Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  As he leaned back in his chair, he experienced a sensation by no means new to him, of intense delight in existence, and he breathed in the soft fresh air, and tasted that it was the breath of love.

  A small, short step sounded on the tiles of the terrace, coming toward his corner. He looked round quickly, and was aware of the tall and graceful figure of Diana de Charleroi, muffled in something dark, but unmistakable in its outline and stately presence. In a moment she was beside him; he rose and threw away his cigarette, somewhat astonished.

  “Get another chair,” said she, in a low voice. “It is pleasant here.”

  He obeyed quickly and noiselessly, as he did everything. She had taken his chair, and he sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak.

  “I thought I should find you here, Julius,” she said, calling him by his Christian name without the smallest hesitation. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

  “You have the faculty of finding me,” said Julius with a short, low laugh.

  “Since when is it so disagreeable to you?” asked Diana.

  Julius was silent, for there was nothing he could say. He wished he had said nothing at first, — it would have been much better. Diana continued.

  “You and I know each other well enough to talk freely,” she said. “We need not beat about the bush and say pretty things to each other, and I forgive you for being rude, because I know you very well, and am willing to sacrifice something. But I will not forgive you again if you are rude in public. There are certain things one does not permit one’s self, when one is a gentleman.”

  “You are very good, Diana,” said Batiscombe, humbly. “I am very sorry. I lost my temper.”

  “Naturally,” she answered coolly. “You always lose your temper, — you always did, — and yet you fancy continually that you hide it. Let that go. I have forgiven you for this time, because I am the best friend you have.”

  “The only one,” said Julius.

  “Perhaps. You are well hated, I can tell you. Then treat me as a friend in future, if you please, and not as an inquisitive acquaintance who makes a point of annoying you for her own ends.”

  She spoke calmly, in a quiet, determined voice, without the slightest hesitation or affectation. Julius bent his head.

  “I always mean to,” he said.

  “Now listen to me,” she continued. “I came upon you this afternoon by pure accident. I do not owe you any apology for that, and you know very well that I am the last person in the world to do things in that way, by stealth. That is the reason I come to you here, at night, to tell you my mind frankly.”

  “Yes,” said Batiscombe, in a muffled voice, “I know.”

  “I came upon you by accident,” said she, “and I made a discovery. You pass your afternoons in the society of my sister-in-law, and you lose your temper with me when I find you together, — though you always wish me to understand that you prefer my society to that of any woman in the world.”

  “Ah — how you express it!” exclaimed Julius.

  “I express it as plainly as I can. I cannot help it if you do not like it. It is all true. And the inference is perfectly clear. Do you see?”

  “No,” said Batiscombe.

  “You do not? Very well, I will draw it for you.”

  She leaned back in the chair and looked at him; her eyes were accustomed by this time to the gloom, and she could see him quite clearly in the starlight. He moved uneasily.

  “Pray go on,” he said.

  “The inference is this. You are making love to Leonora Carantoni.”

  “You shall not say that,” said Batiscombe, between his teeth, still looking fiercely at her.

  “You might forbid a man to say it,” answered Diana, in low, calm tones. “And for anything I care you may forbid any other woman in the world to say it. But you cannot forbid me. I have the right.”

  “In that case,” said Julius, rising, and struggling to speak quietly, “there is nothing I can do but to leave you, since I will certainly not listen.”

  But Diana rose also, and laid her white hand on his arm, as though she could have bowed the strong man to the earth if she chose. She seemed taller than he in the power and determination of her gesture.

  “Sit down instantly,” she said, under her breath.

  Julius obeyed silently and sullenly. Then Diana resumed her seat.

  “I have the right, Julius,” she continued, “not because you pretend to have loved me for ten years, — nor because I once thought I might accept your love, — nor yet because I am sometimes weak enough to like you still, in a sisterly way. But I have the right because you are making love to my brother’s wife, because she is young and innocent, and because there is not another human being in the world to stand by her, or to give her any protection in her danger.”

  “If you think that, why do you not tell your brother so?”

  “Do you call yourself intelligent? Do you call yourself a gentleman?” exclaimed Diana in bitter scorn. “Would you have me destroy the peace of my brother and of his wife, because you are doing a bad action, that has not yet borne fruit? Do you think I am afraid of you? Of you?” She repeated the word almost between her teeth.

  “No,” said Batiscombe, under his breath, “I do not. But I would like to ask you a question.”

  “I will answer,” said Diana.

  “Why did you tell that absurd story about me this afternoon? Did you not see it was just the very worst thing you could possibly do, from your own point? That nothing rouses a woman’s interest like such tales?”

  “I promised to answer your question,” said Diana, coldly, “and I will. I told the story thoughtlessly, because I am a woman, and admire such things quite independently of the person who has done them. Do not flatter yourself that a woman like Leonora Carantoni will fall in love with you because you are brave. But I dare say I did wrong, and I am sorry for it. You have qualities which any one may admire, but you have others which I despise.”

  “I despise them myself, sometimes,” said Julius, almost to himself.

  “Despise them always, — at least, and be consistent,” answered Diana. “But you will not. You like them, those bad qualities, and when you like them, they make a miserable wretch of you, as they do now. You know well enough, however cleverly you may deceive yourself, that you ought not to be here. You stay, — you are a coward, besides being a great many worse things which I leave you to understand.”

  Batiscombe’s eyes flashed angrily in the starlight.

  “You are cruel, Diana, and unkind,” he said.

  Diana was silent a moment, and she drew her dark lace shawl about her, as though she were cold. When she spoke her voice was infinitely soft and gentle.

  “Do not say that, Julius. Do not say I am ever cruel to you, — for to you, of all people in the world, I would be most kind.”

  Julius bent down and pressed his hands to his temples, and sighed heavily.

  “Oh, Diana,” he groaned, “I know it, I know it.”

  “Then I will not say any more. Do this thing because it is right, — not because I ask you to. Have I ever reproached you before, when you have come to me of your own accord and told me your troubles? What right have I to reproach you?”

  Julius was silent. He knew in his heart that she had the right, because he still loved her best. He sat immovable, his head buried in his hands. Diana rose and stood beside him; she lightly laid her hand upon his shoulder, allowing it to linger kindly for a moment, and then she turned and moved away.

  The spell was broken, and Batiscombe rose swiftly and followed her. There was a light in the drawing-room that opened upon the terrace, which Batiscombe had not noticed before. As they entered they found Marcantonio with a candle, overturning books and papers as if in search of something. He looked up with a curious expression of surprise in his face, holding the candle before him.

  “Ah!” he cried, “good-evening, my friends. You have been taking a little air. Eh? I imagined that you were all
asleep.”

  Madame de Charleroi smiled serenely at her brother. She knew it was an accident, and that he had a habit of forgetting things and coming to look for them. She said it had been hot all day, and she and Monsieur Batiscombe had been enjoying the coolness of the terrace. Julius bowed blandly and said good-night. But he suspected Marcantonio of having come to watch his sister. They passed on, and Marcantonio stood for a moment looking after them as they went out into the hall, where lights were still burning. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Eh!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, in Italian, “I do not understand anything about it — ma proprio niente.” And he continued his search for the missing letter, pondering deeply.

  Batiscombe spent a sleepless night, which was very unusual with him. The interview with Diana had made a deep impression on him at the time. He knew that whenever she was at hand to exert her influence he should succumb to it. But as the night wore on, the strength of the impression diminished, and the old feeling of obstinate defiance gradually returned. At all events, he thought, he would show her that her suspicions were empty, and that nothing — no harm, at least — could come of his intimacy with Leonora. He would also be sure that if Diana interrupted another interview it could hardly be by accident. Such accidents did not occur every day. In the early dawn he rose and went down in his slippers to the sea, and bathed in the cool salt water, and smoked a cigarette on the rocks, and another in the archway where the scene of the previous afternoon had occurred. Then he went up to the house and walked round it, and surveyed the various angles, and terraces, and balconies, and eccentricities of patchwork architecture that made up the dwelling. Suddenly he stopped as though an idea had struck him.

  Houses in the south have often as many as five or six broad terraces, of various sizes and at various elevations, built from time to time to suit the taste and convenience of the owners. The strong brown vines grow up leafless from the ground till they reach the trellis, and then spread out into luxuriant foliage and a multiplicity of rich fruit-bearing branches, making a thick shade, into which even the noonday sun finds it hard to penetrate. Julius had just observed that there was a large terrace of this kind which he had not yet noticed, having been but a very few days at liberty to wander alone about the place. It was as high as the first floor, and on the side toward Castellamare, facing the sea. He had been in Marcantonio’s room, and knew that it did not open upon this terrace, and Leonora’s apartment was on the other side of the house. Obviously this balcony belonged to Madame de Charleroi’s rooms, or was attached to some vacant part of the building. It struck him that if it were vacant, it would be a very agreeable spot in which to pass the afternoon. He thought he might mention it to Leonora that morning, and find out if it were available, since their retreat in the rocks had been invaded. It had the advantage of being large, so that people seated upon it could not be seen from below, and the thick vines would prevent their being seen from above.

  He spoke to the Marchesa about it as soon as they were alone for a moment after breakfast. She went quietly and surveyed the place, ascertained that it corresponded with a set of rooms which were not in use, the house being very large and irregular, and agreed that she should spend the afternoon there with Julius, since the sun would then be on the other side. There were long window-doors opening to the ground, of which the blinds were fastened, and only the middle one was left open to give access to the terrace. It was delightful, because it was in the house, so to say, and open to every one, and yet no one knew of it. Why should they not sit there? It was much better than going and hiding in the rocks with an air of secrecy, in order to be annoyed by that terrible Diana! Much better! Though, after all, they need not have troubled themselves, for Diana went out at three o’clock in the carriage to pay a visit.

  Accordingly, Leonora and Julius passed a very pleasant afternoon together, and when it was late they found Marcantonio, and made him go out in the boat for an hour or two, and everything was very agreeable. Marcantonio was greatly relieved at finding that his sister was away from Batiscombe, and he talked his best, and really made Leonora take an interest in his conversation. She could always find him better company when she had been with Julius for some time and had said all the things she wanted to say, and which Marcantonio would not have understood.

  The next day Marcantonio was obliged to go to Naples on very urgent business. An ex-royalty who sympathised with Carantoni’s party, and was now in exile, had come to Naples for a day or two incognito — quite as though he had never been a royalty at all, and Marcantonio felt it his duty to go and salute the august personage according to ancient custom. He therefore left the house at an early hour, to return at dusk. He thought his sister and his wife could chaperone each other for a day without danger. But he said to himself that if he had found Diana alone with Batiscombe again he would not have gone.

  The morning passed away as usual. Batiscombe, relying on the afternoon for his hours with Leonora, only stayed down-stairs till she was joined by Diana, and then retired to his room, where he wrote or read in solitude, as the fancy took him. The three breakfasted together at one o’clock; then Madame de Charleroi retired to her rooms, and in the course of a quarter of an hour Leonora and Julius were installed for the afternoon in their newly-found situation on the disused terrace.

  Diana’s boudoir was a corner room in the front of the house, facing the sea, and opening, by one window, on a narrow stone balcony running the whole length of the building; the other window was on the right side, and if she could have undone the blinds she would have seen that it opened upon the large terrace already mentioned. But the aforesaid blinds had resisted her efforts, and, as she supposed that they were closed for some purpose, she said nothing about it, merely opening the glass to admit the air. Leonora, who did not know the house thoroughly, and had a habit of leaving everything to the servants, was not aware of this, and did not realise the exact position of Diana’s sitting-room. Batiscombe, of course, had taken her assurance that this side of the house was uninhabited. Accordingly, it came to pass that when he and Leonora installed themselves, they took up their position immediately outside Diana’s window, under the shadow of the wall.

  Madame de Charleroi, on this particular day, did not go into her boudoir at once, but spent some time in her bedroom. When she was ready to begin writing, she passed through the door and sat at her desk. She at once heard the sound of voices outside, but she did not listen, nor stop to think who the talkers might be.

  Presently, however, the continued sound annoyed her, forced its way through the blinds, and prevented her from writing. They were speaking English. She understood the language, being a cultivated woman of the world, and the wife of a diplomatist, though she avoided speaking it.

  The strong, earnest voice of Julius Batiscombe, — the pleading, protesting, yet yielding tones of Leonora, always dominated by the passionate eloquence of the man, and ever answering more weakly, — all this she heard, and she sat stony and wild-eyed with horror, realising in a moment the whole hideous proportions of the phrases.

  Diana de Charleroi was the noblest and most honourable of women. Under other circumstances, if the voices had been those of strangers or indifferent people, she would not have hesitated an instant, but would have given some unmistakable sign of her presence. But this thing was too near her, it was a too horrible realisation of what she had dimly foreseen as possible, when she had spoken such strong words two nights earlier.

  It was too utterly and unspeakably awful. Her brother’s wife, — not three months married, — and Julius Batiscombe, the man who had for ten years loved herself, — or had made her believe it, — whom she herself had once loved, and had never forgotten!

  But Diana was no weak woman, to give way to trouble or danger in the face of it. For a few minutes she bowed her head in her hands, trembling from head to foot, and no longer hearing the quickly spoken words outside. Then she rose to her feet, and made one step toward the closed blinds.

/>   No, she would not put them to open shame. Yet something must be done at once. With one movement of her strong white fingers she overturned the heavy olive-wood writing table upon the smooth tile floor with a crash that sounded through the house. In the silence that followed, she heard a moving of chairs outside, and the quick tread of departing feet. Then she went swiftly to her room, heedless of the streaming ink upon the floor, staining her long white gown, and trampling the litter of pens and paper under foot. She threw herself upon her bed and lay quite still, white as death, and staring at the ceiling.

  All the disgrace to her brother’s name, — to her own, — came suddenly upon her, like a nightmare, a thing that no waking could cast off. All the utter baseness and unfaithfulness of her old lover was before her, making her scorn and loathe herself for ever having loved such a man, even in the foolish haste of a romantic girlhood. Her eyes strained wildly, striving to shed tears, and could not, and the whole possible pain of human agony, passing the very pains of hell, got hold upon her soul.

  That night, at dinner, Leonora looked desperately ill. Her face was white, save for a small red flush upon each cheek, and her eyes had a strange, furtive look about them, avoiding all meeting with the look of the other three persons at table. She said she had been in the sun, had got a bad headache, and would go to bed immediately. She had only insisted on being at dinner in order to greet her husband on his return from Naples, — but when he touched her she shrank away, and said she was nervous.

  Batiscombe was pale, too, beneath his tan, and though he looked every one in the face, his eyes were disagreeable to see, having an angry glare in them, like those of a wild beast at bay. He spoke little and drank more wine than usual, after the manner of Englishmen when they are unhappy.