Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Diana would not use the argument of the Church’s prohibition of duelling. She knew that Leonora’s welfare was the chiefest thing present in her brother’s mind, and that if she could show him that, for Leonora’s sake, he ought to leave Batiscombe alone, he would assuredly conquer his anger and his pride. He had no sanguine and combative instincts, like Julius; he did not like fighting for the enjoyment of it, and if he could be convinced that his anger was unwise, he would ultimately get the better of it, now that the first sharp moment of wrath was over. To preserve Leonora’s spotless fame was a much more important thing than to punish an insolent foreigner for vainly attempting to damage it, and thereby calling the attention of the world to the fact that her reputation was capable of damage.

  It was a hard fight, and Diana’s patience never wearied through the hours they talked together. More than once she thought it was lost, and that Marcantonio would order the note to be dispatched. Nothing but the real affection and trust that existed between her and her brother made it possible for her to succeed. But at last he was convinced, and silently went out and got the note he had written, and tore it up before his sister. The die was cast, and he did not mention the subject again, but went to see his wife. At her door he was told by her maid that Leonora was asleep, which was not true. But he asked no questions, and retired to his own room to solace himself as he might. He was too deeply distressed to wonder why Diana did not go to Leonora and sit with her.

  Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she and Batiscombe had parted on the previous evening before dinner. At table, as has been seen, she had said little, and no one had seen her since except her husband, who had gone to her in the morning. After his visit she rang for her maid and told her to see that no one disturbed her, as she was going to sleep again and would ring when she wanted anything.

  At the moment when her husband was told she was not visible, she was sitting in her dressing-room, just behind the closed blinds of the window, listening to the monotonous, dry hum of the locusts in the garden, and wondering whether anything would ever happen again in the world. She was utterly dishevelled, her rich hair falling to her shoulders and halfway to the ground in wildest disorder; the gay coloured ribbons of her peignoir all untied and ruffled, her bare feet half thrust into her gold-embroidered slippers, her hands lying idly in her lap, as though there were nothing more for them to do. A strange, wild figure, sitting there surrounded by all the gorgeous little properties and knickknacks of a great lady’s toilet.

  Batiscombe was gone! Her husband had told her that he had been requested to postpone the remainder of his visit indefinitely. Of course he had gone, then. Marcantonio had supposed she would understand and be well satisfied. But she had only turned and hidden her face in the pillow, — as was perhaps natural to a very young woman when her husband mentioned anything that gave her a sense of shame. She must have been very much hurt by the insult, whatever it was, and she could not bear to hear it mentioned. Marcantonio had not told his sister of this, thinking it would be indelicate, and was nobody’s business but his own and his wife’s.

  Batiscombe was gone — when should she see him again? How could he reach her, or she him? What was life to be like without him? And then the dazed, disappointed, terrified look came again to her face, and she stared at nothing, vacantly, and like a woman beside herself.

  And oh, that other thought! How much did Marcantonio know? It was Diana, of course, who had made that frightful noise — she could hear the crash still sounding in her ears. She had remembered too late that corner room, cut off from all the others opening on the terrace, and communicating from within with Diana’s bedroom — oh, the folly of it! If only Diana were to come to her — she could kill her, she thought! She was not so tall, perhaps, but she was much stronger — she was sure she could kill her! But how much did Marcantonio know? Diana was so truthful, she must have told him all. Those hateful people who always speak the truth! Ah, if only Batiscombe could come back — or see her one moment before he went. But he was gone already. If he could have seen her this morning, she might have arranged — it was impossible yesterday afternoon, he was so wild, so furiously, gloriously angry. It did her good to think of his blazing eyes, and strong, set teeth just showing between his parted lips. He was such a man among men! Never again — never — never, perhaps! She might be shut up — made a prisoner — Heaven only knew what was in store for her! Dreary, hopeless, no light, no life — no anything.

  Hollow? She laughed dismally to herself. Yes, life was hollow indeed, now — empty of all joy, or peace, or rest, forever and ever. Pray? How could she pray? Prayer was an innocent amusement for idle young women, with imaginary sins and plenty of time. But now — bah! nothing was further from her thoughts. What could Heaven do for her? Heaven would certainly not give her Batiscombe again. It would be wrong — ha! ha! of course it was wrong; but what was life without him? What had all her life been as compared with the happiness of the last fortnight, culminating in the happiness of yesterday? It might be wrong, but it was life; and all before had been mere existence — a miserable, vegetable, hopeless existence.

  The day dragged on; she took no thought of the hours, though she had taken neither food nor drink since the night before. And always the maid outside the door said she was asleep.

  At five o’clock she could bear it no longer, but rang the bell and said she would dress, as she felt much better. The maid told her that one of the men had returned from Sorrento and wished to see her excellency, as he had executed a commission for her.

  Leonora stared a moment, guessed there was something behind the message, and ordered the man to go into her sitting-room, whither she presently went, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, that completely hid her disarranged peignoir. The man handed her a small parcel and waited. She turned her back, and, opening it, found a little olive-wood box, and inside that there was a small note with neither address nor name on it. She hastily closed the box again, and, turning carelessly, so that the man could see her, she examined it by the window, as though criticising the workmanship. She nodded to the man to go, but he stood looking at her with a queer expression that frightened her. She understood that he had examined the parcel on the way, probably; at all events, that he must be bribed. She quickly opened a drawer of her secretary, found a purse, and gave the fellow a gold piece. He grinned, bowed his thanks, and retired. He was the man who had taken Batiscombe’s things to town that afternoon.

  Leonora had no experience. In novels, people always bribed the servants; it was most likely the proper thing — the safe thing — to do. The man would not have gone away unless she had given him something, she thought.

  The note was brief to terseness. It conveyed in the fewest possible words the information that the writer — name not mentioned — intended to spend the day, in future, in a small boat with green oars — underlined with a very black stroke — in the vicinity of a certain landing known to both the writer and the receiver of the note — name of latter also not mentioned. And the writer added, laconically, “No fee to bearer.”

  She ought to have read the note through before paying the man. But what could she have done? He had stood staring at her, until he was paid.

  Her heart gave a great leap. It was so like him, so daring, to send her word at once. At least she should feel, now, that he was always there, waiting for her — ready to help her at a moment’s notice. If only she could be with him on the soft, blue water, out in the sun! She could fight now — she could face them all — for he was out there; at least, he would be there to-morrow. She went back to her bedroom, and gave herself up to her maid, and had strong tea and bread-and-butter brought to her, while she dressed; and an hour later she sallied out, with all her usual elasticity of step and motion, and all the marvellous freshness of face that distinguished her from other women. She found her husband and Diana together on the terrace.

  Marcantonio’s face softened and flushed with pleasure as he saw how well and beautiful she
looked. She, at least, he thought, had not suffered long by all this trouble. It was so brave of her to forget it, now that the man was gone; he was so glad to think that he could have borne the brunt of it, and had saved her the pain of any discussion. But he said little, just kissing her hand, and affectionately leading her to a comfortable chair.

  Diana, who had really carried the heat of the battle alone, and bore the burden of the secret, was very quiet. She saw a little look of hardness in Leonora’s face which she had seen long before, but rarely. She said kindly that she was very glad to see her up again, and hoped she was entirely recovered. Marcantonio, said Diana, had been very anxious.

  For an instant the two women faced each other, and Leonora thought she was beginning to understand her sister-in-law.

  CHAPTER XV.

  FROM MORNING TILL night, under the broiling sun of August, a wretched-looking boat plied slowly along the rocks in the neighbourhood of the Carantoni landing. It was a miserable old tub, big enough to hold three or four people at the most, and the solitary individual to whom it seemed to belong propelled it slowly about with a pair of old green oars. Now and then he would paddle under the shadow of the cliffs and put down a line, angling for a stray mackerel or mullet, and sometimes catching even one of those sharp-finned red fellows that the Neapolitan fishermen called “cardinals.” He did not seem to care much whether he caught anything or not, but he apparently loved that particular part of the coast, for he was never seen anywhere else. A big, shabby man, in rough clothes, with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black beard, — Julius Batiscombe as a fisherman, — brown as a berry, and growing rough-fisted from constant handling of oars and lines and nets.

  No one took any notice of him as he pottered about in his tub. The watermen, who passed and repassed, knew him as the crazy Englishman who found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun for the sake of catching some wretched fish that he could buy in the market for half the trouble. What did they care? They never fished there themselves, because there were no fish, — a very good and simple reason, — and if a foolish foreigner chose to register an old boat at the little fishing harbour close by, and pay ten francs for the privilege, it was not their business. Neapolitans and their congeners do not care much for anything foreigners do, unless it happens to bring them money.

  And in the evening when it was dark, Julius paddled away to Sorrento, and, meeting his own boat on the way, pulled off his rough clothes, jumped into the water for a swim, and dressed himself like a Christian before going ashore. Save that he was growing a beard, and was almost black with the sun, he was as much Julius Batiscombe as ever when he was on land. He had no acquaintances in the hotel, and no one cared or asked what he did with himself all day long.

  It was said amongst the fishermen that he had been seen once or twice rowing a foreign lady about, and they laughed at the idea of a “signore” earning a franc by ferrying a passenger, just like one of themselves — for, of course he was paid for it; it amused him, because he was crazy, poveretto! And sometimes he was heard singing outlandish songs to himself in the heat of the day as he paddled about under the cliffs.

  The time had sped quickly since Batiscombe had left the Carantoni villa, and it was now the first week in August. Madame de Charleroi had stayed nearly a week longer than she had intended, but at last had gone back to Pegli, to Marcantonio’s great regret, and to Leonora’s unspeakable relief. So long as Diana was in the house Leonora had been obliged to steal occasions, few and far between, when she could safely go down to the rocks and signal to the shabby man with the green oars to come and take her off. Many and long and hot were the days when he pulled his poor crazy craft about from dawn to dark, without catching a sight of the strong lithe figure that he loved. But come when she would, at morning, noon, or night, he was always there, ready to take her and to slip off at a quick stroke to one of the many green caves that line the shore; and there, for an hour or two, or as long as she might safely stay, they spent happy moments together, the happier for being few, forbidden, and somewhat dangerous.

  As for the danger, though, there was not much of it. It would have been hard, indeed, to recognise in the ill-clad boatman, with his stubbly beard, and seedy cap of brown knitted wool, the fine gentleman whom the natives stopped to look at in the street. Leonora, if any one had met her on the landing, would have said she had taken the first passing fisherman to row her about among the caves, and no one would have suspected anything; and she used to laugh as she watched the progress of his beard, knowing that each day made the disguise more complete.

  Her own boat had given her some anxiety at first, but she had made Marcantonio lend the whole equipage to a friend further down the bay, telling him it was too hot to be on the water at present. And when Diana was at last gone, she had most of the day to herself; for Marcantonio was perpetually busy with letters, or trying horses, or going to Naples. He always found his wife extremely charming when he had been away all day, or shut up in his rooms, and preternaturally contradictory and capricious when he was with her for long together, and he concluded that she preferred a certain amount of solitude, and humoured her accordingly. Never hearing of Batiscombe, he supposed he had left the neighbourhood for parts unknown, and though he regretted not having had an opportunity of shooting him, he knew in his heart that Diana’s advice had been good, and that it was best so. Now and then, when he thought of Julius too long, he grew angry and paced quickly up and down his room; but on the whole life was easy and pleasant enough, and his beloved Leonora was the most charming of women, not half so capricious as some of the wives of his friends.

  How long this state of things might have continued it is impossible to say, if a disturbing element had not been introduced. But the disturbing element is seldom far to seek in such cases, and in due time it came. There was a man in the service of the Marchesa Carantoni, — the same whom Batiscombe had employed to take his things to Sorrento, and then to convey the note to Leonora, — and the man’s name was Temistocle, as arrant a knave as ever opened palm for bribe. Carantoni had taken him in Rome when he married, because he needed another man, and the fellow’s face was familiar to him. He had seen him in good houses, and had noticed his extraordinary adroitness in waiting. The man’s character was not altogether satisfactory. He had received no recommendation from his last place, but Marcantonio took him on trial and brought him to Sorrento.

  Temistocle had exceedingly sharp eyes, and Temistocle had an exceedingly smooth tongue; he was understood among the servants to have made economies, and his tastes were somewhat luxurious. He found Sorrento hot and dull, and he cast about for something refreshing and amusing.

  To take sea-baths had always been his chiefest ambition. It sounded well to be able to say he had taken a course of sea-bathing. But the thing was by no means easy at Sorrento. He could not bathe from his master’s landing, and it was a long distance to go round by the lanes to reach another descent. At last, however, he discovered that he could climb over the little point of rocks at the foot of the Carantoni villa, and reach a small cove, where, in complete seclusion, he might enjoy himself as he pleased. Accordingly, when he had finished serving the midday breakfast he used to make a practice of going down to bathe. In his little cove he hid his clothes carefully among the rocks and crept into the water under the deep shadow of the overhanging cliff. He could not swim a stroke, but he could sit just so that the water came up to his chin, and his round black bullet head lay on the surface like a floating football, scarcely visible to any one passing outside in the sun. From this position it amused Temistocle to watch the boats and the fishermen for an hour or two, enjoying the idea that they never dreamed of his presence.

  It chanced often, as he sat in the water, that Julius, in his outlandish costume, paddled his old boat past Temistocle’s retreat; and the sharp eyes of the Roman servant were not long in discovering that the fisherman was no fisherman at all. It was the easier to recognise Batiscombe, as the man saw him when his
beard was only a few days old. From that day Temistocle watched his opportunity to descend when the boat with the green oars had just passed, and would be out of the way for some time.

  There was never the smallest doubt in his mind of Batiscombe’s intention in thus disguising himself. The incident of the parcel, which he had carefully opened and examined, Batiscombe’s sudden departure, and Leonora’s simultaneous indisposition, all combined in his mind into one harmonious whole, from which he proposed to himself to extract at least a reasonable amount of money.

  One day he was rewarded for his pains. The boat passed very near to the mouth of his water-den, skirting the rocks at a great pace. He just saw that Leonora was seated in the stern, and he incontinently ducked his black head, and kept under water till he thought he must have drowned. When at last he was obliged from sheer suffocation to bring his mouth to the air, they were gone, and Temistocle sprang out of the water like some dark evil genius of a low order, awaiting evolution into the advanced condition of complete devildom. He was not long in dressing, and in a few minutes he had got back to the landing, clambering quickly over the rocks, and hurting himself, in his haste, at every step.