Part 22 (2/2)

Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she and Batis...o...b.. had parted on the previous evening before dinner. At table, as has been seen, she had said little, and no one had seen her since except her husband, who had gone to her in the morning. After his visit she rang for her maid and told her to see that no one disturbed her, as she was going to sleep again and would ring when she wanted anything.

At the moment when her husband was told she was not visible, she was sitting in her dressing-room, just behind the closed blinds of the window, listening to the monotonous, dry hum of the locusts in the garden, and wondering whether anything would ever happen again in the world. She was utterly dishevelled, her rich hair falling to her shoulders and halfway to the ground in wildest disorder; the gay coloured ribbons of her peignoir all untied and ruffled, her bare feet half thrust into her gold-embroidered slippers, her hands lying idly in her lap, as though there were nothing more for them to do. A strange, wild figure, sitting there surrounded by all the gorgeous little properties and knickknacks of a great lady's toilet.

Batis...o...b.. was gone! Her husband had told her that he had been requested to postpone the remainder of his visit indefinitely. Of course he had gone, then. Marcantonio had supposed she would understand and be well satisfied. But she had only turned and hidden her face in the pillow,--as was perhaps natural to a very young woman when her husband mentioned anything that gave her a sense of shame. She must have been very much hurt by the insult, whatever it was, and she could not bear to hear it mentioned. Marcantonio had not told his sister of this, thinking it would be indelicate, and was n.o.body's business but his own and his wife's.

Batis...o...b.. was gone--when should she see him again? How could he reach her, or she him? What was life to be like without him? And then the dazed, disappointed, terrified look came again to her face, and she stared at nothing, vacantly, and like a woman beside herself.

And oh, that other thought! How much did Marcantonio know? It was Diana, of course, who had made that frightful noise--she could hear the crash still sounding in her ears. She had remembered too late that corner room, cut off from all the others opening on the terrace, and communicating from within with Diana's bedroom--oh, the folly of it! If only Diana were to come to her--she could kill her, she thought! She was not so tall, perhaps, but she was much stronger--she was sure she could kill her! But how much did Marcantonio know? Diana was so truthful, she must have told him all. Those hateful people who always speak the truth!

Ah, if only Batis...o...b.. could come back--or see her one moment before he went. But he was gone already. If he could have seen her this morning, she might have arranged--it was impossible yesterday afternoon, he was so wild, so furiously, gloriously angry. It did her good to think of his blazing eyes, and strong, set teeth just showing between his parted lips. He was such a man among men! Never again--never--never, perhaps!

She might be shut up--made a prisoner--Heaven only knew what was in store for her! Dreary, hopeless, no light, no life--no anything.

Hollow? She laughed dismally to herself. Yes, life was hollow indeed, now--empty of all joy, or peace, or rest, forever and ever. Pray? How could she pray? Prayer was an innocent amus.e.m.e.nt for idle young women, with imaginary sins and plenty of time. But now--bah! nothing was further from her thoughts. What could Heaven do for her? Heaven would certainly not give her Batis...o...b.. again. It would be wrong--ha! ha! of course it was wrong; but what was life without him? What had all her life been as compared with the happiness of the last fortnight, culminating in the happiness of yesterday? It might be wrong, but it was life; and all before had been mere existence--a miserable, vegetable, hopeless existence.

The day dragged on; she took no thought of the hours, though she had taken neither food nor drink since the night before. And always the maid outside the door said she was asleep.

At five o'clock she could bear it no longer, but rang the bell and said she would dress, as she felt much better. The maid told her that one of the men had returned from Sorrento and wished to see her excellency, as he had executed a commission for her.

Leonora stared a moment, guessed there was something behind the message, and ordered the man to go into her sitting-room, whither she presently went, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, that completely hid her disarranged peignoir. The man handed her a small parcel and waited. She turned her back, and, opening it, found a little olive-wood box, and inside that there was a small note with neither address nor name on it.

She hastily closed the box again, and, turning carelessly, so that the man could see her, she examined it by the window, as though criticising the workmans.h.i.+p. She nodded to the man to go, but he stood looking at her with a queer expression that frightened her. She understood that he had examined the parcel on the way, probably; at all events, that he must be bribed. She quickly opened a drawer of her secretary, found a purse, and gave the fellow a gold piece. He grinned, bowed his thanks, and retired. He was the man who had taken Batis...o...b..'s things to town that afternoon.

Leonora had no experience. In novels, people always bribed the servants; it was most likely the proper thing--the safe thing--to do. The man would not have gone away unless she had given him something, she thought.

The note was brief to terseness. It conveyed in the fewest possible words the information that the writer--name not mentioned--intended to spend the day, in future, in a small boat with green oars--underlined with a very black stroke--in the vicinity of a certain landing known to both the writer and the receiver of the note--name of latter also not mentioned. And the writer added, laconically, ”No fee to bearer.”

She ought to have read the note through before paying the man. But what could she have done? He had stood staring at her, until he was paid.

Her heart gave a great leap. It was so like him, so daring, to send her word at once. At least she should feel, now, that he was always there, waiting for her--ready to help her at a moment's notice. If only she could be with him on the soft, blue water, out in the sun! She could fight now--she could face them all--for he was out there; at least, he would be there to-morrow. She went back to her bedroom, and gave herself up to her maid, and had strong tea and bread-and-b.u.t.ter brought to her, while she dressed; and an hour later she sallied out, with all her usual elasticity of step and motion, and all the marvellous freshness of face that distinguished her from other women. She found her husband and Diana together on the terrace.

Marcantonio's face softened and flushed with pleasure as he saw how well and beautiful she looked. She, at least, he thought, had not suffered long by all this trouble. It was so brave of her to forget it, now that the man was gone; he was so glad to think that he could have borne the brunt of it, and had saved her the pain of any discussion. But he said little, just kissing her hand, and affectionately leading her to a comfortable chair.

Diana, who had really carried the heat of the battle alone, and bore the burden of the secret, was very quiet. She saw a little look of hardness in Leonora's face which she had seen long before, but rarely. She said kindly that she was very glad to see her up again, and hoped she was entirely recovered. Marcantonio, said Diana, had been very anxious.

For an instant the two women faced each other, and Leonora thought she was beginning to understand her sister-in-law.

CHAPTER XV.

From morning till night, under the broiling sun of August, a wretched-looking boat plied slowly along the rocks in the neighbourhood of the Carantoni landing. It was a miserable old tub, big enough to hold three or four people at the most, and the solitary individual to whom it seemed to belong propelled it slowly about with a pair of old green oars. Now and then he would paddle under the shadow of the cliffs and put down a line, angling for a stray mackerel or mullet, and sometimes catching even one of those sharp-finned red fellows that the Neapolitan fishermen called ”cardinals.” He did not seem to care much whether he caught anything or not, but he apparently loved that particular part of the coast, for he was never seen anywhere else. A big, shabby man, in rough clothes, with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black beard,--Julius Batis...o...b.. as a fisherman,--brown as a berry, and growing rough-fisted from constant handling of oars and lines and nets.

No one took any notice of him as he pottered about in his tub. The watermen, who pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed, knew him as the crazy Englishman who found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun for the sake of catching some wretched fish that he could buy in the market for half the trouble. What did they care? They never fished there themselves, because there were no fish,--a very good and simple reason,--and if a foolish foreigner chose to register an old boat at the little fis.h.i.+ng harbour close by, and pay ten francs for the privilege, it was not their business. Neapolitans and their congeners do not care much for anything foreigners do, unless it happens to bring them money.

And in the evening when it was dark, Julius paddled away to Sorrento, and, meeting his own boat on the way, pulled off his rough clothes, jumped into the water for a swim, and dressed himself like a Christian before going ash.o.r.e. Save that he was growing a beard, and was almost black with the sun, he was as much Julius Batis...o...b.. as ever when he was on land. He had no acquaintances in the hotel, and no one cared or asked what he did with himself all day long.

It was said amongst the fishermen that he had been seen once or twice rowing a foreign lady about, and they laughed at the idea of a ”signore”

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