The room was carpetless, with bright, smooth, red tiles; in the middle was a huge writing table, covered with papers and books; on one end of it stood a large black crucifix with a bronze Christ, and there was an enormous inkstand of glass and brown wood. Around the walls were mahogany bookcases, ornamented with light brass-work in the style of the first empire, and filled with books and pamphlets. The room was cool and dark and high, and as the brother and sister entered, their steps clicked sharply on the clean, hard tiles. His Eminence sat in an arm-chair at the writing table, clad in a loose, purple gown, and wearing a minute scarlet skull cap.
He looked, indeed, as though his life were nearly spent; for, though his dark eyes shone bright and penetrating from under the heavy brows, his cheeks were thin and sunken, of the hue of wax, and his white hands were transparent and discoloured between the knuckles. Marcantonio and Diana touched the great sapphire on his finger with their lips, and then the old man laid his hand on the head of each. They were his brother’s children, and he loved them dearly, after his crabbed old fashion; for all the Carantoni are people of heart and kindness.
“My dear children,” he began, when they were seated by his side on straight-backed chairs that Marcantonio brought up to the table,— “my dear children, I am growing very old and infirm, and I wanted to see you here together before I leave you all.”
A kind smile played fitfully over the waxen features, like the memory of life that haunts a plaster mask. Diana laid her fingers gently on his arm, and Marcantonio broke out into solicitous protestations. His uncle was not yet sixty, — he had many years of life, — this was a passing indisposition, a black humour, a melancholy. One should never expect to live less than seventy years at the very least, he said, and that would not be reached for a long time.
“Ah! no, dear uncle,” he concluded, “you will surely live to see my sons growing up to be men, and to marry Diana’s little girls!”
The cardinal shook his head. That was not the way of it, he said. He might die any day now, he said, in his meek voice; and it really sounded as though he might, so that Donna Diana felt her eyes growing dim and her heart big. She took one of the old man’s thin hands in both of hers, and he with the other pushed back the rich, heavy hair and smoothed it tenderly. A marvellous picture in sooth they made, — the dying prelate in his purple and scarlet, and the great unspeakable freshness and life of the fair woman. Marcantonio passed his hand over his eyes and sighed as he sat watching them.
Then his Eminence explained to the two what his chief plan was in calling them to him now. He had made a deed, he said, which he wished them both to understand. There were certain estates which he had inherited from his mother, — their grandmother, — as being the second son. These he earnestly desired to see incorporated in the property of the Carantoni family. To that end he had made an act of gift, transferring the lands to Marcantonio at once, on the condition that the cardinal should continue to receive a certain income from them during his life. This he insisted upon doing, as he feared lest after his death the lands should be sold by the executors in order to divide the proceeds between the two heirs. In order to make the present arrangement a fair one, however, he at the same time gave to his niece Diana de Charleroi a sum of money from his personal estate which was equal to the value of the lands given to Marcantonio. Whatever they found after his death could then be divided and distributed, — the lands being safe in the male line; they might find something left after all.
Diana protested; she was very glad that the lands should be settled, but she did not wish to accept a large sum of money in that way. In fact, she begged her uncle to reconsider the matter. As for Marcantonio, he looked grave and wished himself well out of it. He was practically to be administrator of his uncle’s property during the remainder of the latter’s lifetime, and he did not like it. However, as the arrangement was for the ultimate good of his children, and as he had not Diana’s excuse for refusing on the ground of not wishing to take a gift, — since it hardly was one, — there was nothing for him to do but to accept the situation with a good grace.
“You do not deserve anything at all, my boy,” said the cardinal, half kindly, half in earnest, “because you married a heretic. But as I helped you to obtain the permission, I must do something for you.”
“But I,” said Diana,— “I cannot take all this. It is not fair to Marcantonio, for I ought to pay you the income of it, just as he is to do.”
“Nonsense, figlia mia,” said the old man. “You need money more than he does or ever will, with that husband of yours, who is always going from one court to another on his nonsensical diplomatic errands. Ah! my children, diplomacy is not what it used to be! Altri tempi — altri tempi!”
The end of it was that the two young people agreed to their uncle’s provisions, and he insisted on their hearing and understanding all the papers, to which end he sent for his secretary, a wizened little Roman with grey hair and bright eyes and a fondness for snuff; and the secretary read on for two good hours. The old man from time to time nodded his head to Marcantonio or to Diana, as the one or the other was referred to in the documents, and waved his pale thin hand in appreciation of the completeness and simplicity of his arrangements. At last the various deeds were signed, and a notary, whom the secretary had provided, was called in from the antechamber where he had waited, and attested the signatures and the general legality of the proceedings. The cardinal was satisfied, and leaned back in his chair. He was one of those old-fashioned noblemen who still believe in the divine right of primogeniture and in the respectability of land as a possession. With the modern laws concerning the division of estates, — the keen Napoleonic knives that cut the strings of succession at every knot, — these conservative aristocrats have infinite trouble; but they generally manage to evade the spirit of the law, and to conform as little to the letter of it as they can.
“Cara mia, one must submit,” said Marcantonio to his sister, when they were alone together. “Old men have strange fancies, and he has always been good to us. What he said about my marriage was quite true. If he had not helped me, I should have made a fiasco of it, — or done something rash.”
“I suppose so,” said Diana, thoughtfully. “By the bye, are you comfortable at Sorrento? How is Leonora?”
She was rather ashamed of not having asked the question before, but Marcantonio was good-natured, and was glad that she had not said anything hard. And, of course, the moment she mentioned his wife, he was delighted at the chance to speak of what was nearest to his heart.
“Leonora is well and more than well,” he answered. “Ah, she is an angel! She has not read any philosophy since we married, — imagine! And she was crazy to come with me to Rome — in this heat! — because she did not wish to stay in Sorrento alone without me.”
“Why did you not let her come, then?” asked Donna Diana.
“She was tired,” he said, “and as I told her how fatiguing it was, she made up her mind to stay. I shall go back to-morrow, I suppose. I wish I could go to-night.”
“So soon?” asked Diana. “But I have seen nothing of you, dear boy!”
“Why not come with me to Sorrento? Do come, — there is room for us all, and for all your servants into the bargain, if you like to bring them.”
Marcantonio was charmed with his idea; it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Besides, he had longed for an opportunity of bringing Diana and Leonora together. He was quite sure they would become bosom friends. Diana hung back, however, and was less enthusiastic.
“I do not see how I could manage it,” she said. “I have so many things to do, and I must go back to Pegli, before long.” Marcantonio sat down beside her and took her hand affectionately.
“Cara Diana,” he said coaxingly, “will you not come and make friends with Leonora? It would be so kind of you, and she would feel it so much!”
Madame de Charleroi hesitated; not so much on account of her reluctance to stay with Leonora as because she knew th
at Julius Batiscombe was somewhere in the neighbourhood of Naples. She avoided him always, though she was his best and most faithful friend; for though she had loved him once, there was not a trace of that left in her heart, and yet she knew well enough that he loved her still. Her high and noble nature could not understand so earthly a man as he; she could not conceive how it was that through all his many affairs he still looked on her as the one woman in the world; but nevertheless she knew that it was so, and she therefore avoided him, not wishing to fan a hopeless passion. He came to see her sometimes, and she was very kind to him, giving him the best of advice, but she never encouraged him to come. So she was not anxious to meet him. But the question of her relations with her brother in the future seemed to make it now desirable that she should go with him and “make friends” with his wife, as he expressed it.
“Well,” she said at last, “I will go with you, and do what you wish.”
Marcantonio was very grateful. He felt that his young wife must have friends — young wives have so few — and he could desire no better friend for her than his sister, the model of all goodness, gentleness, and honour.
“Dearest sister,” he said, “you are so good! And if you have much to do here, I can put off going for a day, you know. You can do your little errands in a day, can you not?”
“I might, perhaps,” said she; “but must you not take some steps about all this land of yours — or of our uncle’s? Do you realise what a position you have assumed, my dear boy? From this day you are absolutely master of the estate, if you like, — but you are also absolutely responsible for the payment of the income. You positively must see the lawyers about it, and you may as well see them at once.”
“It is not the whole income of the place that he takes,” remarked Marcantonio.
“That makes no difference,” said Diana. “If you were to have it all, it would be the same. You are bound to take care of it. Your own lawyer knows nothing about this transaction. You may not be in Rome again for three months. Make some provision for your absence. Who is to collect your rents, in the first place?”
“I suppose somebody would,” said Marcantonio laughing. “But you have a much better head for business than I, Diana mia. Perhaps you are right.”
“You manage things very well, caro mio, so long as they are under your hand. But you hate to go and look after business when you want to be doing something else.”
“After all,” he argued, “when a man is just married” —
“He ought to be specially careful of his affairs, for his children’s sake,” interrupted Donna Diana with remarkable good sense.
She wanted a day or two in Rome, and she thought he was really remiss in his management. She had rather a contempt for a man who cast everything to the winds in order to be one more day with his wife. She did not believe that his wife would have done as much for him.
The end of it was that he agreed to stay a little longer, at least one day more than he had at first proposed; and he wrote an affectionate letter to Leonora, half loving, half playful, explaining his position, and telling her of his sister’s coming, that she might be ready to receive her. He added that he hoped to see them very affectionate and intimate, for that Diana was the best friend his wife could have. If Batiscombe had wanted to make a friendship between two women he would not have gone about it in that way. Marcantonio was very young and inexperienced, though he was also very good and honest. His sister saw both sides of his character and understood them. Leonora saw, but only understood the honesty of him. His inexperience she supposed to be a sort of paternal, philistine, prosaic, humdrum capacity for harping on unimportant things, and she already felt the most distinct aversion for that phase of his nature.
Diana and Marcantonio went down by the night train, having stayed the better half of a week in Rome. Marcantonio sent a telegram to Leonora in the afternoon, to say that they would come. They had a compartment to themselves, and as they sat with the windows all open, rushing along through the quiet night, they fell into conversation about Sorrento. Madame de Charleroi had taken off her hat, and the breeze fanned the smooth masses of her hair into rough gold under the light of the lamp, like the ripple on the sea at sunset. She was a little tired with the many doings that had occupied her in Rome, and her face was pale as she leaned back in the corner. Her brother looked at her as he spoke. ‘Of course,’ he thought, ‘there was never any one so beautiful as Diana.’ What he said was different.
“You should see Leonora; she is a perfect miracle, — more beautiful every day. And though she has been on the water several times, she is not the least sunburnt.”
“Have you sailed much?” inquired Diana.
“A good deal. I bought Leonora a very good boat in Naples, and had it fitted. It is so pretty. And before it came Monsieur Batiscombe took us to Castellamare.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Diana half interrogatively.
“Yes,” answered Marcantonio. “He was very amiable, and then we had him to dinner. You know him, Diana?” he asked, as one often asks questions of which one knows the answer.
He did not remember having ever mentioned Batiscombe to her, but his solitary journey to Rome a week earlier had set him thinking, in a lazy fashion, and he wondered whether his sister ever thought of the man after all these years.
“Oh yes,” answered Madame de Charleroi. “I have known Batiscombe a long time, — long before he was famous.”
“Yes,” said her brother, “I remember to have heard that he was once so bold as to want you to marry him. Imagine to yourself a little! The wife of an author.”
There was nothing ill-natured in what Marcantonio said. In the prejudice of his ancient name he was simply unable to imagine such a match. Diana turned her grey eyes full upon him.
“My dear boy, do not say such absurd things. We are not in the age of Colonna and Orsini any more. I came very near to marrying Julius Batiscombe, in spite of your fifty titles, my dear brother.”
Diana was a loyal woman, from the outer surface that the world saw, down to the very core and holy of holies of her noble soul. She would not let her brother believe that, if she had chosen it, she would have feared to marry a poor literary hack.
“Do you mean to say, Diana, that you loved him?” asked Marcantonio in great surprise.
“Even you must not ask me questions like that,” said Diana, a little coldly. “But this I will tell you, — it was not for any consideration of birth, nor out of any regard of our dear father’s anger, that I did not marry Batiscombe. Once I was very near it. We are very good friends now.”
She turned a little in her seat and drew the blue woollen curtain across the window to shield her from the draught.
“You do not mind meeting him?” asked Marcantonio, rather doubtfully.
To tell the truth he feared he had committed a mortal error, and was taking his sister into the jaws of danger and unhappiness. He had never suspected that she had entertained any idea of marrying Batiscombe. Julius was a very agreeable man, very amiable, as Marcantonio would have said. What a fearful thing if Diana were to take a fancy to him! Loyal as she was to Charleroi, she did not care a straw for him, — her brother knew it very well. Italian brothers are very watchful and Argus-eyed about their sisters.
“Why should I mind?” asked Diana, looking at him again. “We are very good friends. He comes to see me in Rome, every now and then. I do not object in the least, and he is really very agreeable.”
‘Worse and worse!’ thought Marcantonio. ‘She wants to meet him and is glad of the chance. But then, she is so good — what harm can it do?’ Between his idea that he ought to keep them apart, and his knowledge of his sister’s upright character, Marcantonio was in a sad quandary. It always took him some time to grasp new situations, — and the idea that Diana had ever loved Batiscombe was utterly new to him. True, she had not said it; she had only said that she had been near to marrying him.
CHAPTER IX.
WHEN LEONORA WAS alone, she resolve
d to have a good fit of thinking. Accordingly, the next morning after Marcantonio’s departure she sat by herself in a cool room, surrounded with books and dainty writing materials, — thinking. The little white cat that her husband had procured, because she liked animals, climbed to the back of her chair and made passes at her head with its small, soft paws, seeming to delight in touching her. She put up her hand and pulled the little creature down to her lap.
“Pussy,” said she, talking English to it, “were you ever in love?” She kissed it softly and held it up to her fair cheek. “I wonder what it is like,” she said to herself. “I wonder whether being in love is always like this! People who love always say they would die for each other. I am not sure whether I would die for Marcantonio. He is very good. Yes — of course — one’s husband! Any woman would die for her husband. And yet — if the knife were very sharp and cold, — or the poison very dreadful to take, — I am not sure. Perhaps there might be some other way out of it, and one would not have to die after all.”
Poor Leonora, she made herself think she loved him, and then she applied all kinds of tests to her love which it would not bear, being but a very thin and pitiful little ghost of a love.
“I really believe,” she said at last, kissing the cat and half closing her eyes, “that there is not anything much in anything after all. Things are not much more real than the shadows in the cave that Plato talks about. Oh dear me! And then to have people think that one is clever! They have such an absurd idea about it, — Marcantonio, I mean. Of course it is the nicest thing in the world to be loved more than one deserves, — but, on the other hand, it is just as terrible a bore to have other people forever thinking you really worth more than you are. And then, to have him think that my little bit of knowledge is dangerous! As if so very little could help or hurt any one! I must know a great deal more before it can do me any good. I think I will read something hard to-day, — how pleasant it is to be alone!”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 63