Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

“I cannot rest,” he said gloomily.

  “You must try,” answered Diana. “I will read to you till you are asleep.”

  He rose and began to pace the room. The doubt that she intended to keep him back sprang up again in his unsettled mind. He stopped before her.

  “No,” he said, “I will go to-night, and you need not come if you are too tired. You want to prevent me from going at all — I see it in your face.”

  Diana looked up at him as she sat. No one but a madman could have doubted the faith of those grey eyes of hers, and as Marcantonio gazed on them the old influence of the stronger character began to act. He turned away impatiently.

  “You always make me do what you like,” he said, and began to walk again.

  Diana forced herself to laugh a little.

  “Do not be so foolish, dear boy,” she said. “I want you to sleep to-night, and to-morrow we will go to the world’s end together. You will lose twelve hours somewhere, because there are certain things that cannot be done at night. Better make use of them now, and sleep, before you are altogether exhausted. I promise to go with you to-morrow. Do you mean to have an illness, or to go out of your mind? You will accomplish one or the other in this way, and there will be an end of the whole matter.”

  “Very well,” said Marcantonio, unable to resist her will, “since you promise it to me I will do as you please. But to-morrow morning I will start, whatever happens.”

  “Very well,” said Diana. “And now, dear brother, will you kindly give me some dinner? I have scarcely had anything to-day.”

  “Dio mio!” cried Marcantonio, “what a brute I am!”

  It was like him, she thought, to be angry at himself for having forgotten to be hospitable. The words reassured her, for they sounded natural. There had been moments during the conversation when she had thought he was insane. Perhaps it was more his looks than his words, however. At all events, as he rang the bell and ordered what was necessary, she felt as though he were already better.

  One of her reasons for wishing him to stay a night in Rome was that he might immediately have a chance of growing calmer. Nothing distances grief like sleep. Until the first impression had become less vivid in his mind, she could not ask him questions about the circumstances of the flight. She guessed that, although he was willing, and even anxious, to talk of his future meeting with Batiscombe, it would be quite another thing to make him speak of the past fact. And yet she knew nothing of the details — not even exactly the time when it had all happened. She half fancied that they must have got away by the sea, because it would have been so simple; but she had no idea of how much Marcantonio knew, nor whether the matter had yet in any way become public property. It was necessary, she judged, that she should know something, at least, of the circumstances. No one but Marcantonio could tell her, and before he could be brought to speak he must be saved from the danger of a physical illness which seemed to threaten him.

  Before long dinner was ready. It was ten o’clock, and the meal had been prepared for Marcantonio at eight; but he had behaved so strangely that no one liked to go near him, and the servants supposed that if he wanted anything he would ring the bell.

  The two sat down opposite to each other. Diana was tired and hungry; she had taken off her bonnet on arriving, and had gone straight to Marcantonio, and now she would not leave him until she had seen him safe in his room for the night. But in spite of the long journey, the fatigue, and the great anxiety, she was the same, as queenly and unruffled as ever, as smoothly and perfectly dressed, as quiet and stately in her ways. No wonder she was the envy of half the women in Europe. The half who did not envy her were those who had never seen her.

  She watched Marcantonio as she sat opposite to him. It surprised her to see that he ate well, — more than usual, in fact, and she attributed it to a sudden improvement which had perhaps been brought about by her arrival. She had expected that he would refuse to eat anything, and would support his strength on strong coffee and tobacco. She thought that at all events he would not be ill, — but, again, as she looked at his face, its death-like yellowness frightened her, and the injected veins of his eyeballs made his eyes look absolutely red.

  They hardly spoke during the meal, for the servants came and went often, and they could not speak any language together that would not be understood.

  After a time they were left alone, and they prepared to part for the night. Diana laid her hand affectionately on her brother’s forehead, as though to feel whether it were hot. He looked so ill that it hurt her to see him.

  “You are worn out, dear boy,” said she. “Go to bed and sleep.”

  “I will try,” he said, rather submissively than otherwise. “But we will go to-morrow, of course,” he added quickly, turning to her with a half-startled look.

  “Of course,” said she, reassuring him.

  “Because,” he said, “I told the detectives to telegraph to me there, and I gave them my address at the hotel.”

  “Detectives?” repeated Diana, starting a little and looking surprised. “What do you want them for?”

  “Diavolo!” ejaculated Marcantonio savagely, “to find him, to be sure.”

  “Batiscombe is not the man to run away, or to need much finding,” said Diana, gravely, with an air of conviction. She did not like the idea.

  “When men mean to be found they leave an address,” said her brother, between his teeth.

  There was truth in what he said. Batiscombe ought to have let Marcantonio know his whereabouts, it was the least a brave man could do, and Batiscombe was undeniably brave. Diana felt a sharp sense of pain; the idea that her brother was hunting down with detectives, like a common malefactor, the man who had once loved her so well — the idea that she was helping to find him in order that Marcantonio might kill him if he could — it was frightful to her. She was bitterly atoning for one innocent girlish fancy of long ago.

  “Marcantonio,” she said, almost entreatingly, “do not do it. Give up the police. I am sure he will meet you without that” —

  “Ah yes!” he interrupted, “you know him. Of course you will not help me! I forgot that you were come to shield him, — you — I know you will not help me!”

  He spoke fiercely and brutally, as he had never spoken to her before. But mad or not mad, Diana would not submit to such words from any one. She turned white, and faced him in the light of the two great lamps that burned on the table. The whole power and splendid force of her nature gleamed in her eyes, and thrilled in the low, distinct tones of her voice.

  “What you say is utterly base, and ignoble, and untrue,” she said slowly.

  He hung his head, for he knew he was wrong. He did not know what he said; indeed he had hardly known what he was doing all that day.

  “I am sorry, Diana,” he said, at last, quite humbly. “I am not myself to-day.”

  Her anger melted away instantly. Himself! No indeed, poor fellow, he was not himself, and perhaps never would be his old self again. He was so utterly wretched as he stood there before her with his head bent and his hands clasped together, so forlorn and forsaken and pitiful, the moment the sustaining force of his anger left him, that no human creature could have seen him without giving him all sympathy and comfort. Diana went close to him and put her arms about him, and kissed him, and her tears wet his cheek. He suffered her to lead him quietly away to his rooms, and she left him in the care of his faithful old servant.

  “The signore is ill,” she said. “Some one must watch in the outer room all night, in case he wants anything.”

  Diana herself was exhausted, in spite of her strength and extraordinary nerve. There were times when she broke down, as she had done at Sorrento when she heard Julius and Leonora outside her window, but it was always after the struggle was over, when she was alone. Moreover she had the advantage of a perfectly serene past life, during which no serious trouble had come near her, and her strength had increased with her maturity. It all stood her in good stead now, and helped her to be
ar what she had to suffer. She went to bed and slept a dreamless sleep which completely restored her. It is the privilege of very calm and evenly balanced natures to take rest when it can be had, and to bear wakefulness and fatigue better in the long run than extremely active and physically energetic people.

  As for Marcantonio, he tossed upon his bed and dreamed broken dreams that woke him again and again with a sudden start; he dreamed he had found his man, and the excitement of the moment waked him. Then he dreamed he was quarrelling with his sister, and was suddenly wide awake at the sound of her reproachful voice. He was talking to Leonora, pleading with her, and using all his eloquence to win her back, and she laughed scornfully at him — and that waked him too.

  But at last he slept soundly for an hour or two, just before daybreak, and awoke feeling tired, but more restful. The dawn came stealing through the windows, and he got up and moved about a little, with a sensation of enjoyment in the cool, fresh air.

  He looked into the glass, and started at his own face that he saw reflected there. It seemed like a hideous mask of himself, all drawn and distorted and pale. But had he looked at himself on the previous day he might have seen an improvement now. He was deadly pale, but no longer yellow, and his eyes had lost the redness which had frightened his sister. He looked ill, but not crazy, and he felt that he could trust himself to-day not to say the things he had said yesterday.

  He would go to Turin of course — that was settled — unless Diana were too tired; but he would not have admitted such a condition when he went to bed the night before.

  He rang the bell and ordered his things to be got ready. The old servant, who had slept on a sofa outside, looked haggard and unshaved, and stared suspiciously as he heard the order. But he did not dare to make any remarks, as he would have done if his master had been well. Marcantonio had been ill once before, when he was a boy of fifteen, and had on that occasion, when he was delirious, shown a remarkable tendency to throw everything within reach at the people about him when he did not instantly get what he wanted. The old man remembered the fact, and was silently obedient, for the Signor Marchese looked as though he were ill again. The mildest people are often the most furious in the delirium of a fever.

  CHAPTER XX.

  AFTER ALL, JULIUS was not quite certain whether Leonora had fainted, or was asleep. She had been comfortably settled in the boat at the first, and a quarter of an hour had passed in hoisting and trimming the sails, and bringing the craft before the wind. She might have fallen asleep from sheer fatigue and weariness, — Julius could not tell. He bent far down over the stern, and fetched up a few drops of water from the sea with one hand, while the other supported Leonora’s drooping head, — the tiller could take care of itself for a moment, — and he sprinkled her face softly and watched her; once more — and she opened her eyes as from a pleasant dream, and looking up to his she smiled, and closed them again. He bent down and spoke almost in a whisper.

  “Darling, are you quite comfortable?” She moved her head in assent, the quiet smile still playing on her lips. Then she lay quite still for a while, and listened to the rush of the water, and the occasional dull, wooden sound as the rudder moved a little on its hinges. The boat rolled softly from side to side, in a long, easy motion and glided swiftly down the bay.

  Presently Leonora moved, sat up, and looked about her, at the sea, and the land, and the fiery-crested mountain.

  “Where are we going, Julius?” she asked, with a smile at the question.

  “I am sure I don’t know,” said he, laughing. “There are lots of places we can go to. Ischia, Capri, — Naples if you like. Select, dearest, there is a good boat between us and the water, and we have the world before us.”

  “But we must go somewhere where we can get some breakfast,” said she gravely. “And where I can buy things,” she added, laughing again. “Do you know that this is all I have got in the world to wear?”

  “That is serious indeed,” said Julius. “There are provisions and things to drink in the boat, but there is no millinery. We had better go to Naples.”

  “I think I could manage for one day,” said Leonora, doubtfully. “I have brought heaps of handkerchiefs, and hairpins, and cologne water, — they are all in the bag.”

  “Handkerchiefs and hairpins!” repeated Julius, and laughed at the idea. A woman leaves her husband, who worships her, scatters trouble and tears and madness broadcast, and she thinks of handkerchiefs and hairpins, and remembers where she has put them.

  “Yes,” said Leonora, “they will be very useful. We could go to Ischia first, and to Naples to-morrow night, — or rather to-night, I should say. That is, — if you think” —

  “What, dear?” asked Julius.

  “If you think it is quite — far enough.”

  “We cannot go very far. It is six or seven hours from here to Ischia, if the wind holds. We should be there between six and seven o’clock.”

  “I think that would be best,” said Leonora in a tone of decision. She was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up into Batiscombe’s face, and her own was white and beautiful in the moonlight. “I wonder,” she said, “whether any one heard that noise the dogs made? Oh, the poor, poor kitten, — it makes me quite cry to think of her!”

  “Poor thing!” said Julius sympathetically. “But its ghost will not haunt the gardens, for it was amply avenged.”

  “Yes indeed!” said Leonora. “Oh, Julius, you are so strong, — I like you.”

  “Thanks,” said Julius, “you are awfully good to like me.” He laughed, but his hand caressed her hair tenderly, and Leonora was happy.

  “It was just like us,” said she, “to stop there at the top of the steps where we might have been seen in a moment — but I am glad. I hated those dogs.”

  “It was just as well,” said he. “They would very likely have made more noise, and followed us.”

  “Oh yes — and just fancy the wrath when they are found to-morrow morning. But they might have bitten you dreadfully — I was terribly frightened.”

  “I fancy there will be more wrath about you, my dear, than about the dogs,” said Julius, rather gravely.

  “About me? Oh — I hardly know — perhaps. I do not think any one will mind very much.”

  “What does it matter who minds, as you call it?” asked Julius, pushing her thick hair from her forehead tenderly, and looking at her with loving eyes. “What does it matter to us now? What can anything ever matter again?”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing, dear,” she answered softly, and her head drooped happily upon his shoulder.

  They were as though alone in the boat, for the broad sail was stretched right across to catch the wind, and hid the men, who sat together forward, chattering in a low voice in the incomprehensible dialect known as the lingua franca, the free tongue in which all Mediterranean sailors understand one another, from Gibraltar to Constantinople, and from Smyrna to Marseilles. They did not care a rush what their master did, nor where he went; they had some confidence in his knowledge of the sea and of the coast, and they had entire confidence in themselves, whatever wind might blow. It was nothing to them, who came from the north coast, whether their broad-shouldered “signore” took a “bella signora” from Naples or Sorrento for a midnight sail in his boat. He paid well, to every man his wages, and he often gave them a few francs to drink his health. They had never had so good a “padrone” before, and they asked no questions, wisely distinguishing the side of the bread upon which a bountiful providence had spread the most butter for their benefit. They also said that nothing ever mattered much so long as they got their pay.

  Leonora had found at last the desire of her heart, — the reckless, stormy passion, careless of everything but itself and its object, of which she had so often dreamed. She had found the man for her to love, and she did love him to distraction. As for the rest of the world, she was more persuaded than ever that there was nothing very much in anything after all. What she had was wholly sufficient in the
present, the future was a future full of joy and love, and divested of everything that could possibly be wearisome, and the past was cut off, murdered, dead and buried out of sight.

  But though she had killed it and thrown it away, as Julius had done with the dogs, it had a ghost and a living memory that would haunt her for many days and weeks, and months and years. A life is not a dream to be forgotten, nor an old garment to be thrown aside at will. Life is an ever present thing, and all our past is as much a part and parcel of to-day as the marks we bear in our bodies are portions of ourselves, no matter how we came by them, nor when.

  Out of nothing, nothing can come. Out of confusion and vanity and pure selfishness, out of confused and incoherent fragments of half-expressed wisdom, out of the very vanity of vanities, which is the vanity of wise words wrought into foolish phrases; out of the shell of an imaginary self wrought fine and gilded to please the worst part of the real self, — out of all these things, I say, what can come that is good? Or can anything come of them which is truly evil, seeing that, one with another, they are all but so many empty nothings, melted together and lost in the great void that receives the failures of the soul-world?

  If anything results from such a life, it must be the realisation of nothing, which is the extinction and annihilation of that which is, — and woe be to the destroyer. We may destroy all hold and anchorage of mind and soul, we may reason ourselves into a disbelief in reality, in matter, in daily life, in good and evil. But always when we think that everything is done, and that our fabric of philosophy is faultless, there arises the strong tide of human passion and creeps across the sands to our tower. At first we may watch the waves from a long way off, and laugh to see them break and overwhelm the very foolish people who have no tower on the shore and must swim for their lives or perish. But the tide rolls on toward us, and runs cruelly up, crashing and thundering in its rising might, till it rends and tears our flimsy castle out of the sands beneath our very feet, and we fall headlong into the rushing waters. And then we too must struggle like the rest, if we can; and if we cannot, we must sink to the bottom, while those who learned when the tide was low and the water smooth, and have tried their strength in many a brave buffet with the waves, swim strongly over our drowned bodies.