Julius Batiscombe was a restless man by day and night, after the trip to
Castellamare. Marcantonio called upon him, but he was out, and then he
received an invitation to dinner from Leonora, with a postscript about
the unlucky baskets. He accepted the invitation. What else could he do?
But when the day came he regretted it. He wished he had refused and had
gone away. Then he made a fine resolution.
"I will not go to this dinner," he said to himself, savagely, as he
walked quickly up and down his room. "I will not go near her again. It
is not right, and I will not do it. I will sail over to Naples at once,
and send back a telegram of excuse, saying that a matter of the most
urgent importance keeps me there. So it is--I should think so--a matter
of very urgent importance. Oh! Julius Batiscombe, what an ass you are,
to be sure!" With that he crammed some things into a bag, sent for his
man, and descended in hot haste to the shore. There was no time to be
lost, for it was already four o'clock in the afternoon and the
invitation was for eight. He could just reach Naples and send his
telegram in time to prevent the Carantoni from waiting for him.
The lazy breeze was dying away, and he wished he had had the sense to
make up his mind sooner. But his men rowed lustily, and kept time, so
that the boat spun along fairly enough.
"I shall do it," said Julius Batiscombe to himself.
He was happy enough in the sensation that he was cheating his fate and
was about to escape a serious affection. Then he laughed at the comic
side of the case, and lit a cigar and blew great clouds of smoke over
his shoulder. But fate and Batiscombe were old enemies, and fate
generally got the better of it.
It chanced that on this very day Leonora and Marcantonio had determined
to go out in the new boat. For Marcantonio had wanted to give his wife a
surprise, and had got from Naples a beautiful clean-built launch. He had
said nothing about it, and had patiently borne her reproaches at his
indifference to sailing, until on the previous evening he had taken her
down the descent to the rocks and had shown her his purchase, which had
just arrived by the steamer. Of course she was enchanted, and determined
to make the most of it, for she was really fond of the water.
Accordingly, on this very day, she and her husband sallied forth with
six men,--for he had not dared to give her a smaller crew than Mr.
Batiscombe's. She was in such a hurry to go that she said she did not
mind the sun in the least,--oh dear, no! she rather liked it. And so it
came to pass that a few minutes after Julius had given his men the word
to fall to their oars at the little beach of the town of Sorrento, a
long low craft, painted in dark green and gold, and looking exceedingly
trim and "fit" with its long lateen yards and raking masts, shot out
from the cleft beneath Leonora's villa.
Batiscombe looked straight before him, steering by the Naples shore, and
intent on wasting neither time nor distance. He might have been out half
an hour or more when a remark from one of his crew made him look round,
and he was aware of a dark green boat two or three hundred yards astern,
but rapidly pulling up to him. He started, for though he could not see
the faces of the occupants, he recognised a parasol that Leonora had
taken to Castellamare.
"It is the new boat of the Marchese Carantoni," said the sailor who had
first spoken to Batiscombe. The man had seen it arrive by the steamer on
the previous evening, and had helped to put it into the water to be
rowed down to the villa. Batiscombe gave one more look and groaned
inwardly. He would make a fight for it, though, he thought. He
encouraged his men not to allow themselves to be overtaken by a parcel
of Neapolitans, as he derisively called the crew of Carantoni's boat.
His own men were tough fellows from the north of Italy, bearded, and
broad, and bronzed; but his boat, built for rougher weather and rougher
work than pleasure-rowing in the bay of Naples, was twice as heavy as
the slight green craft astern. His sturdy men set their teeth and tugged
hard, but the others gained on them.
Leonora and Marcantonio had recognised the cut of Batiscombe's boat and
crew from a distance; and, in profound ignorance of his amiable
intentions of flight, they imagined nothing more amusing than to race
him.
"If we cannot beat him," said Leonora, breathless with excitement, "I
will never come out in your boat again!"
She strained her eyes to make out if they were gaining way. Marcantonio
spoke to the men:--
"Corraggio, Corraggio!
Maccaroni con formaggio!"
The men repeated the rhyme to each other with a grin, and bent hard to
their work. They were not Neapolitans as Batiscombe called them, but
strong-backed, slim fishermen from the southern coast, as dark as Arabs
and as merry as thieves, enjoying a race of all things best in the
world, and well able to row it. Swiftly the dark green boat crept up to
her rival, and soon Batiscombe could hear the remarks of the men. His
own crew did their best, but it was a hopeless case.
"Monsieur Batiscombe, Monsieur Batiscombe," shouted Marcantonio, almost
as much excited as his wife, "we shall conquer you immediately!"
Julius turned and waved his hat, and made a gesture of submission. A
few lengths more and they were beside him. He raised his hand, and his
men hung on their oars.
"Kismet! it is my portion," he said to himself as he gave up the fight.
"But where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. Batiscombe?" asked
Leonora, who was delighted at having won the race. "You see it is no use
running away; we can catch you so easily."
"Yes," said Batiscombe, laughing recklessly at the hidden truth of her
words, "I see it is of no use, but I tried hard. It was a good race."
He turned in his seat and leaned over, looking at his friends. The boats
drifted together, and the men held them side by side, unshipping their
oars. Batiscombe admired the whole turnout, and complimented Leonora
upon it. Marcantonio was pleased with everything and everybody; he was
delighted that his wife should have had the small satisfaction of
victory, and he was proud that his boat had fulfilled his expectations.
So they floated along side by side, saying the pleasantest manner of
things possible to each other. Time flew by, and presently they turned
homewards.
"I wonder how long it will be," thought Batiscombe as he held the tiller
hard over and his boat swung about, "before I tell her where I was going
'in such a hurry'?" And he smiled in a grim sort of irony at himself,
for he knew that he was lost.
"Eight o'clock--don't forget!" cried Leonora. She had a pleasant voice
that carried far over the water. Batiscombe waved his hat, and smiled
and bowed. They were soon separated, and their courses became more and
more divergent as they neared the land.
Batiscombe swore a little over his dressing, quite quietly and to
himself, but he bestowed much care upon his appearance. He knew just how
much always depends on appearance at the outset, and how little it is to
be relied on at a later stage. So he gave an unusual amount of thought
to his tie, and was extremely fastidious about the flower in his coat.
As for Leonora, she was on the point of a change of mood. She had been
very gay and happy all day long, and the adventure with the boat had
still further raised her spirits. But that was all the more reason why
they should sink again before long, for her humours were mostly of short
duration, though of strong impulse. This evening she felt as though
there were something the matter, or as though something were going to
happen, and her gayety seemed to be the least bit fictitious to herself.
She and her husband stood on the terrace in the sunset, awaiting their
guest.
"My dear," said Marcantonio, "I am in despair. I shall be obliged to go
to Rome to-morrow or the next day. My uncle, the cardinal, writes me
that it is very important." Leonora's face fell; she had a sharp little
sense of pain.
"Oh, Marcantoine," she said, "do not go away now!"
"It is only for a day or two, my angel," he said, drawing her arm
through his.
"Must you really go?" she asked, not looking at him.
"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."