Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She glanced out into the moonlight from beneath the porch, and she was frightened. It was only a step — a minute’s run, if she ran fast, to the beginning of the passage — but she hesitated and hung back. Oh, if the last step were not so hard! If Julius had only met her at the door instead of being down there — but he was even now at the head of the steps. She realised his presence, and the garden was no longer a solitude — she was not alone any more. The kitten mewed discontentedly. She bethought herself of the dogs, picked up the little beast, and moved quickly down the walk, running faster as she neared the end.

  Her running on the path roused the terriers, prowling about among the shrubbery in the warm night, and they sprang upon her not ten yards from the mouth of the descent, barking furiously and snapping at her dress. She dropped the parcel of meat instantly, but they did not see it at once, and pursued her. In one moment more she was lifted from the ground and held firmly in the mighty grasp of the strong man who stood ready, and had run forward to meet her when the dogs sprang out. But, in the quick act, the kitten fell to the ground almost between the enraged terriers.

  It was over in a minute. One frantic, piteous death-scream and the poor little white cat lay dead on the gravel path, and the terriers sniffed her little body disdainfully, as though congratulating each other on their brave deed.

  “Oh, Julius, they have killed my kitten!” cried Leonora in real distress. They were already under the archway, and Batiscombe was urging her to descend, but she clung to him, and stared back into the moonlight at the dogs and her dead pet.

  Julius himself was enraged at the thing — it was so wantonly cruel.

  “Run on,” said he, in a whisper; “I will settle them.” He had reflected quickly that they had only barked for a moment, and that any one who heard them must have heard the cat also and would have taken no notice of the noise.

  At that very moment Marcantonio turned on his pillow, and, half waking, swore to himself, as he had done every night of his life for weeks, that he would send the dogs away in the morning. But all was still, and he fell asleep again instantly.

  Julius went back upon the path, and the terriers growled, still scenting their vanquished prey. But he moved quickly and softly, speaking gently to them in a low voice, and holding out his hand to them. He had a sort of influence over animals, and they let him come close, pricking their ears and sniffing about his legs. Suddenly, as they smelled at his boots, he caught them by their necks in an iron grip, one in each hand, and held them up at arm’s length, struggling frantically, but utterly incapable of making a sound.

  “You killed her cat, did you, you brutes?” he muttered, savagely. “I will kill you.”

  He broke their necks, one after the other, and threw their quivering bodies far out under the orange-trees.

  Leonora had watched him from the archway. She shuddered.

  “They will not bark any more,” said Julius, as he came to her.

  “What strong hands you have!” she said.

  A window opened, up in the house, a hundred yards away. Batiscombe’s quick ear caught the sound.

  “Come, sweetheart,” he whispered; “some one is stirring.”

  His arm was round her as he guided her down the first steps, tenderly and strongly. She stumbled a little.

  “Oh, Julius, I am so frightened!” she said piteously.

  He stopped and took her off the ground as though she had been a child, and bore her swiftly and surely through the dark way. She could see his fiery blue eyes in the gloom, and in the flashes of white light as they passed the windows and arches where the moon streamed in, and as she looked she could feel her own grow big and dark; and she was frightened and very happy. But she thought of that strange thing she had dreamed — this very flight of hers exactly as it was to happen, so that she hid her face against his coat and clung to him nervously.

  “Put me down,” she cried earnestly, as they emerged upon the flat rock of the landing, “put me down, Julius, — I dreamed you fell here.”

  He obeyed her, and set her on her feet, still supporting her with his arm about her waist. One passionate kiss — only one — and then they came out from the shadow of the high cliff, and saw the boat riding lightly in the moonlight, two sailors holding her off the rocks, and the rest busy on board with the sails. The water plashed musically in the little hollows, and from near by there came a deep, mysterious murmur out of the many dark caves that lined the shore.

  Leonora stepped lightly in, and Julius arranged the cushions about her carefully. Neither of them spoke. With a few strong strokes of the oars the boat shot out into the breeze from the lee of the gorge. The foresail was already set, and jib and mainsail went up in a moment, wing and wing, the tapering, lateen-yards pointing to right and left, like the horns of a great, soft, white moth; the water rippled at the stern, and curled up and lapped the rudder as the sails filled, and ever swiftly and more swiftly the craft rushed down the bay in the glorious moonlight, before the steady east wind.

  Julius held the tiller with one hand, and the other lovingly supported Leonora’s head against his breast, as she lay along the cushions in the stern.

  “Darling,” he said presently, “what was the dream about my falling at the landing? You never told me.”

  She did not answer, but lay quite still.

  “Dear one,” he murmured, bending down, “are you so tired? Leonora — sweetheart — speak to me!”

  But the strain had been too strong, and Leonora lay in his arms, whiter than death under the white moon, unconscious of Julius or of the sea. Julius saw that she had fainted.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  AT HALF PAST eight on the following morning Temistocle found Leonora’s maid at the door of her mistress’s room with an expression of blank astonishment on her face that made him laugh. He often laughed, quietly, without the least noise.

  “You look exactly like a lay figure in a milliner’s shop,” he remarked. “Except, indeed, that you look much more stupid.”

  The maid glared at him.

  “The signora” — she began, and then trembled and looked round timidly.

  “What about her?” inquired Temistocle, pricking up his ears.

  The maid let her voice drop to a low whisper.

  “She is not there,” said she.

  “Ebbene,” said Temistocle with a grin, “what has happened to you? She is probably gone out — gone to church. A good place for heretics, too.”

  “Macchè,” whispered the woman, “she has not slept in her bed, and everything is upside down in the room.”

  “May the devil carry you off!” said Temistocle, suddenly changing his voice, and whispering hoarsely. “Let me see — let me pass.” He put down the can of hot water he was taking to his master, and pushed past the maid, into Leonora’s bedroom.

  “Bada,” said the woman, going after him cautiously, “take care! The signore might come in and find you.”

  “What harm is there?” asked the servant. And then he made a careful survey of the premises, locking all the doors except the one by which they had entered.

  “It is true, what you said,” he remarked, pushing the maid out of the room. “An apoplexy on these foreigners who go away without telling one. Fuori! Go along with you, my child. Ci penso io — I will look after all this.” And he locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and took up his water-can.

  “What are you doing?” asked the maid. Temistocle had seen a chance, and took it.

  “Look here,” said he, rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his hand together before the girl’s eyes, — which means “money” in gesture language— “look here. The signore accompanied the signora to the early train from Castellamare this morning at half past four. They had a hired carriage. She went away and forgot her jewels on the table. She is gone to Rome on business, — they were talking about it last night. Do you understand?”

  “No,” answered the woman looking puzzled, “you said she had gone out” —r />
  “I said so to you,” he answered with a sly grin, “but I will not say so to any one else, nor you either. Remember that she went to Rome this morning. It will be worth your while to remember that.”

  The woman smiled a cunning smile. She had hated her mistress, and would have liked to make a scandal before all the other servants, but Temistocle’s advice would be more profitable. So they arranged the matter between them and parted.

  Marcantonio was seated at his writing-table when Temistocle entered. He always got up very early, and did a great many things before he dressed.

  Temistocle busied himself a moment about the room, and when he was ready to go he came to the table and laid the key he had taken from Leonora’s door at his master’s elbow.

  “What is that?” asked Marcantonio, looking up.

  “It is the key of the Signora Marchesa’s bedroom, eccellenza,” answered Temistocle, edging away toward the door. “Her excellency must have gone away very early, and she left her room open and all her jewelry strewed about. So I locked the doors and brought you the key.”

  He was very near the door and could escape in a moment.

  But Marcantonio did not move; his jaw dropped, and his colour changed to a yellow waxen hue, which terrified the servant. But he did not move. Temistocle continued.

  “I told the servants not to be astonished, as you had accompanied the Signora Marchesa to the early train for Rome before daybreak,” he said, putting his hand on the latch.

  Marcantonio made as though he would rise. Temistocle slipped nimbly through the door and closed it behind him, running away as though the police were after him. But he knew that when Carantoni had recovered, he would be amply rewarded for his wisdom. It often chances that villains play a good and sensible part in life, which is quite as profitable as villainy, and is always safer.

  Marcantonio struggled to rise, and at last got upon his feet, staggering like a man stunned by a physical blow. The door to Leonora’s sitting-room was open, but, beyond, the one to her bedroom was locked. He had to go round by the passage, feeling his way as though he were blind. At last he found the lock, — the key turned, and he entered.

  It was just as she had left it. The white peignoir she had taken off when she dressed for her flight lay in a heap upon the floor where she had thrown it in her haste. The dismal, half-burned candles stood on the dressing-table. The drawer from which she had taken the handkerchiefs was half open. The windows were thrown back, and the blinds had not been closed, so that the strong glare of the morning poured rudely in on the confusion, and the flies buzzed about the scented soap and the bottle of lavender and the pot of carnations in the corner.

  Marcantonio dragged himself from one part of the room to another till he stumbled against the table on which Leonora had left her scattered jewelry, — all the things he had given her. He stood staring down at the glittering gold and precious stones, unconsciously realising that they were all his presents that she had left behind her. There was a strange old Maltese cross of diamonds and sapphires among them, mounted in silver. It had belonged to his mother, and he had given it to Leonora with other things when he married her. His eyes fastened upon it, and his hand crept across the table and took it.

  He raised it to his white lips and kissed it once — twice; he would have kissed it again, but the bow of his strength was bent too far and snapped asunder. With a short, fierce cry he threw up his hands, and fell prostrate on the smooth tiled floor, as a dead man might have fallen.

  He lay entirely unconscious for hours, so that when he at last came to himself and struggled to move till he could sit up and stare about him, the midday sun was pouring in, and the flies angrily tormented his ghastly face, as though in derision of anything so miserable. For some minutes he sat upon the floor, dazed and stupid with the oppression of returning grief, as well as stunned from the physical pain resulting from his fall. He was not hurt seriously, but he was bruised and weak. At last he got to his feet, steadying himself by the table. He would not see what was about him any more, for he knew it all, and the full consciousness of his misfortune was on him. He regained his own room, carefully locking Leonora’s door behind him, and taking with him his mother’s diamond cross.

  But the mere sense of grief could not long hold the mastery with a man like Marcantonio. He had loved his wife too well not to resent the injury and scorn, as well as weep over it. As he pondered, lying on his bed, there arose in his breast a desperate and concentrated anger against the man who had deprived him of what he best loved in the world, the anger of a mind that has never reasoned much about anything, and will carry unreason to any length when it comes. He must find his enemy; that was the principal thought in his mind. That he would kill him when he found him was a conclusion that seemed a matter of course.

  But, in order to find him, it was necessary to move, to search, and turn everything over. He turned on his pillow, feeling the first restless stirrings of the demon that would by and by give him no peace by day or night till the man was found and the blow struck. He turned over and rang a bell by his bedside.

  “Give me some coffee, and order the carriage,” he said to the servant.

  At the end of an hour, he found himself in the town, and inquired for Batiscombe. It seemed as though fate favoured Carantoni at the outset, for he found his name at once on the register of the hotel, and found also the man who had waited on Julius. This servant had been told that a lady had come in great haste soon after seven on the previous evening, and had stayed more than half an hour. As soon as she was gone, Mr. Batiscombe had sent for his bill and had ordered his boat to be ready at eleven, — the servant had heard the order. The man guessed there was something wrong from Marcantonio’s face, but Batiscombe’s sudden departure had excited no remark. He had arrived late at night in his boat, as many people had done, and as the moon was full it was natural enough that he should sail away as he had come. People arrive continually at Sorrento in yachts, and no one takes any notice of them.

  His luggage? Yes, he had taken most of his things with him, except one large box, which he had ordered to be sent to Turin. It had gone to Castellamare at once. Mr. Batiscombe had been in the hotel before. He was a very good signore.

  At this hint Marcantonio gave the man a heavy fee. Did he happen to know the address on the box? There was no address, except his name. The box was to be left at Turin until called for. It was to go by fast train, and Mr. Batiscombe had left money to pay for its carriage in advance. Mr. Batiscombe paid his bills by cheques on a banker in Rome. Marcantonio might have the name if he pleased. Before leaving he had paid his bill and given a cheque for five or six hundred francs more. The proprietor knew him very well, and was always glad to oblige him, so he had procured a little cash. Before going he had sent for a silk merchant — there are hundreds in Sorrento — and had bought a quantity of things of him. He had left the hotel at eleven by the steps to the sea, and the servant had seen him into his boat, — for which parting civility, Batiscombe had given him ten francs. The man had watched the boat for a few minutes. She did not make sail, but pulled away towards Castellamare.

  That was all, absolutely all, that the man could tell Marcantonio. But it was sufficient for the present. It was clear that Julius had taken Leonora from the landing of the villa. She must have slipped out soon after midnight. The barking of the dogs suddenly came back to Marcantonio’s memory, and the scream of the poor cat. He sprang into his carriage, and drove furiously homeward.

  “Where are the dogs?” he asked, as soon as he alighted.

  The groom did not like to answer. He thought Marcantonio would be angry and visit their death on him. But, as his master insisted, he went away without saying a word, and brought a large basket. In it lay the two dead terriers and the dead kitten, all three side by side.

  “The dogs killed the cat,” said the man, apologetically. “There are the marks of their teeth, eccellenza.”

  “But the dogs? How were they killed?” asked Marca
ntonio savagely.

  “Eccellenza, their necks are broken. I cannot understand how it could have been done. We found them all dead near the descent, the cat on the path, and the dogs under the trees a few paces away.”

  Carantoni took up one of the terriers in his hands, and looked at it.

  “So you killed my dogs, did you, you brute?” he muttered. “I will kill you.”

  He unconsciously used Batiscombe’s own words. His face was yellow, and his eyes bloodshot. He dropped the dead beast into the basket.

  “Bury them,” he said aloud, and turned on his heel, going into the house.

  He had accomplished a great deal in a few hours. He had ascertained that they had fled by sea; that Julius had a bank account in Rome with a banker whose address he had got; that Julius had sent his box to Turin, where he would most likely be ultimately heard of. More than that he could not know for the present. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. He could still catch the train to Rome. He could do nothing more in Sorrento, and he could no more remain inactive for one moment than he could give up the whole pursuit. While his things were being hastily packed he thought of Diana. It was the first time, since the morning, that he had realised that he was not absolutely alone in the world. He sat down and wrote a telegram, intending to send it from the station. It was brief and to the point.

  “She has left me. Can you meet me anywhere? Answer to Rome.”

  There are doubtless people in the world who take a morbid and unwholesome delight in the contemplation of sorrow. They can amuse themselves for many hours in studying the effect of grief upon their friends, — and they can even find a curious diversion in their own troubles, so long as they can keep them far enough away to secure their bodily comfort. They have neither the strength to sin, the honesty to be good, nor the common sense to be happy. And so they feebly paddle in their shallow puddles of woe, neither dry nor wet, and very muddy, when they might just as well sit on the clean, hard ground and enjoy the cleanliness and solidity of it, if they can enjoy nothing else. But they will not. They will lie in the mud, and kick and scream and swear that they are shipwrecked, when they are a hundred miles from the sea, and would take to their heels on the first sight of it.