Late that evening Julius was sitting in a corner of the broad terrace
over the sea. The clouds had cleared away before the light easterly
breeze that springs up at night, and the stars shone brightly. Down in
the west the young moon had set, and the air was fresh and cool after
the long, hot day. Julius had drawn an arm-chair away from the house and
was smoking solemnly, in enjoyment of the night. He found that he had
much to think of. The rest of the household had gone to bed, or at all
events had retired to their rooms.
It had been a day of emotions with him, and that was unusual, to begin
with. His feeling for Leonora was growing to great proportions. He knew
that very well; and in spite of the momentary burst of passion, which,
if he had been alone with Madame de Charleroi, would have found
expression in words which he would have regretted and she would have
resented, he now felt that he was irritated against her and could not
forgive her inopportune interruption. All his opposition was roused; and
as if in despite of his old love he dwelt on the thoughts of the
present, and delighted in recalling the details of the fair Marchesa's
conversation, the quickly changing expression of her face, the tones of
her voice, the grace of her movements. She was so strong and living that
he felt his whole being permeated with the atmosphere and essence of her
life.
As he leaned back in his chair, he experienced a sensation by no means
new to him, of intense delight in existence, and he breathed in the soft
fresh air, and tasted that it was the breath of love.
A small, short step sounded on the tiles of the terrace, coming toward
his corner. He looked round quickly, and was aware of the tall and
graceful figure of Diana de Charleroi, muffled in something dark, but
unmistakable in its outline and stately presence. In a moment she was
beside him; he rose and threw away his cigarette, somewhat astonished.
"Get another chair," said she, in a low voice. "It is pleasant here."
He obeyed quickly and noiselessly, as he did everything. She had taken
his chair, and he sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak.
"I thought I should find you here, Julius," she said, calling him by his
Christian name without the smallest hesitation. "I wanted to speak to
you alone."
"You have the faculty of finding me," said Julius with a short, low
laugh.
"Since when is it so disagreeable to you?" asked Diana.
Julius was silent, for there was nothing he could say. He wished he had
said nothing at first,--it would have been much better. Diana
continued.
"You and I know each other well enough to talk freely," she said. "We
need not beat about the bush and say pretty things to each other, and I
forgive you for being rude, because I know you very well, and am willing
to sacrifice something. But I will not forgive you again if you are rude
in public. There are certain things one does not permit one's self, when
one is a gentleman."
"You are very good, Diana," said Batiscombe, humbly. "I am very sorry. I
lost my temper."
"Naturally," she answered coolly. "You always lose your temper,--you
always did,--and yet you fancy continually that you hide it. Let that
go. I have forgiven you for this time, because I am the best friend you
have."
"The only one," said Julius.
"Perhaps. You are well hated, I can tell you. Then treat me as a friend
in future, if you please, and not as an inquisitive acquaintance who
makes a point of annoying you for her own ends."
She spoke calmly, in a quiet, determined voice, without the slightest
hesitation or affectation. Julius bent his head.
"I always mean to," he said.
"Now listen to me," she continued. "I came upon you this afternoon by
pure accident. I do not owe you any apology for that, and you know very
well that I am the last person in the world to do things in that way, by
stealth. That is the reason I come to you here, at night, to tell you my
mind frankly."
"Yes," said Batiscombe, in a muffled voice, "I know."
"I came upon you by accident," said she, "and I made a discovery. You
pass your afternoons in the society of my sister-in-law, and you lose
your temper with me when I find you together,--though you always wish me
to understand that you prefer my society to that of any woman in the
world."
"Ah--how you express it!" exclaimed Julius.
"I express it as plainly as I can. I cannot help it if you do not like
it. It is all true. And the inference is perfectly clear. Do you see?"
"No," said Batiscombe.
"You do not? Very well, I will draw it for you."
She leaned back in the chair and looked at him; her eyes were accustomed
by this time to the gloom, and she could see him quite clearly in the
starlight. He moved uneasily.
"Pray go on," he said.
"The inference is this. You are making love to Leonora Carantoni."
"You shall not say that," said Batiscombe, between his teeth, still
looking fiercely at her.
"You might forbid a man to say it," answered Diana, in low, calm tones.
"And for anything I care you may forbid any other woman in the world to
say it. But you cannot forbid me. I have the right."
"In that case," said Julius, rising, and struggling to speak quietly,
"there is nothing I can do but to leave you, since I will certainly not
listen."
But Diana rose also, and laid her white hand on his arm, as though she
could have bowed the strong man to the earth if she chose. She seemed
taller than he in the power and determination of her gesture.
"Sit down instantly," she said, under her breath.
Julius obeyed silently and sullenly. Then Diana resumed her seat.
"I have the right, Julius," she continued, "not because you pretend to
have loved me for ten years,--nor because I once thought I might accept
your love,--nor yet because I am sometimes weak enough to like you
still, in a sisterly way. But I have the right because you are making
love to my brother's wife, because she is young and innocent, and
because there is not another human being in the world to stand by her,
or to give her any protection in her danger."
"If you think that, why do you not tell your brother so?"
"Do you call yourself intelligent? Do you call yourself a gentleman?"
exclaimed Diana in bitter scorn. "Would you have me destroy the peace of
my brother and of his wife, because you are doing a bad action, that has
not yet borne fruit? Do you think I am afraid of you? Of you?" She
repeated the word almost between her teeth.
"No," said Batiscombe, under his breath, "I do not. But I would like to
ask you a question."
"I will answer," said Diana.
"Why did you tell that absurd story about me this afternoon? Did you not
see it was just the very worst thing you could possibly do, from your
own point? That nothing rouses a woman's interest like such tales?"
"I promised to answer your question," said Diana, coldly, "and I will. I
told the story thoughtlessly, because I am a woman, and admire such
things quite independently of the person who has done them. Do not
flatter yourself that a woman like Leonora Carantoni will fall in love
with you because you are brave. But I dare say I did wrong, and I am
sorry for it. You have qualities which any one may admire, but you have
others which I despise."
"I despise them myself, sometimes," said Julius, almost to himself.
"Despise them always,--at least, and be consistent," answered Diana.
"But you will not. You like them, those bad qualities, and when you like
them, they make a miserable wretch of you, as they do now. You know well
enough, however cleverly you may deceive yourself, that you ought not to
be here. You stay,--you are a coward, besides being a great many worse
things which I leave you to understand."
Batiscombe's eyes flashed angrily in the starlight.
"You are cruel, Diana, and unkind," he said.
Diana was silent a moment, and she drew her dark lace shawl about her,
as though she were cold. When she spoke her voice was infinitely soft
and gentle.
"Do not say that, Julius. Do not say I am ever cruel to you,--for to
you, of all people in the world, I would be most kind."
Julius bent down and pressed his hands to his temples, and sighed
heavily.
"Oh, Diana," he groaned, "I know it, I know it."
"Then I will not say any more. Do this thing because it is right,--not
because I ask you to. Have I ever reproached you before, when you have
come to me of your own accord and told me your troubles? What right have
I to reproach you?"
Julius was silent. He knew in his heart that she had the right, because
he still loved her best. He sat immovable, his head buried in his hands.
Diana rose and stood beside him; she lightly laid her hand upon his
shoulder, allowing it to linger kindly for a moment, and then she turned
and moved away.
The spell was broken, and Batiscombe rose swiftly and followed her.
There was a light in the drawing-room that opened upon the terrace,
which Batiscombe had not noticed before. As they entered they found
Marcantonio with a candle, overturning books and papers as if in search
of something. He looked up with a curious expression of surprise in his
face, holding the candle before him.
"Ah!" he cried, "good-evening, my friends. You have been taking a little
air. Eh? I imagined that you were all asleep."
Madame de Charleroi smiled serenely at her brother. She knew it was an
accident, and that he had a habit of forgetting things and coming to
look for them. She said it had been hot all day, and she and Monsieur
Batiscombe had been enjoying the coolness of the terrace. Julius bowed
blandly and said good-night. But he suspected Marcantonio of having come
to watch his sister. They passed on, and Marcantonio stood for a moment
looking after them as they went out into the hall, where lights were
still burning. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Eh!" he exclaimed aloud to himself, in Italian, "I do not understand
anything about it--ma proprio niente." And he continued his search for
the missing letter, pondering deeply.
Batiscombe spent a sleepless night, which was very unusual with him. The
interview with Diana had made a deep impression on him at the time. He
knew that whenever she was at hand to exert her influence he should
succumb to it. But as the night wore on, the strength of the impression
diminished, and the old feeling of obstinate defiance gradually
returned. At all events, he thought, he would show her that her
suspicions were empty, and that nothing--no harm, at least--could come
of his intimacy with Leonora. He would also be sure that if Diana
interrupted another interview it could hardly be by accident. Such
accidents did not occur every day. In the early dawn he rose and went
down in his slippers to the sea, and bathed in the cool salt water, and
smoked a cigarette on the rocks, and another in the archway where the
scene of the previous afternoon had occurred. Then he went up to the
house and walked round it, and surveyed the various angles, and
terraces, and balconies, and eccentricities of patchwork architecture
that made up the dwelling. Suddenly he stopped as though an idea had
struck him.
Houses in the south have often as many as five or six broad terraces, of
various sizes and at various elevations, built from time to time to suit
the taste and convenience of the owners. The strong brown vines grow up
leafless from the ground till they reach the trellis, and then spread
out into luxuriant foliage and a multiplicity of rich fruit-bearing
branches, making a thick shade, into which even the noonday sun finds it
hard to penetrate. Julius had just observed that there was a large
terrace of this kind which he had not yet noticed, having been but a
very few days at liberty to wander alone about the place. It was as high
as the first floor, and on the side toward Castellamare, facing the sea.
He had been in Marcantonio's room, and knew that it did not open upon
this terrace, and Leonora's apartment was on the other side of the
house. Obviously this balcony belonged to Madame de Charleroi's rooms,
or was attached to some vacant part of the building. It struck him that
if it were vacant, it would be a very agreeable spot in which to pass
the afternoon. He thought he might mention it to Leonora that morning,
and find out if it were available, since their retreat in the rocks had
been invaded. It had the advantage of being large, so that people seated
upon it could not be seen from below, and the thick vines would prevent
their being seen from above.
He spoke to the Marchesa about it as soon as they were alone for a
moment after breakfast. She went quietly and surveyed the place,
ascertained that it corresponded with a set of rooms which were not in
use, the house being very large and irregular, and agreed that she
should spend the afternoon there with Julius, since the sun would then
be on the other side. There were long window-doors opening to the
ground, of which the blinds were fastened, and only the middle one was
left open to give access to the terrace. It was delightful, because it
was in the house, so to say, and open to every one, and yet no one knew
of it. Why should they not sit there? It was much better than going and
hiding in the rocks with an air of secrecy, in order to be annoyed by
that terrible Diana! Much better! Though, after all, they need not have
troubled themselves, for Diana went out at three o'clock in the carriage
to pay a visit.
Accordingly, Leonora and Julius passed a very pleasant afternoon
together, and when it was late they found Marcantonio, and made him go
out in the boat for an hour or two, and everything was very agreeable.
Marcantonio was greatly relieved at finding that his sister was away
from Batiscombe, and he talked his best, and really made Leonora take
an interest in his conversation. She could always find him better
company when she had been with Julius for some time and had said all the
things she wanted to say, and which Marcantonio would not have
understood.
The next day Marcantonio was obliged to go to Naples on very urgent
business. An ex-royalty who sympathised with Carantoni's party, and was
now in exile, had come to Naples for a day or two incognito--quite as
though he had never been a royalty at all, and Marcantonio felt it his
duty to go and salute the august personage according to ancient custom.
He therefore left the house at an early hour, to return at dusk. He
thought his sister and his wife could chaperone each other for a day
without danger. But he said to himself that if he had found Diana alone
with Batiscombe again he would not have gone.
The morning passed away as usual. Batiscombe, relying on the afternoon
for his hours with Leonora, only stayed down-stairs till she was joined
by Diana, and then retired to his room, where he wrote or read in
solitude, as the fancy took him. The three breakfasted together at one
o'clock; then Madame de Charleroi retired to her rooms, and in the
course of a quarter of an hour Leonora and Julius were installed for the
afternoon in their newly-found situation on the disused terrace.
Diana's boudoir was a corner room in the front of the house, facing the
sea, and opening, by one window, on a narrow stone balcony running the
whole length of the building; the other window was on the right side,
and if she could have undone the blinds she would have seen that it
opened upon the large terrace already mentioned. But the aforesaid
blinds had resisted her efforts, and, as she supposed that they were
closed for some purpose, she said nothing about it, merely opening the
glass to admit the air. Leonora, who did not know the house thoroughly,
and had a habit of leaving everything to the servants, was not aware of
this, and did not realise the exact position of Diana's sitting-room.
Batiscombe, of course, had taken her assurance that this side of the
house was uninhabited. Accordingly, it came to pass that when he and
Leonora installed themselves, they took up their position immediately
outside Diana's window, under the shadow of the wall.
Madame de Charleroi, on this particular day, did not go into her boudoir
at once, but spent some time in her bedroom. When she was ready to begin
writing, she passed through the door and sat at her desk. She at once
heard the sound of voices outside, but she did not listen, nor stop to
think who the talkers might be.
Presently, however, the continued sound annoyed her, forced its way
through the blinds, and prevented her from writing. They were speaking
English. She understood the language, being a cultivated woman of the
world, and the wife of a diplomatist, though she avoided speaking it.
The strong, earnest voice of Julius Batiscombe,--the pleading,
protesting, yet yielding tones of Leonora, always dominated by the
passionate eloquence of the man, and ever answering more weakly,--all
this she heard, and she sat stony and wild-eyed with horror, realising
in a moment the whole hideous proportions of the phrases.
Diana de Charleroi was the noblest and most honourable of women. Under
other circumstances, if the voices had been those of strangers or
indifferent people, she would not have hesitated an instant, but would
have given some unmistakable sign of her presence. But this thing was
too near her, it was a too horrible realisation of what she had dimly
foreseen as possible, when she had spoken such strong words two nights
earlier.
It was too utterly and unspeakably awful. Her brother's wife,--not three
months married,--and Julius Batiscombe, the man who had for ten years
loved herself,--or had made her believe it,--whom she herself had once
loved, and had never forgotten!
But Diana was no weak woman, to give way to trouble or danger in the
face of it. For a few minutes she bowed her head in her hands, trembling
from head to foot, and no longer hearing the quickly spoken words
outside. Then she rose to her feet, and made one step toward the closed
blinds.
No, she would not put them to open shame. Yet something must be done at
once. With one movement of her strong white fingers she overturned the
heavy olive-wood writing table upon the smooth tile floor with a crash
that sounded through the house. In the silence that followed, she heard
a moving of chairs outside, and the quick tread of departing feet. Then
she went swiftly to her room, heedless of the streaming ink upon the
floor, staining her long white gown, and trampling the litter of pens
and paper under foot. She threw herself upon her bed and lay quite
still, white as death, and staring at the ceiling.
All the disgrace to her brother's name,--to her own,--came suddenly upon
her, like a nightmare, a thing that no waking could cast off. All the
utter baseness and unfaithfulness of her old lover was before her,
making her scorn and loathe herself for ever having loved such a man,
even in the foolish haste of a romantic girlhood. Her eyes strained
wildly, striving to shed tears, and could not, and the whole possible
pain of human agony, passing the very pains of hell, got hold upon her
soul.
That night, at dinner, Leonora looked desperately ill. Her face was
white, save for a small red flush upon each cheek, and her eyes had a
strange, furtive look about them, avoiding all meeting with the look of
the other three persons at table. She said she had been in the sun, had
got a bad headache, and would go to bed immediately. She had only
insisted on being at dinner in order to greet her husband on his return
from Naples,--but when he touched her she shrank away, and said she was
nervous.
Batiscombe was pale, too, beneath his tan, and though he looked every
one in the face, his eyes were disagreeable to see, having an angry
glare in them, like those of a wild beast at bay. He spoke little and
drank more wine than usual, after the manner of Englishmen when they are
unhappy.
Diana was magnificent. Being often pale in the summer, no one saw any
especial change in her appearance, and she threw herself nobly into the
breach, asking all manner of questions of her brother concerning his
trip, and showing a reasonable amount of sympathy for Leonora. The
consequence was that Marcantonio was nearly satisfied, in spite of the
strong impression he at first received that something unpleasant had
occurred in his absence. But when he had an idea he dwelt upon it, and
he promised himself that he would ask many questions of his sister when
Leonora had gone to bed.
He accompanied his wife to her apartment when dinner was over, with a
solicitude which was perfectly genuine, but which made her tremble at
every turn. His careful anxiety lest she should over-tire herself upon
the stairs, lest there should be a draught in her room, or, in short,
lest anything should be omitted which could conduce to her immediate
recovery from the exposure to the sun--so dangerous in the south, he
kept repeating--made her almost certain that she was already suspected,
and that so much kindness was only preparatory to some dreadful outbreak
of reproach.
While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batiscombe out through the
drawing-room to the terrace. Neither spoke till they had reached the end
away from the house, where they had sat together two nights before.
"Julius Batiscombe," said Diana, her voice trembling with
strongly-mastered anger, "you will leave this house immediately."
"Why, if you please?" he asked, defiantly.
"You know very well why," she answered, turning full upon him. "Do not
ask questions, but go."
"I will do nothing of the kind," said he, folding his arms and facing
her. "You have no earthly reason to give, save your own caprice."
"I heard your conversation this afternoon outside my window. It was I
who made the noise you heard, to warn you to be silent." She made the
statement deliberately, choking down her anger, and looking him in the
eyes.
"I heard no noise--I was not outside your window," answered Julius,
telling the boldest lie of his life, and, to say the truth, one of very
few, for he never lied to save himself, with all his faults. "I was not
outside your window," he repeated, "and I am glad I was not. For, by
your own account, you heard the conversation first, and gave your signal
afterwards."
"Very well," said she. "I will not shame you by repeating the words I
involuntarily heard before I frightened you away. But you will leave
this house to-morrow all the same. You will also consider that in
future you have no title to cross my threshold, nor to bow to me in the
street." She turned swiftly, in utter scorn and disdain. Batiscombe
followed her to the door and into the drawing-room, where Marcantonio
met them, precisely as he had done before. It was too much for his newly
roused suspicions. Something had gone wrong, he was sure,--and why
should his sister and Batiscombe be everlastingly alone together on that
terrace at night?
"Ah!" he exclaimed, a little sarcastically, "you have again been taking
a little air? Well, well, the evenings are very agreeable. If you will,
we can sit outside, and monsieur and I will smoke a cigarette."
It was dreary enough, sitting together for an hour and more in the dark.
Madame de Charleroi would not speak to Batiscombe, and he confined
himself to asking questions of Marcantonio and to general remarks.
Marcantonio saw this, and decided that she was playing indifference in
public, because she saw enough of Batiscombe in private. The latter did
not force the position, but as soon as Donna Diana moved to go in, he
bade them both good-night, and went to his room and to his reflections.
There was a long silence after he was gone. Both the brother and sister
wanted to be sure that he was out of hearing. Diana spoke first, very
gently and kindly.
"Marcantonio," she said, "I have something very important to say to
you."
She threw a light paper shade over the bright lamp, and sat herself down
beside him on the sofa.