Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “My poor philosophy,” exclaimed Leonora, “you will not let it alone. You seem to think it is to blame for everything, — as if one could not try, ever so humbly, to learn a little something for one’s self, without being always held up for it as an exception to the whole human race. It is as if I were to attribute everything you say and do to the fact of your having written a book — how many — two? three?” She laughed gayly. “I do not know,” she continued, “and I will never read anything more that you write, because you laugh at my philosophy.”

  “It is better to laugh at it than to cry at it,” said Marcantonio, without meaning anything.

  “Why should I cry at it?” asked Leonora quickly. Her husband did not know how honestly she had shed tears and made herself miserable over it all.

  “You laugh now,” he answered, “but imagine a little. All philosophers are old and hideous, and wear” —

  “For goodness’ sake, Marchese,” broke in Batiscombe, “do not paint the devil on the wall, as the Germans say.”

  “The Germans need not paint the devil,” retorted Marcantonio, irrelevantly. “They need only look into the glass.” He hated the whole race.

  “You might as well say that Italians need not go to the theatre,” put in Leonora, “because they are all actors.” Her husband laughed good-humouredly.

  “You might as well say,” said Batiscombe, “that Englishmen need not keep horses because they are all donkeys. But please do not say it.”

  “No,” said Leonora, “we will spare you. But you might say anything in the world of that kind. It has no bearing on my philosophy.”

  “That is true,” answered Marcantonio. “I said that philosophers were old and hideous, but not that they were devils, actors, or donkeys. You suggest the idea. I think they are probably all three.”

  “Provided you do not think so after I have become a philosopher,” said Leonora, “you may think what you please at present, mon ami.”

  “I think that you are altogether the most charming woman in the world,” replied her husband, looking at her affectionately.

  “Is it permitted to remark that the Marchese is not alone in that opinion?” inquired Batiscombe, politely.

  “No,” said Leonora, demurely, “it is not permitted. And observe that an English husband would not say that kind of thing in public, mon cher.”

  “Perhaps because they do not believe it in private,” objected Marcantonio.

  “More likely for the reason I suggested,” observed Batiscombe, “that we are all donkeys.”

  “All?” asked Leonora. “But some of you are authors” —

  “It is the same thing,” said Batiscombe.

  “Mon Dieu! there are times” — began Marcantonio.

  “When you believe it?” inquired Batiscombe, laughing.

  “Ah, no! you are unkind; but times when I should like to be an Englishman.”

  “I have heard of such people,” said Batiscombe, gravely, “but I have never met one. You interest me, Marchese.”

  “You must not be so terribly disloyal,” said Leonora. “You know I am English, too, — at least, I was,” she added, looking at Marcantonio.

  “Precisely,” said he. “The wife takes the nationality of the husband.”

  “I am not disloyal,” answered Batiscombe. “I am very glad to be an Englishman, but I cannot fancy any one else wishing to be one. I should think every one would be perfectly contented with his own country. I cannot imagine wanting to change my nationality any more than my person.”

  “Evidently, you are well satisfied,” said Leonora.

  “Perfectly, thank you, for the present. When I am tired of myself I will retire gracefully — or perhaps gracelessly; but I will retire. I am sure I should never find another personality half as much in sympathy with my ideas.”

  As they followed Leonora from the dining-room out upon the terrace, Batiscombe watched her intently. There was a strength and ease about her carriage that pleased his strong love of life and beauty. He noticed what he had hardly noticed before, that her figure was a marvel of proportion, — no wasp-waisted impossibility of lacing and high shoulders, but strong and lithe, and instinct with elastic motion. He had seen her lately always in some wrap, or lace, or mazy summer garment, whereas this evening she was clad in close silk of a deep-red colour, with the least possible trimming or marring line. The masses of her hair, too, rich in red lights and deep shadows, were coiled close to her noble head, and her dazzling throat just showed at the square cutting of her dress.

  “People must be wonderfully mistaken,” thought Batiscombe. “She is certainly, undeniably a great beauty, in her very peculiar way. Gad! I should think so indeed!” which was the strongest expression of affirmation in Julius Batiscombe’s vocabulary.

  It was no wonder she attracted him. For nearly two months he had been wandering, chiefly in his boat on the salt water, and in that time he had not so much as spoken to a woman. His conversation had been with himself during all that time; and if he had enjoyed intensely the freedom of heart and thought in the intellectual point of view, his strong nature, always drawn to women when not plunged deep in work or adventure, could not withstand the sudden magnetism now thrown upon it. He knew and felt the evil of it, and he struggled as best he could, but each fresh meeting made the chances of escape fewer and the danger more desperate.

  “Marry,” said his best friend to him, when, now and then, in the course of years, they met.

  “How can I marry?” he would ask. “How can I ever hope to love one woman again as a woman deserves to be loved?”

  “Then go into a monastery and do no more mischief,” returned the friend. She was a woman.

  “I am no saint,” Julius would say, “but I will try to be.” And ever he tried and failed again.

  They sat upon the terrace in the cool of the early night, with their coffee and their cigarettes. There was a lull in their conversation, the result of having talked so much at table.

  “A propos of contentment,” said Marcantonio, “we are very discontented people. We are going to Rome to-morrow, or the next day.”

  Batiscombe was surprised. He paused with his coffee cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, as though expecting more.

  “Of course it is only for a day or two,” continued Marcantonio. “We shall return immediately.”

  “Seriously, Marcantoine,” said Leonora, “how long shall we have to stay?”

  “Oh — not very long,” he said. “I will get the letter. Monsieur Batiscombe will pardon me?” Batiscombe murmured something polite and Marcantonio rose quickly and entered the house.

  “Are you really going so soon?” Julius asked in English, when they were alone, and Leonora could see the light in his eyes as he spoke. She looked away, over the starlit sea.

  “I am not quite sure,” she said. “I think I ought to go.”

  “I hope you will not,” said Batiscombe boldly. She turned and looked at him again, with a little surprise in her face. Marcantonio came back, — it was only a step to his study.

  “Here it is,” said Marcantonio, sitting down. “He says he thinks that a day should do, if I could be with him all the time. You see, he is old and wishes to put his affairs in order.”

  “I cannot see” — began Leonora, but stopped.

  “Enfin,” said Marcantonio, “it might happen to any one, I should think.”

  “Let us hope it may happen to all of us,” remarked Batiscombe, for the sake of saying something.

  When it came to parting, Batiscombe made some polite remark about the pleasure he had enjoyed.

  “When do you go?” he asked, as he shook hands with Marcantonio.

  “I think we will go to-morrow night, — n’est-ce-pas, Léonore?” He turned to his wife, as though inquiring. She looked up from her seat in her deep, cane arm-chair.

  “To-morrow night? Oh yes — one day is like another — let us go then to-morrow night.”

  She spoke indifferently enough
, as was natural. Batiscombe supposed she meant to go. He took his leave with many wishes to his hosts for a pleasant journey.

  Marcantonio lighted a cigarette and stood looking out over the water, by his wife’s side. She was quite silent, and fanned herself indolently with a little straw fan decked with ribbons.

  “Will you really go to-morrow night?” asked Marcantonio at last. He had a way of dwelling on things that wearied Leonora. What possible difference could it make whether they went to-morrow, or the day after? “Because,” he continued, “if you will be ready, I will make arrangements.”

  “What arrangements?” asked Leonora languidly.

  “I will write to the cardinal to say I am coming, — one must do that.”

  “You can telegraph.”

  “What is the use, when there is time for writing? Why should one waste a franc in a telegram?” He had curious little economies of his own.

  “A franc!” she exclaimed with a little laugh.

  “And besides,” he continued, not heeding her remark, “old gentlemen do not like to receive telegrams. It gives on their nerves.”

  “Enfin,” said she, weary of the question, “you can write that you will go to-morrow night, if you like.”

  “And you — will you go then?” he asked.

  “It depends,” she answered. “I may be too tired.”

  Marcantonio knew very well that his wife was not easily fatigued; but he said nothing, and by his silence closed the discussion. She was very changeable, he thought; but then, he loved her very much, and she had a right to be as changeable as she pleased. It was very good of her to have wanted to go at all, and he would not think of pressing her to it. He was a very sensible and unimaginative man, not at all given to thinking about things he could not see, nor troubling himself about them in the least. So he did not press Leonora now, and did not make himself unhappy because she was a little changeable. The one thing he really objected to was her pursuance of what he considered fruitless objects of study; she had not opened a book of philosophy since their marriage, and he was perfectly satisfied. Before he went to bed he wrote a line to his uncle, Cardinal Carantoni, to say that he should arrive on the next day but one.

  Batiscombe strolled back to the town through the narrow lanes, fenced into right and left by high walls. His thoughts were agreeable enough, and he now and then hummed snatches of tunes with evident satisfaction. What a magnificent creature she was! And clever too, — at least she looked intelligent, and said very cutting things, as though she could say many more if she liked; and she knew about most things that were discussed, and was altogether exactly what her husband called her, — the most charming woman in the world. Besides, he thought he could make a friend of her. How foolish of him, he reflected, to suppose that very afternoon that he must needs fall in love with her! Where was the necessity? He had evidently been mistaken, too, about her relations with her husband. It was clear that they adored each other, could not be separated for a moment, since when he went to Rome on business she must needs accompany him, — in July, too! Would she go? Probably. At all events, he would not call for a week, when they would certainly have come back. This he thought as he walked home.

  But when he sat in his room at the hotel he remembered what he had thought as he followed her out of the dining-room. He had not thought then as he had an hour later. The magnetism of her glorious vitality had been upon him, and he had envied Marcantonio with all his heart, right sinfully.

  “Some people call women changeable,” he reflected as he blew out his candles; “they are not half so changeable as we are, and some day I will write a book to prove it.”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  LEONORA WOULD NOT go to Rome when the moment came to decide. She was so sorry, she said, but the weather had grown suddenly hotter and she really did not feel as though it were possible. She tried to make up for it to Marcantonio by being all that day a very model of devotion and tenderness. She affected a practical mood, and listened with attention while he explained to her the reasons for his going. She insisted on seeing herself that he had a small package of sandwiches, and a bottle of wine, and plenty of cigarettes to last him through the night; and when he finally drove away, she would have driven with him to Castellamare, but that she must have come back over the lonely road alone. To tell the truth, she was a little ashamed of herself; she had been so anxious to accompany him, and now she feared he might be disappointed.

  Marcantonio saw it all, and was grateful and affectionate, though he begged her not to take so much trouble.

  “En vérité, mon ange,” he said more than once, “I might be sailing for Peru, you give yourself so much thought.”

  But she busied herself none the less, going about with a queer little air of resignation that sat strangely on her face. He took an affectionate leave of her.

  “I will not receive any one, if any one calls,” she said, as he was going. He looked at her in some surprise.

  “But why in the world?” he asked. “Who should call particularly? Not even Monsieur Batiscombe, — he thinks you will go with me.”

  Leonora felt the least faint blush mount to her cheeks, but it was dark in the hall of the villa, though it was only just dusk, and Marcantonio could not see.

  “Oh, not him,” said Leonora. “Only I want to be alone when you are not here.” For a moment again she wished she were going.

  “Enfin, my dear,” he answered; “do as you prefer; it is very amiable — very gentil — of you. Adieu, chérie!” and he got into the carriage and rolled away.

  But her words lay in his memory and would not be forgotten. Why should she not want to see any one? Was there any one? Why had she been so very anxious to accompany him, begging so hard that he would not leave her? After all, the only person she could be afraid of was Batiscombe. He wondered for one moment whether there had ever been anything between them; he could remember to have seen them together more than once in the winter, at balls. But then, they always met with such perfect frankness. He had not watched them, to be sure, but he must have noticed anything out of the way, — bah! it was ridiculous. Not that he wanted Batiscombe as an intimate, for the man was certainly called dangerous. He had known him for years, and had of course heard some of the stories about him, — but then, there are stories about every one, and Batiscombe had evidently become very serious since he had got himself a reputation. Besides, to see him a little, as they did in Sorrento, it could do no harm; it meant nothing, and he would think no more about it. He was not going to begin life with the ridiculous whims of a jealous husband, when he had married such an angel as Leonora — not he! Besides, Batiscombe — of all people! If it had been his sister Diana, it would have been different. Everybody knew that poor Batiscombe had loved her ten years ago, when he was as poor as Job, and had nothing but a fair position in society. But Marcantonio had been away then on his travels, being just nineteen, and having been sent out into the world to learn French and spend a little money on his own account.

  Strange that he should almost have forgotten it! Not that it mattered in the least. The man had loved his sister to distraction, but had soon recognised the impossibility of such a match, and had gone away to make his fortune. He had come to see Madame de Charleroi now and then of late; Marcantonio knew that, but it was perfectly natural that they should be the best of friends after so many years. How they had first met, or what had passed between them, Marcantonio did not know, and never troubled himself to ask; perhaps he feared lest it should pain his sister to speak of it. But the whole story invested Batiscombe with a sort of air of safety as regarded Leonora. He had certainly behaved well about Diana, and nobody denied it. Nevertheless, it was best that he should not see Diana too often, especially if he intended to live in Rome, now that he had made his fortune. But Leonora — he might call if he pleased, and amuse her in the dull summer days. Carantoni would not begin life by playing the jealous husband. It was certainly odd, though, that he should have thought so little about that
old story. The fact was, he had never seen so much of Batiscombe in his life as during the last week or ten days.

  Meanwhile, he rolled along the road to Castellamare, and, after a great deal of shifting, found himself in the night train from Naples for Rome. He ate his sandwiches and thought affectionately of his wife as he did so; and then he lay down and slept the sleep of the just until morning.

  When he reached the Palazzo Carantoni, the first piece of news he received was that Madame de Charleroi was in the house, having arrived the previous day alone, — that is to say, with her courier and her maid. The old servant volunteered the information that the vicomtesse was going to stay a week, or thereabouts, and had sent a note to the house of his Eminence, Cardinal Carantoni, the night before. Marcantonio gave instructions that she should be informed of his arrival, and that he would come and see her later in the morning, and he retired to dress and refresh himself.

  He hated family councils, and he saw himself condemned to one, for there was no doubt of the cardinal’s intention, since Madame de Charleroi had come, and had communicated with him. The cardinal was old, and felt the need of settling his affairs and of talking them over with his only near relations, — his nephew and his niece. For he was rich, and had money to leave.

  Marcantonio and his sister greeted each other affectionately, for they were always glad to be together, and their meeting seemed to have been unexpected. His Eminence had sent for each separately, and they had arrived within twenty-four hours of each other, — Diana from Pegli and Marcantonio from Sorrento. Of course, they talked of trivial matters, for now that Diana had accepted the marriage there was nothing more to be said about it. At twelve o’clock they drove to the cardinal’s house, through the hot, glaring streets of Rome, fringed with the red and white awnings of the shops. The carriage rolled under the dark porch of the palace, and the pair mounted the cool stairway and were soon ushered through a succession of dusky halls and swinging red baize doors to their uncle’s study, — a curious, old-fashioned room in an inner angle of the building. The blinds were drawn, and the occasional chirp of the lazy little birds came up from the acacia trees in the courtyard.