After all, Julius was not quite certain whether Leonora had fainted, or
was asleep. She had been comfortably settled in the boat at the first,
and a quarter of an hour had passed in hoisting and trimming the sails,
and bringing the craft before the wind. She might have fallen asleep
from sheer fatigue and weariness,--Julius could not tell. He bent far
down over the stern, and fetched up a few drops of water from the sea
with one hand, while the other supported Leonora's drooping head,--the
tiller could take care of itself for a moment,--and he sprinkled her
face softly and watched her; once more--and she opened her eyes as from
a pleasant dream, and looking up to his she smiled, and closed them
again. He bent down and spoke almost in a whisper.
"Darling, are you quite comfortable?" She moved her head in assent, the
quiet smile still playing on her lips. Then she lay quite still for a
while, and listened to the rush of the water, and the occasional dull,
wooden sound as the rudder moved a little on its hinges. The boat rolled
softly from side to side, in a long, easy motion and glided swiftly down
the bay.
Presently Leonora moved, sat up, and looked about her, at the sea, and
the land, and the fiery-crested mountain.
"Where are we going, Julius?" she asked, with a smile at the question.
"I am sure I don't know," said he, laughing. "There are lots of places
we can go to. Ischia, Capri,--Naples if you like. Select, dearest, there
is a good boat between us and the water, and we have the world before
us."
"But we must go somewhere where we can get some breakfast," said she
gravely. "And where I can buy things," she added, laughing again. "Do
you know that this is all I have got in the world to wear?"
"That is serious indeed," said Julius. "There are provisions and things
to drink in the boat, but there is no millinery. We had better go to
Naples."
"I think I could manage for one day," said Leonora, doubtfully. "I have
brought heaps of handkerchiefs, and hairpins, and cologne water,--they
are all in the bag."
"Handkerchiefs and hairpins!" repeated Julius, and laughed at the idea.
A woman leaves her husband, who worships her, scatters trouble and tears
and madness broadcast, and she thinks of handkerchiefs and hairpins, and
remembers where she has put them.
"Yes," said Leonora, "they will be very useful. We could go to Ischia
first, and to Naples to-morrow night,--or rather to-night, I should
say. That is,--if you think"--
"What, dear?" asked Julius.
"If you think it is quite--far enough."
"We cannot go very far. It is six or seven hours from here to Ischia, if
the wind holds. We should be there between six and seven o'clock."
"I think that would be best," said Leonora in a tone of decision. She
was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up into Batiscombe's face,
and her own was white and beautiful in the moonlight. "I wonder," she
said, "whether any one heard that noise the dogs made? Oh, the poor,
poor kitten,--it makes me quite cry to think of her!"
"Poor thing!" said Julius sympathetically. "But its ghost will not haunt
the gardens, for it was amply avenged."
"Yes indeed!" said Leonora. "Oh, Julius, you are so strong,--I like
you."
"Thanks," said Julius, "you are awfully good to like me." He laughed,
but his hand caressed her hair tenderly, and Leonora was happy.
"It was just like us," said she, "to stop there at the top of the steps
where we might have been seen in a moment--but I am glad. I hated those
dogs."
"It was just as well," said he. "They would very likely have made more
noise, and followed us."
"Oh yes--and just fancy the wrath when they are found to-morrow morning.
But they might have bitten you dreadfully--I was terribly frightened."
"I fancy there will be more wrath about you, my dear, than about the
dogs," said Julius, rather gravely.
"About me? Oh--I hardly know--perhaps. I do not think any one will mind
very much."
"What does it matter who minds, as you call it?" asked Julius, pushing
her thick hair from her forehead tenderly, and looking at her with
loving eyes. "What does it matter to us now? What can anything ever
matter again?"
"Nothing, nothing, nothing, dear," she answered softly, and her head
drooped happily upon his shoulder.
They were as though alone in the boat, for the broad sail was stretched
right across to catch the wind, and hid the men, who sat together
forward, chattering in a low voice in the incomprehensible dialect known
as the lingua franca, the free tongue in which all Mediterranean sailors
understand one another, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, and from
Smyrna to Marseilles. They did not care a rush what their master did,
nor where he went; they had some confidence in his knowledge of the sea
and of the coast, and they had entire confidence in themselves, whatever
wind might blow. It was nothing to them, who came from the north coast,
whether their broad-shouldered "signore" took a "bella signora" from
Naples or Sorrento for a midnight sail in his boat. He paid well, to
every man his wages, and he often gave them a few francs to drink his
health. They had never had so good a "padrone" before, and they asked no
questions, wisely distinguishing the side of the bread upon which a
bountiful providence had spread the most butter for their benefit. They
also said that nothing ever mattered much so long as they got their pay.
Leonora had found at last the desire of her heart,--the reckless, stormy
passion, careless of everything but itself and its object, of which she
had so often dreamed. She had found the man for her to love, and she did
love him to distraction. As for the rest of the world, she was more
persuaded than ever that there was nothing very much in anything after
all. What she had was wholly sufficient in the present, the future was a
future full of joy and love, and divested of everything that could
possibly be wearisome, and the past was cut off, murdered, dead and
buried out of sight.
But though she had killed it and thrown it away, as Julius had done with
the dogs, it had a ghost and a living memory that would haunt her for
many days and weeks, and months and years. A life is not a dream to be
forgotten, nor an old garment to be thrown aside at will. Life is an
ever present thing, and all our past is as much a part and parcel of
to-day as the marks we bear in our bodies are portions of ourselves, no
matter how we came by them, nor when.
Out of nothing, nothing can come. Out of confusion and vanity and pure
selfishness, out of confused and incoherent fragments of half-expressed
wisdom, out of the very vanity of vanities, which is the vanity of wise
words wrought into foolish phrases; out of the shell of an imaginary
self wrought fine and gilded to please the worst part of the real
self,--out of all these things, I say, what can come that is good? Or
can anything come of them which is truly evil, seeing that, one with
another, they are all but so many empty nothings, melted together and
lost in the great void that receives the failures of the soul-world?
If anything results from such a life, it must be the realisation of
nothing, which is the extinction and annihilation of that which is,--and
woe be to the destroyer. We may destroy all hold and anchorage of mind
and soul, we may reason ourselves into a disbelief in reality, in
matter, in daily life, in good and evil. But always when we think that
everything is done, and that our fabric of philosophy is faultless,
there arises the strong tide of human passion and creeps across the
sands to our tower. At first we may watch the waves from a long way off,
and laugh to see them break and overwhelm the very foolish people who
have no tower on the shore and must swim for their lives or perish. But
the tide rolls on toward us, and runs cruelly up, crashing and
thundering in its rising might, till it rends and tears our flimsy
castle out of the sands beneath our very feet, and we fall headlong into
the rushing waters. And then we too must struggle like the rest, if we
can; and if we cannot, we must sink to the bottom, while those who
learned when the tide was low and the water smooth, and have tried their
strength in many a brave buffet with the waves, swim strongly over our
drowned bodies.
It is easy to moralise, it is hard to live. That is the reason that
great moralists are generally either old men who have done with living
and would like to teach other people, or else young men and young women
who have not enough vitality to animate the most lymphatic oyster, but
who manage to float about by their own inflation. These latter never
save any one from drowning, and the former save very few. The people who
can help others are the strong ones who can catch them just below the
shoulder, by the arm, and support them and push them to land, themselves
doing all the work. That is a watery simile, but most similes are but
water, and can be poured into a tea-cup or into a bucket--they will take
the shape of either.
The night wore on, the full moon sinking slowly to the west, so that
after a time she was hidden from the lovers by the sails, and there was
a broad shadow behind them. Still the breeze blew fresh from the land
and carried them straight towards Ischia, and the boat rocked smoothly
over the rolling water. Leonora rested on the thick cushions, and her
head lay nestled in Batiscombe's arm while he held the tiller carelessly
with his other hand, steering by the wind, in the certainty of making
the right course. He did not speak, for he wanted her to rest, and so it
came about that before long she fell peacefully asleep, and Julius drew
a light shawl tenderly about her, and kissed her ruddy hair, and looked
out over the moonlit water, calmly as though he were sailing for his
pleasure.
He was thinking what strange things happened in his life, and wondering
within himself whether he could ever grow old and be like other people.
But he could never be like other people now, for he must live a life
apart from the world, and create an existence of a new kind, utterly
free from the ties and bonds and weariness of society. It would also be
without the amusements, the gayety, the glitter, and the flattery of
society. Batiscombe liked all that, too; but he thought he could do
without it very well. Just now the fascination of the hour was upon him.
The sweet sea-breeze, the moonlight on the water, the swirl of the
boat's wake--and, above all, the beautiful woman by his side sleeping so
gently and nestled so lovingly close to him,--it was all perfect.
But with a curious duality that belonged to him, he enjoyed the moment
and thought intensely of the future at the same time; not with any fear
or regret or even with the anticipation of remorse for what he had
done, but with a far-seeing love of combination, striving to know
exactly what would happen and to provide for it.
He went over in his mind the many places to which he might take Leonora,
and tried to select the most beautiful and the most retired--some ideal
spot, not yet invaded by society. Society, in the long run, gets the
best of everything; artists and poets and adventurous tourists may seek
out an inaccessible region and keep it to themselves for a while,
revelling in the solitude and driving off intruders by discouraging
civilisation and affecting a barbaric display of shirt-sleeves, paint,
and beards. But if the place is really beautiful, really healthy or
really convenient for flirting in the open air, there will surely come
at last a stray princess of eccentric disposition and fond of a little
discomfort. She will say it is simply too delightful, and so very
natural, you know; and in the course of a summer or two the society
battalion will encamp there, the houses will be newly painted, and there
will be a band and a casino, and a royal personage.
It is very hard to find the kind of place Julius wanted, and he thought
for a long time before he hit upon it. But at last he had a happy idea
and was pleased with himself for having it, as he always was. Very
cautiously he got a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with one
hand, steadying the helm with his elbow. He did it so smoothly and
quietly that Leonora did not wake, and he puffed in silent enjoyment of
the tobacco, taking care that the smoke should not blow into her face.
It was very like Julius Batiscombe to risk waking her in order that he
might smoke, for he was a selfish man and knew it, and delighted in it.
But it came upon him in gusts, and was not always a part of him; only,
when it did come, it covered completely the better features of his
nature. In carrying away Leonora, he had done one of the most absolutely
selfish actions of his life, and for the time being there was nothing he
would not do so long as he could keep her with him and make her sure
that he loved her. He knew well enough that she loved him. He did not
want to know anything about his own motives. He was in love--that was
motive enough for anything.
As a matter of fact, deep down in his soul there were other incentives
at play; but he would not acknowledge that to himself. It was true that
since he had loved Diana he had never loved another woman as he loved
Leonora. There was a charm about her which he could not explain, which
overcame him and filled his whole life. His lingering feeling for Diana
was always real when no other passion was in the way, and it had never
happened before that any one of his affairs had crossed her path. But
now it had chanced at last, and the strong position she had taken
against him from the first had roused a bitter opposition in him. It
secretly delighted him to think of her anger, and sorrow, and
humiliation at the success of his enterprise. But, nevertheless, he
loved Leonora with all the strength of passion that remained to him, and
that was saying much.
Again, he had the vanity, in some directions, of half a dozen ordinary
men, a common peculiarity of that unusual physical courage and strength
which he possessed in an eminent degree. But it did not go into his
work, for he was an artist at heart, besides being a man of the world,
and was never long satisfied with anything he wrote. It was the sort of
vanity that hankers after the admiration of women, and would not take
the admiration of men as a gift,--an intensely virile characteristic of
immense power. He would like to rule men, to lead them to do great
things or to crush them under his heel, according to his mood; and he
sometimes ground his teeth because he could do neither. But he did not
want their admiration, much less their sympathy. They might flatter him,
or abuse him--he was utterly indifferent. But he would sacrifice a great
deal for the approbation of a woman, and he often got it; for women,
generally speaking, like best the men who hang upon their words and will
do anything under heaven for a smile and a word of praise--as is
natural.
Consequently, Leonora's evident interest in himself had pleased Julius
from the very first, and he had often done things for the sake of
hearing her say something flattering, which had meant more than he had
realised. There was no doubt whatever that his vanity had played an
important part in bringing him into his present position. Nor was he a
very exceptional man in this respect, save in the degree of his
qualities. Hundreds of men fall in love every day with women who flatter
them, and the passion is not less strong because it is of a low order.
It was over now, however, and the plunge was taken. The falling in love
was accomplished, and the being in love had begun. Henceforth the two
main considerations in his mind were to make life convenient and easy
for Leonora, in order that she might not cease to love him out of
discontent, and then to get over his inevitable meeting with Marcantonio
as soon as possible and as well as possible. He easily saw that these
two things were inseparable. If all question of future complication were
not removed at once by a decisive meeting with Carantoni, Leonora might
live in a state of fear and trembling for months to come. In order to
meet him it was necessary to have some place of abode for the time,
where Leonora might be happy--of course she should not know of the
encounter until it was over--and at the same time the spot must be so
chosen as to be tolerably accessible. He had intended to go to France
when it was over, and had therefore sent his box to Turin, meaning to
take it as soon as he felt free to move; Turin suggested Piedmont, and
Piedmont suggested a place where he had once spent a month in the
summer,--scenery, trout-fishing, considerable comfort, and not a soul
there excepting some of the local society of Turin, who found it
convenient and cheap. He at once determined to go thither, and to send
Marcantonio information of the fact, in order that he might find him as
soon as he pleased.
He no more expected, or wished, to avoid a duel than Marcantonio
himself. The one virtue which never deserted him was his courage. He
would let his adversary have a shot at him if he liked, but he himself
would fire in the air, of course. He did not think much about it, to
tell the truth, for he accepted the fact as the consequence of his
action, and occupied himself in providing for it without any judgment of
himself, for good or evil. He had once said to Leonora that the
enjoyment belonged to the man who ate, and not to the man who carved,
and she had guessed rightly that however well he might analyse the lives
of others, he never analysed his own. He had got the forbidden fruit and
he was glad of it, and meant to keep it all for himself, inwardly
rejoicing at the anger of those who would have prevented him, if they
could. And with all this, the fruit gave him an intense delight,
independently of the triumph of having obtained it. He was not a man who
tired of anything he liked so long as the thing itself did not change
and remained as sweet as ever.
There he sat at the helm all through the hours from midnight to dawn,
and Leonora slept peacefully in the cool sea air, at rest after all her
excitement and fatigue. Gradually the moonlight seemed to lose
distinctness, while gaining more strength and permeating the shadows of
the boat which had before been dark and well defined. The breeze blew
cooler and fresher than ever, bearing a faint chill in its breath, and
the water, from being like black velvet strewn with diamonds, turned
gradually grey and misty, so that the waves could all be seen with their
small crests and sharp rough edges. In front the rocky height of Ischia
seemed to tower to the sky, and soon it caught the first soft tinge of
the dawn. Quickly the rosy light crept downwards, falling gently from
tree to tree and from rock to rock, till it reached the water, and the
sea rippled and laughed in the sweetness of the summer morning.
Leonora moved in her sleep, and Julius, who was watching her, saw her
lips tremble a little as though she were talking in her dreams. Then she
started slightly, put out her hand, and opened her eyes. The blood
mounted to her cheeks as she met her lover's glance, and he looked from
the colour on the water to the colour on her face, and he saw that the
blush of the woman was fairer than the blush of the summer sea. She sat
up and turned from him a moment, and her hands were busy with her hair.
"Have you slept well, my dear one?" asked Julius. "I am afraid you were
terribly uncomfortable."
"Oh, so well," said she, still looking away and deftly putting a hairpin
in its place. "But I dreamed just as I woke up."
"What did you dream, sweetheart?" asked Julius, stretching his stiffened
limbs. He had scarcely moved for four hours; he could have borne it for
four hours longer if he had not wanted anything,--but he had risked
waking her in order to get a cigarette.
"I dreamed about you," said she. "You behaved so badly, I am not sure I
shall forgive you,--ever." She gave him a hesitating look as she bent
her head to arrange her hair.
"Tell me, darling," said he, laughing.
"It is nothing to laugh at," she answered. "And besides,--I don't know
whether I ought to tell you." She stopped and watched him with a little
shy laugh.
"Please do."
"Well,--of course this is in the strictest confidence,--you will never
tell any one. Do give me the bag, dear. I want the cologne water."
"And the hairpins and the handkerchiefs," added Julius, laughing, as he
stooped to get the bag out of the stern-sheets. "Please tell me the
dream."
Leonora took a handkerchief and wet it from the bottle of cologne water.
Then she began to dab it on her face.
"I dreamed that you"--dab--"picked me up in your arms and"--dab,
dab--"carried me down the stairs,"--dab, dab, dab,--"and just as you
were putting me into the"--dab--"into the boat, you dropped me into the
sea." A furious succession of dabs, then more cologne water and another
handkerchief.
"But you said something about that last night. You made me put you down
on the rocks, because you said you had dreamed I dropped you. Was that
another dream?"
Julius was watching her operations with a half-amused interest.
"Yes," said she, drying her face, "I dreamed it all over again, just
now."
"But when did you dream it first, dear? Yesterday?"
"Oh no! Ever so long ago,--ages ago." She looked down at the flower she
had put in her dress at the last minute. It was still fresh, and she
arranged it a little.
"Before you knew me?" asked Julius.
"Oh yes,--that is--before"--she blushed again.
"When was it?" he asked, amused and delighted.
"It was before that evening," she said at last, "when you met me in the
church. How long ago is that?"
"About ten years, I should think," said Julius gravely. It seemed an
endless time.
"Is it not strange?--and then, that I should dream it all again--it is
so funny. Why should you have dropped me? It would have been so easy to
carry me into the boat, and yet you seemed to stumble on purpose, and we
both fell in and were drowned. Is it not very odd?"
She seemed to have settled herself now, for the remainder of the
journey; the sun had risen quickly over the land while they were
talking, and she put up a parasol which lay on the opposite seat. She
did it unconsciously, not realising that she had not brought one with
her, but when she held it up, she looked at the handle and saw that it
was not one of her own. Then she remembered.
"Did you get it for me?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes," said Julius; "I knew you would want it, so I sent out for it last
night."
"A puggia!" shouted one of the men from behind the sail.
Julius put the helm up accordingly, and, as the boat fell off a little,
a big fishing smack ran across her bows.
A dozen rough fellows were lounging about in their woollen caps and
dirty shirts. They laughed gayly at the crazy foreigners as they went
by, and some of them waved their caps.
"Buon viaggio, eccellenza!" they shouted. Julius waved his hand in
answer to the greeting. Leonora was pleased.
"At all events," said she, "some one has wished us a pleasant journey.
It was sweet of you to get the parasol, dear."
So they chattered together awhile, and presently the boat went round
the point of the island to the north side, and they took in the sails,
and the six men pulled her lustily along under the shore, until they
reached the little harbour of Casamicciola.
"We can stay here and rest all day," said Julius, as they entered the
hotel on the hill, half an hour later. "We shall not be disturbed, and
this afternoon we will sail over to Naples, and you can do your shopping
when it is cool."
At half past eight they sat down to a breakfast of figs and
bread-and-butter and coffee. At the same moment over there in Sorrento,
Temistocle laid the key of Leonora's room on Marcantonio's
writing-table, and edged away to make sure of an easy escape through the
door.
"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Leonora, stopping in the consumption
of a very ripe black fig, to look out at the sea and the exquisite
islands that lie like jewels between Ischia and the mainland.
A waiter had brought a shabby book of ruled paper, with a pen and some
ink. He asked if his excellency would be good enough to write his name.
Julius took the pen and wrote something, glancing up with a smile at
Leonora, who finished her fig in silence.
"Let me see," said she, when he had done. He handed her the book, while
the servant waited respectfully.
Julius had written simply, "MR. AND MRS. BATISCOMBE, ENGLAND."
"Give me the pen," said Leonora. "Oh, dip it in the ink,
please--thanks!" She wrote something and gave him back the book.
Underneath his writing she had put in another name.
"I wanted to write it," said she with a little laugh. Julius looked, and
laughed too.
"LEONORA BATISCOMBE," that was all.
But as she wrote it, Marcantonio, over there in Sorrento, fell upon the
hard tiles with his mother's diamond cross in his hand.