A few days after the arrival of the Carantoni establishment in Sorrento,
Leonora was sitting alone on a terrace of the villa with a book and a
great variety of small possessions in the way of needle-work, shawls,
cushions, flowers, parasols, fans, and a white cat. Marcantonio was gone
to the town alone, intending to buy more possessions; for Sorrento is
famous for its silk-weaving and its exquisite carved work of olive wood,
and Leonora loved knickknacks.
"I would give anything in the world for a sensation," she thought, as
she looked out over the sea.
It was towards evening, and the water was as smooth as glass and tinged
with red.
Marcantonio was right after all. It was very dull in Sorrento, with no
one but one's husband to speak to,--and he had made such a fuss about
the cook's illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and all that; but
life with the beauties of nature is so very tiresome after a time. She
longed for some of her friends,--even her mother, she thought, would be
a relief. But no one had called, excepting some very proper people of
the Roman set, who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary-ful of
diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at Castellamare.
She was wishing with all her might that some amusing person would call,
when, as though in answer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card.
Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some toothless old princess
of Rome or some other wearisome bore. But as she looked at the
name,--"Mr. Julius Batiscombe,"--she gave a little start and her light
fingers touched her lace and ribbons, and her thick hair, and she said
she would receive.
Mr. Julius Batiscombe was a man of five and thirty years of age, and a
person sure to attract attention anywhere. He was tall and looked
strong, but he trod as lightly as a woman; none of his movements were
clumsy or awkward. Not that he stepped daintily or affected any feminine
grace of movement; there was something in his build and proportion that
made it always seem easy for him to move, as though his strength were
perfectly under control.
People were divided in opinion concerning his appearance. Some said he
was handsome and some said he was coarse. Some said he was refined and
some said he looked ill-tempered. As a matter of fact he had a rather
small head, set upon a strong neck. His nose was large and broad, and
decidedly aquiline, and he had a remarkably clean-cut and determined
jaw. His mouth was comparatively too small for his face, but well
shaped and well closed, shaded by a black moustache of very moderate
dimensions. His blue eyes were set deep in his head and far apart. Of
hair he had an unusual quantity, of a blue black colour, and he brushed
it carefully. A single deep line scored its mark across, just above his
brows. He had an odd way of looking at things, hiding the half of the
iris under the upper lid, showing the white of the eye a little beneath
the coloured portion. His complexion was of that brilliant kind which
sometimes goes with black hair and blue eyes, and is known as an
especial characteristic of the Irish race. Moreover he was noticeably
well dressed, in a broad, neat fashion of quiet colour, and he wore no
jewelry nor ornament except an old seal ring.
Opinions varied almost as much about Mr. Julius Batiscombe's character
and reputation as about his claims to be thought good-looking. He had no
intimate friends, or was supposed to have none; and he never answered
many questions, because he asked none. It was known that he was an
Englishman or an Irishman by birth, but that he had never lived long in
his own country, whereas he seemed to have lived everywhere else under
the sun.
"I am so glad you came to-day, Mr. Batiscombe," said Leonora after he
was seated, and looking at him rather curiously.
He was the man who had stood in the doorway at the ball when Marcantonio
offered himself to her. She knew him as well as she knew most of the
stray foreigners who from time to time frequented Roman society. He had
been in Rome all that winter, and she had met him two years earlier,
when she first went out. He interested her, however, by a certain
reserve of manner and by an air of "having a story about him"--as young
ladies put it--which was unusual.
"I am very fortunate," he answered, with a slight inclination and a
polite smile. "I called entirely at random. Somebody said you were
coming here, and so I came to see if you had arrived."
"Yes," said Leonora, "we have been here several days, with all sorts of
troubles on our hands. It is such very hard work to settle down, you
know."
"What has been the trouble?" inquired Mr. Batiscombe, glancing at the
evidences of comfort that were scattered about.
"Oh--it is the cook," said Leonora with a little laugh; she was just
beginning to feel the novelty of housekeeping, and she laughed at the
mention of the cook, as though the idea amused her. "He has had a little
fever, and my husband was dreadfully anxious about him. But he is quite
recovered."
"I am very glad," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It must be a terrible bore to
have one's cook ill. Did you get anything to eat in the meanwhile?"
And so forth, and so on, through a few dozen inanities. He would not
make an original remark, being quite sure that Leonora would ultimately
turn the conversation to some congenial subject.
"Shall you be in Rome next winter, Mr. Batiscombe?" she asked at length
rather suddenly.
"It is rather doubtful," he answered slowly. "I am a great wanderer, you
know, Marchesa. I can never say with any certainty where I shall be
next."
He was looking at her and thinking what a splendid living thing she was,
with the evening sun on her red hair. That was all he thought, but it
gave him pleasure, and his glance lingered contentedly upon her, as upon
a picture or a statue. He supposed from her remark that she wanted him
to talk about himself, and he was willing to please her; but he was in
no hurry, for he feared she would move and show herself in a less
favourable light. She was so good to look at, that it was worth a visit
to see her; and yet she was not a great beauty.
"I was thinking a little of going to the East," he added presently.
"But you have been there, have you not?"
"Not for a long time; and it will bear revisiting often,--very often. I
mean to go there and study again as I did years ago. You have no idea
how interesting those things are." Mr. Batiscombe looked thoughtfully
out towards the sea.
"What are those things, as you call them?" asked Leonora.
"What many people call the 'wisdom of the East.' They make us the
compliment of implying that there is a 'wisdom of the West' also, which
seems unlikely."
"Dear me, what a sweeping remark!" exclaimed Leonora, rather startled.
"I will prove it," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It seems to me that in the West
no two wise men think alike; whereas in the East no two wise men think
differently. Is not that a kind of proof?"
"Not a very valuable proof," said the marchesa. "But I do not know much
about it."
"You have the reputation of knowing more about it than most people,
Marchesa," answered Batiscombe. "I have been told that you know
everything." Leonora blushed very slightly.
"What nonsense!" said she; "I might say the same of you."
"I observe that you do not, however," said he, laughing.
"I never flatter any one," she answered calmly.
"Obviously, there is but one thing for me to say," said Batiscombe still
smiling.
"What is that?"
"That no one could possibly flatter you, Marchesa,--since the truth is
no flattery."
"No, but imitation is," retorted Leonora, well pleased at having got a
small advantage of him.
"Very good," said Batiscombe; "but do you know who said so?"
"Shakespeare"--began Leonora, but she stopped. "No--I cannot tell."
"A man called Colton said it. He wrote a book called 'Lacon,' containing
innumerable reflections on things in general. He was a wandering
sea-parson and wrote books of travels. He died of a complication of
nautical and religious disorders--he confused the spirituous with the
spiritual--but he was a wise man for all that."
"I suppose you remembered all that for the sake of showing that you
really know everything," said Leonora, looking up from behind the fan
that shaded her eyes.
The last rays of the sun shone horizontally across the terrace. The book
she had been reading slipped from her lap. With a quick movement
Batiscombe caught it before it fell and laid it on the little table.
Leonora noticed the action and admired the ease of it. She was
altogether disposed to admire the man, though she would have confessed
that his conversation hitherto had not been at all remarkable. But there
was something in his manner that attracted her. He was quick and gentle,
and yet he looked so big and strong.
"Thanks," she said. "By the bye, are you going to spend the summer here,
or are you only passing?"
"I am only passing--literally passing, for I have come from the north,
and am going southward. I believe I am doing rather an original thing."
"You are generally supposed to be always doing original things," said
Leonora.
"At all events I am never bored," he answered, "which cannot be said of
most people. At present I am going round Italy in an open boat. It is
great fun. I started from Nice six weeks ago."
"How delightful! I should like it immensely!"
"Are you fond of sailing?"
"I enjoy it of all things," she answered. In spite of her remark to the
same effect made to Marcantonio on the day of their arrival, she had not
yet been on the water. He had been so anxious about the cook.
"There is a man-of-war to be launched at Castellamare the day after
to-morrow," said Batiscombe. "May I have the pleasure of taking you over
in my boat?"
At this moment Marcantonio appeared at the extremity of the terrace and
came towards them.
"Should you like to go?" asked Batiscombe quickly, in a lower voice. "If
so I will propose it at once." Leonora nodded, and her husband
approached.
"Marcantonio," she said, "you know Monsieur Batiscombe?"
"Mais certainement," cried Marcantonio cordially, and the two men shook
hands. Batiscombe was at least as much at home in French as his host,
and immediately attacked the subject.
"I came to propose to Madame la Marquise," he said, "that you should
come over to Castellamare in my boat the day after to-morrow to see the
launch. I trust the plan meets your approval?"
Marcantonio turned to his wife to inquire. She nodded to him; he nodded
to her.
"We should be charmed," said he.
And so the matter was arranged; they agreed about the hour, and Leonora
said she would bring the luncheon.
"Yes," said Marcantonio, "I am glad to say the cook"--
At this point Mr. Batiscombe rose to go, and the remark about the cook's
health was lost in the stir. Batiscombe bowed, smiled, bowed again, and
moved smoothly away across the terrace, disappearing with a final
inclination, and a sweep of his straw hat.
"He walks like a cat, that gentleman," said Marcantonio as he sat
himself down beside his wife.
"He is charming," said Leonora. "He has been so amusing." She looked at
her husband furtively to see how he took the remark.
"Perhaps," thought she, "he is one of those men who have to be managed
by being made jealous. I have read about them in novels."
But Marcantonio was very glad that she had been amused, and he merely
smiled pleasantly and said so. It never entered his head to suppose that
Leonora was not satisfied with his show of affection, because he knew in
himself that his love was perfectly real. There is a little vanity in
such men as Marcantonio, together with a great deal of honesty. Their
vanity makes them quite sure that the woman they love is satisfied, and
their honesty makes them think the woman would speak out if she were
not, just as they themselves would do.
Leonora had vanity enough of a certain kind, but it was not personal.
She doubted her own powers and gifts more than she need have done, and
there was enough uncertainty about her own affection to make her
uncertain of her husband's love. In the meanwhile she was bored since
Mr. Batiscombe had gone, and she wished Marcantonio would talk and amuse
her. But when he did begin to say something it was about local Roman
politics, and she understood nothing about that sort of thing. She
longed more and more for "a sensation." It would probably be different
to-morrow, for her moods seldom lasted long. But this evening it was
intolerable. She made the most absent-minded answers to her husband's
remarks, and seemed so impatient that he suggested she must be tired and
had better go to bed.
"But I am not tired at all--on the contrary," she objected. "There is
nothing to tire me here,--a little driving, a great deal of sitting on
the terrace, a great deal of reading, and very little conversation"--
"Very little conversation!" exclaimed Marcantonio. "Mais, ma chère, here
it is two hours we have been talking, without counting the visit of the
gentleman who walks like a cat--Bat--Botis--I cannot say his name, but I
know him."
"Ah, yes--Mr. Batiscombe. Yes," said Leonora languidly, "he was very
amusing. He talked about all sorts of things."
"Shall we ask him to pass a few days with us? I should be very glad, if
you like him."
Marcantonio was really delighted to do anything his wife might wish.
Leonora was touched. He was sitting beside her, and she put her arms
round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
"You are so good," she said in a low voice. "Oh, I do not want anybody
else here at all. I only want you--but all of you--and I feel as though
I had not all yet."
For the moment she really loved him. He gently smoothed her hair with
his delicate, olive-tinted hand.
Meanwhile Mr. Julius Batiscombe had gone to his hotel, and, having eaten
his dinner, was sitting on the tiled terrace over the sea, with a cup of
coffee at his elbow, and a cigarette in his mouth. There were lamps on
the terrace, and there was starlight on the water, and Mr. Batiscombe
was alone at his small table.
"I wish I had not gone there. I wish I had not asked them to go to
Castellamare. I wish I were at sea in my boat." He said these things
over and over to himself, and now and again he smiled a little
scornfully, and sipped his coffee.
Julius Batiscombe was generally in trouble. He was a strong man in all
respects save one. He had conquered many difficulties in his life, and
by sheer determination had turned evil fortune into good, winning
himself a name and a position, and such a proportion of wealth as he
needed. Of good family, and brought up in luxury and refinement, he had
been left at twenty years of age without parents, without much money,
and without a profession. He knew some half dozen languages, ancient and
modern, and he had a certain premature knowledge of the world. But that
was his whole stock-in-trade excepting an indomitable will and
perseverance, combined with exceedingly good health, and a great desire
for the luxuries of life. He had lived in all sorts of ways and places,
getting his pen under control by endless literary hack-work. By and by
he tried his hand at journalism, and was successively addicted to three
or four papers, published in three or four languages in three or four
countries. Last of all he wrote a book which unexpectedly succeeded.
Since then the aspect of life had changed for him, and though he still
wandered, from force of habit, so to say, he no longer wandered in
search of a fortune. A pen and a few sheets of paper can be got
anywhere, and Julius Batiscombe set up his itinerary literary forge
wherever it best pleased him to work. He had fought with ill-luck, and
had conquered it, and now he felt the confidence of a man who has swum
through rough water and feels at last the smooth, clean sand beneath his
feet. His success had not turned his head in the least; he was too much
of an artist for that, striving always in his work to attain something
that ever seemed to escape him. But he now felt that he might some day
get nearer to what he aimed at, and there were moments, brief moments,
of genuine happiness, when he believed that there was wrought by his pen
some stroke of worth that should not perish. Ten minutes later he was
dissatisfied with it all, and collected his strength for a new effort,
still hoping, and striving, and labouring on, with his whole soul in his
work.
Strong in body and strong in determination, he was yet very weak in one
respect. He was eternally falling in love, everlastingly throwing
himself at the feet of some woman and making mischief which he
afterwards bitterly regretted. It seemed as though it were impossible
for him to live six months without some affair of a more or less serious
character. It made no difference whether he wandered off into the
recesses of the Italian mountains, or went into hermitage in the Black
Forest, or steamed and sweltered under a tropical sun; there was always
a feminine element at hand to make trouble for him.
It was not only the universal woman calling to him to follow, it was the
universal woman seizing him and carrying him away by main force. For it
was no matter of inclination. He struggled hard enough to deserve
victory, but without any perceptible result.
What gave him most pain was the dreary consciousness of his own
insincerity in his love-making, the consciousness that came to him
after the affair was over. While it lasted he was carried away and
blinded by a sort of madness that took possession of him and allowed him
no time for thought. But when it was over he remembered, bitterly
enough, how untrue it had all been, to himself and to the one woman whom
he had loved, and whom, down in the depths of his turbulent heart, he
loved still. His other loves were like horrible creations of black
magic, bodies with no soul, when he looked back on them. And yet while
they lasted they seemed to him real, and high, and noble.
At first he fought against every new inclination, and cursed his folly
in advance; and sometimes he conquered, but not always. If once the
fatal point were passed there was no salvation, for then he deceived
himself and the deception was complete. It was no wonder people thought
so differently about him. He had been known to do brave and generous
things, and things that showed the utmost delicacy of feeling and
courtesy of temper; and he had been known to act with a sheer, massive,
selfish disregard of other people, that made cynics look grave and
mild-eyed society idiots stare with horror. The fact was that Julius
Batiscombe in love was one person, and Julius Batiscombe out of love,
repentant and trying to make up to the world for the mischief he had
done, was quite another; and he knew it himself. He was perfectly
conscious of his own duality, and liked the one state,--the state of no
love,--and he loathed and detested the other both before and after.
And now he sat over his coffee, and the prophetic warning of his soul
told him that he was in danger, so that he was angry at himself and
feared the future. He had known Miss Carnethy, as has been said, for
some time, and had danced with her and sat beside her at dinner more
than once, without giving her a thought; he therefore had found it
perfectly natural to call when he discovered that she was at Sorrento.
But his impression after his visit was very different. The Marchesa
Carantoni was not Miss Carnethy at all.
She had looked so magnificent as she sat in the evening sunshine, and he
had gazed contentedly at her with a sense of artistic satisfaction,
thinking no evil. But now he could think of nothing else. The sun seemed
to rise again out of the dark sea, turning back on its course till it
was just above the horizon, with a warm golden light; by his side sat
the figure of a woman with glorious red hair, and he was speaking to
her; the whole scene was present to him as he sat there, and he knew
very well what it was that he felt. Why had he not known it at first? He
would surely have had the sense not to propose such a thing as a day
together. "A day together" had so often entailed so much misery.
Nevertheless he would not invent an excuse, nor go away suddenly. It
would be quite possible, he knew, and perhaps also he knew in his heart
that it would be altogether right. But it seemed so uncourteous, he was
really anxious to see the launch of the great ship and--and--he would
not be such a fool as to fancy he could not look at a woman without
falling in love with her on the spot. At his age! Five and thirty--he
seemed so old when he thought of all he had done in that time. No. He
would not only go with them, but he would be as agreeable as he could,
if only to show himself that he was at last above that kind of thing.
Some human hearts are like a great ship that has no anchor, nor any
means of making fast to moorings. The brave vessel sails through the
stormy ocean, straining and struggling fiercely, till she lies at last
within a fair harbour. But she has no anchor, and by and by the soft,
smooth tide washes her out to sea, so gently and cruelly, out among the
crests and the squalls and the rushing currents, and she must fain beat
to windward again or perish on the grim lee shore.
Julius Batiscombe went to bed that night knowing that he was adrift, and
yet denying it to himself; knowing that in a month, a week perhaps, he
should be in trouble--in love--pah! how he hated the idea!