One of the favourite hobbies of these individuals is a mysterious thing they call a “sweet sadness.” Their ideas about sorrow are not even artistic. They might at least understand that even the intensest grief, apart from its causes, has no grandeur. The contemplation of sorrow is not elevating unless it breeds a strong desire to alleviate it; nor is the study of vice and crime in the least edifying unless it exhibits the nobility and power of purity in a highly practical light. No vicious criminal was ever reformed by realistic pictures of wickedness, any more than he can be improved by daily association with other vicious criminals. And a very little realism will throw a great ideal into the shade, as far as most people are concerned.
Marcantonio may therefore be allowed to go to Rome without being watched on the journey. His bitter suffering had settled about him and taken a shape and a complexion of its own, thinking its own thoughts and acting its own acts, without reference to the real Marcantonio, the easy, cheerful, happy man of a few short weeks ago. It was no change of character now, but rather the entire disappearance of the character beneath the flood of strong passions that had come from without, sweeping away the landmarks and beacons of all moral responsibility. One idea had taken possession of him, and destroyed his consciousness of good and evil, and his comprehension of the common things of life; his body and intelligence had become the mere tools of this idea, and would strain their strength to carry it out until one or the other gave way. Man is said to be a free agent, and so long as he remembers the fact, he is; but when he forgets it, the freedom is gone.
That morning, when the blow first struck him, he had still some vague thought that there was a course to follow which should be right as well as brave and honourable; it was the fast vanishing outline of his former self, used always to the ways of honour; it was vague and uncertain, and he had no time nor inclination to think about it, but it was present. The day wore on, bringing a fuller realisation of his desperate case, and the possibility of good in so much evil disappeared. When he was at last in the express train on his way to Rome he was only conscious of one thing — the determination to find Julius Batiscombe, and to kill him ruthlessly, be the consequences what they might.
Rome looked much as usual when he at last came out of the great ugly station upon the Piazza dei Termini. It was morning, and not yet eight o’clock, but the pitiless August sun drove its fire through everything — through flesh and bone and marrow of living things, through the glaring stones and dusty trees, and even the great jet of water looked like bright melting metal that would burn if it touched one.
But Marcantonio Carantoni was past feeling heat or cold or bodily hurt. He did not even remember that he had a servant with him, and he mechanically hailed a cab and was driven to his own house. They put a telegram into his hand; it was from Diana, in answer to his of the day before. It was briefer than his and breathed authority.
“Have left Pegli. Wait for me in Rome.”
That was all. He read it stupidly over two or three times. He would not have telegraphed to her if he had waited till to-day. Some instinct told him that she would prevent and hinder his vengeance. Yesterday he wanted help; to-day he wanted nothing but freedom from restraint and an opportunity of meeting Julius Batiscombe. She would not aid him in that, he was sure.
But she could not arrive to-day, — it was a long journey from Pegli to Rome; he did not know exactly how long it took, — his memory would not serve him with any details. He should have time in Rome to do the things he meant to do, and he would go to Turin that very night and watch that box of Batiscombe’s. He would send for it, of course, wherever he was, and the box would betray him at last, if all other means failed. But meanwhile there were the police — there were detectives to be had, and plenty of them; money could do much, and his high position could do more. He would set a whole pack of sharp-scented human hounds at Batiscombe’s heels — they should find him, and bring word, never fear. He laughed at the idea of employing the law to hunt his prey, in order that he might bid the law defiance and destroy his man alone.
He threw down the telegram and went to his room, followed closely by his servant, who had arrived in mad haste in a second cab, believing that his master was going to be insane, unless he had a stroke of apoplexy, which seemed not unlikely. The man was a skilled valet, and Marcantonio suffered himself to be dressed and combed and smoothed, in perfect silence; and when it was over he ate something that they brought him, without the slightest idea of what he was doing. He knew it was yet early, and that his business could not be done until the officials he needed were in their offices.
No sooner had the clock struck ten, however, than he took his hat and left the house. He found a cab, and had himself driven from one office to another all through the heat of the day, seeing confidential detectives and stating his business with a strange lucidity, never telling any single agent that he was employing another, but giving to each one a sum of money to begin his search and to each the same precise statement of all that he knew. The consequence was that before the sun was low he had dispatched half a dozen of the best men that could be found, and had got rid of about fifty thousand francs. Each one separately might have to go to the end of the world — to America perhaps, but most probably to England — before he could give the required information. It was necessary that his men should be perfectly free to move in any direction. He himself would go to Turin, and there receive their telegrams, himself watching that box of Batiscombe’s, which he was sure must some day be claimed by its owner.
He was perfectly calm and self-possessed throughout all these arrangements. Only the strange ghastly colour that had overspread his face seemed to settle and become permanent, and his eyes were bloodshot and yellow, while his hand trembled violently when he held a pen or lit a match for his cigarette. But he felt no bodily ill, nor any capacity for fatigue. He had not closed his eyes for thirty-six hours, and had eaten little enough, but there was not an ache nor a sensation of pain in him, and he dreaded to pause or sit down, hating the idea of rest.
When he had done all that he could think of as being at all useful in his plan, he went home and told his servant to prepare for the journey to Turin that night. The train left at half past ten — there were some hours yet to wait. He moved restlessly about the house, and ordered all the windows to be opened.
The great rooms were in their summer dress. The furniture, the huge pier glasses and the chandeliers were all clothed in brown linen. The carpets had all been taken up, and the floors — some of marble, some of red brick, and some of tiles — were bare and smooth. There was the coolness and absence of all colour that seems to belong to great palaces when the owners are out of town, and the cold monotony of everything soothed him a little. After wandering aimlessly for half an hour, he settled into a regular walk, up and down the great ball-room, with its clere-story windows and vaulted ceiling. Up and down, up and down, with an even, untiring tread he paced, his eyes bent always on the floor and his hands behind him. His walk was like clockwork, absolutely even and unchanging, with its rhythmic echo and unvarying accuracy.
The broad daylight softened into shadow, and the shadow deepened into gloom, but still he kept on his beat as though counting his steps and measuring the time. There was a certain relief in it, though not from his mastering thought, which held him in a vise and never relaxed for a second, but from his terrible restlessness. It was an outlet to his overwrought activity, and he did it monotonously, without any consideration, because there was nothing else to do, and it would have driven him mad to sit still for five minutes.
As the night came on, strange faces seemed to look upon him from the gathering darkness. The thick, warm air took shape and substance, and he could distinguish forms moving quickly before him that he could not overtake. But there was no sensation of horror or fear with the sight — he gazed curiously at the fleeting shadows and looked into their faces as they came close to him and retreated, but he could not recognise them, and did not ask himself
whence they came nor whither they were going, nor why he saw them. It seemed very natural somehow.
But at last, as he turned, there was one coming toward him that had more substance than the rest, so that they all vanished but that one. It was a woman, and she seemed moving towards him; but it was almost quite dark. He came nearer; his waking senses caught the sound of her footstep; she was no shadow — it was his wife coming back to him — it had all been a fearful dream, and she was there again. He sprang forward with a quick cry.
“Leonora! Oh, thank God!” and he fell forward into her arms.
“No, dearest brother — it is not Leonora — would God it were!”
Diana had come already — he could not tell how — and they stood together in the dark, empty ball-room, clasped in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER XIX.
DIANA HAD FOUND ample time to think over the situation during the journey, and she was prepared for difficulties. Her brother could hardly be in his right mind, she thought, and would certainly be on the verge of doing something desperate, which she must prevent.
As was usual with her in sudden emergencies, she had been wonderfully quiet. She was shocked and horrified at the news, but neither the shock nor the horror were uppermost in her mind. What she most felt was an unutterable and loving pity for her brother; and as she sat in the express train and looked out of the window at the interminable miles of vineyard and cornland, the kind, womanly tears gathered and fell softly. She could not help it, and she would not. Poor fellow! he deserved all her heart, and her soul’s sympathy, and the tears thereof.
Marcantonio was in no state to reason or to be reasoned with. He had a strange illusion for a moment, when he thought his wife had returned to him, but he at once realised his folly and understood that Diana had come to meet him — had come, doubtless, to prevent him from accomplishing his vengeance. He had been so sure that she could not arrive until the next morning that he had anticipated no interruption in his plans, and he was angry with her for being in his way. She would watch him day and night, and hinder all his movements. So long as she was with him it would be impossible to do anything. He answered her very coldly.
“You have come already? I did not expect you so soon.”
They moved towards the door, groping in the deep gloom, and presently reached a room where there were lights. Then Diana saw her brother’s face and understood that he was mad or desperately ill, or both. The ghastly colour, the bloodshot eyes, the trembling hand, she saw it all. She had not known what change his trouble would make in him, but she knew it would be great. But she was startled now that she was face to face with him. It seemed too terribly real. She could not help it, she bent her beautiful fair head on his shoulder and threw her arms about him and sobbed aloud.
But Marcantonio only understood that she was there to keep him from his ends, from the one thing in the world which he wished to do, and meant to do, and surely would accomplish. As she leaned on him and shed those bitter tears for him, he stood passive and dry-eyed, staring vacantly above her at the wall, and his hands hung by his side, not offering to support her or to comfort her. He only wished she were gone again and had never come to trouble him.
It was only for a moment. Such outbursts of feeling were rare with Diana; people said she was a piece of ice, heartless, and without sympathy for any human being. They judged her by her face and by the dignity of her manner, not knowing of the things she had done in her life that were neither heartless nor cold. But now she recovered herself quickly and dried her eyes, and made Marcantonio sit down. She looked at him intently as though trying to understand him. He had never met her so coldly before in his life; there must be a reason for it, — he was evidently beside himself with suffering, but his temporary madness could hardly take the form of a sudden dislike for herself unless there were some cause.
“You did not expect me so soon,” she said, speaking very gently. “It was by a mere chance that I managed it.”
“I am very sorry,” said Marcantonio in a monotonous voice that had no life in it, and seemed not his own. “If you had waited a little while I could have saved you the journey.”
“The journey is nothing,” said she. “I am not tired at all, and I would come across the world to be with you.”
“Yes,” said Marcantonio, “I know you would. It would have been better if we had met further on.”
“Further on?” she repeated, hoping he would give her some clue to his intentions.
The old habit of confidence was too strong for him; he wished her away, but he could not help speaking and telling her something. He had never concealed anything from her.
“In Turin,” he answered briefly.
“Ah, — is he there?” asked Diana in a low voice.
“He sent his box there, — he will go and get it.”
“And then?”
“And then,” said Marcantonio, the sullen fire burning in his reddened eyes, “we shall meet.”
Diana was silent for a moment, determining what to do. All this she had expected, but she had not thought to find her brother so changed.
“Tell me, Marcantonio,” she said earnestly, “did you think I would prevent your meeting with him?” He hesitated. She took his hand and looked into his face as though urging him to answer.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
Diana understood. This was the reason of his evident annoyance at her coming. He thought she meant to prevent him from fighting Batiscombe.
“You know better than that,” she said gravely. Marcantonio turned upon her quickly with an angry look.
“You prevented me before,” he said. “If I had shot him then, this trouble would not have come. You know it, — why do you look at me like that?”
“If you had shot him before,” said she, “this could not have happened. But if he had shot you, — that was possible, was it not? — you gained nothing. If neither of you had killed the other, there would have been a useless scandal. The case is different.”
If she had found her brother overcome with his sorrow and abandoned to the suffering it brought, sensitive and shrinking from all allusion to his shame, she would have acted very differently. But she found him possessed of but one idea, how to kill Julius Batiscombe; he was hard and unyielding; he seemed to have forgotten the wife he had loved so well, in the longing to destroy the man who had stolen her away. She felt no hesitation in speaking plainly of the matter in hand, since his feelings needed no sparing. But her sympathy was so large and honest that she did not feel hurt herself because he was cold to her; she understood that he was scarcely in his right mind, and she could make all allowance for him.
Marcantonio did not answer at once. But her influence on him, as she sat there, was soothing, and he was gradually yielding under it — not in the least abandoning his one idea, but feeling that she might not hinder its execution after all.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked suddenly, “that you will not try to prevent my meeting with him?” He turned and looked into her eyes, that met his honestly and fearlessly.
“Assuredly I will not prevent you,” said she.
“Really and truly?”
“So truly that if I thought you had meant to leave him alone, I would have tried to make you fight him.”
Marcantonio laughed scornfully, in a way that was bad to hear. It had never struck him that he could possibly have not wanted to fight. But in a moment he was grave again.
“What a woman you are, Diana!” he exclaimed. It sounded more like himself than anything he had said yet, and Diana was encouraged. But she said nothing.
In her simple code, fighting was a necessary thing in the world. She had been brought up among people who fought duels under provocation, and it never entered her head that under certain circumstances there was anything else to be done. Women often scream with terror at the mention of such a thing, but very few of them will have anything to do with men who will not fight when they are insulted. In preventing a challenge afte
r the affair at Sorrento she had done violence to her feelings for the sake of Leonora’s reputation. In the present instance that was no longer at stake. It was perfectly clear that her brother must have satisfaction from his enemy, as soon as might be.
She had never hesitated, therefore, in her view of Marcantonio’s situation, and when he put the question to her she answered it boldly and naturally. But, somehow, he had not understood his sister before, though he had yielded to her, and he was astonished at her readiness to agree with him. He looked at her with a sort of admiration, and his feeling towards her changed.
“Then you will help me to find him?” he asked.
“I will stay with you until you do,” she answered.
“It is the same thing,” said he. “Will you come to Turin with me at once?”
“I will not leave you,” she said. “We can go to Turin to-morrow, if you like.”
“No — to-night,” he said, quickly. The idea of wasting twelve hours seemed intolerable.
But Diana had made up her mind that he must rest a while before doing anything more. She shuddered when she looked at his face and saw the change wrought there in six and thirty hours.
“If we start now,” she said, “we shall arrive in the evening. You could do nothing at night. Rest until the morning, and then we will go. You will need all the strength you have.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 76