Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Oh, Julius — what an idea! There is no one so cheap as Worth in the long run.”

  “I was going to say something very pretty,” remarked Julius.

  “Oh, I would not have interrupted you if I had known. What was it?”

  “I was going to say that I must be richer than you — since I have got you, and you have only got me.”

  “You always say things like that,” said Leonora, laughing lightly. “Be sure that you always do — I like them very much.”

  “Ah,” said Julius, gravely, “I will sit up all night and make them for you.”

  “They ought to be spontaneous,” said Leonora.

  “Everything that is pretty in the world is spontaneous to you, my dear. But I have to work hard to make pretty things, because I am only a man.”

  “That is really not bad,” said she, laughing again.

  She wondered vaguely whether he would always be the same. Her husband used to talk much like that at first. But he grew so dull, and when he said things he never looked as if he quite meant them. Julius said sometimes a few words — just what any one might have said; but there was a tone in his voice, and his eyes were so fiery. She loved the fire; it used to frighten her at first.

  “We cannot stay here,” said Julius, when they sat over their dinner at the hotel on the Chiaja. “It is altogether too ridiculously hot; it is a perfect caricature of a summer, with all its worst points exaggerated.”

  “Yes; but where shall we go?” asked Leonora.

  “I had thought of a charming place,” said Julius. “It is away in the Piedmontese Alps — all mountains and chestnut woods and waterfalls. An old convent built over a torrent. Only the people from Turin go there.”

  “That sounds cool,” said Leonora, fanning herself, though whatever she might suffer from the heat she never looked hot. “Let us go. When were you there?”

  “Years and years ago,” said Julius. “I used to catch trout with caddis-worms, and write articles about Italian politics. You may imagine how much I knew of what was going on, shut up in an old convent in the mountains. But it made no difference. Writing about Italian politics is very like fishing with worms.”

  “Why?”

  “You sit on a bank with a red, white, and green float to your line. You have not the least idea what is going on under the water. Now and then the float dips a little, and then you write that the national sentiment of honour is disturbed. That is a bite. By and by the float disappears and your line is pulled tight, and you think you have got a fine fish. Then you write that a revolution is imminent, and you haul up the line cautiously, and find that a wretched little roach or a stickleback has swallowed your hook. The red, white, and green float waves over your head like a flag while you get the hook out and bait it again. You make another cast, and you write home that order has been restored. On the other side of the bank sits another fellow, with a float painted red, white, and blue. He is the French correspondent. Sometimes you get his fish, and sometimes he gets yours. It is very lively.”

  “You used to say that a simile was an explanation and not an argument,” said Leonora, rather amused at his description. She always remembered what he said, and enjoyed quoting him against himself.

  “So it is. What I told you was an illustration of a correspondent’s life, not an argument against the existence of very fine fish in the stream.”

  “You are too quick,” said Leonora, laughing.

  “One has to be quick in order not to appear too awfully slow in comparison with you, dear,” answered Julius at once.

  “Again, — there is no stopping you!”

  It amused her to talk to him, he was so ready; and always with something well turned, that pleased her. There was something, too, that was refreshing in hearing the small talk of a celebrity, often a little doubtful in grammar, and interspersed now and then with a little generous exaggeration that she liked. She had read his books, and knew what he could do with the language when he pleased. And most of all she liked to speak and to be spoken to in English, — it seemed so much more natural.

  It was no trouble to Julius to talk to her. With some people he was as silent as the grave, which produced the impression that he was very profound. With others he was ready for a laugh and a jest at any moment, and they thought him brilliant; but there were very few with whom he talked seriously. Leonora saw all his phases in turn, for she felt that if she did not know his character, she was in sympathy with his mind and understood him.

  But Julius was anxious to reach the spot he had chosen, in order to let Carantoni know of his whereabouts. He suggested to Leonora that if it was quite convenient to her they might go the next day, when she had had a good night’s rest. She assented readily enough. To tell the truth, with all her gayety and enjoyment of the novel situation, she disliked Naples, and she hated to feel that in the morning she should look out of her window across the bay and see Sorrento, and think of her husband as being there. She did not know that when she laid her head on her pillow that night Marcantonio would be in the station in Naples, on his way to Rome, and not half a mile away from her.

  “Are you ever seasick?” asked Julius suddenly.

  “Oh, Julius! You know I am not,” she said reproachfully. He laughed.

  “No? I mean in a steamer. Boats are quite different.”

  “I don’t know,” said Leonora. “I have often crossed the Channel, and I was never ill at all.”

  “Oh, then of course it’s all right!” he said. “You would not mind in the least. We had better go to Genoa in the steamer; it is very decent and much cooler than all those miles of rail and dust.”

  “Oh yes, far pleasanter,” said Leonora.

  And so they made their arrangements, and the next day — the day when Marcantonio was engaging the detectives in Rome — they went on board the “Florio” steamer and left Naples, and Sorrento, and Ischia, and all the countless reminiscences that attached to the glorious bay, and were carried up the coast.

  “The dear place,” said Leonora, looking astern as she sat in her arm-chair under the awning on deck, “I shall always love it.”

  “But you are glad to leave it, darling, are you not?” asked Batiscombe, who stood beside her, and was looking more at her than at the coast, though he held a glass in his hand.

  It was a curious question to ask, one might have thought, and yet it was natural enough, and did not jar on Leonora’s thoughts. She was not sensitive in that way in the least. She did not mind his referring to the past in any way he chose.

  “Glad? Of course I am glad,” she answered, looking up into his face. “How could I not be glad?” She seemed almost vexed at the simplicity of the question.

  “Then I am happy,” said Julius, sitting down beside her.

  And he spoke the truth; for the time he was utterly and supremely happy. He felt indeed the grave and serious mood, which the bravest man must feel when he knows that in a very few days his life will be at stake. But his vanity told him he was going to fight for her, and that gave him a happiness apart; so he concealed the serious tendency of his thoughts, talking easily and gayly. It was his vanity that helped him most, telling him it was for her; and, as always in his life, the prospect of a woman’s praise was a supreme incentive. He did not reflect that he was not to fight for Leonora’s honour, but for the greatest dishonour the world held for her.

  The broad sun poured down on the water, but the west wind fanned their faces and the awning kept the heat from them. Leonora lay back with half-closed eyes, now and then carefully opening and shutting a fan she held. She was wonderful to look at, her marvellous skin, and the masses of her red hair — the true red of the Venetian women — contrasting strongly with her soft dark dress, and a Sorrento handkerchief of crimson silk, just knotted about her dazzling throat. She was a marvellous specimen of vital nature, of pure living litheness and elasticity, gloriously human and alive. And the man beside her was almost as singular in a different way: he was so quiet, and moved so
easily, and his bright blue eyes were so fiery and clear, his skin so bronzed and even in colour; there was strength about him too; and the passengers as they came and went would steal a glance at the couple, and make remarks, quite audible to Julius and Leonora, about the beauty of those Inglesi.

  “Which do you like best, dear,” asked Julius presently, “the day or the night?”

  “Oh — that night was so beautiful,” said Leonora; “I love the moon, and the freshness, and the white sails, and all.”

  “Does ‘all’ include anything especial?” asked Julius smiling.

  “What do you think?” asked she, instead of answering. Her red lips remained just parted with a loving smile.

  “I don’t think,” said Julius. “I leave the thinking to you, my dear. You can do it much better. But I like the sunlight, the broad, good sunlight, far more than the moon. It is so hot and splendid.”

  “Yes; I suppose it is like you to prefer it. All men like the sun — and I suppose all women like the moon. At least I do. But you must always like what I like now, you know.”

  “Including myself, I suppose?”

  “Bah, my dear,” laughed Leonora, “you will find that very easy!”

  How very unhappy she must have been, thought Julius. She had not a regret in the world, it seemed; and the only fear she had shown had been when she stumbled on the descent, so that he took her up and carried her.

  “Tell me,” said he, “what did you do in all those dreadful days when we could not meet?”

  “I did nothing but write letters to you — very nice letters too. You have never shown yourself properly grateful.”

  “No,” said Julius, “I have not had time.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Leonora with a little frown.

  “Why — it must take a long time to show you how grateful I am. A long time,” he added, his voice sinking to a deeper tone, that Leonora loved to hear. “It will take my whole lifetime, darling.”

  “Thanks, dear one,” said she quietly, laying her hand on his. She did not mind the passengers, — why should she? She would never mind the world again, as long as she lived, for the world would never care what she did any more.

  Her experience of the world — or of what she understood by the term — had not been very happy, though it had not been the reverse. She remembered chiefly the mere technicalities of society, so to speak. She had enjoyed them after a fashion, inveighing all the while against their emptiness and vanity, and now when she looked back she saw only a confused perspective of brilliantly lighted, noisy parties, of more or less solemn dinners, of endless visits to people who bored her, and of an occasional cotillion with a man she liked, in return for numberless dances with individuals who seemed to be trying to get dancing lessons gratis, or who tore furiously up and down the room till she was out of breath, or who caught their spurs in her skirts, and scratched her arms with their decorations. She did not remember how she had enjoyed motion for motion’s sake, and had rarely refused to go out, in spite of the aforesaid annoyances. She did not remember the little thrills of pleasure she had felt, as Marcantonio was gradually attracted to her, till he was always the first to greet her and to put his name on her card for a turn, and was always the last to bid her good-night, devoting himself to her mother when she was engaged with some one else. She did not remember the delight she had often experienced in discussing society with her philosophical friends, bowling over institutions with a phrase and destroying characters with an adjective. There were many things which Leonora did not remember but which had given her great pleasure a few months ago; but most of them reminded her of her husband, and she did not wish to be reminded of him in the least.

  There was continually a sort of unconscious comparison going on between him and Julius Batiscombe; she could not help it, and it had been perhaps the earliest phase of her love. Even at the moment when Marcantonio offered himself to her, Julius was standing in the doorway, and she had wondered what he would have said if he had been making the same proposal. She knew, now. She thought she knew the difference between the intonation of the man who loved, and of the man who merely wanted to marry. Ah — if she had only known in time, things would have been different. She would have refused Marcantonio, after all his devotion, and she would have married Julius.

  She did not understand that Julius would never have fallen in love with her then; that the mere possibility of being led into marriage reared an impassable barrier between him and the whole of youngladydom. He had made up his mind that he would not marry, and young ladies said he was the most obstinate bore they knew; which was very unkind, for he kept out of their way, and only bored them when he was obliged to talk to them, doing it systematically and successfully in self-defence. But Leonora innocently supposed that if Julius had met her more intimately, in time, he would have fallen in love with her just as he had done now, and would have proposed after six weeks’ acquaintance, and they would have been happy forever after. She chanced to think of this now, and she sighed.

  “What is the matter, sweetheart?” asked Julius.

  “Nothing,” said she, “I was thinking of something, — that is all.”

  “Tell me, dear,” said he, bending towards her. She hesitated a moment, looking into his eyes.

  “I was thinking,” she said at last, “of something that happened once. Do you remember, at that ball, when you stood in the doorway and looked so dreadfully bored, and I was sitting not far off with — with the marchese?”

  “Of course,” said Julius, calmly, “I imagined he was just proposing to you.”

  “Yes,” said Leonora, in a low voice, “he was.”

  “I wish he had been at the bottom of the sea,” said Julius, fiercely.

  Indeed, the idea disgusted him, being as much in love as he was. Nevertheless, he thought she was a singular woman to refer to the thing, — so very soon. He had at first expected that she would never wish to mention her husband to him; at least, not for very long; but she seemed rather to seek the subject than to avoid it. He mused for a moment, looking out under his half-closed lids, as was his habit when he was thinking. Suddenly a smile came into his face.

  “Do you remember, dear, when you and he raced me in the boat on the bay, one afternoon, ever so long ago?” It was not much more than six weeks.

  “Yes — perfectly,” said she. “Why?”

  “Have you any idea where I was going?” asked Julius, laughing a little.

  “Not the least. You were not going anywhere; you were out for a row, I suppose, because you wanted the air.” She looked a little puzzled.

  “If you had not overtaken me, I should never have seen you again,” he said, looking at her affectionately.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, rather startled.

  “Simply this, I was running away. I was engaged to dine with you that evening, and I was going to Naples to get out of it. I would have sent a telegram about urgent business — or anything.”

  “What an idea!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I knew what would happen if I stayed,” said he, softly.

  “But you did not care for me then?” she asked, quickly.

  “Oh, yes, I did,” he answered; “and I knew I should care a great deal more.” His eyes burned in the bright light of the afternoon.

  “But I did not love you in the least then,” said Leonora, demurely.

  “No, of course not — and I did not flatter myself that you would. But I knew I was going to love you with all my heart.”

  Again their hands met for a moment, and a couple of sailors, who watched them from a distance, nudged each other and grinned.

  “When did you first begin to care, dear?” he said presently.

  “Seriously? What a silly question, Julius. How can I tell?”

  “It was after I found you in the church, was it not?”

  “Yes, indeed. Ever so long after that!”

  “About two days?” he suggested grave
ly.

  “How absurd, Julius,” she said with a little air of offended dignity that was charming. “You know it was ever so long.”

  “I wonder what you thought of me, when you turned round and saw me looking at you in the church,” said he. He really had not an idea, and was curious to know.

  “I thought you were very rude,” said she. “And afterwards I thought you were very nice.”

  “I did not mean to be rude,” said Julius, “but I could not help going in. I was in love with you, and I knew you were there.”

  “In love — already?” asked Leonora.

  “Why — yes — it was at least a week after I tried to run away,” said Julius innocently.

  “It was exactly two days,” said Leonora.

  They both laughed, for it was quite true. It was very pleasant to recall the beginnings of their love, for it had all been sweet, and easy; it seemed so to them, at least, as the foreshore hid Sorrento from their sight, and with it the scene of all they were discussing.

  It was a beautiful voyage, along the coast in the summer sea. There was always enough breeze in the daytime, and there was the moon at night, and they always felt that if they were quite alone, on land, it would be even more charming, if possible. It is a great thing in happiness to know that there is to be more of it, and more and more, till at last the heart has its fill of joy.

  They reached Genoa, and rested themselves for a day and a night in the glorious rooms of an old palace, turned into an hotel by the profane requirements of modern travellers. But it is very agreeable for travellers to sleep in palaces, by whatever names they are called, and it is foolish to say that moderns should build new buildings instead of making use of old ones when they have them ready to hand.

  There is a set of people in the world who deal in cheap sentiments, and get themselves a reputation for taste by abusing everything modern and kneeling in rows before everything that is old. They grind out little mediæval tunes with an expression of ravished delight, and tell you there is no modern music half so good, — in fact, that there is no modern music at all! Or they garnish themselves in queer white robes and toddle through a vile travesty of some ancient drama; or they build houses of strange appearance and hideous complication of style, having neither beauty without nor comfort within: and last of all, they say to themselves, Verily, we are the most artistic people in the world!