He put his hand into his breast pocket. The stock of the revolver just curved over the edge of the cloth inside his coat; he could get at it without trouble. He longed to take it out and examine it; to see whether it were still in perfect order; and he peeped in when the driver was not looking, just to catch a sight of the lock and the bright barrel. Then he smiled to himself, and hummed a tune, a.s.suming an air of quiet indifference--acting all the time, as only madmen can act, as though he were on the stage before a great audience. It was only for the benefit of the driver of his little carriage, a rough fellow, who had not shaved for a week, and wore a dirty linen jacket, his hands black and his eyes red with the wine of the night before--that was the audience; but Marcantonio acted his part with as much care as though he were in the presence of Batis...o...b.. himself. There must not be the smallest chance of an interruption to his plan.
At last the man returned, bowing with renewed zeal. He came forward with one hand extended, as though to help Marcantonio to alight.
"The English signore is in the garden," he said. Marcantonio smiled more sweetly than ever and got out of his conveyance.
"You can wait," he said to the driver, and the latter touched his battered straw hat.
Marcantonio followed the man through a great court, where there were trees, into a long, tiled pa.s.sage that seemed to run through the house, and, on the other side, he emerged into a garden, thick with laurel-trees and geraniums. The man led the way. Marcantonio"s hand crept stealthily into his breast pocket underneath his coat, and raised the lock of the revolver very slowly. The man in front did not hear the small, sharp click.
"Where is he?" asked Marcantonio, very gently, still smiling an unnaturally sweet smile. The servant had stopped and was looking about.
"I was told they were here," said he; "but they must be in the summer-house outside."
Again he led the way to a small door in the garden wall. It was open.
"There they are, signore," said he, pointing with his finger and standing aside to let Marcantonio pa.s.s.
He looked, and saw two people sitting in the dilapidated old bower above the water, not twenty yards from where he stood.
It was five o"clock in the afternoon. Diana had taken the train at two, and could not reach Cuneo till six.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Leonora"s utter recklessness of delight could not last very long. It was a strange mood, as unnatural and uncontrollable at first as her husband"s madness. She could not help enjoying to the utmost the new life that had so suddenly begun for her. She knew in her heart that she had bought it at a great price, and she knew that she must make the most of it, or she would have to reproach herself with the bargain.
It was easy enough at first. The quick change had thrown all her thoughts into a new channel. From the midnight departure she had no more time to think, until the long, quiet days at Pesio. There were moments when she was on the verge of thinking, of remembering the past, and wondering how her husband had acted. But she felt that it would be very unpleasant to reflect on these things. It might take her a long time to get out of the train of thought, as it used to do long ago whenever she had one of her fits of philosophical despair; she was able to put it off, and she seemed to be saying to herself, "I shall have time to think about it, and to satisfy my conscience by feeling the proper amount of regret by and by."
Of course she did not say as much in so many words, but the unconscious excuse for what she knew an unprejudiced outsider would call her heartlessness went on presenting itself whenever she felt the beginning of a regret. Deeper even than that, and almost hidden in the sea of self-deception, and pa.s.sion, and riotous love of life, lay the reef on which the ship of her happiness would some day go to pieces--the ultimate knowledge of the wrong she had done, and of her own cruelty to Marcantonio and weakness to herself.
But in Pesio the time came; terribly soon, she thought, though her suffering was only at its beginning. Each morning brought a dull sense of pain, that came in her dreams and became the terror of her waking.
She knew before she opened her eyes that it was there, and the first returning consciousness was the certainty of sorrow. It soon wore away, it is true, but she grew to dread it as she had never dreaded anything in her short, luxurious life. It needed all her strength and energy to shake off the impression, and it required all Batis...o...b.."s love and thoughtful care to make it seem possible to live the hours until the evening.
That was in the morning, in the brief moments when Leonora, like most of us, had not yet silenced her soul, and trodden it under for the day; and it spoke bitter truth and scorn to her, so that she could hardly bear it. Then, at last, she was honest. There was no more self-deception then, no more possibility of believing that she had done well in leaving all for Julius: she could no longer say that for so much love"s sake it was right and n.o.ble to spurn away the world,--for the world came to mean her husband, her father and her mother, and she saw and knew too clearly what each and all of them must suffer. Their pale faces came to her in her dreams, and their sad voices spoke to her the reproach of all reproaches that can be uttered against a woman. Her husband she had never loved; but in spite of all her reasoning she knew that he had loved her, and she understood enough of his pride and single-hearted n.o.bility to guess what he must suffer while she dragged his ancient name in the dust of dishonour. Her father was never to her mind, for he was a Philistine of the kind that have hard sh.e.l.ls and very little that is soft or warm within them, but she knew that he had treasured her as the apple of his eye, and that his old heart would break for his daughter"s shame. Her mother was a worldly woman, loving Leonora because she had obtained a success in society, and upbraiding her with never making the most of it; but Leonora knew how her mother"s vanity must be bowed and trampled down by the deep disgrace, and that her vanity was almost all she had of happiness.
And so it came to pa.s.s that after a little time the old tax-gatherer, Remorse, began to put Leonora in distress for his dues, and she was forced to pay them or have no peace. He came in the grey of the morning, when she was not yet prepared, and he sat by her head and oppressed it with heaviness and the leaden cowl of sorrow; and each day she counted the minutes until he was gone, and each day they were more.
Julius saw and pondered, for he guessed what she suffered, and understood now her terrible recklessness at the first. All that a lover could do he did, and more also, employing every resource of his great mind to fight the enemy, and always with success. He could always bring the smile and the brightness of glad life to her face at last, and when once his dominion was established there was no return of sorrow possible for that day; his stupendous vitality and brilliant, overflowing strength fought down the shadows and chased them out.
On the morning of the fourth of September, Leonora and Julius were walking together in the chestnut woods near the monastery. She had been less sad than usual at her first waking, and Julius hoped that the time was coming when she could at last feel accustomed to her new position and would cease to be troubled with the ghosts of the past. He was over-confident, and thought he understood her better than he really did.
He was laughing and talking gayly enough, enjoying her happy mood and the freshness and beauty of the bountiful nature around him.
Julius stopped from time to time and picked a few wild flowers that grew amongst the moss and the gra.s.s of the wood. Leonora loved flowers, and loved best those that grew wild. It was one of the few simple tastes she possessed.
"It is not much of a nosegay," said Julius, as he put the sweet blossoms together, and tied them with a blade of gra.s.s. "It is too late for the best wild flowers here." He gave her the little bouquet with one hand, and the other stole about her waist and drew her to him.
She smelled the flowers, and looked up at him over them, a little sadly.
"The time will come, I suppose," said she, "when there will be no more flowers at all."
"Never for you, darling," he answered lovingly. "There will always be flowers for you--everywhere, till the end of time."
"What is the end of time, Julius?" she asked softly.
"Time has no end for us, dear," he said. "For time is measured by love, and nothing can measure ours."
They were near an old tree whose roots ran out and then struck down into the ground. The moss and the gra.s.s had grown closely about the great trunk"s foot, and made a broad seat. They sat down, by common accord.
"Can there be no end to our love--ever?" she said.
"Should we be where we are, if either of us thought it possible?" he asked.
"It must be whole--it must be endless--indeed it must," she answered--clinging to the thought which gave her most comfort.
"Do you doubt that it is?" asked Julius, the strong earnestness of his pa.s.sion vibrating in his deep tones.
"No, darling," she answered; "I do not doubt it--only you must never let me."
"Indeed, indeed, I never will!" said he. He meant what he said. Men are not all intentional deceivers, but they forget. They are less faithful than women, though they are often more earnest.
Is it not the very highest power of love not to allow a doubt? And how many men can say that their lives have been so ordered toward the woman they love best, that no doubting should be reasonably possible in her mind? Few enough, I suppose.
"I have been thinking a great deal lately, Julius," said Leonora presently.
"Tell me your thoughts, dear one," said he, drawing her to him, so that her head rested on his shoulder, and his lips touched her hair.
"You know, dear," said she, "what we have done is not right--at least"--She stopped suddenly.
"Who says it is not right?" asked Julius, with a touch of scorn in his voice.
"Oh, everybody says so, of course; but that makes no difference. n.o.body would understand. It is not what people say. It is the thing." She stared out into the woods as she leaned against him.
"How do you mean, sweetheart?" he asked.
"It is not right, you know. I am sure of it." She shook her head gently, without lifting it. "It is all my fault," she added.
"You shall not say that, my own one," said Julius, pa.s.sionately. He was really grieved and troubled beyond measure.
"Ah--but I know it so well," said she. "You must help me to make it right--quite right."
"It is right--it shall be right! I will make it so," he answered. "Only trust me, darling, and you shall be the happiest woman the world holds, as you are the best. G.o.d bless you, dear one." He kissed her tenderly, but she tried to turn away from him.
"Oh, no, Julius--G.o.d will not bless me. I have only you left now. You must be everything to me. Will you, dear? Say you will!"
"I do say it, my own darling," he answered fervently. "I will be everything to you, now and forever and ever."