From morning till night, under the broiling sun of August, a
wretched-looking boat plied slowly along the rocks in the neighbourhood
of the Carantoni landing. It was a miserable old tub, big enough to hold
three or four people at the most, and the solitary individual to whom it
seemed to belong propelled it slowly about with a pair of old green
oars. Now and then he would paddle under the shadow of the cliffs and
put down a line, angling for a stray mackerel or mullet, and sometimes
catching even one of those sharp-finned red fellows that the Neapolitan
fishermen called "cardinals." He did not seem to care much whether he
caught anything or not, but he apparently loved that particular part of
the coast, for he was never seen anywhere else. A big, shabby man, in
rough clothes, with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black
beard,--Julius Batiscombe as a fisherman,--brown as a berry, and growing
rough-fisted from constant handling of oars and lines and nets.
No one took any notice of him as he pottered about in his tub. The
watermen, who passed and repassed, knew him as the crazy Englishman who
found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun for the sake of
catching some wretched fish that he could buy in the market for half the
trouble. What did they care? They never fished there themselves, because
there were no fish,--a very good and simple reason,--and if a foolish
foreigner chose to register an old boat at the little fishing harbour
close by, and pay ten francs for the privilege, it was not their
business. Neapolitans and their congeners do not care much for anything
foreigners do, unless it happens to bring them money.
And in the evening when it was dark, Julius paddled away to Sorrento,
and, meeting his own boat on the way, pulled off his rough clothes,
jumped into the water for a swim, and dressed himself like a Christian
before going ashore. Save that he was growing a beard, and was almost
black with the sun, he was as much Julius Batiscombe as ever when he was
on land. He had no acquaintances in the hotel, and no one cared or asked
what he did with himself all day long.
It was said amongst the fishermen that he had been seen once or twice
rowing a foreign lady about, and they laughed at the idea of a "signore"
earning a franc by ferrying a passenger, just like one of
themselves--for, of course he was paid for it; it amused him, because he
was crazy, poveretto! And sometimes he was heard singing outlandish
songs to himself in the heat of the day as he paddled about under the
cliffs.
The time had sped quickly since Batiscombe had left the Carantoni
villa, and it was now the first week in August. Madame de Charleroi had
stayed nearly a week longer than she had intended, but at last had gone
back to Pegli, to Marcantonio's great regret, and to Leonora's
unspeakable relief. So long as Diana was in the house Leonora had been
obliged to steal occasions, few and far between, when she could safely
go down to the rocks and signal to the shabby man with the green oars to
come and take her off. Many and long and hot were the days when he
pulled his poor crazy craft about from dawn to dark, without catching a
sight of the strong lithe figure that he loved. But come when she would,
at morning, noon, or night, he was always there, ready to take her and
to slip off at a quick stroke to one of the many green caves that line
the shore; and there, for an hour or two, or as long as she might safely
stay, they spent happy moments together, the happier for being few,
forbidden, and somewhat dangerous.
As for the danger, though, there was not much of it. It would have been
hard, indeed, to recognise in the ill-clad boatman, with his stubbly
beard, and seedy cap of brown knitted wool, the fine gentleman whom the
natives stopped to look at in the street. Leonora, if any one had met
her on the landing, would have said she had taken the first passing
fisherman to row her about among the caves, and no one would have
suspected anything; and she used to laugh as she watched the progress of
his beard, knowing that each day made the disguise more complete.
Her own boat had given her some anxiety at first, but she had made
Marcantonio lend the whole equipage to a friend further down the bay,
telling him it was too hot to be on the water at present. And when Diana
was at last gone, she had most of the day to herself; for Marcantonio
was perpetually busy with letters, or trying horses, or going to Naples.
He always found his wife extremely charming when he had been away all
day, or shut up in his rooms, and preternaturally contradictory and
capricious when he was with her for long together, and he concluded that
she preferred a certain amount of solitude, and humoured her
accordingly. Never hearing of Batiscombe, he supposed he had left the
neighbourhood for parts unknown, and though he regretted not having had
an opportunity of shooting him, he knew in his heart that Diana's advice
had been good, and that it was best so. Now and then, when he thought of
Julius too long, he grew angry and paced quickly up and down his room;
but on the whole life was easy and pleasant enough, and his beloved
Leonora was the most charming of women, not half so capricious as some
of the wives of his friends.
How long this state of things might have continued it is impossible to
say, if a disturbing element had not been introduced. But the disturbing
element is seldom far to seek in such cases, and in due time it came.
There was a man in the service of the Marchesa Carantoni,--the same whom
Batiscombe had employed to take his things to Sorrento, and then to
convey the note to Leonora,--and the man's name was Temistocle, as
arrant a knave as ever opened palm for bribe. Carantoni had taken him in
Rome when he married, because he needed another man, and the fellow's
face was familiar to him. He had seen him in good houses, and had
noticed his extraordinary adroitness in waiting. The man's character was
not altogether satisfactory. He had received no recommendation from his
last place, but Marcantonio took him on trial and brought him to
Sorrento.
Temistocle had exceedingly sharp eyes, and Temistocle had an exceedingly
smooth tongue; he was understood among the servants to have made
economies, and his tastes were somewhat luxurious. He found Sorrento hot
and dull, and he cast about for something refreshing and amusing.
To take sea-baths had always been his chiefest ambition. It sounded well
to be able to say he had taken a course of sea-bathing. But the thing
was by no means easy at Sorrento. He could not bathe from his master's
landing, and it was a long distance to go round by the lanes to reach
another descent. At last, however, he discovered that he could climb
over the little point of rocks at the foot of the Carantoni villa, and
reach a small cove, where, in complete seclusion, he might enjoy himself
as he pleased. Accordingly, when he had finished serving the midday
breakfast he used to make a practice of going down to bathe. In his
little cove he hid his clothes carefully among the rocks and crept into
the water under the deep shadow of the overhanging cliff. He could not
swim a stroke, but he could sit just so that the water came up to his
chin, and his round black bullet head lay on the surface like a floating
football, scarcely visible to any one passing outside in the sun. From
this position it amused Temistocle to watch the boats and the fishermen
for an hour or two, enjoying the idea that they never dreamed of his
presence.
It chanced often, as he sat in the water, that Julius, in his outlandish
costume, paddled his old boat past Temistocle's retreat; and the sharp
eyes of the Roman servant were not long in discovering that the
fisherman was no fisherman at all. It was the easier to recognise
Batiscombe, as the man saw him when his beard was only a few days old.
From that day Temistocle watched his opportunity to descend when the
boat with the green oars had just passed, and would be out of the way
for some time.
There was never the smallest doubt in his mind of Batiscombe's intention
in thus disguising himself. The incident of the parcel, which he had
carefully opened and examined, Batiscombe's sudden departure, and
Leonora's simultaneous indisposition, all combined in his mind into one
harmonious whole, from which he proposed to himself to extract at least
a reasonable amount of money.
One day he was rewarded for his pains. The boat passed very near to the
mouth of his water-den, skirting the rocks at a great pace. He just saw
that Leonora was seated in the stern, and he incontinently ducked his
black head, and kept under water till he thought he must have drowned.
When at last he was obliged from sheer suffocation to bring his mouth to
the air, they were gone, and Temistocle sprang out of the water like
some dark evil genius of a low order, awaiting evolution into the
advanced condition of complete devildom. He was not long in dressing,
and in a few minutes he had got back to the landing, clambering quickly
over the rocks, and hurting himself, in his haste, at every step.
After that, he became more irregular in his habits, lurking in secret
places till he saw Leonora going toward the descent at the end of the
garden, and presently following her at a safe distance. He ascertained,
as he had expected, that Batiscombe spent his whole time within hail of
the landing, in the boat with the green oars, and that Leonora went down
and signalled to him, whenever she had a chance. Temistocle was so
delighted with the skill of the arrangement that for a long time he
could not prevail upon himself to interrupt it, even for the sake of the
bribe that must inevitably follow. But, one day, he needed money, and he
did not want to encroach upon his purse of savings, for he was a miserly
wretch as well as a knave. He had seen something pretty in the way of a
silk cap, which a stray pedlar had brought with other things, and he
thought he should enjoy bargaining for it the next time the pedlar came
with his wares. He knew that he should probably bargain for an hour and
then not buy it after all,--but nevertheless he might be weak, and then
he should like to feel that he had got the thing out of his betters by
his own skill, instead of squandering money from his hoard. He seldom
indulged in the luxury of buying what he fancied, but when he did he
generally made some one else pay for it. There was a certain refinement
of miserliness about him.
At first he imagined that it might be best to drop some hint to his
mistress, just enough to frighten her into paying for his silence. But
his calmer reflection told him that he would be thereby killing the
goose that laid the golden eggs. Batiscombe's ingenuity would make some
change in the arrangements and he would have to begin all over again.
Evidently the best thing was to make his master pay, and let the lovers
go quietly on their course, so that he could at any time produce
evidence of his veracity. He watched his opportunity. Marcantonio often
inquired whether the signora were in the house, or were gone out. If she
was out he supposed she had gone into the garden or to pay visits; he
never disturbed her arrangements, knowing how much she enjoyed being
perfectly free, and feeling sure she would not get into mischief. She
made a point of calling on everybody, telling him afterwards where she
had been, and the two or three hours she spent with Julius escaped
notice in her clever account of the spending of the day. Now and then
she would say she had been down to the rocks, in case her husband should
ever take it into his head to go and find her there, and she was quite
sure that by this time Julius was changed beyond recognition.
Temistocle had not long to wait. One day in August, Marcantonio chanced
to inquire of him where the marchesa might be. Temistocle was prepared;
with the utmost gravity and respect he dealt his blow, speaking as
though he were saying the most natural thing in the world.
"I suppose," he said, "that her excellency is gone out in the boat with
the Signor Batiscombe." He pronounced all the letters of the name, as
though it had been Italian; but it was unmistakable. Marcantonio turned
upon him in amazement.
"Animal!" he exclaimed, "are you drunk?"
"I, eccellenza?" cried Temistocle in hurt tones. "I drunk? Heaven
forbid."
"Then you are crazy," remarked Marcantonio, more and more astonished.
"The Signor Batiscombe is no longer here."
"Pardon me, eccellenza," retorted the servant respectfully. "I imagined
that your excellency knew. The Signor Batiscombe comes every day, and
takes the Signora Marchesa out in a boat. He is become a very strange
signore, for he dresses like a fisherman, and has let his beard grow as
long as this--so," the man explained, holding his hand a few inches from
his face. "Mi maraviglio, io!" he exclaimed, casting his eyes to the
ground.
Marcantonio was speechless with amazement and horror, and turned his
back upon the servant. A man less thoroughly a gentleman in every sense
would have fallen upon Temistocle and beaten him, then and there. By a
great effort, Marcantonio collected himself, and turned again.
"You have not to make any remarks upon the appearance of the Signor
Batiscombe," he said briefly. "Basta!"
Temistocle had nothing left but to bow and leave the room. He did not
understand his master in the least; he was just like a foreigner, he
thought.
But Marcantonio dropped into an arm-chair, the moment he was alone, as
though all the strength and life were suddenly gone from him. He could
not in the least realise the extent of the revelation contained in
Temistocle's words. He did not know what to do, and for the moment it
did not even strike him that there was anything to be done. In the
course of half an hour he grew calmer and began to review the situation.
He remembered distinctly every word of Diana's concerning the trouble
when Batiscombe was in the house. Diana had said very distinctly that
Julius had insulted Leonora--and Diana always spoke the truth.
Marcantonio had not asked her what the insult had been. He could not
bring himself to do it, and he did not want to know anything more. He
would have cheerfully fought with Batiscombe on the strength of his
sister's assertion, but she had dissuaded him, and now he was sorry for
it.
The servant had spoken with an air of conviction, as though he thought
it quite natural, and only wondered at Batiscombe's strange appearance.
There could not be any doubt about it, at all.
A new sensation took possession of Marcantonio--an utterly new passion,
which he did not recognise as part of himself. He was jealous. He did
not, he would not, understand the truth, but he would prevent his wife
from ever seeing Julius Batiscombe again, and then he would go in search
of him and wreak his vengeance without stint. At the same time he hoped
he might avoid a scene with Leonora. He was brave enough to fight the
man, but he shrank from telling his wife what he knew. It seemed so
brutal and uncourteous, and altogether contrary to his principles.
But, after all, he ought to ascertain whether Temistocle were
right--whether Julius really disguised himself. He would go and see.
No, he could not do that! He could not play the spy upon his wife--it
was low, ignoble, unworthy. He would find some other way. His brain swam
and it seemed too much for him. He grasped the arm of the chair and
rose to his feet in pure desperation, feeling that he must get out of
the way into his own rooms for a while, lest any one should see him in
his present state.
In the hall Marcantonio paused a moment, holding his hand to his head,
as though it hurt him, and as he waited the door opened, and Leonora
faced him, beaming with light, and life, and happiness. Marcantonio
looked at her one instant, and tried to speak; he would have said
something courteous, from force of habit. But the words choked him, and
losing all control of himself he turned and fled up the stairs, leaving
his wife staring in blank amazement.
Poor fellow! she thought, he had probably got a touch of the sun. She
hastened to her room and sent to inquire if the signore were ill, and if
she might come to him. They brought back word that he was dressing, and
that nothing was the matter. Then Leonora felt a cold chill descend to
her heart, the dreadful presentiment of a real terror, not far distant.
But when she met her husband in the evening at dinner, she did not dare
to refer to his strange behaviour in the hall.
During dinner he talked much as usual, except that he did not laugh at
all, and seemed very grave. There was a preternatural calm about him
that increased Leonora's fears. She knew him so little that she could
not be sure what he would do, whether anything had really occurred, or
whether he were subject to fits of insanity. He had looked like a
madman in the afternoon.
When they were alone, he offered her his arm, and led her out into the
air, and they sat down side by side in deep chairs. Marcantonio
leisurely lighted a cigarette, and puffed a few minutes in silence.
"Leonora," he said at last, "I have heard a curious thing, and I must
tell you immediately." His voice was even and cold; his whole manner was
different from anything she remembered in her experience of him; he was
more imposing, altogether more of a man and stronger. Leonora trembled
violently, knowing instinctively that he had discovered something. She
did not speak, but let him continue.
"I chanced to inquire if you were at home this afternoon, and the man
said he supposed you were gone out in the boat with Mr. Batiscombe, as
you did every day. Is it true? The man who told me said it as though it
were quite natural, as though every one in the house knew it except
myself."
Leonora was dumb for a moment. The accusation came so suddenly that she
was taken off her guard, besides being thoroughly frightened at her
husband's terrible calmness, so unlike his manner under ordinary
circumstances. She lay back in her low chair and tried to collect her
thoughts.
"The man had also observed," continued Marcantonio, turning his keen
dark eyes upon her, "that Monsieur Batiscombe had a beard, and was
dressed like a fisherman. Altogether, it was extremely curious."
Marcantonio and his sister always spoke the truth. Batiscombe never lied
in his life to save himself, but could do it boldly when it was
absolutely necessary to save some one else. He had no principle about
it, except that cowards told lies, and men did not,--that was the way he
put it. He was not afraid of anything himself, but for a woman he would
perjure himself by all the oaths in Christendom. It was his idea of
chivalry to women, and could not altogether be blamed. But Leonora by a
long apprenticeship to a very worldly mother, and owing to the singular
confusion of her ideas, had acquired a moral obliquity which she
defended to herself on the ground that the ultimate results she obtained
were intended to be good. The telling of untruths, she argued, was in
itself neither good nor bad; the consequences alone deserved to be
considered. But as the consequences of lies are not easily cast up into
totals of good and bad from the starting point, it sometimes occurred
that she got herself into trouble. However, she was not hampered by
prejudice, and she was a very clever woman, much cleverer than the great
majority, and she was just now in a very hard position. In a few minutes
she had made up her mind, and she answered Marcantonio fluently enough.
"Why," said she calmly, "should I not go out with Mr. Batiscombe when I
please? If he chooses to dress like a fisherman, I suppose he has the
right."
Marcantonio was rather staggered at her sudden confession. He had
expected a denial; but there she sat as calmly as possible, telling him
to his face that it was all true. However, he was not likely to lose his
nerve again now that he was face to face with the difficulty.
"It appears to me, Leonora," he said, "that when I have turned a man out
of my house for insulting you, it is sufficient reason"--
"For insulting me?" exclaimed Leonora in well-feigned astonishment. "Mr.
Batiscombe never insulted me! You must be dreaming." She laughed a small
dry laugh. But Marcantonio was not so easily put off.
"My sister," said he, "told me that Batiscombe insulted you in her
hearing. I have always known my sister to speak the truth. Perhaps you
will explain."
"What explanation do you want? You sent Mr. Batiscombe out of the house
on the pretence that I was ill. Of course Diana made you do it,--I do
not know how, nor what she said. You must talk it over with her. She was
probably sick of him, and wanted him out of the way."
Leonora spoke scornfully, and almost brutally, and Marcantonio's blood
began to grow hot.
"That is absurd," he said instantly. "Perhaps Monsieur Batiscombe would
not object to being confronted with me for five minutes?"
"I am sure he would not object," said Leonora, without hesitation. She
was quite certain of her lover's courage, at all events. She knew he
would face anybody.
"Meanwhile," said Marcantonio, "you will oblige me by giving up your
harmless habit of going out with him every day. I should have supposed
that you would at least have had the pride to deny it, after what
occurred when he was here." Marcantonio was angry, but he reasoned
rightly.
"You would have preferred that I should lie to you, my dear," said his
wife disdainfully, in the full virtue of having told half the truth--the
first half.
"I would not permit myself to apply such a word to anything you say,"
answered Marcantonio, with cold courtesy. "But I would have you observe
that you are mistaken with regard to my sister, and that if she told me
she heard the man insult you, he did. Perhaps you did not understand
what he said. It is the same. You will not meet him again at the
rocks--nor anywhere else."
"Why not? Why shall I not meet him?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows
in disdain.
"Because I forbid you." He spoke shortly, as if that ended the matter.
Leonora shrugged her shoulders a little, with an expression of pity,
and shifted her position, so as to face him.
"You forbid me, do you?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"Mais oui! I forbid you to see him anywhere."
"Do you know what you are saying?" she asked, and there was a tone of
menace in her words.
"Oh, perfectly," answered her husband calmly; "and I will also take care
that you obey me--bien entendu!"
"Then it is war?" asked Leonora, as though she hoped it might be, and to
the knife.
"If you disobey, it is war," said Marcantonio, "but you will not."
"Why not?"
"Because I will prevent you. It is useless to prolong this discussion."
"Mon Dieu, I ask nothing better than to finish it as soon as possible,"
said Leonora.
"In that case, good-night," replied Marcantonio, rising.
"Good-night," answered Leonora, still seated. "I am not sleepy yet. You
are not afraid that Monsieur Batiscombe will be announced after you are
gone to bed?"
She spoke scornfully, as though trying to drive a wound with every word.
She thought she knew her husband, and she felt triumphant.
Marcantonio did not answer, and withdrew in silence. In a few hours his
whole character had developed, and he was a very different man from the
Marcantonio of that morning. He had passed through a few hours of a
desperate crisis, and had come out of it with an immovable determination
to clear up the whole affair, and to force his wife to break off her
intimacy with Batiscombe. Even now he could believe no evil,--only the
foolish infatuation of a young woman for a man who had the romantic
faculty strongly developed. It would cost an effort to break it
off,--and Leonora would be very much annoyed, of course,--but it must be
done. And so Marcantonio had gone about it in the boldest and simplest
way, by attacking her directly. He congratulated himself, for at one
stroke he had ascertained the truth of the servant's statement, and had
gone through the much dreaded scene with his wife. Henceforth she knew
what to expect; he had declared himself as a jealous husband, and had
said he would be obeyed. He went to bed in the consciousness that he had
done the best thing possible under the circumstances, and promising
himself an early explanation with Batiscombe.
But for all the success of this first move, he was wretchedly unhappy.
He still loved Leonora, as he would always love her, whatever she did,
with all his might and main, though he saw well enough that she did not
love him. But he was furiously jealous, and he swore by all the saints
in the calendar that she should never love any one else. His jealousy
had made a man of him.