A country-house is a glass house. The more people there are staying in
it, the more fragile and delicate are the walls, and the more
probability there is that some one will be inspired by the Evil One to
throw stones. Sometimes it happens that two or three of a party fight a
pitched battle, and then some lucky lovers who have nothing to do with
the hostilities are forgotten and overlooked in the din of war. But if
there is one thing in the world more certain to get out than murder it
is love, righteous or unrighteous. Lovers who desire secrecy should
never go to country-houses together.
It seems to them as though each and every member of the household had
especially adopted a set of vile and pernicious habits; a determination
to be where they ought not, at all sorts of unexpected hours; to come
skulking round corners under the empty pretext of seeking shade, and to
be found lurking in wooded dells on pretence of studying natural
history. There is the matutinal fiend, who shaves at the window in the
grey dawn and sees people who have got up for an early walk; and,
verily, they feel like worms when they glance up and see his beak and
talons at the casement. There is also the demon that walketh in
darkness, smoking a midnight cigar on the lawn before going to bed.
There is the midday dragon, green-eyed and loathly to behold, who steals
out in old gloves and a parasol immediately after luncheon, because she
has left her glasses on the mossy seat under the trees, just out of
sight of the house, and must needs find them. There is the vile and
sickening bookworm, with his bland smile and unhealthy complexion, who
dives into the library in the middle of the summer's afternoon, and
ruthlessly opens the blinds to find a quotation, the eighteenth volume
of an uncut rarity in vellum; and who wrinkles disagreeably all over
when he observes the couple in the corner, staring like blushing owls in
the sudden glare.
And, besides all these, there are the low earth-spirits,--a swarm of
maids, butlers, grooms, stable-boys, and nurses,--who are supposed to
dwell somewhere, underground, and are everlastingly appearing, like
phantoms, noiseless and awful, with ears like vast trumpets of endless
capacity and eyes of incalculable magnifying power.
A country-house is a terrible test of all the great virtues of mankind
and a fearful reflector of all the vices. It is well to begin life in
the country with an adequate certainty that, whatever you do, you will
be found out, and that you will often be found out when you have done
nothing. And a villa hired in the orange gardens of Sorrento,
overhanging the murmuring sea and sweet with the breath of the rich
south, is not different in this respect from a Yorkshire manor-house, a
château in the south of France, or a "romantic retreat" on the Hudson
River.
For two or three days after the events just chronicled, Leonora and
Batiscombe managed successfully to spend several hours out of the
twenty-four in each other's society. Marcantonio was busy during a great
part of the time with correspondence concerning the politics of his
party, and once he went over to Naples to see an eminent person on
business. The four inmates of the house met at meals, and in the late
afternoon, when they generally went out in the boat. Donna Diana
occasionally sat with Leonora for an hour, and they talked to each other
studiously, Leonora trying her best to make the time pleasant for Diana,
and Diana doing what she could to cultivate her acquaintance with
Leonora. At the end of two days it was perfectly clear that the two
women would never be intimate. But they both concealed the fact from
Marcantonio; and he rubbed his hands, and wrote his letters, and bought
cartloads of things for his wife, in the comforting assurance that she
was very happy and inclined to follow his wishes in regard to his
sister.
But Diana was not given to looking after Leonora when she was out of her
sight, and she spent a great part of the day in writing letters, in
reading, and now and then in calling on a few acquaintances who lived
along the shore in the villas towards Castellamare. She was glad that
Batiscombe kept out of her way, but she did not exactly understand why
he did so. He was generally extremely anxious to see as much as possible
of her when he was in her neighbourhood. Could it be that he did not
love her any longer? That after all these years he had at last put her
out of his mind? Perhaps so. She was glad if it were so, most truly. She
had many times prayed with her whole soul that he might forget her. It
might be that the prayer was answered. At all events, he kept out of her
way, and she did not regret it, nor ever give him a sign to come to her.
She supposed that he spent his hours with Leonora or Marcantonio or
both, and there was no reason why he should not be intimate in the
house, so far as she herself was concerned.
One day it chanced that the wind was in the south-east, blowing a hot
blast and making everything very hazy and sultry that was out of its
reach, and covering everything it touched with a disagreeable mixture of
dust and hot dampness. Every one who has lived in Italy knows what the
sirocco is like, and the dismal stickiness it brings. It seems as
though the universe were under a press and some one were screwing it
down.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and Madame de Charleroi was
sitting in her small boudoir, trying to write a letter to her husband.
Unlike most Italians, she had not the habit of sleeping in the day, and
used the time when other people were taking a nap during the great heat
to keep up an extensive correspondence. She was a woman who had made
this one interest for herself, and thoroughly enjoyed being in constant
communication with a dozen intelligent people in all parts of the world.
It was excessively hot. Even she, who was southern born and did not mind
it, felt her brain grow dizzy and her fingers tired and clammy.
Leonora's white kitten had strayed into the room after lunch, and was
walking about near the door, squeaking now and then as though it did not
like the quarters and wanted to get out. For the mere sake of changing
her position, Diana laid down her pen and rose to open the door. As she
did so the cat jumped nimbly through, and a little breath of cooler air
blew in from the passage. Diana stood one moment as though enjoying it,
and then went out. She took a parasol in the hall, and walked slowly
down the garden. The sky was overcast with a dull leaden grey, and the
south-east wind blew under the trees, bad enough in itself, but
infinitely better than the close heat indoors. There was no one to be
seen, and Diana paced slowly along the gravel path. At the end of it
were the steps which led through the rocks to the sea.
She had gone down and come up again more than once with the rest of the
party in the evening, when they had been out in the boat, and she had
thought each time that it would be pleasant to come and sit in some of
the cool archways and look out over the sea in the heat of the day. She
felt sure, too, of being alone there; it was not a likely place for any
one to frequent at three o'clock in the afternoon. Diana closed her
parasol, and, just lifting the skirt of her white dress off the ground,
began to descend the broad stone steps, hewn out of the solid rock,
through a steep vaulted tunnel in the inside of the cliff. Here and
there a great arched window looked out, in which were cut wide seats.
She had passed through the darkest part of the descent, carefully
picking her way, when she suddenly found herself opposite to one of
these windows. She was startled to see two persons there, for she had
been certain that she would be alone. They were Leonora and Batiscombe,
sitting side by side under the arched opening. Hearing her tread they
both looked round, and Julius seemed to pick up from the floor something
which had probably fallen while they were talking. Then he remained
standing, and Diana, seeing she was discovered, advanced boldly toward
the pair. There was nothing so extraordinary in the situation after all,
but she had always supposed that Leonora slept in the afternoon while
Batiscombe and Marcantonio smoked and talked politics up-stairs. They
had certainly been sitting very near together, she thought, but the
sudden glare of the light and the distance which separated her from them
had prevented her from noticing their faces. As she came near, Leonora
rose also and spoke first. She held her back to the light, for she was
blushing deeply; but Batiscombe, who never blushed and rarely turned
pale, stood calmly pulling his moustache, as though it were all the
most natural thing in the world.
"I had always meant to tell you how delightful it is here," said
Leonora. "I am so glad you have found it out for yourself."
"En effet," answered Madame de Charleroi calmly smiling, "it is ideal."
She came under the arch and looked out, enjoying the sight of the sea
after the dark passages.
"And then," said Leonora, "it is strictly true that one is 'not at home'
when one is here,--if people call, it is very convenient. Nobody can
find one."
"Excepting Madame de Charleroi," said Batiscombe, who was very angry at
the interruption.
But he said it so pleasantly and with such an air of paying a
compliment, that Diana could not be offended; she only smiled a little
bitterly in her lofty way, remembering other times when he would have
given his right hand for a meeting of any kind with her.
In that moment a suspicion crossed Diana's mind. She understood the
meaning of his remark perfectly, in spite of the bow and the smile,
knowing, as she did, every intonation of his voice and every expression
of his face. She saw that he was angry, and she argued that Julius
preferred being with Leonora to being with herself. That was clearly the
reason why he kept out of her way; he spent his time with Leonora. If
Leonora attracted him, he was certainly at liberty to talk to her if he
pleased, but Diana thought it must be a strong attraction indeed that
kept him away from herself. It was long since he had missed an
opportunity of spending an hour with his old love.
Diana sat down beside Leonora, and Batiscombe leaned against the rock
and looked out over the sea, the fire dancing in his blue eyes, but his
face as calm as ever. Diana began to talk to Leonora.
"You are very fortunate in getting such a place," she said. "It is by
far the most beautiful on the whole shore."
"I wish it belonged to us," said Leonora. "I am sure I could come here
every year and never grow tired of it."
"Ah!" exclaimed Diana, "do you like it so very much then?"
"J'en raffole!" answered Leonora enthusiastically, "I am crazy about it.
And then, it is always so charming to have absolutely the best. As you
say, there is nothing like this place on the whole bay. I should like
always to have the best."
"But, madame," remarked Batiscombe, "it appears to me that you always
do. You have the talent of supremacy."
"What an idea! The talent of supremacy!"
"But that is precisely it," continued Julius. "It is a talent. Some
people are born with it--generally women."
"That is Monsieur Batiscombe's favourite theory," remarked Madame de
Charleroi, just glancing at him, "but he does not believe it the least
in the world."
"Is it true?" asked Leonora, innocently, looking up with an expression
that did not escape Diana. It was a sort of frightened look, as though
it really mattered to her what Batiscombe thought about women in
general.
"It pleases madame to be witty," answered Julius, glancing in his turn
at Diana. "I have not many theories, but I believe in them as a man who
is about to be guillotined believes in death."
"One cannot say more than that," laughed Leonora. "But how about the
supremacy of men? There have been more men in the world who have ruled
it than there have ever been women."
"Mon Dieu! Men give themselves much more trouble," he replied. "Women,
having the divine right given to them straight from Heaven, exercise it
without difficulty. A word, a cup of tea, a glance,--and the supremacy
of a woman is established. What could a man do with a cup of tea? Or, if
he looked at people by the hour together, could he rule them with a
glance? When a woman has the gift she finds little difficulty in using
it,--whereas the more of it a man has, the more trouble it is to him.
Men are so stupid!" And with this sweeping condemnation of his own sex,
Julius lit a cigarette, having obtained permission of the two ladies.
"You ought not to have many friends, with such ideas about men," said
Leonora.
"En effet," said Diana, "he has none."
"Not among men, at all events," said Julius. "I do not remember ever
having any. I do not sleep any the worse on that account, I assure you.
It is much more agreeable to have a number of pleasant acquaintances,
who expect nothing from you and from whom you expect nothing. Friendship
implies mutual obligations; I detest that."
Leonora laughed a little. He had such a vicious way of saying such
things, as though he thoroughly meant them. But then he was courteous
and gentle to every one, though she suspected he might be different if
he were angry. Diana knew very well that what he said was true, and that
he had led an isolated life among other men, fighting his way through
with his own hand and owing no man anything. She herself had for years
been his best friend and his only confidant, though he saw her rarely
enough. And now she felt as though even that one bond of his were to be
broken,--and whether she would or not, the thought gave her pain, and
she wished it could be otherwise.
"It is always far more amusing to detest things," said Leonora, "unless
you happen to want them." She was forgetting some of her indifferentism.
"It is certainly more blessed to abuse than to be abused," returned
Julius, "and, if one has the choice, it is as well to be the hammer and
not the anvil. I am an excessively good-natured person, and if I had
friends, they would make an anvil of me and beat my brains out,--and
then I should starve."
"Good-natured people are always made to suffer," said Leonora
thoughtfully. "I am not in the least good-natured."
"I remember," said Diana, "that Mr. Batiscombe used to say good-nature
was a mixture of laziness and vulgarity."
"Yes," answered Julius. "You have a good memory, madame. Good-nature is
a compound of the laziness that cannot say 'no,' and of the vulgarity
which desires to please every one indiscriminately. I suppose I possess
both those faults very finely developed."
"Fortunately," remarked Leonora, "goodness and good-nature are not the
same."
"Fortunately for you, Marchesa,--unfortunately for me," said Julius.
"It is too complicated--please explain," she answered.
"As you are so fortunate as to possess goodness without good-nature,"
said he, "you should be glad that the two are not one and the same,
since good-nature is not a desirable quality. I am good-natured, but not
good--I wish I were!"
"Ah, I see!" exclaimed Diana. "It was a compliment."
"Of course," said Julius.
"Of course; but your compliments are often complicated, as the Marchesa
says."
Diana smiled as she spoke. Batiscombe knew that she was repaying him for
the remark he had made when she had unexpectedly appeared twenty minutes
earlier.
"I can only repeat," he retorted, "that Madame de Charleroi has a good
memory."
Leonora was puzzled. She saw well enough that Diana and Julius were, or
had been, much more intimate than she had supposed. They understood each
other at a glance, by a word, and they seemed on the verge of
quarrelling politely over nothing. She devoutly wished that Diana would
go away, instead of spoiling her afternoon. But Diana leaned back
against the rock and crossed her feet and prepared to be comfortable.
She was evidently not going. Batiscombe stood motionless, with the easy
stolidity of a very strong man who does not wish to move, and Leonora
could see his bold profile against the grey haze of the sky. There was a
short silence after his last remark, during which Leonora felt uneasy:
something was in the atmosphere that made her anxious, and she did not
like the way Diana looked at Batiscombe, with an air of absolute
superiority, as though she could do anything she pleased with him.
"How dreadfully solemn we are," said Leonora, rather awkwardly. Julius
turned quickly with a laugh.
"Let us be gay," he said. "I hate solemnity, unless there is enough of
it to make me laugh. I remember being at a ball once that produced that
effect."
"Allons!" said Diana, "give us some of your reminiscences, Monsieur
Batiscombe. They ought to be interesting."
"Not so much as you think. But the ball was very funny. It was in
Guatemala, three years ago. I was invited to a huge thing by the
president--an entirely new president, too, who had just cut the throats
of the old president and of all his relations. I believe there was some
sort of revolution at the time, and when it was over the victorious
individual gave a ball. The refreshments were simple--brandy for the men
and rosolio for the ladies; there was no compromise in the shape of a
biscuit or a glass of water."
Leonora laughed, being willing to laugh at anything so as to encourage
Julius to talk.
"En vérité, that was very amusing," remarked Diana coldly. Batiscombe
took no notice.
"The women sat round the room in a double row," he continued, "like a
court ball, excepting that they all smoked large cigars, and
industriously passed the liqueur. The men stood behind and gave their
undivided attention to the brandy. Not a soul spoke, and they all
scowled fiercely at the brandy, the rosolio, and each other. A ghastly
and tuneless quartette of instruments doled out a melancholy dirge,
slower than anything you ever heard at a funeral; and now and then some
enterprising and funereal man led out a less enterprising but equally
melancholy female in a strange step, like the tormented ghost of a waltz
in chains. It was so hideous that I went out and laughed till I almost
had a fit. I have never thought anything seemed very solemn since
then--it destroyed the proportion in my brain. A pauper's burial on a
rainy day in London is a wildly gay entertainment compared with that
ball."
Leonora laughed, and even Diana smiled; whereupon Julius was satisfied,
and relapsed into silence. But Leonora wanted conversation.
"What in the world took you to Guatemala, Mr. Batiscombe?" she asked.
"That is a question which I cannot answer, Marchesa," he replied. "I
believe I went there for some reason or other--chiefly because I could
go for nothing, and wanted to see something new."
"Can you always go to Guatemala for nothing?" asked Leonora. "It must be
very amusing."
"A steamer company offered me a free passage to any port in their
service," said Batiscombe; "and as the next ship went to Guatemala, I
sailed with her. It happened to be first on the list."
"What a queer idea!" exclaimed Leonora.
"You are too modest, Mr. Batiscombe," said Diana. "You ought to tell the
whole story--it is very interesting." Her voice was less cold than when
she had spoken last.
"Oh, do tell the story!" cried Leonora. "I adore autobiographies!"
"Mon Dieu!" said Julius, "there is very little to tell. I did a service
to a ship belonging to the company, and in acknowledgment they presented
me with a piece of plate and the free passage in question. Voilà tout!
madame is too good when she says it was interesting."
"If Monsieur Batiscombe will not be so obliging as to relate the
experience, I will," said Diana. "He shall correct me if I make a
mistake."
Batiscombe looked annoyed. He was not fond of telling his own
adventures, and he hated to hear them told by other people. He could not
imagine why Diana wanted to hear the story. He was irritated already,
and her conduct seemed more and more inexplicable. Leonora looked at him
expectantly.
Who can understand a woman? It may be that Diana, who was really fond of
him in a strange fashion, was sorry for the position she had taken that
afternoon, and was willing to atone by giving him the credit before
Leonora of some fine action he had done.
"It was three years ago or more, in the winter," began Diana. "Monsieur
Batiscombe was travelling in a ship on the coast of America. There were
a hundred passengers on board, or more, and a crew of thirty-five. Is
that exact?"
Julius bent his head and turned away.
"Eh bien, there was a great storm--such as there are in the ocean. It is
horrible, you may imagine. The ship was driven on the rocks, a long
distance from the shore. A reef, you call it, n'est-ce-pas?"
"Yes," said Batiscombe. "Fifty or sixty yards from the shore."
"Good. What do they do? Six brave sailors volunteer to throw themselves
into the sea in a chaloupe--a miserable boat"--
"And monsieur was one of the volunteers"--exclaimed Leonora,
enthusiastically.
"Not at all, my dear friend. The boat overturns; the sailors are
immediately drowned; every one is in consternation. Then Monsieur
Batiscombe arrives; he says he will save everybody; he ties a thin
line--a mere string--to his waist; he throws himself to the sea. The
passengers scream as they cling to the ropes and the side, while the
vessel is beaten horribly on the reef. He struggles in the waves,
swimming; he is thrown down again and again in the breakers; he rises
and rushes on to the shore. Then he pulls the string, and after the
string a rope. A sailor ventures down and he also reaches the land. They
fasten the rope, and every one is saved--passengers, crew, captain, tout
le monde. Ah, Batiscombe, why are you not always doing such
things,--you, who can do them so well?"
Madame de Charleroi's grey eyes were wide and bright, and a very faint
colour rose to her cheeks as she told the story. The calm, regal woman
took a genuine delight in great actions, and as she turned to Julius at
the end there was a ring of real sympathy and friendship and regret in
her voice that it gave Leonora a strange sensation to hear.
"It was magnificently brave!" exclaimed Leonora in English, and she
looked at Julius as though she admired him with all her heart and soul.
She had always had a feeling that he had probably made himself
remarkable in such ways, but he always had told her that his life had
been uneventful. To think that this calm, smooth, well-dressed, fine
gentleman should have saved a whole shipload of lives by sheer strength
and courage! Ah, he was a man, indeed!
But Batiscombe never moved. He stood looking seaward, his eyelids half
closed, and a thoughtful look on his brown face. Indeed, he was thinking
deeply, but not so much of the old story Diana had been telling as of
herself. The strange appeal in her last words had touched the good chord
in his wayward heart, and he was thinking how fair his life might have
been with her,--and how dark it had been without her. And the old true
love rose up for one moment, hiding Leonora and the rest, and all the
intervening years, and sending hot words to his ready lips. He turned in
the act to speak, forgetting where he was,--then checked himself. Both
Leonora and Diana had seen that he was going to say something, for they
were watching him. He hesitated.
"I ought to thank you, madame," he said to Diana, "for gilding my
adventure so richly. But as for the thing itself, and the doing of such
things, the opportunity seldom offers, and the faculty for doing them is
the result of an excellent digestion and quiet nerves. Meanwhile it is
grown cooler, and the boats are below. Shall we go down, and sail a
little before dinner?"
The two ladies consented readily enough, and they all descended to the
landing and got into one of the boats and pushed away.
"I shall have quite a new sensation in future when I sail with you, Mr.
Batiscombe," said Leonora. "It would be impossible to be drowned with
you on board."
But Diana was pale again, and settled herself among the cushions in
silence.
Far up above, Marcantonio was interviewing the coachman on the terrace.
He looked down and saw the boat shoot out with the three members of his
household. He rubbed his hands smoothly together.
"Ha," he said to himself, "it is superb! What good friends they are all
growing to be! En vérité, Batiscombe is a most amiable man, full of
tact."