Marcantonio Carantoni was in just such a position. He was more than contented, for he looked forward to much in the future that he had not yet attained, and he looked forward to it with certainty. His wife Leonora was trying hard to be as happy as he, but there had been a doubt — a cruel, hot little doubt — in her soul from the first. She had deceived herself — with the best intention — until she could hardly ever be sure that what she felt was genuine. She had asked questions of her heart until it was weary of answering them, and would as soon speak false to her as true.
And here ends the prologue of this story.
CHAPTER V.
A FEW DAYS after the arrival of the Carantoni establishment in Sorrento, Leonora was sitting alone on a terrace of the villa with a book and a great variety of small possessions in the way of needle-work, shawls, cushions, flowers, parasols, fans, and a white cat. Marcantonio was gone to the town alone, intending to buy more possessions; for Sorrento is famous for its silk-weaving and its exquisite carved work of olive wood, and Leonora loved knickknacks.
“I would give anything in the world for a sensation,” she thought, as she looked out over the sea.
It was towards evening, and the water was as smooth as glass and tinged with red.
Marcantonio was right after all. It was very dull in Sorrento, with no one but one’s husband to speak to, — and he had made such a fuss about the cook’s illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and all that; but life with the beauties of nature is so very tiresome after a time. She longed for some of her friends, — even her mother, she thought, would be a relief. But no one had called, excepting some very proper people of the Roman set, who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary-ful of diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at Castellamare.
She was wishing with all her might that some amusing person would call, when, as though in answer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card. Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some toothless old princess of Rome or some other wearisome bore. But as she looked at the name,— “Mr. Julius Batiscombe,” — she gave a little start and her light fingers touched her lace and ribbons, and her thick hair, and she said she would receive.
Mr. Julius Batiscombe was a man of five and thirty years of age, and a person sure to attract attention anywhere. He was tall and looked strong, but he trod as lightly as a woman; none of his movements were clumsy or awkward. Not that he stepped daintily or affected any feminine grace of movement; there was something in his build and proportion that made it always seem easy for him to move, as though his strength were perfectly under control.
People were divided in opinion concerning his appearance. Some said he was handsome and some said he was coarse. Some said he was refined and some said he looked ill-tempered. As a matter of fact he had a rather small head, set upon a strong neck. His nose was large and broad, and decidedly aquiline, and he had a remarkably clean-cut and determined jaw. His mouth was comparatively too small for his face, but well shaped and well closed, shaded by a black moustache of very moderate dimensions. His blue eyes were set deep in his head and far apart. Of hair he had an unusual quantity, of a blue black colour, and he brushed it carefully. A single deep line scored its mark across, just above his brows. He had an odd way of looking at things, hiding the half of the iris under the upper lid, showing the white of the eye a little beneath the coloured portion. His complexion was of that brilliant kind which sometimes goes with black hair and blue eyes, and is known as an especial characteristic of the Irish race. Moreover he was noticeably well dressed, in a broad, neat fashion of quiet colour, and he wore no jewelry nor ornament except an old seal ring.
Opinions varied almost as much about Mr. Julius Batiscombe’s character and reputation as about his claims to be thought good-looking. He had no intimate friends, or was supposed to have none; and he never answered many questions, because he asked none. It was known that he was an Englishman or an Irishman by birth, but that he had never lived long in his own country, whereas he seemed to have lived everywhere else under the sun.
“I am so glad you came to-day, Mr. Batiscombe,” said Leonora after he was seated, and looking at him rather curiously.
He was the man who had stood in the doorway at the ball when Marcantonio offered himself to her. She knew him as well as she knew most of the stray foreigners who from time to time frequented Roman society. He had been in Rome all that winter, and she had met him two years earlier, when she first went out. He interested her, however, by a certain reserve of manner and by an air of “having a story about him” — as young ladies put it — which was unusual.
“I am very fortunate,” he answered, with a slight inclination and a polite smile. “I called entirely at random. Somebody said you were coming here, and so I came to see if you had arrived.”
“Yes,” said Leonora, “we have been here several days, with all sorts of troubles on our hands. It is such very hard work to settle down, you know.”
“What has been the trouble?” inquired Mr. Batiscombe, glancing at the evidences of comfort that were scattered about.
“Oh — it is the cook,” said Leonora with a little laugh; she was just beginning to feel the novelty of housekeeping, and she laughed at the mention of the cook, as though the idea amused her. “He has had a little fever, and my husband was dreadfully anxious about him. But he is quite recovered.”
“I am very glad,” said Mr. Batiscombe. “It must be a terrible bore to have one’s cook ill. Did you get anything to eat in the meanwhile?”
And so forth, and so on, through a few dozen inanities. He would not make an original remark, being quite sure that Leonora would ultimately turn the conversation to some congenial subject.
“Shall you be in Rome next winter, Mr. Batiscombe?” she asked at length rather suddenly.
“It is rather doubtful,” he answered slowly. “I am a great wanderer, you know, Marchesa. I can never say with any certainty where I shall be next.”
He was looking at her and thinking what a splendid living thing she was, with the evening sun on her red hair. That was all he thought, but it gave him pleasure, and his glance lingered contentedly upon her, as upon a picture or a statue. He supposed from her remark that she wanted him to talk about himself, and he was willing to please her; but he was in no hurry, for he feared she would move and show herself in a less favourable light. She was so good to look at, that it was worth a visit to see her; and yet she was not a great beauty.
“I was thinking a little of going to the East,” he added presently.
“But you have been there, have you not?”
“Not for a long time; and it will bear revisiting often, — very often. I mean to go there and study again as I did years ago. You have no idea how interesting those things are.” Mr. Batiscombe looked thoughtfully out towards the sea.
“What are those things, as you call them?” asked Leonora.
“What many people call the ‘wisdom of the East.’ They make us the compliment of implying that there is a ‘wisdom of the West’ also, which seems unlikely.”
“Dear me, what a sweeping remark!” exclaimed Leonora, rather startled.
“I will prove it,” said Mr. Batiscombe. “It seems to me that in the West no two wise men think alike; whereas in the East no two wise men think differently. Is not that a kind of proof?”
“Not a very valuable proof,” said the marchesa. “But I do not know much about it.”
“You have the reputation of knowing more about it than most people, Marchesa,” answered Batiscombe. “I have been told that you know everything.” Leonora blushed very slightly.
“What nonsense!” said she; “I might say the same of you.”
“I observe that you do not, however,” said he, laughing.
“I never flatter any one,” she answered calmly.
“Obviously, there is but one thing for me to say,” said Batiscombe still smiling.
“What is that?”
“That no one could possibly fla
tter you, Marchesa, — since the truth is no flattery.”
“No, but imitation is,” retorted Leonora, well pleased at having got a small advantage of him.
“Very good,” said Batiscombe; “but do you know who said so?”
“Shakespeare” — began Leonora, but she stopped. “No — I cannot tell.”
“A man called Colton said it. He wrote a book called ‘Lacon,’ containing innumerable reflections on things in general. He was a wandering sea-parson and wrote books of travels. He died of a complication of nautical and religious disorders — he confused the spirituous with the spiritual — but he was a wise man for all that.”
“I suppose you remembered all that for the sake of showing that you really know everything,” said Leonora, looking up from behind the fan that shaded her eyes.
The last rays of the sun shone horizontally across the terrace. The book she had been reading slipped from her lap. With a quick movement Batiscombe caught it before it fell and laid it on the little table. Leonora noticed the action and admired the ease of it. She was altogether disposed to admire the man, though she would have confessed that his conversation hitherto had not been at all remarkable. But there was something in his manner that attracted her. He was quick and gentle, and yet he looked so big and strong.
“Thanks,” she said. “By the bye, are you going to spend the summer here, or are you only passing?”
“I am only passing — literally passing, for I have come from the north, and am going southward. I believe I am doing rather an original thing.”
“You are generally supposed to be always doing original things,” said Leonora.
“At all events I am never bored,” he answered, “which cannot be said of most people. At present I am going round Italy in an open boat. It is great fun. I started from Nice six weeks ago.”
“How delightful! I should like it immensely!”
“Are you fond of sailing?”
“I enjoy it of all things,” she answered. In spite of her remark to the same effect made to Marcantonio on the day of their arrival, she had not yet been on the water. He had been so anxious about the cook.
“There is a man-of-war to be launched at Castellamare the day after to-morrow,” said Batiscombe. “May I have the pleasure of taking you over in my boat?”
At this moment Marcantonio appeared at the extremity of the terrace and came towards them.
“Should you like to go?” asked Batiscombe quickly, in a lower voice. “If so I will propose it at once.” Leonora nodded, and her husband approached.
“Marcantonio,” she said, “you know Monsieur Batiscombe?”
“Mais certainement,” cried Marcantonio cordially, and the two men shook hands. Batiscombe was at least as much at home in French as his host, and immediately attacked the subject.
“I came to propose to Madame la Marquise,” he said, “that you should come over to Castellamare in my boat the day after to-morrow to see the launch. I trust the plan meets your approval?”
Marcantonio turned to his wife to inquire. She nodded to him; he nodded to her.
“We should be charmed,” said he.
And so the matter was arranged; they agreed about the hour, and Leonora said she would bring the luncheon.
“Yes,” said Marcantonio, “I am glad to say the cook” —
At this point Mr. Batiscombe rose to go, and the remark about the cook’s health was lost in the stir. Batiscombe bowed, smiled, bowed again, and moved smoothly away across the terrace, disappearing with a final inclination, and a sweep of his straw hat.
“He walks like a cat, that gentleman,” said Marcantonio as he sat himself down beside his wife.
“He is charming,” said Leonora. “He has been so amusing.” She looked at her husband furtively to see how he took the remark.
“Perhaps,” thought she, “he is one of those men who have to be managed by being made jealous. I have read about them in novels.”
But Marcantonio was very glad that she had been amused, and he merely smiled pleasantly and said so. It never entered his head to suppose that Leonora was not satisfied with his show of affection, because he knew in himself that his love was perfectly real. There is a little vanity in such men as Marcantonio, together with a great deal of honesty. Their vanity makes them quite sure that the woman they love is satisfied, and their honesty makes them think the woman would speak out if she were not, just as they themselves would do.
Leonora had vanity enough of a certain kind, but it was not personal. She doubted her own powers and gifts more than she need have done, and there was enough uncertainty about her own affection to make her uncertain of her husband’s love. In the meanwhile she was bored since Mr. Batiscombe had gone, and she wished Marcantonio would talk and amuse her. But when he did begin to say something it was about local Roman politics, and she understood nothing about that sort of thing. She longed more and more for “a sensation.” It would probably be different to-morrow, for her moods seldom lasted long. But this evening it was intolerable. She made the most absent-minded answers to her husband’s remarks, and seemed so impatient that he suggested she must be tired and had better go to bed.
“But I am not tired at all — on the contrary,” she objected. “There is nothing to tire me here, — a little driving, a great deal of sitting on the terrace, a great deal of reading, and very little conversation” —
“Very little conversation!” exclaimed Marcantonio. “Mais, ma chère, here it is two hours we have been talking, without counting the visit of the gentleman who walks like a cat — Bat — Botis — I cannot say his name, but I know him.”
“Ah, yes — Mr. Batiscombe. Yes,” said Leonora languidly, “he was very amusing. He talked about all sorts of things.”
“Shall we ask him to pass a few days with us? I should be very glad, if you like him.”
Marcantonio was really delighted to do anything his wife might wish. Leonora was touched. He was sitting beside her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
“You are so good,” she said in a low voice. “Oh, I do not want anybody else here at all. I only want you — but all of you — and I feel as though I had not all yet.”
For the moment she really loved him. He gently smoothed her hair with his delicate, olive-tinted hand.
Meanwhile Mr. Julius Batiscombe had gone to his hotel, and, having eaten his dinner, was sitting on the tiled terrace over the sea, with a cup of coffee at his elbow, and a cigarette in his mouth. There were lamps on the terrace, and there was starlight on the water, and Mr. Batiscombe was alone at his small table.
“I wish I had not gone there. I wish I had not asked them to go to Castellamare. I wish I were at sea in my boat.” He said these things over and over to himself, and now and again he smiled a little scornfully, and sipped his coffee.
Julius Batiscombe was generally in trouble. He was a strong man in all respects save one. He had conquered many difficulties in his life, and by sheer determination had turned evil fortune into good, winning himself a name and a position, and such a proportion of wealth as he needed. Of good family, and brought up in luxury and refinement, he had been left at twenty years of age without parents, without much money, and without a profession. He knew some half dozen languages, ancient and modern, and he had a certain premature knowledge of the world. But that was his whole stock-in-trade excepting an indomitable will and perseverance, combined with exceedingly good health, and a great desire for the luxuries of life. He had lived in all sorts of ways and places, getting his pen under control by endless literary hack-work. By and by he tried his hand at journalism, and was successively addicted to three or four papers, published in three or four languages in three or four countries. Last of all he wrote a book which unexpectedly succeeded. Since then the aspect of life had changed for him, and though he still wandered, from force of habit, so to say, he no longer wandered in search of a fortune. A pen and a few sheets of paper can be got anywhere, and Julius B
atiscombe set up his itinerary literary forge wherever it best pleased him to work. He had fought with ill-luck, and had conquered it, and now he felt the confidence of a man who has swum through rough water and feels at last the smooth, clean sand beneath his feet. His success had not turned his head in the least; he was too much of an artist for that, striving always in his work to attain something that ever seemed to escape him. But he now felt that he might some day get nearer to what he aimed at, and there were moments, brief moments, of genuine happiness, when he believed that there was wrought by his pen some stroke of worth that should not perish. Ten minutes later he was dissatisfied with it all, and collected his strength for a new effort, still hoping, and striving, and labouring on, with his whole soul in his work.
Strong in body and strong in determination, he was yet very weak in one respect. He was eternally falling in love, everlastingly throwing himself at the feet of some woman and making mischief which he afterwards bitterly regretted. It seemed as though it were impossible for him to live six months without some affair of a more or less serious character. It made no difference whether he wandered off into the recesses of the Italian mountains, or went into hermitage in the Black Forest, or steamed and sweltered under a tropical sun; there was always a feminine element at hand to make trouble for him.
It was not only the universal woman calling to him to follow, it was the universal woman seizing him and carrying him away by main force. For it was no matter of inclination. He struggled hard enough to deserve victory, but without any perceptible result.
What gave him most pain was the dreary consciousness of his own insincerity in his love-making, the consciousness that came to him after the affair was over. While it lasted he was carried away and blinded by a sort of madness that took possession of him and allowed him no time for thought. But when it was over he remembered, bitterly enough, how untrue it had all been, to himself and to the one woman whom he had loved, and whom, down in the depths of his turbulent heart, he loved still. His other loves were like horrible creations of black magic, bodies with no soul, when he looked back on them. And yet while they lasted they seemed to him real, and high, and noble.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 59