Leonora's utter recklessness of delight could not last very long. It was
a strange mood, as unnatural and uncontrollable at first as her
husband's madness. She could not help enjoying to the utmost the new
life that had so suddenly begun for her. She knew in her heart that she
had bought it at a great price, and she knew that she must make the most
of it, or she would have to reproach herself with the bargain.
It was easy enough at first. The quick change had thrown all her
thoughts into a new channel. From the midnight departure she had no more
time to think, until the long, quiet days at Pesio. There were moments
when she was on the verge of thinking, of remembering the past, and
wondering how her husband had acted. But she felt that it would be very
unpleasant to reflect on these things. It might take her a long time to
get out of the train of thought, as it used to do long ago whenever she
had one of her fits of philosophical despair; she was able to put it
off, and she seemed to be saying to herself, 'I shall have time to think
about it, and to satisfy my conscience by feeling the proper amount of
regret by and by.'
Of course she did not say as much in so many words, but the unconscious
excuse for what she knew an unprejudiced outsider would call her
heartlessness went on presenting itself whenever she felt the beginning
of a regret. Deeper even than that, and almost hidden in the sea of
self-deception, and passion, and riotous love of life, lay the reef on
which the ship of her happiness would some day go to pieces--the
ultimate knowledge of the wrong she had done, and of her own cruelty to
Marcantonio and weakness to herself.
But in Pesio the time came; terribly soon, she thought, though her
suffering was only at its beginning. Each morning brought a dull sense
of pain, that came in her dreams and became the terror of her waking.
She knew before she opened her eyes that it was there, and the first
returning consciousness was the certainty of sorrow. It soon wore away,
it is true, but she grew to dread it as she had never dreaded anything
in her short, luxurious life. It needed all her strength and energy to
shake off the impression, and it required all Batiscombe's love and
thoughtful care to make it seem possible to live the hours until the
evening.
That was in the morning, in the brief moments when Leonora, like most of
us, had not yet silenced her soul, and trodden it under for the day; and
it spoke bitter truth and scorn to her, so that she could hardly bear
it. Then, at last, she was honest. There was no more self-deception
then, no more possibility of believing that she had done well in
leaving all for Julius: she could no longer say that for so much love's
sake it was right and noble to spurn away the world,--for the world came
to mean her husband, her father and her mother, and she saw and knew too
clearly what each and all of them must suffer. Their pale faces came to
her in her dreams, and their sad voices spoke to her the reproach of all
reproaches that can be uttered against a woman. Her husband she had
never loved; but in spite of all her reasoning she knew that he had
loved her, and she understood enough of his pride and single-hearted
nobility to guess what he must suffer while she dragged his ancient name
in the dust of dishonour. Her father was never to her mind, for he was a
Philistine of the kind that have hard shells and very little that is
soft or warm within them, but she knew that he had treasured her as the
apple of his eye, and that his old heart would break for his daughter's
shame. Her mother was a worldly woman, loving Leonora because she had
obtained a success in society, and upbraiding her with never making the
most of it; but Leonora knew how her mother's vanity must be bowed and
trampled down by the deep disgrace, and that her vanity was almost all
she had of happiness.
And so it came to pass that after a little time the old tax-gatherer,
Remorse, began to put Leonora in distress for his dues, and she was
forced to pay them or have no peace. He came in the grey of the
morning, when she was not yet prepared, and he sat by her head and
oppressed it with heaviness and the leaden cowl of sorrow; and each day
she counted the minutes until he was gone, and each day they were more.
Julius saw and pondered, for he guessed what she suffered, and
understood now her terrible recklessness at the first. All that a lover
could do he did, and more also, employing every resource of his great
mind to fight the enemy, and always with success. He could always bring
the smile and the brightness of glad life to her face at last, and when
once his dominion was established there was no return of sorrow possible
for that day; his stupendous vitality and brilliant, overflowing
strength fought down the shadows and chased them out.
On the morning of the fourth of September, Leonora and Julius were
walking together in the chestnut woods near the monastery. She had been
less sad than usual at her first waking, and Julius hoped that the time
was coming when she could at last feel accustomed to her new position
and would cease to be troubled with the ghosts of the past. He was
over-confident, and thought he understood her better than he really did.
He was laughing and talking gayly enough, enjoying her happy mood and
the freshness and beauty of the bountiful nature around him.
Julius stopped from time to time and picked a few wild flowers that grew
amongst the moss and the grass of the wood. Leonora loved flowers, and
loved best those that grew wild. It was one of the few simple tastes she
possessed.
"It is not much of a nosegay," said Julius, as he put the sweet blossoms
together, and tied them with a blade of grass. "It is too late for the
best wild flowers here." He gave her the little bouquet with one hand,
and the other stole about her waist and drew her to him.
She smelled the flowers, and looked up at him over them, a little sadly.
"The time will come, I suppose," said she, "when there will be no more
flowers at all."
"Never for you, darling," he answered lovingly. "There will always be
flowers for you--everywhere, till the end of time."
"What is the end of time, Julius?" she asked softly.
"Time has no end for us, dear," he said. "For time is measured by love,
and nothing can measure ours."
They were near an old tree whose roots ran out and then struck down into
the ground. The moss and the grass had grown closely about the great
trunk's foot, and made a broad seat. They sat down, by common accord.
"Can there be no end to our love--ever?" she said.
"Should we be where we are, if either of us thought it possible?" he
asked.
"It must be whole--it must be endless--indeed it must," she
answered--clinging to the thought which gave her most comfort.
"Do you doubt that it is?" asked Julius, the strong earnestness of his
passion vibrating in his deep tones.
"No, darling," she answered; "I do not doubt it--only you must never let
me."
"Indeed, indeed, I never will!" said he. He meant what he said. Men are
not all intentional deceivers, but they forget. They are less faithful
than women, though they are often more earnest.
Is it not the very highest power of love not to allow a doubt? And how
many men can say that their lives have been so ordered toward the woman
they love best, that no doubting should be reasonably possible in her
mind? Few enough, I suppose.
"I have been thinking a great deal lately, Julius," said Leonora
presently.
"Tell me your thoughts, dear one," said he, drawing her to him, so that
her head rested on his shoulder, and his lips touched her hair.
"You know, dear," said she, "what we have done is not right--at
least"--She stopped suddenly.
"Who says it is not right?" asked Julius, with a touch of scorn in his
voice.
"Oh, everybody says so, of course; but that makes no difference. Nobody
would understand. It is not what people say. It is the thing." She
stared out into the woods as she leaned against him.
"How do you mean, sweetheart?" he asked.
"It is not right, you know. I am sure of it." She shook her head gently,
without lifting it. "It is all my fault," she added.
"You shall not say that, my own one," said Julius, passionately. He was
really grieved and troubled beyond measure.
"Ah--but I know it so well," said she. "You must help me to make it
right--quite right."
"It is right--it shall be right! I will make it so," he answered. "Only
trust me, darling, and you shall be the happiest woman the world holds,
as you are the best. God bless you, dear one." He kissed her tenderly,
but she tried to turn away from him.
"Oh, no, Julius--God will not bless me. I have only you left now. You
must be everything to me. Will you, dear? Say you will!"
"I do say it, my own darling," he answered fervently. "I will be
everything to you, now and forever and ever."
He was astonished and puzzled by the sudden outbreak. She had never
spoken like this to him before, though he had expected it at first, and
had wondered at her indifference. But now it seemed to have come upon
her suddenly with a great force, and she would not be comforted.
"And I say it, too," she said, passionately. "I will be everything to
you, now and forever and ever. We will give our lives to each other, and
make it right." She wound her arms about him, and hid her face against
his coat.
"How can true love, like ours, not be right?" asked Julius, clasping her
to him. "God has put it into the world, dear, and into our hearts."
Oh, the blasphemy and the hollowness and the cruelty of those words!
Even as Leonora lay in his arms and felt his kisses on her hair, loving
her sinful love for him out to the last breath, she knew that it was not
true, what he said so fervently,--and she knew that he did not believe
it, that no man can believe a lie so great and wide and deep and awful.
But the sun does not stand still in the heavens for a man's lie; he
hears too many untrue speeches, and sees too many false faces in his
daily task of shining alike upon the just and the unjust--he is used to
it and goes on his way; and time follows him, striving to keep pace and
to swell the puny minutes of its pulse into an eternity.
Such moments--when the rising sorrow and sense of shame that a woman
feels are choked down and crushed by the overwhelming energy of
falseness in the man she loves--are passionate, even terrible; and they
may come often, but they never last long.
Half an hour later, Julius and Leonora were wandering on through the
woods, and their talk had taken again its ordinary course. The morning
was passing, and as Batiscombe talked and amused and interested
Leonora, her doubts and fears disappeared, for the time at least, and
her old sense of enjoyment returned again, sweeter to her now than ever
before, in proportion as it was more difficult for her to attain it. She
was happy again, and the clouds were riven away and rent to shreds by
the strong breath of her stirring passion.
They walked for a while, and then returned to their midday breakfast and
spent an hour over it in the cool, darkened hall, which had once been
the refectory of the monastery, and was now the dining-room of the
people who came to the water-cure. Julius had suggested to Leonora that
they should have their breakfast and dinner in their own rooms, but she
said she liked to see the people. It amused her to watch their faces and
to wonder about them and criticise them. They were so unlike the people
she had known hitherto, that there was a freshness of amusement to her
in learning their ways.
And by and by they had their coffee in a little sitting-room of their
own that overlooked the torrent, and Julius smoked a cigarette and read
the papers a little, amusing her with his daring comments on the conduct
of nations and individuals. He was a man who was never afraid to say
what he meant--not only to Leonora, over a cup of coffee in the summer,
but to the world at large, in his books and articles. That was one
reason why the world at large always said he was an uncommonly fine
fellow, with a great deal of pluck and judgment. For the world at large
likes rough strength and keen wit, always understanding that the strong
language is not applied to itself, but to its neighbour next door.
At four o'clock Julius and Leonora went out again. Julius carried a pair
of shawls and a book and Leonora's silk bag with the silver rings--the
same she had used to bring her handkerchiefs when she fled from
Sorrento. They went into the garden and out among the laurels and the
geraniums for a few minutes, but Julius was sure there would be more
breeze outside, in the old summer-house over the water; for the garden
was sheltered by high walls all around, and the sun was still hot,
almost at its hottest at four o'clock on the fourth of September.
Accordingly Julius took the things in his hands, and the two went out of
the garden by the door in the wall and left it open. They walked down
the short open path to the old summer-house, and Julius made Leonora
very comfortable with the shawls for cushions upon the old, wooden
bench, which many generations of people had hacked with their knives and
adorned with the insignificance of their unknown names.
Side by side they sat in the glory of the summer's afternoon, and the
birds perched on the grey old ribs of the summer-house and hopped upon
the untrimmed creepers that grew thickly about it, making their small
comments to each other about the two people who sat below them, and
great green and pink grasshoppers skipped into the open space and out
again, a perpetual astonishment in their round, red eyes; all nature was
warm and peaceful and happy. The lovers talked together a little,
enjoying the sense that speech was not always necessary nor even
desirable.
"How do you like the 'Principe'?" Julius asked at last, glancing at the
book that lay open on Leonora's knee. He had given it to her to read,
because she said she knew so little of Italian thought.
"I hardly know," she said. "It is very wonderful, of course. But I
cannot quite believe that Machiavelli believed in it himself, nor that
any one ever acted on the advice he gives. It is too complicated and
unhuman."
"It always seems to me," said Julius, taking up the question, "that he
wrote like a man who inferred a great deal from his own experience--a
great deal more than it is safe to infer. He knew men and women very
well. He might have been a despotic lover."
"Why?" asked Leonora.
"Do you notice that he always reckons, everywhere and without exception,
on the heart of the people and on their personal affection for their
sovereign? But he never takes into consideration the possible affection
of the sovereign for his subjects."
"That is true," said Leonora. "He was a very heartless individual."
"Perhaps--though I hardly think it," answered Julius. "But he might have
written a guide for despotic lovers much better than a book of
instruction for tyrannical princes."
"What an idea!" said Leonora, laughing. "But I think he was heartless
all the same. He only believed in the people's hearts as a means for
getting power."
"He never says so," said Julius. "I rather think he loved the people,
but knew them well--and he loved the ingenuities of his wit much
better."
"If the heart does not come first, it never comes at all," said Leonora
thoughtfully. "If it does not rule it is ruled, and might as well never
exist at all. Are you tyrannical, dear?" She smiled at him, knowing how
he loved her.
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Julius, laughing; "but only about love."
"But that is just the question," said Leonora. "You ought not to be.
Your heart ought to come first."
"Yes, darling," he answered. "The heart comes first, and the heart is a
tyrant. Supposing my heart says to yours, 'You shall love me; I will
have it at any cost;' is not that tyranny?"
"Perhaps," said Leonora, smiling and touching his hand. "But then it is
quite a mutual tyranny, you know, because I say it to you, too,--and you
do it."
"I always do everything you say, darling," he answered lovingly.
"Always?"
"Always;--and I always will, Leonora."
"Do you think, Julius--it is a foolish question--do you think you would
die for me, if it were necessary?"
"You know I would, dear," he said quietly.
"Yes; I am sure you would," she answered. "Do you know? I used to think
that one ought to be willing to die for those one loves; and I like to
think that you would give your life for me. Of course it could never
happen--but then--Don't laugh at me, Julius."
"Why should I laugh?" he said. "What you say is serious enough, I am
sure."
"No--but I thought you might. You laugh at so many things--I am always
afraid you will laugh at my love"--
It was five o'clock.
Marcantonio, issuing from the door in the garden wall, saw Julius and
Leonora some twenty yards away, in the summer-house. He gave the servant
a franc for showing him the way, and the man retired. He stood alone,
watching the pair, for he could see them very distinctly. They were so
placed that they would see him if they turned and looked upward, but
they did not move, nor hear him. Leonora was nearest to him, and was
leaning back a little, so that she could not see him; Batiscombe held
her hand, and was looking at it, and gently caressing the fair, white
fingers as he talked.
Marcantonio turned away for a moment, and got out his revolver. It was
clean and bright, and he had examined it,--but he would look once more,
just to be sure there was a cartridge in each chamber, especially in
that one beneath the barrels. One could not be too certain of one's
weapon. There was no mistake,--everything was in order. The hour was
come.
The hideous maniac smile played over his delicate features, and he
stepped cautiously forward, holding the pistol behind him. Every step he
gained before they observed him was an advantage. And besides, Leonora
was between him and Batiscombe. It was not a fair shot, and it was too
far.
He did not want to kill her; he would take her home with him, when he
had killed Julius Batiscombe. He had ordered the little carriage to wait
for them. How happy she would be! Cautiously he moved on, ready for
action if they saw him. He trod so softly, so softly, it was like velvet
on the grass.
Then, as he came nearer,--not ten paces off,--he brought his pistol
before him and held it ready. So softly he had crept to them that they
had not yet heard him, as the summer wind blew gently through the long
grasses and the vines about the old bower, and made a sweet murmur of
its own.
--"I am always afraid you will laugh at my love"--Leonora was saying,
but the words that were to follow were never spoken.
Some slight sound caught her quick woman's ear, and she looked up in the
direction whence it came. There stood her husband, not ten paces from
her, with an expression in his face which would have frozen the marrow
in the bones of a wild beast.
The clean polished barrel of the pistol was pointed full at Batiscombe.
Leonora saw that, and saw that Marcantonio's eyes were fixed on her
lover and not on herself. Batiscombe saw it all as well as she, one
second later. But that one second was enough.
With a spring and a clutching turn, as a tigress will cover her young
with herself and turn glaring on her pursuers, Leonora threw her strong,
lithe body upon Julius, forcing him back to his seat, and she turned and
looked Marcantonio in the face. Their eyes met for one moment. But it
was too late: the finger had pulled the trigger and the ball sped true.
Without a sound, without a cry, she fell upon her lover's breast. There
she fell, there she died.
From the death wound the heart's blood fell in great drops; it fell down
to the ground.
She died for his sake whom she loved; she died, she gave for him her
life, the joy and the woe and the love of it for his sake.
* * * * *
Do you ask what is the moral of this? Ask it of yourselves.
Ask it of that quiet man, with delicate features and snow-white hair,
who drives in the Villa Borghese. He is well-known in Rome for his
honesty, his honour, and his unaffected good sense. He is the Marchese
Carantoni, he is Marcantonio, and he is not yet forty years of age.
Ask it of Diana de Charleroi,--Duchesse de Charleroi now, for her
husband has succeeded to the elder title. Ask it of her, the mother of
brave boys and noble maidens. She has her beauty still, she is as
stately as of yore, and grander in the crown of mature womanhood. But
there is a streak of grey even in her fair hair, and a line of sorrow on
her forehead, the masterly handwriting of a mastering grief; and her
grey eyes are softer and sadder than they were ten years ago.
Ask it of Julius Batiscombe,--but of him you will ask in vain. He has
the mark of a bullet in his throat, Marcantonio's second shot, that was
so nearly fatal to him. He stood aside from the world for a while, and
lived a year or two among the monks of Subiaco; he manifested some
devotion for her sake who had died for him. And now he is writing novels
again, and smoking cigarettes between the phrases, to help his ideas and
to stimulate his imagination.