To Leeward Part 13

Julius Batis...o...b.. had pa.s.sed the day after the dinner in his boat, sailing far out to sea in the early morning, among the crested waves and the dancing sunbeams, smelling the salt smell gladly, and enjoying the sharp, cool spray that flew up over the bows. And at noon, when the west wind sprang up, he went about and ran homewards over the rolling water.

All that day he was thinking of Leonora, but he was persuading himself that he could and would make her his friend, and that the sudden attraction he had felt for her was nothing but a little natural sympathy of minds, striving to a.s.sert itself.

He found these thoughts so agreeable and edifying that he determined to repeat the experience on the following day, and test their reality by their durability. But somehow the hours seemed longer, and before the wind turned, as it does every day in summer on the southern coast, he put the helm down, furled sail, and bade his men pull home. He was discontented, and, having no one but himself to consult, he thought he would try something else. Once in his room at the hotel he tried to sleep, but he could not; he tried to read, but everything disgusted him; he tried to write, and wrote nonsense. At six o'clock he went out for a walk. It was not unnatural, perhaps, that he should take the road toward Leonora's villa, between the high walls of the narrow lanes, for it was still hot, and the dust lay thick in the road. Besides, he knew that Leonora was away, and that consequently there would not be the temptation to call upon her. For in spite of his visions of friends.h.i.+p he felt an instinctive conviction that he ought not to see her.

Consequently, as he strolled along the road, smoking a cigarette and studying the extremely varied types of the Sorrento beggar, he was conscious of a comforting a.s.surance that he was not in mischief.

At the end of half an hour he was pa.s.sing the gate of the Carantoni villa. He stopped a moment to look at the little vision of flowers and orange-trees that gleamed so pleasantly through the iron rails, in contrast to the dead monotony of stone walls in the lane. A servant was coming toward the gate, and seeing Batis...o...b.. standing there, opened it wide and took off his hat. Batis...o...b.. carelessly asked if the Signora Marchesa were at home, expecting to be told that she was gone to Rome.

"No, Signore," returned the man; "the Signora Marchesa is this minute gone out, it may be a quarter of an hour. Your excellency"--everybody is an excellency in the south--"will probably find her in the little church along the road, where she often goes." The man bowed, and Batis...o...b.. turned on his heel, not wis.h.i.+ng to talk with him. But he turned toward the church.

He walked very slowly, as though in hopes that Leonora would meet him as she came home; and when he came to the door he stopped, as she had done, hesitated, and went in. He trod softly, as Marcantonio had more than once observed, and he did not disturb the silence of the place. He stood still, holding his breath, and knowing that he ought not to stay, but unable for his very life to move. His overhanging brow bent as he watched her, and a curious look crossed his bronzed face, as though he were pained, but felt both sympathy and pity for the kneeling woman. The dead silence, the cold light from above, the half-prostrate figure of Leonora clad in white with the dark lace thing just falling from her splendid hair,--it all seemed like a strange scene in a play, and Julius looked for the sake of looking, while his heart felt something deeper than the artistic impression.

Leonora was bending low upon the seat of the straw chair, the bitter tears trickling down through her white fingers, and her whole life within her convulsed in the consciousness of sorrow. It had so long been vague--this sad knowledge of an evil ever present, and yet ever eluding her attempts to see it and understand it. But now it had come upon her suddenly. After two months of wedded life she knew that she had made a mistake beyond all repairing. She had tried hard to love Marcantonio, she had tried hard to believe that she loved him, but the deception could not last in her, and yet it seemed death to lose it. Sometimes she could think almost indifferently of her marriage, talking to herself, and asking questions of which she knew the answer, but to which she hoped to find another. Did she love him? she would ask at such moments; and she would answer that she thought so, well knowing that whatever real love might be, it was not what she felt for him. But to-day it seemed as though the veil were torn and she saw the dreadful truth. He had left her for a day or two, and she had said it was so pleasant to be alone. That was not love--ah, no! And that dreadful dream, too, that haunted her still; it kept returning, with its sinful face, the face of Julius Batis...o...b... The whole unfaithfulness of herself to herself rushed upon her overwhelmingly, relentlessly, till she could not bear it, but bowed herself and sobbed aloud before the altar.

There was a slight noise behind her, and with an effort she controlled herself, rose till she kneeled upright and merely bent her head upon her hands, drawing the back of the chair towards her in the act. She had been disturbed, and the sense of annoyance overmastered the expression of her trouble for a moment. Gradually the consciousness of a presence took possession of her, and she knew that some one was watching her; she grew uneasy, tried to repeat a prayer mechanically for the sake of thinking of something definite, failed, touched her hair half surrept.i.tiously with one hand, and finally rose from her knees. As she turned to leave the church she met Julius Batis...o...b..'s eyes, and she started perceptibly. It was so precisely the expression she had seen in her dream, little more than an hour since, that she was fairly frightened, and would have turned and fled had there been any other way out. But when she looked again she saw something that rea.s.sured her.

There was that which attracted, as well as that which frightened her.

She had the length of the church to walk, and she made up her mind that she would not show that she was surprised, and would behave as though nothing had happened. For she was a strong woman in such ways, and could rely upon herself if not taken too much off her guard. Meanwhile Batis...o...b.. looked on the ground; for he was often conscious of the too great boldness of his sight, and knew that it must be disagreeable to her. So he moved a step or two, hat in hand, waiting for Leonora to pa.s.s him, and prepared to follow if she showed any sign of wis.h.i.+ng it. He feared, however, that he had offended her by his inopportune appearance, and he was prepared for a repulse. Nevertheless, after the first start was over, she came boldly towards him, smiling rather sadly and looking wonderfully beautiful; for the tears only made her eyes softer and deeper, leaving a gentle shadow in them, just as the sea is bluer and pleasanter in its blueness beneath the shade of an overhanging cliff.

She smiled, and pa.s.sing out half looked at him again as he lifted the green curtain for her. He smiled again, gravely, and followed her. When they were on the steps, he bowed low again.

"How do you do, Mr. Batis...o...b..?" she said, quite naturally, holding out her hand to him. But in the open air, his hand touching hers, she could not help blus.h.i.+ng a little when she thought of that dream an hour ago.

"You did not go to Rome, after all?" he said, as they began to walk along the lane.

"No," she answered, "it was too hot. Do you often go to the little church, Mr. Batis...o...b..? It is so nice and quiet there, is it not?"

She was determined to put a bold face on the matter. Besides, he perhaps had not heard those sobs,--he had only seen her kneeling, perhaps, and had not understood that she was crying. But Julius had seen all and heard all, and was pondering deep in his heart the causes which could make her unhappy, seeing she was young and, in his opinion, beautiful,--married, as society said, to the man she loved, and not lacking the goods of this world, while praying ardently for those of the next.

"I have sometimes looked in," answered Batis...o...b... "It was a chance that took me there to-day."

"Yes?"

"Yes "--he glanced down sidelong at her face--"that is to say--not altogether."

She was silent, walking serenely by his side.

"No, not altogether," he continued, determining suddenly on his course.

"The fact is, I was walking by your place, and a servant who was just coming out told me you were in church, and then I went in. I suppose I ought not to have done it," he added with a little laugh; "I am very sorry I disturbed you. Pray forgive me."

"Not at all,--churches are free for every one. But why do you laugh?"

"At my own stupidity," he answered. "I might have known that when you go to church at odd times you go to be alone, and not to have wandering callers sent there after you."

"What makes you think that?" she asked, curious to know how much he had noticed. She argued that if he had heard her crying he would think the question natural, whereas, if he had not, he would not suspect anything from it.

"Because you acted as though you thought you were alone," he said seriously.

"I did think so," she said, blus.h.i.+ng faintly. "Do you know? I was quite startled when I saw you there."

"I saw you were," he answered, still very gravely, "and I am very sorry."

"Do you remember what I said to you at Castellamare, Mr. Batis...o...b..?"

"Yes; you said that life was not all roses, and you said it in earnest."

"Yes," said Leonora. "You see I did. I am not always in earnest."

"Is it rude to ask how one distinguishes between your excellency in earnest and your excellency in fun?" inquired Batis...o...b.., glad enough to turn the conversation to a jest, for he judged Leonora to be rather imprudent. Indeed, he wondered how she could have said what she had, unless it were from a wish to face out the situation.

"You ought to be able to see," she answered, laughing lightly, "but when you cannot, perhaps I will tell you."

"Pray do," said he. "I am very stupid about such things,--but then, I am always in earnest, even when I want to be funny. Perhaps you might think me most diverting when I am most in earnest."

"No," said Leonora, "I should not think that. I should think you might be very unpleasant when you are in earnest--at least, from the things you write."

"That is a doubtful compliment," remarked Julius, smiling.

"Is it? I cannot imagine anything more delightful than having the power to be as unpleasant as you want to be."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Marchesa? I should be most happy, I am sure,--short of poisoning your enemies, as you suggested the other day."

"You ought not to draw the line," she said with a laugh.

"Oh, very well. I will do the poisoning too, if you wish it."

"Of course. What is the use of having friends if you cannot rely on them to do anything you want?"

"If I could be one of your friends," he said gravely, "I am sure I would not 'draw any line,' as you call it."

"With what seriousness you say that!" she exclaimed, very much amused.

She was nervous from the knowledge that he had found her out in the church, and she laughed at anything rather recklessly. But Batis...o...b.. had turned grave again.

"Would you rather that one should ask such a privilege in jest?" he asked.

"No indeed," said she, a little frightened at the point to which she had brought him.

"Then I ask it very much in earnest," he answered.

"To be my friend?" she asked, looking straight before her.

"Yes, to be your friend," said he, watching her closely.

"Really? In earnest?"

"Really--in earnest," he answered. She stopped suddenly in the road.

"I accept," she said, frankly holding out her hand.

"I am very proud," he said quietly. He took off his hat and touched her fingers with his lips. Then they walked on without a word for some minutes.