Part 4 (1/2)
Leonora was pacified, as she almost always was when he was particularly affectionate.
”But, of course,” he continued, ”you will enjoy the being able to read and study your favourite books.”
”I never want to read them now,” said Leonora, who chanced that day to be not very philosophically disposed. She had been perusing the latest French impossibility,--she found it rather amusing to be allowed to have what she liked now that she was married.
”I should be glad if you never read any more philosophy,” said Marcantonio, unwisely saying what was uppermost in his thoughts.
”Really, though,” answered Leonora, ”I know it all so very superficially that I feel I must go back and be much more thorough. I think I shall take a sound course of Voltaire and Hegel, and that sort of thing, this summer.”
Her husband was silent. He began to suspect his wife of being capable of an occasional contradiction for the mere love of it. Besides, he saw no particular connection between the two authors she named. But then he knew very little about them. He looked at Leonora. There was not a trace of unpleasant expression in her face, and she seemed to have merely made the remark in the air, without the least intention of being contradictory or captious. He liked to look at her, she was so fresh and fair. Neither heat nor cold seemed to touch her delicate white skin,--her hair was so thick and strong, and her blue eyes so bright.
She was the very incarnation of life. What if her features were not quite cla.s.sic in their proportion?
”I am not so beautiful as Diana,” she said laughingly one day to Marcantonio, ”but I am sure I am much more alive than she is.” He laughed too, well pleased at the distinction drawn. He was glad that his sister should be thought cold, and he believed that his wife loved him.
He kissed her hand tenderly.
They had been married two months when they came to stay in Sorrento. It is a beautiful place. Perhaps in all the orange-scented south there is none more perfect, more sweet with gardens and soft sea-breath, more rich in ancient olive-groves, or more tenderly nestled in the breast of a bountiful nature. A little place it is, backed and flanked by the volcanic hills, but having before it the glory of the fairest water in the world. Straight down from the orange gardens the cliffs fall to the sea, and every villa and village has a descent, winding through caves and by stairways to its own small sandy cove, where the boats lie in the sun through the summer's noontide heat, to shoot out at morning and evening into the coolness of the breezy bay. Among the warm, green fruit trees the song-birds have their nests, and about the eaves of the scattered houses the swallows wheel and race in quick, smooth circles.
Far along through the groves echoes the ancient song of the southern peasant, older than the trees, older than the soil, older than poor old Pompeii lying off there in the eternal ashes of her gorgeous sins. And ever the sapphire sea kisses the feet of the cliffs as though wooing the rocks to come down, and plunge in, and taste how good a thing it is to be cool and wet all over.
To this place Marcantonio and his wife came at the beginning of July, having picked up numerous possessions and a few servants in Rome. They both had a taste for comfort, though they enjoyed the small privations of travelling for a time. To luxurious people it is pleasant to be uncomfortable when the fancy takes them, in order that they may the better enjoy the tint of their purple and the softness of their fine linen by the contrast. For contrast is the magnifying gla.s.s of the senses.
At sunset they walked side by side in their terraced garden overlooking the sea. They had travelled all night and had rested all day in consequence, and now they were refreshed and alive to the magic things about them.
”How green it is!” said Leonora, stopping to look at the thick trees.
”Yes,” answered Marcantonio, ”it is very green.”
He was thinking of something else, and Leonora's very natural and simple remark did not divert his thoughts. The cook had arrived with a touch of the fever, and he was debating whether to send for the doctor at once or to wait till the next day. For he was very good to his servants, and took care of them. But Leonora wanted something more enthusiastic.
”But it is so very fresh and green!” she repeated. ”Do you not see how lovely it all is?” She laid her hand on his arm.
”Oui, cherie,” said he, getting rid of the cook by an effort, ”and green is the colour of hope.” Then it struck him that the saying was rather commonplace, and he began to realise what she wanted. ”It is a perfect fairyland,” he went on, ”and we will enjoy it as long as we please. Are you fond of sailing, my dear?”
”Oh, of all things!” exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically. ”I love the sea and the beautiful colours, and everything”--
She stopped short and put her arm through his and made him walk again.
She was conscious, perhaps, that she was making an effort,--why, she could not tell,--and that she had not much to say.
”Marcantoine”--she began. They spoke French together, though she knew Italian better. She thought his name long, but had not yet decided how to abbreviate it.
”Yes, what would you say, my dear?” he asked pleasantly.
”I think I could--no--Marcantoine, now that we are married, are you quite sure that you love me--quite, quite?” Marcantonio's face turned strangely earnest and quiet. He looked into her eyes as he answered.
”Yes, my very dear wife, I am quite sure. And you, are you sure, Leonora?”
”How serious you are!” she exclaimed, laughingly. ”Well, perhaps I am not so sure as you are,--but I think I could.” Somehow he did not smile; he took some things so seriously.