When Leonora met her husband at dinner an hour later, her face was set,
for her mind was made up, and every moment hardened her determination.
Julius had said to her "come," and she would go to the very end of the
world if need be. He had stated the case with a show of fairness. She
must fully understand the step, he said, and that there was no return
possible from such an exile as they undertook together. She must abandon
everything, and not only her husband, but her mother, her father, her
position before the world, her whole luxurious, aristocratic existence.
She must rely on his arm alone to support her, and on his love to be her
only comfort and compensation. They must live an isolated life, whether
wandering, or resting in some quiet place where society never came. She
must also take the chance of his being killed by Marcantonio, who would
certainly make an effort to destroy him, and the chance was not small,
considering the provocation. If it happened that he fell, she would
certainly be left alone in the world. This was probably the strongest
argument with her against flight, but it had not weight enough to hold
her back, for she had the pride of a woman who had found a man ready to
fight for her, in these latter days when fighting is so terribly out of
fashion; and she felt in her heart that she should always be able to
prevent an encounter.
The resolution she had made had killed any doubt that might still have
remained as to the ultimate result of her love for Julius. Henceforth it
was her duty to kill doubts in order to be happy; and, indeed, there
were few left, for her love was very sincere and real. But if any should
arise she meant to smother them instantly. And now she remembered every
word her lover had spoken in that brief stolen interview, and she felt
no fear. Her face was set, and she looked defiantly at her husband. A
few hours more, she thought, and she should be free from him, from the
world, from everything--forever.
They would have gone at once, that very minute, but Batiscombe pointed
out that the time was ill chosen. She had been seen to come to the
hotel,--the servant who had shown her up-stairs had noticed her, perhaps
recognised her; in half an hour after the dinner hour she would be
missed at the villa, and they would surely be overtaken on land,
especially as there was no train at that time. Julius said his boat was
moored at the foot of the cliff below the hotel, but it would be
impossible to reach it without being observed by many people, some of
whom might recognise her. There was also no wind, the sea was oily with
a deadly calm, and the full moon, just rising, would make pursuit easy,
for though his boat could beat anything on the coast under canvas, she
was over heavy in the water for his six men to row at any speed.
But at midnight, when the easterly breeze was blowing from the land, he
would be down at the landing of her villa, ready. Marcantonio was always
asleep at that hour, for he rose betimes in the morning and went to bed
early. The dogs? Julius had thought of that, and sending his sailor
servant to the kitchen of the hotel, he obtained in a few minutes a
couple of solid lumps of meat, which he caused to be wrapped in paper
and then tied up in a silk handkerchief for her to carry. She might find
it hard, he said, to get anything of the kind in her own house. She was
fond of animals, and was sure she could manage to quiet the terriers in
a moment if she had something to give them. Besides, they knew her, and
would only bark a very little at first. The moon was full, to be sure,
but that could not be helped. Once on the water, nothing short of steam
could catch them, and that was not available at such short notice. She
should not hamper her flight with unnecessary things, he said, for if
any one were roused she might have to run for her life as far as the
beginning of the descent where he would be in waiting for her. These and
a hundred other little directions he had given her, with the quiet
forethought for details that was part of his remarkable intellect.
And now she sat opposite her husband at their small dinner-table,
looking hard and determined, but listening with more than usual
complacency to his talk, and striving to eat something, as Julius had
instructed her. She made such a good pretence that Marcantonio noticed
it approvingly.
"I am glad to see, my angel," he said, "that you are finding your
appetite again. It is most encouraging."
It was just like his want of tact, thought Leonora. It was just like him
to suppose that she would eat the more because he wanted her to do so,
and watched her! Dieu! What a nuisance to be always watched. It would
soon be over now, however, and she could afford to be indifferent.
"Oddly enough," said she, "I am hungry--I do not know why."
"Does any one know why they are hungry?" said Marcantonio, with a little
laugh. "It happens to me to take much exercise. I rise with the sun, I
walk, I ride, I dispatch my correspondence, I work like a dog--et puis,
at breakfast I eat nothing. No appetite. Good! Another day, I lie in bed
till ten o'clock, rise with a cigarette, read a novel, and--voyez donc,
how droll--I eat, perhaps, for four people. But I have often observed
that, if I eat a mayonnaise at dinner, I have no appetite the next day
at breakfast. It is extremely singular, for the cook makes the
mayonnaise of great delicacy."
What could it possibly matter whether Marcantonio were hungry or not,
or what he ate for dinner? But Leonora was glad to have him say
anything, so that she might be spared the effort of talking.
"It is true," she said, absently, "his mayonnaise is not bad."
She hoped he would go on; it was an easy, neutral subject--of many
ingredients, concerning each of which it would be possible to differ and
to raise a fresh discussion.
"Apropos," said Marcantonio, "the gardener's boy cut his finger very
badly this afternoon"--
"Apropos of mayonnaise?" Leonora could not help asking the question. His
conversation was so absurd.
"Ma foi! mayonnaise--vegetables--gardens--gardeners and the gardener's
boy--all that holds together. As I was saying, he cut his finger, and I
sent your maid to get something to bind it with."
"I hope she did not take one of my lace handkerchiefs," remarked
Leonora. "It would be just like her."
"It was not lace, I am sure," said Marcantonio, with an air of
conviction, as he helped himself to the salad which Temistocle handed
him. "But it looked very new. I hope she made no mistake."
The comic side of the situation suddenly forced itself on Leonora, as it
often will happen with people on the eve of great danger. A lackey in
Paris once danced a jig on the scaffold before he was broken on the
wheel. Leonora laughed aloud.
"Would it amuse you, for instance," inquired Marcantonio with a puzzled
look, "to have a good handkerchief destroyed to tie up the boy's
finger?"
It seemed so funny to Leonora to think that on the morrow her entire
stock of handkerchiefs would be at the disposal of all the gardeners in
Sorrento if they chanced to cut their fingers.
"No--not that," she said. "It is so odd that you should take so much
trouble about it--or care."
"Poor people," said Marcantonio, "one must do what one can for them."
And so their last conversation tottered to its end in a round of
domestic triviality, so that Leonora wondered how she could have borne
it so long. But, in truth, Marcantonio was so much afraid of rousing her
opposition that evening, after the scene that had taken place, that he
purposely avoided every intelligent subject, and did violence to his own
preference for the sake of keeping the peace. He liked to talk politics,
he liked to talk of Rome, of society, of a hundred things, but of late
he had found it very hard to talk peaceably about anything.
After dinner Marcantonio smoked, and Leonora sat beside him, with a
little worsted work which she did with a huge ivory needle. Her heart
beat fast as the hour approached when she must part from her husband.
She glanced at him from time to time, sitting there so unsuspecting of
any surprise, with his cigarette and his "Fanfulla," the witty Roman
paper that amused him so much. His delicate, dark features, a little
weak perhaps, looked handsome enough in the lamplight, and Leonora
thought for a moment that she had never seen him look so well. She was
already so far from him in her thoughts that she regarded him as from a
distance, with a certain abstracted consideration of his merits that was
new to her. Poor Marcantonio! A certain curiosity, which would have been
pity if she had allowed it, came over her. She wondered how he would
look when she was gone. Ten o'clock--two hours to midnight, and he never
saw her before nine in the morning now. Nine and two were eleven. In
eleven hours he must know--unless something happened. Would he rage and
storm, like a wild beast? Or would he break down and shed tears?
Neither, she thought. He did not love her--he was only jealous. Heavens!
thought she, if Julius had been in his position, and he in Julius's,
could things have ever got to this pass without some fearful outbreak?
Ah no! Julius was so hot-tempered and strong. Her thoughts went away
with her, and she heaved a quick short breath, suddenly interrupted in
the recollection of where she was. Marcantonio looked round.
"What is it, my dear?" he asked.
"Nothing--I was going to sneeze," said Leonora with a ready excuse.
"There is too much air," said he, rising and going toward the window.
He looked out for a moment. The first breath of the easterly wind was
coming over the mountains and just stirring a ripple on the moonlit bay.
It had rained early in the afternoon, and they had sat indoors on
account of the dampness. Marcantonio sniffed the breeze, said it was
damp, and closed the window.
"It must be late," said he. "En vérité, it is twenty minutes to eleven!
I should not have thought it."
Leonora's heart beat fast.
"I suppose it is time to go to bed," she said, with enough indifference
to escape notice.
Marcantonio had not enjoyed the evening much, and was sleepy. Leonora
moved slowly about the room, touching a book here and a photograph there
as though to make the room comfortable for the night. Some women always
do it. Her blood was throbbing wildly--the last strong effort of
conscience was upon her. A great pity sprang up in her--a terrible
regret--a horror of great evil. Her resolutions, her love, her
determination to fly, her better self, all struggled and reeled
furiously together. She felt an irresistible impulse to throw herself at
her husband's feet, to confess everything, to implore his protection,
and forgiveness, and help. She turned towards him suddenly. He was in
the act of ringing the bell.
The sharp tinkle, sounding from far away through the open doors of the
house, checked her when she was on the very point of speaking. Almost
instantly, the quick tread of the servant was heard. He came, and the
supreme moment was over. The reality of her situation returned, and with
it the hardness it needed. The man had the candles ready in his hands,
and stood waiting to accompany Leonora to her door.
"Good-night, Marcantoine," said she, holding out her hand.
It was cold and clammy with intense excitement, and her face was pale to
the lips.
"Good-night, my angel," said he, touching his lips to her fingers, and
she passed from him. Just beyond the door she turned and looked back,
with a touch of sadness.
"Good-night," she said once more, faintly--for the last, the very last
time.
When Marcantonio was alone, he took his newspapers, and one or two
letters which had come by the late post, he looked carefully round the
room, to see that he had forgotten nothing, as he had a bad habit of
doing, and he marched gloomily off to his room, which was beyond
Leonora's, and separated from hers by her sitting-room. Her
dressing-room was on the other side of her bedroom, and had a separate
door, opening upon the head of the stairs.
As soon as Leonora had dismissed her maid for the night, she began to
make her preparations. She had a large silk bag, of many colours, made
like an old-fashioned purse, with heavy silver rings. She used it for
carrying her work, her books, or anything she needed when she went into
the garden to spend the morning. It seemed the best thing to take with
her now, for it would hold a good deal and was convenient. She filled it
with handkerchiefs, bottles of eau-de-cologne, and hairpins, and she put
in a tiny looking-glass in a silver case, which she had used all her
life. It was of no use to think of taking anything else, she thought,
since she must carry it all in her hand. Then she went over her jewels
and took her own, carefully setting aside all that her husband had given
her. She tied them up in a handkerchief with two hard knots,--the best
she knew how to make,--and she put them into the bag with the rest of
the things. Then she found her purse, and put into it all the money she
had, for it was her own, and she thought she might as well have it,--and
there was her cheque-book in the drawer of the writing-table. Of course
she could draw her own money just as well when--she did not finish the
sentence to herself.
Presently she went into the sitting-room, and listened at the small side
door which opened into Marcantonio's bedroom. She had taken an hour over
her preparations; it was half past eleven, and he was asleep,--she heard
his regular breathing distinctly. The full moon shone outside upon the
gravel walks, and the orange-trees, and the soft wind was blowing
steadily through the open windows. She paused one moment before she went
back, and she looked out at the scene, so sweet and peaceful in the
ivory moonlight. Far off in the town the clocks struck the half hour.
Julius must be already on the water, perhaps near the landing. She
hastened to her room, treading on tiptoe; her maid had left her in her
loose white peignoir; she must dress again, and dress quickly, or she
would be late.
It did not take long,--though she put the candle before her glass, and
dallied a little with a ribbon and a pin. The dress was soft and dark,
fitting closely to her figure. In reality she had selected it because it
had a pocket,--that would be such a convenient thing on a journey. A
hat--yes, she must have a hat, for of course they must land somewhere,
though a veil would be more convenient in the wind.
There was a great vase of carnations, gathered that day, that stood on a
little table by the window. At the last minute, Leonora stopped and took
one. She went back to the glass with the candle in her hand, and pinned
the flower in her dress, eying the effect critically. They were the
flowers he loved best,--it was an afterthought, and would please him.
She was ready, the bag hung over her arm, the package of meat for the
dogs in one hand, and a candle in the other. She blew out the remaining
lights as the clocks struck midnight, put the one she carried upon a
chair by the door, while she softly turned the latch, looked out
cautiously, and left the room. Once out of the passage and on the
stairs, she had no fear of being heard, and she descended rapidly. One
moment more and she was in the open air. The front door closed behind
her. Something touched her feet, and, looking down, she saw that the
white kitten had followed her out; she had not noticed it, poor thing,
and she could not risk opening the door again to put it back.
She glanced out into the moonlight from beneath the porch, and she was
frightened. It was only a step--a minute's run, if she ran fast, to the
beginning of the passage--but she hesitated and hung back. Oh, if the
last step were not so hard! If Julius had only met her at the door
instead of being down there--but he was even now at the head of the
steps. She realised his presence, and the garden was no longer a
solitude--she was not alone any more. The kitten mewed discontentedly.
She bethought herself of the dogs, picked up the little beast, and moved
quickly down the walk, running faster as she neared the end.
Her running on the path roused the terriers, prowling about among the
shrubbery in the warm night, and they sprang upon her not ten yards from
the mouth of the descent, barking furiously and snapping at her dress.
She dropped the parcel of meat instantly, but they did not see it at
once, and pursued her. In one moment more she was lifted from the ground
and held firmly in the mighty grasp of the strong man who stood ready,
and had run forward to meet her when the dogs sprang out. But, in the
quick act, the kitten fell to the ground almost between the enraged
terriers.
It was over in a minute. One frantic, piteous death-scream and the poor
little white cat lay dead on the gravel path, and the terriers sniffed
her little body disdainfully, as though congratulating each other on
their brave deed.
"Oh, Julius, they have killed my kitten!" cried Leonora in real
distress. They were already under the archway, and Batiscombe was urging
her to descend, but she clung to him, and stared back into the moonlight
at the dogs and her dead pet.
Julius himself was enraged at the thing--it was so wantonly cruel.
"Run on," said he, in a whisper; "I will settle them." He had reflected
quickly that they had only barked for a moment, and that any one who
heard them must have heard the cat also and would have taken no notice
of the noise.
At that very moment Marcantonio turned on his pillow, and, half waking,
swore to himself, as he had done every night of his life for weeks, that
he would send the dogs away in the morning. But all was still, and he
fell asleep again instantly.
Julius went back upon the path, and the terriers growled, still scenting
their vanquished prey. But he moved quickly and softly, speaking gently
to them in a low voice, and holding out his hand to them. He had a sort
of influence over animals, and they let him come close, pricking their
ears and sniffing about his legs. Suddenly, as they smelled at his
boots, he caught them by their necks in an iron grip, one in each hand,
and held them up at arm's length, struggling frantically, but utterly
incapable of making a sound.
"You killed her cat, did you, you brutes?" he muttered, savagely. "I
will kill you."
He broke their necks, one after the other, and threw their quivering
bodies far out under the orange-trees.
Leonora had watched him from the archway. She shuddered.
"They will not bark any more," said Julius, as he came to her.
"What strong hands you have!" she said.
A window opened, up in the house, a hundred yards away. Batiscombe's
quick ear caught the sound.
"Come, sweetheart," he whispered; "some one is stirring."
His arm was round her as he guided her down the first steps, tenderly
and strongly. She stumbled a little.
"Oh, Julius, I am so frightened!" she said piteously.
He stopped and took her off the ground as though she had been a child,
and bore her swiftly and surely through the dark way. She could see his
fiery blue eyes in the gloom, and in the flashes of white light as they
passed the windows and arches where the moon streamed in, and as she
looked she could feel her own grow big and dark; and she was frightened
and very happy. But she thought of that strange thing she had
dreamed--this very flight of hers exactly as it was to happen, so that
she hid her face against his coat and clung to him nervously.
"Put me down," she cried earnestly, as they emerged upon the flat rock
of the landing, "put me down, Julius,--I dreamed you fell here."
He obeyed her, and set her on her feet, still supporting her with his
arm about her waist. One passionate kiss--only one--and then they came
out from the shadow of the high cliff, and saw the boat riding lightly
in the moonlight, two sailors holding her off the rocks, and the rest
busy on board with the sails. The water plashed musically in the little
hollows, and from near by there came a deep, mysterious murmur out of
the many dark caves that lined the shore.
Leonora stepped lightly in, and Julius arranged the cushions about her
carefully. Neither of them spoke. With a few strong strokes of the oars
the boat shot out into the breeze from the lee of the gorge. The
foresail was already set, and jib and mainsail went up in a moment, wing
and wing, the tapering, lateen-yards pointing to right and left, like
the horns of a great, soft, white moth; the water rippled at the stern,
and curled up and lapped the rudder as the sails filled, and ever
swiftly and more swiftly the craft rushed down the bay in the glorious
moonlight, before the steady east wind.
Julius held the tiller with one hand, and the other lovingly supported
Leonora's head against his breast, as she lay along the cushions in the
stern.
"Darling," he said presently, "what was the dream about my falling at
the landing? You never told me."
She did not answer, but lay quite still.
"Dear one," he murmured, bending down, "are you so tired?
Leonora--sweetheart--speak to me!"
But the strain had been too strong, and Leonora lay in his arms, whiter
than death under the white moon, unconscious of Julius or of the sea.
Julius saw that she had fainted.