Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Diana was magnificent. Being often pale in the summer, no one saw any especial change in her appearance, and she threw herself nobly into the breach, asking all manner of questions of her brother concerning his trip, and showing a reasonable amount of sympathy for Leonora. The consequence was that Marcantonio was nearly satisfied, in spite of the strong impression he at first received that something unpleasant had occurred in his absence. But when he had an idea he dwelt upon it, and he promised himself that he would ask many questions of his sister when Leonora had gone to bed.

  He accompanied his wife to her apartment when dinner was over, with a solicitude which was perfectly genuine, but which made her tremble at every turn. His careful anxiety lest she should over-tire herself upon the stairs, lest there should be a draught in her room, or, in short, lest anything should be omitted which could conduce to her immediate recovery from the exposure to the sun — so dangerous in the south, he kept repeating — made her almost certain that she was already suspected, and that so much kindness was only preparatory to some dreadful outbreak of reproach.

  While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batiscombe out through the drawing-room to the terrace. Neither spoke till they had reached the end away from the house, where they had sat together two nights before.

  “Julius Batiscombe,” said Diana, her voice trembling with strongly-mastered anger, “you will leave this house immediately.”

  “Why, if you please?” he asked, defiantly.

  “You know very well why,” she answered, turning full upon him. “Do not ask questions, but go.”

  “I will do nothing of the kind,” said he, folding his arms and facing her. “You have no earthly reason to give, save your own caprice.”

  “I heard your conversation this afternoon outside my window. It was I who made the noise you heard, to warn you to be silent.” She made the statement deliberately, choking down her anger, and looking him in the eyes.

  “I heard no noise — I was not outside your window,” answered Julius, telling the boldest lie of his life, and, to say the truth, one of very few, for he never lied to save himself, with all his faults. “I was not outside your window,” he repeated, “and I am glad I was not. For, by your own account, you heard the conversation first, and gave your signal afterwards.”

  “Very well,” said she. “I will not shame you by repeating the words I involuntarily heard before I frightened you away. But you will leave this house to-morrow all the same. You will also consider that in future you have no title to cross my threshold, nor to bow to me in the street.” She turned swiftly, in utter scorn and disdain. Batiscombe followed her to the door and into the drawing-room, where Marcantonio met them, precisely as he had done before. It was too much for his newly roused suspicions. Something had gone wrong, he was sure, — and why should his sister and Batiscombe be everlastingly alone together on that terrace at night?

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, a little sarcastically, “you have again been taking a little air? Well, well, the evenings are very agreeable. If you will, we can sit outside, and monsieur and I will smoke a cigarette.”

  It was dreary enough, sitting together for an hour and more in the dark. Madame de Charleroi would not speak to Batiscombe, and he confined himself to asking questions of Marcantonio and to general remarks. Marcantonio saw this, and decided that she was playing indifference in public, because she saw enough of Batiscombe in private. The latter did not force the position, but as soon as Donna Diana moved to go in, he bade them both good-night, and went to his room and to his reflections.

  There was a long silence after he was gone. Both the brother and sister wanted to be sure that he was out of hearing. Diana spoke first, very gently and kindly.

  “Marcantonio,” she said, “I have something very important to say to you.”

  She threw a light paper shade over the bright lamp, and sat herself down beside him on the sofa.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  DURING THE FOUR hours which had elapsed between Madame de Charleroi’s involuntary discovery in the afternoon and the dinner hour, she had found time to collect her thoughts and to form a plan of action.

  It was absolutely necessary to do something at once, and, if possible, to understand afterwards how Leonora could have allowed herself in so short a time to fall a victim to the eloquence and personal charms of Julius Batiscombe. She wondered vaguely how it were all possible, but in the meantime she knew that the mischief existed, and that she must do her utmost to avert its growth and frightful consequences, since she alone could be of use.

  Her first impulse had been to go to the window and disclose herself, whereby she thought she could have put Batiscombe to flight instantly. He could hardly have stayed in the house with her after such a scene as must have followed. But a proud instinct forbade her; she would not have it appear that she could possibly stand to Julius in the position of Leonora’s rival. Nor could she have found it in her heart to inflict on her sister-in-law the indelible disgrace of an exposure. All this passed through her mind in a moment, and checked her first step towards the window. She frightened the lovers away by upsetting her table, instead of coming upon them herself, and she knew an hour later that she had thereby lost the power of managing them by anything she could say to Batiscombe. She would not — she could not — go to Leonora and force a confession. Besides, what good would be gained? Leonora was a person to be protected, not attacked. As for Julius, she knew perfectly well, when she led him out to the terrace while Marcantonio was up-stairs, that he would deny everything. He could do nothing else, and he did it boldly, though it was of no use. But Diana thought it possible that he would leave the house without a struggle, and abandon the position for a time.

  If Julius had been a less passionate man, and a more accomplished villain, if he had loved Leonora less ardently and more designingly, or if he had been less furiously angry against Diana, he would have acted differently. He would have lied just as he had done, but blandly and with a great show of astonishment; he would have made a low bow, answering Diana that he was at all times ready to obey her, and he would have left the house in the morning, with an elaborate excuse to his hosts. But Batiscombe was quite another sort of person. One of the calmest and most diplomatic of men under ordinary circumstances, his passion when roused was wholly uncontrollable. He was madly in love, and madly angry, and he would have cheerfully fought the whole world single-handed for the sake of his love, or of his anger, separately, let alone in the present case, when both were roused to the fiercest pitch.

  Diana knew him well, and, after the few words she had exchanged with him on the terrace, she knew what to expect. And she had foreseen the possibility of his refusal to leave the villa, and was prepared for it. The only question of difficulty was to direct Marcantonio’s whole anger against Batiscombe, and to shield Leonora as far as possible; but Marcantonio must be told of the danger, since Diana alone was unable to avert it.

  She sat beside him on the deep sofa in the drawing-room, and she laid her hand affectionately on his, as though to give him some strength to bear what was in store.

  “It is very important,” she said, “and you must be very patient. You must give me your word that you will do nothing violent for at least a day, for you will be very angry.” She knew that, with all his good nature, she could rely on his courage. He was not easily frightened, after all. He looked earnestly at her, and his face was drawn into a look of determination that sat oddly on his delicate and rather weak features.

  “Speak, Diana mia,” he said simply. “I will do what I can for you.” He supposed, of course, that something had occurred between herself and Batiscombe.

  “It is not I,” she said, “it is you who are concerned.”

  “I?” repeated her brother, in some astonishment.

  “Yes. You are the person who must act in the matter. You must write a little note to Batiscombe, and tell him that your wife’s sudden illness” —

  “What? But it is only a little sun — a mere
headache,” interrupted Marcantonio.

  “No matter; — that your wife’s sudden illness is so severe that you must beg him to postpone the remainder of his visit to some future time.”

  Marcantonio looked more and more astonished.

  “But I only asked him for a week. He will go of his own accord to-morrow or the day after. I am sorry, Diana, but you said you did not mind meeting him.” He spoke seriously, with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “It makes no difference,” said Diana. “He must go to-morrow morning. He has not behaved honourably to you since he has been in the house.”

  Her brother looked suddenly very grave, and his voice dropped as he spoke.

  “Has he insulted you, Diana?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said she, in low tones, “he has insulted me. But he has done worse, he has insulted your wife in my hearing.”

  Marcantonio turned suddenly on the sofa, and grasped his sister’s arm as in a vise. His face turned a ghastly colour, and his voice trembled violently.

  “Diana — are you telling me the truth?”

  Her grey eyes turned honestly and bravely to him.

  “You and I never learned to tell lies, Marcantonio. It is true.”

  She knew well enough that he would never suspect his wife, nor ask a question which could lead to such a conclusion. When she said that Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, she spoke the absolute truth. What greater insult can man offer an honest woman than by wittingly forcing upon her an unlawful love?

  Marcantonio looked at her one moment, and then sprang to his feet. At that instant he could have killed Julius Batiscombe with his hands, as perhaps Diana herself would have done. She seized his hand as he stood, and drew him toward her.

  “No,” she said, understanding his thought, “remember your promise. You must do nothing now — except write the note.”

  But Carantoni was in no condition to write notes. He broke away, and walked wildly up and down the room, wringing his hands together, and muttering furious ejaculations. He was too angry, too much surprised, too much horrified at his own stupidity throughout the affair to be able to think clearly. Diana sat motionless on the sofa, as angry, perhaps, as he, in her own way, but full of pity and sympathy for him, and trying to devise some means of helping him. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her eyes followed him anxiously in his quick, irregular walk. And as she looked he seemed gradually to fall under her influence, and went and sat in a deep chair away from her, and buried his face.

  Then Diana rose, and went to the table in the corner and arranged the light, and wrote, herself, the note to Batiscombe, leaving a blank at the foot for a signature. She looked round, and saw her brother watching her.

  “Come, dear boy,” she said kindly, “I have written the note for you; sign it, and I will see that he gets it in the morning.”

  Marcantonio rose and came to her with uncertain steps. He put his hand on her shoulder a moment. Then he fell on his knees beside her, and pressed her close to him, silently. Presently he rose, she put the pen between his fingers, still trembling with his anger, and he signed the note as best he could. She put it into an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to Julius Batiscombe.

  “He will be out of the house before we are up,” she said in a tone of certainty. “Go to bed, dear boy, and never let him trouble your peace again.”

  “But I will trouble his peace,” answered Marcantonio, bending his smooth brows.

  “We will see about that afterwards,” said Diana. “If you think best to fight him, I will not oppose you; but we will talk about it. We cannot talk now. Good-night my dear, dear brother.”

  She kissed him on the forehead and held both his hands for a moment, and then led him away. He obeyed mechanically, and they parted for the night.

  Diana often wished her brother were a stronger man in the ordinary things of life, but she knew that he was honest, and no coward in danger, and that he always spoke the truth and kept his word. It was his fault that he always imagined every one to be as honest as himself until the contrary was proved, — after which he never trusted the man again.

  Diana went slowly to her room and locked the door behind her. With a candle in her hand she entered the boudoir and looked round upon the scene of the catastrophe. The glass of the long window was still open, and the refractory blinds still closed, the bolts rusted in, beyond her strength to draw them. The servants had raised the desk upright and washed away the ink from the tiles; there was no trace of disorder visible. She could hardly realise that in this neat room, that very day, only a few hours ago, she had passed through one of the most terrible experiences of her life.

  She sat down in the chair before the desk and bent her queenly head. She had done her best for the right through that day, but it had all gone by so very quickly that she doubted whether she had done wisely. It seemed as though the burden of it all rested upon her — of the right and of the wrong; and the burden was very heavy. May God in his mercy give strength and courage to all brave women doing the right!

  I think that ordinary women have more moral vanity than ordinary men; but that very good men have more of it than very good women. A good man always seems to have a conviction of goodness, to be quite sure when he has done right, and to enjoy the sense of having done it. A woman’s sympathies are wider and reach further than a man’s. When she has done her best, there always is something more that she would do if she could, and until that is done also she can never feel the comfortable delight in godliness experienced by man, the grosser creature, who hedges his possibilities more closely, and gets rid of his superfluous aspirations by the logical demonstration of the unattainable. But the sphere of ordinary women is narrower, and their sympathies are dispersed in a greater multiplicity and divergence of small channels, so that a little goodness, a little easy charity with a pretty name, is a luscious titbit to the tongue that speaketh vanity.

  It was a dreary night to every one of the four, — least of all perhaps to Julius Batiscombe, whose fierce temper was thoroughly roused and would not be calmed again for days, giving him a kind of wicked satisfaction while it lasted. He spent most of the night at his window, smoking and going over the scenes of the day, and the scenes of the future. His mind ran in the direction of fighting, — to fight any one or anything would be a rare satisfaction; and ever as he fancied some struggle possible the hot blood rushed to his temples and longed for action, so that he bit his cigar through and through, and clasped his hands together till the veins stood out like ropes. He slept a little at last, and dreamed savage dreams of hand-to-hand combat, and woke with the roar of cannon in his ears. For he was a man of exaggerated fancies when his brain worked unconsciously, like many men who have ended in celebrity or in insane asylums.

  The roar of the guns was only a servant knocking at his door, with hot water and a note. He saw Diana’s handwriting, and suspected a new move, so that he was not altogether astonished by the contents. He understood that she had made Marcantonio sign her writing — by what means he could not tell — in order to force the position. There was evidently nothing to be done but to go. He would not have left the villa for anything Diana could have said, in his present humour, but it was impossible to bid defiance to the master of the house. Besides, he supposed that since Carantoni had invited him to leave, Diana had said something which would lead to a challenge from her brother, which could naturally not be delivered under his own roof.

  He read the note through twice, and he went about his toilet with his usual care, looking angrily at himself in the glass as he shaved, but gradually composing his features to an appearance of calmness. Then he put his things together, rang the bell, told the servant he was going to Sorrento on business, and gave him a very handsome fee, requesting him to bring the things to the hotel in the course of the day. Julius took his hat and stick, and strolled out of the house toward the town.

  Donna Diana and Marcantonio met in the morning. They saluted each other with the qu
iet, mournful understanding of people who have a common trouble, which they know must be spoken of, though they desire to put off the evil moment. They were both pale, and Diana’s eyes were shaded by great dark rings that spoke of a sleepless night.

  “Have you seen Leonora? How is she?” was her first question.

  “Dio mio! She is very poorly. Poverina! It has made a terrible impression on her. Of course I did not speak of the subject.”

  “Of course.” Diana sighed and looked drearily at the window, as though she wished she were outside, away, and beyond this trouble. She could not know what Leonora would say or do if Marcantonio ever broached the subject. “I do not think,” said she, “that it will ever be necessary to say anything about it. She will understand that you sent him out of the house, — she will never see him again.”

  “Is he gone?” asked Marcantonio.

  “Yes — early this morning. I sent to find out.”

  “Then there need be no time lost,” said her brother. “I have just written a note to De Lancray, at Castellamare. It is much better to have a Frenchman in dealing with foreigners. He will be here by one o’clock, and will arrange everything.”

  Diana had expected that Marcantonio would send for a friend to arrange matters with Batiscombe. She did not look surprised.

  “Have you sent the man yet?” she asked.

  “He is getting a horse, I suppose. I have not heard him go.”

  “Tell him to wait five minutes. This is a serious affair, and we had better act deliberately.”

  Diana intended to prevent the duel if possible. Marcantonio was willing to humour her, and went out to stop the man. When he came back, she made him sit down beside her.

  She explained to him the situation very clearly. Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, had done her a mortal offence. But Batiscombe was not the important person in the case. Leonora was the important person. If matters had been different, if, for instance, a man had run away with another man’s wife, then, of course, they must necessarily fight, — and the woman made no difference, since her reputation would be already destroyed. But it would be a terrible injury to a young wife to have her husband fighting a duel about her before they had been married three months. People always say there is not much smoke without a little fire; society, being generally averse to standing up to be shot at, says that a man in Marcantonio’s position would not go out unless he had very serious cause. Of course it would say in this case that the cause lay with Leonora, that she should never have allowed a man enough intimacy to give him a chance of insulting her, and so forth, and so on.