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.
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.
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 mediæval 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.
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.