After that, he became more irregular in his habits, lurking in secret places till he saw Leonora going toward the descent at the end of the garden, and presently following her at a safe distance. He ascertained, as he had expected, that Batiscombe spent his whole time within hail of the landing, in the boat with the green oars, and that Leonora went down and signalled to him, whenever she had a chance. Temistocle was so delighted with the skill of the arrangement that for a long time he could not prevail upon himself to interrupt it, even for the sake of the bribe that must inevitably follow. But, one day, he needed money, and he did not want to encroach upon his purse of savings, for he was a miserly wretch as well as a knave. He had seen something pretty in the way of a silk cap, which a stray pedlar had brought with other things, and he thought he should enjoy bargaining for it the next time the pedlar came with his wares. He knew that he should probably bargain for an hour and then not buy it after all, — but nevertheless he might be weak, and then he should like to feel that he had got the thing out of his betters by his own skill, instead of squandering money from his hoard. He seldom indulged in the luxury of buying what he fancied, but when he did he generally made some one else pay for it. There was a certain refinement of miserliness about him.
At first he imagined that it might be best to drop some hint to his mistress, just enough to frighten her into paying for his silence. But his calmer reflection told him that he would be thereby killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. Batiscombe’s ingenuity would make some change in the arrangements and he would have to begin all over again. Evidently the best thing was to make his master pay, and let the lovers go quietly on their course, so that he could at any time produce evidence of his veracity. He watched his opportunity. Marcantonio often inquired whether the signora were in the house, or were gone out. If she was out he supposed she had gone into the garden or to pay visits; he never disturbed her arrangements, knowing how much she enjoyed being perfectly free, and feeling sure she would not get into mischief. She made a point of calling on everybody, telling him afterwards where she had been, and the two or three hours she spent with Julius escaped notice in her clever account of the spending of the day. Now and then she would say she had been down to the rocks, in case her husband should ever take it into his head to go and find her there, and she was quite sure that by this time Julius was changed beyond recognition.
Temistocle had not long to wait. One day in August, Marcantonio chanced to inquire of him where the marchesa might be. Temistocle was prepared; with the utmost gravity and respect he dealt his blow, speaking as though he were saying the most natural thing in the world.
“I suppose,” he said, “that her excellency is gone out in the boat with the Signor Batiscombe.” He pronounced all the letters of the name, as though it had been Italian; but it was unmistakable. Marcantonio turned upon him in amazement.
“Animal!” he exclaimed, “are you drunk?”
“I, eccellenza?” cried Temistocle in hurt tones. “I drunk? Heaven forbid.”
“Then you are crazy,” remarked Marcantonio, more and more astonished. “The Signor Batiscombe is no longer here.”
“Pardon me, eccellenza,” retorted the servant respectfully. “I imagined that your excellency knew. The Signor Batiscombe comes every day, and takes the Signora Marchesa out in a boat. He is become a very strange signore, for he dresses like a fisherman, and has let his beard grow as long as this — so,” the man explained, holding his hand a few inches from his face. “Mi maraviglio, io!” he exclaimed, casting his eyes to the ground.
Marcantonio was speechless with amazement and horror, and turned his back upon the servant. A man less thoroughly a gentleman in every sense would have fallen upon Temistocle and beaten him, then and there. By a great effort, Marcantonio collected himself, and turned again.
“You have not to make any remarks upon the appearance of the Signor Batiscombe,” he said briefly. “Basta!”
Temistocle had nothing left but to bow and leave the room. He did not understand his master in the least; he was just like a foreigner, he thought.
But Marcantonio dropped into an arm-chair, the moment he was alone, as though all the strength and life were suddenly gone from him. He could not in the least realise the extent of the revelation contained in Temistocle’s words. He did not know what to do, and for the moment it did not even strike him that there was anything to be done. In the course of half an hour he grew calmer and began to review the situation.
He remembered distinctly every word of Diana’s concerning the trouble when Batiscombe was in the house. Diana had said very distinctly that Julius had insulted Leonora — and Diana always spoke the truth. Marcantonio had not asked her what the insult had been. He could not bring himself to do it, and he did not want to know anything more. He would have cheerfully fought with Batiscombe on the strength of his sister’s assertion, but she had dissuaded him, and now he was sorry for it.
The servant had spoken with an air of conviction, as though he thought it quite natural, and only wondered at Batiscombe’s strange appearance. There could not be any doubt about it, at all.
A new sensation took possession of Marcantonio — an utterly new passion, which he did not recognise as part of himself. He was jealous. He did not, he would not, understand the truth, but he would prevent his wife from ever seeing Julius Batiscombe again, and then he would go in search of him and wreak his vengeance without stint. At the same time he hoped he might avoid a scene with Leonora. He was brave enough to fight the man, but he shrank from telling his wife what he knew. It seemed so brutal and uncourteous, and altogether contrary to his principles.
But, after all, he ought to ascertain whether Temistocle were right — whether Julius really disguised himself. He would go and see.
No, he could not do that! He could not play the spy upon his wife — it was low, ignoble, unworthy. He would find some other way. His brain swam and it seemed too much for him. He grasped the arm of the chair and rose to his feet in pure desperation, feeling that he must get out of the way into his own rooms for a while, lest any one should see him in his present state.
In the hall Marcantonio paused a moment, holding his hand to his head, as though it hurt him, and as he waited the door opened, and Leonora faced him, beaming with light, and life, and happiness. Marcantonio looked at her one instant, and tried to speak; he would have said something courteous, from force of habit. But the words choked him, and losing all control of himself he turned and fled up the stairs, leaving his wife staring in blank amazement.
Poor fellow! she thought, he had probably got a touch of the sun. She hastened to her room and sent to inquire if the signore were ill, and if she might come to him. They brought back word that he was dressing, and that nothing was the matter. Then Leonora felt a cold chill descend to her heart, the dreadful presentiment of a real terror, not far distant. But when she met her husband in the evening at dinner, she did not dare to refer to his strange behaviour in the hall.
During dinner he talked much as usual, except that he did not laugh at all, and seemed very grave. There was a preternatural calm about him that increased Leonora’s fears. She knew him so little that she could not be sure what he would do, whether anything had really occurred, or whether he were subject to fits of insanity. He had looked like a madman in the afternoon.
When they were alone, he offered her his arm, and led her out into the air, and they sat down side by side in deep chairs. Marcantonio leisurely lighted a cigarette, and puffed a few minutes in silence.
“Leonora,” he said at last, “I have heard a curious thing, and I must tell you immediately.” His voice was even and cold; his whole manner was different from anything she remembered in her experience of him; he was more imposing, altogether more of a man and stronger. Leonora trembled violently, knowing instinctively that he had discovered something. She did not speak, but let him continue.
“I chanced to inquire if you were at home this afternoon, and the man said he s
upposed you were gone out in the boat with Mr. Batiscombe, as you did every day. Is it true? The man who told me said it as though it were quite natural, as though every one in the house knew it except myself.”
Leonora was dumb for a moment. The accusation came so suddenly that she was taken off her guard, besides being thoroughly frightened at her husband’s terrible calmness, so unlike his manner under ordinary circumstances. She lay back in her low chair and tried to collect her thoughts.
“The man had also observed,” continued Marcantonio, turning his keen dark eyes upon her, “that Monsieur Batiscombe had a beard, and was dressed like a fisherman. Altogether, it was extremely curious.”
Marcantonio and his sister always spoke the truth. Batiscombe never lied in his life to save himself, but could do it boldly when it was absolutely necessary to save some one else. He had no principle about it, except that cowards told lies, and men did not, — that was the way he put it. He was not afraid of anything himself, but for a woman he would perjure himself by all the oaths in Christendom. It was his idea of chivalry to women, and could not altogether be blamed. But Leonora by a long apprenticeship to a very worldly mother, and owing to the singular confusion of her ideas, had acquired a moral obliquity which she defended to herself on the ground that the ultimate results she obtained were intended to be good. The telling of untruths, she argued, was in itself neither good nor bad; the consequences alone deserved to be considered. But as the consequences of lies are not easily cast up into totals of good and bad from the starting point, it sometimes occurred that she got herself into trouble. However, she was not hampered by prejudice, and she was a very clever woman, much cleverer than the great majority, and she was just now in a very hard position. In a few minutes she had made up her mind, and she answered Marcantonio fluently enough.
“Why,” said she calmly, “should I not go out with Mr. Batiscombe when I please? If he chooses to dress like a fisherman, I suppose he has the right.”
Marcantonio was rather staggered at her sudden confession. He had expected a denial; but there she sat as calmly as possible, telling him to his face that it was all true. However, he was not likely to lose his nerve again now that he was face to face with the difficulty.
“It appears to me, Leonora,” he said, “that when I have turned a man out of my house for insulting you, it is sufficient reason” —
“For insulting me?” exclaimed Leonora in well-feigned astonishment. “Mr. Batiscombe never insulted me! You must be dreaming.” She laughed a small dry laugh. But Marcantonio was not so easily put off.
“My sister,” said he, “told me that Batiscombe insulted you in her hearing. I have always known my sister to speak the truth. Perhaps you will explain.”
“What explanation do you want? You sent Mr. Batiscombe out of the house on the pretence that I was ill. Of course Diana made you do it, — I do not know how, nor what she said. You must talk it over with her. She was probably sick of him, and wanted him out of the way.”
Leonora spoke scornfully, and almost brutally, and Marcantonio’s blood began to grow hot.
“That is absurd,” he said instantly. “Perhaps Monsieur Batiscombe would not object to being confronted with me for five minutes?”
“I am sure he would not object,” said Leonora, without hesitation. She was quite certain of her lover’s courage, at all events. She knew he would face anybody.
“Meanwhile,” said Marcantonio, “you will oblige me by giving up your harmless habit of going out with him every day. I should have supposed that you would at least have had the pride to deny it, after what occurred when he was here.” Marcantonio was angry, but he reasoned rightly.
“You would have preferred that I should lie to you, my dear,” said his wife disdainfully, in the full virtue of having told half the truth — the first half.
“I would not permit myself to apply such a word to anything you say,” answered Marcantonio, with cold courtesy. “But I would have you observe that you are mistaken with regard to my sister, and that if she told me she heard the man insult you, he did. Perhaps you did not understand what he said. It is the same. You will not meet him again at the rocks — nor anywhere else.”
“Why not? Why shall I not meet him?” she inquired, raising her eyebrows in disdain.
“Because I forbid you.” He spoke shortly, as if that ended the matter.
Leonora shrugged her shoulders a little, with an expression of pity, and shifted her position, so as to face him.
“You forbid me, do you?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Mais oui! I forbid you to see him anywhere.”
“Do you know what you are saying?” she asked, and there was a tone of menace in her words.
“Oh, perfectly,” answered her husband calmly; “and I will also take care that you obey me — bien entendu!”
“Then it is war?” asked Leonora, as though she hoped it might be, and to the knife.
“If you disobey, it is war,” said Marcantonio, “but you will not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I will prevent you. It is useless to prolong this discussion.”
“Mon Dieu, I ask nothing better than to finish it as soon as possible,” said Leonora.
“In that case, good-night,” replied Marcantonio, rising.
“Good-night,” answered Leonora, still seated. “I am not sleepy yet. You are not afraid that Monsieur Batiscombe will be announced after you are gone to bed?”
She spoke scornfully, as though trying to drive a wound with every word. She thought she knew her husband, and she felt triumphant.
Marcantonio did not answer, and withdrew in silence. In a few hours his whole character had developed, and he was a very different man from the Marcantonio of that morning. He had passed through a few hours of a desperate crisis, and had come out of it with an immovable determination to clear up the whole affair, and to force his wife to break off her intimacy with Batiscombe. Even now he could believe no evil, — only the foolish infatuation of a young woman for a man who had the romantic faculty strongly developed. It would cost an effort to break it off, — and Leonora would be very much annoyed, of course, — but it must be done. And so Marcantonio had gone about it in the boldest and simplest way, by attacking her directly. He congratulated himself, for at one stroke he had ascertained the truth of the servant’s statement, and had gone through the much dreaded scene with his wife. Henceforth she knew what to expect; he had declared himself as a jealous husband, and had said he would be obeyed. He went to bed in the consciousness that he had done the best thing possible under the circumstances, and promising himself an early explanation with Batiscombe.
But for all the success of this first move, he was wretchedly unhappy. He still loved Leonora, as he would always love her, whatever she did, with all his might and main, though he saw well enough that she did not love him. But he was furiously jealous, and he swore by all the saints in the calendar that she should never love any one else. His jealousy had made a man of him.
CHAPTER XVI.
IT WAS CLEAR that after what had passed between Leonora and her husband, the relations must assume the aspect described in diplomatic language as “strained,” to say the least of it. The two met many times in the course of the day, and never referred to the subject of their difference; but Leonora was well aware that she was watched. If ever she sallied out into the garden, hoping to escape observation, her husband was at hand, offering to accompany her. She once even went so far as to go down some distance with him towards the rocks, she could not tell why, — perhaps because it would have been a comfort to her to catch a glimpse of Julius in the boat. But he was probably lurking behind the rocks, just out of sight, and she could not see him. She knew that he still kept his watch during half the day, not having yet invented a better plan, — for she was in correspondence with him, — and in the meanwhile, until new arrangements could be made, there was a bare chance that she might escape for a moment in the morning and be able
to see him. Her husband never left her side in the afternoon.
Temistocle, the knave, had failed in his attempt to gain Marcantonio’s favour, as has been seen, but he now reaped a golden harvest from the lovers, who paid him handsomely for carrying letters, with a reckless feeling that if he betrayed them the deluge might come, — but that without him they were utterly cut off from each other. He had at first carefully opened one or two letters and skilfully closed them again, but had desisted on finding that they were written in English, a language he unfortunately did not understand. It was now his business to encourage the correspondence to the best of his ability, in order that whenever it should be convenient to spring the mine, he might have some letter passing through his hands, which he could show to Marcantonio. He made a bargain with an old man who had a little donkey cart, to hang about the lane leading to the villa in the afternoon hours, when Temistocle, being free from the cares of the pantry, found it convenient to play postman. As the distance was considerable, and as Batiscombe always gave him a gold piece for a letter, and Leonora another, he thought he could afford himself ten sous a day for the hire of his primitive cab, without any reckless extravagance.
The first letter he had carried was to Batiscombe. Leonora informed him briefly of the scene with her husband, and begged that he would wait as usual for a few days, or until something better could be devised. But he waited in vain. Then he wrote and proposed that she should drive somewhere and meet him. But she answered that her husband always drove with her when she went out. He proposed to get into the garden at night, to scale her window, — anything. But Marcantonio had bought a brace of abominable English terriers that howled as though they had swallowed a banshee. Marcantonio also kept pistols, and slept with his windows open.
Meanwhile Marcantonio would have given anything to catch Batiscombe and call upon him for an explanation, — but he was afraid to leave his wife for an hour, lest she should have an opportunity of going down to the sea. He could never be quite certain whether Batiscombe were there or not, for the latter had grown cautious and lay very quietly in his boat just out of sight, knowing that Leonora would call if she wanted him, according to the agreement, and he only came in the morning now and waited till twelve o’clock, in order to be at home to receive her letters in the afternoon. Yet Marcantonio would not employ a spy to watch whether Batiscombe were on the water. He could not do that — it was too utterly mean.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 72
