One of these persons could not have passed an hour in the old palace which the Genoese have turned into an hotel. The bare idea of such profanity would have produced artistic convulsions at once, and untold suffering in the future by the mere memory of it. But neither Batiscombe nor Leonora were people of that sort. Julius took a very different view of life, believing to some extent in the simple theory that useful things are good and useless things are bad, and that everything that really fulfils its purpose must have some beauty of its own. Moreover, Julius had very little reverence, but a profound intelligence of the comfortable; he would have slept as well in a king’s tomb as in an American hotel, provided the furniture were to his taste in respect of length and breadth and upholstery. As for Leonora, she had been brought up chiefly in Italy, and never troubled herself with the intricacies of the art question in that country, taking everything to be natural so long as she always had the very best of it. And at present, being wholly in love, and having her heart’s desire, she would even have been willing to put up with less luxury than usual. Her talent for supremacy, as Julius used to call it, had taken a person for its object, and found the dominion of a heart more interesting than the dominion of fashionable luxury, the finest horses, or even Mr. Worth.
“I used to hate hotels,” said she to Julius, late in the evening, “but they seem very pleasant after all. There is never any fuss about anything; and I always seem to get just what I want.”
“Oh — hotels are very well, if one understands them,” he answered. He did not explain to her that her comfort was chiefly due to his forethought. “You would soon find it a great bore, though,” he added.
“I am sure I should not,” said she. “You are so clever that you make everything seem easy for me.”
Julius laughed, out of sheer satisfaction. These were just the little speeches he loved most from women, and, most of all, from Leonora. It would seem a harmless vanity of itself, but it leads to doing acts of forethought and courtesy for the sake of the praise instead of for the sake of the woman.
“It is very good of you to say so, my dear,” he answered, modestly. “But we will change all that, by and by. When the heat is over we will go away, and live in the Greek islands. There are places worth going to, there.”
“Oh, of all things how delightful!” cried Leonora, carried away by the new idea. “And have a house by the sea, and a boat, and Greek servants, — how lovely!”
“Meanwhile, dear,” said Julius, “we will go and be cool in the old Carthusian monastery. It does not take long from here.”
And so they left Genoa and reached Turin, where Batiscombe found his box — the one that Marcantonio intended to watch so carefully — and took it away; thence they went to a place called Cuneo, a little southwards by the railway, in the Maritime Alps, which Leonora said were beautiful; and then they drove in an ancient diligence to the Certosa di Pesio, an old Carthusian monastery, as Julius had said, built over a wonderful mountain torrent, and surrounded with ancient chestnut-trees. Through the valley that opens away to northward you can catch a glimpse of Monte Rosa, when the setting sun gilds the snow, and the breeze brings down with it the freshness of the Alps. Leonora was enchanted with the place, with Batiscombe’s choice, with him, with everything.
“And to-morrow you will show me where you used to catch fish, and write your articles on Italian politics?” said she, as they came in from a short walk late in the evening.
That night Batiscombe dispatched a letter to Rome.
Certosa Di Pesio, Cuneo,
Maritime Alps, August 31.
The Marchese Carantoni will find Mr. Julius Batiscombe at the above address, with a friend.
That was all, but it gave Julius infinite satisfaction to send it. He had grudged the days that had passed before he could send Carantoni the information. As for the “friend,” he had seen two or three cavalry officers about the place as soon as he arrived, and he knew that he could rely on the assistance of some of them. Duels are easily arranged in Italy.
CHAPTER XXII.
WHEN MARCANTONIO MET Diana in the morning, she noticed at once the change in his appearance. He was still very pale, and his face was drawn in a peculiar expression; but he did not look so wild, and his eyes had regained their clearness.
Diana greeted him affectionately, but made no remark about his health, thinking it would annoy him. She herself had slept soundly and began the day with a new supply of strength.
“You are still determined to go to Turin?” she said, with half a question in her voice, but as though it were quite certain that he would answer in the affirmative.
“Yes,” he said, “I am quite determined. It is the best thing I can do.”
“I was wondering this morning,” said Diana, “whether we ought not to let our uncle know. It seems to me that he ought not to hear it from strangers.”
Marcantonio eyed her suspiciously.
“You cannot expect me to go and tell him now,” said he. “The train leaves in an hour — there is not time.”
“Of course not,” said Diana, seeing how quickly he suspected her of wishing to interfere with his plan. “But, if you like, I will write and tell him.”
“We can write from Turin,” said he moodily. “No one knows yet.”
He hurried her to the station, and got there long before the hour of departure. He was determined not to miss the train, and until he was seated in the carriage and the train rolled out of the city he could not feel sure that Diana would not stop him. He was somewhat relieved when they passed the first station on the way to Florence, and he saw that he was fairly off. Donna Diana sat opposite to him and watched him, thinking sadly of the last journey they had made together, when he had taken her to Sorrento by the night train. He looked quiet, though, and she thanked Heaven things were no worse; he might so easily have done himself a mischief in the first outbreak of his solitary grief.
She still hoped for a chance of learning how it had all happened, for she was very much in the dark, and had no means of learning anything except what he might choose to tell her. Perhaps the intense inquiry in her mind reacted on his, as often happens between brothers and sisters. At all events, he began to speak before half an hour had gone by.
“I have not told you anything about it yet, Diana mia,” he said. “I have been so busy, so many things to do.” He passed his hand over his forehead as he spoke, as though trying to collect himself.
“Of course,” said Diana gently. “Do not tire yourself now, dear boy. Another time will do just as well. I know all that is absolutely necessary.”
Marcantonio laughed very slightly and a little foolishly, and again put his hand to his head.
“Oh, no,” he answered, “I shall not tire myself. You do not know anything about the — the — occurrence.”
“No,” said she, “that is true.”
“They went away at night,” said Marcantonio quickly, and then stopped.
“Pray do not tell me about it, dear brother,” said Diana, rising and seating herself near to him on the opposite side of the carriage. She laid her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, for she feared a return of his old state.
“But I must tell you,” he said impatiently, and she saw it was useless to protest. “They went away at night,” he continued, “in a boat. I heard the dogs barking, just for a moment, and then they stopped, and I went to sleep. I went to sleep, Diana,” he cried savagely, “when she was running away with him, and I could have killed him as easily as possible. I could have killed them both — oh, so easily!” He groaned aloud and clenched his thin hands.
“Hush!” said Diana, softly.
“I could have killed them as easily as he killed the dogs and stopped their barking,” he went on; “he killed them both, wrung their necks — poverini — as though they were not right to call me. And I never guessed anything, though I heard them!”
He was working himself into a frenzy, and Diana was afraid he might go mad then and there. She tri
ed to draw his mind to another part of the story. She was a woman of infinite tact and resource.
“Yes,” said she, “I am sure you could. But how long was it before you telegraphed to me?”
“How long? I do not know,” he said; and he seemed trying to recollect himself.
“Was it in the afternoon?” asked Diana, glad to fix his attention on a detail.
“Let me see — yes. I meant to send it from Castellamare — the dispatch, I mean; and instead I stopped the carriage at a little town on the way — I forget the name, but there was a telegraph office there — and so I sent it sooner.”
“Yes,” said Diana. “I got it at about seven o’clock. My husband was very quick and got a carriage, and brought me as far as Genoa.”
“How good of him!” exclaimed Marcantonio. “How is he? And the children, dear little things; are they all well?”
His face changed again, and a pleasant smile showed that he had forgotten his troubles for a moment. Diana was surprised at the ease with which she could distract his attention, and she determined to make use of her power to the utmost. It would be something gained if she could keep him quiet during the journey. She began immediately to speak of her children, a boy and girl of four and three years old. She told him about their games, their appearance, their nursery maids, and their French governess. She branched off into a dissertation on the beauties of the Riviera, and still he listened and made intelligent answers, and talked as though nothing had happened to him and they were travelling for their amusement. Seeing that she was accomplishing her object, she went on from one subject to another, telling him all manner of details about her life in France, in Austria, and other places where her husband’s official duties had called him, during the five years since her marriage. Only about Rome she would not speak, fearing lest the smallest reference to the scenes he had recently passed through might take his mind back to his great grief.
And all the while she marvelled at his calmness, and at the ease with which she could amuse him. For he was really amused, there could be no doubt. He laughed, talked in his natural way, and seemed enjoying himself very well, smoking a cigarette now and then, and commenting on the weather, which was abominably hot.
“Of course,” said he, “we shall find it much cooler in Pegli.”
Diana started quickly, and then looked away to hide her astonishment.
“Of course,” she answered, “it is very much cooler there.”
Did he really fancy he was going to Pegli? Had he forgotten Turin and his errand? Was he gone stark mad? She could not tell, and was frightened. It might have been a slip of the tongue, — but he said it very quietly, as though he were anticipating the delights of the climate. Nevertheless, she did not dare to pause, and she talked bravely on in the heat and the dust.
At one of the stations the train stopped ten minutes for refreshments. Marcantonio said he would get out and buy a sandwich and a bottle of wine. He sprang nimbly from the step, and Diana watched him as she sat by the open door of the carriage. He looked more like his old self than she had seen him since the catastrophe, and she watched him with loving eyes, wondering how he would bear what was to come, and for the first time wishing that he might be kept always in this state, without the necessity of a meeting with Batiscombe.
Presently he returned with the provisions, — a brace of rough-looking sandwiches, and a bottle of wine.
“It is the best I could do,” he remarked. “It is the last place in the world.”
He still looked cheerful and entirely himself. Diana watched him closely, hoping and praying with all her might that he might remain so — forever, even if he were out of his mind. Anything would be better than to see him suffer as he had been suffering that morning. She began to talk again, eating a little of the sandwich, for she was tired, and needed all her strength. He ate, too, and drank some of the wine, but he no longer listened as he had done before, and he did not answer nor make a remark of any kind. Diana had taken up what he said about the station, and was talking about travelling in France.
Suddenly Marcantonio’s colour changed; he grew pale again, his eyes stared, and he dropped the bread he was eating. Diana was terrified, brave as she was, for she knew that his mind had gone back to his trouble, — how, she could not tell; but it was clear that for a space he had wholly forgotten it. He seemed to take up the thread of his terrible narration at the point at which he had been led away from it.
“Temistocle brought me the key,” he said, and his voice sounded hollow again and far away. “He had told the servants she had gone to Rome before daybreak, and that I had gone with her, — ha! ha! — he is a cunning fellow. I gave him something for himself, — I think I did, — I am not quite certain.” Again his ideas seemed to wander, and he tried to remember the detail that had escaped his grasp. Quick as thought Diana seized the opportunity.
“Did you give it to him in the evening?” she asked.
“I am not sure. I am not quite sure that I did give it to him after all. Oh, I cannot remember anything any more.”
He clasped his hands to his head as though striving to compress his brain and to compel it to action. The train moved away from the station.
“You can send it to him, in any case,” suggested Diana, in an agony of sympathy and suspense. She would have added “from Pegli,” if she had dared; but she was not sure he would remember his stray remark, or whether he had meant it. In a moment it was too late.
“Of course,” cried Marcantonio, delighted with the idea. “I can send it from Turin. He deserves it well. There will be time,” — he hesitated and spoke slowly,— “there will be time, — yes, there will be time, before I find him.” His voice fell almost to a whisper, barely audible to Diana in the noise of the train as it gained speed in starting. He seemed unconscious of her at the moment when he said the last words, and she sat with clasped hands and set lips, not knowing what to expect next. In a little while he began again. She had been too much struck by his quick change of manner to find the thing to say, in time to lead him off.
“I went into her room,” he said. He stopped and fumbled in his pockets, producing at last the cross of sapphires and diamonds. “I found this,” he added, showing it to Diana. She would have taken it, but he held it nervously in his hand, more than half concealed. “Do you know it?”
“Yes,” said she as quietly as she could. “It belonged to our mother.”
“It is beautifully made,” he said suddenly, looking closely at it. “It is most beautifully made, and the stones are very valuable. Should you not think that they are worth a great deal?”
“They must be — the sapphires are of a very good colour and the brilliants are large,” said Diana, humouring him. “I wonder where it was made?”
“I do not care where it was made,” said Marcantonio roughly. “I have got it again. I will give it back to her — she must have missed it.” He looked at Diana with a strange pathetic inquiry in his weary eyes.
“Leonora?” asked Diana, in surprise. Marcantonio started as though he had been stung. He had thought of his dead mother.
“Leonora? Ah!” he cried with a sort of muffled scream. “It belonged to Leonora — Ugh!” With a quick movement he flung the jewel at the window. It chanced that the pane was raised to keep out the smoke on that side. The heavy cross cracked the plate glass and knocked a small piece out of the middle, but fell to the floor.
Marcantonio remained in the very act, as he had thrown it, for one instant. Then his head sank on his breast and his hands fell to his sides helplessly.
“Oh, Diana, Diana,” he moaned piteously, “I am mad.” Then he began to rock himself backward and forward as though in pain.
It was no time to break down in horror or grief, and Diana was not the woman to waste idle tears. The cross had fallen at her feet. She had instantly stooped and picked it up and hid it away, lest he should see it again. Then she heard him say that he was mad, and she made a desperate effort. She took him strongly
in her arms, almost lifting him from the ground, and laid his head upon her breast and supported it, and took his hand. He was quite passive; she could do anything with him for the moment — he might have been a child.
Diana bent down as she held him in her arms and kissed him tenderly on the forehead and breathed soft words. It was a prayer.
Poor woman! what could she do? Driven to the last extremity of agony and horror, sitting by and seeing her brother going mad — raving mad — before her very eyes, unable to soothe his grief or to strengthen his soul by any words of her own, not knowing but that at any moment he might turn upon herself — poor woman, what could she do? She breathed into his ear an ancient Latin prayer. What a very foolish thing to do! She was only a woman, poor thing, and knew no better.
O woman, God-given helpmate of man, and noblest of God’s gifts and of all created things — is there any man bold enough to say that he can make praises for you out of ink and paper that shall be worthy to rank as praise at all by the side of your good deeds? You, who bow your gentle heads to the burden, and think it sweet, out of the fulness of your own sweet sympathy — you, whose soft fingers have the strength to bind up broken limbs and rough, torn wounds — you, who feel for each living thing as you feel for your own bodily flesh, and more — you, who in love are more tender and faithful and long-suffering than we, and who, even erring, err for the sake of the over-great heart that God has given you — is it not enough that I say of you, “You are only women, and you know no better”? What greater, or higher, or nobler thing can I say of you, in all humbleness and truth, than that you are what you are, and that you know no better? What better things can any know, than to bear pain bravely, to heal the wounded, to feel for all, even for those who cannot feel for themselves, and to be tender and faithful and kind in love? And even, being given of Heaven and loved of it, that you should turn in time of need and trouble and say a prayer for strength and knowledge, even that is a part of you, and not the least divine part. So that when the man who cannot suffer what you can suffer, nor do the good that you can do, sneers and scoffs at your prayers and your religion, I could wring his cowardly neck to death. Even poor Leonora, praying philosophical prayers to a power in which she did not in the least believe, was not ridiculous. She was pathetic, mistaken, miserable, perhaps, but not ridiculous.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 80