggage? Yes, he had taken most of his things with him, except one
large box, which he had ordered to be sent to Turin. It had gone to
Castellamare at once. Mr. Batiscombe had been in the hotel before. He
was a very good signore.

At this hint Marcantonio gave the man a heavy fee. Did he happen to know
the address on the box? There was no address, except his name. The box
was to be left at Turin until called for. It was to go by fast train,
and Mr. Batiscombe had left money to pay for its carriage in advance.
Mr. Batiscombe paid his bills by cheques on a banker in Rome.
Marcantonio might have the name if he pleased. Before leaving he had
paid his bill and given a cheque for five or six hundred francs more.
The proprietor knew him very well, and was always glad to oblige him, so
he had procured a little cash. Before going he had sent for a silk
merchant--there are hundreds in Sorrento--and had bought a quantity of
things of him. He had left the hotel at eleven by the steps to the sea,
and the servant had seen him into his boat,--for which parting civility,
Batiscombe had given him ten francs. The man had watched the boat for a
few minutes. She did not make sail, but pulled away towards
Castellamare.

That was all, absolutely all, that the man could tell Marcantonio. But
it was sufficient for the present. It was clear that Julius had taken
Leonora from the landing of the villa. She must have slipped out soon
after midnight. The barking of the dogs suddenly came back to
Marcantonio's memory, and the scream of the poor cat. He sprang into his
carriage, and drove furiously homeward.

"Where are the dogs?" he asked, as soon as he alighted.

The groom did not like to answer. He thought Marcantonio would be angry
and visit their death on him. But, as his master insisted, he went away
without saying a word, and brought a large basket. In it lay the two
dead terriers and the dead kitten, all three side by side.

"The dogs killed the cat," said the man, apologetically. "There are the
marks of their teeth, eccellenza."

"But the dogs? How were they killed?" asked Marcantonio savagely.

"Eccellenza, their necks are broken. I cannot understand how it could
have been done. We found them all dead near the descent, the cat on the
path, and the dogs under the trees a few paces away."

Carantoni took up one of the terriers in his hands, and looked at it.

"So you killed my dogs, did you, you brute?" he muttered. "I will kill
you."

He unconsciously used Batiscombe's own words. His face was yellow, and
his eyes bloodshot. He dropped the dead beast into the basket.

"Bury them," he said aloud, and turned on his heel, going into the
house.

He had accomplished a great deal in a few hours. He had ascertained that
they had fled by sea; that Julius had a bank account in Rome with a
banker whose address he had got; that Julius had sent his box to Turin,
where he would most likely be ultimately heard of. More than that he
could not know for the present. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. He
could still catch the train to Rome. He could do nothing more in
Sorrento, and he could no more remain inactive for one moment than he
could give up the whole pursuit. While his things were being hastily
packed he thought of Diana. It was the first time, since the morning,
that he had realised that he was not absolutely alone in the world. He
sat down and wrote a telegram, intending to send it from the station.
It was brief and to the point.

"She has left me. Can you meet me anywhere? Answer to Rome."

There are doubtless people in the world who take a morbid and
unwholesome delight in the contemplation of sorrow. They can amuse
themselves for many hours in studying the effect of grief upon their
friends,--and they can even find a curious diversion in their own
troubles, so long as they can keep them far enough away to secure their
bodily comfort. They have neither the strength to sin, the honesty to be
good, nor the common sense to be happy. And so they feebly paddle in
their shallow puddles of woe, neither dry nor wet, and very muddy, when
they might just as well sit on the clean, hard ground and enjoy the
cleanliness and solidity of it, if they can enjoy nothing else. But they
will not. They will lie in the mud, and kick and scream and swear that
they are shipwrecked, when they are a hundred miles from the sea, and
would take to their heels on the first sight of it.

One of the favourite hobbies of these individuals is a mysterious thing
they call a "sweet sadness." Their ideas about sorrow are not even
artistic. They might at least understand that even the intensest grief,
apart from its causes, has no grandeur. The contemplation of sorrow is
not elevating unless it breeds a strong desire to alleviate it; nor is
the study of vice and crime in the least edifying unless it exhibits the
nobility and power of purity in a highly practical light. No vicious
criminal was ever reformed by realistic pictures of wickedness, any more
than he can be improved by daily association with other vicious
criminals. And a very little realism will throw a great ideal into the
shade, as far as most people are concerned.

Marcantonio may therefore be allowed to go to Rome without being watched
on the journey. His bitter suffering had settled about him and taken a
shape and a complexion of its own, thinking its own thoughts and acting
its own acts, without reference to the real Marcantonio, the easy,
cheerful, happy man of a few short weeks ago. It was no change of
character now, but rather the entire disappearance of the character
beneath the flood of strong passions that had come from without,
sweeping away the landmarks and beacons of all moral responsibility. One
idea had taken possession of him, and destroyed his consciousness of
good and evil, and his comprehension of the common things of life; his
body and intelligence had become the mere tools of this idea, and would
strain their strength to carry it out until one or the other gave way.
Man is said to be a free agent, and so long as he remembers the fact, he
is; but when he forgets it, the freedom is gone.

That morning, when the blow first struck him, he had still some vague
thought that there was a course to follow which should be right as well
as brave and honourable; it was the fast vanishing outline of his former
self, used always to the ways of honour; it was vague and uncertain, and
he had no time nor inclination to think about it, but it was present.
The day wore on, bringing a fuller realisation of his desperate case,
and the possibility of good in so much evil disappeared. When he was at
last in the express train on his way to Rome he was only conscious of
one thing--the determination to find Julius Batiscombe, and to kill him
ruthlessly, be the consequences what they might.

Rome looked much as usual when he at last came out of the great ugly
station upon the Piazza dei Termini. It was morning, and not yet eight
o'clock, but the pitiless August sun drove its fire through
everything--through flesh and bone and marrow of living things, through
the glaring stones and dusty trees, and even the great jet of water
looked like bright melting metal that would burn if it touched one.

But Marcantonio Carantoni was past feeling heat or cold or bodily hurt.
He did not even remember that he had a servant with him, and he
mechanically hailed a cab and was driven to his own house. They put a
telegram into his hand; it was from Diana, in answer to his of the day
before. It was briefer than his and breathed authority.

"Have left Pegli. Wait for me in Rome."

That was all. He read it stupidly over two or three times. He would not
have telegraphed to her if he had waited till to-day. Some instinct told
him that she would prevent and hinder his vengeance. Yesterday he wanted
help; to-day he wanted nothing but freedom from restraint and an
opportunity of meeting Julius Batiscombe. She would not aid him in that,
he was sure.

But she could not arrive to-day,--it was a long journey from Pegli to
Rome; he did not know exactly how long it took,--his memory would not
serve him with any details. He should have time in Rome to do the things
he meant to do, and he would go to Turin that very night and watch that
box of Batiscombe's. He would send for it, of course, wherever he was,
and the box would betray him at last, if all other means failed. But
meanwhile there were the police--there were detectives to be had, and
plenty of them; money could do much, and his high position could do
more. He would set a whole pack of sharp-scented human hounds at
Batiscombe's heels--they should find him, and bring word, never fear. He
laughed at the idea of employing the law to hunt his prey, in order that
he might bid the law defiance and destroy his man alone.

He threw down the telegram and went to his room, followed closely by his
servant, who had arrived in mad haste in a second cab, believing that
his master was going to be insane, unless he had a stroke of apoplexy,
which seemed not unlikely. The man was a skilled valet, and Marcantonio
suffered himself to be dressed and combed and smoothed, in perfect
silence; and when it was over he ate something that they brought him,
without the slightest idea of what he was doing. He knew it was yet
early, and that his business could not be done until the officials he
needed were in their offices.

No sooner had the clock struck ten, however, than he took his hat and
left the house. He found a cab, and had himself driven from one office
to another all through the heat of the day, seeing confidential
detectives and stating his business with a strange lucidity, never
telling any single agent that he was employing another, but giving to
each one a sum of money to begin his search and to each the same precise
statement of all that he knew. The consequence was that before the sun
was low he had dispatched half a dozen of the best men that could be
found, and had got rid of about fifty thousand francs. Each one
separately might have to go to the end of the world--to America perhaps,
but most probably to England--before he could give the required
information. It was necessary that his men should be perfectly free to
move in any direction. He himself would go to Turin, and there receive
their telegrams, himself watching that box of Batiscombe's, which he was
sure must some day be claimed by its owner.

He was perfectly calm and self-possessed throughout all these
arrangements. Only the strange ghastly colour that had overspread his
face seemed to settle and become permanent, and his eyes were bloodshot
and yellow, while his hand trembled violently when he held a pen or lit
a match for his cigarette. But he felt no bodily ill, nor any capacity
for fatigue. He had not closed his eyes for thirty-six hours, and had
eaten little enough, but there was not an ache nor a sensation of pain
in him, and he dreaded to pause or sit down, hating the idea of rest.

When he had done all that he could think of as being at all useful in
his plan, he went home and told his servant to prepare for the journey
to Turin that night. The train left at half past ten--there were some
hours yet to wait. He moved restlessly about the house, and ordered all
the windows to be opened.

The great rooms were in their summer dress. The furniture, the huge pier
glasses and the chandeliers were all clothed in brown linen. The carpets
had all been taken up, and the floors--some of marble, some of red
brick, and some of tiles--were bare and smooth. There was the coolness
and absence of all colour that seems to belong to great palaces when the
owners are out of town, and the cold monotony of everything soothed him
a little. After wandering aimlessly for half an hour, he settled into a
regular walk, up and down the great ball-room, with its clere-story
windows and vaulted ceiling. Up and down, up and down, with an even,
untiring tread he paced, his eyes bent always on the floor and his hands
behind him. His walk was like clockwork, absolutely even and unchanging,
with its rhythmic echo and unvarying accuracy.

The broad daylight softened into shadow, and the shadow deepened into
gloom, but still he kept on his beat as though counting his steps and
measuring the time. There was a certain relief in it, though not from
his mastering thought, which held him in a vise and never relaxed for a
second, but from his terrible restlessness. It was an outlet to his
overwrought activity, and he did it monotonously, without any
consideration, because there was nothing else to do, and it would have
driven him mad to sit still for five minutes.

As the night came on, strange faces seemed to look upon him from the
gathering darkness. The thick, warm air took shape and substance, and he
could distinguish forms moving quickly before him that he could not
overtake. But there was no sensation of horror or fear with the
sight--he gazed curiously at the fleeting shadows and looked into their
faces as they came close to him and retreated, but he could not
recognise them, and did not ask himself whence they came nor whither
they were going, nor why he saw them. It seemed very natural somehow.

But at last, as he turned, there was one coming toward him that had more
substance than the rest, so that they all vanished but that one. It was
a woman, and she seemed moving towards him; but it was almost quite
dark. He came nearer; his waking senses caught the sound of her
footstep; she was no shadow--it was his wife coming back to him--it had
all been a fearful dream, and she was there again. He sprang forward
with a quick cry.

"Leonora! Oh, thank God!" and he fell forward into her arms.

"No, dearest brother--it is not Leonora--would God it were!"

Diana had come already--he could not tell how--and they stood together
in the dark, empty ball-room, clasped in each other's arms.




CHAPTER XIX.


Diana had found ample time to think over the situation during the
journey, and she was prepared for difficulties. Her brother could hardly
be in his right mind, she thought, and would certainly be on the verge
of doing something desperate, which she must prevent.

As was usual with her in sudden emergencies, she had been wonderfully
quiet. She was shocked and horrified at the news, but neither the shock
nor the horror were uppermost in her mind. What she most felt was an
unutterable and loving pity for her brother; and as she sat in the
express train and looked out of the window at the interminable miles of
vineyard and cornland, the kind, womanly tears gathered and fell softly.
She could not help it, and she would not. Poor fellow! he deserved all
her heart, and her soul's sympathy, and the tears thereof.

Marcantonio was in no state to reason or to be reasoned with. He had a
strange illusion for a moment, when he thought his wife had returned to
him, but he at once realised his folly and understood that Diana had
come to meet him--had come, doubtless, to prevent him from accomplishing
his vengeance. He had been so sure that she could not arrive until the
next morning that he had anticipated no interruption in his plans, and
he was angry with her for being in his way. She would watch him day and
night, and hinder all his movements. So long as she was with him it
would be impossible to do anything. He answered her very coldly.

"You have come already? I did not expect you so soon."

They moved towards the door, groping in the deep gloom, and presently
reached a room where there were lights. Then Diana saw her brother's
face and understood that he was mad or desperately ill, or both. The
ghastly colour, the bloodshot eyes, the trembling hand, she saw it all.
She had not known what change his trouble would make in him, but she
knew it would be great. But she was startled now that she was face to
face with him. It seemed too terribly real. She could not help it, she
bent her beautiful fair head on his shoulder and threw her arms about
him and sobbed aloud.

But Marcantonio only understood that she was there to keep him from his
ends, from the one thing in the world which he wished to do, and meant
to do, and surely would accomplish. As she leaned on him and shed those
bitter tears for him, he stood passive and dry-eyed, staring vacantly
above her at the wall, and his hands hung by his side, not offering to
support her or to comfort her. He only wished she were gone again and
had never come to trouble him.

It was only for a moment. Such outbursts of feeling were rare with
Diana; people said she was a piece of ice, heartless, and without
sympathy for any human being. They judged her by her face and by the
dignity of her manner, not knowing of the things she had done in her
life that were neither heartless nor cold. But now she recovered herself
quickly and dried her eyes, and made Marcantonio sit down. She looked at
him intently as though trying to understand him. He had never met her so
coldly before in his life; there must be a reason for it,--he was
evidently beside himself with suffering, but his temporary madness could
hardly take the form of a sudden dislike for herself unless there were
some cause.

"You did not expect me so soon," she said, speaking very gently. "It was
by a mere chance that I managed it."

"I am very sorry," said Marcantonio in a monotonous voice that had no
life in it, and seemed not his own. "If you had waited a little while I
could have saved you the journey."

"The journey is nothing," said she. "I am not tired at all, and I would
come across the world to be with you."

"Yes," said Marcantonio, "I know you would. It would have been better if
we had met further on."

"Further on?" she repeated, hoping he would give her some clue to his
intentions.

The old habit of confidence was too strong for him; he wished her away,
but he could not help speaking and telling her something. He had never
concealed anything from her.

"In Turin," he answered briefly.

"Ah,--is he there?" asked Diana in a low voice.

"He sent his box there,--he will go and get it."

"And then?"

"And then," said Marcantonio, the sullen fire burning in his reddened
eyes, "we shall meet."

Diana was silent for a moment, determining what to do. All this she had
expected, but she had not thought to find her brother so changed.

"Tell me, Marcantonio," she said earnestly, "did you think I would
prevent your meeting with him?" He hesitated. She took his hand and
looked into his face as though urging him to answer.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

Diana understood. This was the reason of his evident annoyance at her
coming. He thought she meant to prevent him from fighting Batiscombe.

"You know better than that," she said gravely. Marcantonio turned upon
her quickly with an angry look.

"You prevented me before," he said. "If I had shot him then, this
trouble would not have come. You know it,--why do you look at me like
that?"

"If you had shot him before," said she, "this could not have happened.
But if he had shot you,--that was possible, was it not?--you gained
nothing. If neither of you had killed the other, there would have been a
useless scandal. The case is different."

If she had found her brother overcome with his sorrow and abandoned to
the suffering it brought, sensitive and shrinking from all allusion to
his shame, she would have acted very differently. But she found him
possessed of but one idea, how to kill Julius Batiscombe; he was hard
and unyielding; he seemed to have forgotten the wife he had loved so
well, in the longing to destroy the man who had stolen her away. She
felt no hesitation in speaking plainly of the matter in hand, since his
feelings needed no sparing. But her sympathy was so large and honest
that she did not feel hurt herself because he was cold to her; she
understood that he was scarcely in his right mind, and she could make
all allowance for him.

Marcantonio did not answer at once. But her influence on him, as she sat
there, was soothing, and he was gradually yielding under it--not in the
least abandoning his one idea, but feeling that she might not hinder its
execution after all.

"Do you mean to say," he asked suddenly, "that you will not try to
prevent my meeting with him?" He turned and looked into her eyes, that
met his honestly and fearlessly.

"Assuredly I will not prevent you," said she.

"Really and truly?"

"So truly that if I thought you had meant to leave him alone, I would
have tried to make you fight him."

Marcantonio laughed scornfully, in a way that was bad to hear. It had
never struck him that he could possibly have not wanted to fight. But in
a moment he was grave again.

"What a woman you are, Diana!" he exclaimed. It sounded more like
himself than anything he had said yet, and Diana was encouraged. But she
said nothing.

In her simple code, fighting was a necessary thing in the world. She had
been brought up among people who fought duels under provocation, and it
never entered her head that under certain circumstances there was
anything else to be done. Women often scream with terror at the mention
of such a thing, but very few of them will have anything to do with men
who will not fight when they are insulted. In preventing a challenge
after the affair at Sorrento she had done violence to her feelings for
the sake of Leonora's reputation. In the present instance that was no
longer at stake. It was perfectly clear that her brother must have
satisfaction from his enemy, as soon as might be.

She had never hesitated, therefore, in her view of Marcantonio's
situation, and when he put the question to her she answered it boldly
and naturally. But, somehow, he had not understood his sister before,
though he had yielded to her, and he was astonished at her readiness to
agree with him. He looked at her with a sort of admiration, and his
feeling towards her changed.

"Then you will help me to find him?" he asked.

"I will stay with you until you do," she answered.

"It is the same thing," said he. "Will you come to Turin with me at
once?"

"I will not leave you," she said. "We can go to Turin to-morrow, if you
like."

"No--to-night," he said, quickly. The idea of wasting twelve hours
seemed intolerable.

But Diana had made up her mind that he must rest a while before doing
anything more. She shuddered when she looked at his face and saw the
change wrought there in six and thirty hours.

"If we start now," she said, "we shall arrive in the evening. You could
do nothing at night. Rest until the morning, and then we will go. You
will need all the strength you have."

"I cannot rest," he said gloomily.

"You must try," answered Diana. "I will read to you till you are
asleep."

He rose and began to pace the room. The doubt that she intended to keep
him back sprang up again in his unsettled mind. He stopped before her.

"No," he said, "I will go to-night, and you need not come if you are too
tired. You want to prevent me from going at all--I see it in your
face."

Diana looked up at him as she sat. No one but a madman could have
doubted the faith of those grey eyes of hers, and as Marcantonio gazed
on them the old influence of the stronger character began to act. He
turned away impatiently.

"You always make me do what you like," he said, and began to walk again.

Diana forced herself to laugh a little.

"Do not be so foolish, dear boy," she said. "I want you to sleep
to-night, and to-morrow we will go to the world's end together. You will
lose twelve hours somewhere, because there are certain things that
cannot be done at night. Better make use of them now, and sleep, before
you are altogether exhausted. I promise to go with you to-morrow. Do you
mean to have an illness, or to go out of your mind? You will accomplish
one or the other in this way, and there will be an end of the whole
matter."

"Very well," said Marcantonio, unable to resist her will, "since you
promise it to me I will do as you please. But to-morrow morning I will
start, whatever happens."

"Very well," said Diana. "And now, dear brother, will you kindly give me
some dinner? I have scarcely had anything to-day."

"Dio mio!" cried Marcantonio, "what a brute I am!"

It was like him, she thought, to be angry at himself for having
forgotten to be hospitable. The words reassured her, for they sounded
natural. There had been moments during the conversation when she had
thought he was insane. Perhaps it was more his looks than his words,
however. At all events, as he rang the bell and ordered what was
necessary, she felt as though he were already better.

One of her reasons for wishing him to stay a night in Rome was that he
might immediately have a chance of growing calmer. Nothing distances
grief like sleep. Until the first impression had become less vivid in
his mind, she could not ask him questions about the circumstances of the
flight. She guessed that, although he was willing, and even anxious, to
talk of his future meeting with Batiscombe, it would be quite another
thing to make him speak of the past fact. And yet she knew nothing of
the details--not even exactly the time when it had all happened. She
half fancied that they must have got away by the sea, because it would
have been so simple; but she had no idea of how much Marcantonio knew,
nor whether the matter had yet in any way become public property. It was
necessary, she judged, that she should know something, at least, of the
circumstances. No one but Marcantonio could tell her, and before he
could be brought to speak he must be saved from the danger of a physical
illness which seemed to threaten him.

Before long dinner was ready. It was ten o'clock, and the meal had been
prepared for Marcantonio at eight; but he had behaved so strangely that
no one liked to go near him, and the servants supposed that if he wanted
anything he would ring the bell.

The two sat down opposite to each other. Diana was tired and hungry; she
had taken off her bonnet on arriving, and had gone straight to
Marcantonio, and now she would not leave him until she had seen him safe
in his room for the night. But in spite of the long journey, the
fatigue, and the great anxiety, she was the same, as queenly and
unruffled as ever, as smoothly and perfectly dressed, as quiet and
stately in her ways. No wonder she was the envy of half the women in
Europe. The half who did not envy her were those who had never seen her.

She watched Marcantonio as she sat opposite to him. It surprised her to
see that he ate well,--more than usual, in fact, and she attributed it
to a sudden improvement which had perhaps been brought about by her
arrival. She had expected that he would refuse to eat anything, and
would support his strength on strong coffee and tobacco. She thought
that at all events he would not be ill,--but, again, as she looked at
his face, its death-like yellowness frightened her, and the injected
veins of his eyeballs made his eyes look absolutely red.

They hardly spoke during the meal, for the servants came and went often,
and they could not speak any language together that would not be
understood.

After a time they were left alone, and they prepared to part for the
night. Diana laid her hand affectionately on her brother's forehead, as
though to feel whether it were hot. He looked so ill that it hurt her to
see him.

"You are worn out, dear boy," said she. "Go to bed and sleep."

"I will try," he said, rather submissively than otherwise. "But we will
go to-morrow, of course," he added quickly, turning to her with a
half-startled look.

"Of course," said she, reassuring him.

"Because," he said, "I told the detectives to telegraph to me there, and
I gave them my address at the hotel."

"Detectives?" repeated Diana, starting a little and looking surprised.
"What do you want them for?"

"Diavolo!" ejaculated Marcantonio savagely, "to find him, to be sure."

"Batiscombe is not the man to run away, or to need much finding," said
Diana, gravely, with an air of conviction. She did not like the idea.

"When men mean to be found they leave an address," said her brother,
between his teeth.

There was truth in what he said. Batiscombe ought to have let
Marcantonio know his whereabouts, it was the least a brave man could do,
and Batiscombe was undeniably brave. Diana felt a sharp sense of pain;
the idea that her brother was hunting down with detectives, like a
common malefactor, the man who had once loved her so well--the idea
that she was helping to find him in order that Marcantonio might kill
him if he could--it was frightful to her. She was bitterly atoning for
one innocent girlish fancy of long ago.

"Marcantonio," she said, almost entreatingly, "do not do it. Give up the
police. I am sure he will meet you without that"--

"Ah yes!" he interrupted, "you know him. Of course you will not help me!
I forgot that you were come to shield him,--you--I know you will not
help me!"

He spoke fiercely and brutally, as he had never spoken to her before.
But mad or not mad, Diana would not submit to such words from any one.
She turned white, and faced him in the light of the two great lamps that
burned on the table. The whole power and splendid force of her nature
gleamed in her eyes, and thrilled in the low, distinct tones of her
voice.

"What you say is utterly base, and ignoble, and untrue," she said
slowly.

He hung his head, for he knew he was wrong. He did not know what he
said; indeed he had hardly known what he was doing all that day.

"I am sorry, Diana," he said, at last, quite humbly. "I am not myself
to-day."

Her anger melted away instantly. Himself! No indeed, poor fellow, he was
not himself, and perhaps never would be his old self again. He was so
utterly wretched as he stood there before her with his head bent and his
hands clasped together, so forlorn and forsaken and pitiful, the moment
the sustaining force of his anger left him, that no human creature could
have seen him without giving him all sympathy and comfort. Diana went
close to him and put her arms about him, and kissed him, and her tears
wet his cheek. He suffered her to lead him quietly away to his rooms,
and she left him in the care of his faithful old servant.

"The signore is ill," she said. "Some one must watch in the outer room
all night, in case he wants anything."

Diana herself was exhausted, in spite of her strength and extraordinary
nerve. There were times when she broke down, as she had done at Sorrento
when she heard Julius and Leonora outside her window, but it was always
after the struggle was over, when she was alone. Moreover she had the
advantage of a perfectly serene past life, during which no serious
trouble had come near her, and her strength had increased with her
maturity. It all stood her in good stead now, and helped her to bear
what she had to suffer. She went to bed and slept a dreamless sleep
which completely restored her. It is the privilege of very calm and
evenly balanced natures to take rest when it can be had, and to bear
wakefulness and fatigue better in the long run than extremely active and
physically energetic people.

As for Marcantonio, he tossed upon his bed and dreamed broken dreams
that woke him again and again with a sudden start; he dreamed he had
found his man, and the excitement of the moment waked him. Then he
dreamed he was quarrelling with his sister, and was suddenly wide awake
at the sound of her reproachful voice. He was talking to Leonora,
pleading with her, and using all his eloquence to win her back, and she
laughed scornfully at him--and that waked him too.

But at last he slept soundly for an hour or two, just before daybreak,
and awoke feeling tired, but more restful. The dawn came stealing
through the windows, and he got up and moved about a little, with a
sensation of enjoyment in the cool, fresh air.

He looked into the glass, and started at his own face that he saw
reflected there. It seemed like a hideous mask of himself, all drawn and
distorted and pale. But had he looked at himself on the previous day he
might have seen an improvement now. He was deadly pale, but no longer
yellow, and his eyes had lost the redness which had frightened his
sister. He looked ill, but not crazy, and he felt that he could trust
himself to-day not to say the things he had said yesterday.

He would go to Turin of course--that was settled--unless Diana were too
tired; but he would not have admitted such a condition when he went to
bed the night before.

He rang the bell and ordered his things to be got ready. The old
servant, who had slept on a sofa outside, looked haggard and unshaved,
and stared suspiciously as he heard the order. But he did not dare to
make any remarks, as he would have done if his master had been well.
Marcantonio had been ill once before, when he was a boy of fifteen, and
had on that occasion, when he was delirious, shown a remarkable tendency
to throw everything within reach at the people about him when he did not
instantly get what he wanted. The old man remembered the fact, and was
silently obedient, for the Signor Marchese looked as though he were ill
again. The mildest people are often the most furious in the delirium of
a fever.




CHAPTER XX.


After all, Julius was not quite certain whether Leonora had fainted, or
was asleep. She had been comfortably settled in the boat at the first,
and a quarter of an hour had passed in hoisting and trimming the sails,
and bringing the craft before the wind. She might have fallen asleep
from sheer fatigue and weariness,--Julius could not tell. He bent far
down over the stern, and fetched up a few drops of water from the sea
with one hand, while the other supported Leonora's drooping head,--the
tiller could take care of itself for a moment,--and he sprinkled her
face softly and watched her; once more--and she opened her eyes as from
a pleasant dream, and looking up to his she smiled, and closed them
again. He bent down and spoke almost in a whisper.

"Darling, are you quite comfortable?" She moved her head in assent, the
quiet smile still playing on her lips. Then she lay quite still for a
while, and listened to the rush of the water, and the occasional dull,
wooden sound as the rudder moved a little on its hinges. The boat rolled
softly from side to side, in a long, easy motion and glided swiftly down
the bay.

Presently Leonora moved, sat up, and looked about her, at the sea, and
the land, and the fiery-crested mountain.

"Where are we going, Julius?" she asked, with a smile at the question.

"I am sure I don't know," said he, laughing. "There are lots of places
we can go to. Ischia, Capri,--Naples if you like. Select, dearest, there
is a good boat between us and the water, and we have the world before
us."

"But we must go somewhere where we can get some breakfast," said she
gravely. "And where I can buy things," she added, laughing again. "Do
you know that this is all I have got in the world to wear?"

"That is serious indeed," said Julius. "There are provisions and things
to drink in the boat, but there is no millinery. We had better go to
Naples."

"I think I could manage for one day," said Leonora, doubtfully. "I have
brought heaps of handkerchiefs, and hairpins, and cologne water,--they
are all in the bag."

"Handkerchiefs and hairpins!" repeated Julius, and laughed at the idea.
A woman leaves her husband, who worships her, scatters trouble and tears
and madness broadcast, and she thinks of handkerchiefs and hairpins, and
remembers where she has put them.

"Yes," said Leonora, "they will be very useful. We could go to Ischia
first, and to Naples to-morrow night,--or rather to-night, I should
say. That is,--if you think"--

"What, dear?" asked Julius.

"If you think it is quite--far enough."

"We cannot go very far. It is six or seven hours from here to Ischia, if
the wind holds. We should be there between six and seven o'clock."

"I think that would be best," said Leonora in a tone of decision. She
was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up into Batiscombe's face,
and her own was white and beautiful in the moonlight. "I wonder," she
said, "whether any one heard that noise the dogs made? Oh, the poor,
poor kitten,--it makes me quite cry to think of her!"

"Poor thing!" said Julius sympathetically. "But its ghost will not haunt
the gardens, for it was amply avenged."

"Yes indeed!" said Leonora. "Oh, Julius, you are so strong,--I like
you."

"Thanks," said Julius, "you are awfully good to like me." He laughed,
but his hand caressed her hair tenderly, and Leonora was happy.

"It was just like us," said she, "to stop there at the top of the steps
where we might have been seen in a moment--but I am glad. I hated those
dogs."

"It was just as well," said he. "They would very likely have made more
noise, and followed us."

"Oh yes--and just fancy the wrath when they are found to-morrow morning.
But they might have bitten you dreadfully--I was terribly frightened."

"I fancy there will be more wrath about you, my dear, than about the
dogs," said Julius, rather gravely.

"About me? Oh--I hardly know--perhaps. I do not think any one will mind
very much."

"What does it matter who minds, as you call it?" asked Julius, pushing
her thick hair from her forehead tenderly, and looking at her with
loving eyes. "What does it matter to us now? What can anything ever
matter again?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing, dear," she answered softly, and her head
drooped happily upon his shoulder.

They were as though alone in the boat, for the broad sail was stretched
right across to catch the wind, and hid the men, who sat together
forward, chattering in a low voice in the incomprehensible dialect known
as the lingua franca, the free tongue in which all Mediterranean sailors
understand one another, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, and from
Smyrna to Marseilles. They did not care a rush what their master did,
nor where he went; they had some confidence in his knowledge of the sea
and of the coast, and they had entire confidence in themselves, whatever
wind might blow. It was nothing to them, who came from the north coast,
whether their broad-shouldered "signore" took a "bella signora" from
Naples or Sorrento for a midnight sail in his boat. He paid well, to
every man his wages, and he often gave them a few francs to drink his
health. They had never had so good a "padrone" before, and they asked no
questions, wisely distinguishing the side of the bread upon which a
bountiful providence had spread the most butter for their benefit. They
also said that nothing ever mattered much so long as they got their pay.

Leonora had found at last the desire of her heart,--the reckless, stormy
passion, careless of everything but itself and its object, of which she
had so often dreamed. She had found the man for her to love, and she did
love him to distraction. As for the rest of the world, she was more
persuaded than ever that there was nothing very much in anything after
all. What she had was wholly sufficient in the present, the future was a
future full of joy and love, and divested of everything that could
possibly be wearisome, and the past was cut off, murdered, dead and
buried out of sight.

But though she had killed it and thrown it away, as Julius had done with
the dogs, it had a ghost and a living memory that would haunt her for
many days and weeks, and months and years. A life is not a dream to be
forgotten, nor an old garment to be thrown aside at will. Life is an
ever present thing, and all our past is as much a part and parcel of
to-day as the marks we bear in our bodies are portions of ourselves, no
matter how we came by them, nor when.

Out of nothing, nothing can come. Out of confusion and vanity and pure
selfishness, out of confused and incoherent fragments of half-expressed
wisdom, out of the very vanity of vanities, which is the vanity of wise
words wrought into foolish phrases; out of the shell of an imaginary
self wrought fine and gilded to please the worst part of the real
self,--out of all these things, I say, what can come that is good? Or
can anything come of them which is truly evil, seeing that, one with
another, they are all but so many empty nothings, melted together and
lost in the great void that receives the failures of the soul-world?

If anything results from such a life, it must be the realisation of
nothing, which is the extinction and annihilation of that which is,--and
woe be to the destroyer. We may destroy all hold and anchorage of mind
and soul, we may reason ourselves into a disbelief in reality, in
matter, in daily life, in good and evil. But always when we think that
everything is done, and that our fabric of philosophy is faultless,
there arises the strong tide of human passion and creeps across the
sands to our tower. At first we may watch the waves from a long way off,
and laugh to see them break and overwhelm the very foolish people who
have no tower on the shore and must swim for their lives or perish. But
the tide rolls on toward us, and runs cruelly up, crashing and
thundering in its rising might, till it rends and tears our flimsy
castle out of the sands beneath our very feet, and we fall headlong into
the rushing waters. And then we too must struggle like the rest, if we
can; and if we cannot, we must sink to the bottom, while those who
learned when the tide was low and the water smooth, and have tried their
strength in many a brave buffet with the waves, swim strongly over our
drowned bodies.

It is easy to moralise, it is hard to live. That is the reason that
great moralists are generally either old men who have done with living
and would like to teach other people, or else young men and young women
who have not enough vitality to animate the most lymphatic oyster, but
who manage to float about by their own inflation. These latter never
save any one from drowning, and the former save very few. The people who
can help others are the strong ones who can catch them just below the
shoulder, by the arm, and support them and push them to land, themselves
doing all the work. That is a watery simile, but most similes are but
water, and can be poured into a tea-cup or into a bucket--they will take
the shape of either.

The night wore on, the full moon sinking slowly to the west, so that
after a time she was hidden from the lovers by the sails, and there was
a broad shadow behind them. Still the breeze blew fresh from the land
and carried them straight towards Ischia, and the boat rocked smoothly
over the rolling water. Leonora rested on the thick cushions, and her
head lay nestled in Batiscombe's arm while he held the tiller carelessly
with his other hand, steering by the wind, in the certainty of making
the right course. He did not speak, for he wanted her to rest, and so it
came about that before long she fell peacefully asleep, and Julius drew
a light shawl tenderly about her, and kissed her ruddy hair, and looked
out over the moonlit water, calmly as though he were sailing for his
pleasure.

He was thinking what strange things happened in his life, and wondering
within himself whether he could ever grow old and be like other people.
But he could never be like other people now, for he must live a life
apart from the world, and create an existence of a new kind, utterly
free from the ties and bonds and weariness of society. It would also be
without the amusements, the gayety, the glitter, and the flattery of
society. Batiscombe liked all that, too; but he thought he could do
without it very well. Just now the fascination of the hour was upon him.
The sweet sea-breeze, the moonlight on the water, the swirl of the
boat's wake--and, above all, the beautiful woman by his side sleeping so
gently and nestled so lovingly close to him,--it was all perfect.

But with a curious duality that belonged to him, he enjoyed the moment
and thought intensely of the future at the same time; not with any fear
or regret or even with the anticipation of remorse for what he had
done, but with a far-seeing love of combination, striving to know
exactly what would happen and to provide for it.

He went over in his mind the many places to which he might take Leonora,
and tried to select the most beautiful and the most retired--some ideal
spot, not yet invaded by society. Society, in the long run, gets the
best of everything; artists and poets and adventurous tourists may seek
out an inaccessible region and keep it to themselves for a while,
revelling in the solitude and driving off intruders by discouraging
civilisation and affecting a barbaric display of shirt-sleeves, paint,
and beards. But if the place is really beautiful, really healthy or
really convenient for flirting in the open air, there will surely come
at last a stray princess of eccentric disposition and fond of a little
discomfort. She will say it is simply too delightful, and so very
natural, you know; and in the course of a summer or two the society
battalion will encamp there, the houses will be newly painted, and there
will be a band and a casino, and a royal personage.

It is very hard to find the kind of place Julius wanted, and he thought
for a long time before he hit upon it. But at last he had a happy idea
and was pleased with himself for having it, as he always was. Very
cautiously he got a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with one
hand, steadying the helm with his elbow. He did it so smoothly and
quietly that Leonora did not wake, and he puffed in silent enjoyment of
the tobacco, taking care that the smoke should not blow into her face.

It was very like Julius Batiscombe to risk waking her in order that he
might smoke, for he was a selfish man and knew it, and delighted in it.
But it came upon him in gusts, and was not always a part of him; only,
when it did come, it covered completely the better features of his
nature. In carrying away Leonora, he had done one of the most absolutely
selfish actions of his life, and for the time being there was nothing he
would not do so long as he could keep her with him and make her sure
that he loved her. He knew well enough that she loved him. He did not
want to know anything about his own motives. He was in love--that was
motive enough for anything.

As a matter of fact, deep down in his soul there were other incentives
at play; but he would not acknowledge that to himself. It was true that
since he had loved Diana he had never loved another woman as he loved
Leonora. There was a charm about her which he could not explain, which
overcame him and filled his whole life. His lingering feeling for Diana
was always real when no other passion was in the way, and it had never
happened before that any one of his affairs had crossed her path. But
now it had chanced at last, and the strong position she had taken
against him from the first had roused a bitter opposition in him. It
secretly delighted him to think of her anger, and sorrow, and
humiliation at the success of his enterprise. But, nevertheless, he
loved Leonora with all the strength of passion that remained to him, and
that was saying much.

Again, he had the vanity, in some directions, of half a dozen ordinary
men, a common peculiarity of that unusual physical courage and strength
which he possessed in an eminent degree. But it did not go into his
work, for he was an artist at heart, besides being a man of the world,
and was never long satisfied with anything he wrote. It was the sort of
vanity that hankers after the admiration of women, and would not take
the admiration of men as a gift,--an intensely virile characteristic of
immense power. He would like to rule men, to lead them to do great
things or to crush them under his heel, according to his mood; and he
sometimes ground his teeth because he could do neither. But he did not
want their admiration, much less their sympathy. They might flatter him,
or abuse him--he was utterly indifferent. But he would sacrifice a great
deal for the approbation of a woman, and he often got it; for women,
generally speaking, like best the men who hang upon their words and will
do anything under heaven for a smile and a word of praise--as is
natural.

Consequently, Leonora's evident interest in himself had pleased Julius
from the very first, and he had often done things for the sake of
hearing her say something flattering, which had meant more than he had
realised. There was no doubt whatever that his vanity had played an
important part in bringing him into his present position. Nor was he a
very exceptional man in this respect, save in the degree of his
qualities. Hundreds of men fall in love every day with women who flatter
them, and the passion is not less strong because it is of a low order.

It was over now, however, and the plunge was taken. The falling in love
was accomplished, and the being in love had begun. Henceforth the two
main considerations in his mind were to make life convenient and easy
for Leonora, in order that she might not cease to love him out of
discontent, and then to get over his inevitable meeting with Marcantonio
as soon as possible and as well as possible. He easily saw that these
two things were inseparable. If all question of future complication were
not removed at once by a decisive meeting with Carantoni, Leonora might
live in a state of fear and trembling for months to come. In order to
meet him it was necessary to have some place of abode for the time,
where Leonora might be happy--of course she should not know of the
encounter until it was over--and at the same time the spot must be so
chosen as to be tolerably accessible. He had intended to go to France
when it was over, and had therefore sent his box to Turin, meaning to
take it as soon as he felt free to move; Turin suggested Piedmont, and
Piedmont suggested a place where he had once spent a month in the
summer,--scenery, trout-fishing, considerable comfort, and not a soul
there excepting some of the local society of Turin, who found it
convenient and cheap. He at once determined to go thither, and to send
Marcantonio information of the fact, in order that he might find him as
soon as he pleased.

He no more expected, or wished, to avoid a duel than Marcantonio
himself. The one virtue which never deserted him was his courage. He
would let his adversary have a shot at him if he liked, but he himself
would fire in the air, of course. He did not think much about it, to
tell the truth, for he accepted the fact as the consequence of his
action, and occupied himself in providing for it without any judgment of
himself, for good or evil. He had once said to Leonora that the
enjoyment belonged to the man who ate, and not to the man who carved,
and she had guessed rightly that however well he might analyse the lives
of others, he never analysed his own. He had got the forbidden fruit and
he was glad of it, and meant to keep it all for himself, inwardly
rejoicing at the anger of those who would have prevented him, if they
could. And with all this, the fruit gave him an intense delight,
independently of the triumph of having obtained it. He was not a man who
tired of anything he liked so long as the thing itself did not change
and remained as sweet as ever.

There he sat at the helm all through the hours from midnight to dawn,
and Leonora slept peacefully in the cool sea air, at rest after all her
excitement and fatigue. Gradually the moonlight seemed to lose
distinctness, while gaining more strength and permeating the shadows of
the boat which had before been dark and well defined. The breeze blew
cooler and fresher than ever, bearing a faint chill in its breath, and
the water, from being like black velvet strewn with diamonds, turned
gradually grey and misty, so that the waves could all be seen with their
small crests and sharp rough edges. In front the rocky height of Ischia
seemed to tower to the sky, and soon it caught the first soft tinge of
the dawn. Quickly the rosy light crept downwards, falling gently from
tree to tree and from rock to rock, till it reached the water, and the
sea rippled and laughed in the sweetness of the summer morning.

Leonora moved in her sleep, and Julius, who was watching her, saw her
lips tremble a little as though she were talking in her dreams. Then she
started slightly, put out her hand, and opened her eyes. The blood
mounted to her cheeks as she met her lover's glance, and he looked from
the colour on the water to the colour on her face, and he saw that the
blush of the woman was fairer than the blush of the summer sea. She sat
up and turned from him a moment, and her hands were busy with her hair.

"Have you slept well, my dear one?" asked Julius. "I am afraid you were
terribly uncomfortable."

"Oh, so well," said she, still looking away and deftly putting a hairpin
in its place. "But I dreamed just as I woke up."

"What did you dream, sweetheart?" asked Julius, stretching his stiffened
limbs. He had scarcely moved for four hours; he could have borne it for
four hours longer if he had not wanted anything,--but he had risked
waking her in order to get a cigarette.

"I dreamed about you," said she. "You behaved so badly, I am not sure I
shall forgive you,--ever." She gave him a hesitating look as she bent
her head to arrange her hair.

"Tell me, darling," said he, laughing.

"It is nothing to laugh at," she answered. "And besides,--I don't know
whether I ought to tell you." She stopped and watched him with a little
shy laugh.

"Please do."

"Well,--of course this is in the strictest confidence,--you will never
tell any one. Do give me the bag, dear. I want the cologne water."

"And the hairpins and the handkerchiefs," added Julius, laughing, as he
stooped to get the bag out of the stern-sheets. "Please tell me the
dream."

Leonora took a handkerchief and wet it from the bottle of cologne water.
Then she began to dab it on her face.

"I dreamed that you"--dab--"picked me up in your arms and"--dab,
dab--"carried me down the stairs,"--dab, dab, dab,--"and just as you
were putting me into the"--dab--"into the boat, you dropped me into the
sea." A furious succession of dabs, then more cologne water and another
handkerchief.

"But you said something about that last night. You made me put you down
on the rocks, because you said you had dreamed I dropped you. Was that
another dream?"

Julius was watching her operations with a half-amused interest.

"Yes," said she, drying her face, "I dreamed it all over again, just
now."

"But when did you dream it first, dear? Yesterday?"

"Oh no! Ever so long ago,--ages ago." She looked down at the flower she
had put in her dress at the last minute. It was still fresh, and she
arranged it a little.

"Before you knew me?" asked Julius.

"Oh yes,--that is--before"--she blushed again.

"When was it?" he asked, amused and delighted.

"It was before that evening," she said at last, "when you met me in the
church. How long ago is that?"

"About ten years, I should think," said Julius gravely. It seemed an
endless time.

"Is it not strange?--and then, that I should dream it all again--it is
so funny. Why should you have dropped me? It would have been so easy to
carry me into the boat, and yet you seemed to stumble on purpose, and we
both fell in and were drowned. Is it not very odd?"

She seemed to have settled herself now, for the remainder of the
journey; the sun had risen quickly over the land while they were
talking, and she put up a parasol which lay on the opposite seat. She
did it unconsciously, not realising that she had not brought one with
her, but when she held it up, she looked at the handle and saw that it
was not one of her own. Then she remembered.

"Did you get it for me?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes," said Julius; "I knew you would want it, so I sent out for it last
night."

"A puggia!" shouted one of the men from behind the sail.

Julius put the helm up accordingly, and, as the boat fell off a little,
a big fishing smack ran across her bows.

A dozen rough fellows were lounging about in their woollen caps and
dirty shirts. They laughed gayly at the crazy foreigners as they went
by, and some of them waved their caps.

"Buon viaggio, eccellenza!" they shouted. Julius waved his hand in
answer to the greeting. Leonora was pleased.

"At all events," said she, "some one has wished us a pleasant journey.
It was sweet of you to get the parasol, dear."

So they chattered together awhile, and presently the boat went round
the point of the island to the north side, and they took in the sails,
and the six men pulled her lustily along under the shore, until they
reached the little harbour of Casamicciola.

"We can stay here and rest all day," said Julius, as they entered the
hotel on the hill, half an hour later. "We shall not be disturbed, and
this afternoon we will sail over to Naples, and you can do your shopping
when it is cool."

At half past eight they sat down to a breakfast of figs and
bread-and-butter and coffee. At the same moment over there in Sorrento,
Temistocle laid the key of Leonora's room on Marcantonio's
writing-table, and edged away to make sure of an easy escape through the
door.

"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Leonora, stopping in the consumption
of a very ripe black fig, to look out at the sea and the exquisite
islands that lie like jewels between Ischia and the mainland.

A waiter had brought a shabby book of ruled paper, with a pen and some
ink. He asked if his excellency would be good enough to write his name.
Julius took the pen and wrote something, glancing up with a smile at
Leonora, who finished her fig in silence.

"Let me see," said she, when he had done. He handed her the book, while
the servant waited respectfully.

Julius had written simply, "MR. AND MRS. BATISCOMBE, ENGLAND."

"Give me the pen," said Leonora. "Oh, dip it in the ink,
please--thanks!" She wrote something and gave him back the book.
Underneath his writing she had put in another name.

"I wanted to write it," said she with a little laugh. Julius looked, and
laughed too.

"LEONORA BATISCOMBE," that was all.

But as she wrote it, Marcantonio, over there in Sorrento, fell upon the
hard tiles with his mother's diamond cross in his hand.




CHAPTER XXI.


Leonora did all her errands--or as many as she said could be done in so
short a time. There were a great many things, she explained, which she
could order when they were settled, but which would be in the way at
present. Julius bought her a box, and wrote a label for it, and pasted
it on the cover. She began to find out that, besides his other
qualities, he was a very practical man, and understood travelling better
than any courier she had ever had.

They had spent a few hours in Ischia as they had intended, and had then
come over to Naples in a small steamer which plied daily between the
island and the city. Julius paid something to have his boat towed
across, and when he was in Naples he paid the men a month's wages in
advance, and told them to go back to Genoa and wait for him there. They
might steal the boat--or they might not, he did not care. The thing had
to be sent somewhere, and if it ever reached Genoa so much the better.

He drove with Leonora up and down the Toledo for hours, stopping at all
manner of shops, and buying all manner of things. Now and then he would
succeed in paying for something, but she generally insisted on using
her own money. It was fortunate that she had taken it, she thought, as
it would have been so awkward to let him pay for everything. He
remonstrated.

"All that I have is yours, darling," he said. "You must not begin with
such ideas."

"I do not mean to be a burden to you, Julius," answered Leonora. "I am
sure I must be much richer than you. Nobody ever made himself rich by
writing books." She laughed, and he laughed with her. It was so very
amusing to talk to each other about what they possessed.

"Ideas about being rich are comparative," said Julius. "If I sent Worth
two or three hundred pounds for a dress every other week, I should
certainly not be very well off. But"--

"Oh, Julius--what an idea! There is no one so cheap as Worth in the long
run."

"I was going to say something very pretty," remarked Julius.

"Oh, I would not have interrupted you if I had known. What was it?"

"I was going to say that I must be richer than you--since I have got
you, and you have only got me."

"You always say things like that," said Leonora, laughing lightly. "Be
sure that you always do--I like them very much."

"Ah," said Julius, gravely, "I will sit up all night and make them for
you."

"They ought to be spontaneous," said Leonora.

"Everything that is pretty in the world is spontaneous to you, my dear.
But I have to work hard to make pretty things, because I am only a man."

"That is really not bad," said she, laughing again.

She wondered vaguely whether he would always be the same. Her husband
used to talk much like that at first. But he grew so dull, and when he
said things he never looked as if he quite meant them. Julius said
sometimes a few words--just what any one might have said; but there was
a tone in his voice, and his eyes were so fiery. She loved the fire; it
used to frighten her at first.

"We cannot stay here," said Julius, when they sat over their dinner at
the hotel on the Chiaja. "It is altogether too ridiculously hot; it is a
perfect caricature of a summer, with all its worst points exaggerated."

"Yes; but where shall we go?" asked Leonora.

"I had thought of a charming place," said Julius. "It is away in the
Piedmontese Alps--all mountains and chestnut woods and waterfalls. An
old convent built over a torrent. Only the people from Turin go there."

"That sounds cool," said Leonora, fanning herself, though whatever she
might suffer from the heat she never looked hot. "Let us go. When were
you there?"

"Years and years ago," said Julius. "I used to catch trout with
caddis-worms, and write articles about Italian politics. You may imagine
how much I knew of what was going on, shut up in an old convent in the
mountains. But it made no difference. Writing about Italian politics is
very like fishing with worms."

"Why?"

"You sit on a bank with a red, white, and green float to your line. You
have not the least idea what is going on under the water. Now and then
the float dips a little, and then you write that the national sentiment
of honour is disturbed. That is a bite. By and by the float disappears
and your line is pulled tight, and you think you have got a fine fish.
Then you write that a revolution is imminent, and you haul up the line
cautiously, and find that a wretched little roach or a stickleback has
swallowed your hook. The red, white, and green float waves over your
head like a flag while you get the hook out and bait it again. You make
another cast, and you write home that order has been restored. On the
other side of the bank sits another fellow, with a float painted red,
white, and blue. He is the French correspondent. Sometimes you get his
fish, and sometimes he gets yours. It is very lively."

"You used to say that a simile was an explanation and not an argument,"
said Leonora, rather amused at his description. She always remembered
what he said, and enjoyed quoting him against himself.

"So it is. What I told you was an illustration of a correspondent's
life, not an argument against the existence of very fine fish in the
stream."

"You are too quick," said Leonora, laughing.

"One has to be quick in order not to appear too awfully slow in
comparison with you, dear," answered Julius at once.

"Again,--there is no stopping you!"

It amused her to talk to him, he was so ready; and always with something
well turned, that pleased her. There was something, too, that was
refreshing in hearing the small talk of a celebrity, often a little
doubtful in grammar, and interspersed now and then with a little
generous exaggeration that she liked. She had read his books, and knew
what he could do with the language when he pleased. And most of all she
liked to speak and to be spoken to in English,--it seemed so much more
natural.

It was no trouble to Julius to talk to her. With some people he was as
silent as the grave, which produced the impression that he was very
profound. With others he was ready for a laugh and a jest at any moment,
and they thought him brilliant; but there were very few with whom he
talked seriously. Leonora saw all his phases in turn, for she felt that
if she did not know his character, she was in sympathy with his mind and
understood him.

But Julius was anxious to reach the spot he had chosen, in order to let
Carantoni know of his whereabouts. He suggested to Leonora that if it
was quite convenient to her they might go the next day, when she had
had a good night's rest. She assented readily enough. To tell the truth,
with all her gayety and enjoyment of the novel situation, she disliked
Naples, and she hated to feel that in the morning she should look out of
her window across the bay and see Sorrento, and think of her husband as
being there. She did not know that when she laid her head on her pillow
that night Marcantonio would be in the station in Naples, on his way to
Rome, and not half a mile away from her.

"Are you ever seasick?" asked Julius suddenly.

"Oh, Julius! You know I am not," she said reproachfully. He laughed.

"No? I mean in a steamer. Boats are quite different."

"I don't know," said Leonora. "I have often crossed the Channel, and I
was never ill at all."

"Oh, then of course it's all right!" he said. "You would not mind in the
least. We had better go to Genoa in the steamer; it is very decent and
much cooler than all those miles of rail and dust."

"Oh yes, far pleasanter," said Leonora.

And so they made their arrangements, and the next day--the day when
Marcantonio was engaging the detectives in Rome--they went on board the
"Florio" steamer and left Naples, and Sorrento, and Ischia, and all the
countless reminiscences that attached to the glorious bay, and were
carried up the coast.

"The dear place," said Leonora, looking astern as she sat in her
arm-chair under the awning on deck, "I shall always love it."

"But you are glad to leave it, darling, are you not?" asked Batiscombe,
who stood beside her, and was looking more at her than at the coast,
though he held a glass in his hand.

It was a curious question to ask, one might have thought, and yet it was
natural enough, and did not jar on Leonora's thoughts. She was not
sensitive in that way in the least. She did not mind his referring to
the past in any way he chose.

"Glad? Of course I am glad," she answered, looking up into his face.
"How could I not be glad?" She seemed almost vexed at the simplicity of
the question.

"Then I am happy," said Julius, sitting down beside her.

And he spoke the truth; for the time he was utterly and supremely happy.
He felt indeed the grave and serious mood, which the bravest man must
feel when he knows that in a very few days his life will be at stake.
But his vanity told him he was going to fight for her, and that gave him
a happiness apart; so he concealed the serious tendency of his thoughts,
talking easily and gayly. It was his vanity that helped him most,
telling him it was for her; and, as always in his life, the prospect of
a woman's praise was a supreme incentive. He did not reflect that he was
not to fight for Leonora's honour, but for the greatest dishonour the
world held for her.

The broad sun poured down on the water, but the west wind fanned their
faces and the awning kept the heat from them. Leonora lay back with
half-closed eyes, now and then carefully opening and shutting a fan she
held. She was wonderful to look at, her marvellous skin, and the masses
of her red hair--the true red of the Venetian women--contrasting
strongly with her soft dark dress, and a Sorrento handkerchief of
crimson silk, just knotted about her dazzling throat. She was a
marvellous specimen of vital nature, of pure living litheness and
elasticity, gloriously human and alive. And the man beside her was
almost as singular in a different way: he was so quiet, and moved so
easily, and his bright blue eyes were so fiery and clear, his skin so
bronzed and even in colour; there was strength about him too; and the
passengers as they came and went would steal a glance at the couple, and
make remarks, quite audible to Julius and Leonora, about the beauty of
those Inglesi.

"Which do you like best, dear," asked Julius presently, "the day or the
night?"

"Oh--that night was so beautiful," said Leonora; "I love the moon, and
the freshness, and the white sails, and all."

"Does 'all' include anything especial?" asked Julius smiling.

"What do you think?" asked she, instead of answering. Her red lips
remained just parted with a loving smile.

"I don't think," said Julius. "I leave the thinking to you, my dear. You
can do it much better. But I like the sunlight, the broad, good
sunlight, far more than the moon. It is so hot and splendid."

"Yes; I suppose it is like you to prefer it. All men like the sun--and I
suppose all women like the moon. At least I do. But you must always like
what I like now, you know."

"Including myself, I suppose?"

"Bah, my dear," laughed Leonora, "you will find that very easy!"

How very unhappy she must have been, thought Julius. She had not a
regret in the world, it seemed; and the only fear she had shown had been
when she stumbled on the descent, so that he took her up and carried
her.

"Tell me," said he, "what did you do in all those dreadful days when we
could not meet?"

"I did nothing but write letters to you--very nice letters too. You have
never shown yourself properly grateful."

"No," said Julius, "I have not had time."

"What do you mean?" asked Leonora with a little frown.

"Why--it must take a long time to show you how grateful I am. A long
time," he added, his voice sinking to a deeper tone, that Leonora loved
to hear. "It will take my whole lifetime, darling."

"Thanks, dear one," said she quietly, laying her hand on his. She did
not mind the passengers,--why should she? She would never mind the world
again, as long as she lived, for the world would never care what she did
any more.

Her experience of the world--or of what she understood by the term--had
not been very happy, though it had not been the reverse. She remembered
chiefly the mere technicalities of society, so to speak. She had enjoyed
them after a fashion, inveighing all the while against their emptiness
and vanity, and now when she looked back she saw only a confused
perspective of brilliantly lighted, noisy parties, of more or less
solemn dinners, of endless visits to people who bored her, and of an
occasional cotillion with a man she liked, in return for numberless
dances with individuals who seemed to be trying to get dancing lessons
gratis, or who tore furiously up and down the room till she was out of
breath, or who caught their spurs in her skirts, and scratched her arms
with their decorations. She did not remember how she had enjoyed motion
for motion's sake, and had rarely refused to go out, in spite of the
aforesaid annoyances. She did not remember the little thrills of
pleasure she had felt, as Marcantonio was gradually attracted to her,
till he was always the first to greet her and to put his name on her
card for a turn, and was always the last to bid her good-night, devoting
himself to her mother when she was engaged with some one else. She did
not remember the delight she had often experienced in discussing society
with her philosophical friends, bowling over institutions with a phrase
and destroying characters with an adjective. There were many things
which Leonora did not remember but which had given her great pleasure a
few months ago; but most of them reminded her of her husband, and she
did not wish to be reminded of him in the least.

There was continually a sort of unconscious comparison going on between
him and Julius Batiscombe; she could not help it, and it had been
perhaps the earliest phase of her love. Even at the moment when
Marcantonio offered himself to her, Julius was standing in the doorway,
and she had wondered what he would have said if he had been making the
same proposal. She knew, now. She thought she knew the difference
between the intonation of the man who loved, and of the man who merely
wanted to marry. Ah--if she had only known in time, things would have
been different. She would have refused Marcantonio, after all his
devotion, and she would have married Julius.

She did not understand that Julius would never have fallen in love with
her then; that the mere possibility of being led into marriage reared an
impassable barrier between him and the whole of youngladydom. He had
made up his mind that he would not marry, and young ladies said he was
the most obstinate bore they knew; which was very unkind, for he kept
out of their way, and only bored them when he was obliged to talk to
them, doing it systematically and successfully in self-defence. But
Leonora innocently supposed that if Julius had met her more intimately,
in time, he would have fallen in love with her just as he had done now,
and would have proposed after six weeks' acquaintance, and they would
have been happy forever after. She chanced to think of this now, and she
sighed.

"What is the matter, sweetheart?" asked Julius.

"Nothing," said she, "I was thinking of something,--that is all."

"Tell me, dear," said he, bending towards her. She hesitated a moment,
looking into his eyes.

"I was thinking," she said at last, "of something that happened once. Do
you remember, at that ball, when you stood in the doorway and looked so
dreadfully bored, and I was sitting not far off with--with the
marchese?"

"Of course," said Julius, calmly, "I imagined he was just proposing to
you."

"Yes," said Leonora, in a low voice, "he was."

"I wish he had been at the bottom of the sea," said Julius, fiercely.

Indeed, the idea disgusted him, being as much in love as he was.
Nevertheless, he thought she was a singular woman to refer to the
thing,--so very soon. He had at first expected that she would never wish
to mention her husband to him; at least, not for very long; but she
seemed rather to seek the subject than to avoid it. He mused for a
moment, looking out under his half-closed lids, as was his habit when he
was thinking. Suddenly a smile came into his face.

"Do you remember, dear, when you and he raced me in the boat on the bay,
one afternoon, ever so long ago?" It was not much more than six weeks.

"Yes--perfectly," said she. "Why?"

"Have you any idea where I was going?" asked Julius, laughing a little.

"Not the least. You were not going anywhere; you were out for a row, I
suppose, because you wanted the air." She looked a little puzzled.

"If you had not overtaken me, I should never have seen you again," he
said, looking at her affectionately.

"What do you mean?" she asked, rather startled.

"Simply this, I was running away. I was engaged to dine with you that
evening, and I was going to Naples to get out of it. I would have sent a
telegram about urgent business--or anything."

"What an idea!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I knew what would happen if I stayed," said he, softly.

"But you did not care for me then?" she asked, quickly.

"Oh, yes, I did," he answered; "and I knew I should care a great deal
more." His eyes burned in the bright light of the afternoon.

"But I did not love you in the least then," said Leonora, demurely.

"No, of course not--and I did not flatter myself that you would. But I
knew I was going to love you with all my heart."

Again their hands met for a moment, and a couple of sailors, who watched
them from a distance, nudged each other and grinned.

"When did you first begin to care, dear?" he said presently.

"Seriously? What a silly question, Julius. How can I tell?"

"It was after I found you in the church, was it not?"

"Yes, indeed. Ever so long after that!"

"About two days?" he suggested gravely.

"How absurd, Julius," she said with a little air of offended dignity
that was charming. "You know it was ever so long."

"I wonder what you thought of me, when you turned round and saw me
looking at you in the church," said he. He really had not an idea, and
was curious to know.

"I thought you were very rude," said she. "And afterwards I thought you
were very nice."

"I did not mean to be rude," said Julius, "but I could not help going
in. I was in love with you, and I knew you were there."

"In love--already?" asked Leonora.

"Why--yes--it was at least a week after I tried to run away," said
Julius innocently.

"It was exactly two days," said Leonora.

They both laughed, for it was quite true. It was very pleasant to recall
the beginnings of their love, for it had all been sweet, and easy; it
seemed so to them, at least, as the foreshore hid Sorrento from their
sight, and with it the scene of all they were discussing.

It was a beautiful voyage, along the coast in the summer sea. There was
always enough breeze in the daytime, and there was the moon at night,
and they always felt that if they were quite alone, on land, it would be
even more charming, if possible. It is a great thing in happiness to
know that there is to be more of it, and more and more, till at last the
heart has its fill of joy.

They reached Genoa, and rested themselves for a day and a night in the
glorious rooms of an old palace, turned into an hotel by the profane
requirements of modern travellers. But it is very agreeable for
travellers to sleep in palaces, by whatever names they are called, and
it is foolish to say that moderns should build new buildings instead of
making use of old ones when they have them ready to hand.

There is a set of people in the world who deal in cheap sentiments, and
get themselves a reputation for taste by abusing everything modern and
kneeling in rows before everything that is old. They grind out little
mediaeval tunes with an expression of ravished delight, and tell you
there is no modern music half so good,--in fact, that there is no modern
music at all! Or they garnish themselves in queer white robes and toddle
through a vile travesty of some ancient drama; or they build houses of
strange appearance and hideous complication of style, having neither
beauty without nor comfort within: and last of all, they say to
themselves, Verily, we are the most artistic people in the world!

One of these persons could not have passed an hour in the old palace
which the Genoese have turned into an hotel. The bare idea of such
profanity would have produced artistic convulsions at once, and untold
suffering in the future by the mere memory of it. But neither Batiscombe
nor Leonora were people of that sort. Julius took a very different view
of life, believing to some extent in the simple theory that useful
things are good and useless things are bad, and that everything that
really fulfils its purpose must have some beauty of its own. Moreover,
Julius had very little reverence, but a profound intelligence of the
comfortable; he would have slept as well in a king's tomb as in an
American hotel, provided the furniture were to his taste in respect of
length and breadth and upholstery. As for Leonora, she had been brought
up chiefly in Italy, and never troubled herself with the intricacies of
the art question in that country, taking everything to be natural so
long as she always had the very best of it. And at present, being wholly
in love, and having her heart's desire, she would even have been willing
to put up with less luxury than usual. Her talent for supremacy, as
Julius used to call it, had taken a person for its object, and found the
dominion of a heart more interesting than the dominion of fashionable
luxury, the finest horses, or even Mr. Worth.

"I used to hate hotels," said she to Julius, late in the evening, "but
they seem very pleasant after all. There is never any fuss about
anything; and I always seem to get just what I want."

"Oh--hotels are very well, if one understands them," he answered. He did
not explain to her that her comfort was chiefly due to his forethought.
"You would soon find it a great bore, though," he added.

"I am sure I should not," said she. "You are so clever that you make
everything seem easy for me."

Julius laughed, out of sheer satisfaction. These were just the little
speeches he loved most from women, and, most of all, from Leonora. It
would seem a harmless vanity of itself, but it leads to doing acts of
forethought and courtesy for the sake of the praise instead of for the
sake of the woman.

"It is very good of you to say so, my dear," he answered, modestly. "But
we will change all that, by and by. When the heat is over we will go
away, and live in the Greek islands. There are places worth going to,
there."

"Oh, of all things how delightful!" cried Leonora, carried away by the
new idea. "And have a house by the sea, and a boat, and Greek
servants,--how lovely!"

"Meanwhile, dear," said Julius, "we will go and be cool in the old
Carthusian monastery. It does not take long from here."

And so they left Genoa and reached Turin, where Batiscombe found his
box--the one that Marcantonio intended to watch so carefully--and took
it away; thence they went to a place called Cuneo, a little southwards
by the railway, in the Maritime Alps, which Leonora said were beautiful;
and then they drove in an ancient diligence to the Certosa di Pesio, an
old Carthusian monastery, as Julius had said, built over a wonderful
mountain torrent, and surrounded with ancient chestnut-trees. Through
the valley that opens away to northward you can catch a glimpse of Monte
Rosa, when the setting sun gilds the snow, and the breeze brings down
with it the freshness of the Alps. Leonora was enchanted with the place,
with Batiscombe's choice, with him, with everything.

"And to-morrow you will show me where you used to catch fish, and write
your articles on Italian politics?" said she, as they came in from a
short walk late in the evening.

That night Batiscombe dispatched a letter to Rome.

     CERTOSA DI PESIO, CUNEO,

     MARITIME ALPS, _August 31_.

     The Marchese Carantoni will find Mr. Julius Batiscombe at the above
     address, with a friend.

That was all, but it gave Julius infinite satisfaction to send it. He
had grudged the days that had passed before he could send Carantoni the
information. As for the "friend," he had seen two or three cavalry
officers about the place as soon as he arrived, and he knew that he
could rely on the assistance of some of them. Duels are easily arranged
in Italy.




CHAPTER XXII.


When Marcantonio met Diana in the morning, she noticed at once the
change in his appearance. He was still very pale, and his face was drawn
in a peculiar expression; but he did not look so wild, and his eyes had
regained their clearness.

Diana greeted him affectionately, but made no remark about his health,
thinking it would annoy him. She herself had slept soundly and began the
day with a new supply of strength.

"You are still determined to go to Turin?" she said, with half a
question in her voice, but as though it were quite certain that he would
answer in the affirmative.

"Yes," he said, "I am quite determined. It is the best thing I can do."

"I was wondering this morning," said Diana, "whether we ought not to let
our uncle know. It seems to me that he ought not to hear it from
strangers."

Marcantonio eyed her suspiciously.

"You cannot expect me to go and tell him now," said he. "The train
leaves in an hour--there is not time."

"Of course not," said Diana, seeing how quickly he suspected her of
wishing to interfere with his plan. "But, if you like, I will write and
tell him."

"We can write from Turin," said he moodily. "No one knows yet."

He hurried her to the station, and got there long before the hour of
departure. He was determined not to miss the train, and until he was
seated in the carriage and the train rolled out of the city he could not
feel sure that Diana would not stop him. He was somewhat relieved when
they passed the first station on the way to Florence, and he saw that he
was fairly off. Donna Diana sat opposite to him and watched him,
thinking sadly of the last journey they had made together, when he had
taken her to Sorrento by the night train. He looked quiet, though, and
she thanked Heaven things were no worse; he might so easily have done
himself a mischief in the first outbreak of his solitary grief.

She still hoped for a chance of learning how it had all happened, for
she was very much in the dark, and had no means of learning anything
except what he might choose to tell her. Perhaps the intense inquiry in
her mind reacted on his, as often happens between brothers and sisters.
At all events, he began to speak before half an hour had gone by.

"I have not told you anything about it yet, Diana mia," he said. "I have
been so busy, so many things to do." He passed his hand over his
forehead as he spoke, as though trying to collect himself.

"Of course," said Diana gently. "Do not tire yourself now, dear boy.
Another time will do just as well. I know all that is absolutely
necessary."

Marcantonio laughed very slightly and a little foolishly, and again put
his hand to his head.

"Oh, no," he answered, "I shall not tire myself. You do not know
anything about the--the--occurrence."

"No," said she, "that is true."

"They went away at night," said Marcantonio quickly, and then stopped.

"Pray do not tell me about it, dear brother," said Diana, rising and
seating herself near to him on the opposite side of the carriage. She
laid her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, for she feared a return
of his old state.

"But I must tell you," he said impatiently, and she saw it was useless
to protest. "They went away at night," he continued, "in a boat. I heard
the dogs barking, just for a moment, and then they stopped, and I went
to sleep. I went to sleep, Diana," he cried savagely, "when she was
running away with him, and I could have killed him as easily as
possible. I could have killed them both--oh, so easily!" He groaned
aloud and clenched his thin hands.

"Hush!" said Diana, softly.

"I could have killed them as easily as he killed the dogs and stopped
their barking," he went on; "he killed them both, wrung their
necks--poverini--as though they were not right to call me. And I never
guessed anything, though I heard them!"

He was working himself into a frenzy, and Diana was afraid he might go
mad then and there. She tried to draw his mind to another part of the
story. She was a woman of infinite tact and resource.

"Yes," said she, "I am sure you could. But how long was it before you
telegraphed to me?"

"How long? I do not know," he said; and he seemed trying to recollect
himself.

"Was it in the afternoon?" asked Diana, glad to fix his attention on a
detail.

"Let me see--yes. I meant to send it from Castellamare--the dispatch, I
mean; and instead I stopped the carriage at a little town on the way--I
forget the name, but there was a telegraph office there--and so I sent
it sooner."

"Yes," said Diana. "I got it at about seven o'clock. My husband was very
quick and got a carriage, and brought me as far as Genoa."

"How good of him!" exclaimed Marcantonio. "How is he? And the children,
dear little things; are they all well?"

His face changed again, and a pleasant smile showed that he had
forgotten his troubles for a moment. Diana was surprised at the ease
with which she could distract his attention, and she determined to make
use of her power to the utmost. It would be something gained if she
could keep him quiet during the journey. She began immediately to speak
of her children, a boy and girl of four and three years old. She told
him about their games, their appearance, their nursery maids, and their
French governess. She branched off into a dissertation on the beauties
of the Riviera, and still he listened and made intelligent answers, and
talked as though nothing had happened to him and they were travelling
for their amusement. Seeing that she was accomplishing her object, she
went on from one subject to another, telling him all manner of details
about her life in France, in Austria, and other places where her
husband's official duties had called him, during the five years since
her marriage. Only about Rome she would not speak, fearing lest the
smallest reference to the scenes he had recently passed through might
take his mind back to his great grief.

And all the while she marvelled at his calmness, and at the ease with
which she could amuse him. For he was really amused, there could be no
doubt. He laughed, talked in his natural way, and seemed enjoying
himself very well, smoking a cigarette now and then, and commenting on
the weather, which was abominably hot.

"Of course," said he, "we shall find it much cooler in Pegli."

Diana started quickly, and then looked away to hide her astonishment.

"Of course," she answered, "it is very much cooler there."

Did he really fancy he was going to Pegli? Had he forgotten Turin and
his errand? Was he gone stark mad? She could not tell, and was
frightened. It might have been a slip of the tongue,--but he said it
very quietly, as though he were anticipating the delights of the
climate. Nevertheless, she did not dare to pause, and she talked bravely
on in the heat and the dust.

At one of the stations the train stopped ten minutes for refreshments.
Marcantonio said he would get out and buy a sandwich and a bottle of
wine. He sprang nimbly from the step, and Diana watched him as she sat
by the open door of the carriage. He looked more like his old self than
she had seen him since the catastrophe, and she watched him with loving
eyes, wondering how he would bear what was to come, and for the first
time wishing that he might be kept always in this state, without the
necessity of a meeting with Batiscombe.

Presently he returned with the provisions,--a brace of rough-looking
sandwiches, and a bottle of wine.

"It is the best I could do," he remarked. "It is the last place in the
world."

He still looked cheerful and entirely himself. Diana watched him
closely, hoping and praying with all her might that he might remain
so--forever, even if he were out of his mind. Anything would be better
than to see him suffer as he had been suffering that morning. She began
to talk again, eating a little of the sandwich, for she was tired, and
needed all her strength. He ate, too, and drank some of the wine, but he
no longer listened as he had done before, and he did not answer nor make
a remark of any kind. Diana had taken up what he said about the station,
and was talking about travelling in France.

Suddenly Marcantonio's colour changed; he grew pale again, his eyes
stared, and he dropped the bread he was eating. Diana was terrified,
brave as she was, for she knew that his mind had gone back to his
trouble,--how, she could not tell; but it was clear that for a space he
had wholly forgotten it. He seemed to take up the thread of his terrible
narration at the point at which he had been led away from it.

"Temistocle brought me the key," he said, and his voice sounded hollow
again and far away. "He had told the servants she had gone to Rome
before daybreak, and that I had gone with her,--ha! ha!--he is a cunning
fellow. I gave him something for himself,--I think I did,--I am not
quite certain." Again his ideas seemed to wander, and he tried to
remember the detail that had escaped his grasp. Quick as thought Diana
seized the opportunity.

"Did you give it to him in the evening?" she asked.

"I am not sure. I am not quite sure that I did give it to him after all.
Oh, I cannot remember anything any more."

He clasped his hands to his head as though striving to compress his
brain and to compel it to action. The train moved away from the station.

"You can send it to him, in any case," suggested Diana, in an agony of
sympathy and suspense. She would have added "from Pegli," if she had
dared; but she was not sure he would remember his stray remark, or
whether he had meant it. In a moment it was too late.

"Of course," cried Marcantonio, delighted with the idea. "I can send it
from Turin. He deserves it well. There will be time,"--he hesitated and
spoke slowly,--"there will be time,--yes, there will be time, before I
find him." His voice fell almost to a whisper, barely audible to Diana
in the noise of the train as it gained speed in starting. He seemed
unconscious of her at the moment when he said the last words, and she
sat with clasped hands and set lips, not knowing what to expect next. In
a little while he began again. She had been too much struck by his quick
change of manner to find the thing to say, in time to lead him off.

"I went into her room," he said. He stopped and fumbled in his pockets,
producing at last the cross of sapphires and diamonds. "I found this,"
he added, showing it to Diana. She would have taken it, but he held it
nervously in his hand, more than half concealed. "Do you know it?"

"Yes," said she as quietly as she could. "It belonged to our mother."

"It is beautifully made," he said suddenly, looking closely at it. "It
is most beautifully made, and the stones are very valuable. Should you
not think that they are worth a great deal?"

"They must be--the sapphires are of a very good colour and the
brilliants are large," said Diana, humouring him. "I wonder where it was
made?"

"I do not care where it was made," said Marcantonio roughly. "I have got
it again. I will give it back to her--she must have missed it." He
looked at Diana with a strange pathetic inquiry in his weary eyes.

"Leonora?" asked Diana, in surprise. Marcantonio started as though he
had been stung. He had thought of his dead mother.

"Leonora? Ah!" he cried with a sort of muffled scream. "It belonged to
Leonora--Ugh!" With a quick movement he flung the jewel at the window.
It chanced that the pane was raised to keep out the smoke on that side.
The heavy cross cracked the plate glass and knocked a small piece out of
the middle, but fell to the floor.

Marcantonio remained in the very act, as he had thrown it, for one
instant. Then his head sank on his breast and his hands fell to his
sides helplessly.

"Oh, Diana, Diana," he moaned piteously, "I am mad." Then he began to
rock himself backward and forward as though in pain.

It was no time to break down in horror or grief, and Diana was not the
woman to waste idle tears. The cross had fallen at her feet. She had
instantly stooped and picked it up and hid it away, lest he should see
it again. Then she heard him say that he was mad, and she made a
desperate effort. She took him strongly in her arms, almost lifting him
from the ground, and laid his head upon her breast and supported it, and
took his hand. He was quite passive; she could do anything with him for
the moment--he might have been a child.

Diana bent down as she held him in her arms and kissed him tenderly on
the forehead and breathed soft words. It was a prayer.

Poor woman! what could she do? Driven to the last extremity of agony and
horror, sitting by and seeing her brother going mad--raving mad--before
her very eyes, unable to soothe his grief or to strengthen his soul by
any words of her own, not knowing but that at any moment he might turn
upon herself--poor woman, what could she do? She breathed into his ear
an ancient Latin prayer. What a very foolish thing to do! She was only a
woman, poor thing, and knew no better.

O woman, God-given helpmate of man, and noblest of God's gifts and of
all created things--is there any man bold enough to say that he can make
praises for you out of ink and paper that shall be worthy to rank as
praise at all by the side of your good deeds? You, who bow your gentle
heads to the burden, and think it sweet, out of the fulness of your own
sweet sympathy--you, whose soft fingers have the strength to bind up
broken limbs and rough, torn wounds--you, who feel for each living thing
as you feel for your own bodily flesh, and more--you, who in love are
more tender and faithful and long-suffering than we, and who, even
erring, err for the sake of the over-great heart that God has given
you--is it not enough that I say of you, "You are only women, and you
know no better"? What greater, or higher, or nobler thing can I say of
you, in all humbleness and truth, than that you are what you are, and
that you know no better? What better things can any know, than to bear
pain bravely, to heal the wounded, to feel for all, even for those who
cannot feel for themselves, and to be tender and faithful and kind in
love? And even, being given of Heaven and loved of it, that you should
turn in time of need and trouble and say a prayer for strength and
knowledge, even that is a part of you, and not the least divine part. So
that when the man who cannot suffer what you can suffer, nor do the good
that you can do, sneers and scoffs at your prayers and your religion, I
could wring his cowardly neck to death. Even poor Leonora, praying
philosophical prayers to a power in which she did not in the least
believe, was not ridiculous. She was pathetic, mistaken, miserable,
perhaps, but not ridiculous.

Perhaps Diana had done the best thing, out of pure despair. The long
familiar words, spoken in her soothing voice, at the very moment when he
was conscious that he was on the verge of insanity, chained his
faculties and gradually brought him to a calmer state. Perhaps, also,
the strong magnetic power of his sister acted more forcibly on him from
the moment when he suddenly abandoned himself to her influence. Like
many people who possess that strange gift, she was wholly unconscious of
it, and she sometimes wondered why it was that those about her yielded
so easily to her will. Be that as it may, Marcantonio lay quite still in
her arms, and at last his eyelids drooped, his limbs relaxed, and he
fell into a deep sleep. The hot hours wore on, and the train rolled by
the towns and hamlets and castle-crested hills towards Florence, and
still he slept, and Diana tenderly supported him, though her arm ached
as though it must break, and her eyes were dimmed from time to time with
the sight and consciousness of so much misery.

At length, as they entered the station, she waked him. He was quite calm
again, and collected, but very sad, as she had seen him that morning.

"Have I slept like this so long?" he asked.

"Yes, dear boy," said Diana.

"Dear, dear Diana, how good you are," he exclaimed, and he kissed her
hand gratefully. "We have an hour here, to dine, before the train
starts."

"Will you go on at once?" she asked. She had vainly hoped that he might
be induced to stay in Florence. But he had recovered himself enough to
know perfectly well what he was doing.

"Yes--certainly," said he. "We shall arrive in the morning." She dared
not object nor make a suggestion, not knowing how soon he might break
out again, in some fresh burst of madness.

"Very well," she answered, as a station porter took their handbags and
smaller properties, "let us dine at once."

She watched him and saw that he ate with a good appetite. She had heard
that lunatics always eat well, and she would almost rather have seen him
too sad to care for his food; nevertheless she thought it would do him
good.

There is probably nothing more wearing, more racking to the nerves, than
the care of an insane person. To be ever on the watch, expecting always
an outbreak or a painful incoherence, to attempt to follow the sensible
nonsense that madmen talk, always endeavouring to distract the attention
from the forbidden subject, are efforts requiring the highest tact and
the greatest coolness. Diana could accomplish much by sheer common sense
and endurance, and more, perhaps, by the strong affection which had
always existed between her brother and herself. But she felt
instinctively that she was not equal to the task, even while she hoped
that Marcantonio was not really mad.

She was mistaken, however, as any indifferent person would have seen in
a moment. He was insane, and on the verge of becoming violent. Nothing
but her wonderful courage and strong will had kept him within any
bounds, and he might at any moment become wholly uncontrollable.

She would have stopped in Florence if it had been possible, but it
seemed dangerous to thwart him at present, and she felt sure that in
Turin she could get the help of some first-rate physician. So she
submitted once more, and in an hour they were off again, in a reserved
carriage, as before, flying northwards towards the mountains, where the
road winds so wonderfully through a hundred tunnels, in its rapid
ascent.

It was a very long night for Diana. In all her many journeys she had
never felt fatigue such as this. Marcantonio would sleep for an hour,
and then start up suddenly and begin to talk, sometimes asking questions
and sometimes volunteering remarks that showed how his mind was
wandering. Once or twice he showed signs of returning to the account of
his doings after Leonora had left him, but Diana was able to check him
in time, for he was growing tired and yielded more easily to her will
than in the daytime.

At last they were safe in the hotel, and Marcantonio was in his room,
intending to dress, he said, before going out. Diana was no sooner
assured that she was free from the responsibility of watching him for a
few minutes than she sent for the proprietor of the hotel, inquired for
the address of the best physician in Turin, and dispatched a messenger
with a very urgent request for his attendance.

The apartment she had taken with her brother consisted of a large
sitting-room, with a bedroom on each side of it. Marcantonio's room had
but that one door, which she could watch as she lay on the sofa,
awaiting the arrival of the doctor.

When he came at last, breathless in his haste to put himself at the
service of the great lady who sent for him, he talked very learnedly for
half an hour, after listening to all Diana told him with grave
attention. He could not see the patient of course, and the interview
took place in a small antechamber, from which he could escape if
Marcantonio were heard moving within. He was of opinion that it was not
a case of insanity, but of temporary derangement of the faculties from
the severe strain they had received. The sudden manifestations of
violence were natural enough to an Italian,--if it had been the case of
an Englishman, it would have been different, because, as the doctor
said, half in earnest and half in jest, Inglesi were generally mad to
begin with, and anything beyond that made them furious maniacs. He had a
man, he said, long accustomed to dealing with lunatics. He would send
him disguised as a servant, and he could be in constant attendance,
thus relieving Diana of the care of watching the marchese. He himself
would call every day and inquire, and would be ready at a moment's
notice to remove him to a place of safety. In his present state, he
said, to shut him up, and treat him as though he were insane, might very
likely make a permanent madman of him.

The doctor retired, leaving Diana somewhat reassured. All that he had
said seemed reasonable, and she would strictly follow his advice.
Meanwhile, she went to her own room, feeling sure that she could hear
Marcantonio's door open, if he finished dressing and came out. But
Marcantonio rang his bell at the end of an hour, and sent word to his
sister that he felt tired and had gone to bed, and would not rise till
midday.

Poor fellow--she was pleased at the intelligence, but the fact was that
his mind had strayed again; he had forgotten the object of his journey,
and being worn out had gone to bed like a tired child. The new place,
the strange room, and the necessity of unpacking his clothes himself had
confused him, and driven everything else out of his head.

Before he awoke, the confidential man had arrived, arrayed in the
ordinary dress of an hotel servant. He was a quiet individual, with
strong hands and iron-grey hair, neat in his appearance, and a little
hesitating in his speech; but his eyes were keen and searching, and he
moved quickly. Diana was pleased with him, and understood that the
doctor had given her good advice, and that Marcantonio would be safely
watched. The man said he would serve them in their own sitting-room, and
perform the offices of valet for Marcantonio, and be altogether in the
position of a private servant, which, however, was not his profession,
as he took care to add.

When at last Diana and Marcantonio met, each rested and refreshed, he
looked the less weary of the two. Diana had suffered too much to be
entirely herself, and for the first time in her life felt as though she
had taxed her strength too severely. Moreover, the strain was not
removed, but increased hourly. Her woman's instinct told her that, in
spite of the doctor's opinion, her brother was actually out of his mind,
perhaps past all recovery. His sudden cheerfulness was horrible to her,
and made her shudder when she thought of the magnitude of what he was
forgetting.

"Let us take a carriage and see Turin, Diana," he suggested gayly, as
they finished their lunch and he lit a cigarette. "I have never been in
Turin with you. There are some very pretty things to see."

"By all means," said she readily. "Let us go at once."

The confidential servant was dispatched for a carriage. The idea of
seeing sights with his sister pleased Marcantonio, and he never relapsed
into his sadder self during the afternoon. Diana did not know whether to
be glad or sorry; his forgetfulness was terrible, but his memory was
worse. She remembered the scene with the cross on the previous day, in
the railway-carriage, and she thought that if insanity brought peace it
was better to be insane.

They drove about and saw what was to be seen,--the great squares, the
memorial statues, the armory, where the mail-clad wooden knights sit
silently on their mail-clad wooden horses, and they drove out at last to
Moncalieri, in the cool of the evening. The confidential servant sat on
the box and directed the driver, pointing out to Diana and Marcantonio
the various objects of interest, so that Carantoni suspected nothing.
The man acted his part perfectly.

"How charming it is here!" exclaimed Marcantonio, admiring the trees,
and the life, and the gay colours at Moncalieri. "Why did we not think
of coming here before, my dear?" He spoke in French, which he rarely did
with his sister, though he had always done so with his wife. Diana
hardly noticed it at the moment,--she was obliged to answer something.

"It was hardly the right season for it before this, I suppose," said
she. "But now we can stay as long as we please."

"Oh yes," said he, in his old way, "if it is agreeable to you, I ask
nothing better. It is infinitely more pleasant than Sorrento. I never
liked Sorrento, I cannot tell why. It never wholly agreed with you, mon
ange--n'est-ce-pas?"

"I was always well there,--well enough, at least," answered Diana,
puzzled at this new phase of his humour.

"Ah no, you were never well after Diana left us. She is so good, she
makes every one well!" He spoke pleasantly and naturally.

It was horrible, and Diana started with a new realisation of his state.
He no longer recognised persons,--he took her for Leonora!

But some new object attracted his attention, and he chattered on, almost
to himself, almost childishly, but with a sweet smile on his pale,
delicate face. Diana could scarcely restrain her tears,--she who had not
wept for years until lately!

Poor Diana! Batiscombe and Leonora were sinfully, wholly, happy with
each other,--Batiscombe selfishly so, perhaps, but none the less for
that, and Leonora with a wild delight in her new life, that swallowed up
the past and gilded the present. Even poor, crazy Marcantonio,
chattering and making small French jokes about the people's dresses at
Moncalieri, was happy for the moment. Only Diana, the brave woman who
had fought for the right so well, seemed cut off from it all, bearing
the whole burden on her shoulders, and silently bowing her queenly head
to the storm of woe and grief and destruction.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Diana would have taken her brother away from Turin if she could, but
there was a danger that the mere suggestion might revive the fixed idea
that had driven him mad. His illusions had not the absolutely permanent
character which is the most hopeless. For instance, on the evening of
the very day when he had called his sister by his wife's name, he had
known Diana perfectly well, and had sat for an hour talking about old
times with her. Whether, at such moments, he had any recollection of
recent occurrences, would be hard to say; and the doctor advised for the
present that he should have perfect quiet and should be allowed to amuse
himself and to be amused in any way which seemed best. In the course of
a day or two the doctor saw him, coming on pretence of seeing Madame de
Charleroi. He felt now, he said, from Marcantonio's manner, that he
would recover before long, though his memory concerning the
circumstances of the time when he was insane would probably be very
uncertain.

But Diana felt relieved at this and devoted her time to her brother from
morning till night, reading to him, driving with him, or talking to him
as the case might be. She could do nothing more for the present. Turin
is a pleasant city enough, the weather was not excessively hot, and the
hotel was large and comfortable. In the course of time it would be
possible to move Carantoni and take him to Paris, but at present any
sudden change of place or surroundings was to be deprecated.

A week passed in this way, and Diana grew pale with the constant strain
of anxiety, and the great dark rings circled her grey eyes. But she bore
bravely up, and rose each day with strength to do what lay before her.
She wrote to her husband, and he offered at once to come and help her to
take care of Marcantonio, but she would not let him come, fearing the
effect of a new face,--even that of an old friend like Charleroi. She
received all the letters that came to her brother, and was surprised
that there were no communications from the detectives he had employed.
The fact was that Marcantonio had given a separate address to them, and
as they discovered nothing, after the manner of most detectives, they
only systematically telegraphed that they had confidence of being on the
track. The telegrams were addressed to another hotel, and were dropped
into the box for unclaimed letters and were never heard of again. Diana
knew that business communications would be harmless in Marcantonio's
present state, and when any came she let him have them. He would read
them over and often discuss with her the information they contained, and
at last he would let her answer them, saying it was very good of her to
save him so much trouble.

All these letters came from Rome, being forwarded by the steward who
lived at the Palazzo Carantoni and managed the business of the
household. Others came, re-directed over the original address, from
friends in different parts of the country, and these Diana carefully put
aside unopened, fearing always that some passing reference or message to
Leonora might disturb him and bring on a fresh outbreak. She could
always distinguish the business letters, because they were either
directed in the handwriting of the steward, or they bore the outward and
visible printed address of the lawyer, farmer, or merchant, from whom
they came.

In the week they had spent in Turin there had been already twenty or
thirty communications of various kinds. Poor Marcantonio never knew that
his sister sorted the mail for him. It was brought to him by the
confidential servant, and he always took it and went to his room with an
air of great importance to "get through his business," as he expressed
it. He was evidently proud of doing it, showing that unaccountable
vanity in small things which characterises so many lunatics. Indeed, he
had always been proud of his attention to details, and now it became a
sort of passion, though he was never able to carry out his intentions,
and always left the unfinished work to Diana.

On the fourth of September Julius Batiscombe's letter, directed to
Marcantonio in Rome, had come back to Turin. Julius had marked it "very
urgent," and the steward had looked at it, had thought Batiscombe's
handwriting indistinct, and to secure greater certainty had put it into
another envelope and directed it in his own business-like way. The
consequence was that it was mistaken for a common business letter, and
handed to Marcantonio with the rest.

It seemed to be the last blow that an evil fate could strike at the
unhappy man, and it was a terrible one in itself and in its
consequences.

He sat at his table by the window, opening one letter after another, and
looking over the contents with a pleased expression, a little vacant
perhaps, but not altogether without intelligence. There was a lacuna in
his mind, and sometimes he was conscious of being confused by faces and
things about him, but he was still capable of understanding the
questions about his estates, and farms, and buildings, though he always
seemed to lack the energy to write the directions with his own hand.

He turned over the sheets and folded each one neatly and put it back
into its particular envelope. Then he opened the one from the steward,
and found in it a letter directed to Rome in a strange hand.

He held it in his fingers with a puzzled look for a moment; it seemed as
though one letter had suddenly become two. Then he understood and
smiled a little sadly at his own weakness of comprehension, and broke
the seal.

The effect was not instantaneous. He read it over again, and a third
time, his face still vacant, and he put his hand to his head trying and
striving with all his might to remember. The week of insanity had done
its work and Diana need not have feared that he could be easily recalled
to an understanding of the past. But it was not wholly gone yet; he
would try to remember. He rose to his feet, and perhaps the slight
physical effort helped to stir his dull mind.

Suddenly he trembled violently from head to foot, and his colour changed
from the natural complexion it had taken of late to a deadly pallor. For
an instant his whole nature seemed to be convulsed, he reeled to and fro
and caught himself by the heavy frame of his bedstead, staring wildly
about, and fell backwards across the pillows, clutching the counterpane
to right and left of him with his two hands, his face distorted and
horrible to see.

It only lasted for a moment, and he regained his feet, stood still for a
few seconds, and passed his hands across his eyes and seemed at once to
recover his faculties. He took Batiscombe's letter again and read it
over, as though fixing the few words and the address in his mind. The
vacant expression of ten minutes ago had changed to a look of
supernatural intelligence and cunning. He put the letter in his pocket
and sat down at the table. He opened some of the envelopes again and
scattered the papers about, eying the effect rather critically. He then
took his dressing-case, opened it, and removed one small tray, and then
a second. In the bottom of the box was a revolver, bright and ready,
with all its appurtenances, a few cartridges lying loose in their little
compartment. The weapon was loaded, but he carefully opened it and
examined each chamber, turning it round slowly by the light. It was not
a large pistol, and when he was sure that it was in order, he put it
carefully into the inside pocket of his coat, and surveyed the effect in
the glass. No one would have suspected that he was armed.

He saw that his hat was ready in its place, and he rang the bell and sat
down at his table once more, holding a letter in his hand, as though
reading. The confidential servant appeared.

"Will you please to bring me a lemonade?" said Marcantonio, with
perfectly natural intonation. The man bowed and retired to execute the
order. His master seemed better than usual, he thought; the appearance
of the papers and Carantoni's bland smile had completely deceived him.

As soon as he was alone he took his hat, felt that he had his purse in
his pocket, and opened the door to the sitting-room. Diana was not
there, for she generally wrote her own letters until Marcantonio
appeared with his correspondence, asking her to answer it for him. The
servant was gone to get the lemonade and Marcantonio slipped quietly
out on tiptoe.

Once upon the main staircase of the hotel he ran nimbly down, humming a
little tune in a jaunty fashion, to show everybody that he was at his
ease. Of course the people in the house had no idea that he was insane.
It had been Diana's chiefest care to conceal the fact from every one;
and Marcantonio walked calmly past the porter's lodge into the street,
and took a cab. It was nearly midday and the thoroughfares were less
crowded than in the morning and evening; the cab flew rapidly over the
smooth pavement to the station.

There are many trains to Cuneo in the summer season, and before very
long Carantoni found himself in a smoking-carriage with three or four
men, all reading the papers and smoking long, black cigars with straws
in them. He lit a cigarette, bought a paper just as the guard was
closing the doors, and he rolled out of the station, looking just like
anybody else. He pretended to read, and no one noticed him.

When the servant returned with the lemonade and found that Marcantonio
was gone, he did not suspect what was the matter, but put the glass on
the table and went back to the antechamber and waited at his post. He
waited a few minutes and then knocked at Diana's door, and asked if the
signore were with her.

"No," said Diana quickly, and came out into the sitting-room in her
loose morning gown. "Where is he? Is he not in his room? He never comes
into mine."

"He is not there," said the man, who by this time was thoroughly
frightened. "He sent me for a lemonade. He looked better than usual, and
was sitting just there, at his table, reading his letters. When I came
back he was gone. He seemed entirely himself, better than I have ever
seen him."

Diana was frightened and puzzled. After all it was quite possible that
Marcantonio had taken it into his head to go out by himself. He had
never suggested such a thing yet, and always seemed unwilling to cross
the threshold alone; but since he was so much better that day, he might
have gone out. It was possible. She would not have believed that without
some immediate cause he could have fallen back into a remembrance of his
troubles; for she had studied his moods very carefully, and was
convinced that, as the doctor said, there would always be a blank in his
mind now, destroying the memory of those three or four days. She glanced
hastily over the papers on the table. They were all of the usual sort,
for Marcantonio had taken Batiscombe's letter with him.

Nevertheless, she was very much frightened, and was angry with the
confidential servant for not having sent some one else to get the
lemonade. She lost no time in dispatching him to make inquiries. He was
really an active man, and understood his business thoroughly, but
Marcantonio's manner had completely deceived him, and he had
conscientiously thought his charge perfectly safe. Maniacs have more
than once deceived their keepers, and their doctors, and Marcantonio
seemed to have fallen into a very different sort of madness--rather
foolish and gentle than cunning and dangerous.

The servant soon discovered that Marcantonio had passed the porter's
lodge and had taken a cab, not many minutes earlier; but no one had
heard the order he gave to the driver. There were no more carriages on
the stand. The man lost no time but ran down the street till he found
one, and was driven to the station, as he was, bareheaded and clothed in
a dress-coat and a white tie, after the manner of hotel servants in the
morning. His experience told him that crazy people generally made for
the railway when they escaped. But he was too late. A train had just
left--he made anxious inquiries of every one, describing Marcantonio's
clothes and jewelry, which he knew by heart. No one had noticed him. He
might not have come to the station after all.

But a dirty little boy elbowed his way through the crowd of railway
porters and guards that soon surrounded the man, and the boy listened.

"Had that signore a great ring on his finger, with a black stone in it,
and a red one on each side?" he asked.

"Yes," cried the confidential servant. "You have seen him?" He seized
the small boy by the arm and held him fast.

"Yes," said the little fellow; "but you have no need to pinch me like
that. I sold him a paper, and he gave me a silver half-franc, and I
noticed his fingers and his ring."

The servant released him.

Some one else had noticed the ring, which was very large and
brilliant,--a great sapphire with a ruby on each side of it. The
individual remembered hearing the gentleman ask for the train to Cuneo.
The confidential servant rushed back to the hotel, after ascertaining
that there would not be another train for two hours.

He told Diana what he had learned, and she listened attentively. She was
pale and quiet, and she did not reproach the man again. It was of no use
now. She had dressed herself, and she sent for a cab; and then she also
was driven to the station, the man accompanying her. She did not speak
except to give her orders.

She went at once to the station-master, an extremely civil individual
with a great deal of silver lace.

"Can you give me a special train to Cuneo at once?" she asked.

The station-master was in despair, he said. There was only a single
track, and it would be impossible to arrange the line at such short
notice. He bowed, and looked grave, and put everything in the station
at the disposal of the magnificent lady who ordered special trains as
other people order cabs. But he could do nothing. Diana hesitated.
Something must be done at once.

"My brother," she said, "took the last train to Cuneo, and I desire to
stop him. He--he is insane."

It was a hard thing to have to tell a stranger, a railway official, and
Diana was whiter than death as she said it. She would rather have put a
knife into her heart.

The station-master was graver and more polite than ever. He could
telegraph to all the stations to have the passengers watched as they
descended. Would she give him a description,--the name, perhaps?

It had to be done. She gave the details, and the telegram was sent.
Meanwhile she sat in the station-master's private office, to wait for
more than an hour until the next train should be ready.

The consequence of all this was that when Marcantonio finally reached
his destination, he was politely asked, in company with the other
passengers, whether he had seen or heard of an insane gentleman called
the Marchese Carantoni. But his newly-found cunning did not desert him.
He shrugged his shoulders, and said he did not know the gentleman. He
himself looked so quiet and dignified, that no one could have suspected
him of being the person, and the short description telegraphed would
have answered to hundreds of Italians all over the country. He had, of
course, expected to be pursued, as lunatics often do, and he was
prepared to baffle every attempt. His quiet look and frank smile were a
perfect passport. He even inquired of a porter at the station how he
could best reach the Certosa di Pesio; and the man told him it was an
hour's drive or more, and got him a little carriage for the journey, and
received a few sous for his pains.

Marcantonio leaned back against the moth-eaten cushions and smoked a
cigarette and looked at the scenery. He hummed a little tune
occasionally, and, when the dirty driver was not looking, he put his
hand into his breast pocket, and felt that his pistol was in its place,
and then the cunning smile passed over his features.

He had managed it all so well,--there could be no mistake about it. He
chuckled as he thought how Batiscombe would expect to receive the visit
of a third party, and would thus be suddenly brought face to face with
the principal. He thought he could anticipate just how Batiscombe would
look, and he revelled for a while in the contemplation of his hatred. He
had forgotten nothing now, except that he had ever forgotten his
vengeance for a moment.

On and on he rolled in his rattling little cab. Through a long and
gradually-ascending valley, thickly clothed with chestnut-trees of
mighty growth. By the roadside ran a stream, that gradually became a
torrent as the inclination of its course grew steeper, and the road
wound up towards the source. Here and there the water fell over a
natural weir of dark-brown rock, forming a deep pool below, where the
trout lurked in the shadow. Again the thick woods receded a little on
each side, and the bed of the stream, now shallow from the summer heat,
grew broad and stony; and further on there was a bit of grassy bank
overhung with many trees, and the small river swept smoothly round.

Suddenly the carriage drew up before an old stone gateway that seemed to
start out of the foliage, and there was a noise as of a deep fall of
water, at once wild and smooth. Marcantonio had reached the Carthusian
monastery at last. His purpose was almost accomplished.

It is a strange building in a marvellous situation. Those old monks
knew where to live, as they have always known in all ages and
countries,--from the priests of Egypt to the monks of Buddha, from the
Benedictines of Subiaco to the holy men of ancient Mexico, they have all
reared spacious dwellings in chosen sites, where the body might live in
peace and the soul be raised, by contemplating the beauties of the
earth, to the imagination of the beauties of heaven. They were wise old
men; some of them were good, and some bad, as happens in all communities
in the world; but they were men who did the earth good in their day, and
found out the places that have often become cities in our times,
whereby hundreds of thousands of souls have profited by their choice.

The Certosa di Pesio, where Julius and Leonora had taken up their abode
for a time, is turned into an establishment for cold-water cures. There
are generally some fifty or sixty people there from Turin and the
neighbourhood who take the baths, or not, as they please, and lead a
pleasant life for a few months in the great cloistered courts, and the
bright gardens, and out in the endless chestnut woods. A cool breath of
the Alps blows down the valley, and the rush of the water, dammed up by
a strong weir of ancient masonry, and continually pouring down with a
steady, musical roar, pervades all the cool rooms and the sounding halls
and passages. It is an ideal place for the summer, almost unknown to
foreigners. It is no wonder that Julius had thought it the very spot for
Leonora to rest in until the heat was over. A little way from the
buildings, up the valley, a dilapidated summer-house overhangs the
stream. Sitting there you can see the whole wonderful outline of the
convent buildings, crowned with chimneys which the old monk-architects
seem to have delighted in greatly, giving them a variety of strange and
grotesque shapes such as I never saw anywhere else. Julius and Leonora
used often to come to the old summer-house in the afternoon, with their
books, which were seldom called into requisition, and they would sit
side by side for hours, till the evening sun warmed the colours of the
pine-trees on the heights to a green-gold, and reddened the far-off
snows of Monte Rosa with the last, loving touch of his departing light.

An obsequious individual came forward from the archway as Marcantonio
drove up to the gate. Marcantonio eyed him, and perceived that he was a
functionary of the pension.

"Is there an English gentleman here?" he asked,--"a certain Signor
Giulio Batiscombe?" His voice was very calm, and had a certain suavity
in its tones; he smiled, too, as he asked the question.

"Si, signore," answered the man, bowing and gesticulating toward the
building. "Certainly. A handsome signore, with his wife--both Inglesi.
They arrived on the thirty-first of last month--five days. Will the
signore do the favour to come in? I will inquire whether the English
gentleman is at home."

The slightest shade passed over Marcantonio's face at the mention of the
wife in the case. But the man would not have noticed it. Marcantonio
felt sure he had not betrayed himself.

"I will wait here," said he, "while you inquire."

The man disappeared, and Marcantonio was alone. He looked up at the
windows in the grey walls, and saw no one. Nevertheless, at any moment
Batiscombe might appear--from the house or from the woods--he might be
taking a walk. It seemed a very long time to wait.

He put his hand into his breast pocket. The stock of the revolver just
curved over the edge of the cloth inside his coat; he could get at it
without trouble. He longed to take it out and examine it; to see whether
it were still in perfect order; and he peeped in when the driver was not
looking, just to catch a sight of the lock and the bright barrel. Then
he smiled to himself, and hummed a tune, assuming an air of quiet
indifference--acting all the time, as only madmen can act, as though he
were on the stage before a great audience. It was only for the benefit
of the driver of his little carriage, a rough fellow, who had not shaved
for a week, and wore a dirty linen jacket, his hands black and his eyes
red with the wine of the night before--that was the audience; but
Marcantonio acted his part with as much care as though he were in the
presence of Batiscombe himself. There must not be the smallest chance of
an interruption to his plan.

At last the man returned, bowing with renewed zeal. He came forward with
one hand extended, as though to help Marcantonio to alight.

"The English signore is in the garden," he said. Marcantonio smiled more
sweetly than ever and got out of his conveyance.

"You can wait," he said to the driver, and the latter touched his
battered straw hat.

Marcantonio followed the man through a great court, where there were
trees, into a long, tiled passage that seemed to run through the house,
and, on the other side, he emerged into a garden, thick with
laurel-trees and geraniums. The man led the way. Marcantonio's hand
crept stealthily into his breast pocket underneath his coat, and raised
the lock of the revolver very slowly. The man in front did not hear the
small, sharp click.

"Where is he?" asked Marcantonio, very gently, still smiling an
unnaturally sweet smile. The servant had stopped and was looking about.

"I was told they were here," said he; "but they must be in the
summer-house outside."

Again he led the way to a small door in the garden wall. It was open.

"There they are, signore," said he, pointing with his finger and
standing aside to let Marcantonio pass.

He looked, and saw two people sitting in the dilapidated old bower above
the water, not twenty yards from where he stood.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon. Diana had taken the train at two,
and could not reach Cuneo till six.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Leonora's utter recklessness of delight could not last very long. It was
a strange mood, as unnatural and uncontrollable at first as her
husband's madness. She could not help enjoying to the utmost the new
life that had so suddenly begun for her. She knew in her heart that she
had bought it at a great price, and she knew that she must make the most
of it, or she would have to reproach herself with the bargain.

It was easy enough at first. The quick change had thrown all her
thoughts into a new channel. From the midnight departure she had no more
time to think, until the long, quiet days at Pesio. There were moments
when she was on the verge of thinking, of remembering the past, and
wondering how her husband had acted. But she felt that it would be very
unpleasant to reflect on these things. It might take her a long time to
get out of the train of thought, as it used to do long ago whenever she
had one of her fits of philosophical despair; she was able to put it
off, and she seemed to be saying to herself, 'I shall have time to think
about it, and to satisfy my conscience by feeling the proper amount of
regret by and by.'

Of course she did not say as much in so many words, but the unconscious
excuse for what she knew an unprejudiced outsider would call her
heartlessness went on presenting itself whenever she felt the beginning
of a regret. Deeper even than that, and almost hidden in the sea of
self-deception, and passion, and riotous love of life, lay the reef on
which the ship of her happiness would some day go to pieces--the
ultimate knowledge of the wrong she had done, and of her own cruelty to
Marcantonio and weakness to herself.

But in Pesio the time came; terribly soon, she thought, though her
suffering was only at its beginning. Each morning brought a dull sense
of pain, that came in her dreams and became the terror of her waking.
She knew before she opened her eyes that it was there, and the first
returning consciousness was the certainty of sorrow. It soon wore away,
it is true, but she grew to dread it as she had never dreaded anything
in her short, luxurious life. It needed all her strength and energy to
shake off the impression, and it required all Batiscombe's love and
thoughtful care to make it seem possible to live the hours until the
evening.

That was in the morning, in the brief moments when Leonora, like most of
us, had not yet silenced her soul, and trodden it under for the day; and
it spoke bitter truth and scorn to her, so that she could hardly bear
it. Then, at last, she was honest. There was no more self-deception
then, no more possibility of believing that she had done well in
leaving all for Julius: she could no longer say that for so much love's
sake it was right and noble to spurn away the world,--for the world came
to mean her husband, her father and her mother, and she saw and knew too
clearly what each and all of them must suffer. Their pale faces came to
her in her dreams, and their sad voices spoke to her the reproach of all
reproaches that can be uttered against a woman. Her husband she had
never loved; but in spite of all her reasoning she knew that he had
loved her, and she understood enough of his pride and single-hearted
nobility to guess what he must suffer while she dragged his ancient name
in the dust of dishonour. Her father was never to her mind, for he was a
Philistine of the kind that have hard shells and very little that is
soft or warm within them, but she knew that he had treasured her as the
apple of his eye, and that his old heart would break for his daughter's
shame. Her mother was a worldly woman, loving Leonora because she had
obtained a success in society, and upbraiding her with never making the
most of it; but Leonora knew how her mother's vanity must be bowed and
trampled down by the deep disgrace, and that her vanity was almost all
she had of happiness.

And so it came to pass that after a little time the old tax-gatherer,
Remorse, began to put Leonora in distress for his dues, and she was
forced to pay them or have no peace. He came in the grey of the
morning, when she was not yet prepared, and he sat by her head and
oppressed it with heaviness and the leaden cowl of sorrow; and each day
she counted the minutes until he was gone, and each day they were more.

Julius saw and pondered, for he guessed what she suffered, and
understood now her terrible recklessness at the first. All that a lover
could do he did, and more also, employing every resource of his great
mind to fight the enemy, and always with success. He could always bring
the smile and the brightness of glad life to her face at last, and when
once his dominion was established there was no return of sorrow possible
for that day; his stupendous vitality and brilliant, overflowing
strength fought down the shadows and chased them out.

On the morning of the fourth of September, Leonora and Julius were
walking together in the chestnut woods near the monastery. She had been
less sad than usual at her first waking, and Julius hoped that the time
was coming when she could at last feel accustomed to her new position
and would cease to be troubled with the ghosts of the past. He was
over-confident, and thought he understood her better than he really did.
He was laughing and talking gayly enough, enjoying her happy mood and
the freshness and beauty of the bountiful nature around him.

Julius stopped from time to time and picked a few wild flowers that grew
amongst the moss and the grass of the wood. Leonora loved flowers, and
loved best those that grew wild. It was one of the few simple tastes she
possessed.

"It is not much of a nosegay," said Julius, as he put the sweet blossoms
together, and tied them with a blade of grass. "It is too late for the
best wild flowers here." He gave her the little bouquet with one hand,
and the other stole about her waist and drew her to him.

She smelled the flowers, and looked up at him over them, a little sadly.

"The time will come, I suppose," said she, "when there will be no more
flowers at all."

"Never for you, darling," he answered lovingly. "There will always be
flowers for you--everywhere, till the end of time."

"What is the end of time, Julius?" she asked softly.

"Time has no end for us, dear," he said. "For time is measured by love,
and nothing can measure ours."

They were near an old tree whose roots ran out and then struck down into
the ground. The moss and the grass had grown closely about the great
trunk's foot, and made a broad seat. They sat down, by common accord.

"Can there be no end to our love--ever?" she said.

"Should we be where we are, if either of us thought it possible?" he
asked.

"It must be whole--it must be endless--indeed it must," she
answered--clinging to the thought which gave her most comfort.

"Do you doubt that it is?" asked Julius, the strong earnestness of his
passion vibrating in his deep tones.

"No, darling," she answered; "I do not doubt it--only you must never let
me."

"Indeed, indeed, I never will!" said he. He meant what he said. Men are
not all intentional deceivers, but they forget. They are less faithful
than women, though they are often more earnest.

Is it not the very highest power of love not to allow a doubt? And how
many men can say that their lives have been so ordered toward the woman
they love best, that no doubting should be reasonably possible in her
mind? Few enough, I suppose.

"I have been thinking a great deal lately, Julius," said Leonora
presently.

"Tell me your thoughts, dear one," said he, drawing her to him, so that
her head rested on his shoulder, and his lips touched her hair.

"You know, dear," said she, "what we have done is not right--at
least"--She stopped suddenly.

"Who says it is not right?" asked Julius, with a touch of scorn in his
voice.

"Oh, everybody says so, of course; but that makes no difference. Nobody
would understand. It is not what people say. It is the thing." She
stared out into the woods as she leaned against him.

"How do you mean, sweetheart?" he asked.

"It is not right, you know. I am sure of it." She shook her head gently,
without lifting it. "It is all my fault," she added.

"You shall not say that, my own one," said Julius, passionately. He was
really grieved and troubled beyond measure.

"Ah--but I know it so well," said she. "You must help me to make it
right--quite right."

"It is right--it shall be right! I will make it so," he answered. "Only
trust me, darling, and you shall be the happiest woman the world holds,
as you are the best. God bless you, dear one." He kissed her tenderly,
but she tried to turn away from him.

"Oh, no, Julius--God will not bless me. I have only you left now. You
must be everything to me. Will you, dear? Say you will!"

"I do say it, my own darling," he answered fervently. "I will be
everything to you, now and forever and ever."

He was astonished and puzzled by the sudden outbreak. She had never
spoken like this to him before, though he had expected it at first, and
had wondered at her indifference. But now it seemed to have come upon
her suddenly with a great force, and she would not be comforted.

"And I say it, too," she said, passionately. "I will be everything to
you, now and forever and ever. We will give our lives to each other, and
make it right." She wound her arms about him, and hid her face against
his coat.

"How can true love, like ours, not be right?" asked Julius, clasping her
to him. "God has put it into the world, dear, and into our hearts."

Oh, the blasphemy and the hollowness and the cruelty of those words!
Even as Leonora lay in his arms and felt his kisses on her hair, loving
her sinful love for him out to the last breath, she knew that it was not
true, what he said so fervently,--and she knew that he did not believe
it, that no man can believe a lie so great and wide and deep and awful.

But the sun does not stand still in the heavens for a man's lie; he
hears too many untrue speeches, and sees too many false faces in his
daily task of shining alike upon the just and the unjust--he is used to
it and goes on his way; and time follows him, striving to keep pace and
to swell the puny minutes of its pulse into an eternity.

Such moments--when the rising sorrow and sense of shame that a woman
feels are choked down and crushed by the overwhelming energy of
falseness in the man she loves--are passionate, even terrible; and they
may come often, but they never last long.

Half an hour later, Julius and Leonora were wandering on through the
woods, and their talk had taken again its ordinary course. The morning
was passing, and as Batiscombe talked and amused and interested
Leonora, her doubts and fears disappeared, for the time at least, and
her old sense of enjoyment returned again, sweeter to her now than ever
before, in proportion as it was more difficult for her to attain it. She
was happy again, and the clouds were riven away and rent to shreds by
the strong breath of her stirring passion.

They walked for a while, and then returned to their midday breakfast and
spent an hour over it in the cool, darkened hall, which had once been
the refectory of the monastery, and was now the dining-room of the
people who came to the water-cure. Julius had suggested to Leonora that
they should have their breakfast and dinner in their own rooms, but she
said she liked to see the people. It amused her to watch their faces and
to wonder about them and criticise them. They were so unlike the people
she had known hitherto, that there was a freshness of amusement to her
in learning their ways.

And by and by they had their coffee in a little sitting-room of their
own that overlooked the torrent, and Julius smoked a cigarette and read
the papers a little, amusing her with his daring comments on the conduct
of nations and individuals. He was a man who was never afraid to say
what he meant--not only to Leonora, over a cup of coffee in the summer,
but to the world at large, in his books and articles. That was one
reason why the world at large always said he was an uncommonly fine
fellow, with a great deal of pluck and judgment. For the world at large
likes rough strength and keen wit, always understanding that the strong
language is not applied to itself, but to its neighbour next door.

At four o'clock Julius and Leonora went out again. Julius carried a pair
of shawls and a book and Leonora's silk bag with the silver rings--the
same she had used to bring her handkerchiefs when she fled from
Sorrento. They went into the garden and out among the laurels and the
geraniums for a few minutes, but Julius was sure there would be more
breeze outside, in the old summer-house over the water; for the garden
was sheltered by high walls all around, and the sun was still hot,
almost at its hottest at four o'clock on the fourth of September.

Accordingly Julius took the things in his hands, and the two went out of
the garden by the door in the wall and left it open. They walked down
the short open path to the old summer-house, and Julius made Leonora
very comfortable with the shawls for cushions upon the old, wooden
bench, which many generations of people had hacked with their knives and
adorned with the insignificance of their unknown names.

Side by side they sat in the glory of the summer's afternoon, and the
birds perched on the grey old ribs of the summer-house and hopped upon
the untrimmed creepers that grew thickly about it, making their small
comments to each other about the two people who sat below them, and
great green and pink grasshoppers skipped into the open space and out
again, a perpetual astonishment in their round, red eyes; all nature was
warm and peaceful and happy. The lovers talked together a little,
enjoying the sense that speech was not always necessary nor even
desirable.

"How do you like the 'Principe'?" Julius asked at last, glancing at the
book that lay open on Leonora's knee. He had given it to her to read,
because she said she knew so little of Italian thought.

"I hardly know," she said. "It is very wonderful, of course. But I
cannot quite believe that Machiavelli believed in it himself, nor that
any one ever acted on the advice he gives. It is too complicated and
unhuman."

"It always seems to me," said Julius, taking up the question, "that he
wrote like a man who inferred a great deal from his own experience--a
great deal more than it is safe to infer. He knew men and women very
well. He might have been a despotic lover."

"Why?" asked Leonora.

"Do you notice that he always reckons, everywhere and without exception,
on the heart of the people and on their personal affection for their
sovereign? But he never takes into consideration the possible affection
of the sovereign for his subjects."

"That is true," said Leonora. "He was a very heartless individual."

"Perhaps--though I hardly think it," answered Julius. "But he might have
written a guide for despotic lovers much better than a book of
instruction for tyrannical princes."

"What an idea!" said Leonora, laughing. "But I think he was heartless
all the same. He only believed in the people's hearts as a means for
getting power."

"He never says so," said Julius. "I rather think he loved the people,
but knew them well--and he loved the ingenuities of his wit much
better."

"If the heart does not come first, it never comes at all," said Leonora
thoughtfully. "If it does not rule it is ruled, and might as well never
exist at all. Are you tyrannical, dear?" She smiled at him, knowing how
he loved her.

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Julius, laughing; "but only about love."

"But that is just the question," said Leonora. "You ought not to be.
Your heart ought to come first."

"Yes, darling," he answered. "The heart comes first, and the heart is a
tyrant. Supposing my heart says to yours, 'You shall love me; I will
have it at any cost;' is not that tyranny?"

"Perhaps," said Leonora, smiling and touching his hand. "But then it is
quite a mutual tyranny, you know, because I say it to you, too,--and you
do it."

"I always do everything you say, darling," he answered lovingly.

"Always?"

"Always;--and I always will, Leonora."

"Do you think, Julius--it is a foolish question--do you think you would
die for me, if it were necessary?"

"You know I would, dear," he said quietly.

"Yes; I am sure you would," she answered. "Do you know? I used to think
that one ought to be willing to die for those one loves; and I like to
think that you would give your life for me. Of course it could never
happen--but then--Don't laugh at me, Julius."

"Why should I laugh?" he said. "What you say is serious enough, I am
sure."

"No--but I thought you might. You laugh at so many things--I am always
afraid you will laugh at my love"--

It was five o'clock.

Marcantonio, issuing from the door in the garden wall, saw Julius and
Leonora some twenty yards away, in the summer-house. He gave the servant
a franc for showing him the way, and the man retired. He stood alone,
watching the pair, for he could see them very distinctly. They were so
placed that they would see him if they turned and looked upward, but
they did not move, nor hear him. Leonora was nearest to him, and was
leaning back a little, so that she could not see him; Batiscombe held
her hand, and was looking at it, and gently caressing the fair, white
fingers as he talked.

Marcantonio turned away for a moment, and got out his revolver. It was
clean and bright, and he had examined it,--but he would look once more,
just to be sure there was a cartridge in each chamber, especially in
that one beneath the barrels. One could not be too certain of one's
weapon. There was no mistake,--everything was in order. The hour was
come.

The hideous maniac smile played over his delicate features, and he
stepped cautiously forward, holding the pistol behind him. Every step he
gained before they observed him was an advantage. And besides, Leonora
was between him and Batiscombe. It was not a fair shot, and it was too
far.

He did not want to kill her; he would take her home with him, when he
had killed Julius Batiscombe. He had ordered the little carriage to wait
for them. How happy she would be! Cautiously he moved on, ready for
action if they saw him. He trod so softly, so softly, it was like velvet
on the grass.

Then, as he came nearer,--not ten paces off,--he brought his pistol
before him and held it ready. So softly he had crept to them that they
had not yet heard him, as the summer wind blew gently through the long
grasses and the vines about the old bower, and made a sweet murmur of
its own.

--"I am always afraid you will laugh at my love"--Leonora was saying,
but the words that were to follow were never spoken.

Some slight sound caught her quick woman's ear, and she looked up in the
direction whence it came. There stood her husband, not ten paces from
her, with an expression in his face which would have frozen the marrow
in the bones of a wild beast.

The clean polished barrel of the pistol was pointed full at Batiscombe.
Leonora saw that, and saw that Marcantonio's eyes were fixed on her
lover and not on herself. Batiscombe saw it all as well as she, one
second later. But that one second was enough.

With a spring and a clutching turn, as a tigress will cover her young
with herself and turn glaring on her pursuers, Leonora threw her strong,
lithe body upon Julius, forcing him back to his seat, and she turned and
looked Marcantonio in the face. Their eyes met for one moment. But it
was too late: the finger had pulled the trigger and the ball sped true.

Without a sound, without a cry, she fell upon her lover's breast. There
she fell, there she died.

From the death wound the heart's blood fell in great drops; it fell down
to the ground.

She died for his sake whom she loved; she died, she gave for him her
life, the joy and the woe and the love of it for his sake.

       *       *       *       *       *

Do you ask what is the moral of this? Ask it of yourselves.

Ask it of that quiet man, with delicate features and snow-white hair,
who drives in the Villa Borghese. He is well-known in Rome for his
honesty, his honour, and his unaffected good sense. He is the Marchese
Carantoni, he is Marcantonio, and he is not yet forty years of age.

Ask it of Diana de Charleroi,--Duchesse de Charleroi now, for her
husband has succeeded to the elder title. Ask it of her, the mother of
brave boys and noble maidens. She has her beauty still, she is as
stately as of yore, and grander in the crown of mature womanhood. But
there is a streak of grey even in her fair hair, and a line of sorrow on
her forehead, the masterly handwriting of a mastering grief; and her
grey eyes are softer and sadder than they were ten years ago.

Ask it of Julius Batiscombe,--but of him you will ask in vain. He has
the mark of a bullet in his throat, Marcantonio's second shot, that was
so nearly fatal to him. He stood aside from the world for a while, and
lived a year or two among the monks of Subiaco; he manifested some
devotion for her sake who had died for him. And now he is writing novels
again, and smoking cigarettes between the phrases, to help his ideas and
to stimulate his imagination.



***