"Corraggio, Corraggio!Maccaroni con formaggio!"
"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.
"Hélas, yes."
"Then I will go with you," said she, in a determined tone.
"Ah, I thank you for the wish, chérie," 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 cyclopædia 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, Léonore?" 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."
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 vérité, 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, chérie!" 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.
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 "Æsthetics," 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."