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 TO 
 LEEWAUD 
 
 BY 
 
 F-MARION 
 CRAWFORD
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 TO LEEWARD
 
 TO LEEWARD 
 
 BY 
 
 F. MARION CRAWFORD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MB. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS," "A ROMAN SINGER," ETC. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND LONDON 
 
 1894 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1888, 
 BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 First printed elsewhere. New edition, revised throughout by the author, 
 set up and electrotyped January, 1893. Reprinted June, 1894. 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. Berwick & Smith. 
 Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 PS 
 1+55 
 
 TO 
 
 Uncle 
 SAMUEL WAED 
 
 OF NEW YORK 
 THIS NOVEL IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 2061710
 
 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THEKE are two Romes. There is the Rome of 
 the intelligent foreigner, consisting of excavations, 
 monuments, tramways, hotels, typhoid fever, incense, 
 and wax candles; and there is the Rome within, a 
 city of antique customs, good and bad, a town full 
 of aristocratic prejudices, of intrigues, of religion, of 
 old-fashioned honour and new-fashioned scandal, of 
 happiness and unhappiness, of just people and unjust. 
 Besides all this, there is a very modern court and a 
 government of the future, which may almost be said 
 to make up together a third city. 
 
 Moreover, these several coexistent cities, and their 
 corresponding inhabitants, are subdivided to an infin 
 ity of gradations, in order to contain all and make 
 room for all. The foreigner who hunts excavations 
 does not cross the path of the foreigner who sniffs 
 after incense, any more than the primeval aristocrat 
 sits down to dinner with the representative of fashion 
 able scandal ; any more than the just man would 
 ever allow the unjust to be introduced to him. They 
 all enjoy so thoroughly the freedom to ignore each 
 
 1
 
 2 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 other that they would not for worlds endanger the 
 safety of the barrier that separates them. Of course, 
 as they all say, this state of things cannot last. 
 There must ultimately be an amalgamation, a deluge, 
 a unity, fraternity and equality ; a state of things in 
 which we shall say, "Sois mon fr&re, ou je te tue,"- 
 a future glorious, disgusting, or dull, according as 
 you look at it. But, meanwhile, it is all very charm 
 ing, and there is plenty for eveiy one to enjoy, and 
 an abundance for every one to abuse. 
 
 When Marcantonio Carantoni saw his sister mar 
 ried to a Frenchman, he was exceedingly glad that 
 she had not married an Englishman, a Turk, a Jew, 
 or an infidel. The Vicomte de Charleroi was, and is, 
 a gentleman ; rather easy-going, perhaps, and inclined 
 to look upon republics in general, and the French 
 republic in particular, with the lenient eye of the 
 man who owns land and desires peace first and a 
 monarchy afterwards, whenever convenient. But in 
 these days it is not altogether worthy of blame that 
 a man should look after his worldly interests and 
 goods; for how else can the aristocracy expect to 
 make any headway against the stream of grimy 
 bourgeois, who sell everything at a profit, while the 
 nobles buy everything at a loss ? So Marcantonio is 
 satisfied with his brother-in-law, and just now is par 
 ticularly delighted because Charleroi has got himself 
 appointed to a post in Rome ; and he goes to see his 
 sister every day, for he is very fond of her. 
 
 In truth, it is not surprising that Marcantonio
 
 TO LEEWARD. 3 
 
 should like his sister, for she is a very charming 
 woman. She is beautiful, too, in a grand way, with 
 her auburn hair, and grey eyes, and fair skin ; but no 
 one can help feeling that she might be quite as beau 
 tiful, and yet be anything but charming; so many 
 beautiful people are vain, or shy, or utterly idiotic. 
 Madame de Charleroi is something of a paragon, and 
 has as many enemies as most paragons have, but they 
 can find nothing to feed their envy. She was very 
 unhappy years ago, but time has closed the wounds, 
 or has hidden them from sight, and her dearest 
 friends can only say that she was cold and showed 
 very little heart. When the world says that a woman 
 is a piece of ice, you may generally be sure that she 
 is both beautiful and good, so that it can find nothing 
 worse to say. Marcantonio Carantoni's sister is a 
 paragon, and there are only two things to be said 
 against her, she did not marry Charleroi for love, 
 and she has not done half the things in the world 
 that she might have done. 
 
 On the January afternoon which marks the open 
 ing of this story, the brother and sister sat together 
 in a small boudoir in the Carantoni palace ; there 
 was room for all in the great house, and as Marc 
 antonio was not married, it was natural that his 
 sister and her husband, with their children, gov 
 ernesses, servants, and horses should occupy the 
 untenanted part of the ancestral mansion. Up in 
 the second story there is a room such as you would 
 not expect to find within those grey and ancient
 
 4 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 walls, where the lower windows are heavily grated, 
 and huge stone coats of arms frown forbiddingly 
 from above. It is a room all sun and flowers and 
 modern furniture, though not of the more hideous 
 type of newness, modern in the sense of comfort 
 able, well padded and well aired. The afternoon sun 
 was pouring in through the closed windows, and 
 there was a. small wood fire in the narrow fireplace. 
 The Vicomtesse de Charleroi sat warming her toes, 
 and her brother was rolling a cigarette as he looked 
 at her. A short silence had succeeded a somewhat 
 animated discussion. She looked at the fire, and he 
 looked at her. 
 
 " My dear Diana," said Marcantonio at last, rising 
 to get himself a match, " what in the world can you 
 have against her? We are not Hindoos, you know, 
 to talk about caste in these days ; and even if that 
 were the objection, she comes of very proper people, 
 I am sure, though they are foreigners." 
 
 Madame moved her feet impatiently. 
 
 " Oh, you know it is not that ! " she said petu 
 lantly. " As if I had not married a foreigner myself ! 
 But then, if you had felt about it as I fe'el about this, 
 I would have thought twice " 
 
 " Have I not thought twice and three times ? " 
 
 " Of course, yes while your head is hot with 
 this fancy. Yes, you have probably thought a hun 
 dred times, at least, this very day. Listen to me, my 
 dear boy, and do what I tell you. Go away to Paris, 
 or London, or Vienna, for a fortnight, and then come
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 5 
 
 back and tell me what you think about it. Will you 
 not do that to please me ? " 
 
 "But why?" objected Marcantonio, looking very 
 uncomfortable, for he hated to refuse his sister any 
 thing. "Seriously, why should I not marry her? 
 Is there anything against her? If there is, tell 
 me." 
 
 Donna Diana rose rather wearily and went to the 
 window. 
 
 " I wish you would abandon the whole idea," she 
 said. " I am quite sure you will repent when it is 
 too late. I do not believe in these young girls who 
 occupy themselves with philosophy and the good 
 of the human race. Politics - well, we all have a 
 finger in politics ; but this dreadful progressive 
 thought it is turning the world upside down." 
 
 " Oh it is the philosophy that you do not like 
 about her? Well, my dear sister, that is exactly 
 what I think so interesting. This young English 
 Hypatia " 
 
 "Hypatia, indeed!" cried Donna Diana rather 
 scornfully. 
 
 " Yes. Is she not learned? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " And beautiful ? " 
 
 "No, certainly not. She is simply a little 
 pretty." 
 
 Marcantonio shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " you will not allow it." 
 His sister looked round quickly.
 
 6 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " That is rude," she said. In a moment her brother 
 was by her side. 
 
 " Forgive me, Diana mia ; you know I did not 
 mean it. But you see I think she is beautiful, and 
 that is everything, after all." 
 
 " Yes," answered she, " I suppose it is everything, 
 now. But philosophy is not everything. Put her 
 out of your head, dear boy, and do not say any more 
 rude things." 
 
 Marcantonio had the power to avoid being rude, 
 but he was not able to follow the other piece of 
 advice. He could not put her out of his head. On 
 the contrary, he went out and shut himself up in his 
 own rooms and thought of her for a whole hour. 
 
 He was not at all like his sister in appearance, 
 though he resembled her somewhat in character. 
 He was of middle height, sparely built, dark of 
 skin, and aquiline of feature ; neither handsome nor 
 ugly, but very decidedly refined, gentle of speech 
 and kind of face. Without any more vanity than 
 most people, he was yet always a little more care 
 fully dressed than other men, and consequently 
 passed for a dandy. Altogether, he was a pleasant 
 person to look at, but not especially remarkable at 
 first sight. 
 
 As regards his position, he bore an ancient name, 
 dignified with the title of marquis ; he was an only 
 son, and his parents were dead ; he owned the fine 
 old palace in Rome and a good deal of land else 
 where ; he never gambled, and was generally con-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 7 
 
 sidered to be rich, as fortunes go in modern Italy. 
 Of course, he was a good match, and many were 
 the hints he received, from time to time, to the ef 
 fect that he would he very acceptable as a son-in-law. 
 Nevertheless he was not married, and he did not par 
 ticularly care for the society of women. In truth, 
 women did not find him very amenable, for he 
 would not marry, and could not play adoration well 
 enough to please them. So they left him alone. 
 Grave old gentlemen nodded approvingly when 
 they spoke of him, and his uncle the cardinal re 
 garded him as one of the mainstays of the clerical 
 party. As a matter of fact, he did not aspire to 
 anything of the kind, and was merely a very honest 
 young nobleman of good education, who had not 
 made for himself any interest in life, but who never 
 theless found life very agreeable. Possessing many 
 good qualities, he yet knew very well that he had 
 never been put to the test, nor required to show 
 much strength of character; and he did not wish 
 to be put into any such position. His sister was 
 very fond of him, but she sometimes caught herself 
 wishing he would do something a little out of the 
 everlasting common round of social respectability. 
 He was twenty-nine years old, and she was a year 
 younger. 
 
 Of late, however, it had become apparent that 
 Marcantonio, Marchese Carantoni, had not only 
 found an interest in life, but had also discovered in 
 himself the strength of will necessary to its prosecu-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 tion. The dull regularity of his existence was 
 shaken to its foundations, and out of the vast social 
 sea a figure had risen which was destined to destroy 
 the old order of things with him, and to create a new 
 one. There was no doubt about it; not so much 
 because he himself said so, as because his whole 
 manner and being proclaimed the fact. He was 
 seriously in love. Worse than that, he was in love 
 with a lady of whom his sister did not approve, and 
 he evidently meant to marry, whether she liked it or 
 not. 
 
 He was seriously in love ; and, indeed, love ought 
 always to be a serious thing, or else it should be 
 called by another name. There is a great deal of 
 very poor nonsense talked and written about love 
 by persons only vicariously acquainted with it ; and 
 it is a great pity, because there is absolutely no 
 subject so permanently interesting to humanity as 
 love, whether in life or in fiction. And there is no 
 subject which deserves more tenderness and deli 
 cacy, or which requires more strength in the hand 
 ling. 
 
 The relation of brother and sister is unlike any 
 other. It represents the only possible absolutely 
 permanent and platonic affection between young 
 men and young women. Its foundation is in iden 
 tity of blood instead of in the spontaneous sympa 
 thy of the heart, and even when brother and sister 
 quarrel they understand each other. Lovers fre 
 quently do not understand each other when they
 
 TO LEEWARD. 9 
 
 are on the best of terms, and the small difference of 
 opinion grows by that misunderstanding until it 
 makes an impassable gulf. Brothers and sisters 
 may be estranged, separated, divided by family 
 quarrels or by the bloody exigencies of civil war, 
 but if once they are thrown together again the mys 
 terious attraction of consanguinity shows itself, and 
 their life begins again where it had been broken off 
 by untoward fate. 
 
 Madame de Charleroi was inclined to be angry 
 with Marcantonio, and when he was gone she sat by 
 the fire, wondering what he would be like when he 
 should be married. Somehow she had never thought 
 of him as married, certainly not as married to a per 
 nicious young English girl, with all sorts of queer 
 ideas in her brain, and a tendency to sympathise with 
 the dynamite party. He might surely have chosen 
 better than that. Donna Diana was not a woman of 
 narrow prejudices, but she really could not be ex 
 pected to be pleased at seeing her brother, a Catholic 
 gentleman, bent on uniting himself to a foreign girl 
 with no fortune, no beauty well, not much and 
 a taste for explosives. He might surely have chosen 
 better. 
 
 Donna Diana thought of her father, and fancied 
 what he would have said to such a match, the strict 
 old nobleman. And so, between her thoughts and her 
 memories the afternoon wore on, and she bethought 
 herself that it was time to go out. 
 
 The horses spun along the streets through the crisp
 
 10 TO LEEWAKD. 
 
 golden air, and now and then a ray of the lowering 
 sun caught them as they dashed through some open 
 place on the way, making them look like burnished 
 metal. And the light touched Madame de Charleroi's 
 beautiful face and auburn hair, so that the people 
 stood still to look at her as she passed, for every 
 Roman knew Donna Diana Carantoni by sight, just 
 as every Roman knows every other Roman, man, 
 woman and child, distinguishing lovingly between 
 the Romans of Rome and the Romans of the north. 
 By and by the carriage rolled through the iron gates 
 of the Pincio, and along the drive to the open terrace 
 where the band plays, till it stood still behind the 
 row of stone posts, within hearing of the music. The 
 place has been absolutely described to death, and 
 everybody knows exactly how it looks. There are 
 flowers, and a band-stand, and babies, and a view 
 of St. Peter's. 
 
 The first person Donna Diana saw was her brother, 
 standing disconsolately by one of the short pillars 
 and looking at each carriage as it drove up. He was 
 evidently waiting for some one who did not come. 
 His black moustache drooped sadly, and his face was 
 so melancholy that his sister smiled as she watched 
 him. 
 
 Marcantonio was soon aware of her presence, but 
 he had no intention of showing it, and studiously kept 
 his head turned towards the drive, watching the line 
 of carriages. Madame de Charleroi was quickly sur 
 rounded by a crowd of men, all dressed precisely alike,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 11 
 
 and all anxious to say something that might attract 
 the attention of the famous beauty. Presently they 
 bored her, and her carriage moved on ; whereupon 
 the} r pulled their hats off and began to chatter scan 
 dal amongst themselves, after the manner of their 
 kind. They nodded to Marcantonio as they passed 
 him in a body, and he was left alone. The sun was 
 setting, and there was a purple light over the flats 
 behind the Vatican, recently flooded by a rise in the 
 Tiber. There was no longer any object in waiting, 
 and the young man sauntered slowly down the steps 
 and the steep drive to the Piazza del Popolo, and 
 entered the Corso. 
 
 To tell the truth, he was disappointed, bored, 
 annoyed, and angry, all at once. He had fully ex 
 pected to see her, and to find consolation in some 
 sweet words for the hard things his sister had said 
 to him. Perhaps also he had enjoyed the prospect 
 of exhibiting himself to his sister in the society of 
 the lady in question, for Marcantonio was obsti 
 nate, and had just discovered the fact, so that he 
 was anxious to show it. Men who are new in fight 
 ing are sure to press every advantage, not having 
 yet learned their strength ; but in the course of time 
 they become more generous. Marcantonio was there 
 fore grievously chagrined at being cheated of his 
 small demonstration of independence, besides being 
 a little wounded in his pride, and honestly disap 
 pointed at not meeting the young lady he meant to 
 marry. In this state of mind he strolled down the
 
 12 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Corso, looked up at her windows, passed and repassed 
 before the house, and ultimately inquired of the con 
 fidential porter, who knew him, whether she were at 
 home. The porter said he had not seen the signorina, 
 but that one of the servants had told him she was 
 indisposed. The marchese bit his black moustache 
 and went away in a sad mood.
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Miss LEONORA CARNETHY was suffering from 
 an acute attack of philosophical despair, which ac 
 counted for her not appearing with her mother on 
 the Pincio. 
 
 The immediate cause of the fit was the young 
 lady's inability to comprehend Hegel's statement 
 that " Nothing is the same as Being ; " and as it was 
 not only necessary to understand it, but also, in Miss 
 Carnethy's view, to reconcile it with some dozens 
 of other philosophical propositions all diametrically 
 opposed to it and to each other, the consequence of 
 the attempt was the most chaotic and hopeless fail 
 ure on record in the annals of thought. Under these 
 circumstances, Miss Carnethy shut herself up in a 
 dark room, went to bed, and agreed with Hegel that 
 Nothing was precisely the same as Being. She thus 
 scattered all the other philosophies to the angry airts 
 of heaven at one fell sweep, and she felt sure she 
 was going to be a Hindoo. 
 
 This sounds a little vague, but nothing could be 
 vaguer than Miss Carnethy's state of mind. Having 
 agreed with Mr. Herbert Spencer that the grand main 
 spring of life is the pursuit of happiness, and that no 
 other motive has any real influence in human affairs,
 
 14 TO LEE WARD. 
 
 it was a little hard to find that there was nothing in 
 anything, after all. But then, since her own being 
 was also nothing, why should she trouble herself? 
 Evidently it was impossible for nothing to trouble 
 itself, and so the only possible peace must lie in real 
 ising her own nothingness, which could be best 
 accomplished by going to bed in a dark room. It 
 was very dreary, of course, but she felt it was good 
 logic, and must tell In the long run. 
 
 It had happened before. There had been days 
 when she had reached the same point b}^ a different 
 road, and had been satisfactorily roused by a flash of 
 intelligence shedding enough light in her darkened 
 course to give her a new direction. To-day, how 
 ever, it was quite different. She had certainly now 
 reached the absolute end of all speculation, for she 
 was convinced of the general nothingness of all 
 created strength and life. 
 
 " For," said she, " I am quite sure that if I saw a 
 train coming down upon me now, I would not get 
 out of the way, unless, the train being nothing, 
 and I also nothing, two nothings should make some 
 thing. But Hegel does not say that, and of course 
 he knew, or he would not have understood that 
 Nothing is the same as Being." 
 
 This kind of argument is irreproachable. It is 
 like the old lady who said she was so glad that she 
 did not like spinach, because if she did she would eat 
 it, and, as she detested it, that would be very un 
 pleasant. There is no answer possible to a properly
 
 TO LEEWAED. 15 
 
 grounded philosophical argument of this kind. On 
 the whole, Miss Carnethy did the right thing when 
 she tried to realise the physical being of nothing. 
 
 This Leonora was no ordinary girl. She belonged 
 to a small class of young women who take a certain 
 delight in being different from " the rest " higher, 
 of course. She had the misfortune to be of a mixed 
 race, so far as blood was concerned, for her father 
 was English and her mother was a Russian. It 
 would probably be hard to find people more utterly 
 unlike than these two, for the beef-eating conqueror 
 is one, and the fire-eating Tartar is quite another, 
 while this unlucky child of an international parent 
 age had something of each. Her history she was 
 twenty-two years of age, then might be summed 
 up in a very few words. An English child, an 
 Italian girl, a Russian woman. Her father had many 
 prejudices, and did not believe in much ; her mother 
 had no prejudices at all, and believed in everything 
 under the sun, and in a few things besides, so that 
 certain evilly disposed persons had even said of her 
 that she was superstitious. 
 
 There is something infinitely pathetic about such 
 a growing to maturity as had made Leonora Carnethy 
 what she was. Imagine such an anomaly as a poor 
 little seed, of which no one can say whether it is a 
 rose or a nightshade, alternately treated as a fair 
 blossom and as a poisonous weed. Imagine a young 
 girl, full of a certain fierce courage and impatience 
 of restraint, chafing under the moral flat iron of a
 
 16 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 hopelessly proper father, whose mind is of the great 
 levelling type and his prejudices as mountains of 
 stone in the midst, reared to heaven like pyramids to 
 impose a personal moral geography on the human 
 landscape ; and imagine the same girl further pos 
 sessed of certain truly British instincts of continuity 
 and unreasonable perseverance, eternally offending 
 by her persistence a mother whose strong point is a 
 kind of gymnastic superstition, a strange perversity 
 of exuberant belief, forcing itself into the place of 
 principle where there is none, imagine a young 
 girl in such a situation, in such a childhood, and it 
 will not seem strange that she should grow up to be 
 a very odd woman. 
 
 The father and mother understood each other 
 after a fashion, but neither of them ever understood 
 Leonora, and so Leonora tried to understand herself. 
 To this laudable end she devoured books and ideas 
 of all sorts and kinds, not always perceiving whether 
 she took the poison first and the antidote afterwards, 
 or the contrary, or even whether she fed entirely on 
 poisons or entirely on antidotes. Poor child! she 
 found truth very hard to define, and the criticism 
 exercised by pure reason a very insufficient weapon. 
 Moreover, like Job of old, she had friends and com 
 forters to help in making life hideous. She won 
 dered to-day, as she lay in her darkened room, whether 
 any of them would come, and the thought was un 
 pleasant. 
 
 She had just made up her mind to ring the bell
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 17 
 
 and tell her maid that no one should be admitted, 
 when the door opened after the least possible apol 
 ogy for a knock, and she realised that she had 
 thought of the contingency too late. 
 
 " Dear Leonora ! " 
 
 " Dearest Leonora ! " 
 
 The room was so dark that the young ladies stood 
 still at the door, as they fired off the first shots of 
 their brimming affection. Leonora moved so as to 
 see their dark figures against the light. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " is it you ? " 
 
 She was not glad to see her dear friends, for her 
 fits of philosophical despair were real while they 
 lasted, and she hated to be disturbed in them. But 
 as these two young women were her companions in 
 the study of universal hollowness, she felt that she 
 must bear with them. So, after a little hesitation 
 she allowed them to let some light into the room, 
 and they sat down and held her hands. 
 
 " We want to talk to you about Infinite Time ! " 
 
 " And Infinite Space ! " 
 
 " I am persuaded," said the first young lady, " that 
 our ideas of Time are quite mistaken. This system of 
 hours and minutes is not adapted to the larger view." 
 
 "No," said Leonora, "for Time is evidently a 
 portion of universal pure Being, and is therefore 
 Nothing. I am sure of it." 
 
 " No. Time is not Nothing, it is Colour." 
 
 "How do you mean, dear?" asked Leonora in 
 some surprise.
 
 18 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " I do not quite know, dearest, but I am sure it 
 must be. It is quite certain that Colour is a funda 
 mental conception." 
 
 "Of course." There was a pause. Apparently 
 the identity of Infinite Time with Colour did not 
 interest Miss Carnethy, who stared at the light 
 through the blinds between her two friends. 
 
 "It seems to me that we girls have no field 
 nowadays," said she, rather irrelevantly. 
 
 " An infinite field, dear." 
 
 "And infinite time, dearest." 
 
 "I would give anything I possess to be able to 
 do anything for anybody," began Leonora. "We 
 know so much about life in theory, and we know 
 nothing about it in practice. I wish mamma would 
 even let me order the dinner sometimes ; it would 
 be something. But of course it is all an illusion, and 
 nothing, and very infinite." 
 
 Poor Miss Carnethy turned on her pillow with a 
 dreary look in her eyes. 
 
 " It will be different when you are married, dear," 
 suggested one. 
 
 " Of course," acquiesced the other. 
 
 "But can you not see," objected Miss Carnethy, 
 " that we shall never marry men whose ideas are 
 so high and beautiful as ours? And then, to be 
 tied forever to some miserable creature ! Fancy not 
 being understood ! What do these wretched society 
 men care about the really great questions of life ? " 
 
 " About Time " 
 
 "And Infinite Space "
 
 TO LEEWARD. 19 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, nothing ! " cried Miss Carnethy 
 in real distress. 
 
 "And yet it would be dreadful to be an old 
 maid" 
 
 " Perfectly dreadful, of course ! " exclaimed all 
 three, in a breath. Then there was a short silence, 
 during which Leonora moved uneasily, and finally 
 sat up, her heavy red hair falling all about her. 
 
 " By the bye," she said at last, " have you been 
 out to-day, dears? What have you been doing? 
 Tell me all about it." 
 
 " We have been to Lady Smyth-Tompkins's tea. It 
 was very empty." 
 
 " You mean very hollow, for there were many 
 people there." 
 
 " Yes," said the other, " it was very hollow 
 empty everything of that sort. Then we went to 
 drive on the Pincio." 
 
 ." So very void." 
 
 " Yes. We saw Carantoni leaning against a post. 
 I am sure he was thinking of nothing. He looks 
 just like a stuffed glove, such an inane dandy ! " 
 
 Miss Carnethy's blue eyes suddenly looked as 
 though they were conscious of something more than 
 mere emptiness in the world. Her strong, well- 
 shaped red lips set themselves like a bent bow, and 
 the shaft was not long in flying. 
 
 " He is very pleasant to talk to," said she, " and 
 besides he really dances beautifully." It was 
 probably a standing grievance with her two friends
 
 20 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 that Marcantonio did not dance with them, or Leo 
 nora could scarcely have produced such an impression 
 in so few words. 
 
 " What does he talk about?" asked one, with an 
 affectation of indifference. 
 
 " Oh, all sorts of things," answered Leonora. " He 
 does not believe at all in the greatest good of the 
 greatest number. He says he has discovered the 
 Spencerian fallacy, as he calls it." 
 
 " Alas, then that also is nothing ! " 
 
 "Absolutely nothing, dear," continued Leonora. 
 " He says that, if there is no morality beyond happi 
 ness " 
 
 " Of course ! " 
 
 " then every individual has as much right to be 
 happy as the whole human race put together, since 
 he is under no moral obligation to anybody or any 
 thing, there being no abstract morality. Do you see ? 
 It is veiy pretty. And then he says it follows that 
 there is no absolute good unless from a divine stand 
 ard, which of course is pure nonsense, or ought to 
 be, if Hegel is right." 
 
 " Dear me ! Of course it is ! " 
 
 " And so, dears," concluded Leonora triumphantly, 
 " we are all going to the Devil do you see ? " The 
 association of ideas seemed exhilarating to Miss Car- 
 nethy, and in truth the conclusion was probably sug 
 gested more by her feelings than by her logic, if she 
 really possessed any. She felt better, and would put 
 off the further consideration of Nothing and Being
 
 TO LEEWARD. 21 
 
 to some more convenient season. She therefore gave 
 her friends some tea in her bedroom, and the con 
 versation became more and more earthly, and the 
 subjects more and more minute, until they seemed 
 to be thoroughly within the grasp of the three young 
 ladies. 
 
 At last they went, these two charming damsels, 
 very much impressed with Leonora's cleverness, and 
 very much interested in her future, which she 
 would only refer to in the vaguest terms possible. 
 They were both extremely fashionable young persons, 
 possessed of dowries, good looks, and various other 
 charms, such as good birth, good manners, and the 
 like ; and it would be futile to deny that they took 
 a lively interest in the doings of their world, however 
 hollow and vain the cake appeared to them between 
 two bites. 
 
 "Are you going to-night, Leonora dear?" they 
 inquired as they left her. 
 
 " Of course," answered Miss Carnethy. " I must 
 hear the rest of the 'Spencerian fallacy' you know!" 
 
 When Leonora was alone she had a great many 
 things to think of. 
 
 The atmosphere had cleared during the last hour, 
 so far as philosophy was concerned, and as she looked 
 at herself in the glass, she was wondering how she 
 should look in the evening. Not vainly, at least, 
 not so vainly as most girls with her advantages might 
 have thought, but reflectively, the English side of 
 her twofold nature having gained the upper hand.
 
 22 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 For as she gazed into her own blue eyes, trying to 
 search and fathom her own soul, she was conscious 
 of something that gave her pleasure and hope, 
 something which she had treated scornfully enough 
 in her thoughts that very afternoon. 
 
 She knew, for her mother had told her, that Marc- 
 antonio Carantoni had written to her parents, had 
 called, had an interview, and had been told that he 
 should be an acceptable son-in-law, provided that he 
 could obtain Leonora's consent. She knew also that 
 in the natural course of things he would this very 
 evening ask her to be his wife ; and, lastly, she knew 
 very well that she would accept him. 
 
 She wondered vaguely how all those strange un 
 settled ideas of hers would harmonise in a married 
 life. How far should she and her husband ever 
 agree? She had a photograph of him in her desk, 
 which he had given to her mother, and which she 
 had naturally stolen and hidden away. Now she 
 took it out and brought it to the window, and 
 looked at it minutely, wonderingly, as she had 
 looked at herself in the mirror a moment earlier. 
 
 Yes, he was a proper husband enough, with his 
 bright honest eyes and his brave aristocratic nose 
 and black moustache. Not very intelligent, per 
 haps, by the higher standard, that everlasting 
 " higher standard " again, but withal goodly and 
 noble as a lover should be. A lover? What weal 
 and woe of heart-stirring romance that word used 
 to suggest! And so this was her lover, the one
 
 TO LEEWARD. 23 
 
 man of all others dreamed of as a future divinity 
 throughout her passionate girlhood. A creature of 
 sighs and stolen glances ay, perhaps of stolen 
 kisses a lover should be ; breathing soft things and 
 glancing hot glances. Was Marcantonio really her 
 lover? 
 
 He was so honest and so rich ! He could hardly 
 want her for her dower's sake, no, she knew that 
 was impossible. For her beauty's sake, then? No, 
 she was not so beautiful as that, and never could be, 
 though the fashion had changed and red hair was in 
 vogue. A pretty conceit, that mankind should make 
 one half of creation fashionable at the expense of the 
 other ! But it is so all the same, and always will be. 
 However, even with red hair, and an immense quan 
 tity of it, she was not a great beauty. 
 
 Perhaps Marcantonio would have married a great 
 beauty if he could have met one who would accept 
 him. It would not be nice, she thought, to marry 
 a man who could not have the best if he chose. To 
 think that he might ever look back and wish she 
 were as beautiful as some one else ! But after much 
 earnest consideration of the matter no image of 
 "some one else " rose to her mind, and she confessed 
 with some triumph that she was not jealous of any 
 one; that he had chosen her for herself, and that 
 she was without rival so far as he was concerned. 
 Not even her friends, the one dark and classic, the 
 other fair and dreamy, could boast of having roused 
 his interest. That was a great advantage.
 
 24 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 But did she care for him did she love him ? Of 
 course ; how else should it be possible for her, with 
 her high ideas of man's goodness, to think of ever 
 consenting to marry him ? Of course she loved him. 
 
 It was not exactly the kind of thing she expected, 
 when she used to think of love a year ago ; when love 
 was a detached ideal with wings and arrows, and all 
 manner of romantic and mythical attributes. But 
 considering how very hollow and barren she had de 
 monstrated the world to be, this thing had a certain 
 life about it. It was a real sensation, beyond a doubt, 
 and not an unhappy one either. 
 
 The room grew dark and she sat a few moments, 
 the photograph lying idly in her hand. Out of the 
 dusk, coming from the fairyland of her girl's fancy, 
 rose a figure, the figure of the ideal lover she used 
 to evoke before she knew Marcantonio Carantoni. 
 He was a different sort of person altogether, much 
 taller and broader and fiercer: a very impossibility of 
 a man, coming towards her, and upsetting every 
 thing in his course; trampling rough-shod over the 
 mangled fragments of her former idols, over society, 
 over Marcantonio, over everything till he was close 
 and near her, touching her hand, touching her lips, 
 clasping her to him in fierce triumph, and bearing 
 her away in a whirlwind of strength. A quick sigh, 
 and she let the photograph fall to the ground, sink 
 ing back in her chair with a light in her eyes that 
 overcame the darkness. 
 
 Dreamland, dreamland, what fools you make of us
 
 TO LEEWARD. 25 
 
 all! What strange characters there are among the 
 slides of your theatre, only awaiting the nod of Sleep, 
 the manager, to issue forth, and rant and rave, make 
 love and mischief, do battle and murder, play the 
 scoundrel and the hero, till our poor brains reel and 
 the daylight is turned on again, and all the players 
 vanish into the thinnest of thin air ! 
 
 Miss Carnethy rang for her maid, who brought 
 lights and closed the shutters and let down the cur 
 tains preparatory to dressing her mistress for dinner. 
 Leonora looked down and saw Marcantonio's photo 
 graph lying where it had fallen. She picked it up 
 and looked at it once more by the candle light. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall refuse him after all," she thought, 
 coldly enough, and she put it back into the drawer 
 of her desk. 
 
 Perhaps you are right, Miss Carnethy, and the 
 world is stuffed with sawdust.
 
 26 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE soft thick air of the ball-room swayed rhyth 
 mically to the swell and fall of the violins ; the per 
 fume of roses and lilies was whirled into waves of 
 sweetness, and the beating of many young hearts 
 seemed to tremble musically through the nameless 
 harmony of instrument and voice, and rustling silk, 
 and gliding feet. In the passionately moving sym 
 phony of sound and sight and touch, the whole weal 
 and woe and longing of life throbbed in a threefold 
 pace. 
 
 The dwellers in an older world did well to call the 
 dance divine, and to make it the gift of a nimble 
 goddess ; truly, without a waltz the world would 
 have lacked a very divine element. Few people can 
 really doubt what the step was that David danced 
 before the ark. 
 
 The ball was at a house where members of vari 
 ous parties met by common consent as on neutral 
 ground. There are few such houses in Rome, or, 
 indeed, anywhere else, as there are very few people 
 clever enough, or stupid enough, to manage such an 
 establishment. Men of entirely inimical convictions 
 and associations will occasionally go to the house of 
 a great genius or a great fool, out of sheer curiosity,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 27 
 
 and are content to enjoy themselves and even to talk 
 to each other a little, when no one is looking. It is 
 neutral ground, and the white flag of the ball-dress 
 keeps the peace as it sweeps past the black cloth legs 
 of clericals and the grey cloth legs of the military 
 contingent, past the legs of all sorts and conditions 
 of men elbowing each other for a front place with 
 the ladies. 
 
 Conspicuous by her height and rare magnificence 
 of queenly beauty was Madame de Charleroi, moving 
 stately along as she rested her fingers on the arm of 
 a minister less than half her size. But there was a 
 look of weariness and preoccupation on her features 
 that did not escape her dear friends. 
 
 " Diana is certainly going to be thin and scraggy," 
 remarked a black-browed dame of Rome, fat and 
 solid, a perfect triumph of the flesh. She said it 
 behind her fan to her neighbour. 
 
 "It is sad," said the other, "she is growing old." 
 
 " Ah yes," remarked her husband, who chanced to 
 be standing by and was in a bad humour, " she was 
 born in 1844, the year you left school, my dear." 
 The black-browed lady smiled sweetly at her dis 
 comfited friend, who looked unutterable scorn at her 
 consort. 
 
 Donna Diana glanced uneasily about the room, ex 
 pecting every moment to see her brother appear with 
 Miss Carnethy. She was very unhappy about the 
 whole affair, tliough she could not exactly explain to 
 herself the reason of what she felt. Miss Carnethy
 
 28 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 was rich, had a certain kind of distinguished beauty 
 about her, was young, well-born, but all that did 
 not compensate in Madame de Charleroi's mind for 
 the fact that she was a heretic, a freethinker, a 
 dabbler in progressist ideas, and and what ? She 
 could not tell. It must be prejudice of the most 
 absurd kind ! She would not submit to it a moment 
 longer, and if the opportunity offered she would go 
 to Miss Carnethy and say something pleasant to her. 
 Donna Diana had a very kind and gentle Italian 
 heart hidden away in her proud bosom, and she had 
 also a determination to be just and honest in all sit 
 uations, most of all when she feared that her per 
 sonal sympathies were leading her away. 
 
 The diplomat at her side chatted pleasantly, per 
 ceiving that she was wholly preoccupied ; he talked 
 quite as much to himself as to her, after he had 
 discovered that she was not listening. And Donna 
 Diana determined to do a kind action, and the 
 swinging rhythm of the straining, surging waltz 
 was in her ears. She was just wondering idly 
 enough what the little diplomat had been saying to 
 her during the last ten minutes, when she saw her 
 brother enter the room with Miss Carnethy on his 
 arm. They had met in one of the outer drawing- 
 rooms and had come in to dance. Donna Diana 
 watched them as they caught the measure and 
 whirled away. 
 
 " She is terribly interesting," remarked the little 
 man beside her as he noticed where she wa.j looking.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 29 
 
 " She is also decidedly a beauty,'' answered Madame 
 de Chaiieroi, with the calm authority of a woman 
 whose looks have never been questioned. 
 
 People who are in love are proverbially amusing 
 objects to the general public. There is an air of shy 
 ness about them, or else a ridiculous incapacity for 
 perceiving the details of life, or at least an absurd 
 infatuation for each other, most refreshing to witness. 
 There is no mistaking the manner of them, if the 
 thing is genuine. 
 
 The sadness that had been on Donna Diana's 
 face, and which the resolution to be civil to Miss 
 Carnethy had momentarily dispelled, returned now, 
 as she watched the young couple. She remembered 
 her own courtship, and she fancied she saw similar 
 conditions in the wooing now going on under her 
 eyes. Marcantonio was furiously in love, after his 
 manner, but she thought Leonora's face looked hard. 
 How could she let her brother marry a woman 
 who did not love him? Her resolution to be civil 
 wavered. 
 
 But just then, as luck would have it, the waltz 
 brought the pair near to her. Marcantonio was talk 
 ing pleasantly, with a quick smile that came and 
 went at every minute. Leonora stood looking 
 down and toying with her fan. One instant she 
 looked up at him, and Donna Diana saw the look and 
 the quick-caught heave of the snowy neck. 
 
 " I do not know what it is," she said to herself, 
 " but it is certainly love of some kind." She moved
 
 30 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 towards them, steering her little diplomat through 
 the sea of silk and satin, jewels and lace. 
 
 " How do you do, Mademoiselle Carnethy ? " she 
 said, in a voice that was meant to be kind, and was 
 at least very civil. 
 
 Leonora stood somewhat in awe of the Vicom- 
 tesse de Charleroi, who was so stately and beautiful 
 and cold. But she was very much pleased at the 
 mark of attention. It was an approval, and an ap 
 proval of the most public kind. The few words they 
 exchanged were therefore all that could be desired. 
 The vicomtesse nodded, smiled, nodded again, and 
 sailed away in the easy swinging cadence of the 
 waltz. Marcantonio looked gratefully after her. 
 The air was warm and soft, and the light fluff from 
 the linen carpet hung like a summer haze over the 
 people, and the hundreds of candles, and the masses 
 of flowers. 
 
 Marcantonio was silent. Something in the air 
 told him that the time had come for him to speak, 
 something in Miss Carnethy's look told him plainly 
 enough, he thought, that he was not to speak in 
 vain. The last notes of the waltz chased each 
 other away and died, and the people fell to walking 
 about and talking. Marcantonio gave Leonora his 
 arm, and the pair moved off with the stream, and 
 on through the great rooms till they reached an 
 apartment less crowded than the rest, and sat down 
 near a doorway. 
 
 The young man did not lack courage, and he was
 
 TO LEEWARD. 31 
 
 honestly in love with Leonora. He felt little hesi 
 tation about speaking, and only wished to put the 
 question as frankly and as courteously as might be. 
 As for her, she was obliged to acknowledge that 
 she was agitated, although she had said to herself a 
 hundred times that she would be as calm as though 
 she were talking about the weather. But now that 
 the supreme moment had come, a strange beating 
 rose in her breast, and her face was as white as her 
 throat. She looked obstinately before her, seeing 
 nothing, and striving to appear to the world as 
 though nothing were happening. Marcantonio sat 
 by her side, and glanced quickly at her two or three 
 times, with a very slight feeling of uncertainty as 
 to the result of his wooing, very slight, but enough 
 to make waiting impossible, where the stake was so 
 high. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," he said, in low and earnest tones, 
 " I have the permission of monsieur your father, and 
 of madame your mother, to address you upon a sub 
 ject which very closely concerns my happiness. 
 Mademoiselle, will you be my wife ? " 
 
 He sat leaning a little towards her, his hands folded 
 together, and his face illuminated for a moment with 
 intense love and anxiety. But Miss Carnethy did 
 not see the look, and only heard the formal proposi 
 tion his words conveyed. She saw a man standing in 
 the door near them; she knew him a Mr. Batis- 
 combe, an English man of letters and she won 
 dered a little whether he would have used the same
 
 32 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 phrases in asking a woman to marry him, whether 
 all men would speak alike in such a case. 
 
 She had looked forward to this scene more than 
 once. Again the figure of the ideal lover of her 
 dreams came to her, and seemed to pour out strong 
 speech of love. Again she involuntarily drew a com 
 parison in her mind between Marcantonio and some 
 one, something she could not define. On a sudden 
 all the honesty of her conscience sprang up and 
 showed her what she really felt. 
 
 A thousand times she had said to herself that she 
 would never marry a man she did not love ; and for 
 once that she had said it to herself, she had said it 
 ten times over to her friends, feeling that she was in 
 culcating a good and serviceable lesson. And now 
 her conscience told her that she did not love Marc 
 antonio, at least not truly, certainly not as much 
 as she would have liked to love. Then she remem 
 bered what she had thought that afternoon. How 
 was it possible that she could have thought of him 
 for a moment as her husband, if she did not love 
 him, especially with her high standard about such 
 things? Oh, that high standard! With a quick 
 transition of thought she made up her mind ; but 
 there was a strange little feeling of pain in her, such 
 as the prince might have felt in the fairy tale when 
 the ring pricked him. Nevertheless, her mind was 
 made up. 
 
 "Yes," she said very suddenly, turning so that 
 she could almost see his eyes, but not quite, for she
 
 TO LEEWARD. 33 
 
 instinctively dreaded to look him in the face ; " yes, 
 I will be your wife." 
 
 "Merci, mademoiselle," he said. The room was 
 nearly empty at the moment, and Marcantonio took 
 her passive hand and touched her fingers with his 
 lips, being quite sure that no one was looking. But 
 the man who stood at the door saw it. 
 
 " Such a good match, you know ! " said some peo 
 ple, who had no prejudices. 
 
 " Such a special grace ! " said the resident Anglo- 
 American Catholics ; " he is quite sure to convert 
 her!" 
 
 " Such a special grace ! " exclaimed the resident 
 Anglo-American Protestants ; " she is quite sure to 
 lead him back ! " 
 
 "II faut toujours se me'fier des saints," remarked 
 Marcantonio's uncle, concerning his nephew. 
 
 "Never trust red-haired women," said the man 
 who had stood at the door. 
 
 The engagement made a sensation in Rome, a 
 consummation very easily attained, and very little 
 to be desired. In places where the intercourse be 
 tween young marriageable men and young marriage 
 able women is so constrained as it is in modern 
 Europe, a man's inclinations do not escape comment, 
 and a very small seed of truth grows, beneath the 
 magic incantations of society tea parties, to a very 
 large bush of gossip. Nevertheless these good peo 
 ple are always astonished when their prophecies are 
 fulfilled, and the bush bears fruit instead of vanish-
 
 34 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ing into emptiness ; which shows that there is some 
 capacity left in them for distinguishing truth and 
 untruth. Marcantonio's marriage had long been a 
 subject in every way to the taste of the chatterers, 
 and though Madame de Charleroi had accused her 
 brother of hastiness, for lack of a better reproach, it 
 was nearly a year since his admiration for Miss Car- 
 nethy had been first noticed. During that time 
 every particular of her parentage and fortune had 
 been carefully sought after, especially by those who 
 had the least interest in the matter ; and the univer 
 sal verdict had been that the Marchese Carantoni 
 might, could, should, and probably would, marry 
 Miss Leonora Carnethy. And now that the engage 
 ment was out, society grunted as a pig may when 
 among the crab-oaks of Perigord he has discovered 
 a particularly fat and unctuous truffle. 
 
 Probably the happiest person was Marcantonio 
 himself. He was an honest, whole-souled man, and 
 in his eyes Leonora was altogether the most beauti 
 ful, the most accomplished, and the most charming 
 woman in the world. That he expressed himself 
 with so much self-control and propriety when he 
 asked her to marry him was wholly due to the man 
 ner of his education and training in the social propri 
 eties. That a man should use any language warmer 
 or less guarded than that of absolutely respectful and 
 distant courtesy toward the lady he intended to 
 make his wife was not conceivable to him. In the 
 privacy of his own rooms he worshipped and adored
 
 TO LEEWARD. 35 
 
 her with all his might and main, but when he ad 
 dressed her in person it was as a subject addresses 
 his sovereign ; a tone of respectful and submissive 
 reverence and obedience pervaded his actions and 
 his words. He would have pleased a woman who 
 loved sovereignty, better than a woman who dreamed 
 of a sovereign love. 
 
 But she was never out of his thoughts, and if he 
 wooed her humbly, he anticipated some submission 
 on her part after marriage. He had no idea of 
 always allowing her mind to wander in the strange 
 channels it seemed to prefer. He thought such an 
 intelligence capable of better things, and he deter 
 mined, half unconsciously at first, and as a matter of 
 course, that Miss Carnethy, the philosopher, should 
 be known before long as the Marchesa Carantoni, 
 the Catholic. Gradually the idea grew upon him, 
 until he saw it as the grand object of his life, the 
 great good deed he was to do. His love consented 
 to it, and was purified and beautified to him in the 
 thought that by it he should lead a great soul like 
 hers to truth and light. He was perfectly in earnest, 
 as he always was in matters of importance ; for of 
 all nations and peoples Italians have been most ac 
 cused of frivolity, heartlessness, and inconstancy, and 
 of all races they perhaps deserve the accusation least. 
 They are the least imaginative people on earth, apart 
 from the creative arts, and the most simple and 
 earnest men in the matter of love. Northern races 
 hate Italians, and they fasten triumphantly on that
 
 36 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 unlucky Latin sinner who falls first in their way as 
 the prototype of his nation, and as the butt of their 
 own prejudice. In the eyes of most northern people 
 all Italians are liars; just as a typical Frenchman 
 calls England " perfide Albion," and all Englishmen 
 traitors and thieves. Who shall decide when such 
 doctors disagree ? And is it not a proverb that there 
 is honour among thieves ? 
 
 Marcantonio never spoke of these ideas of his to 
 his friends when they congratulated him on his en 
 gagement. He only looked supremely happy, and 
 told every one that he was, which was quite true. 
 But his sister was to him a great difficulty, for she 
 evidently was disappointed and displeased. He de 
 bated within himself how he should appease her, 
 and he determined to lay before her his views about 
 Leonora's future. To that intent he visited her in 
 the boudoir, where they had so often talked before 
 the engagement. 
 
 Madame de Charleroi received him as usual, but 
 there was a look in her eyes that he was not accus 
 tomed to see there, an expression of protest, just 
 inclining to coldness, which had the effect of rous 
 ing his instinct of opposition. With his other friends 
 he had found no occasion for being combative, and 
 his old manner had sufficed; but with his sister he 
 found himself involuntarily preparing for war, though 
 his intentions were in reality pacific enough. Marc 
 antonio was very young, in spite of his nine and 
 twenty years. His manner now, as he met his sister,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 37 
 
 was a trifle more formal than usual, and he bent his 
 brows and pulled his black moustache as lie sat 
 down. 
 
 " Carissima Diana," he began, " I must speak with 
 you about my marriage, and many things." 
 
 "Yes, what is it?" asked his sister, calmly, as 
 she turned a piece of tapestry on her knee to finish 
 the end of a needleful of silk. Marcantonio had 
 somehow expected her to say something that he 
 could take hold of and oppose. Her bland question 
 confused him. 
 
 " You are not pleased," he began awkwardly. 
 
 " What would you have ? " she asked, still busy 
 with her work. " I am sure I told you what I 
 thought about it long ago." 
 
 "I want you to change your mind," said 
 Marcantonio, delighted at the first show of oppo 
 sition. Madame de Chaiieroi raised her eyebrows, 
 gave a little sigh of annoyance, and turned towards 
 him. 
 
 "I will always treat your wife with the highest 
 consideration," she said, as though that settled the 
 matter and she wished to drop the subject. But 
 her brother was not satisfied. 
 
 "I wish you to love her, Diana; I wish you to 
 treat her as your sister." 
 
 Donna Diana was silent, and Marcantonio shifted 
 his position uneasily, for he did not know exactly 
 what to do, and he saw that he was failing in 
 his mission. But in a moment his heart guided
 
 38 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 him. He went and sat beside her, and laid his 
 hand on hers. 
 
 "We cannot quarrel, dear," he said. "But will 
 you love her if I make her like you if I make 
 her thoughts as beautiful as yours ? " 
 
 Donna Diana's face softened as she turned to him 
 and affectionately pressed his hand. 
 
 " I will try to love her for your sake, dear boy," 
 she answered gently; and he kissed her fingers in 
 thanks. 
 
 "Dear Diana," he said, "you are so good! But 
 you know she is really not at all like what you 
 fancy her. She is full of heart, and so wonderfully 
 delicate and lovely, and so marvellously intelli 
 gent. There is nothing she does not know. She 
 has read all the philosophies " 
 
 " Yes, I know she has," interrupted his sister, as 
 though deprecating the discussion of Miss Carnethy's 
 wisdom. 
 
 " But not as you think," he protested, catching the 
 meaning of her tone. " She has read them all, but she 
 will take what is best from each, and I am quite sure 
 she will be a good Catholic before long." 
 
 " I really hope so," said Donna Diana seriously. 
 
 "Not that I should love her any the less if she 
 were not," continued Marcantonio, who was loth to 
 feel that there could be any condition to his love. 
 " I should love her just as much if she were a Chi 
 nese, just as much, I am sure. But of course it 
 would be much better."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 39 
 
 " Of course," assented Diana, smiling a little at 
 his enthusiasm. 
 
 Somehow the peace was made, it is so easy to 
 make peace when each can trust the other, and 
 knows it ! Just as Madame de Charleroi had deter 
 mined to say something pleasant on the evening 
 when her brother offered himself to Leonora, so now 
 she made up her mind to stand by Marcantonio, and 
 to help him in his married life by being as sympa 
 thetic and as kind as possible. 
 
 In due time Marcantonio obtained the permission 
 of the Church to unite himself with his Protestant 
 wife, and after a great many formalities the wedding 
 took place in the late spring, after Easter. 
 
 Weddings are tiresome things to talk about, and 
 even the principal persons concerned in them always 
 wish them over as soon as possible. What can be 
 more trying for a young girl than to be set up to be 
 stared at by the hour, be-feathered and be-rigged 
 in a multiplicity of ornaments, made flimsy with 
 tulle and lace, and ghastly with the accumulation 
 of white things, when she is pale enough already 
 with the acute fever of an exceedingly complicated 
 state of mind? Or how can a man possibly enjoy 
 being envied, hated, loved, despised, arid considered 
 a fool, by his rivals, his bride, the woman he has not 
 married, and his bachelor friends, all in a breath ? 
 It is absurd to suppose that any one with an intelli 
 gence above that of the average peacock can enjoy 
 playing a leading part in a matrimonial parade.
 
 40 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Marcantonio Carantoni and Leonora Carnethy 
 were married, and one of her intimate friends shed a 
 tear as she observed how extremely empty a form 
 it was. But the other looked a little pale, and said 
 she was quite sure she could have chosen some one 
 " better than that."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 41 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "NEEDLES and pins, needles and pins," the 
 rhyme is obvious, and very old, " When a man 
 marries his trouble begins." Marcantonio is an 
 Italian, and his native language contains no precise 
 equivalent of this piece of wisdom, with which every 
 English baby is made acquainted as soon as it can 
 know anything. 
 
 The real difficulty seems to be that there are as 
 many different ways of looking at marriage as there 
 are people in the world. Marriage is described as 
 being either a holy bond or a social contract. Ob 
 viously a holy bond implies at least a certain modi 
 cum of holiness on the part of the bound; and it 
 is not likely that a single and very simple form of 
 contract can ever cover the multifarious require 
 ments and exigencies of a thousand million human 
 beings. A contract, in order to be satisfactory, 
 must be thoroughly understood and appreciated by 
 the parties who undertake it, and this seems to be 
 a very unusual case in the world. 
 
 When Marcantonio Carantoni married, he was 
 possessed of very noble and exalted ideas, totally 
 unformulated, but, as he supposed, only requiring 
 the seal of experience to define, cement, and consol-
 
 42 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 idate them. He believed that his wife was to be 
 the stately queen of his household, the gentle part 
 ner of his deeds and thoughts, a loving listener to 
 his words. He pictured to himself a magnificence 
 of goodness unattainable for a man alone, but within 
 easy reach of a man and a woman together ; he 
 imagined a broad perfection of human relations 
 which should be a paradise on earth and an exam 
 ple of beatific possibility to the world. He dreamed 
 of that kind of happiness, which, as it undoubtedly 
 passes the bounds of experience, is aptly termed by 
 poets transcendent, and is regarded by men of the 
 world as a nonsensical fiction. He saw visions in 
 his sleep, and waking believed them real, for lie 
 had a great capacity for believing in all that was 
 good; and as he was human he found ceaseless de 
 light in believing in these good things, more espe 
 cially as in store for himself. He had always been 
 fond of the pleasant side of life, and found no dif 
 ficulty in conceiving of an infinite series of pleasant 
 situations, culminating in his union with Miss Leo 
 nora Carnethy. He never analysed. Only pessi 
 mists analyse, and the best they can accomplish 
 thereby is to make other men even as themselves, 
 critical to see the darns in other people's clothes, 
 and learned to spy out infinitesimal mud-specks upon 
 the garments of saints. 
 
 Marcantonio was young. There is a faculty which 
 men acquire from mixing with the world, which is 
 not pessimism, nor analysis, nor indifference ; it is
 
 TO LEEWARD. 43 
 
 rather a knowledge of good and evil with a fair 
 appreciation of their proportion in human affairs. 
 Nothing is more necessary to thought than the gen 
 eralising of laws ; nothing is more pernicious than 
 the generalising of humanity into types, the tortur 
 ing application of the nineteenth century boot to 
 the feet of all, men, women, and children alike. 
 If men are only interesting for what they are, regard 
 less of what they may be, a day of any one's actual 
 experience must be a thousand times more interest 
 ing than all the fictions that ever were written. If 
 art consists in the accurate presentation of detail, 
 then the highest art is the petrifaction of nature, 
 and the wax-works of an anatomical museum are 
 more artistically beautiful than all the marbles of 
 Phidias and Praxiteles. True art depends upon an 
 a priori capacity for distinguishing the beautiful 
 from the ugly, and the grand from the grotesque ; 
 and true knowledge of the world lies in the knowl 
 edge of good and evil, not confounding the noble 
 with the ignoble under one smearing of mud, nor 
 yet whitewashing the devil into an ill-gotten reputa 
 tion for cleanliness. The temptation of Saint An 
 thony may convey a righteous moral lesson, but the 
 temptation of Saint Anthony as described by his 
 namesake's pig would risk being too unsavoury to be 
 wholesome. 
 
 But Marcantonio was young, and he troubled him 
 self about none of these things, supposing everything 
 to be good, beautiful, and enduring, excepting such
 
 44 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 things as were evidently bad, inasmuch as they were 
 ugly and disagreeable. 
 
 Now Miss Leonora Carnethy had long been given 
 over to a sort of sleek, cynic philosophy, the kind 
 of cynicism that uses lavender water in its tub. Her 
 dissatisfaction with the world was genuine, but she 
 found means to alleviate it in the small luxuries and 
 amenities of her daily life. She and her friends had 
 talked the kernel out of life, or thought that they 
 had, but the shell was still fresh and well favoured. 
 Leonora herself was indeed subject to moods and fits 
 of real unhappiness, for she was far too intelligent a 
 person not to long for something beautiful, even 
 when she was most convinced that life was ugly. 
 There were times when she dreamed of an ideal man 
 who should win her, and love her, and give her all 
 the happiness she had missed. And again she would 
 dream of the freedom of the earth-bound soul from 
 ills, and cares, and thorns, and she would enter some 
 silent Roman church and kneel for hours before a 
 dimly lighted altar, praying for rest, and peace, and 
 inspiration of holiness. But there was too much 
 poetic feeling in her religious outpourings. If re 
 ligion is to be poetic, a very little thing will destroy 
 its harmony; some careless sacristan chatting with 
 a crony in the corner of the church, or a couple of 
 thoughtless children wrangling over a half-penny by 
 the door, or any such little thing, destroyed instantly 
 the fair illusion that lay as balm upon her unrestful 
 soul. Religion must be real to every man if it is to 
 stand the test of reality.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 45 
 
 Leonora's views of marriage were therefore more 
 or less subject to her moods. There were days, 
 indeed, few and far between, when her better intelli 
 gence got the upper hand of the fictitious fabric of 
 so-called philosophy which she had erected for her 
 self. Then for a brief space she thought of life very 
 much as Marcantonio did, and she contemplated her 
 marriage as a noble and worthy career, for mar 
 riage is a career to most women of the world. But 
 then, again, all her uncertainty returned twofold 
 upon her, and the only real thing was the dream of 
 love, the vision of a lover, and the hope of a realised 
 passion. She was so strong and radiantly human, 
 that from the moment when her mind fell into abey 
 ance the material beauty of life sprang up in her 
 heart, until, being disappointed and cast down 
 through not attaining the end of her passionate 
 dreams, she once more sank into a half-religious, 
 half-poetic melancholy. Nevertheless, the strongest 
 element in her character was the desire to be loved, 
 not by every one, but by some one manly man, and 
 loved with all the strength he had, overwhelmingly. 
 Her studies were a refuge when she saw how improb 
 able such a piece of sweet fortune was, and, as might 
 have been expected, they were far from regular and 
 systematic. She read a great deal, especially of such 
 authors as had a reputation for being profound rather 
 than clear, and, as her mind had received no kind of 
 preliminary training, the result was eminently un 
 satisfactory to herself. To Marcantonio, who knew
 
 46 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 more about the opera than about philosophy, she 
 seemed a miracle of learning, and she loved to talk 
 with him about theories, generally finding that, in 
 spite of his ignorance, he made extremely sensible 
 remarks upon thorn. But he always tried to lead 
 her to different subjects, for, in spite of his immense 
 admiration for what he supposed to be her wisdom, 
 he was aware that it seemed very vague, and that it 
 even occasionally bored him. 
 
 Leonora had acquired the unfortunate faculty of 
 deceiving herself, and when the fit was upon her she 
 saw things obliquely. In spite of the little prick of 
 conscience that hurt her when she accepted Marc- 
 antonio's offer, she had soon persuaded herself that 
 she loved him, on the principle that, since her " stand 
 ard " was so very "high," she could not possibly 
 have demeaned herself to accepting a man she did 
 not love. It is a very fine thing to believe that we 
 are so far removed from evil that we cannot do 
 wrong, and therefore that whatever we do is infallibly 
 right, no matter how our instincts may cry out 
 against it. It is a most comforting and comfortable 
 vicious circle which we convert into a crown of 
 glory for ourselves on the smallest provocation. So 
 when Leonora was finally married to Marcantonio, 
 she made herself believe that she loved him, and 
 all her vague theories were temporarily cast aside 
 and trampled upon in her determination to realise 
 in him all the happiness she had dreamed of in her 
 ideal.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 47 
 
 She had got a husband who did most truly love 
 her, and whose one and absorbing thought would be 
 her happiness, but he was not exactly what she had 
 longed for. She mistook his courtesy for coldness, 
 and his deference for indifference, and since she had 
 persuaded herself that she loved him she wanted to 
 find him a perfect fiery volcano of love and jealousy. 
 Marcantonio was nothing of the kind ; he was calm, 
 courteous, and affectionate ; he had not the slightest 
 cause for jealousy, and, not in the least understanding 
 his wife, he was perfectly happy. 
 
 Of all tests of true love a honeymoon is the 
 severest, and by every right of sensible sequence 
 ought to come last of all in the history of married 
 couples. It is the great destroyer of illusions, and 
 the more illusions there are the greater the destruc 
 tion. Two people have seen each other occasionally, 
 perhaps for an hour every day, and that is a 
 great deal in Europe, during which meetings they 
 have become more or less deeply enamoured, each 
 of the qualities of the other. People notoriously 
 behave very differently to the people they love 
 and to the world at large ; but their behaviour to 
 the world at large is the outcome of their character, 
 whereas their conduct to each other is the result, 
 or the concomitant, of a passion which may or may 
 not be real, profound, and good. But each has a 
 great number of characteristics which practically 
 never appear during those hours of courtship. Sud 
 denly the two are married, and the lid of Pandora's
 
 48 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 box is hoisted high with a vicious jerk that scares 
 the little imps inside to the verge of distraction, and 
 they fly out incontinent, with an ill savour. If the 
 lid had been gently raised, the evil spirits would 
 probably have issued forth stealthily, and one at a 
 time, without any great fuss, and might not have 
 been noticed. The two condemned ones travel to 
 gether, eat together, talk together, until in a single 
 month they have exhausted a list of bad qualities 
 that should have lasted at least half a dozen years 
 under ordinary circumstances. 
 
 Marcantonio and Leonora travelled for a time, 
 and at last agreed to spend the remainder of the 
 summer in some quiet seaside place in Southern 
 Italy. They soon discovered the fallacy of wan 
 dering about Europe with a maid and a quantity of 
 luggage, and they both hoped that under the clear 
 sky of the south they might find exactly what they 
 wanted. So they gravitated to Sorrento and hired 
 a villa overhanging the sea, and Marcantonio sug 
 gested vaguely that they might have some one to 
 stay with them if they found it dull. At this 
 Leonora felt injured. The idea of his finding life 
 dull in her company ! 
 
 "How can you possibly suggest such a thing?" 
 she asked, in a hurt tone. 
 
 " Not for myself, my dear," said Marcantonio, with 
 an affectionate smile. " It struck me that you might 
 not find it very amusing. I could never find it dull 
 where you are, ma bien aime'e." And indeed he
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 49 
 
 never did. 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 phi 
 losophy," 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 partic 
 ular 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 ex 
 pression in her face, and she seemed to have merely 
 made the remark in the air, without the least inten 
 tion 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
 
 50 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 blue eyes so bright. She was the very incarnation of 
 life. What if her features were not quite classic in 
 their proportion ? 
 
 "I am not so beautiful as Diana," she said 
 laughingly one day to Marcantonio, " but I arn 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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 51 
 
 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 luxuri 
 ous 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 glass 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.
 
 52 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " 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, che'rie," 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 per 
 fect 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, enthu 
 siastically. " I love the sea and the beautiful col 
 ours, and everything " , 
 
 She stopped short and put her arm through his 
 and made him walk again. She was conscious, per 
 haps, 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 abbre 
 viate 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.
 
 To LEEWARD. 53 
 
 " 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. 
 
 Honeymoon conversations are insignificant enough, 
 but it would be well if they were still more so. They 
 should be limited by an international law to the 
 phrases contained in the works of M. Ollendorff. 
 
 " Is it a fine day, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam, it is a very fine day, but the baker 
 has the green hat of the officer." 
 
 " Has the baker also the red cow of the general's 
 wife?" 
 
 " No, madam, the baker has not the red cow of 
 the general's wife, but the undertaker has the pen 
 knife of the aunt of the good butcher." 
 
 It would be hard for the most ill-disposed couple 
 to quarrel if confined to this simple elegance of 
 dialectics, where truths of the broadest kind are 
 clothed in the purest and most energetic words. 
 Young married people are allowed too much lati 
 tude when they are turned loose upon a whole 
 language with a sort of standing order to make con 
 versation. When they have exhausted a certain 
 fund of stock poetry and enthusiasm, they have 
 very little to fall back upon, except their personal 
 relation to each other ; and unless they are equally 
 serious or equally frivolous, the discussion of such 
 matters is apt to get them into trouble. 
 
 Like most Italians Marcantonio had difficulty in 
 understanding English humour. When Leonora said
 
 54 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 she was not quite sure she loved him, she had meant 
 it for a jest, and if the jest had a deeper meaning and 
 a possibility of truth for herself, that was no reason, 
 she thought, why Marcantonio should consider it no 
 jest at all. She was somewhat annoyed, and she 
 made up her mind that there must be an element of 
 Philistinism in his character. She hated and feared 
 Philistines, partly because they were bores, and partly 
 because she had met one or two of them who had 
 known vastly more than she did, and who had not 
 scrupled to show it. But, after all, how could Marc 
 antonio be really like them? He did not know very 
 much, nor did he pretend to, and he had very good 
 taste and was altogether very nice, no, he was not 
 a Philistine ; he loved her, and that was the reason 
 he was serious. All this she thought, springing from 
 one idea to another, and ending by drawing her arm 
 closer through his and moving along the terrace by 
 his side. 
 
 The sun had set over there in front of them, and 
 the air was cool and purple with the afterglow. They 
 stood by the wall and looked out silently, without 
 any further effort at conversation. Talking had been 
 a failure, probably because they were tired, and for 
 a brief space they were content to watch the clouds, 
 and to listen to the swift rush of the swallows and 
 the faint, soft fall of the small waves on the sand far 
 below them. There they were, linked together, for 
 better for worse, to meet the joys and the sorrows of 
 life hand in hand; to stand before the world as repre-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 55 
 
 sentatives of their class, to play a part in public, and 
 in their homes to be all in all to each other, man 
 and wife. 
 
 Man and wife ! Ah me ! for the greatness and the 
 littleness of the bonds those names stand for! Is 
 there a man so poor and thin-souled in the world that 
 he has not dreamed of calling some woman " wife " ? 
 Is there any wretch so mean and miserable in spirit 
 that he has not looked on some maiden and said, " I 
 would marry her, if I could " ? Or has any woman, 
 beautiful or ugly, fair or dark, straight or crooked, 
 not thought once, and more than once, that a man 
 would come, and love her, and take her, and marry 
 her? 
 
 But have all the woes and ills of humanity, 
 massed together and piled up in their dismal weight, 
 ever called forth one half the sorrow that has ensued 
 from this wedding and being wedded? Alas and 
 alack for the tears that have fallen thick and fast 
 from women's eyes, and for the tears that have 
 stood and burned in the eyes of strong men, good 
 and bad! Who shall count them, or who shall 
 measure them ? Who shall ever tell the griefs that 
 are beyond words, the sorrows that all earthly lan 
 guage, wielded by all earthly genius, cannot tell? 
 Will any man make bold to say that he can describe 
 what pain his neighbour feels? He may tell us 
 what he does, for he can see it ; he may tell us what 
 he thinks, for perhaps he can guess it ; but he can 
 not tell us what he suffers. The most he can do is
 
 56 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 to strike the sad minor chord that in every man's 
 heart leads to a dirge and a death -song of his own. 
 
 A man who tries to tell of great suffering is 
 rebuked. "No human creature," says the critic, 
 " could suffer as this man describes, and live. There 
 can therefore be no such suffering in the world." 
 But does any critic or reader or other intelligent 
 person say, when he reads about great happiness, 
 " This joy is too much for humanity ; there is no 
 such joy in the world " ? 
 
 We shrink from suffering, in others as in our 
 selves, and we turn to happiness and cannot get 
 enough of it, so that however the tale ends, we 
 would have made it end yet more joyfully ; for so 
 would we do with our own lives if we could. The 
 strength of half mankind is spent in trying to remedy 
 mistakes made at the outset, and I suppose that 
 there is not one man in ten millions who is not 
 striving to make himself happier, in his own fashion. 
 A man is only happy when he believes himself to 
 be so, in whatever way the proposition be turned, 
 and no man believes himself so happy but what he 
 might be happier. 
 
 Marcantonio Carantoni was in just such a posi 
 tion. He was more than contented, for he looked 
 forward to much in the future that he had not yet 
 attained, and he looked forward to it with certainty. 
 His wife Leonora was trying hard to be as happy 
 as he, but there had been a doubt a cruel, hot 
 little doubt in her soul from the first. She had
 
 TO LEEWARD. 57 
 
 deceived herself with the best intention until 
 she could hardly ever be sure that what she felt was 
 genuine. She had asked questions of her heart 
 until it was weary of answering them, and would 
 as soon speak false to her as true. 
 
 And here ends the prologue of this story.
 
 58 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A FEW days after the arrival of the Carantoni 
 establishment in Sorrento, Leonora was sitting alone 
 on a terrace of the villa with a book and a great 
 variety of small possessions in the way of needle 
 work, shawls, cushions, flowers, parasols, fans, and 
 a white cat. Marcantonio was gone to the town 
 alone, intending to buy more possessions ; for Sor 
 rento is famous for its silk-weaving and its exquisite 
 carved work of olive wood, and Leonora loved knick- 
 knacks. 
 
 "I would give anything in the world for a sen 
 sation," she thought, as she looked out over the 
 sea. 
 
 It was towards evening, and the water was as 
 smooth as glass and tinged with red. 
 
 Marcantonio was right after all. It was very 
 dull in Sorrento, with no one but one's husband to 
 speak to, and he had made such a fuss about the 
 cook's illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and 
 all that; but life with the beauties of nature is so 
 very tiresome after a time. She longed for some 
 of her friends, even her mother, she thought, 
 would be a relief. But no one had called, except 
 ing some very proper people of the Roman set,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 59 
 
 who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary- 
 ful of diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at 
 Castellamare. 
 
 She was wishing with all her might that some 
 amusing person would call, when, as though in an 
 swer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card. 
 Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some 
 toothless old princess of Rome or some other wea 
 risome bore. But as she looked at the name, 
 "Mr. Julius Batiscombe," she gave a little start 
 and her light fingers touched her lace and rib 
 bons, and her thick hair, and she said she would 
 receive. 
 
 Mr. Julius Batiscombe was a man of five and 
 thirty years of age, and a person sure to attract 
 attention anywhere. He was tall and looked strong, 
 but he trod as lightly as a woman ; none of his move 
 ments were clumsy or awkward. Not that he stepped 
 daintily or affected any feminine grace of movement ; 
 there was something in his build and proportion 
 that made it always seem easy for him to move, as 
 though his strength were perfectly under control. 
 
 People were divided in opinion concerning his 
 appearance. Some said he was handsome and some 
 said he was coarse. Some said he was refined and 
 some said he looked ill-tempered. As a matter of 
 fact he had a rather small head, set upon a strong 
 neck. His nose was large and broad, and decidedly 
 aquiline, and he had a remarkably clean-cut and 
 determined jaw. His mouth was comparatively too
 
 60 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 small for his face, but well shaped and well closed, 
 shaded by a black moustache of very moderate 
 dimensions. His blue eyes were set deep in his 
 head and far apart. Of hair he had an unusual 
 quantity, of a blue black colour, and he brushed it 
 carefully. A single deep line scored its mark across, 
 just above his brows. He had an odd way of look 
 ing at things, hiding the half of the iris under the 
 upper lid, showing the white of the eye a little 
 beneath the coloured portion. His complexion was 
 of that brilliant kind which sometimes goes with 
 black hair and blue eyes, and is known as an especial 
 characteristic of the Irish race. Moreover he was 
 noticeably well dressed, in a broad, neat fashion of 
 quiet colour, and he wore no jewelry nor ornament 
 except an old seal ring. 
 
 Opinions varied almost as much about Mr. Julius 
 Batiscorabe's character and reputation as about his 
 claims to be thought good-looking. lie had no in 
 timate friends, or was supposed to have none; and 
 he never answered many questions, because he asked 
 none. It was known that he was an Englishman 
 or an Irishman by birth, but that he had never lived 
 long in his own country v whereas he seemed to have 
 lived everywhere else under the sun. 
 
 " I am so glad you came to-day, Mr. Batiscombe," 
 said Leonora after he was seated, and looking at 
 him rather curiously. 
 
 He was the man who had stood in the doorway 
 at the ball when Marcantonio offered himself to her.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 61 
 
 She knew him as well as she knew most of the stray 
 foreigners who from time to time frequented Roman 
 society. He had been in Rome all that winter, and 
 she had met him two years earlier, when she first 
 went out. He interested her, however, by a certain 
 reserve of manner and by an air of " having a story 
 about him " as young ladies put it which was 
 unusual. 
 
 "I am very fortunate," he answered, with a 
 slight inclination and a polite smile. " I called en 
 tirely at random. Somebody said you were coming 
 here, and so I came to see if you had arrived." 
 
 " Yes," said Leonora, " we have been here sev 
 eral days, with all sorts of troubles on our hands. 
 It is such very hard work to settle down, you 
 know." 
 
 " What has been the trouble ? " inquired Mr. 
 Batiscombe, glancing at the evidences of comfort 
 that were scattered about. 
 
 "Oh it is the cook," said Leonora with a little 
 laugh ; she was just beginning to feel the novelty 
 of housekeeping, and she laughed at the mention 
 of the cook, as though the idea amused her. " He 
 has had a little fever, and my husband was dread 
 fully anxious about him. But he is quite recov 
 ered." 
 
 "I am very glad," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It 
 must be a terrible bore to have one's cook ill. Did 
 you get anything to eat in the meanwhile ? " 
 
 And so forth, and so on, through a few dozen
 
 62 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 inanities. He would not make an original remark, 
 being quite sure that Leonora would ultimately turn 
 the conversation to some congenial subject. 
 
 "Shall you be in Rome next winter, Mr. Batis- 
 combe ? " she asked at length rather suddenly. 
 
 "It is rather doubtful," he answered slowly. "I 
 am a great wanderer, you know, Marchesa. I can 
 never say with any certainty where I shall be next." 
 
 He was looking at her and thinking what a splen 
 did living thing she was, with the evening sun on 
 her red hair. That was all he thought, but it gave 
 him pleasure, and his glance lingered contentedly 
 upon her, as upon a picture or a statue. He sup 
 posed from her remark that she wanted him to talk 
 about himself, and he was willing to please her ; but 
 he was in no hurry, for he feared she would move 
 and show herself in a less favourable light. Ske 
 was so good to look at, that it was worth a visit to 
 see her ; and yet she was not a great beauty. 
 
 " I was thinking a little of going to the East," he 
 added presently. 
 
 "But you have been there, have you not?" 
 
 " Not for a long time ; and it will bear revisiting 
 often, very often. I mean to go there and study 
 again as I did years ago. You have no idea how in 
 teresting those things are." Mr. Batiscombe looked 
 thoughtfully out towards the sea. 
 
 " What are those things, as you call them ? " asked 
 Leonora. 
 
 " What many people call the ' wisdom of the East.'
 
 TO LEEWARD. 63 
 
 They make us the compliment of implying that there 
 is a ' wisdom of the West' also, which seems unlikely." 
 
 " Dear me, what a sweeping remark ! " exclaimed 
 Leonora, rather startled. 
 
 " I will prove it," said Mr. Batiscombe. " It seems 
 to me that in the West no two wise men think alike ; 
 whereas in the East no two wise men think differently. 
 Is not that a kind of proof?" 
 
 " Not a very valuable proof," said the marchesa. 
 " But I do not know much about it." 
 
 " You have the reputation of knowing more about 
 it than most people, Marchesa," answered Batiscombe. 
 " I have been told that you know everything." Leo 
 nora blushed very slightly. 
 
 " What nonsense ! " said she ; " I might say the 
 same of you." 
 
 " I observe that you do not, however," said he, 
 laughing. 
 
 " I never flatter any one," she answered calmly. 
 
 " Obviously, there is but one thing for me to say," 
 said Batiscombe still smiling. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " That no one could possibly flatter you, Marchesa, 
 since the truth is no flattery." 
 
 " No, but imitation is," retorted Leonora, well 
 pleased at having got a small advantage of him. 
 
 " Very good," said Batiscombe ; " but do you know 
 who said so ? " 
 
 " Shakespeare " began Leonora, but she stopped. 
 "No I cannot tell."
 
 64 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " A man called Colton said it. He wrote a book 
 called ' Lacon,' containing innumerable reflections 
 on things in general. He was a wandering sea- 
 parson and wrote books of travels. He died of a 
 complication of nautical and religious disorders 
 he confused the spirituous with the spiritual but 
 he was a wise man for all that." 
 
 " I suppose you remembered all that for the sake 
 of showing that you really know everything," said 
 Leonora, looking up from behind the fan that shaded 
 her eyes. 
 
 The last rays of the sun shone horizontally across 
 the terrace. The book she had been reading slipped 
 from her lap. With a quick movement Batiscombe 
 caught it before it fell and laid it on the little table. 
 Leonora noticed the action and admired the ease of 
 it. She was altogether disposed to admire the man, 
 though she would have confessed that his conversa 
 tion hitherto had not been at all remarkable. But 
 there was something in his manner that attracted her. 
 He was quick and gentle, and yet he looked so big 
 and strong. 
 
 " Thanks," she said. " By the bye, are you going 
 to spend the summer here, or are you only passing ? " 
 
 " I am only passing literally passing, for I have 
 come from the north, and am going southward. I 
 believe I am doing rather an original thing." 
 
 " You are generally supposed to be always doing 
 original things," said Leonora. 
 
 "At all events I am never bored," he answered,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 65 
 
 "which cannot be said of most people. At present 
 I am going round Italy in an open boat. It is great 
 fun. I started from Nice six weeks ago." 
 
 " How delightful ! I should like it immensely ! " 
 
 " Are you fond of sailing? " 
 
 " I enjoy it of all things," she answered. In spite 
 of her remark to the same effect made to Marcantonio 
 on the day of their arrival, she had not yet been 
 on the water. He had been so anxious about the 
 cook. 
 
 " There is a man-of-war to be launched at Cas- 
 tellamare the day after to-morrow," said Batiscombe. 
 " May I have the pleasure of taking you over in my 
 boat?" 
 
 At this moment Marcantonio appeared at the ex 
 tremity of the terrace and came towards them. 
 
 " Should you like to go ? " asked Batiscombe 
 quickly, in a lower voice. "If so I will propose 
 it at once." Leonora nodded, and her husband 
 approached. 
 
 " Marcantonio," she said, " you know Monsieur 
 Batiscombe?" 
 
 " Mais certainement," cried Marcantonio cordially, 
 and the two men shook hands. Batiscombe was at 
 least as much at home in French as his host, and 
 immediately attacked the subject- 
 
 " I came to propose to Madame la Marquise," he 
 said, " that you should come over to Castellamare in 
 my boat the day after to-morrow to see the launch. 
 I trust the plan meets your approval?"
 
 66 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Marcantonio turned to his wife to inquire. She 
 nodded to him; he nodded to her. 
 
 " We should be charmed," said he. 
 
 And so the matter was arranged; they agreed 
 about the hour, and Leonora said she would bring 
 the luncheon. 
 
 " Yes," said Marcantonio, " I am glad to say the 
 cook"- 
 
 At this point Mr. Batiscombe rose to go, and the 
 remark about the cook's health was lost in the stir. 
 Batiscombe bowed, smiled, bowed again, and moved 
 smoothly away across the terrace, disappearing with 
 a final inclination, and a sweep of his straw hat. 
 
 " He walks like a cat, that gentleman," said Marc 
 antonio as he sat himself down beside his wife. 
 
 " He is charming," said Leonora. " He has been 
 so amusing." She looked at her husband furtively 
 to see how he took the remark. 
 
 " Perhaps," thought she, " he is one of those men 
 who have to be managed by being made jealous. 
 I have read about them in novels." 
 
 But Marcantonio was very glad that she had been 
 amused, and he merely smiled pleasantly and said 
 so. It never entered his head to suppose that Leo 
 nora was not satisfied with his show of affection, 
 because he knew in himself that his love was per 
 fectly real. There is a little vanity in such men as 
 Marcantonio, together with a great deal of honesty. 
 Their vanity makes them quite sure that the woman 
 they love is satisfied, and their honesty makes them
 
 TO LEEWARD. 67 
 
 think the woman would speak out if she were not, 
 just as they themselves would do. 
 
 Leonora had vanity enough of a certain kind, 
 but it was not personal. She doubted her own 
 powers and gifts more than she need have done, 
 and there was enough uncertainty about her own 
 affection to make her uncertain of her husband's 
 love. In the meanwhile she was bored since Mr. 
 Batiscombe had gone, and she wished Marcantonio 
 would talk and amuse her. But when he did begin 
 to say something it was about local Roman politics, 
 and she understood nothing about that sort of 
 thing. She longed more and more for "a sensa 
 tion." It would probably be different to-morrow, 
 for her moods seldom lasted long. But this even 
 ing it was intolerable. She made the most absent- 
 minded answers to her husband's remarks, and seemed 
 so impatient that he suggested she must be tired and 
 had better go to bed. 
 
 "But I am not tired at all on the contrary," 
 she objected. "There is nothing to tire me here, 
 a little driving, a great deal of sitting on the ter 
 race, a great deal of reading, and very little conver 
 sation " 
 
 " Very little conversation ! " exclaimed Marcan 
 tonio. "Mais, ma chere, here it is two hours we* 
 have been talking, without counting the visit of the 
 gentleman who walks like a cat Bat Botis 
 I cannot say his name, but I know him." 
 
 " Ah, yes Mr. Batiscombe. Yes," said Leonora
 
 68 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 languidly, " he was very amusing. He talked about 
 all sorts of things." 
 
 "Shall we ask him to pass a few days with us? 
 I should be very glad, if you like him." 
 
 Marcantonio was really delighted to do anything 
 his wife might wish. Leonora was touched. He was 
 sitting beside her, and she put her arms round his 
 neck and laid her head on his shoulder. 
 
 " You are so good," she said in a low voice. " Oh, 
 I do not want anybody else here at all. I only want 
 you but all of you and I feel as though I had 
 not all yet." 
 
 For the moment she really loved him. He gently 
 smoothed her hair with his delicate, olive-tinted 
 hand. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Julius Batiscombe had gone to 
 his hotel, and, having eaten his dinner, was sitting 
 on the tiled terrace over the sea, with a cup of 
 coffee at his elbow, and a cigarette in his mouth. 
 There were lamps on the terrace, and there was 
 starlight on the water, and Mr. Batiscombe was 
 alone at his small table. 
 
 " I wish I had not gone there. I wish I had not 
 
 asked them to go to Castellamare. I wish I were 
 
 at sea in my boat." He said these things over and 
 
 'over to himself, and now and again he smiled a little 
 
 scornfully, and sipped his coffee. 
 
 Julius Batiscombe was generally in trouble. He 
 was a strong man in all respects save one. He had 
 conquered many difficulties in his life, and by sheer
 
 TO LEEWARD. 69 
 
 determination had turned evil fortune into good, 
 winning himself a name and a position, and such a 
 proportion of wealth as he needed. Of good family, 
 and brought up in luxury and refinement, he had 
 been left at twenty years of age without parents, 
 without much money, and without a profession. He 
 knew some half dozen languages, ancient and modern, 
 and he had a certain premature knowledge of the 
 world. But that was his whole stock-in-trade except 
 ing an indomitable will and perseverance, combined 
 with exceedingly good health, and a "great desire 
 for the luxuries of life. He had lived in all sorts 
 of ways and places, getting his pen under control 
 by endless literary hack-work. By and by he tried 
 his hand at journalism, and was successively addicted 
 to three or four papers, published in three or four 
 languages in three or four countries. Last of all 
 he wrote a book which unexpectedly succeeded. 
 Since then the aspect of life had changed for him, 
 and though he still wandered, from force of habit, 
 so to say, he no longer wandered in search of a fort 
 une. A pen and a few sheets of paper can be got 
 anywhere, and Julius Batiscombe set up his itinerary 
 literary forge wherever it best pleased him to work. 
 He had fought with ill-luck, and had conquered it, 
 and now he felt the confidence of a man who has 
 swum through rough water and feels at last the 
 smooth, clean sand beneath his feet. His success 
 had not turned his head in the least; he was too 
 much of an artist for that, striving always in his work
 
 70 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 to attain something that ever seemed to escape him. 
 But he now felt that he might some day get nearer 
 to what he aimed at, and there were moments, brief 
 moments, of genuine happiness, when he believed 
 that there was wrought by his pen some stroke of 
 worth that should not perish. Ten minutes later 
 he was dissatisfied with it all, and collected his 
 strength for a new effort, still hoping, and striving, 
 and labouring on, with his whole soul in his work. 
 
 Strong in body and strong in determination, he 
 was yet very weak in one respect. He was eter 
 nally falling in love, everlastingly throwing himself 
 at the feet of some woman and making mischief 
 which he afterwards bitterly regretted. It seemed 
 as though it were impossible for him to live six 
 months without some affair of a more or less serious 
 character. It made no difference whether he wan 
 dered off into the recesses of the Italian mountains, 
 or went into hermitage in the Black Forest, or 
 steamed and sweltered under a tropical sun ; there 
 was always a feminine element at hand to make 
 trouble for him. 
 
 It was not only the universal woman calling to 
 him to follow, it was the universal woman seizing 
 him and carrying him away by main force. For it 
 was no matter of inclination. He struggled hard 
 enough to deserve victory, but without any percep 
 tible result. 
 
 What gave him most pain was the dreary con 
 sciousness of his own insincerity in his love-making,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 71 
 
 the consciousness that came to him after the affair 
 was over. While it lasted he was carried away 
 and blinded by a sort of madness that took posses 
 sion of him and allowed him no time for thought. 
 But when it was over he remembered, bitterly 
 enough, how untrue it had all been, to himself and 
 to the one woman whom he had loved, and whom, 
 down in the depths of his turbulent heart, he loved 
 still. His other loves were like horrible creations 
 of black magic, bodies with no soul, when he looked 
 back on them. And yet while they lasted they 
 seemed to him real, and high, and noble. 
 
 At first he fought against every new inclination, 
 and cursed his folly in advance ; and sometimes he 
 conquered, but not always. If once the fatal point 
 were passed there was no salvation, for then he de 
 ceived himself and the deception was complete. It 
 was no wonder people thought so differently about 
 him. He had been known to do brave and gener 
 ous things, and things that showed the utmost del 
 icacy of feeling and courtesy of temper ; and he 
 had been known to act with a sheer, massive, self 
 ish disregard of other people, that made cynics 
 look grave and mild-eyed society idiots stare with 
 horror. The fact was that Julius Batiscombe in 
 love was one person, and Julius Batiscombe out of 
 love, repentant and trying to make up to the world 
 for the mischief he had done, was quite another; 
 and he knew it himself. He was perfectly conscious 
 of his own duality, and liked the one state, the
 
 72 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 state of no love, and he loathed and detested the 
 other both before and after. 
 
 And now he sat over his coffee, and the prophetic 
 warning of his soul told him that he was in danger, 
 so that he was angry at himself and feared the 
 future. He had known Miss Carnethy, as has been 
 said, for some time, and had danced with her and 
 sat beside her at dinner more than once, without 
 giving her a thought; he therefore had found it 
 perfectly natural to call when he discovered that 
 she was at Sorrento. But his impression after his 
 visit was very different. The Marchesa Carantoni 
 was not Miss Carnethy at all. 
 
 She had looked so magnificent as she sat in the 
 evening sunshine, and he had gazed contentedly at 
 her with a sense of artistic satisfaction, thinking 
 no evil. But now he could think of nothing else. 
 The sun seemed to rise again out of the dark sea, 
 turning back on its course till it was just above the 
 horizon, with a warm golden light ; by his side sat 
 the figure of a woman with glorious red hair, and 
 he was speaking to her ; the whole scene was pres 
 ent to him as he sat there, and he knew very well 
 what it was that he felt. Why had he not known 
 it at first? He would surely have had the sense 
 not to propose such a thing as a day together. "A 
 day together " had so often entailed so much misery. 
 
 Nevertheless he would not invent an excuse, nor 
 go away suddenly. It would be quite possible, he 
 knew, and perhaps also he knew in his heart that
 
 TO LEEWARD. 73 
 
 it would be altogether right. But it seemed so un- 
 courteous, he was really anxious to see the launch 
 of the great ship and and he would not be 
 such a fool as to fancy he could not look at a 
 woman without falling in love with her on the spot. 
 At his age ! Five and thirty he seemed so old 
 when he thought of all he had done in that time. 
 No. He would not only go with them, but he 
 would be as agreeable as he could, if only to show 
 himself that he was at last above that kind of 
 thing. 
 
 Some human hearts are like a great ship that 
 has no anchor, nor any means of making fast to 
 moorings. The brave vessel sails through the 
 stormy ocean, straining and struggling fiercely, till 
 she lies at last within a fair harbour. But she has 
 no anchor, and by and by the soft, smooth tide 
 washes her out to sea, so gently and cruelly, out 
 among the crests and the squalls and the rushing 
 currents, and she must fain beat to windward again 
 or perish on the grim lee shore. 
 
 Julius Batiscombe went to bed that night know 
 ing that he was adrift, and yet denying it to him 
 self ; knowing that in a month, a week perhaps, he 
 should be in trouble in love pah ! how he hated 
 the idea !
 
 74 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DURING the time that elapsed between Mr. Bat- 
 iscombe's visit and the expedition to see the launch, 
 Leonora had an access of the religious humour. The 
 little scene with her husband had made a deep im 
 pression on her mind, and as was usual when she 
 received impressions, she tried to explain it and 
 understand it and reason about it, until there was 
 little of it left. That is generally the way with those 
 people who make a study of themselves ; when they 
 have a good thought or a good impulse, they dis 
 sect the life out of it and crow over the empty shell. 
 
 It was clear, thought Leonora, that the sudden 
 outburst of affection which made her tell her hus 
 band that she wanted "all of him" was the result 
 of some sensation of dissatisfaction, of some unful 
 filled necessity for a greater sympathy. But, if at 
 the very beginning she had not the key to his heart, 
 if he did not wholly love her now, it was clear that 
 he never would at all. Why was it clear ? Oh ! 
 never mind the "why," it was quite clear. More 
 over, if he could never love her wholly as she wished 
 and desired, she was manifestly a misunderstood 
 woman, a most unhappy wife, a condemned existence, 
 loving and not being loved in return. And he,
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 75 
 
 the heartless wretch, was anxious about the cook ! 
 Good heavens ! the cook when his wife's happiness 
 was in danger! In this frame of mind there was 
 evidently nothing more appropriate for her to do 
 than to take a prayer-book and to hide her face in 
 a veil, and slip away to the little church on the road, 
 a hundred yards from the house. For a wrecked 
 existence, thought Leonora, there is no refuge like 
 the Church. She was not a Catholic, but that made 
 no difference ; in great distress like this, she could 
 very well be comforted by any kind of religion short 
 of her father's, which latter, to her exalted view, 
 consisted of four walls and a bucket of whitewash, 
 seasoned with pious discourses and an occasional 
 psalm-tune. 
 
 What she could not see, what was really at the 
 bottom of the small tempest she rashly whirled up 
 in her over-sensitive soul, was her own disillusion 
 ment. She had deceived herself into believing that 
 she loved her husband, and the deception had cost 
 her an effort. She was beginning to realise that the 
 time was at hand when she might strive in vain to 
 believe in her own sincerity, when her heart would 
 riot submit to any further equivocation, and when 
 she should know in earnest what hollowness and 
 weariness meant. As yet this was half unconscious, 
 for it seemed so easy to make herself the injured 
 party. 
 
 Poor Marcantonio was not to blame. He was 
 the happiest of mortals, and went calmly on his way,
 
 76 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 doubting nothing and thinking that he was of all 
 mortal men the most supremely fortunate. 
 
 Meanwhile Leonora kneeled in the rough little 
 church, solacing herself with the catalogue of those 
 ills she thought she was suffering. The stones were 
 hard; there was a wretched little knot of country 
 people, squalid and ill-savoured, who stared at the 
 great lady for a moment, and then went on with 
 their rosaries. A dirty little boy with a cane twenty 
 feet long was poking a taper about and lighting 
 lamps, and he dropped some of the wax on Leonora's 
 gown. But she never shrank nor looked annoyed. 
 
 " All these things are very delightful," she said to 
 herself, " if you only consider them as mortifications 
 of the flesh." 
 
 She remembered how often just such little annoy 
 ances had sent her out of other churches disgusted 
 and declaring that religion was a vain and hollow 
 thing; and now, because she could bear with them 
 and was not angry, she felt quite sure it was genuine. 
 
 "Yes," said she piously, as, an hour later, she 
 picked her way home through the dusty road, " yes, 
 the Church is a great refuge. I will go there every 
 day." 
 
 Indeed, she was so resigned and subdued that 
 evening at dinner, that Marcantonio asked whether 
 she had a headache. 
 
 " Oh no," she answered, " I am perfectly well, 
 thank you." 
 
 " Because if you are indisposed, ma bien-aime'e,"
 
 TO LEEWARD. 77 
 
 continued her husband with some anxiety, "we will 
 not go to Castellamare to-morrow." 
 
 "I will certainly go," she said. "I would go if 
 I had twenty headaches," she might have added, 
 for it would have been true. 
 
 " The occasion will be so much the more brilliant, 
 ma tie's che"re," remarked Marcantonio gallantly, as 
 they went out into the garden under the stars. 
 
 "It is a hollow sham," said Leonora to herself. 
 " He does not mean it." 
 
 But whether it was the effect of the morning, or 
 the magic influence of Mr. Batiscombe's personality, 
 is not certain ; at all events when that gentleman 
 appeared at the appointed hour to announce that 
 his boat was in readiness, Leonora looked as though 
 she had never known what care meant. She doubt 
 less still remembered all she had thought on the 
 previous afternoon, and she was still quite sure that 
 her existence was a wreck and a misery, but then, 
 she argued, why should we poor misunderstood women 
 not take such innocent pleasures as come in our way ? 
 It would be very wrong not to accept humbly the lit 
 tle crumbs of happiness, and so on. So they went 
 to Castellamare. 
 
 It is not far, but the wind seldom serves in the 
 morning, and it was an hour and a half before the 
 six stout men in white clothes and straw hats pulled 
 the boat round the breakwater of the arsenal. 
 Everything was ready for the ceremony. Half a 
 dozen Italian ironclads lay in the harbour, decked
 
 78 TO LEEWAKD. 
 
 from stem to stern with flags ; the royal personages 
 had arrived, and were boring each other to death in 
 a great temporary balcony, gaudily decorated with 
 red and gold, which had been reared on the shore 
 within reach of the nose of the new ship. The ship 
 herself, a huge, ungainly thing, painted red and bear 
 ing three enormous national flags, lay like a stranded 
 monster in the cradle, looking for all the world like 
 a prehistoric boiled lobster with its claws taken 
 off. The small water room opposite the arsenal was 
 crowded with every kind of craft, and little steamers 
 arrived every few minutes from Naples to swell the 
 throng. The July sun beat fiercely down and there 
 was not a breath of air. The boatmen were all 
 wrangling in a dozen southern dialects, and no one 
 seemed to know why the ceremony was delayed any 
 longer. Nevertheless, as is usual in such cases, there 
 was half an hour to wait before the thing could be 
 done. 
 
 " I am afraid you will find this a dreadful bore," 
 said Batiscombe to Leonora in English, while Marc- 
 antonio was busy trying to make out some of his 
 friends on shore through a field-glass. Batiscomlje 
 had sat in the stern-sheets to steer during the trip, 
 and having Leonora on one side of him and her hus 
 band on the other, had gone through an endless 
 series of polite platitudes. If it had not been that 
 Leonora attracted him so much he must himself have 
 been bored to extinction. But then in that case he 
 would probably not have put himself in such a posi 
 tion at all.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 79 
 
 " Oh, nothing of this kind bores me," said Leonora 
 cheerfully. 
 
 " You say that as though there were many kinds 
 of things that did, though," observed Batiscombe, 
 looking at her. It was a natural remark, without 
 any intention. 
 
 "Dear me, yes!" exclaimed Leonora. "Life is 
 not all roses, you know." She therewith assumed 
 a thoughtful expression and looked away. 
 
 " I should not have supposed there were many 
 thorns in your path, Marchesa. Would it be indis 
 creet to inquire of what nature they may be ? " 
 
 Leonora was silent, and put up her glass to ex 
 amine the proceedings on shore. 
 
 Batiscombe, who had come out that day with the 
 sworn determination not to say or do anything to 
 increase the interest he felt in the Marchesa, found 
 himself wondering whether she were unhappy. The 
 first and most natural conclusion was that she had 
 been married to Marcantonio by designing parents, 
 and that she did not care for him. Society said it 
 had been a love-match, but what will society not 
 say ? " Poor thing," he thought, " I suppose she is 
 miserable ! " 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, in a low voice. " I did not 
 know you were in earnest." 
 
 Leonora blushed faintly and glanced quickly at 
 him. He had the faculty of saying little things to 
 women that attracted their attention. 
 
 "What lots of poetry one might make about a
 
 80 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 launch," he said laughing, for it was necessary 
 to change the subject, "ship dip; ocean mo 
 tion; keel feel; the rhymes are perfectly endless." 
 
 " Yes," said Leonora ; " you might make a son 
 net on the spot. Besides, there is a great deal of 
 sentiment about the launching of a great man-of- 
 war. The voyage of life and that sort of thing 
 don't you know? How hot it is ! " 
 
 "I will have another awning up in a minute," 
 and he directed the sailors, helping to do the work 
 himself. He stood upon the gunwale to do it. 
 
 "I am sure you will fall," said Leonora, ner 
 vously. " Do sit down ! " 
 
 " If I had a millstone round my neck there would 
 be some object in falling," said Batiscombe. "As it is, 
 I should not even have the satisfaction of drowning." 
 
 " What an idea ! Should you like to be drowned ? " 
 she said, looking up to him. 
 
 " Sometimes," he answered, still busy with the 
 awning. Then he sat down again. 
 
 " You should not say that sort of thing," said 
 Leonora. "Besides, it is rude to say you should 
 like to be drowned when I am your guest." 
 
 " Great truths are not always pretty. But how 
 could any man die better than at your feet ? " He 
 laughed a little, and yet his voice had an earnest 
 ring to it. He had judged rightly when he foresaw 
 that he must fall in love with Leonora. 
 
 Marcantonio, who did not understand English, 
 was watching the proceedings on shore.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 81 
 
 "Ah! it is magnificent ! " he cried, with great 
 enthusiasm. The royal personage who was to 
 christen the ship had just broken the bottle of 
 wine, and the little crowd of courtiers, officers, and 
 maids of honour clapped their hands and grinned. 
 They all looked hot and miserable and exhausted, 
 but they grinned right nobly, like so many Cheshire 
 cats. There was a sound of knocking and hammer 
 ing, a final shout of warning from the dock officers, 
 a slight trembling of the great hull, and then the 
 ship began to move, slowly at first, and ever more 
 quickly, till with a mighty rush and a plunge and a 
 swirl she was out in the water. The people yelled 
 till they were hoarse, the boatmen cursed each other 
 by all the maledictions ever invented to meet the 
 exigencies of a lost humanity, the royal personages 
 stood together on their platform looking like a troupe 
 of marionettes in a toy theatre, and congratulating 
 each other furiously as though they had done it all 
 themselves ; everything was noise and sunshine and 
 tepid water; Marcantonio was flourishing his hat, 
 and Leonora waved a little lace handkerchief, while 
 Batiscombe sat looking at her and wondering why 
 he had never thought her beautiful before. Indeed, 
 she was superb in her simple, raw silk gown, with 
 fresh-cut roses at her waist. 
 
 " It seems to me, Marchese, that you are very 
 enthusiastic," said Batiscombe to Marcantonio. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " exclaimed the other, shrugging his 
 shoulders, " one cheers these things as one would 
 cheer fireworks, or a race. It signifies nothing."
 
 82 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " Oh, of course," said Leonora ; " and besides, it 
 is so pretty." 
 
 "I think it is horrible," said Batiscombe, suddenly. 
 
 Why what?" 
 
 " To see a nation squandering money in this way, 
 when the taxes on land are at sixty per cent, and 
 more, and the people emigrating by the shipload be 
 cause they cannot live in their own homes." 
 
 "Oh, for that matter, you are right," said Marc- 
 antonio, turning grave in a moment. " I could tell 
 you a story about taxes." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Leonora. "Those things 
 are so interesting." 
 
 " Last autumn I was in the Sabines ; I have a place 
 up there, altogether ancient and dilapidated a mere 
 ruin. I own some of the land, and the peasants own 
 little vineyards. One day I saw by the roadside a 
 poor old man, a sort of village cretin, whom every 
 one knew quite well. We used to call him Cupido ; 
 he was half idiotic and quite old. He was weeping 
 bitterly, poor wretch, and I asked him what was the 
 matter. He pointed to a little plot of land by the 
 road, inclosed by a stone wall, and said the tax- 
 gatherer had taken it from him. And then he cried 
 again, and I could not get anything more out of him." 
 
 " Poor creature ! " exclaimed Leonora, sympatheti 
 cally. 
 
 " Well," continued Marcantonio, " I made inqui 
 ries, and I found that he had owned the little plot, 
 and that the tax-gatherer had first seized the wretched
 
 TO LEEWARD. 83 
 
 crop of maize perhaps a bushel basket full to 
 pay the tax ; and then, as that did not cover his de 
 mands, he seized the land itself and sold it or offered 
 it for sale." 
 
 " Infamous ! " cried Leonora, and the tears were in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " A cheerful state of things," remarked Batiscombe, 
 "when the whole crop does not suffice to pay the 
 taxes on the soil ! " 
 
 " N'est-ce pas ? " said Marcantonio. "Well, I pro 
 vided for the poor old man, but he died in the winter. 
 It broke his heart." J 
 
 "I love the Italians," said Batiscombe; "but their 
 ideas of economy are peculiar. I suppose that with 
 out much metaphor or exaggeration one might say 
 that the poor cretin's bushel of corn is gone into that 
 ridiculous ironclad over there." 
 
 " But of course it is," said Marcantonio. " The 
 whole thing probably paid for one rivet. You, who 
 write books, Monsieur Batiscombe, put that into a 
 book and render it very pathetic." 
 
 "It needs little rendering to make it that," said 
 Batiscombe, and he looked at Leonora's eyes that 
 were not yet dry. 
 
 By this time the royal marionettes had been 
 bundled off to their boats, and the crowd of small 
 craft on the water began to disperse. Batiscombe's 
 six men fell to their oars and the boat shot out from 
 the breakwater. Presently they hoisted the bright 
 1 The author witnessed the facts here described in 1880.
 
 84 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 lateen sails to the breeze. Batiscombe perched him 
 self on the weather rail, and took the tiller, as the 
 brave little craft heeled over and began to cut the 
 water. The wind fanned Leonora's cheek, and she 
 said it was delightful. 
 
 Batiscombe suggested that they should run into 
 one of the great green caves that honeycomb the 
 cliffs near Sorrento, and make it their dining-room. 
 So away they went, rejoicing to be out of the heat 
 and the noise. It was twelve o'clock, and far up 
 among the orange groves the little church bells rang 
 out their midday chime, laughing together in the 
 white belfries for joy of the sunshine and the fair 
 summer's day. 
 
 " I should like to be always sailing," said Leo 
 nora, who had now quite forgotten her woes and 
 enjoyed the change. 
 
 "Ma che're," said her husband, "there is nothing 
 simpler." 
 
 " You always say that," she answered rather re 
 proachfully ; " but this is the very first time I have 
 been on the water since we came." 
 
 "My boat and my men are always at your dis 
 posal, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, looking down at 
 her, "and myself, too, if you will condescend to 
 employ me as your skipper." 
 
 "Thanks, you are very good," said she. "But 
 I thought you were only passing, and were to be 
 off in a few days?" She glanced up at him, as 
 though she meant to be answered.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 85 
 
 " Oh, it is very uncertain," said Batiscombe. " It 
 depends," he added in a lower voice and in Eng 
 lish, "upon whether you will use the boat." It 
 was rather a bold stroke, but it told, and he was 
 rewarded. 
 
 "I should like very much to go out again some 
 day," she said. 
 
 Those little words and sentences, what danger 
 signals they ought to be to people about to fall in 
 love ! Batiscombe knew it ; he knew well that 
 every such speech, in her native language and in a 
 half voice, was one step nearer to the inevitable 
 end. But he was fast getting to the point when, as 
 far as he himself was concerned, the die would be 
 cast. His manner changed perceptibly during the 
 day, as the influence gained strength. His voice 
 grew lower and he laughed less, while his eyes 
 shone curiously, even in the midday sun. 
 
 The boat ran into the cave, which was the largest 
 on the shore, and would admit the mast and the 
 long yards without difficulty. Within the light was 
 green, and the water now and again plashed on the 
 rocks. The men steadied the craft with their oars 
 and the party proceeded to lunch. Most of "society" 
 has a most excellent appetite, and when one reflects 
 how very hard society works to amuse itself, it is 
 not surprising that it should need generous nourish 
 ment. The unlucky cook had done his best, and 
 the result was satisfactory. There were all manner 
 of things, and some bottles of strong Falerno wine. 
 Batiscombe drank water and very little of it.
 
 86 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " Somebody has said," remarked Marcantonio with 
 a laugh, " that one must distrust the man who drinks 
 water when other people drink wine. We shall have 
 to beware of you, Monsieur Batiscombe." He had 
 learned the name very well by this time. 
 
 "Perhaps there is truth in it," said Batiscombe, 
 "but it is not my habit I can assure you. The 
 origin of the saying lies in the good old custom of 
 doctoring other people's draughts. The man who 
 drank water at a feast two hundred years ago was 
 either afraid of being poisoned himself, or was 
 engaged in poisoning his neighbours." 
 
 " Oh, the dear, good old time ! " exclaimed Leo 
 nora, eating her salad daintily. 
 
 " Do you wish it were back again ? " asked Batis 
 combe. "Are there many people you would like 
 to poison ? " 
 
 " Oh, not that exactly," and she laughed. " But 
 life must have been very exciting and interesting 
 then." 
 
 " Enfin," remarked Marcantonio, " I am very well 
 pleased with it as it is. There was no opera, no elec 
 tion, no launching of war-ships ; and when you went 
 out you had to wear a patent safe on your head, in 
 case anybody wanted to break it for you. And then, 
 there was generally some one who did. Yes, indeed, 
 it must have been charming, altogether ravishing. 
 Allez ! give me the nineteenth century." 
 
 " I assure you, Marchesa,," said Batiscombe, " life 
 can be exceedingly exciting and interesting now."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 87 
 
 " I dare say," retorted Leonora, " for people who 
 go round the world in boats in search of adventures, 
 and write books abusing their enemies. But we 
 what do we ever do that is interesting or exciting? 
 We stay ftt home and pour tea." 
 
 " And in those days," answered Batiscombe, " the 
 ladies stayed at home and knit stockings, or if they 
 were very clever they worked miles and miles of 
 embroidery and acres of tapestry. About once a 
 month they were allowed to look out of the window 
 and see their relations beating each other's brains 
 out with iron clubs, and running each other through 
 the body with pointed sticks. As the Marchese says, 
 it was absolutely delightful, that kind of life." 
 
 " You are dreadfully prejudiced," said Leonora. 
 
 " But I am sure it was very nice." 
 
 And so they talked, and the men smoked a little, 
 till they decided that they had had enough of it, and 
 the oars plashed in the water together, sending the 
 boat out again into the bright sun. In five minutes 
 they were at the landing belonging to the Carantoni 
 villa. There was a deep cleft in the cliffs just there, 
 and the descent wound curiously in and out of the 
 rock, so that in many places you could only trace 
 it from below by the windows hewn in the solid stone 
 to give light and air to the passage. The rocks ran 
 out a little at the base, and there were steps carved 
 for landing. There are few places so strikingly odd 
 as this landing to the Carantoni villa. Leonora said 
 it was "eerie."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 When it came to parting, the young couple were 
 profuse in their thanks to Mr. Batiscombe for the 
 enchanting trip. 
 
 " I hope," said Marcantonio, " that you will come 
 and dine with us very soon, and change your mind 
 about the water-drinking, and give us another op 
 portunity of thanking you." 
 
 "I have enjoyed it very, very much," said Leonora, 
 giving Batiscombe her hand. Their eyes met, and 
 for the first time she noticed the curious light in his 
 glance. But he bowed very low and very elaborately, 
 so to say. 
 
 " You will keep your promise," he said, " and use 
 the boat again ? " 
 
 "Thanks so very much. But of course we will 
 have a boat of our own now, and so I should not 
 think of asking you." 
 
 She smiled a little at him. Somehow he under 
 stood perfectly that he could nevertheless induce her 
 to accept his offer. He stood hat in hand on the 
 rocks as they disappeared into the dark stairway. 
 Then he sprang into the boat, and the men pulled 
 lustily away. 
 
 He leaned back in the stern with his hand on the 
 tiller and his eyes half closed. In the bottom of the 
 boat were the luncheon baskets, and one of Leonora's 
 roses had fallen from the stem and lay withering in 
 the hot July sun. Batiscombe picked it up, looked 
 at it, pulled a leaf or two, and threw it overboard, 
 with a half sneer of dissatisfaction.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 89 
 
 "They have forgotten the baskets, though," he 
 thought to himself. " If they had asked me to go 
 up with them, as they should have done, I would 
 have had them carried up. As it is I will I will 
 wait till they write for them. I could hardly take 
 them myself." And he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 As Leonora mounted the stairway, leaning on her 
 husband's arm, she turned to get a glimpse of the 
 boat gliding away in the distance. She could just 
 see it through one of the windows in the rock. 
 
 "Why did you not ask him to come up?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "Why did you not ask him, my angel?" returned 
 Marcantonio. 
 
 " I thought you might not like it," she answered. 
 
 " Comment done ! He is very amiable, I am sure. 
 But I thought you were tired and had had enough 
 of him, in short, that you did not want him." 
 
 " Ah ! " ejaculated Leonora. She felt a little curi 
 ous sense of pleasure, that was quite new to her, 
 at the idea that her husband could have seriously 
 thought she did not want Mr. Batiscombe. 
 
 " Naturally," added Marcantonio, " we ought to 
 have asked him." 
 
 " I suppose so," said she, indifferently enough. 
 
 " I will call on him to-morrow, and we will have 
 him to dinner, if it is agreeable to you, my dear." 
 
 " Oh yes I do not mind at all," said Leonora. 
 She was thinking about something, and did not speak 
 again till they reached the house.
 
 90 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 It was very frivolous, but she was really thinking 
 about the curious expression of Mr. Batiscombe's 
 eyes. She did not remember to have ever seen any 
 thing exactly like it. Besides, she had known him, 
 more or less, for some time, and had never noticed 
 it before. Perhaps it was the reflection from the 
 water. But she dreamed that night that she saw 
 those eyes veiy close to her, and the expression of 
 them frightened her a little, but was not altogether 
 disagreeable.
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 91 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 JULIUS BATISCOMBE was a restless man by day 
 and night, after the trip to Castellamare. Marc- 
 antonio called upon him, but he was out, and then 
 he received an invitation to dinner from Leonora, 
 with a postscript about the unlucky baskets. He 
 accepted the invitation. What else could he do ? 
 
 But when the day came he regretted it. He 
 wished he had refused and had gone away. Then 
 he made a fine resolution. 
 
 " I will not go to this dinner," he said to himself, 
 savagely, as he walked quickly up and down his 
 room. "I will not go near her again. It is not 
 right, and I will not do it. I will sail over to Naples 
 at once, and send back a telegram of excuse, saying 
 that a matter of the most urgent importance keeps 
 me there. So it is I should think so a matter 
 of very urgent importance. Oh ! Julius Batiscombe, 
 what an ass you are, to be sure ! " With that he 
 crammed some things into a bag, sent for his man, 
 and descended in hot haste to the shore. There was 
 no time to be lost, for it was already four o'clock in 
 the afternoon and the invitation was for eight. He 
 could just reach Naples and send his telegram in time 
 to prevent the Carantoni from waiting for him.
 
 92 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 The lazy breeze was dying away, and he wished 
 he had had the sense to make up his mind sooner. 
 But his men rowed lustily, and kept time, so that 
 the boat spun along fairly enough. 
 
 " I shall do it," said Julius Batiscombe to himself. 
 
 He was happy enough in the sensation that he 
 was cheating his fate and was about to escape a 
 serious affection. Then he laughed at the comic 
 side of the case, and lit a cigar and blew great clouds 
 of smoke over his shoulder. But fate and Batis 
 combe were old enemies, and fate generally got the 
 better of it. 
 
 It chanced that on this very day Leonora and 
 Marcantonio had determined to go out in the new 
 boat. For Marcantonio had wanted to give his wife 
 a surprise, and had got from Naples a beautiful clean- 
 built launch. He had said nothing about it, and 
 had patiently borne her reproaches at his indifference 
 to sailing, until on the previous evening he had taken 
 her down the descent to the rocks and had shown 
 her his purchase, which had just arrived by the 
 steamer. Of course she was enchanted, and deter 
 mined to make the most of it, for she was really 
 fond of the water. Accordingly, on this very day, 
 she and her husband sallied forth with six men, 
 for he had not dared to give her a smaller crew than 
 Mr. Batiscombe's. She was in such a hurry to go 
 that she said she did not mind the sun in the least, 
 oh dear, no ! she rather liked it. And so it came 
 to pass that a few minutes after Julius had given
 
 TO LEEWAED. 93 
 
 his men the word to fall to their oars at the little 
 beach of the town of Sorrento, a long low craft, 
 painted in dark green and gold, and looking exceed 
 ingly trim and "fit" with its long lateen yards and 
 raking masts, shot out from the cleft beneath Leo 
 nora's villa. 
 
 Batiscombe looked straight before him, steering 
 by the Naples shore, and intent on wasting neither 
 time nor distance. He might have been out half 
 an hour or more when a remark from one of his 
 crew made him look round, and he was aware of a 
 dark green boat two or three hundred yards astern, 
 but rapidly pulling up to him. He started, for 
 though he could not see the faces of the occupants, 
 he recognised a parasol that Leonora had taken to 
 Castellamare. 
 
 "It is the new boat of the Marchese Carantoni," 
 said the sailor who had first spoken to Batiscombe. 
 The man had seen it arrive by the steamer on the 
 previous evening, and had helped to put it into the 
 water to be rowed down to the villa. Batiscombe 
 gave one more look and groaned inwardly. He 
 would make a fight for it, though, he thought. He 
 encouraged his men not to allow themselves to be 
 overtaken by a parcel of Neapolitans, as he deri 
 sively called the crew of Carantoni's boat. His 
 own men were tough fellows from the north of Italy, 
 bearded, and broad, and bronzed ; but his boat, built 
 for rougher weather and rougher work than pleasure- 
 rowing in the bay of Naples, was twice as heavy as
 
 94 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the slight green craft astern. His sturdy men set 
 their teeth and tugged hard, but the others gained 
 on them. 
 
 Leonora and Marcantonio had recognised the cut 
 of Batiscombe's boat and crew from a distance ; and, 
 in profound ignorance of his amiable intentions of 
 flight, they imagined nothing more amusing than to 
 race him. 
 
 " If we cannot beat him," said Leonora, breathless 
 with excitement, " I will never come out in your boat 
 again ! " 
 
 She strained her eyes to make out if they were 
 gaining way. Marcantonio spoke to the men : 
 
 " Corraggio, Corraggio ! 
 Maccaroni con formaggio ! " 
 
 The men repeated the rhyme to each other with a 
 grin, and bent hard to their work. They were not 
 Neapolitans as Batiscombe called them, but strong- 
 backed, slim fishermen from the southern coast, as 
 dark as Arabs and as merry as thieves, enjoying a 
 race of all things best in the world, and well able to 
 row it. Swiftly the dark green boat crept up to her 
 rival, and soon Batiscombe could hear the remarks of 
 the men. His own crew did their best, but it was a 
 hopeless case. 
 
 " Monsieur Batiscombe, Monsieur Batiscombe," 
 shouted Marcantonio, almost as much excited as 
 his wife, " we shall conquer you immediately ! " 
 
 Julius turned and waved his hat, and made a gest-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 95 
 
 ure of submission. A few lengths more and they 
 were beside him. He raised his hand, and his men 
 hung on their oars. 
 
 " Kismet ! it is my portion," he said to himself as 
 lie gave up the fight. 
 
 " But where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. 
 Batiscombe ? " asked Leonora, who was delighted at 
 having won the race. " You see it is no use running 
 away ; we can catch you so easily." 
 
 " Yes," said Batiscombe, laughing recklessly at the 
 hidden truth of her words, " I see it is of no use, but 
 I tried hard. It was a good race." 
 
 He turned in his seat and leaned over, looking at 
 his friends. The boats drifted together, and the 
 men held them side by side, unshipping their oars. 
 Batiscombe admired the whole turnout, and compli 
 mented Leonora upon it. Marcantonio was pleased 
 with everything and everybody ; he was delighted 
 that his wife should have had the small satisfaction 
 of victory, and he was proud that his boat had ful 
 filled his expectations. So they floated along side 
 by side, saying the pleasantest manner of things 
 possible to each other. Time flew by, and presently 
 they turned homewards. 
 
 " I wonder how long it will be," thought Batis 
 combe as he held the tiller hard over and his boat 
 swung about, " before I tell her where I was going 
 ' in such a hurry ' ? " And he smiled in a grim sort 
 of irony at himself, for he knew that he was lost. 
 
 "Eight o'clock don't forget!" cried Leonora.
 
 96 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 She had a pleasant voice that carried far over the 
 water. Batiscombe waved his hat, and smiled and 
 bowed. They were soon separated, and their courses 
 became more and more divergent as they neared the 
 land. 
 
 Batiscombe swore a little over his dressing, quite 
 quietly and to himself, but he bestowed much care 
 upon his appearance. He knew just how much al 
 ways depends on appearance at the outset, and how 
 little it is to be relied on at a later stage. So he 
 gave an unusual amount of thought to his tie, and 
 was extremely fastidious about the flower in his 
 coat. 
 
 As for Leonora, she was on the point of a change 
 of mood. She had been very gay and happy all day 
 long, and the adventure with the boat had still fur 
 ther raised her spirits. But that was all the more 
 reason why they should sink again before long, for 
 her humours were mostly of short duration, though of 
 strong impulse. This evening she felt as though 
 there were something the matter, or as though some 
 thing were going to happen, and her gayety seemed 
 to be the least bit fictitious to herself. She and her 
 husband stood on the terrace in the sunset, awaiting 
 their guest. 
 
 " My dear," said Marcantonio, " I am in despair. 
 I shall be obliged to go to Rome to-morrow or the 
 next day. My uncle, the cardinal, writes me that it 
 is very important." Leonora's face fell ; she had a 
 sharp little sense of pain.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 97 
 
 " Oh, Marcantoine," she said, " do not go away 
 now ! " 
 
 "It is only for a day or two, my angel," he said, 
 drawing her arm through his. 
 
 " Must you really go ? " she asked, not looking at 
 him. 
 
 " Helas, yes." 
 
 " Then I will go with you," said she, in a deter 
 mined tone. 
 
 "Ah, I thank you for the wish, che"rie," he an 
 swered. "But you will tire yourself, and be so hot 
 arid uncomfortable. See, I will only be away a day 
 and a half." 
 
 "But I do not want to be alone here without you," 
 she pleaded. She could not for her life have told 
 why she was so distressed at the idea, but it gave her 
 pain, and she insisted. 
 
 " As you wish," said Marcantonio, kissing her 
 hand. " I will make every arrangement for your 
 comfort, and do what I can to make the journey 
 pleasant." 
 
 He was a little surprised, but, manlike, he was 
 flattered at his wife's show of affection. There are 
 moments in a woman's life when, whether she loves 
 her husband or not, she turns to him and holds to 
 him with an instinctive sense of reliance. 
 
 A moment later Julius Batiscombe was announced, 
 and the three went in to dinner. It was a strange 
 position, though it is by no means an uncommon one. 
 A man, his wife, and another man, an outsider ; the
 
 98 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 outsider loving the woman, the husband supremely 
 happy and unconscious, and the woman feeling the 
 evil influence, not altogether opposing it, and yet 
 clinging desperately to her husband's love. Three 
 lives, all trembling in the balance of weal and woe. 
 But no one could have suspected it from their ap 
 pearance, for they were apparently the gayest and 
 most thoughtless of mortals. 
 
 The adventure in the afternoon, the expedition 
 to Castellamare, the baskets and even the cook, 
 then, the events of the past winter, their many 
 mutual acquaintances, and the whole unfathomable 
 cyclopaedia of society facts and fictions, every 
 thing was reviewed in turn, and talked of with witty 
 comments, good-natured or ill-natured as the case 
 might be. Batiscombe was full of strange stories, 
 generally about people they all knew, but he was 
 not a gossip by nature, and he avoided saying dis 
 agreeable things. Leonora, on the other hand, 
 would be gay and brilliant for a few moments, and 
 then would let fall some bitter saying that sounded 
 oddly to Batiscombe, though it made her husband 
 laugh. 
 
 "You would have us believe you terribly dis 
 illusioned, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, after one 
 of these sallies. Leonora laughed, and her eyes 
 flashed again as she looked at him across the table. 
 
 " You, who are so fond of Eastern magic," she 
 said, "should give back to this age all the illusions 
 we have lost."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 99 
 
 " Were I to do so," answered Batiscombe, look 
 ing into her eyes as he spoke, " I fear that you, 
 who are so fond of Western philosophy, would tear 
 them all to pieces." 
 
 "My poor philosophy," exclaimed Leonora, "you 
 wiir not let it alone. You seem to think it is to 
 blame for everything, as if one could not try, ever 
 so humbly, to learn a little something for one's self, 
 without being always held up for it as an exception 
 to the whole human race. It is as if I were to at 
 tribute everything you say and do to the fact of 
 your having written a book how many two? 
 three?" She laughed gayly. "I do not know," 
 she continued, "and I will never read anything 
 more that you write, because you laugh at my phi 
 losophy." 
 
 " It is better to laugh at it than to cry at it," said 
 Marcantonio, without meaning anything. 
 
 " Why should I cry at it?" asked Leonora quickly. 
 Her husband did not know how honestly she had 
 shed tears and made herself miserable over it all. 
 
 " You laugh now," he answered, " but imagine a 
 little. All philosophers are old and hideous, and 
 wear " 
 
 " For goodness' sake, Marchese," broke in Batis 
 combe, " do not paint the devil on the wall, as the 
 Germans say." 
 
 " The Germans need not paint the devil," re 
 torted Marcantonio, irrelevantly. " They need only 
 look into the glass." He hated the whole race.
 
 100 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "You might as well say that Italians need not 
 go to the theatre," put in Leonora, " because they 
 are all actors." Her husband laughed good-hu- 
 mouredly. 
 
 " You might as well say," said Batiscombe, " that 
 Englishmen need not keep horses because they are 
 all donkeys. But please do not say it." 
 
 "No," said Leonora, "we will spare you. But 
 you might say anything in the world of that kind. 
 It has no bearing on my philosophy." 
 
 "That is true," answered Marcantonio. "I said 
 that philosophers were old and hideous, but not that 
 they were devils, actors, or donkeys. You suggest 
 the idea. I think they are probabty all three." 
 
 " Provided you do not think so after I have become 
 a philosopher," said Leonora, "you may think what 
 you please at present, mon ami." 
 
 " I think that you are altogether the most charm 
 ing woman in the world," replied her husband, look 
 ing at her affectionately. 
 
 "Is it permitted to remark that the Marchese is 
 not alone in that opinion?" inquired Batiscombe, 
 politely. 
 
 " No," said Leonora, demurely, " it is not per 
 mitted. And observe that an English husband would 
 not say that kind of thing in public, mon cher." 
 
 " Perhaps because they do not believe it in pri 
 vate," objected Marcantonio. 
 
 " More likely for the reason I suggested," observed 
 Batiscombe, " that we are all donkeys."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 101 
 
 "All?" asked Leonora. "But some of you are 
 authors " 
 
 " It is the same thing," said Batiscombe. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! there are times" began Marcan- 
 tonio. 
 
 " When you believe it ? " inquired Batiscombe, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Ah, no ! you are unkind ; but times when I 
 should like to be an Englishman." 
 
 " I have heard of such people," said Batiscombe, 
 gravely, " but I have never met one. You interest 
 me, Marchese." 
 
 " You must not be so terribly disloyal," said Leo 
 nora. "You know I am English, too, at least, I 
 was," she added, looking at Marcantonio. 
 
 " Precisely," said he. " The wife takes the nation 
 ality of the husband." 
 
 " I am not disloyal," answered Batiscombe. " I 
 am very glad to be an Englishman, but I cannot 
 fancy any one else wishing to be one. I should 
 think every one would be perfectly contented with 
 his own country. I cannot imagine wanting to 
 change my nationality any more than my person." 
 
 " Evidently, you are well satisfied," said Leonora. 
 
 " Perfectly, thank you, for the present. When I 
 am tiied of myself I will retire gracefully or per 
 haps gracelessly ; but I will retire. I am sure I 
 should never find another personality half as much 
 in sympathy with my ideas." 
 
 As they followed Leonora from the dining-room
 
 102 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 out upon the terrace, Batiscombe watched her in 
 tently. There was a strength and ease about her 
 carriage that pleased his strong love of life and 
 beauty. He noticed what he had hardly noticed 
 before, that her figure was a marvel of proportion, 
 no wasp-waisted impossibility of lacing and high 
 shoulders, but strong and lithe, and instinct with 
 elastic motion. He had seen her lately always in 
 some wrap, or lace, or mazy summer garment, whereas 
 this evening she was clad in close silk of a deep-red 
 colour, with the least possible trimming or marring 
 line. The masses of her hair, too, rich in red lights 
 and deep shadows, were coiled close to her noble 
 head, and her dazzling throat just showed at the 
 square cutting of her dress. 
 
 " People must be wonderfully mistaken," thought 
 Batiscombe. "She is certainly, undeniably a great 
 beauty, in her very peculiar way. Gad ! I should 
 think so indeed ! " which was the strongest expression 
 of affirmation in Julius Batiscombe's vocabulary. 
 
 It was no wonder she attracted him. For nearly 
 two months he had been wandering, chiefly in his 
 boat on the salt water, and in that time he had not 
 so much as spoken to a woman. His conversation 
 had been with himself during all that time ; and if 
 he had enjoyed intensely the freedom of heart and 
 thought in the intellectual point of view, his strong 
 nature, always drawn to women when not plunged 
 deep in work or adventure, could not withstand the 
 sudden magnetism now thrown upon it. He knew and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 103 
 
 felt the evil of it, and he struggled as best he could, 
 but each fresh meeting made the chances of escape 
 fewer and the danger more desperate. 
 
 " Marry," said his best friend to him, when, now 
 and then-i in the course of years, they met. 
 
 " How can I marry ? " he would ask. " How can 
 I ever hope to love one woman again as a woman 
 deserves to be loved? " 
 
 " Then go into a monastery and do no more mis 
 chief," returned the friend. She was a woman. 
 
 " I am no saint," Julius would say, " but I will try 
 to be." And ever he tried and failed again. 
 
 They sat upon the terrace in the cool of the early 
 night, with their coffee and their cigarettes. There 
 was a lull in their conversation, the result of having 
 talked so much at table. 
 
 " A propos of contentment," said Marcantonio, 
 " we are very discontented people. We are going to 
 Rome to-morrow, or the next day." 
 
 Batiscombe was surprised. He paused with his 
 coffee cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, 
 as though expecting more. 
 
 " Of course it is only for a day or two," continued 
 Marcantonio. " We shall return immediately." 
 
 " Seriously, Marcantoine," said Leonora, " how long 
 shall we have to stay ? " 
 
 " Oh not very long," he said. " I will get the 
 letter. Monsieur Batiscombe will pardon me?" 
 Batiscombe murmured something polite and Marc 
 antonio rose quickly and entered the house.
 
 104 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " Are you really going so soon ? " Julius asked in 
 English, when they were alone, and Leonora could 
 see the light in his eyes as he spoke. She looked 
 away, over the starlit sea. 
 
 " I am not quite sure," she said. " I think I ought 
 to go." 
 
 " I hope you will not," said Batiscombe boldly. 
 She turned and looked at him again, with a little sur 
 prise in her face. Marcantonio came back, it was 
 only a step to his study. 
 
 " Here it is," said Marcantonio, sitting down. 
 "He says he thinks that a day should do, if I could 
 be with him all the time. You see, he is old and 
 wishes to put his affairs in order." 
 
 " I cannot see " began Leonora, but stopped. 
 
 "Enfin," said Marcantonio, "it might happen to 
 any one, I should think." 
 
 " Let us hope it may happen to all of us," remarked 
 Batiscombe, for the sake of saying something. 
 
 When it came to parting, Batiscombe made some 
 polite remark about the pleasure he had enjoyed. 
 
 " When do you go ? " he asked, as he shook hands 
 with Marcantonio. 
 
 " I think we will go to-morrow night, n'est-ce- 
 pas, L^onore?" He turned to his wife, as though 
 inquiring. She looked up from her seat in her deep, 
 cane arm-chair. 
 
 " To-morrow night ? Oh yes one day is like 
 another let us go then to-morrow night." 
 
 She spoke indifferently enough, as was natural.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 105 
 
 Batiscombe supposed she meant to go. He took 
 his leave with many wishes to his hosts for a pleas 
 ant journey. 
 
 Marcantonio lighted a cigarette and stoocl looking 
 out over the water, by his wife's side. She was 
 quite silent, and fanned herself indolently with a 
 little straw fan decked with ribbons. 
 
 " Will you really go to-morrow night ? " asked 
 Marcantonio at last. He had a way of dwelling on 
 things that wearied Leonora. What possible differ 
 ence could it make whether they went to-morrow, 
 or the day after ? " Because," he continued, " if you 
 will be ready, I will make arrangements." 
 
 " What arrangements ? " asked Leonora languidly. 
 
 " I will write to the cardinal to say I am coming, 
 one must do that." 
 
 " You can telegraph." 
 
 " What is the use, when there is time for writing ? 
 Why should one waste a franc in a telegram ? " He 
 had curious little economies of his own. 
 
 " A franc ! " she exclaimed with a little laugh. 
 
 "And besides," he continued, not heeding her 
 remark, "old gentlemen do not like to receive tele 
 grams. It gives on their nerves." 
 
 " Enfin," said she, weary of the question, " you 
 can write that you will go to-morrow night, if you 
 like." 
 
 "And you will you go then?" he asked. 
 
 " It depends," she answered. " I may be too tired." 
 
 Marcantonio knew very well that his wife was not
 
 106 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 easily fatigued ; but he said nothing, and by his 
 silence closed the discussion. She was very change 
 able, he thought ; but then, he loved her very much, 
 and she .had a right to be as changeable as she 
 pleased. It was very good of her to have wanted 
 to go at all, and he would not think of pressing 
 her to it. He was a very sensible and unimaginative 
 man, not at all given to thinking about things he 
 could not see, nor troubling himself about them in 
 the least. So he did not press Leonora now, and 
 did not make himself unhappy because she was a 
 little changeable. The one thing he really objected 
 to was her pursuance of what he considered fruitless 
 objects of study ; she had not opened a book of phi 
 losophy since their marriage, and he was perfectly 
 satisfied. Before he went to bed he wrote a line 
 to his uncle, Cardinal Carantoni, to say that he 
 should arrive on the next day but one. 
 
 Batiscombe strolled back to the town through the 
 narrow lanes, fenced into right and left by high walls. 
 His thoughts were agreeable enough, and he now and 
 then hummed snatches of tunes with evident satisfac 
 tion. What a magnificent creature she was ! And 
 clever too, at least she looked intelligent, and said 
 very cutting things, as though she could say many 
 more if she liked ; and she knew about most things 
 that were discussed, and was altogether exactly what 
 her husband called her, the most charming woman 
 in the world. Besides, he thought he could make a 
 friend of her. How foolish of him, he reflected, to
 
 TO LEEWARD. 107 
 
 suppose that very afternoon that he must needs fall 
 in love with her! Where was the necessity? He 
 had evidently been mistaken, too, about her relations 
 with her husband. It was clear that they adored each 
 other, could not be separated for a moment, since 
 when he went to Rome on business she must needs 
 accompany him, in July, too ! Would she go ? 
 Probably. At all events, he would not call for a 
 week, when they would certainly have come back. 
 This he thought as he walked home. 
 
 But when he sat in his room at the hotel he re 
 membered what he had thought as he followed her 
 out of the dining-room. He had not thought then 
 as he had an hour later. The magnetism of her 
 glorious vitality had been upon him, and he had 
 envied Marcantonio with all his heart, right sinfully. 
 
 " Some people call women changeable," he reflected 
 as he blew out his candles ; " they are not half so 
 changeable as we are, and some day I will write a 
 book to prove it."
 
 108 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LEONORA would not go to Rome when the moment 
 came to decide. She was so sorry, she said, but the 
 weather had grown suddenly hotter and she really 
 did not feel as though it were possible. She tried 
 to make up for it to Marcantonio by being all that 
 day a very model of devotion and tenderness. She 
 affected a practical mood, and listened with atten 
 tion while he explained to her the reasons for his 
 going. She insisted on seeing herself that he had 
 a small package of sandwiches, and a bottle of 
 wine, and plenty of cigarettes to last him through 
 the night; and when he finally drove away, she 
 would have driven with him to Castellamare, but 
 that she must have come back over the lonely road 
 alone. To tell the truth, she was a little ashamed 
 of herself; she had been so anxious to accompany 
 him, and now she feared he might be disappointed. 
 
 Marcantonio saw it all, and was grateful and 
 affectionate, though he begged her not to take so 
 much trouble. 
 
 " En ve'rite', mon ange," he said more than once, 
 " I might be sailing for Peru, you give yourself so 
 much thought." 
 
 But she busied herself none the less, going about
 
 TO LEEWARD. 109 
 
 with a queer little air of resignation that sat strangely 
 on her face. He took an affectionate leave of her. 
 
 " I will not receive any one, if any one calls," she 
 said, as he was going. He looked at her in some 
 surprise. 
 
 "But why in the world?" he asked. "Who 
 should call particularly? Not even Monsieur Batis- 
 combe, he thinks you will go with me." 
 
 Leonora felt the least faint blush mount to her 
 cheeks, but it was dark in the hall of the villa, 
 though it was only just dusk, and Marcantonio could 
 not see. 
 
 " Oh, not him," said Leonora. " Only I want to 
 be alone when you are not here." For a moment 
 again she wished she were going. 
 
 " Enfin, my dear," he answered ; "do as you pre 
 fer; it is very amiable very gentil of you. 
 Adieu, che'rie ! " and he got into the carriage and 
 rolled away. 
 
 But her words lay in his memory and would not 
 be forgotten. Why should she not want to see any 
 one ? Was there any one ? Why had she been so 
 very anxious to accompany him, begging so hard 
 that he would not leave her? After all, the only 
 person she could be afraid of was Batiscombe. He 
 wondered for one moment whether there had ever 
 been anything between them ; he could remember 
 to have seen them together more than once in the 
 winter, at balls. But then, they always met with 
 such perfect frankness. He had not watched them,
 
 110 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 to be sure, but he must have noticed anything out 
 of the way, bah ! it was ridiculous. Not that he 
 wanted Batiscombe as an intimate, for the man was 
 certainly called dangerous. He had known him for 
 years, and had of course heard some of the stories 
 about him, but then, there are stories about every 
 one, and Batiscombe had evidently become very seri 
 ous since he had got himself a reputation. Besides, 
 to see him a little, as they did in Sorrento, it could 
 do no harm ; it meant nothing, and he would think 
 no more about it. He was not going to begin life 
 with the ridiculous whims of a jealous husband, when 
 he had married such an angel as Leonora not he ! 
 Besides, Batiscombe of all people ! If it had been 
 his sister Diana, it would have been different. Every 
 body knew that poor Batiscombe had loved her ten 
 years ago, when he was as poor as Job, and had nothing 
 but a fair position in society. But Marcantonio had 
 been away then on his travels, being just nineteen, 
 and having been sent out into the world to learn 
 French and spend a little money on his own account. 
 Strange that he should almost have forgotten it! 
 Not that it mattered in the least. The man had loved 
 his sister to distraction, but had soon recognised the 
 impossibility of such a match, and had gone away to 
 make his fortune. He had come to see Madame de 
 Charleroi now and then of late ; Marcantonio knew 
 that, but it was perfectly natural that they should be 
 the best of friends after so many years. How they 
 had first met, or what had passed between them, Marc-
 
 3?6 LEEWARD. Ill 
 
 antonio did not know, and never troubled himself to 
 ask ; perhaps he feared lest it should pain his sister 
 to speak of it. But the whole story invested Batis- 
 combe with a sort of air of safety as regarded Leonora. 
 He had certainly behaved well about Diana, and no 
 body denied it. Nevertheless, it was best that he 
 should not see Diana too often, especially if he in 
 tended to live in Rome, now that he had made his for 
 tune. But Leonora he might call if he pleased, and 
 amuse her in the dull summer days. Carantoni would 
 not begin life by playing the jealous husband. It was 
 certainly odd, though, that he should have thought 
 so little about that old story. The fact was, he had 
 never seen so much of Batiscombe in his life as during 
 the last week or ten days. 
 
 Meanwhile, he rolled along the road to Castella- 
 mare, and, after a great deal of shifting, found him 
 self in the night train from Naples for Rome. He ate 
 his sandwiches and thought affectionately of his wife 
 as he did so ; and then he lay down and slept the 
 sleep of the just until morning. 
 
 When he reached the Palazzo Carantoni, the first 
 piece of news he received was that Madame de Char- 
 leroi was in the house, having arrived the previous 
 day alone, that is to say, with her courier and her 
 maid. The old servant volunteered the information 
 that the vicomtesse was going to stay a week, or 
 thereabouts, and had sent a note to the house of 
 his Eminence, Cardinal Carantoni, the night before. 
 Marcantonio gave instructions that she should be in-
 
 112 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 formed of his arrival, and that he would come and see 
 her later in the morning, and he retired to dress and 
 refresh himself. 
 
 He hated family councils, and he saw himself con 
 demned to one, for there was no doubt of the cardinal's 
 intention, since Madame de Charleroi had come, and 
 had communicated with him. The cardinal was old, 
 and felt the need of settling his affairs and of talking 
 them over with his only near relations, his nephew 
 and his niece. For he was rich, and had money to 
 leave. 
 
 Marcantonio and his sister greeted each other affec 
 tionately, for they were always glad to be together, 
 and their meeting seemed to have been unexpected. 
 His Eminence had sent for each separately, and they 
 had arrived within twenty-four hours of each other, 
 Diana from Pegli and Marcantonio from Sorrento. 
 Of course, they talked of trivial matters, for now 
 that Diana had accepted the marriage there was noth 
 ing more to be said about it. At twelve o'clock they 
 drove to the cardinal's house, through the hot, glar 
 ing streets of Rome, fringed with the red and white 
 awnings of the shops. The carriage rolled under the 
 dark porch of the palace, and the pair mounted the 
 cool stairway and were soon ushered through a suc 
 cession of dusky halls and swinging red baize doors to 
 their uncle's study, a curious, old-fashioned room 
 in an inner angle of the building. The blinds were 
 drawn, and the occasional chirp of the lazy little 
 birds came up from the acacia trees in the courtyard.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 113 
 
 The room was carpetless, with bright, smooth, red 
 tiles ; in the middle was a huge writing table, cov 
 ered with papers and books ; on one end of it stood a 
 large black crucifix with a bronze Christ, and there 
 was an enormous inkstand of glass and brown wood. 
 Around the walls were mahogany bookcases, orna 
 mented with light brass-work in the style of the first 
 empire, and filled with books and pamphlets. The 
 room was cool and dark and high, and as the brother 
 and sister entered, their steps clicked sharply on the 
 clean, hard tiles. His Eminence sat in an arm-chair 
 at the writing table, clad in a loose, purple gown, and 
 wearing a minute scarlet skull cap. 
 
 He looked, indeed, as though his life were nearly 
 spent; for, though his dark eyes shone bright and 
 penetrating from under the heavy brows, his cheeks 
 were thin and sunken, of the hue of wax, and his 
 white hands were transparent and discoloured between 
 the knuckles. Marcantonio and Diana touched the 
 great sapphire on his finger with their lips, and then 
 the old man laid his hand on the head of each. They 
 were his brother's children, and he loved them dearly, 
 after his crabbed old fashion ; for all the Carantoni 
 are people of heart and kindness. 
 
 " My dear children," he began, when they were 
 seated by his side on straight-backed chairs that Marc 
 antonio brought up to the table, "my dear children, 
 I am growing very old and infirm, and I wanted to 
 see you here together before I leave you all."
 
 114 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 A kind smile played fitfully over the waxen 
 features, like the memory of life that haunts a 
 plaster mask. Diana laid her fingers gently on his 
 arm, and Marcantonio broke out into solicitous pro 
 testations. His uncle was not yet sixty, he had 
 many years of life, this was a passing indispo 
 sition, a black humour, a melancholy. One should 
 never expect to live less than seventy years at the 
 very least, he said, and that would not be reached 
 for a long time. 
 
 "Ah! no, dear uncle," he concluded, "you will 
 surely live to see my sons growing up to be men, 
 and to marry Diana's little girls ! " 
 
 The cardinal shook his head. That was not the 
 way of it, he said. He might die any day now, he 
 said, in his meek voice ; and it really sounded as 
 though he might, so that Donna Diana felt her eyes 
 growing dim and her heart big. She took one of 
 the old man's thin hands in both of hers, and he 
 with the other pushed back the rich, heavy hair and 
 smoothed it tenderly. A marvellous picture in 
 sooth they made, the dying prelate in his purple 
 and scarlet, and the great unspeakable freshness 
 and life of the fair woman. Marcantonio passed 
 his hand over his eyes and sighed as he sat watching 
 them. 
 
 Then his Eminence explained to the two what 
 his chief plan was in calling them to him now. He 
 had made a deed, he said, which he wished them 
 both to understand. There were certain estates
 
 TO LEEWAED. 115 
 
 which he had inherited from his mother, their 
 grandmother, as being the second son. These he 
 earnestly desired to see incorporated in the prop 
 erty of the Carantoni family. To that end he had 
 made an act of gift, transferring the lands to Marc- 
 antonio at once, on the condition that the cardinal 
 should continue to receive a certain income from 
 them during his life. This he insisted upon doing, 
 as he feared lest after his death the lands should 
 be sold by the executors in order to divide the 
 proceeds between the two heirs. In order to make 
 the present arrangement a fair one, however, he 
 at the same time gave to his niece Diana de Char- 
 leroi a sum of money from his personal estate which 
 was equal to the value of the lands given to Marc- 
 antonio. Whatever they found after his death 
 could then be divided and distributed, the lands 
 being safe in the male line; they might find some 
 thing left after all. 
 
 Diana protested ; she was very glad that the lands 
 should be settled, but she did not wish to accept 
 a large sum of money in that way. In fact, she 
 begged her uncle to reconsider the matter. As for 
 Marcantonio, he looked grave and wished himself 
 well out of it. He was practically to be adminis 
 trator of his uncle's property during the remainder 
 of the latter's lifetime, and he did not like it. How 
 ever, as the arrangement was for the ultimate good 
 of his children, and as he had not Diana's excuse for 
 refusing on the ground of not wishing to take a gift,
 
 116 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 since it hardly was one, there was nothing for 
 him to do but to accept the situation with a good 
 grace. 
 
 " You do not deserve anything at all, my boy," said 
 the cardinal, half kindly, half in earnest, " because 
 you married a heretic. But as I helped you to obtain 
 the permission, I must do something for you." 
 
 " But I," said Diana, "I cannot take all this. 
 It is not fair to Marcantonio, for I ought to pay you 
 the income of it, just as he is to do." 
 
 " Nonsense, figlia mia," said the old man. " You 
 need money more than he does or ever will, with that 
 husband of yours, who is always going from one court 
 to another on his nonsensical diplomatic errands. 
 Ah! my children, diplomacy is not what it used to 
 be ! Altri tempi altri tempi ! " 
 
 The end of it was that the two young people 
 agreed to their uncle's provisions, and he insisted 
 on their hearing and understanding all the papers, 
 to which end he sent for his secretary, a wizened 
 little Roman with grey hair and bright eyes and a 
 fondness for snuff; and the secretary read on for 
 two good hours. The old man from time to time 
 nodded his head to Marcantonio or to Diana, as the 
 one or the other was referred to in the documents, 
 and waved his pale thin hand in appreciation of the 
 completeness and simplicity of his arrangements. At 
 last the various deeds were signed, and a notary, 
 whom the secretary had provided, was called in from 
 the antechamber where he had waited, and attested
 
 TO LEEWARD. 117 
 
 the signatures and the general legality of the pro 
 ceedings. The cardinal was satisfied, and leaned 
 back in his chair. He was one of those old-fash 
 ioned noblemen who still believe in the divine right 
 of primogeniture and in the respectability of land as 
 a possession. With the modern laws concerning the 
 division of estates, the keen Napoleonic knives that 
 cut the strings of succession at every knot, these 
 conservative aristocrats have infinite trouble ; but 
 they generally manage to evade the spirit of the law, 
 and to conform as little to the letter of it as they 
 can. 
 
 " Cara mia, one must submit," said Marcantonio to 
 his sister, when they were alone together. " Old men 
 have strange fancies, and he has always been good to 
 us. What he said about my marriage was quite true. 
 If he had not helped me, I should have made a fiasco 
 of it, or done something rash." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Diana, thoughtfully. "By 
 the bye, are you comfortable at Sorrento? How is 
 Leonora ? " 
 
 She was rather ashamed of not having asked the 
 question before, but Marcantonio was good-natured, 
 and was glad that she had not said anything hard. 
 And, of course, the moment she mentioned his wife, 
 he was delighted at the chance to speak of what was 
 nearest to his heart. 
 
 " Leonora is well and more than well," he answered. 
 " Ah, she is an angel ! She has not read any phil 
 osophy since we married, imagine ! And she
 
 118 To LEEWARD. 
 
 was crazy to come with me to Rome in this heat ! 
 
 because she did not wish to stay in Sorrento alone 
 without me." 
 
 " Why did you not let her come, then ? " asked 
 Donna Diana. 
 
 " She was tired," he said, " and as I told her how 
 fatiguing it was, she made up her mind to stay. I 
 shall go back to-morrow, I suppose. I wish I could 
 go to-night." 
 
 " So soon ? " asked Diana. " But I have seen 
 nothing of you, dear boy ! " 
 
 " Why not come with me to Sorrento ? Do come, 
 
 there is room for us all, and for all your servants 
 into the bargain, if you like to bring them." 
 
 Marcantonio was charmed with his idea ; it seemed 
 the most natural thing in the world. Besides, he 
 had longed for an opportunity of bringing Diana and 
 Leonora together. He was quite sure they would 
 become bosom friends. Diana hung back, however, 
 and was less enthusiastic. 
 
 "I do not see how I could manage it," she said. 
 " I have so many things to do, and I must go back to 
 Pegli, before long." Marcantonio sat down beside 
 her and took her hand affectionately. 
 
 "Cara Diana," he said coaxingly, "will you not 
 come and make friends with Leonora ? It would be 
 so kind of you, and she would feel it so much ! " 
 
 Madame de Charleroi hesitated; not so much on 
 account of her reluctance to stay with Leonora as 
 because she knew that Julius Batiscombe was some-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 119 
 
 where in the neighbourhood of Naples. She avoided 
 him always, though she was his best and most faith 
 ful friend ; for though she had loved him once, there 
 was not a trace of that left in her heart, and yet she 
 knew well enough that he loved her still. Her high 
 and noble nature could not understand so earthly a 
 man as he ; she could not conceive how it was that 
 through all his many affairs he still looked on her as 
 the one woman in the world; but nevertheless she 
 knew that it was so, and she therefore avoided him, 
 not wishing to fan a hopeless passion. He came to 
 see her sometimes, and she was very kind to him, 
 giving him the best of advice, but she never encour 
 aged him to come. So she was not anxious to meet 
 him. But the question of her relations with her 
 brother in the future seemed to make it now desirable 
 that she should go with him and " make friends " 
 with his wife, as he expressed it. 
 
 " Well," she said at last, " I will go with you, and 
 do what you wish." 
 
 Marcantonio was very grateful. He felt that his 
 young wife must have friends young wives have 
 so few and he could desire no better friend for her 
 than his sister, the model of all goodness, gentleness, 
 and honour. 
 
 " Dearest sister," he said, " you are so good ! And 
 if you have much to do here, I can put off going for 
 a day, you know. You can do your little errands in 
 a day, can you not ? ". 
 
 " I might, perhaps," said she ; " but must you not
 
 120 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 take some steps about all this land of yours or of 
 our uncle's? Do you realise what a position you 
 have assumed, my dear boy ? From this day you are 
 absolutely master of the estate, if you like, but 
 you are also absolutely responsible for the payment 
 of the income. You positively must see the lawyers 
 about it, and you may as well see them at once." 
 
 " It is not the whole income of the place that he 
 takes," remarked Marcantonio. 
 
 " That makes no difference," said Diana. " If you 
 were to have it all, it would be the same. You are 
 bound to take care of it. Your own lawyer knows 
 nothing about this transaction. You may not be in 
 Rome again for three months. Make some provision 
 for your absence. Who is to collect your rents, in 
 the first place ? " 
 
 "I suppose somebody would," said Marcantonio 
 laughing. "But you have a much better head for 
 business than I, Diana mia. Perhaps you are right." 
 
 " You manage things very well, caro mio, so long 
 as they are under your hand. But you hate to go 
 and look after business when you want to be doing 
 something else." 
 
 " After all," he argued, " when a man is just 
 married " 
 
 " lie ought to be specially careful of his affairs, 
 for his children's sake," interrupted Donna Diana 
 with remarkable good sense. 
 
 She wanted a day or two in Rome, and she thought 
 he was really remiss in his management. She had
 
 TO LEEWARD. 121 
 
 
 
 rather a contempt for a man who cast everything to 
 the winds in order to be one more day with his wife. 
 She did not believe that his wife would have done as 
 much for him. 
 
 The end of it was that he agreed to stay a little 
 longer, at least one day more than he had at first 
 proposed; and he wrote an affectionate letter to 
 Leonora, half loving, half playful, explaining his 
 position, and telling her of his sister's coming, that 
 she might be ready to receive her. He added that 
 he hoped to see them very affectionate and intimate, 
 for that Diana was the best friend his wife could 
 have. If Batiscombe had wanted to make a friend 
 ship between two women he would not have gone 
 about it in that way. Marcantonio was very young 
 and inexperienced, though he was also very good 
 and honest. His sister saw both sides of his character 
 and understood them. Leonora saw, but only under 
 stood the honesty of him. His inexperience she sup 
 posed to be a sort of paternal, philistine, prosaic, 
 humdrum capacity for harping on unimportant things, 
 and she already felt the most distinct aversion for 
 that phase of his nature. 
 
 Diana and Marcantonio went down by the night 
 train, having stayed the better half of a week in 
 Rome. Marcantonio sent a telegram to Leonora in 
 the afternoon, to say that they would come. They 
 had a compartment to themselves, and as they sat 
 with the windows all open, rushing along through 
 the quiet night, they fell into conversation about
 
 122 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Sorrento. Madame de Charleroi had taken off her 
 hat, and the breeze fanned the smooth masses of her 
 hair into rough gold under the light of the lamp, 
 like the ripple on the sea at sunset. She was a 
 little tired with the many doings that had occupied 
 her in Rome, and her face was pale as she leaned 
 back in the corner. Her brother looked at her as 
 he spoke. ' Of course,' he thought, ' there was never 
 any one so beautiful as Diana.' What he said was 
 different. 
 
 " You should see Leonora ; she is a perfect miracle, 
 more beautiful every day. And though she has 
 been on the water several times, she is not the least 
 sunburnt." 
 
 "Have you sailed much?" inquired Diana. 
 
 "A good deal. I bought Leonora a very good 
 boat in Naples, and had it fitted. It is so pretty. 
 And before it came Monsieur Batiscombe took us 
 to Castellarifare." 
 
 " Ah ! " ejaculated Diana half interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes," answered Marcantonio. " He was very 
 amiable, and then we had him to dinner. You know 
 him, Diana?" he asked, as one often asks questions 
 of which one knows the answer. 
 
 He did not remember having ever mentioned 
 Batiscombe to her, but his solitary journey to Rome 
 a week earlier had set him thinking, in a lazy fash 
 ion, and he wondered whether his sister ever thought 
 of the man after all these years. 
 
 "Oh yes," answered Madame de Charleroi. "I
 
 TO LEEWARD. 123 
 
 have known Batiscombe a long time, long before 
 he was famous." 
 
 " Yes," said her brother, " I remember to have 
 heard that he was once so bold as to want you to 
 marry him. Imagine to yourself a little ! The wife 
 of an author." 
 
 There was nothing ill-natured in what Marcan- 
 tonio said. In the prejudice of his ancient name he 
 was simply unable to imagine such a match. Diana 
 turned her grey eyes full upon him. 
 
 " My dear boy, do not say such absurd things. We 
 are not in the age of Colonna and Orsini any more. 
 I came very near to marrying Julius Batiscombe, in 
 spite of your fifty titles, my dear brother." 
 
 Diana was a loyal woman, from the outer surface 
 that the world saw, down to the very core and holy 
 of holies of her noble soul. She would not let her 
 brother believe that, if she had chosen it, she would 
 have feared to marry a poor literary hack. 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Diana, that you loved him? " 
 asked Marcantonio in great surprise. 
 
 " Even you must not ask me questions like that," 
 said Diana, a little coldly. " But this I will tell you, 
 it was not for any consideration of birth, nor out 
 of any regard of our dear father's anger, that I did 
 not marry Batiscombe. Once I was very near it. 
 We are very good friends now." 
 
 She turned a little in her seat and drew the blue 
 woollen curtain across the window to shield her from 
 the draught.
 
 124 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " You do not mind meeting him ? " asked Marc- 
 antonio, rather doubtfully. 
 
 To tell the truth he feared he had committed a 
 mortal error, and was taking his sister into the jaws 
 of danger and unhappiness. He had never suspected 
 that she had entertained any idea of marrying Bat- 
 iscombe. Julius was a very agreeable man, very 
 amiable, as Marcantonio would have said. What a 
 fearful thing if Diana were to take a fancy to him ! 
 Loyal as she was to Charleroi, she did not care a 
 straw for him, her brother knew it very well. 
 Italian brothers are very watchful and Argus-eyed 
 about their sisters. 
 
 " Why should I mind ? " asked Diana, looking 
 at him again. "We are very good friends. He 
 comes to see me in Rome, every now and then. I 
 do not object in the least, and he is really very 
 agreeable." 
 
 ' Worse and worse ! ' thought Marcantonio. ' She 
 wants to meet him and is glad of the chance. But 
 then, she is so good what harm can it do ? ' Be 
 tween his idea that he ought to keep them apart, 
 and his knowledge of his sister's upright character, 
 Marcantonio was in a sad quandary. It always took 
 him some time to grasp new situations, and the 
 idea that Diana had ever loved Batiscombe was 
 utterly new to him. True, she had not said it ; she 
 had only said that she had been near to marrying 
 him.
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 125 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHEN Leonora was alone, she resolved to have 
 a good fit of thinking. Accordingly, the next morn 
 ing after Marcantonio's departure she sat by herself 
 in a cool room, surrounded with books and dainty 
 writing materials, thinking. The little white cat 
 that her husband had procured, because she liked 
 animals, climbed to the back of her chair and made 
 passes at her head with its small, soft paws, seeming 
 to delight in touching her. She put up her hand 
 and pulled the little creature down to her lap. 
 
 "Pussy," said she, talking English to it, "were 
 you ever in love?" She kissed it softly and held 
 it up to her fair cheek. "I wonder what it is 
 like," she said to herself. " I wonder whether being 
 in love is always like this ! People who love always 
 say they would die for each other. I am not sure 
 whether I would die for Marcantonio. He is very 
 good. Yes of course one's husband ! Any 
 woman would die for her husband. And yet if 
 the knife were very sharp and cold, or the poison 
 very dreadful to take, I am not sure. Perhaps 
 there might be some other way out of it, and one 
 would riot have to die after all." 
 
 Poor Leonora, she made herself think she loved
 
 126 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 him, and then she applied all kinds of tests to her 
 love which it would not bear, being but a very thin 
 and pitiful little ghost of a love. 
 
 " I really believe," she said at last, kissing the cat 
 and half closing her eyes, " that there is not anything 
 much in anything after all. Things are not much 
 more real than the shadows in the cave that Plato 
 talks about. Oh dear me ! And then to have people 
 think that one is clever ! They have such an absurd 
 idea about it, Marcantonio, I mean. Of course it 
 is the nicest thing in the world to be loved more than 
 one deserves, but, on the other hand, it is just as 
 terrible a bore to have other people forever thinking 
 you really worth more than you are. And then, to 
 have him think that my little bit of knowledge is 
 dangerous! As if so very little could help or hurt 
 any one ! I must know a great deal more before it 
 can do me any good. I think I will read something 
 hard to-day, how pleasant it is to be alone ! " 
 
 The last reflection came quite naturally, and she 
 did not even pause and think about it, the sudden 
 interest she anticipated in reading having chased 
 away the dutifully affectionate ideas she made it her 
 business to build up concerning her husband. With 
 characteristic quickness of determination she rose, 
 got herself a volume of Hegel's "^Esthetics," and 
 buried her whole mind in the question of subjective 
 and objective art. 
 
 To a woman or a man either who has not 
 what is called an interest in life, all manner of things
 
 TO LEEWARD. 127 
 
 temporarily take the place which should be occupied 
 by the leading, absorbing thought. The things that 
 are but relaxations, amusements, or even unimportant 
 bits of usefulness to the thoroughly busy woman, to 
 a woman like Leonora become in turn objects of 
 intense study and care, only to be cast aside and for 
 gotten when the next day brings in a new era of 
 speculation, weariness, or excitement. It is good to 
 read many kinds of books, it is good to do many 
 pleasant and agreeable things, but it is emphatically 
 not good to think many kinds of thoughts. If a 
 woman must change her opinions, it is well that the 
 change should be gradual and the result of careful 
 study and examination, instead of taking place 
 according to the weather, the cut of a gown, or the 
 conversation of a stray caller. Men change their 
 minds as completely as women, but not so often, and 
 above all not so quickly. To be unchangeable is the 
 quality of the idiot ; to change too easily belongs to 
 children and lunatics; and the happy faculty of a 
 sensible judgment permitting a change for the better 
 and forbidding a change for the worse is the high 
 privilege of the comparatively small class of human 
 ity who are neither fools nor madmen. 
 
 With Leonora to live was to change, and to change 
 often. Brimming over and exulting in strength of 
 physical life, neither her mind nor her nerves could 
 keep pace with her vitality, and the result was the 
 inevitable one. After great excitement there was 
 morbid reaction, and in the state of rest there was a
 
 128 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 restless, insatiable craving for motion. A strong 
 man, ruthlessly ruling her by sheer superiority of 
 massive power, would have brought out all that was 
 best in her, and would have driven her to her very 
 best weapons for defence. But her husband was 
 quite another sort of person. His love for her was 
 by far the best thing about him ; save for that, he 
 was not an interesting man. He was young and 
 very tactless, though full of good impulses and gentle 
 courtesy to her and to every one. But he wearied 
 her with useless details, and made her doubt whether 
 his affectionate manner meant love or mere good 
 breeding. He had an entire incapacity for making 
 any one believe that he was capable of great things. 
 His sister knew how real was his goodness of heart 
 and how generous he could be, and she knew also 
 how much he loved his wife. But she had no power 
 to put into him the passionate, burning romance 
 which was precisely what Leonora most longed for ; 
 and Diana did not believe that such a woman as 
 Leonora would long be satisfied with such a husband 
 as Marcantonio. 
 
 Meanwhile the day wore on, and she read seriously, 
 and had her midday breakfast in solitude and tried to 
 read again. But by and by she nodded over her book 
 and fell asleep in the humming heat of the summer's 
 afternoon. As she slept she dreamed of a strong, 
 black-browed man who kneeled there beside her in 
 her own house, and who presently took her in his 
 arms and bore her fast down the dark stairs and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 129 
 
 passages through the rocks to the sea, where a 
 boat lay ; and as he carried her his eyes gleamed 
 like burning stars, and she felt that her own grew 
 big and bright. And suddenly he would have leapt 
 into the boat with her, but he stumbled and fell, and 
 she heard the deep roar of the waters in her ears as 
 they sank together. 
 
 She woke with a start. The white cat had climbed 
 up and lay on her shoulder, purring with all its might. 
 That was evidently where the sound of the sea came 
 from. She laughed, a little startled at the dream 
 and amused at its cause. It had been so strange 
 so so wicked. She was shocked. How could her 
 thoughts, of themselves unaided, have gone to such 
 a subject ! Besides, it was not the first time. She 
 had dreamed of Julius Batiscombe before, and always 
 of that strange look in his eyes, gleaming wildly with 
 something she could not understand. 
 
 " It is dreadful ! " she exclaimed, rising and going 
 to the window. 
 
 She had slept long, for the sun was low, and when 
 she looked at her watch it was six o'clock. She re 
 flected that she had not been out all day, and that 
 she wanted a walk. She wrapped something thin 
 and dark over her white summer dress and left the 
 house. The white kitten followed her to the door, 
 mewing sorrowfully, and wistfully waving its little 
 tail. 
 
 She walked slowly down the road musing on the 
 odd thing she had dreamed, and seeking in her mind
 
 130 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 for the reason and cause of it, finding fault with her 
 self for being able to dream such things. It is one 
 thing to be able to call up images of ideal men, and 
 to tell the truth she strove even against that ; but it 
 is quite another matter to find one particular man so 
 much in your thoughts that you dream of his running 
 away with you. 
 
 She looked up, and a little church was before her, 
 the door being open. She hesitated a moment ; she 
 had come out to walk, but it would be so pleasant to 
 kneel in the cool, quiet place, in the half lights and 
 deep shadows ; to think, and think, and to pray 
 sweet wordless heart-prayers, half mystic, half re 
 ligious ; to pour out the confessions of her soul's 
 suffering, and to find, even for a brief space, that 
 trust in something unseen, which her troubled spirit 
 could not give to earthly wisdom or earthly love. 
 She raised the curtain and entered. 
 
 It was a simple little church, with a floor of green 
 and white tiles, whereon stood rows of green benches 
 and a few straw chairs. The light was high, and 
 the sun did not penetrate into the building. Every 
 thing was very clean and cool. Over the altar was 
 a great picture, neither bad nor good, of a monk 
 saint, dark in colour and inoffensive in composition ; 
 there were two or three small chapels at the sides, 
 and the plain white arch of the roof was supported 
 by two rows of square masonry pillars. 
 
 When Leonora entered she saw that she was alone, 
 and the anticipated pleasure of religious exaltation
 
 TO LEEWA11D. 131 
 
 was heightened by the sensation of solitude. She 
 stood one moment, and then, being sure that no one 
 saw her, she touched with her fingers the holy water 
 in the basin by the door and made the sign of the 
 cross, bending her knee slightly towards the altar. 
 Had there been any one in the church she would 
 perhaps not have done so ; but being alone she loved 
 to experience the forms of a religion in which she 
 did not seriously believe, but in which she trusted 
 far more than she knew. She went forward, took a 
 straw chair, turned it round and kneeled on the tiles, 
 burying her face in her hands. 
 
 At first, as she knelt there, she trembled with a 
 strange emotion that she loved, a sort of wave of 
 contrition, of faith, of penitence, and of uncertainty, 
 half painful and yet wholly delicious, that seemed 
 to her the sweetest and most salutary sensation in 
 the world. It was just painful enough to make the 
 pleasure of it keener and rarer. She could not have 
 described it, but she loved it and sought it, when she 
 was in the humour. Gradually her troubles, real 
 and fancied, would answer to her command, and 
 array themselves in rank and file for her inspection ; 
 the domestic difficulties, small and snappish little 
 knots of mosquito-like annoyance, biting tiny bites 
 to right and left, and with little stings stinging their 
 way to notice in the foreground ; then the troubles 
 of the heart, the temptations of a wild, unspoken 
 and ideal love, streaming by her in the sweep of 
 tempest and storm, stretching out sweet faces and
 
 132 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 fierce hands to take her with them, and to bear her 
 away from hope of salvation or thought of heaven to 
 the strange unknown space beyond ; then again the 
 shapeless and awful host of her fancied philosophies, 
 now towering in fearful strength and menace to 
 the sky, and rending and tearing each other to empty 
 nothing and howling hollowncss, now falling down 
 to earth in miserable shapes and slinking insignifi 
 cantly away ; but last and worst of all, there was a 
 deep dark shadow, the trouble of her heart, the cer 
 tainty that she had made the great mistake and done 
 the irretrievable sin against truth, that she had mar 
 ried a man she could never love, but whom God 
 forbid the thought ! whom she might hate for the 
 very lack he had of anything that could deserve hat 
 ing. And then all the pleasure of her exultation was 
 gone ; and the dull, uncertain pain, that would not 
 take shape because it had no remedy, filled all her 
 soul and mind and body ; she had never felt it as she 
 felt it to-day, but she knew that each time she came to 
 the church to let her heart talk to her in the silence, 
 this same pain had come, sooner or later, and that 
 each time it was stronger and more real. She bent 
 low under its weight, and the tears gathered and fell 
 upon her hands and on the rough straw chair. 
 
 Julius Batiscombe had passed 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 enjoy-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 133 
 
 ing 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 per 
 suading 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 assert 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 durabil 
 ity. 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 con 
 sult, 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, per 
 haps, 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 friend 
 ship, 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 ex-
 
 134 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 tremely varied types of the Sorrento beggar, he was 
 conscious of a comforting assurance that he was not 
 in mischief. 
 
 At the end of half an hour lie was passing 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 con 
 trast to the dead monotony of stone walls in the lane. 
 A servant was coming toward the gate, and seeing 
 Batiscombe standing there, opened it wide and took 
 off his hat. Batiscombe carelessly asked if the Sig- 
 nora 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 quar 
 ter 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 Batiscombe turned on 
 his heel, not wishing 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 l>eiit as he watched her, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 135 
 
 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 con 
 vulsed in the consciousness of sorrow. It had so long 
 been vague this sad knowledge of an evil ever pres 
 ent, and yet ever eluding her attempts to see it and 
 understand it. But now it had come upon her sud 
 denly. 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 ques 
 tions 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
 
 136 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 
 Batiscombe. The whole unfaithfulness of herself 
 to herself rushed upon her overwhelmingly, relent 
 lessly, 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 an 
 noyance 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 surreptitiously with one hand, and finally 
 rose from her knees. As she turned to leave the 
 church she met Julius Batiscombe's eyes, and she 
 started perceptibly. It was so precisely the ex 
 pression 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 reassured her. There was that 
 which attracted, as well as that which frightened 
 her. She had the length of the church to walk,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 137 
 
 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- 
 combe 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 pass him, and prepared to follow if she 
 showed any sign of wishing it. He feared, however, 
 that he had offended her by his inopportune appear 
 ance, and he was prepared for a repulse. Neverthe 
 less, 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 passing 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. Batiscombe ? " she said, 
 quite naturally, holding out her hand to him. But 
 in the open air, his hand touching hers, she could 
 not help blushing 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.
 
 138 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "No," she answered, "it was too hot. Do you 
 often go to the little church, Mr. Batiscombe? 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 ponder 
 ing 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 
 combe. "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 walk 
 ing by your place, and a servant who was just com 
 ing 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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 139 
 
 times you go to be alone, and not to have wandering 
 callers sent there after you." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" she asked, curi 
 ous 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, blushing 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 Castel- 
 lamare, Mr. Batiscombe ? " 
 
 " 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 Batiscombe, 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."
 
 140 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "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 delight 
 ful 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 poison 
 ing 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 ex 
 claimed, very much amused. She was nervous from 
 the knowledge that he had found her out in the 
 church, and she laughed at anything rather reck 
 lessly. But Batiscombe had turned grave again.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 141 
 
 " 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 an 
 swered. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " What a strange thing life is ! " exclaimed Leo 
 nora, at last. 
 
 " Yes, it is very strange," he answered. " Here 
 are we two, on the smallest provocation, swearing 
 eternal friendship on the high road, as though we 
 were going to storm a citadel, or head an Arctic 
 expedition. But I am really very glad, and very 
 grateful." 
 
 Somehow the reflection did not sound light or 
 flippant; and to tell the truth, Leonora was think 
 ing precisely the same thing, wondering inwardly 
 how she could possibly have gone to such a length 
 with a mere acquaintance. But the land of friend-
 
 142 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ship was an untried territory for Leonora, and she 
 seemed to find in the idea a sudden rest from a sense 
 of danger. A friend could never be a lover, she 
 knew that! This was the meaning of the dream. 
 But she answered quietly enough. 
 
 " If things are real at all," she said, " they are as 
 real at one time as at another." 
 
 " Yes," answered Batiscombe. " Malakoff or Sor 
 rento, it is all the same."
 
 TO LEEWAKD 143 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " You will come in ? " said Leonora when they 
 reached the gate. 
 
 " Thanks ; I should like to very much," answered 
 Batiscombe, and he followed her through the gate 
 into the garden. They passed into the house, and 
 Leonora received from the servant a telegram which 
 had come when she was out. It was the one Marc- 
 antonio had dispatched when he had decided to 
 stay a few days in Rome and to bring his sister to 
 Sorrento. 
 
 Leonora opened it quickly and glanced over the 
 message. It was very evident from her expression 
 that she was annoyed and somewhat surprised. 
 Batiscombe looked away. 
 
 " It is too bad ! " she exclaimed ; her companion 
 examined the handle of his stick, as though there 
 were something wrong with it. He was not curious, 
 and he had very good manners. Leonora folded the 
 dispatch and put it away. 
 
 " Let us go out again," she said, " it is so close 
 indoors." 
 
 Batiscombe followed her in silence, obediently. 
 They sat down among the orange-trees on an old stone 
 bench. The air was still and very warm, and the
 
 144 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 lizards were taking their last peep at the sun wher 
 ever they could, climbing up the trunks of the trees 
 and the wall of the house to catch a glimpse of him 
 before he set. 
 
 " My husband telegraphs that he will be away 
 some time," said Leonora after a minute. " He has 
 business that keeps him, and his sister is in Rome." 
 
 " You must be very lonely here," remarked 
 Batiscombe in answer. 
 
 " Do you know Madame de Charleroi ? " asked 
 Leonora, taking no notice of the observation. 
 
 " Yes," said Batiscombe, " I know her. Somebody 
 told me she was in Pegli." 
 
 " So she was. But she had to come to Rome on 
 business, and now my husband is going to bring her 
 here." 
 
 " Indeed ? " exclaimed Batiscombe. " To pass the 
 summer ? " 
 
 "Oh no; only for a week, I suppose. Do you 
 know ? I am rather glad ; I hardly know her at all, 
 and she seems so hard to know." 
 
 " Hard to know ? " repeated Julius. " Perhaps 
 she is. It is always hard to know very charming 
 women." 
 
 " Is it ? " asked Leonora, smiling at the frankness 
 of the remark ; it seemed to her that he had found 
 it easy enough to swear friendship with her half 
 an hour ago. " Is it ? Is she such a very charming 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," he answered.
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 145 
 
 " Yes to which question ? " 
 
 " Both," said Julius. " Madame de Charleroi is 
 charming, and it is very hard to know women of 
 her sort well. Think how long it is since I first 
 met you, Marchesa, and we are just beginning to 
 know each other." 
 
 "Do you think we are?" asked Leonora. She 
 was full of questions. 
 
 " I think so yes. At least, I hope so," he said 
 with a pleasant smile. 
 
 " If you were writing a book about us, Mr. Batis- 
 combe, would you say that we were beginning to 
 know each other ? no one would believe that we 
 stopped in the road and shook hands and swore to 
 be friends. It would be very amusing, would it 
 not? I do not know why we did it; I wish you 
 would explain." She laughed a little, and stuck 
 the point of her parasol into the earth. Batiscombe 
 laughed too. 
 
 " When people have known each other in society for 
 a long time," he said, " and then begin to be friends, 
 there is always some ice to break, and it always 
 seems odd for a little while after it is broken." 
 
 " I suppose that is the reason that such things 
 always seem improbable in books, until you know 
 about them yourself." 
 
 " Amusing books, and interesting ones, are made 
 up of improbabilities," answered Julius. " And the 
 people who write them are even more improbable. 
 It is always improbable that a man who has lived a
 
 146 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 great deal should have the talent, or the patience if 
 you like, to make stories out of his own experience, 
 or that a man who has not seen a great deal of 
 the world should be able to evolve a good novel out 
 of his inner consciousness. The probabilities for 
 most men are that they will eat and drink and wear 
 out their clothes and be buried. All those things 
 are a great bore to do, a greater bore to describe, and 
 an intolerable bore to read about. The most amus 
 ing books are either true stories of a very exceptional 
 kind, or else they are rank, glaring, stupendous im 
 probabilities, invented to illustrate a great theory, 
 or a great play of passions, like Bulwer's ' Coming 
 Race,' or Goethe's ' Faust.' I am sure I am boring 
 you dreadfully." 
 
 " Oh no ! " cried Leonora, who was interested and 
 taken out of herself by his talk. " But I think I pre 
 fer the 'exceptional true stories,' as you call them, 
 like Shakespeare, the historical part, I mean." 
 
 " The worst of it is," said Batiscombe, " that the 
 true stories are generally the ones that no one be 
 lieves. Critics always say that such things are a 
 tissue of utter impossibilities." 
 
 " Oh, the critics," exclaimed Leonora ; " they must 
 be the most horrid people. I wonder you authors let 
 them live ! " 
 
 "Thanks," said Batiscombe, laughing, "I was a 
 critic myself before I was an author, and I do not 
 think I was a very horrid person." 
 
 " That is different," said Leonora. " Of course a
 
 TO LEEWARD. 147 
 
 man may do ever so many things before he finds his 
 real vocation." 
 
 " Authors owe a great deal to critics," continued 
 Julius. " More men have come to grief at their 
 hands by over-praise than by too much discourage 
 ment. A very little praise is often enough to ruin 
 a man, and a man who has much talent will always 
 survive a great deal of abuse and disappointment. 
 If any one asked my advice about adopting litera 
 ture as a career, I would certainly tell him to have 
 nothing to do with it ; I should be quite sure that if 
 he were born to it nothing would keep him from it 
 for long." 
 
 " That is the way with other things," said Leonora, 
 looking rather wistfully away at the setting sun, just 
 below the green leaves of the orange grove. " It is the 
 way with everything, good and bad. Some people are 
 born to be saints, and some people are quite sure to 
 turn out the most dreadful sinners, whatever they do." 
 
 " What a depressing theory ! " exclaimed Batis- 
 combe, who had much more cause to think so than 
 Leonora. 
 
 " Depressing is no name for it," she answered. 
 " One makes such mistakes in life, and then there is 
 no way out of it but to make others." 
 
 " And the worst of it is, that one knows one is 
 making them, and cannot help it." 
 
 " Yes," said she, " one always knows, if one 
 only knew." Then she laughed suddenly. " What 
 a ridiculous speech ! "
 
 148 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " No," said Batiscombe, " I understand exactly 
 what you mean. Just when one is doing the wrong 
 thing, there is always a little instinct against it. 
 But it is often so very little, that one does not quite 
 know it from ever so many other instincts. And 
 then, before one is quite sure that one knows what is 
 right, before one's mind has time to think it over 
 logically, one has done the wrong thing. At least, 
 it seems afterwards as if that were what happened ; 
 but I suppose it is because we are weak." 
 
 Leonora looked at Julius, who seemed deep in his 
 thoughts. He had exactly put her idea into words, 
 but she could not tell whether he believed what he 
 said, or was merely amusing himself with his faculty 
 for explanation. He interested her extremely. It 
 was just this kind of introspection that most de 
 lighted her, this cutting up and skinning of con 
 science and soul. Nevertheless she did not think 
 that Batiscombe was the man to analyse his own 
 actions. It was more likely, she thought, that he 
 was very clever, and could talk to please his listener. 
 But he interested her greatly, and she was curious 
 to know how he had got his knowledge of human 
 nature. 
 
 " You must have had a wonderful life," she said, 
 presently, saying aloud what she was thinking, 
 rather than hoping to draw him on to talk about 
 himself. 
 
 "Oh no very commonplace, I assure you," said 
 he, with a laugh that sounded natural enough.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 149 
 
 u Only, you see, I have had to make capital of what 
 I know. But it spoils one's own enjoyment to analyse 
 anything, and I shall have to give it up, or resign 
 myself to a miserable existence." 
 
 " I wonder whether you are right," said Leonora, 
 reflectively. 
 
 " Of course I am," he answered gayly. " The man 
 who carves the pheasant does not enjoy it, but the 
 man who eats it does." 
 
 " Then let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. 
 Is that the end of your experience ? " asked Leonora, 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Oh well if you put it so. Only if you do 
 not eat and drink too much, you may possibly not die 
 until the day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Or you may spend your life in cooking the din 
 ner, and die before it is served ? " suggested Leonora. 
 
 "Or anything what carnal similes!" laughed 
 Batiscombe. " But they are very apt for any one 
 who cares for eating. If that is really an important 
 enjoyment, it may as well stand as the type." 
 
 " Exactly ' if.' I am sure you do not think it is, 
 nor that any material satisfaction can possibly stand 
 as a type, nor that we should enjoy to-day without 
 thought of to-morrow, nor a great many other things 
 you have said." She watched him as she spoke, and 
 he liked to feel her eyes on him. 
 
 " No," he answered, " you are quite right. I do 
 not think those things at all. But I am sure I gen 
 erally do them," he added, smiling.
 
 150 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "But what do you think really? Is there any 
 thing really high and noble in the world? It all 
 seems so little and so hollow, sometimes." 
 
 She sighed, thinking how, formerly, she had said 
 such things speculatively, and for the sake of raising 
 an argument with her friends. Batiscombe turned 
 on the stone seat, so that he faced her. 
 
 " Of course there are high and noble things in the 
 world," he answered. " It is when you look into the 
 small workings of the mind and soul, as you have 
 been making me do, that you lose sight of the great 
 ones. Material nature is most interesting under a 
 microscope, and generally most beautiful in great 
 masses at a distance. But if you walk close to the 
 grandest cliff in nature, and flatten your face against 
 it, and hold your eye half an inch from the rock, the 
 grandeur and the beauty are all gone, and without 
 a microscope wherewith to examine your particular 
 point, you will find the close inspection tiresome after 
 a time. There is no microscope for the soul, any 
 more than for the heart, or the mind. You gain noth 
 ing by looking too closely at it. It is ten to one that 
 you hit upon a diseased spot for your examination. 
 It may amuse you for a time to study other people's 
 souls, because you can hardly get so near to them as 
 to lose all impression of the whole, as you can with 
 yourself. What does it matter what you know about 
 your soul, so long as you do what is right ? " 
 
 " That sounds true," said Leonora, " but I suppose 
 there is something wrong about it."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 151 
 
 "All good similes sound true," said Batiscombe, 
 laughing. " That is the reason why popular orators 
 and preachers are so fond of them. The real use of 
 a simile is for an explanation; the moment you make 
 an argument upon it, you are revelling in words with 
 out logic, calling illustrations facts and generally 
 making game of your audience." 
 
 " What a discouraging person you are," said Leo 
 nora. " You make one almost believe a thing, and 
 then you turn round and tell one there is nothing to 
 believe after all." 
 
 " Not so bad as that," said Batiscombe, leaning back 
 and clasping his brown hands over his knee. "I 
 have not said there was nothing to believe in. Only 
 take care you do not believe in anything because 
 it bears a tempting resemblance to something you 
 like." 
 
 " That is ingenious, but I wish you would be posi 
 tive about something. I wish you would tell me, for 
 instance, what you yourself believe in." Her eyes 
 turned towards him in the twilight. For the sun 
 had gone down, and the orange-trees brought the 
 shadows early where the two were sitting. 
 
 " What I believe in ? " he repeated. " I suppose 
 that, apart from religious matters, I believe most in 
 sympathy and antipathy." 
 
 " That is not exactly a course of action or a rule 
 of life," remarked Leonora, smiling and looking 
 away. 
 
 " No. But in nine cases out of ten they are what
 
 152 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 determine both. At all events I believe in them. 
 They always carry the day over logic, philosophy, 
 and all manner of calculation and forethought. You 
 may determine that it is your duty to like a person, 
 you may induce yourself to think that you do, and 
 you may make every one believe you do ; but if you 
 really do not there is an end of it. And the re 
 verse is just as true." 
 
 " I should think every one knew that," said Leo 
 nora in an indifferent way. But she was wondering 
 why he had said it, whether he had any suspicion of 
 her own state of mind. " It is very safe to say you 
 believe in things of that sort everybody does. 
 You are a very indefinite person, Mr. Batiscombe." 
 
 " What is the use of defining everything? Lots of 
 people have been burned alive, and have had their 
 heads cut off for defining things they knew nothing 
 about. Of course they were quite sure they knew 
 better; but then, is it worth while to die for your 
 personal opinion of an abstract question ? " 
 
 " It is very fine and noble, though," said Leonora. 
 
 " There is a tradition that it is fine and noble to 
 'die for' anything. It sounds well. Every one 
 admires it. But reflect that the common murderer 
 ' dies for ' his individual views of the social state. 
 The woman who maintained that scissors were better 
 than a knife for cutting an apple suffered her hus 
 band to drown her rather than give up the point, and 
 as she sank her fingers still opened and closed, to 
 imitate the instrument she preferred. She ' died for '
 
 TO LEEWARD. 153 
 
 her opinion, just as much as Savonarola or Giordano 
 Bruno, whom my countrymen are so fond of raving 
 about." 
 
 " You know that is not what I mean," said Leo 
 nora. " I mean it is noble to die for what is right." 
 
 " The question is, what is right ? There are cases 
 when it is eminently heroic to sacrifice one's life." 
 
 " For instance ? " 
 
 " For instance, to die for the liberty of one's own 
 country, for the defence and safety of one's king, 
 who represents the embodiment of the social prin 
 ciple, or for the honour of an innocent woman." 
 
 " But about liberty and one's king, and that sort 
 of thing," said Leonora, " where can you draw the 
 line? There is no successful treason, you know, 
 because when it succeeds it is called by other names. 
 There must be a standard of absolute good or 
 something." 
 
 " I should think you must be a very unhappy 
 person, Marchesa, if you are always trying to draw a 
 line and to define absolute good. What is the use ? 
 Every one knows that it cannot be done." 
 
 Leonora was silent. It had interested her to hear 
 the brilliant, successful man, apparently so happy 
 and contented with his lot, talk seriously about the 
 things she was always puzzling over. But what did 
 it come to? What was the use? Those were his 
 last words. 
 
 The warm gloom of the night settled softly round 
 them, laden with the sweetness of the oranges and
 
 154 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the aromatic scent of the late carnations. Batis- 
 combe could just see Leonora by his side, her head 
 bent forward as she rested her chin upon her hand. 
 The indescribable atmosphere and faint perfume 
 that surrounds women of high beauty and degree 
 intoxicated him. She was so English in her beauty 
 and so Russian in her delicate exuberance of vitality ; 
 above all, she was so intensely feminine, that Batis- 
 combe felt his senses giving way to the magnetic in 
 fluence. He leaned forward in the dark till he was 
 nearer to her, looking at the faint outline of her 
 face. Leonora sighed, and the gentle sound seemed 
 like the softened echo of past weeping. 
 
 "Marchesa," said Julius in a low voice, "can I 
 really be your friend? Will you let me help to make 
 your life happier, if I can ? " 
 
 Leonora felt the blood rise blushing to her face in 
 the dark, and her heart trembled in its beating. A 
 friend ! Oh, if she really could find a strong, true 
 friend to help her ! 
 
 " How can you ? " she asked faintly. 
 
 " I do not know," he answered. " Let me try. I 
 will try very hard. I am sure I can succeed." 
 
 She let him take her hand for one moment. It 
 was a consent, not spoken, but given and understood. 
 Leonora rose to her feet, and they walked silently 
 toward the house. 
 
 " When may I come ? " he asked, as he bade her 
 good night. He spoke quite naturally, as though it 
 were already a matter of course that he should see
 
 TO LEEWARD. 155 
 
 her every day. She hesitated a moment, standing 
 in the doorway with the warm light of the lamp 
 upon her. 
 
 "Come at eleven," she said at last, and with a 
 pleasant smile she left him and went in. 
 
 The aspect of life seemed changed for her when 
 he was gone. That afternoon she had suffered in 
 tensely. Now there was a strange, calm sense in 
 her heart that soothed all her thoughts, and made 
 the lonely evening sweet and restful. She asked 
 no questions, she made no self-examination, she 
 desired of herself no reasons for her conduct. It 
 was enough that the storm had passed and that the 
 calm was come, she knew not how. A man had 
 spoken to her as no man ever spoke to her before, 
 and the earnestness of his words still rang in her 
 ear. He was loyal, strong, and true. He would be 
 her friend, he had asked it, she had granted it. 
 
 She dined alone and read a little afterwards, 
 closing her eyes now and again to enjoy the peace 
 that had descended upon her. For the first time 
 in many months she was happy, supremely, quietly 
 happy, and she asked no questions. 
 
 As for Batiscombe, he wandered homewards 
 through the dark lanes, not heeding or caring 
 where he went. He was wholly absorbed in recall 
 ing the events of the afternoon, revelling in the 
 memory of Leonora's face and looks and words. He, 
 too, was wholly disinclined to reflect on the possi 
 ble consequences of his action ; he took it as a matter
 
 156 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 of course that he should keep his word and be indeed 
 a friend to her ; at all events he thought neither of 
 the future nor the past, but only ever and ever of 
 herself, clinging tenderly to the images he called up, 
 and asking nothing better than to call them up again, 
 dreaming and waking. He might be in love, or he 
 might not, the question no longer entered his head. 
 He was fascinated, charmed, and beside himself with 
 enjoyment of his thoughts. 
 
 It was the state he had dreaded a day or two ago. 
 To avoid it he had tried to escape, by a stratagem, 
 beyond the possibility of seeing Leonora again. He 
 had cursed his folly in going to see her. He had 
 promised himself that he would not go again ; he had 
 reviewed his past troubles, and had remembered how 
 plausibly they had begun. And at last he had fallen 
 into the ancient trap, the snare of fair friendship set 
 out to catch men and women and to destroy them. 
 But the mouth of the pit was garnished with roses 
 and lilies, sweet and innocent enough. 
 
 At eleven o'clock of the next day Julius was again 
 with Leonora, and on the day .following and the day 
 after that. They walked together, read together, 
 sailed together, and lunched together. A few stray 
 callers came in now and then, but as they never came 
 twice, not one of them thought it at all worthy of re 
 mark that Mr. Batiscombe should happen to be calling 
 at the same time. 
 
 Leonora found an extraordinary pleasure in his 
 conversation. He had a fund of varied study and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 157 
 
 experience from which to draw, that amused her and 
 made her think in new grooves ; and when he talked 
 about her ideas and interests he always succeeded in 
 showing them to her in a new light. His comments 
 were by turns light and sarcastic, and then again 
 very serious ; and his general readiness to make things 
 seem amusing made his graver sayings doubly strong 
 by contrast. He had a bold way of asserting that 
 accumulated knowledge was of very little importance 
 as compared with action, which would have sounded 
 foolish enough from an ignorant man; but Julius 
 was far from ignorant. He had studied a great many 
 questions, and he possessed the faculty of speaking sen 
 sibly in a general way about subjects of which he did 
 not profess to know anything. Most of all she found 
 in him a ready sympathy and a love of human nature 
 and of life for life's sake, that were utterly different 
 from the artificial views she had cultivated. She 
 found in him the strong love of enjoyment and the 
 activity of mind and body, that best harmonised with 
 her own real character ; and in their long days to 
 gether the hollowness and emptiness of life never 
 once recalled themselves to her memory, except as 
 things for her to wonder at and for Batiscombe to 
 turn into jest and laugh to scorn. 
 
 The whole situation was utterly new and unex 
 pected to her. After the first few days at Sorrento 
 with her husband she had made up her mind that 
 the beauties of nature were very tedious, and that 
 she would be glad to go back to Rome and begin the
 
 158 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 duties of society, anything, rather than go on from 
 day to day longing for a sensation, and rinding only 
 a great deal of weariness. But now, in the discovery 
 of a new friend, a man of talent and tact, who made 
 all gloomy musings seem ridiculous by the side of his 
 sanguine activity, the place was transformed into a 
 paradise for her. Not a day but brought some new 
 thought, some witty saying, some bit of novelty with 
 it, so that she found herself happy when she was 
 alone in going over what they had said and done to 
 gether. 
 
 As for Marcantonio, she should be very glad when 
 he came back. It seemed to her that he must be 
 much more amusing now, and that she could say 
 things to rouse him and make him talk. She wrote 
 affectionate notes every day, telling him how beauti 
 ful everything was, and how he was to enjoy it, now 
 that the first difficulties of settling were over. She 
 even said she had sent for the cook, and had ascer 
 tained that he was very well, having had no return 
 of the fever; she thought it must please her husband 
 to know that she was taking care of the household 
 and looking after the people. 
 
 In the meanwhile Batiscombe fell in love, stu 
 diously consoling his conscience with the reflection 
 that he was doing a good deed, and was acting the 
 part of a friend in making the time pass pleasantly 
 for Leonora in her solitude. But his conscience did 
 not trouble him greatly, though it would be sure to, 
 by and by. At present everything was swamped
 
 TO LEEWARD. 159 
 
 in a sea of glorious enjoyment, and he was no less 
 really happy than Leonora. Day after day began 
 and ended alike, but yet ever different. They never 
 referred to the singularity of the arrangement by 
 which Julius came every day in the morning and 
 stayed till dark. There seemed no reason why they 
 should not leave well alone, and enjoy each other's 
 society to the very utmost. And they did, most 
 fully, each wholly engrossed in the other. 
 
 At the end of a week Marcantonio telegraphed 
 that he and his sister would leave Rome by the night 
 train and arrive in the morning. Leonora in the 
 innocence of her heart was glad, anticipating all 
 manner of new pleasure in her husband's society, 
 the result of her own cure from morbid ennui. 
 But Batiscombe felt his heart sink within him.
 
 160 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE sun beat down fiercely as Marcantonio and 
 Madame de Charleroi drove up to the house at 
 half-past ten o'clock. They had travelled all night, 
 but the beautiful Diana was not the less fair for 
 being a little tired, and as she descended from the 
 carriage and went up the short steps to the door, 
 Leonora could not help admiring the perfect smooth 
 ness and completeness of her appearance. Donna 
 Diana did things in a stately fashion, and it would 
 have been a hard journey indeed that could ruffle 
 her lace or disturb the smooth coiling of her hair. 
 Leonora herself was apt to arrive a little dusty from 
 a night in a train, and not altogether serene, and she 
 knew it ; so that the absolutely finished completeness 
 of Madame de Charleroi struck her as enviable and 
 much to be admired. 
 
 The two women kissed each other affectionately on 
 either cheek, and then Marcantonio came running 
 up and bent over his wife's hand, and, when Donna 
 Diana was not looking, he just brushed Leonora's 
 cheek in a rather guilty fashion. Presently Leonora 
 led Diana away to show her the rooms destined for 
 her, and to fuss a little over all the arrangements, 
 as women love to do when another woman is come
 
 TO LEEWARD. 161 
 
 to stay with them. Marcantonio was busy for a few 
 minutes, asking questions of the coachman and the 
 men-servants concerning the health of every indi 
 vidual in the establishment, and then he also retired 
 to his room, and the perspiring grooms and servants 
 raged furiously together with the luggage and bun 
 dles for a while ; and then the front door was closed 
 again, and all was cool and quiet. 
 
 Leonora left her husband and her sister-in-law to 
 their toilet, and came down stairs through the dark 
 ened halls to the drawing-room. She was wondering 
 whether Batiscombe would appear at his usual hour. 
 Strange to say they had not spoken of it on the 
 previous evening, probably because they feared 
 lest the mention of the subject should lead to some 
 discussion about the singular intimacy into which 
 they had fallen, and which neither wished to en 
 danger. It would be just like Batiscombe to come, 
 she thought ; it would be just like him to show him 
 self at once as her friend, and to establish the custom 
 of coming every day. 
 
 She was not mistaken ; at eleven o'clock the bell 
 rang, and he was shown in. 
 
 "I was quite sure you would come," she said, 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 " Of course," said he. " I hope they have arrived 
 safely?" 
 
 " Quite, thanks. They are making themselves 
 beautiful at this moment, though T think they must 
 have done it on the way, they arrived looking as
 
 162 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 fresh as possible, all smiles and lavender and sun 
 shine. I am so glad they are come, you cannot 
 think ! " 
 
 "Yes, I should think you must be," assented 
 Julius with less enthusiasm. 
 
 At that moment Marcantonio was shaving himself 
 in the cool seclusion of his dressing-room. He was 
 going over in his mind the past and the future, re 
 flecting upon the absurd things he had said to Diana 
 about Batiscombe in the train, and wondering what 
 he could do to make her stay pleasant. Batiscombe 
 must certainly be asked to the house, he thought, if 
 only to show his sister that he, Marcantonio, had no 
 objection to her meeting the man. It had been so 
 thoroughly absurd to take up her speech about the 
 possibility of her having married him, and to build on 
 it the supposition that she had ever loved him. Bah ! 
 the fancy of a girl for the romantic ! Batiscombe 
 was now a perfectly serious man decidedly so. 
 Besides, Marcantonio began to dread very much the 
 eternal trio between his wife, his sister, and himself, 
 from morning till night. If only he had thought in 
 time to ask some other man, it would have been such 
 a charming square party. His wife was always more 
 brilliant and good-tempered when there were out 
 siders present, probably a peculiarity of all women, 
 he thought, excepting Diana. Supposing that Leo 
 nora took it into her head to be dull or bored while 
 Diana was there, how dreadful it would be ! It was 
 clearly necessary that Diana should have a favourable
 
 TO LEEWARD. 163 
 
 idea of the Carantoni household ; that had been the 
 whole object in bringing her down. And if Leonora 
 did not seem in good spirits, Diana was sure to think 
 he was not making his wife happy. The idea grew 
 in his mind ; he was terribly afraid of what his sister 
 might think, seeing how she had opposed the match 
 from the first. Really it was absolutely necessary to 
 ask some one to the house while she stayed. But 
 whom could he ask at such short notice ? There was 
 nobody but Batiscombe within reach. 
 
 Marcantonio had finished shaving one side of his 
 face, and took a fresh razor for the other. There was 
 a pause in his thoughts while he tested the edge and 
 applied more soap to his cheek. As he went to work 
 again, the original train of ideas continued. 
 
 Well! Batiscombe. Why not? He was a very 
 amiable man, and Leonora liked him. She would 
 certainly not object. As for Diana, it was probable 
 that he would keep away from her most of the time. 
 He would scarcely press his company on her. Mon 
 sieur Batiscombe had tact, although he was a crazy 
 foreigner who went round the world in boats and 
 wrote books. Bah ! it was so convenient ! Just the 
 very person he knew everything, had seen most 
 things, and could talk like a mill-wheel. All those 
 ridiculous prejudices about Diana were absurd, and 
 were an insult to her. Batiscombe should be asked 
 to stay a week. 
 
 Having successfully finished his shaving opera 
 tions, Marcantonio sat down to write a note to Julius
 
 164 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 while the thing was in his mind. Otherwise, he re 
 flected, he might forget to do it, and Batiscombe could 
 not be obtained until to-morrow. He wrote an invi 
 tation and signed it. Then he reflected that it would 
 be as well to speak to Leonora before sending it. She 
 did not know anything about that old story that had 
 happened when she was a little girl, and perhaps not 
 even in Rome. It was a mere formality, but it would 
 be more courteous to ask her, before sending the in 
 vitation. He would not ask Diana, however. She 
 had herself said, the night before, that she had no 
 objection to meeting the man. Very well, she should 
 meet him very soon. He hurriedly finished dressing 
 and went down-stairs to find Leonora. Entering the 
 drawing-room he found her talking quietly with the 
 very man he was thinking about. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! what a chance ! " he exclaimed, cord 
 ially shaking Julius by the hand. " Imagine ! I 
 was just writing you a note, when you were in the 
 house yourself ! " 
 
 "Really?" ejaculated Batiscombe, in some aston 
 ishment. " How can I serve you since I am here 
 in the flesh ? " 
 
 " By remaining ! " answered Marcantonio cheer 
 fully. " I was in the act of writing a very pressing 
 invitation to you to stay a week with us, and thus to 
 make up the most agreeable party of four in the 
 world. Madame unites herself with me in the re 
 quest, I am sure," added Carantoni, turning to his 
 wife, who looked rather pale.
 
 TO LEEWABD. 165 
 
 " Mais certainement we shall be charmed," said 
 Leonora, utterly astonished and confused by the sud 
 denness of the situation. 
 
 She had herself thought how delightful such an 
 arrangement would be more than once. But 
 coming so suddenly, from her husband, without her 
 suggestion, it frightened her and did not seem quite 
 natural. Her voice did not sound very cordial as 
 she spoke, but it was sufficient, and her husband, 
 being full of his idea, noticed nothing. 
 
 " You are very kind. It will really give me very 
 great pleasure," said Julius, controlling his voice 
 wonderfully. 
 
 For he, too, was taken off his guard. Marcantonio 
 was delighted. It was such a wonderful piece of 
 luck, he said, that Monsieur Batiscombe should have 
 called at that hour. 
 
 " But come with me, if madame permits," said he, 
 " and I will show you your room. You can send for 
 your things in the afternoon." 
 
 Leonora was only too glad to be left alone for a 
 moment, and the two men went away, Marcantonio 
 rubbing his hands at the success of his arrangements 
 for a pleasant week. With Batiscombe in the house 
 the time could not fail to pass pleasantly, he thought. 
 
 There are some men who seem to be pursued by 
 an evil destiny that continually forces them to do the 
 wrong thing out of pure goodness of heart. From 
 an innocent desire to make his household pleasant 
 for his sister, and to amuse the wife of his heart, he
 
 166 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 had asked the man of all others whom the one desired 
 to avoid, and the other ought to have been kept from, 
 simply because he wanted somebody and the man 
 happened to be on the spot. And the whole thing 
 had originated in a laudable desire to see pleasant 
 relations established between his wife and his sister, 
 the two persons in the whole world whom he most 
 loved. Poor Marcantonio ! He was under an un 
 lucky star. 
 
 Presently Batiscombe returned alone to the draw 
 ing-room, his host remaining to give some orders 
 about the luncheon. He looked curiously at Leo 
 nora as he sat down opposite to her. 
 
 " This is very charming," he said, smiling. " It is 
 so kind of you." 
 
 " I had nothing to do with it," said Leonora, 
 avoiding his glance. "But of course I am very 
 glad. I was dreadfully afraid of being left alone 
 with my sister-in-law, and of course you will help me 
 to make it pleasant for her. Really, it is just like 
 my husband, he is so good." 
 
 " It would have been very miserable to have our 
 good time cut short," said Julius reflectively, " and 
 I suppose they would have thought it odd if I went 
 on calling every day at the same hour." Leonora 
 blushed very slightly. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I suppose so. People have such 
 ideas about the appearances. You know I should 
 not mind in the least if it were only my husband ; 
 you might -stay from morning till night, and we
 
 TO LEEWARD. 167 
 
 should all enjoy it. But I am so afraid of Madame 
 de Charleroi, she is so tremendously correct, you 
 know." 
 
 From which piece of conversation it will be seen 
 that Julius and Leonora had grown intimate of late, 
 and regarded things from a practical point of view. 
 
 All this time Madame de Charleroi was in igno 
 rance of the amiable arrangement concluded by her 
 brother, and was looking forward with almost as 
 much dislike as he had done to the family trio in 
 which she* was to play a part during the week. 
 
 She understood Leonora to a certain extent. She 
 had at least a very strong presentiment that there 
 would be trouble between her brother and his wife ; 
 not an open disagreement nor anything dramatic, but 
 the sort of small worry and discord that begins slowly 
 and surely, and finally embitters the whole lives of 
 people who are not suited to each other. She had 
 agreed to come down to Sorrento in order to " make 
 friends " with Leonora, as her brother had expressed 
 it, and in her wisdom and knowledge of the world 
 she knew very well what a difficult task she had 
 undertaken, and how small was her chance of success. 
 She foresaw that she must be continually left alone 
 with Leonora, for she understood her brother well 
 enough to suppose he would adopt that method of 
 fostering the friendship he desired. Poor dear 
 Marcantonio had so very little tact ! Consequently 
 Diana wished very much that some other person 
 had been asked to stay at the same time. Mean-
 
 168 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 while she lay down for an hour upon a sofa in her 
 sitting-room, and thought the matter over. 
 
 Marcantonio, however, bethought him that in spite 
 of Diana's expressed willingness to meet Batiscombe, 
 it might surprise her to find herself suddenly living 
 under the same roof with him. He therefore deter 
 mined to inform her of the fact before they all met 
 at the midday breakfast. He supposed she was busy 
 with her toilet, and so he would not go himself; 
 he would send his wife. That was a good idea 
 it would be at once a chance of throwing the two 
 together. To this end he returned to the drawing- 
 room, where Leonora and Batiscombe were still talk 
 ing, and with an apology to the latter, he drew his 
 wife aside for a moment. 
 
 "I think, my angel," he whispered, "that it would 
 be better to tell Diana that monsieur is here for a 
 week. She is dressing at this moment. Would you 
 be so amiable as to go to her and say in the course of 
 the conversation that I have invited Monsieur Bat 
 iscombe ? It would be very good of you, my dear." 
 
 Leonora was not in the humour to refuse her hus 
 band anything. Everything was bright and happy 
 to her, now that she saw a means of defence provided 
 for her against the stately Diana, whom she feared. 
 She had recovered from her astonishment at the sud 
 den invitation to Julius, and she saw in it a kind 
 intention on her husband's part, for which she was 
 grateful. 
 
 " Of course, mon ami," she answered, " I will do
 
 TO LEEWARD. 169 
 
 everything you like. Only amuse Monsieur Batis- 
 combe for a moment, and I will run to Diana, and tell 
 her what you wish." 
 
 " A thousand thanks ! " exclaimed Marcantonio, 
 and he turned to the task of amusing Mr. Batiscombe, 
 more delighted than ever. 
 
 Leonora knocked rather timidly at the door of 
 Diana's sitting-room. 
 
 " It is I," she said, through the door ; " may I 
 come in ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad to see you ! " exclaimed Diana, 
 rising swiftly from her couch, with a bright smile. 
 She took Leonora's hand and led her to a chair, and 
 arranged the curtains a little, so as to make more 
 light, and then sat down by her side. 
 
 " You must be dreadfully tired," said Leonora, 
 " and I ought not to disturb you. I just wanted to 
 see if you had everything you wanted." 
 
 " But everything everything, I assure you," 
 answered Diana. " I am so very comfortable, and 
 the view over the sea is exquisite, really de toute 
 beauteV' 
 
 They made a wonderful contrast, as they sat side 
 by side. Donna Diana's perfect features were more 
 mature than Leonora's, her bearing was more noble, 
 and her look more quiet arid self-possessed. She 
 wore a loose peignoir of white, with lace and white 
 silk ribbons, such as none but perfect blondes can 
 wear. But nothing could dim the dazzling whiteness 
 of her skin, or detract from her marvellous beauty.
 
 170 TO LEEWAKD. 
 
 She was calm, and statue-like, and it was only now 
 and then that a glance from her deep grey eyes 
 betrayed the warm and sympathising heart within. 
 A grand, regal woman, fit to wear a crown or to have 
 been the priestess of an ancient people. She had it 
 all from her mother, who had been like her, though 
 in a smaller mould, and had died, still young and 
 beautiful, when Diana and her brother were little 
 children. It was impossible to imagine her for a 
 moment deprived of her perfect grace, and ease, and 
 quiet. 
 
 Leonora was altogether more earthly. She moved 
 well, but often impetuously. Her extraordinary 
 vitality, when not reduced by reaction to a state of 
 unnatural apathy, was forever seeking an outlet. 
 She loved the light and the stir of society life, while 
 she amused herself with reflecting on its emptiness. 
 She was instinct with strength, and motion, and elas 
 ticity. Her skin was always fresh, whether in heat 
 or cold, but from the enthusiasm with which she did 
 things, she sometimes lost the smoothness and cor> 
 rectness as she would have called it of her ap 
 pearance. And yet even at such times she had a 
 strange charm and fascination of her own. As she 
 often said, she- was far less beautiful than Diana, but 
 much more alive, though with a life that might 
 perhaps be less strong and enduring than Diana's. 
 Diana was a queen Leonora a brilliant and irre 
 sponsible princess. 
 
 They talked a little together, and Leonora found
 
 TO LEEWARD. 171 
 
 it easy to lead the conversation to the plans she was 
 making for the amusement of her sister-in-law. 
 
 " By the bye," said she, " I ought to tell you. Mr. 
 Julius Batiscombe is staying here this week. I sup 
 pose you know him ? " 
 
 Leonora had no idea of anything having existed in 
 former times in the way of sentiment between Diana 
 and Julius. She was sent to convey a piece of infor 
 mation, and she did it as well as she could, not even 
 looking at Diana as she spoke. Had she suspected 
 anything she would have watched her, and she could 
 have seen the least possible trembling of the eyelids, 
 and the lightest imaginable shade of annoyance on 
 her guest's fair face. 
 
 " Oh yes," she said calmly, " I know him. I have 
 known him a long time. So he is staying with you?" 
 
 " Yes. He is so very agreeable, and Marcantonio 
 wished it. He has been in Sorrento some time, and 
 he took us to Castellamare to see that ironclad 
 launched. He is so very clever." 
 
 " Because he took you in his boat ? " laughed 
 Diana. " Yes, my dear, a man is clever indeed who 
 can get such charming company." 
 
 Leonora was pleased with the little speech, it 
 sounded kindly, and as Diana spoke she laid her 
 hand softly on Leonora's. 
 
 " How cold your hands are," said Diana. And 
 indeed they were chilled through, though it was a 
 very hot day in July. " ' Cold hands, warm heart,' 
 you know, as the proverb says."
 
 172 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Leonora blushed a little. It seemed so odd to be 
 talking about Julius Batiscombe to a stranger that it 
 frightened her a little, and she was conscious that 
 her heart beat faster. Nevertheless she wondered 
 vaguely why she felt the blood rise to her cheek. 
 He was only her friend, and the remark about the 
 heart could have nothing to do with him. 
 
 But Diana supposed she changed colour because she 
 was thinking of Marcantonio. It was natural for a 
 young bride to blush at the mention of her heart, 
 of course, and altogether charming. She patted the 
 cold little hand sympathetically and talked of some 
 thing else. It is so easy to misunderstand a blush. 
 But Leonora felt as though she were being patron 
 ised, which is the thing people of her stamp most 
 bitterly resent of all others; and accordingly there 
 sprang up in her breast a little breeze of opposition, 
 which might by and by blow a gale. 
 
 When the party met in the drawing-room before 
 the midday breakfast, everything seemed arranged 
 for the best, and Marcantonio rubbed his hands with 
 delight, and made numerous hospitable gestures as he 
 walked round the three lambs of his fold. Batis 
 combe rose and bowed low to Madame de Charleroi. 
 She nodded pleasantly as to an old acquaintance, and 
 gave him her hand. He turned a little pale under 
 the sunburnt bronze of his face. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," said she. " I thought you 
 had probably been shipwrecked in that boat of yours. 
 It was in all the papers, you know."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 173 
 
 " The sea would not be so ill-bred as to swallow me 
 up before I had had the honour of making my homage 
 to you, madame," said Batiscombe with a bow and a 
 smile. 
 
 It is so easy to say pretty things in French, and as 
 every one does it no one ever knows the genuine 
 from the spurious. Diana was well used to Batis- 
 combe's ways, and she laughed a little. But some 
 how Leonora did not like the speech. The English 
 part of her revolted against a generality of gallant 
 language, though her Russian blood made it quite 
 possible for her to accept such things as genuine 
 when addressed to herself. 
 
 Breakfast was announced. 
 
 "Mon Dieu," exclaimed Marcantonio, smiling at 
 everybody, " it is the most charming quartette imagi 
 nable. But there arises a terrible question of pre 
 cedence. I must evidently give my arm to my wife 
 or to my sister. It is very grave. Mesdames, I pray 
 you, select." 
 
 " Of course," said Leonora, " Diana is the guest. 
 It is to her that you must give your arm ; and Mon 
 sieur Batiscombe must console himself as he can." 
 
 Everybody smiled politely, as people do over the 
 inanities of a very cheerful and hospitable host. 
 
 " Thank you," said Batiscombe in English, as he 
 and Leonora followed the other couple into the 
 breakfast-room at a little distance. 
 
 It became the duty of Batiscombe and the two 
 ladies to make Marcantonio believe that they were
 
 174 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 all enjoying themselves and each other immensely; 
 their duty it was the sacred and unavoidable duty 
 of society towards its entertainers. Batiscombe 
 found the situation very unpleasant. Diana wished 
 the week well over, and bore her part with the unfal 
 tering serenity and cheerfulness that well-bred sover 
 eigns exhibit when they are obliged to do some of the 
 thousand disagreeable things that make up most of 
 their lives. Leonora was beginning to be quite sure 
 she could never like Diana. How could she like a 
 woman who assumed airs of superiority ? Diana was 
 not in the least like the young ladies whom she knew 
 in Rome, and whom, she promised herself, she would 
 rule with a rod of iron now that she was married. 
 And Marcantonio smiled and said all the pleasantest 
 things he could imagine ; and they were many, for 
 pleasantness was his strong point. Batiscombe sec 
 onded him to the best of his ability, and every now 
 and then reflected for an instant on the extraordinary 
 position in which he found himself. 
 
 Indeed, he had cause to wonder at the strangeness 
 of fate. There he sat, eating his breakfast between 
 the woman who had dominated him all his life, and 
 the woman who fascinated him in the present, with 
 ample opportunity to compare them with each other, 
 and a determination not to do it. It seemed as 
 though Diana's coming had roused his instincts of 
 contrariety, as it had in Leonora, though for quite dif 
 ferent reasons. Diana knew well enough, he thought, 
 that she ruled him and could bring him to her feet
 
 TO LEEWARD. 175 
 
 in a moment. Why, then, if she did not want him 
 herself, did she come and disturb his peace and happi 
 ness? She need not have prevented him from en 
 joying the society of a charming woman, but she 
 undoubtedly would. He knew well enough that her 
 presence must be a check on the daily and hourly 
 intercourse with Leonora which he just now most 
 desired. She would not believe in the friendship 
 which had seemed so real to Leonora and so possible 
 to himself. She would watch him with those grey 
 eyes of hers that knew him so well, and when she 
 had an opportunity, she would give him a wholesome 
 lecture on the error of his ways. He knew Diana 
 well, and she knew him better. 
 
 He was forced to confess that she was more beauti 
 ful, more stately, and more perfect now, at eight and 
 twenty, than she had been ten years ago at eighteen ; 
 that, if she lifted her finger to him now, he would be 
 more entirely her servant and slave than ever before ; 
 and that in the bottom of his heart he wished she 
 would do so, as he wished no other thing in the world. 
 At the same time he knew perfectly well that she 
 would not, and he thought it was not fair of her to 
 disturb an innocent friendship which had, by force of 
 circumstances, assumed a peculiar aspect. She ex 
 cited in him all the obstinacy which attends weakness 
 and Julius was a weak man where women were 
 concerned. And whether he would or not, he made 
 up his mind not to relinquish his daily enjoyment of 
 talking to Leonora for all the Dianas in the world, 
 if it were only to please his own vanity.
 
 176 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 The repast was somehow or other a success so far 
 as Marcantonio was concerned. He felt that every 
 thing was proceeding as it should, that all his little 
 plans had turned out well, and that he was a happy 
 husband and a happy brother. He was in complete 
 ignorance of Julius Batiscombe's daily visits to his 
 wife during his absence. She had meant to tell him, 
 honestly, how pleasant it had all been, and how much 
 she had enjoyed it; but, somehow, the invitation to 
 Batiscombe to stay in the house had made her put it 
 off. Marcantonio was so odd about some things, and 
 he was sure to want so many explanations ; she could 
 tell him just as well after Diana and Batiscombe 
 were gone; and then, of course, it could not matter 
 so much. She knew that Julius would never refer to 
 all those days unless she herself did. If only that 
 terrible Diana did not see or find out! How dread 
 ful it would be to have her say anything to Marc 
 antonio !
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A COUNTKY-HOUSE is a glass house. The more 
 people there are staying in it, the more fragile and 
 delicate are the walls, and the more probability there 
 is that some one will be inspired by the Evil One 
 to throw stones. Sometimes it happens that two or 
 three of a party fight a pitched battle, and then some 
 lucky lovers who have nothing to do with the hos 
 tilities are forgotten and overlooked in the din of 
 war. But if there is one thing in the world more 
 certain to get out than murder it is love, righteous or 
 unrighteous. Lovers who desire secrecy should never 
 go to country-houses together. 
 
 It seems to them as though each and every member 
 of the household had especially adopted a set of vile 
 and pernicious habits ; a determination to be where 
 they ought not, at all sorts of unexpected hours ; to 
 come skulking round corners under the empty pre 
 text of seeking shade, and to be found lurking in 
 wooded dells on pretence of studying natural history. 
 There is the matutinal fiend, who shaves at the win 
 dow in the grey dawn and sees people who have got 
 up for an early walk ; and, verily, they feel like worms 
 when they glance up and see his beak and talons at 
 the casement. There is also the demon that walketh
 
 178 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 in darkness, smoking a midnight cigar on the lawn 
 before going to bed. There is the midday dragon, 
 green-eyed and loathly to behold, who steals out in 
 old gloves and a parasol immediately after luncheon, 
 because she has left her glasses on the mossy seat 
 under the trees, just out of sight of the house, and 
 must needs find them. There is the vile and sicken 
 ing bookworm, with his bland smile and unhealthy 
 complexion, who dives into the library in the middle 
 of the summer's afternoon, and ruthlessly opens the 
 blinds to find a quotation, the eighteenth volume of 
 an uncut rarity in vellum ; and who wrinkles dis 
 agreeably all over when he observes the couple in the 
 corner, staring like blushing owls in the sudden 
 glare. 
 
 And, besides all these, there are the low earth- 
 spirits, a swarm of maids, butlers, grooms, stable- 
 boys, and nurses, who are supposed to dwell some 
 where, underground, and are everlastingly appearing, 
 like phantoms, noiseless and awful, with ears like 
 vast trumpets of endless capacity and eyes of incal 
 culable magnifying power. 
 
 A country-house is a terrible test of all the great 
 virtues of mankind and a fearful reflector of all the 
 vices. It is well to begin life in the country with an 
 adequate certainty that, whatever you do, you will 
 be found out, and that you will often be found out 
 when you have done nothing. And a villa hired in 
 the orange gardens of Sorrento, overhanging the 
 murmuring sea and sweet with the breath of the rich
 
 TO LEEWARD. 179 
 
 south, is not different in this respect from a York 
 shire manor-house, a chateau in the south of France, 
 or a "romantic retreat" on the Hudson River. 
 
 For two or three days after the events just chron 
 icled, Leonora and Batiscombe managed successfully 
 to spend several hours out of the twenty-four in 
 each other's society. Marcantonio was busy during 
 a great part of the time with correspondence con 
 cerning the politics of his party, and once he went 
 over to Naples to see an eminent person on business. 
 The four inmates of the house met at meals, and in 
 the late afternoon, when they generally went out in 
 the boat. Donna Diana occasionally sat with Leo 
 nora for an hour, and they talked to each other 
 studiously, Leonora trying her best to make the time 
 pleasant for Diana, and Diana doing what she could 
 to cultivate her acquaintance with Leonora. At the 
 end of two days it was perfectly clear that the two 
 women would never be intimate. But they both 
 concealed the fact from Marcantonio ; and he rubbed 
 his hands, and wrote his letters, and bought cartloads 
 of things for his wife, in the comforting assurance 
 that she was very happy and inclined to follow his 
 wishes in regard to his sister. 
 
 But Diana was not given to looking after Leonora 
 when she was out of her sight, and she spent a great 
 part of the day in writing letters, in reading, and 
 now and then in calling on a few acquaintances who 
 lived along the shore in the villas towards Castella- 
 mare. She was glad that Batiscombe kept out of
 
 180 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 her way, but she did not exactly understand why he 
 did so. He was generally extremely anxious to see 
 as much as possible of her when he was in her neigh 
 bourhood. Could it be that he did not love her any 
 longer ? That after all these years he had at last put 
 her out of his mind ? Perhaps so. She was glad if 
 it were so, most truly. She had many times prayed 
 with her whole soul that he might forget her. It 
 might be that the prayer was answered. At all 
 events, he kept out of her way, and she did not 
 regret it, nor ever give him a sign to come to her. 
 She supposed that he spent his hours with Leonora 
 or Marcantonio or both, and there was no reason why 
 he should not be intimate in the house, so far as she 
 herself was concerned. 
 
 One day it chanced that the wind was in the south 
 east, blowing a hot blast and making everything very 
 hazy and sultry that was out of its reach, and cover 
 ing everything it touched with a disagreeable mixture 
 of dust and hot dampness. Every one who has lived 
 in Italy knows what the scirocco is like, and the dis 
 mal stickiness it brings. It seems as though the 
 universe were under a press and some one were 
 screwing it down. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and Madame 
 de Charleroi was sitting in her small boudoir, trying 
 to write a letter to her husband. Unlike most Ital 
 ians, she had not the habit of sleeping in the day, 
 and used the time when other people were taking 
 a nap during the great heat to keep up an extensive
 
 TO LEEWARD. 181 
 
 correspondence. She was a woman who had made 
 this one interest for herself, and thoroughly enjoyed 
 being in constant communication with a dozen intel 
 ligent people in all parts of the world. 
 
 It was excessively hot. Even she, who was south 
 ern born and did not mind it, felt her brain grow 
 dizzy and her fingers tired and clammy. Leonora's 
 white kitten had strayed into the room after lunch, and 
 was walking about near the door, squeaking now and 
 then as though it did not like the quarters and wanted 
 to get out. For the mere sake of changing her posi 
 tion, Diana laid down her pen and rose to open the 
 door. As she did so the cat jumped nimbly through, 
 and a little breath of cooler air blew in from the 
 passage. Diana stood one moment as though enjoy 
 ing it, and then went out. She took a parasol in the 
 hall, and walked slowly down the garden. The sky 
 was overcast with a dull leaden grey, and the south 
 east wind blew under the trees, bad enough in itself, 
 but infinitely better than the close heat indoors. 
 There was no one to be seen, and Diana paced slowly 
 along the gravel path. At the end of it were the 
 steps which led through the rocks to the sea. 
 
 She had gone down and come up again more than 
 once with the rest of the party in the evening, when 
 they had been out in the boat, and she had thought 
 each time that it would be pleasant to come and sit 
 in some of the cool archways and look out over the 
 sea in the heat of the day. She felt sure, too, of 
 being alone there ; it was not a likely place for any
 
 182 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 one to frequent at three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 Diana closed her parasol, and, just lifting the skirt of 
 her white dress off the ground, began to descend the 
 broad stone steps, hewn out of the solid rock, through 
 a steep vaulted tunnel in the inside of the cliff. Here 
 and there a great arched window looked out, in 
 which were cut wide seats. 
 
 She had passed through the darkest part of the 
 descent, carefully picking her way, when she sud 
 denly found herself opposite to one of these windows. 
 She was startled to see two persons there, for she 
 had been certain that she would be alone. They 
 were Leonora and Batiscombe, sitting side by side 
 under the arched opening. Hearing her tread they 
 both looked round, and Julius seemed to pick up 
 from the floor something which had probably fallen 
 while they were talking. Then he remained stand 
 ing, and Diana, seeing she was discovered, advanced 
 boldly toward the pair. There was nothing so ex 
 traordinary in the situation after all, but she had always 
 supposed that Leonora slept in the afternoon while 
 Batiscombe and Marcantonio smoked and talked pol 
 itics up-stairs. They had certainly been sitting very 
 near together, she thought, but the sudden glare of 
 the light and the distance which separated her from 
 them had prevented her from noticing their faces. 
 As she came near, Leonora rose also and spoke first. 
 She held her back to the light, for she was blushing 
 deeply ; but Batiscombe, who never blushed and 
 rarely turned pale, stood calmly pulling his mous-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 183 
 
 tache, as though it were all the most natural thing 
 in the world. 
 
 " I had always meant to tell you how delightful it 
 is here," said Leonora. " I am so glad you have 
 found it out for yourself." 
 
 " En effet," answered Madame de Charleroi calmly 
 smiling, " it is ideal." She came under the arch and 
 looked out, enjoying the sight of the sea after the 
 dark passages. 
 
 " And then," said Leonora, " it is strictly true that 
 one is ' not at home ' when one is here, if people 
 call, it is very convenient. Nobody can find one." 
 
 " Excepting Madame de Charleroi," said Batis- 
 combe, who was very angry at the interruption. 
 
 But he said it so pleasantly and with such an air 
 of paying a compliment, that Diana could not be 
 offended ; she only smiled a little bitterly in her 
 lofty way, remembering other times when he would 
 have given his right hand for a meeting of any kind 
 with her. 
 
 In that moment a suspicion crossed Diana's mind. 
 She understood the meaning of his remark perfectly, 
 in spite of the bow and the smile, knowing, as she 
 did, every intonation of his voice and every expres 
 sion of his face. She saw that he was angry, and she 
 argued that Julius preferred being with Leonora to 
 being with herself. That was clearly the reason why 
 he kept out of her way ; he spent his time with Leo 
 nora. If Leonora attracted him, he was certainly at 
 liberty to talk to her if he pleased, but Diana thought
 
 184 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 it must be a strong attraction indeed that kept him 
 away from herself. It was long since he had missed 
 an opportunity of spending an hour with his old love. 
 
 Diana sat down beside Leonora, and Batiscombe 
 leaned against the rock and looked out over the sea, 
 the fire^dancing in his blue eyes, but his face as calm 
 as ever. Diana began to talk to Leonora. 
 
 " You are very fortunate in getting such a place," 
 she said. " It is by far the most beautiful on the 
 whole shore." 
 
 " I wish it belonged to us," said Leonora. " I am 
 sure I could come here every year and never grow 
 tired of it." 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Diana, " do you like it so very 
 much then ? " 
 
 " J'en raffole ! " answered Leonora enthusiastically, 
 "I am crazy about it. And then, it is always so 
 charming to have absolutely the best. As you say, 
 there is nothing like this place on the whole bay. I 
 should like always to have the best." 
 
 "But, madame," remarked Batiscombe, "it appears 
 to me that you always do. You have the talent of 
 supremacy." 
 
 " What an idea ! The talent of supremacy ! " 
 
 " But that is precisely it," continued Julius. " It 
 is a talent. Some people are born with it gener 
 ally women." 
 
 " That is Monsieur Batiscombe's favourite theory," 
 remarked Madame de Charleroi, just glancing at him, 
 " but he does not believe it the least in the world."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 185 
 
 " Is it true ? " asked Leonora, innocently, looking 
 up with an expression that did not escape Diana. It 
 was a sort of frightened look, as though it really 
 mattered to her what Batiscombe thought about 
 women in general. 
 
 "It pleases madame to be witty," answered Julius, 
 glancing in his turn at Diana. "I have not many 
 theories, but I believe in them as a man who is about 
 to be guillotined believes in death." 
 
 " One cannot say more than that," laughed Leo 
 nora. " But how about the supremacy of men ? 
 There have been more men in the world who have 
 ruled it than there have ever been women." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Men give themselves much more 
 trouble," he replied. " Women, having the divine 
 right given to them straight from Heaven, exercise 
 it without difficulty. A word, a cup of tea, a glance, 
 and the supremacy of a woman is established. 
 What could a man do with a cup of tea ? Or, if he 
 looked at people by the hour together, could he rule 
 them with a glance ? When a woman has the gift 
 she finds little difficulty in using it, vhereas the 
 more of it a man has, the more trouble it is to him. 
 Men are so stupid ! " And with this sweeping con 
 demnation of his own sex, Julius lit a cigarette, hav 
 ing obtained permission of the two ladies. 
 
 " You ought not to have many friends, with such 
 ideas about men," said Leonora. 
 
 " En effet," said Diana, " he has none." 
 
 " Not among men, at all events," said Julius. " I
 
 186 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 do not remember ever having any. I do not sleep 
 any the worse on that account, I assure you. It is 
 much more agreeable to have a number of pleasant 
 acquaintances, who expect nothing from you and 
 from whom you expect nothing. Friendship implies 
 mutual obligations ; I detest that." 
 
 Leonora laughed a little. He had such a vicious 
 way of saying such things, as though he thoroughly 
 meant them. But then he was courteous and gentle 
 to every one, though she suspected he might be dif 
 ferent if he were angry. Diana knew very well that 
 what he said was true, and that he had led an iso 
 lated life among other men, fighting his way through 
 with his own hand and owing no man anything. 
 She herself had for years been his best friend and his 
 only confidant, though he saw her rarely enough. 
 And now she felt as though even that one bond of 
 his were to be broken, and whether she would or 
 not, the thought gave her pain, and she wished it 
 could be otherwise. 
 
 " It is always far more amusing to detest things," 
 said Leonora, " unless you happen to want them." 
 She was forgetting some of her indifferentism. 
 
 " It is certainly more blessed to abuse than to be 
 abused," returned Julius, " and, if one has the choice, 
 it is as well to be the hammer and not the anvil. I 
 am an excessively good-natured person, and if I had 
 friends, they would make an anvil of me and beat 
 my brains out, and then I should starve." 
 
 " Good-natured people are always made to suffer,"
 
 TO LEEWARD. 187 
 
 said Leonora thoughtfully. " I am not in the least 
 good-natured." 
 
 " I remember," said Diana, " that Mr. Batiscombe 
 used to say good-nature was a mixture of laziness 
 and vulgarity." 
 
 "Yes," answered Julius. "You have a good 
 memory, madame. Good-nature is a compound of 
 the laziness that cannot say ' no,' and of the vul 
 garity which desires to please every one indiscrimi 
 nately. I suppose I possess both those faults very 
 finely developed." 
 
 " Fortunately," remarked Leonora, " goodness and 
 good-nature are not the same." 
 
 "Fortunately for you, Marchesa, unfortunately 
 for me," said Julius. 
 
 "It is too complicated please explain," she an 
 swered. 
 
 "As you are so fortunate as to possess goodness 
 without good-nature," said he, " you should be glad 
 that the two are not one and the same, since good 
 nature is not a desirable quality. I am good-natured, 
 but not good I wish I were ! " 
 
 " Ah, I see ! " exclaimed Diana. " It was a com 
 pliment." , 
 
 " Of course," said Julius. 
 
 " Of course ; but your compliments are often 
 complicated, as the Marchesa says." 
 
 Diana smiled as she spoke. Batiscombe knew that 
 she was repaying him for the remark he had made 
 when she had unexpectedly appeared twenty minutes 
 earlier.
 
 188 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " I can only repeat," he retorted, " that Madame 
 de Charleroi has a good memory." 
 
 Leonora was puzzled. She saw well enough that 
 Diana and Julius were, or had been, much more inti 
 mate than she had supposed. They understood each 
 other at a glance, by a word, and they seemed on the 
 verge of quarrelling politely over nothing. She de 
 voutly wished that Diana would go away, instead of 
 spoiling her afternoon. But Diana leaned back against 
 the rock and crossed her feet and prepared to be 
 comfortable. She was evidently not going. Batis- 
 combe stood motionless, with the easy stolidity of a 
 very strong man who does not wish to move, and 
 Leonora could see his bold profile against the grey 
 haze of the sky. There was a short silence after 
 his last remark, during which Leonora felt uneasy : 
 something was in the atmosphere that made her 
 anxious, and she did not like the way Diana looked 
 at Batiscombe, with an air of absolute superiority, as 
 though she could do anything she pleased with him. 
 
 " How dreadfully solemn we are," said Leonora, 
 rather awkwardly. Julius turned quickly with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " Let us be gay," he said. " I hate solemnity, 
 unless there is enough of it to make me laugh. I 
 remember being at a ball once that produced that 
 effect." 
 
 " Aliens ! " said Diana, " give us some of your 
 reminiscences, Monsieur Batiscombe. They ought 
 to be interesting."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 189 
 
 "Not so much as you think. But the ball was 
 very funny. It was in Guatemala, three years ago. 
 I was invited to a huge thing by the president an 
 entirely new president, too, who had just cut the 
 throats of the old president and of all his relations. 
 I believe there was some sort of revolution at the 
 time, and when it was over the victorious individ 
 ual gave a ball. The refreshments were simple 
 brandy for the men and rosolio for the ladies ; there 
 was no compromise in the shape of a biscuit or a 
 glass of water." 
 
 Leonora laughed, being willing to laugh at any 
 thing so as to encourage Julius to talk. 
 
 " En verite", that was very amusing," remarked 
 Diana coldly. Batiscombe took no notice. 
 
 " The women sat round the room in a double 
 row," he continued, " like a court ball, excepting 
 that they all smoked large cigars, and industriously 
 passed the liqueur. The men stood behind and gave 
 their undivided attention to the brandy. Not a soul 
 spoke, and they all scowled fiercely at the brandy, 
 the rosolio, and each other. A ghastly and tuneless 
 quartette of instruments doled out a melancholy 
 dirge, slower than anything you ever heard at a 
 funeral ; and now and then some enterprising and 
 funereal man led out a less enterprising but equally 
 melancholy female in a strange step, like the tor 
 mented ghost of a waltz in chains. It was so 
 hideous that I went out and laughed till I almost 
 had a fit. I have never thought anything seemed
 
 190 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 very solemn since then it destroyed the proportion 
 in my brain. A pauper's burial on a rainy day in 
 London is a wildly gay entertainment compared with 
 that ball." 
 
 Leonora laughed, and even Diana smiled; where 
 upon Julius was satisfied, and relapsed into silence. 
 But Leonora wanted conversation. 
 
 " What in the world took you to Guatemala, Mr. 
 Batiscombe ? " she asked. 
 
 " That is a question which I cannot answer, Mar- 
 chesa," he replied. " I believe I went there for some 
 reason or other chiefly because I could go for 
 nothing, and wanted to see something new." 
 
 " Can you always go to Guatemala for nothing?" 
 asked Leonora. " It must be very amusing." 
 
 " A steamer company offered me a free passage to 
 any port in their service," said Batiscombe ; " and as 
 the next ship went to Guatemala, I sailed with her. 
 It happened to be first on the list." 
 
 " What a queer idea ! " exclaimed Leonora. 
 
 "You are too modest, Mr. Batiscombe," said 
 Diana. " You ought to tell the whole story it is 
 very interesting." Her voice was less cold than when 
 she had spoken last. 
 
 " Oh, do tell the story ! " cried Leonora. " I adore 
 autobiographies ! '' 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " said Julius, " there is very little to 
 tell. I did a service to a ship belonging to the com 
 pany, and in acknowledgment they presented me 
 with a piece of plate and the free passage in question.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 191 
 
 Voila tout! madame is too good when she says it 
 was interesting." 
 
 " If Monsieur Batiscombe will not be so obliging 
 as to relate the experience, I will," said Diana. " He 
 shall correct me if I make a mistake." 
 
 Batiscombe looked annoyed. He was not fond of 
 telling his own adventures, and he hated to hear 
 them told by other people. He could not imagine 
 why Diana wanted to hear the story. He was irri 
 tated already, and her conduct seemed more and more 
 inexplicable. Leonora looked at him expectantly. 
 
 Who can understand a woman? It may be that 
 Diana, who was really fond of him in a strange 
 fashion, was sorry for the position she had taken that 
 afternoon, and was willing to atone by giving him 
 the credit before Leonora of some fine action he had 
 done. 
 
 " It was three years ago or more, in the winter," 
 began Diana. " Monsieur Batiscombe was travelling 
 in a ship on the coast of America. There were a 
 hundred passengers on board, or more, and a crew of 
 thirty-five. Is that exact?" 
 
 Julius bent his head and turned away. 
 
 " Eh bien, there was a great storm such as there 
 are in the ocean. It is horrible, you may imagine. 
 The ship was driven on the rocks, a long distance 
 from the shore. A reef, you call it, n'est-ce-pas ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Batiscombe. " Fifty or sixty yards 
 from the shore." 
 
 " Good. What do they do ? Six brave sailors
 
 192 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 volunteer to throw themselves into the sea in a cha- 
 loupe a miserable boat '' 
 
 " And monsieur was one of the volunteers " 
 exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear friend. The boat overturns ; 
 the sailors are immediately drowned ; every one is in 
 consternation. Then Monsieur Batiscombe arrives ; 
 he says he will save everybody ; he ties a thin line 
 a mere string to his waist; he throws himself to 
 the sea. The passengers scream as they cling to the 
 ropes and the side, while the vessel is beaten horribly 
 on the reef. He struggles in the waves, swimming ; 
 he is thrown down again and again in the breakers ; 
 he rises and rushes on to the shore. Then he pulls 
 the string, and after the string a rope. A sailor 
 ventures down and he also reaches the land. They 
 fasten the rope, and every one is saved passengers, 
 crew, captain, tout le monde. Ah, Batiscombe. why 
 are you not always doing such things, you, who 
 can do them so well? " 
 
 Madame de Charleroi's grey eyes were wide and 
 bright, and a very faint colour rose to her cheeks as 
 she told the story. The calm, regal woman took a 
 genuine delight in great actions, and as she turned to 
 Julius at the end there was a ring of real sympathy 
 and friendship and regret in her voice that it gave 
 Leonora a strange sensation to hear. 
 
 " It was magnificently brave ! " exclaimed Leonora 
 in English, and she looked at Julius as though she 
 admired him with all her heart and soul.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 193 
 
 She had always had a feeling that he had probably 
 made himself remarkable in such ways, but he always 
 had told her that his life had been uneventful. To 
 think that this calm, smooth, well-dressed, fine gentle 
 man should have saved a whole shipload of lives by 
 sheer strength and courage ! Ah, he was a man, 
 indeed ! 
 
 But Batiscombe never moved. He stood looking 
 seaward, his eyelids half closed, and a thoughtful look 
 on his brown face. Indeed, he was thinking deeply, 
 but not so much of the old story Diana had been tell 
 ing as of herself. The strange appeal in her last 
 words had touched the good chord in his wayward 
 heart, and he was thinking how fair his life might 
 have been with her, and how dark it had been 
 without her. And the old true love rose up for one 
 moment, hiding Leonora and the rest, and all the 
 intervening years, and sending hot words to his 
 ready lips. He turned in the act to speak, forgetting 
 where he was, then checked himself. Both Leonora 
 and Diana had seen that he was going to say some 
 thing, for they were watching him. He hesitated. 
 
 "I ought to thank you, madame," he said to 
 Diana, " for gilding my adventure so richly. But as 
 for the thing itself, and the doing of such things, 
 the opportunity seldom offers, and the faculty for 
 doing them is the result of an excellent digestion and 
 quiet nerves. Meanwhile it is grown cooler, and the 
 boats are below. Shall we go down, and sail a little 
 before dinner?"
 
 194 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 The two ladies consented readily enough, and they 
 all descended to the landing and got into one of the 
 boats and pushed away. 
 
 " I shall have quite a new sensation in future when 
 I sail with you, Mr. Batiscorabe," said Leonora. " It 
 would be impossible to be drowned with you on 
 board." 
 
 But Diana was pale again, and settled herself 
 among the cushions in silence. 
 
 Far up above, Marcantonio was interviewing the 
 coachman on the terrace. He looked down and saw 
 the boat shoot out with the three members of his 
 household. He rubbed his hands smoothly together. 
 
 " Ha," he said to himself, " it is superb ! What 
 good friends they are all growing to be ! En ve'rite', 
 Batisconibe is a most amiable man, full of tact."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LATE that evening Julius was sitting in a corner of 
 the broad terrace over the sea. The clouds had 
 cleared away before the light easterly breeze that 
 springs up at night, and the stars shone brightly. 
 Down in the west the young moon had set, and the 
 air was fresh and cool after the long, hot day. 
 Julius had drawn an arm-chair away from the house 
 and was smoking solemnly, in enjoyment of the 
 night. He found that he had much to think of. 
 The rest of the household had gone to bed, or at all 
 events had retired to their rooms. 
 
 It had been a day of emotions with him, and that 
 was unusual, to begin with. His feeling for Leonora 
 was growing to great proportions. He knew that 
 very well ; and in spite of the momentary burst of 
 passion, which, if he had been alone with Madame 
 de Charleroi, would have found expression in words 
 which he would have regretted and she would have 
 resented, he now felt that he was irritated against 
 her and could not forgive her inopportune inter 
 ruption. All his opposition was roused ; and as if in 
 despite of his old love he dwelt on the thoughts of 
 the present, and delighted in recalling the details of 
 the fair Marchesa's conversation, the quickly chang-
 
 196 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ing expression of her face, the tones of her voice, 
 the grace of her movements. She was so strong and 
 living that he felt his whole being permeated with 
 the atmosphere and essence of her life. 
 
 As he leaned back in his chair, he experienced a 
 sensation by no means new to him, of intense delight 
 in existence, and he breathed in the soft fresh air, 
 and tasted that it was the breath of love. 
 
 A small, short step sounded on the tiles of the 
 terrace, coming toward his corner. He looked round 
 quickly, and was aware of the tall and graceful figure 
 of Diana de Charleroi, muffled in something dark, 
 but unmistakable in its outline and stately presence. 
 In a moment she was beside him ; he rose and threw 
 away his cigarette, somewhat astonished. 
 
 "Get another chair," said she, in a low voice. " It 
 is pleasant here." 
 
 He obeyed quickly and noiselessly, as he did 
 everything. She had taken his chair, and he sat 
 down beside her, waiting for her to speak. 
 
 "I thought I should find you here, Julius," she 
 said, calling him by his Christian name without the 
 smallest hesitation. "I wanted to speak to you alone." 
 
 " You have the faculty of finding me," said Julius 
 with a short, low laugh. 
 
 " Since when is it so disagreeable to you ? " asked 
 Diana. 
 
 Julius was silent, for there was nothing he could 
 say. He wished he had said nothing at first, it 
 would have been much better. Diana continued.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 197 
 
 " You and I know each other well enough to talk 
 freely," she said. "We need not beat about the 
 bush and say pretty things to each other, and I 
 forgive you for being rude, because I know you very 
 well, and am willing to sacrifice something. But I 
 will not forgive you again if you are rude in public. 
 There are certain things one does not permit one's 
 self, when one is a gentleman." 
 
 "You are very good, Diana," said Batiscombe, 
 humbly. " I am very sorry. I lost my temper." 
 
 " Naturally," she answered coolly. " You always 
 lose your temper, you always did, and yet you 
 fancy continually that you hide it. Let that go. I 
 have forgiven you for this time, because I am the 
 best friend you have." 
 
 " The only one," said Julius. 
 
 "Perhaps. You are well hated, I can tell you. 
 Then treat me as a friend in future, if you please, 
 and not as an inquisitive acquaintance who makes a 
 point of annoying you for her own ends." 
 
 She spoke calmly, in a quiet, determined voice, 
 without the slightest hesitation or affectation. Ju 
 lius bent his head. 
 
 " I always mean to," he said. 
 
 " Now listen to me," she continued. " I came upon 
 you this afternoon by pure accident. I do not owe 
 you any apology for that, and you know very well 
 that I am the last person in the world to do things in 
 that way, by stealth. That is the reason I come to 
 you here, at night, to tell you my mind frankly."
 
 198 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Yes," said Batiscorabe, in a muffled voice, "I 
 know." 
 
 " I came upon you by accident," said she, " and I 
 made a discovery. You pass your afternoons in the 
 society of my sister-in-law, and you lose your temper 
 with me when I find you together, though you 
 always wish me to understand that you prefer my 
 society to that of any woman in the world." 
 
 "Ah how you express it! " exclaimed Julius. 
 
 " I express it as plainly as I can. I cannot help it 
 if you do not like it. It is all true. And the infer 
 ence is perfectly clear. Do you see ? " 
 
 " No," said Batiscombe. 
 
 " You do not ? Very well, I will draw it for 
 
 you." 
 
 She leaned back in the chair and looked at him ; 
 her eyes were accustomed by this time to the gloom, 
 and she could see him quite clearly in the starlight. 
 He moved uneasily. 
 
 " Pray go on," he said. 
 
 " The inference is this. You are making love to 
 Leonora Carantoni." 
 
 "You shall not say that," said Batiscombe, be 
 tween his teeth, still looking fiercely at her. 
 
 " You might forbid a man to say it," answered 
 Diana, in low, calm tones. "And for anything I 
 care you may forbid any other woman in the world 
 to say it. But you cannot forbid me. I have the 
 right." 
 
 " In that case," said Julius, rising, and struggling
 
 TO LEEWARD. 199 
 
 to speak quietly, " there is nothing I can do but to 
 leave you, since I will certainly not listen." 
 
 But Diana rose also, and laid her white hand on 
 his arm, as though she could have bowed the strong 
 man to the earth if she chose. She seemed taller than 
 he in the power and determination of her gesture. 
 
 " Sit down instantly," she said, under her breath. 
 
 Julius obeyed silently and sullenly. Then Diana 
 resumed her seat. 
 
 "I have the right, Julius," she continued, "not 
 because you pretend to have loved me for ten years, 
 nor because I once thought I might accept your 
 love, nor yet because I am sometimes weak 
 enough to like you still, in a sisterly way. But I 
 have the right because you are making love to my 
 brother's wife, because she is young and innocent, 
 and because there is not another human being in the 
 world to stand by her, or to give her any protection 
 in her danger." 
 
 "If you think that, why do you not tell your 
 brother so ? " 
 
 "Do you call yourself intelligent? Do you call 
 yourself a gentleman?" exclaimed Diana in bitter 
 scorn. "Would you have me destroy the peace of 
 my brother and of his wife, because you are doing a 
 bad action, that has not yet borne fruit? Do you 
 think I am afraid of you ? Of you ? " She repeated 
 the word almost between her teeth. 
 
 "No," said Batiscombe, under his breath, "I do 
 not. But I would like to ask you a question."
 
 200 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " I will answer," said Diana. 
 
 " Why did you tell that absurd story about me 
 this afternoon? Did you not see it was just the very 
 worst thing you could possibly do, from your own 
 point ? That nothing rouses a woman's interest like 
 such tales?" 
 
 " I promised to answer your question," said Diana, 
 coldly, " and I will. I told the story thoughtlessly, 
 because I am a woman, and admire such things quite 
 independently of the person who has done them. Do 
 not flatter yourself that a woman like Leonora Caran- 
 toni will fall in love with you because you are brave. 
 But I dare say I did wrong, and I am sorry for it. 
 You have qualities which any one may admire, but 
 you have others which I despise." 
 
 "I despise them myself, sometimes," said Julius, 
 almost to himself. 
 
 " Despise them always, at least, and be con 
 sistent," answered Diana. "But you will not. You 
 like them, those bad qualities, and when you like 
 them, they make a miserable wretch of you, as they 
 do now. You know well enough, however cleverly 
 you may deceive yourself, that you ought not to be 
 here. You stay, you are a coward, besides being 
 a great many worse things which I leave you to 
 understand." 
 
 Batiscombe's eyes flashed angrily in the starlight. 
 
 " You are cruel, Diana, and unkind," he said. 
 
 Diana was silent a moment, and she drew her dark 
 lace shawl about her, as though she were cold.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 201 
 
 When she spoke her voice was infinitely soft and 
 gentle. 
 
 " Do not say that, Julius. Do not say I am ever 
 cruel to you, for to you, of all people in the world, 
 I would be most kind." 
 
 Julius bent down and pressed his hands to his 
 temples, and sighed heavily. 
 
 " Oh, Diana," he groaned, " I know it, I know it." 
 
 "Then I will not say any more. Do this thing 
 because it is right, not because I ask you to. Have 
 I ever reproached you before, when you have come 
 to me of your own accord and told me your troubles ? 
 What right have I to reproach you ? " 
 
 Julius was silent. He knew in his heart that she 
 had the right, because he still loved her best. He 
 sat immovable, his head buried in his hands. Diana 
 rose and stood beside him ; she lightly laid her hand 
 upon his shoulder, allowing it to linger kindly for a 
 moment, and then she turned and moved away. 
 
 The spell was broken, and Batiscombe rose swiftly 
 and followed her. There was a light in the drawing- 
 room that opened upon the terrace, which Batiscombe 
 had not noticed before. As they entered they found 
 Marcantonio .with a candle, overturning books and 
 papers as if in search of something. He looked up 
 with a curious expression of surprise in his face, 
 holding the candle before him. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " good-evening, my friends. You 
 have been taking a little air. Eh ? I imagined that 
 you were all asleep."
 
 202 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Madame de Charleroi smiled serenely at her 
 brother. She knew it was an accident, and that he 
 had a habit of forgetting things and coming to look for 
 them. She said it had been hot all day, and she and 
 Monsieur Batiscombe had been enjoying the coolness 
 of the terrace. Julius bowed blandly and said good 
 night. But he suspected Marcantonio of having 
 come to watch his sister. They passed on, and Marc 
 antonio stood for a moment looking after them as 
 they went out into the hall, where lights were still 
 burning. He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Eh ! " he exclaimed aloud to himself, in Italian, 
 " I do not understand anything about it ma proprio 
 niente." And he continued his search for the miss 
 ing letter, pondering deeply. 
 
 Batiscombe spent a sleepless night, which was very 
 unusual with him. The interview with Diana had 
 made a deep impression on him at the time. He 
 knew that whenever she was at hand to exert her 
 influence he should succumb to it. But as the night 
 wore on, the strength of the impression diminished, 
 and the old feeling of obstinate defiance gradually 
 returned. At all events, he thought, he would show 
 her that her suspicions were empty, and that nothing 
 no harm, at least could come of his intimacy 
 with Leonora. He would also be sure that if Diana 
 interrupted another interview it could hardly be by 
 accident. Such accidents did not occur every day. 
 In the early dawn he rose and went down in his slip 
 pers to the sea, and bathed in the cool salt water, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 203 
 
 smoked a cigarette on the rocks, and another in the 
 archway where the scene of the previous afternoon 
 had occurred. Then he went up to the house and 
 walked round it, and surveyed the various angles, 
 and terraces, and balconies, and eccentricities of 
 patchwork architecture that made up the dwelling. 
 Suddenly he stopped as though an idea had struck 
 him. 
 
 Houses in the south have often as many as five or 
 six broad terraces, of various sizes and at various ele 
 vations, built from time to time to suit the taste and 
 convenience of the owners. The strong brown vines 
 grow up leafless from the ground till they reach the 
 trellis, and then spread out into luxuriant foliage and 
 a multiplicity of rich fruit-bearing branches, making 
 a thick shade, into which even the noonday sun finds it 
 hard to penetrate. Julius had just observed that there 
 was a large terrace of this kind which he had not yet 
 noticed, having been but a very few days at liberty to 
 wander alone about the place. It was as high as the 
 first floor, and on the side toward Castellamare, facing 
 the sea. He had been in Marcantonio's room, and 
 knew that it did not open upon this terrace, and Leo 
 nora's apartment was on the other side of the house. 
 Obviously this balcony belonged to Madame de 
 Charleroi's rooms, or was attached to some vacant 
 part of the building. It struck him that if it were 
 vacant, it would be a very agreeable spot in which to 
 pass the afternoon. He thought he might mention 
 it to Leonora that morning, and find out if it were
 
 204 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 available, since their retreat in the rocks had been 
 invaded. It had the advantage of being large, so 
 that people seated upon it could not be seen from 
 below, and the thick vines would prevent their being 
 seen from above. 
 
 He spoke to the Marchesa about it as soon as they 
 were alone for a moment after breakfast. She went 
 quietly and surveyed the place, ascertained that it 
 corresponded with a set of rooms which were not in 
 use, the house being very large and irregular, and 
 agreed that she should spend the afternoon there 
 with Julius, since the sun would then be on the 
 other side. There were long window-doors opening 
 to the ground, of which the blinds were fastened, 
 and only the middle one was left open to give access 
 to the ten-ace. It was delightful, because it was in 
 the house, so to say, and open to every one, and yet 
 no one knew of it. Why should they not sit there ? 
 It was much better than going and hiding in the 
 rocks with an air of secrecy, in order to be annoyed 
 by that terrible Diana ! Much better ! Though, 
 after all, they need not have troubled themselves, 
 for Diana went out at three o'clock in the carriage to 
 pay a visit 
 
 Accordingly, Leonora and Julius passed a very 
 pleasant afternoon together, and when it was late 
 they found Marcantonio, and made him go out in 
 the boat for an hour or two, and everything was 
 very agreeable. Marcantonio was greatly relieved 
 at finding that his sister was away from Batiscombe,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 205 
 
 and he talked his best, and really made Leonora take 
 an interest in his conversation. She could always 
 find him better company when she had been with 
 Julius for some time and had said all the things she 
 wanted to say, and which Marcantonio would not 
 have understood. 
 
 The next day Marcantonio was obliged to go to 
 Naples on very urgent business. An ex-royalty who 
 sympathised with Carantoni's party, and was now in 
 exile, had come to Naples for a day or two incognito 
 quite as though he had never been a royalty at all, 
 and Marcantonio felt it his duty to go and salute 
 the august personage according to ancient custom. 
 He therefore left the house at an early hour, to re 
 turn at dusk. He thought his sister and his wife 
 could chaperone each other for a day without danger. 
 But he said to himself that if he had found Diana 
 alone with Batiscombe again he would not have 
 gone. 
 
 The morning passed away as usual. Batiscombe, 
 relying on the afternoon for his hours with Leonora, 
 only stayed down-stairs till she was joined by Diana, 
 and then retired to his room, where he wrote or read 
 in solitude, as the fancy took him. The three break 
 fasted together at one o'clock ; then Madame de 
 Chaiieroi retired to her rooms, and in the course of a 
 quarter of an hour Leonora and Julius were installed 
 for the afternoon in their newly-found situation on 
 the disused terrace. 
 
 Diana's boudoir was a corner room in the front of
 
 206 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the house, facing the sea, and opening, by one win 
 dow, on a narrow stone balcony running the whole 
 length of the building ; the other window was on the 
 right side, and if she could have undone the blinds 
 she would have seen that it opened upon the large 
 terrace already mentioned. But the aforesaid blinds 
 had resisted her efforts, and, as she supposed that 
 they were closed for some purpose, she said nothing 
 about it, merely opening the glass to admit the air. 
 Leonora, who did not know the house thoroughly, 
 and had a habit of leaving everything to the servants, 
 was not aware of this, and did not realise the exact 
 position of Diana's sitting-room. Batiscombe, of 
 course, had taken her assurance that this side of the 
 house was uninhabited. Accordingly, it came to pass 
 that when he and Leonora installed themselves, they 
 took up their position immediately outside Diana's 
 window, under the shadow of the wall. 
 
 Madame de Charleroi, on this particular day, did 
 not go into her boudoir at once, but spent some time 
 in her bedroom. When she was ready to begin 
 writing, she passed through the door and sat at her 
 desk. She at once heard the sound of voices out 
 side, but she did not listen, nor stop to think who the 
 talkers might be. 
 
 Presently, however, the continued sound annoyed 
 her, forced its way through the blinds, and prevented 
 her from writing. They were speaking English. 
 She understood the language, being a cultivated 
 woman of the world, and the wife of a diplomatist, 
 though she avoided speaking it.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 207 
 
 The strong, earnest voice of Julius Batiscombe, 
 the pleading, protesting, yet yielding tones of Leo 
 nora, always dominated by the passionate eloquence 
 of the man, and ever answering more weakly, all 
 this she heard, and she sat stony and wild-eyed with 
 horror, realising in a moment the whole hideous 
 proportions of the phrases. 
 
 Diana de Charleroi was the noblest and most hon 
 ourable of women. Under other circumstances, if 
 the voices had been those of strangers or indifferent 
 people, she would not have hesitated an instant, but 
 would have given some unmistakable sign of her 
 presence. But this thing was too near her, it was a 
 too horrible realisation of what she had dimly fore 
 seen as possible, when she had spoken such strong 
 words two nights earlier. 
 
 It was too utterly and unspeakably awful. Her 
 brother's wife, not three months married, and 
 Julius Batiscombe, the man who had for ten years 
 loved herself, or had made her believe it, whom 
 she herself had once loved, and had never forgotten ! 
 
 But Diana was no weak woman, to give way to 
 trouble or danger in the face of it. For a few min 
 utes she bowed her head in her hands, trembling from 
 head to foot, and no longer hearing the quickly 
 spoken words outside. Then she rose to her feet, 
 and made one step toward the closed blinds. 
 
 No, she would not put them to open shame. Yet 
 something must be done at once. With one move 
 ment of her strong white fingers she overturned the
 
 208 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 heavy olive-wood writing table upon the smooth tile 
 floor with a crash that sounded through the house. 
 In the silence that followed, she heard a moving of 
 chairs outside, and the quick tread of departing feet. 
 Then she went swiftly to her room, heedless of the 
 streaming ink upon the floor, staining her long white 
 gown, and trampling the litter of pens and paper 
 under foot. She threw herself upon her bed and lay 
 quite still, white as death, and staring at the ceiling. 
 
 All the disgrace to her brother's name, to her 
 own, came suddenly upon her, like a nightmare, a 
 thing that no waking could cast off. All the utter 
 baseness and unfaithfulness of her old lover was be 
 fore her, making her scorn and loathe herself for 
 ever having loved such a man, even in the foolish 
 haste of a romantic girlhood. Her eyes strained 
 wildly, striving to shed tears, and could not, and the 
 whole possible pain of human agony, passing the very 
 pains of hell, got hold upon her soul. 
 
 That night, at dinner, Leonora looked desperately 
 ill. Her face was white, save for a small red flush 
 upon each cheek, and her eyes had a strange, furtive 
 look about them, avoiding all meeting with the look 
 of the other three persons at table. She said she had 
 been in the sun, had got a bad headache, and would 
 go to bed immediately. She had only insisted on 
 being at dinner in order to greet her husband on his 
 return from Naples, but when he touched her she 
 shrank away, and said she was nervous. 
 
 Batiscombe was pale, too, beneath his tan, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 209 
 
 though he looked every one in the face, his eyes 
 were disagreeable to see, having an angry glare in 
 them, like those of a wild beast at bay. He spoke 
 little and drank more wine than usual, after the 
 manner of Englishmen when they are unhappy. 
 
 Diana was magnificent. Being often pale in the 
 summer, no one saw any especial change in her 
 appearance, and she threw herself nobly into the 
 breach, asking all manner of questions of her brother 
 concerning his trip, and showing a reasonable amount 
 of sympathy for Leonora. The consequence was that 
 Marcantonio was nearly satisfied, in spite of the 
 strong impression he at first received that something 
 unpleasant had occurred in his absence. But when 
 he had an idea he dwelt upon it, and he promised 
 himself that he would ask many questions of his 
 sister when Leonora had gone to bed. 
 
 He accompanied his wife to her apartment when 
 dinner was over, with a solicitude which was per 
 fectly genuine, but which made her tremble at every 
 turn. His careful anxiety lest she should over-tire 
 herself upon the stairs, lest there should be a draught 
 in her room, or, in short, lest anything should be omit 
 ted which could conduce to her immediate recovery 
 from the exposure to the sun so dangerous in the 
 south, he kept repeating made her almost certain 
 that she was already suspected, and that so much 
 kindness was only preparatory to some dreadful out 
 break of reproach. 
 
 While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batis-
 
 210 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 combe out through the drawing-room to the terrace. 
 Neither spoke till they had reached the end away 
 from the house, where they had sat together two 
 nights before. 
 
 " Julius Batiscombe," said Diana, her voice trem 
 bling with strongly-mastered anger, "you will leave 
 this house immediately." 
 
 " Why, if you please ? " he asked, defiantly. 
 
 " You know very well why," she answered, turning 
 full upon him. " Do not ask questions, but go." 
 
 " I will do nothing of the kind," said he, folding 
 his arms and facing her. " You have no earthly 
 reason to give, save your own caprice." 
 
 " I heard your conversation this afternoon outside 
 my window. It was I who made the noise you heard, 
 to warn you to be silent." She made the statement 
 deliberately, choking down her anger, and looking 
 him in the eyes. 
 
 " I heard no noise I was not outside your win 
 dow," answered Julius, telling the boldest lie of his 
 life, and, to say the truth, one of very few, for he 
 never lied to save himself, with all his faults. " I 
 was not outside your window," he repeated, "and I 
 am glad I was not. For, by your own account, you 
 heard the conversation first, and gave your signal 
 afterwards." 
 
 " Very well," said she. " I will not shame you by 
 repeating the words I involuntarily heard before I 
 frightened you away. But you will leave this house 
 to-morrow all the same. You will also consider that
 
 TO LEEWARD. 211 
 
 in future you have no title to cross my threshold, nor 
 to bow to me in the street." She turned swiftly, in 
 utter scorn and disdain. Batiscombe followed her 
 to the door and into the drawing-room, where Marc- 
 antonio met them, precisely as he had done before. 
 It was too much for his newly roused suspicions. 
 Something had gone wrong, he was sure, and why 
 should his sister and Batiscombe be everlastingly 
 alone together on that terrace at night? 
 
 " Ah ! " he exclaimed, a little sarcastically, " you 
 have again been taking a little air ? Well, well, the 
 evenings are very agreeable. If you will, we can sit 
 outside, and monsieur and I will smoke a cigarette." 
 
 It was dreary enough, sitting together for an hour 
 and more in the dark* Madame de Charleroi would 
 not speak to Batiscombe, and he confined himself to 
 asking questions of Marcantonio and to general re 
 marks. Marcantonio saw this, and decided that she 
 was playing indifference in public, because she saw 
 enough of Batiscombe in private. The latter did not 
 force the position, but as soon as Donna Diana moved 
 to go in, he bade them both good-night, and went to 
 his room and to his reflections. 
 
 There was a long silence after he was gone. Both 
 the brother and sister wanted to be sure that he was out 
 of hearing. Diana spoke first, very gently and kindly. 
 
 " Marcantonio," she said, " I have something very 
 important to say to you." 
 
 She threw a light paper shade over the bright lamp, 
 and sat herself down beside him on the sofa.
 
 212 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DURING the four hours which had elapsed between 
 Madame de Charleroi's involuntary discovery in the 
 afternoon and the dinner hour, she had found time 
 to collect her thoughts and to form a plan of action. 
 
 It was absolutely necessary to do something at 
 once, and, if possible, to understand afterwards how 
 Leonora could have allowed herself in so short a 
 time to fall a victim to the eloquence and personal 
 charms of Julius Batiscombe. She wondered vaguely 
 how it were all possible, but in the meantime she 
 knew that the mischief existed, and that she must do 
 her utmost to avert its growth and frightful conse 
 quences, since she alone could be of use. 
 
 Her first impulse had been to go to the window 
 and disclose herself, whereby she thought she could 
 have put Batiscombe to flight instantly. He could 
 hardly have stayed in the house with her after such 
 a scene as must have followed. But a proud instinct 
 forbade her ; she would not have it appear that she 
 could possibly stand to Julius in the position of 
 Leonora's rival. Nor could she have found it in her 
 heart to inflict on her sister-in-law the indelible dis 
 grace of an exposure. All this passed through her 
 mind in a moment, and checked her first step towards
 
 TO LEEWARD. 213 
 
 the window. She frightened the lovers away by 
 upsetting her table, instead of coming upon them 
 herself, and she knew an hour later that she had 
 thereby lost the power of managing them by any 
 thing she could say to Batiscombe. She would not 
 she could not go to Leonora and force a con 
 fession. Besides, what good would be gained? 
 Leonora was a person to be protected, not attacked. 
 As for Julius, she knew perfectly well, when she led 
 him out to the terrace while Marcantonio was up 
 stairs, that he would deny everything. He could do 
 nothing else, and he did it boldly, though it was 
 of no use. But Diana thought it possible that 
 he would leave the house without a struggle, and 
 abandon the position for a time. 
 
 If Julius had been a less passionate man, and a 
 more accomplished villain, if he had loved Leonora 
 less ardently and more designingly, or if he had been 
 less furiously angry against Diana, he would have 
 acted differently. He would have lied just as he 
 had done, but blandly and with a great show of 
 astonishment ; he would have made a low bow, an 
 swering Diana that he was at all times ready to obey 
 her, and he would have left the house in the morn 
 ing, with an elaborate excuse to his hosts. But 
 Batiscombe was quite another sort of person. One 
 of the calmest and most diplomatic of men under ordi 
 nary circumstances, his passion when roused was 
 wholly uncontrollable. He was madly in love, and 
 madly angry, and he would have cheerfully fought the
 
 214 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 whole world single-handed for the sake of his love, 
 or of his anger, separately, let alone in the present 
 case, when both were roused to the fiercest pitch. 
 
 Diana knew him well, and, after the few words 
 she had exchanged with him on the terrace, she 
 knew what to expect. And she had foreseen the 
 possibility of his refusal to leave the villa, and was 
 prepared for it. The only question of difficulty was 
 to direct Marcantonio's whole anger against Batis- 
 combe, and to shield Leonora as far as possible ; but 
 Marcantonio must be told of the danger, since Diana 
 alone was unable to avert it. 
 
 She sat beside him on the deep sofa in the draw 
 ing-room, and she laid her hand affectionately on his, 
 as though to give him some strength to bear what 
 was in store. 
 
 " It is very important," she said, " and you must 
 be very patient. You must give me your word that 
 you will do nothing violent for at least a day, for 
 you will be very angry." She knew that, with all 
 his good nature, she could rely on his courage. He 
 was not easily frightened, after all. He looked ear 
 nestly at her, and his face was drawn into a look 
 of determination that sat oddly on his delicate and 
 rather weak features. 
 
 " Speak, Diana mia," he said simply. " I will do 
 what I can for you." He supposed, of course, that 
 something had occurred between herself and Batis- 
 combe. 
 
 " It is not I," she said, " it is you who are con 
 cerned."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 215 
 
 " I ? " repeated her brother, in some astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. You are the person who must act in the 
 matter. You must write a little note to Batiscombe, 
 and tell him that your wife's sudden illness " 
 
 "What? But it is only a little sun a mere 
 headache," interrupted Marcantonio. 
 
 "No matter; that your wife's sudden illness is 
 so severe that you must beg him to postpone the re 
 mainder of his visit to some future time." 
 
 Marcantonio looked more and more astonished. 
 
 " But I only asked him for a week. He" will go of 
 his own accord to-morrow or the day after. I am 
 sorry, Diana, but you said you did not mind meeting 
 him." He spoke seriously, with a puzzled expression 
 on his face. 
 
 "It makes no difference," said Diana. "He must 
 go to-morrow morning. He has not behaved honour 
 ably to you since he has been in the house." 
 
 Her brother looked suddenly very grave, and his 
 voice dropped as he spoke. 
 
 " Has he insulted you, Diana ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said she, in low tones, "he has insulted me. 
 But he has done worse, he has insulted your wife in 
 my hearing." 
 
 Marcantonio turned suddenly on the sofa, and 
 grasped his sister's arm as in a vise. His face turned 
 a ghastly colour, and his voice trembled violently. 
 
 " Diana are you telling me the truth ? " 
 
 Her grey eyes turned honestly and bravely to him. 
 
 " You and I never learned to tell lies, Marcantonio. 
 It is true."
 
 216 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 She knew well enough that he would never sus 
 pect his wife, nor ask a question which could lead to 
 such a conclusion. When she said that Batiscombe 
 had insulted Leonora, she spoke the absolute truth. 
 What greater insult can man offer an honest woman 
 than by wittingly forcing upon her an unlawful love? 
 
 Marcantonio looked at her one moment, and then 
 sprang to his feet. At that instant he could have 
 killed Julius Batiscombe with his hands, as perhaps 
 Diana herself would have done. She seized his hand 
 as he stood, and drew him toward her. 
 
 " No," she said, understanding his thought, " re 
 member your promise. You must do nothing now 
 except write the note." 
 
 But Carantoni was in no condition to write notes. 
 He broke away, and walked wildly up and down the 
 room, wringing his hands together, and muttering 
 furious ejaculations. He was too angry, too much 
 surprised, too much horrified at his own stupidity 
 throughout the affair to be able to think clearly. 
 Diana sat motionless on the sofa, as angry, perhaps, 
 as he, in her own way, but full of pity and sympathy 
 for him, and trying to devise some means of helping 
 him. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her 
 hand, and her eyes followed him anxiously in his 
 quick, irregular walk. And as she looked he seemed 
 gradually to fall under her influence, and went and 
 sat in a deep chair away from her, and buried his 
 face. 
 
 Then Diana rose, and went to the table in the cor-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 217 
 
 ner and arranged the light, and wrote, herself, the 
 note to Batiscombe, leaving a blank at the foot for a 
 signature. She looked round, and saw her brother 
 watching her. 
 
 " Come, dear boy," she said kindly, " I have writ 
 ten the note for you ; sign it, and I will see that he 
 gets it in the morning." 
 
 Marcantonio rose and came to her with uncertain 
 steps. He put his hand on her shoulder a moment. 
 Then he fell on his knees beside her, and pressed her 
 close to him, silently. Presently he rose, she put 
 the pen between his fingers, still trembling with his 
 anger, and he signed the note as best he could. 
 She put it into an envelope, sealed it, and directed 
 it to Julius Batiscombe. 
 
 " He will be out of the house before we are up," 
 she said in a tone of certainty. " Go to bed, dear boy, 
 and never let him trouble your peace again." 
 
 " But I will trouble his peace," answered Marc 
 antonio, bending his smooth brows. 
 
 " We will see about that afterwards," said Diana. 
 " If you think best to fight him, I will not oppose 
 you ; but we will talk about it. We cannot talk 
 now. Good-night my dear, dear brother." 
 
 She kissed him on the forehead and held both his 
 hands for a moment, and then led him away. He 
 obeyed mechanically, and they parted for the night. 
 
 Diana often wished her brother were a stronger 
 man in the ordinary things of life, but she knew that 
 he was honest, and no coward in danger, and that he
 
 218 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 always spoke the truth and kept his word. It was 
 his fault that he always imagined every one to be as 
 honest as himself until the contrary was proved, 
 after which he never trusted the man again. 
 
 Diana went slowly to her room and locked the 
 door behind her. With a candle in her hand she 
 entered the boudoir and looked round upon the scene 
 of the catastrophe. The glass of the long window 
 was still open, and the refractory blinds still closed, 
 the bolts rusted in, beyond her strength to draw 
 them. The servants had raised the desk upright and 
 washed away the ink from the tiles ; there was no 
 trace of disorder visible. She could hardly realise 
 that in this neat room, that very day, only a few hours 
 ago, she had passed through one of the most terrible 
 experiences of her life. 
 
 She sat down in the chair before the desk and bent 
 her queenly head. She had done her best for the 
 right through that day, but it had all gone by so very 
 quickly that she doubted whether she had done 
 wisely. It seemed as though the burden of it all 
 rested upon her of the right and of the wrong ; 
 and the burden was very heavy. May God in his 
 mercy give strength and courage to all brave women 
 doing the right ! 
 
 I think that ordinary women have more moral 
 vanity than ordinary men ; but that very good men 
 have more of it than very good women. A good 
 man always seems to have a conviction of good 
 ness, to be quite sure when he has done right, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 219 
 
 to enjoy the sense of having done it. A woman's 
 sympathies are wider and reach further than a man's. 
 When she has done her best, there always is some 
 thing more that she would do if she could, and until 
 that is done also she can never feel the comfortable 
 delight in godliness experienced by man, the grosser 
 creature, who hedges his possibilities more closely, 
 and gets rid of his superfluous aspirations by the 
 logical demonstration of the unattainable. But the 
 sphere of ordinary women is narrower, and their 
 sympathies are dispersed in a greater multiplicity 
 and divergence of small channels, so that a little 
 goodness, a little easy charity with a pretty name, is 
 a luscious titbit to the tongue that speaketh vanity. 
 
 It was a dreary night to every one of the four, 
 least of all perhaps to Julius Batiscombe, whose fierce 
 temper was thoroughly roused and would not be 
 calmed again for days, giving him a kind of wicked 
 satisfaction while it lasted. He spent most of the 
 night at his window, smoking and going over the 
 scenes of the day, and the scenes of the future. His 
 mind ran in the direction of fighting, to fight any 
 one or anything would be a rare satisfaction ; and 
 ever as he fancied some struggle possible the hot 
 blood rushed to his temples and longe*d for action, so 
 that he bit his cigar through and through, and clasped 
 his hands together till the veins stood out like ropes. 
 He slept a little at last, and dreamed savage dreams 
 of hand-to-hand combat, and woke with the roar of 
 cannon in his ears. For he was a man of exaggerated
 
 220 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 fancies when his brain worked unconsciously, like 
 many men who have ended in celebrity or in insane 
 asylums. 
 
 The roar of the guns was only a servant knocking 
 at his door, with hot water and a note. He saw 
 Diana's handwriting, and suspected a new move, so 
 that he was not altogether astonished by the contents. 
 He understood that she had made Marcantonio sign 
 her writing by what means he could not tell in 
 order to force the position. There was evidently 
 nothing to be done but to go. He would not have 
 left the villa for anything Diana could have said, in 
 his present humour, but it was impossible to bid 
 defiance to the master of the house. Besides, he 
 supposed that since Carantoni had invited him to 
 leave, Diana had said something which would lead to 
 a challenge from her brother, which could naturally 
 not be delivered under his own roof. 
 
 He read the note through twice, and he went 
 about his toilet with his usual care, looking angrily 
 at himself in the glass as he shaved, but gradually 
 composing his features to an appearance of calmness. 
 Then he put his things together, rang the bell, told 
 the servant he was going to Sorrento on business, and 
 gave him a very handsome fee, requesting him to 
 bring the things to the hotel in the course of the day. 
 Julius took his hat and stick, and strolled out of the 
 house toward the town. 
 
 Donna Diana and Marcantonio met in the morn 
 ing. They saluted each other with the quiet,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 221 
 
 mournful understanding of people who have a com 
 mon trouble, which they know must be spoken of, 
 though they desire to put off the evil moment. 
 They were both pale, and Diana's eyes were shaded 
 by great dark rings that spoke of a sleepless night. 
 
 "Have you seen Leonora? How is she?" was 
 her first question. 
 
 "Dio mio! She is very poorly. Poverina! It 
 has made a terrible impression on her. Of course 
 I did not speak of the subject." 
 
 "Of course." t)iana sighed and looked drearily 
 at the window, as though she wished she were 
 outside, away, and beyond this trouble. She could 
 not know what Leonora would say or do if Marc- 
 antonio ever broached the subject. "I do not 
 think," said she, "that it will ever be necessary to 
 say anything about it. She will understand that 
 you sent him out of the house, she will never see 
 him again." 
 
 "Is he gone?" asked Marcantonio. 
 
 "Yes early this morning. I sent to find out." 
 
 "Then there need be no time lost," said her 
 brother. " I have just written a note to De Lancray, 
 at Castellamare. It is much better to have a 
 Frenchman in dealing with foreigners. He will 
 be here by one o'clock, and will arrange every 
 thing." 
 
 Diana had expected that Marcantonio would send 
 for a friend to arrange matters with Batiscombe. 
 She did not look surprised.
 
 222 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Have you sent the man yet?" she asked. 
 
 " He is getting a horse, I suppose. I have not 
 heard him go." 
 
 "Tell him to wait five minutes. This is a seri 
 ous affair, and we had better act deliberately." 
 
 Diana intended to prevent the duel if possible. 
 Marcantonio was willing to humour her, and went 
 out to stop the man. When he came back, she 
 made him sit down beside her. 
 
 She explained to him the situation very clearly. 
 Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, had done him a 
 mortal offence. But Batiscombe was not the impor 
 tant person in the case. Leonora was the impor 
 tant pei-son. If matters had been different, if, for 
 instance, a man had -run away with another man's 
 wife, then, of course, they must necessarily fight, 
 and the woman made no difference, since her 
 reputation would be already destroyed. But it 
 would be a terrible injury to a young wife to have 
 her husband fighting a duel about her before they 
 had been married three months. People always say 
 there is not much smoke without a little fire; 
 society, being generally averse to standing up to 
 be shot at, says that a man in Marcantonio's posi 
 tion would not go out unless he had very serious 
 cause. Of course it would say in this case that 
 the cause lay with Leonora, that she should never 
 have allowed a man enough intimacy to give him 
 a chance of insulting her, and so forth, and so on. 
 
 Diana would not use the argument of the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 223 
 
 Church's prohibition of duelling. She knew that 
 Leonora's welfare was the chiefest thing present in 
 her brother's mind, and that if she could show him 
 that, for Leonora's sake, he ought to leave Batis- 
 combe alone, he would assuredly conquer his anger 
 and his pride. He had no sanguine and combative 
 instincts, like Julius; he did not like fighting for 
 the enjoyment of it, and if he could be convinced 
 that his anger was unwise, he would ultimately get 
 the better of it, now that the first sharp moment of 
 wrath was over. To preserve Leonora's spotless 
 fame was a much more important thing than to 
 punish an insolent foreigner for vainly attempting 
 to damage it, and thereby calling the attention of 
 the world to the fact that her reputation was capable 
 of damage. 
 
 It was a hard fight, and Diana's patience never 
 wearied through the hours they talked together. 
 More than once she thought it was lost, and that 
 Marcantonio would order the note to be dispatched. 
 Nothing but the real affection and trust that existed 
 between her and her brother made it possible for 
 her to succeed. But at last he was convinced, and 
 silently went out and got the note he had written, 
 and tore it up before his sister. The die was cast, 
 and he did not mention the subject again, but went 
 to see his wife. At her door he was told by her 
 maid that Leonora was asleep, which was not true. 
 But he asked no questions, and retired to his own 
 room to solace himself as he might. He was too
 
 224 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 deeply distressed to wonder why Diana did not go 
 to Leonora and sit with her. 
 
 Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she 
 and Batiscombe 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 dis 
 order; 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. 
 
 Batiscombe 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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 225 
 
 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 
 Avhen 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. Marc- 
 antonio had not told his sister of this, thinking it 
 would be indelicate, and was nobody's business but 
 his own and his wife's. 
 
 Batiscombe 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 remem 
 bered 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 Batiscombe could come
 
 226 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 back or see her one moment before he went. But 
 lie 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 amusement 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 Batiscombe 
 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 miser 
 able, 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 out 
 side the door said she was asleep.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 227 
 
 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 pres 
 ently 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 workmanship. 
 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 secre 
 tary, found a purse, and gave the fellow a gold 
 piece. He grinned, bowed his thanks, and retired. 
 He was the man who had taken Batiscombe'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
 
 228 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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, laconi 
 cally, "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-butter 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 distin 
 guished her from other women. She found her 
 husband and Diana together on the terrace. 
 
 Marcantonio's face softened and flushed with
 
 TO LEEWARD. 229 
 
 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 affec 
 tionately 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 under 
 stand her sister-in-law.
 
 230 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 catch 
 ing 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 par 
 ticular part of the coast, for he was never seen any 
 where else. A big, shabby man, in rough clothes, 
 with bright blue eyes, and a half-grown, blue-black 
 beard, Julius Batiscombe 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 passed and 
 repassed, knew him as the crazy Englishman who 
 found it amusing to bake himself all day in the sun
 
 TO LEEWARD. 231 
 
 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 fishing 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 ashore. Save that he was 
 growing a beard, and was almost black with the 
 sun, he was as much Julius Batiscombe 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 " earning 
 a franc by ferrying a passenger, just like one of 
 themselves for, of course he was paid for it; it 
 amused him, because he was crazy, poveretto ! And 
 sometimes he was heard singing outlandish songs 
 to himself in the heat of the day as he paddled about 
 under the cliffs. 
 
 The time had sped quickly since Batiscombe had
 
 232 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 left the Carantoni villa, and it was now the first 
 week in August. Madame de Charleroi had stayed 
 nearly a week longer than she had intended, but at 
 last had gone back to Pegli, to Marcantonio's 
 great regret, and to Leonora's unspeakable relief. 
 So long as Diana was in the house Leonora had 
 been obliged to steal occasions, few and far be 
 tween, when she could safely go down to the rocks 
 and signal to the shabby man with the green oars 
 to come and take her off. Many and long and 
 hot were the days when he pulled his poor crazy 
 craft about from dawn to dark, without catching 
 a sight of the strong lithe figure that he loved. 
 But come when she would, at morning, noon, or 
 night, he was always there, ready to take her and 
 to slip off at a quick stroke to one of the many 
 green caves that line the shore; and there, for an 
 hour or two, or as long as she might safely stay, 
 they spent happy moments together, the happier for 
 being few, forbidden, and somewhat dangerous. 
 
 As for the danger, though, there was not much of 
 it. It would have been hard, indeed, to recognise 
 in the ill-clad boatman, with his stubbly beard, and 
 seedy cap of brown knitted wool, the fine gentleman 
 whom the natives stopped to look at in the street. 
 Leonora, if any one had met her on the landing, 
 would have said she had taken the first passing 
 fisherman to row her about among the caves, and no 
 one would have suspected anything; and she used 
 to laugh as she watched the progress of his beard,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 233 
 
 knowing that each day made the disguise more 
 complete. 
 
 Her own boat had given her some anxiety at first, 
 but she had made Marcantonio lend the whole 
 equipage to a friend further down the bay, telling 
 him it was too hot to be on the water at present. 
 And when Diana was at last gone, she had most of 
 the day to herself; for Marcantonio was perpetually 
 busy with letters, or trying horses, or going to 
 Naples. He always found his wife extremely 
 charming when he had been away all day, or shut 
 up in his rooms, and preternaturally contradictory 
 and capricious when he was with her for long 
 together, and he concluded that she preferred a 
 certain amount of solitude, and humoured her accord 
 ingly. Never hearing of Batiscombe, he supposed 
 he had left the neighbourhood for parts unknown, 
 and though he regretted not having had an oppor 
 tunity of shooting him, he knew in his heart that 
 Diana's advice had been good, and that it was best 
 so. Now and then, when he thought of Julius too 
 long, he grew angry and paced quickly up and 
 down his room; but on the whole life was easy 
 and pleasant enough, and his beloved Leonora was 
 the most charming of women, not half so capricious 
 as some of the wives of his friends. 
 
 How long this state of things might have con 
 tinued it is impossible to say, if a disturbing 
 element had not been introduced. But the dis 
 turbing element is seldom far to seek in such cases,
 
 234 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 and in due time it came. There was a man in the 
 service of the Marchesa Carantoni, the same whom 
 Batiscombe had employed to take his things to 
 Sorrento, and then to convey the note to Leonora, 
 and the man's name was Temistocle, as arrant a 
 knave as ever opened palm for bribe. Carantoni 
 had taken him in Rome when he married, because 
 he needed another man, and the fellow's face was 
 familiar to him. He had seen him in good houses, 
 and had noticed his extraordinary adroitness in 
 waiting. The man's character was not altogether 
 satisfactory. He had received no recommendation 
 from his last place, but Marcantonio took him on 
 trial and brought him to Sorrento. 
 
 Temistocle had exceedingly sharp eyes, and Te 
 mistocle had an exceedingly smooth tongue ; he was 
 understood among the servants to have made econo 
 mies, and his tastes were somewhat luxurious. He 
 found Sorrento hot and dull, and he cast about for 
 something refreshing and amusing. 
 
 To take sea-baths had always been his chiefest 
 ambition. It sounded well to be able to say he had 
 taken a course of sea-bathing. But the thing was 
 by no means easy at Sorrento. He could not bathe 
 from his master's landing, and it was a long distance 
 to go round by the lanes to reach another descent. 
 At last, however, he discovered that he could climb 
 over the little point of rocks at the foot of the 
 Carantoni villa, and reach a small cove, where, in 
 complete seclusion, he might enjoy himself as he
 
 TO LEEWARD. 235 
 
 
 
 pleased. Accordingly, when he had finished serv 
 ing the midday breakfast he used to make a practice 
 of going down to bathe. In his little cove he hid 
 his clothes carefully among the rocks and crept into 
 the water under the deep shadow of the overhanging 
 cliff. He could not swim a stroke, but he could sit 
 just so that the water came up to his chin, and his 
 round black bullet head lay on the surface like a 
 floating football, scarcely visible to any one passing 
 outside in the sun. From this position it amused 
 Temistocle to watch the boats and the fishermen for 
 an hour or two, enjoying the idea that they never 
 dreamed of his presence. 
 
 It chanced often, as he sat in the water, that 
 Julius, in his outlandish costume, paddled his old 
 boat past Temistocle's retreat; and the sharp eyes 
 of the Roman servant were not long in discovering 
 that the fisherman was no fisherman at all. It was 
 the easier to recognise Batiscombe, as the man saw 
 him when his beard was only a few days old. From 
 that day Temistocle watched his opportunity to 
 descend when the boat with the green oars had just 
 passed, and would be out of the way for some time. 
 
 There was never the smallest doubt in his mind 
 of Batiscombe's intention in thus disguising him 
 self. The incident of the parcel, which he had 
 carefully opened and examined, Batiscombe's sudden 
 departure, and Leonora's simultaneous indisposition, 
 all combined in his mind into one harmonious whole, 
 from which he proposed to himself to extract at least 
 a reasonable amount of money.
 
 236 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 
 
 One day he was rewarded for his pains. The 
 boat passed very near to the mouth of his water-den, 
 skirting the rocks at a great pace. He just saw that 
 Leonora was seated in the stern, and he inconti 
 nently ducked his black head, and kept under water 
 till he thought he must have drowned. When at 
 last he was obliged from sheer suffocation to bring 
 his mouth to the air, they were gone, and Temistocle 
 sprang out of the water like some dark evil genius 
 of a low order, awaiting evolution into the advanced 
 condition of complete devildom. He was not long 
 in dressing, and in a few minutes he had got back 
 to the landing, clambering quickly over the rocks, 
 and hurting himself, in his haste, at every step. 
 
 After that, he became more irregular in his habits, 
 lurking in secret places till he saw Leonora going 
 toward the descent at the end of the garden, and 
 presently following her at a safe distance. He 
 ascertained, as he had expected, that Batiscombe 
 spent his whole time within hail of the landing, in 
 the boat with the green oars, and that Leonora went 
 down and signalled to him, whenever she had a 
 chance. Temistocle was so delighted with the skill 
 of the arrangement that for a long time he could 
 not prevail upon himself to interrupt it, even for 
 the sake of the bribe that must inevitably follow. 
 But, one day, he needed money, and he did not 
 want to encroach upon his purse of savings, for he 
 was a miserly wretch as well as a knave. He had 
 seen something pretty in the way of a silk cap,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 237 
 
 which a stray pedlar had brought with other things, 
 and he thought he should enjoy bargaining for it 
 the next time the pedlar came with his wares. He 
 knew that he should probably bargain for an hour 
 and then not buy it after all, but nevertheless he 
 might be weak, and then he should like to feel that 
 he had got the thing out of his betters by his own 
 skill, instead of squandering money from his hoard. 
 He seldom indulged in the luxury of buying what 
 he fancied, but when he did he generally made some 
 one else pay for it. There was a certain refinement 
 of miserliness about him. 
 
 At first he imagined that it might be best to drop 
 some hint to his mistress, just enough to frighten 
 her into paying for his silence. But his calmer 
 reflection told him that he would be thereby killing 
 the goose that laid the golden eggs. Batiscombe's 
 ingenuity would make some change in the arrange 
 ments and he would have to begin all over again. 
 Evidently the best thing was to make his master 
 pay, and let the lovers go quietly on their course, 
 so that he could at any time produce evidence of 
 his veracity. He watched his opportunity. Marc- 
 antonio often inquired whether the signora were 
 in the house, or were gone out. If she was out he 
 supposed she had gone into the garden or to pay 
 visits; he never disturbed her arrangements, know 
 ing how much she enjoyed being perfectly free, and 
 feeling sure she would not get into mischief. She 
 made a point of calling on everybody, telling him
 
 238 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 afterwards where she had been, and the two or three 
 hours she spent with Julius escaped notice in her 
 clever account of the spending of the day. Now and 
 then she would say she had been down to the rocks, 
 in case her husband should ever take it into his 
 head to go and find her there, and she was quite 
 sure that by this time Julius was changed beyond 
 recognition. 
 
 Temistocle had not long to wait. One day in 
 August, Marcantonio chanced to inquire of him 
 where the marchesa might be. Temistocle was 
 prepared; with the utmost gravity and respect he 
 dealt his blow, speaking as though he were say 
 ing the most natural thing in the world. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that her excellency is 
 gone out in the boat with the Signor Batiscombe." 
 He pronounced all the letters of the name, as though 
 it had been Italian ; but it was unmistakable. Marc 
 antonio turned upon him in amazement. 
 
 "Animal! " he exclaimed, "are you drunk?" 
 
 "I, eccellenza?" cried Temistocle in hurt tones. 
 "I drunk? Heaven forbid." 
 
 "Then you are crazy," remarked Marcantonio, 
 more and more astonished. "The Signor Batis 
 combe is no longer here." 
 
 "Pardon me, eccellenza," retorted the servant 
 respectfully. "I imagined that your excellency 
 knew. The Signor Batiscombe comes every day, 
 and takes the Signora Marchesa out in a boat. He 
 is become a very strange signore, for he dresses like
 
 TO LEEWARD. 239 
 
 a fisherman, and has let his beard grow as long 
 as this so," the man explained, holding his hand 
 a few inches from his face. "Mi maraviglio, io!" 
 he exclaimed, casting his eyes to the ground. 
 
 Marcantonio was speechless with amazement and 
 horror, and turned his back upon the servant. A 
 man less thoroughly a gentleman in every sense 
 would have fallen upon Temistocle and beaten him, 
 then and there. By a great effort, Marcantonio 
 collected himself, and turned again. 
 
 "You have not to make any remarks upon the 
 appearance of the Signer Batiscombe," he said 
 briefly. "Basta!" 
 
 Temistocle had nothing left but to bow and 
 leave the room. He did not understand his master 
 in the least; he was just like a foreigner, he 
 thought. 
 
 But Marcantonio dropped into an arm-chair, the 
 moment he was alone, as though all the strength 
 and life were suddenly gone from him. He could 
 not in the least realise the extent of the revelation 
 contained in Temistocle's words. He did not know 
 what to do, and for the moment it did not even 
 strike him that there was anything to be done. 
 In the course of half an hour he grew calmer and 
 began to review the situation. 
 
 He remembered distinctly every word of Diana's 
 concerning the trouble when Batiscombe was in 
 the house. Diana had said very distinctly that 
 Julius had insulted Leonora and Diana always
 
 240 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 spoke the truth. Marcantonio had not asked her 
 what the insult had been. He could not bring 
 himself to do it, and he did not want to know 
 anything more. He would have cheerfully fought 
 with Batiscombe on the strength of his sister's 
 assertion, but she had dissuaded him, and now he 
 was sorry for it. 
 
 The servant had spoken with an air of conviction, 
 as though he thought it quite natural, and only won 
 dered at Batiscombe 's strange appearance. There 
 could not be any doubt about it, at all. 
 
 A new sensation took possession of Marcantonio 
 an utterly new passion, which he did not recog 
 nise as part of himself. He was jealous. He did 
 not, he would not, understand the truth, but he 
 would prevent his wife from ever seeing Julius 
 Batiscombe again, and then he would go in search 
 of him and wreak his vengeance without stint. At 
 the same time he hoped he might avoid a scene 
 with Leonora. He was brave enough to fight the 
 man, but he shrank from telling his wife what he 
 knew. It seemed so brutal and uncourteous, and 
 altogether contrary to his principles. 
 
 But, after all, he ought to ascertain whether 
 Temistocle were right whether Julius really dis 
 guised himself. He would go and see. 
 
 No, he could not do that! He could not play the 
 spy upon his wife it was low, ignoble, unworthy. 
 He would find some other way. His brain swam 
 and it seemed too much for him. He grasped the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 241 
 
 arm of the chair and rose to his feet in pure 
 desperation, feeling that he must get out of the way 
 into his own rooms for a while, lest any one should 
 see him in his present state. 
 
 In the hall Marcantonio paused a moment, holding 
 his hand to his head, as though it hurt him, and 
 as he waited the door opened, and Leonora faced 
 him, beaming with light, and life, and happiness. 
 Marcantonio looked at her one instant, and tried to 
 speak; he would have said something courteous, 
 from force of habit. But the words choked him, 
 and losing all control of himself he turned and fled 
 up the stairs, leaving his wife staring in blank 
 amazement. 
 
 Poor fellow! she thought, he had probably got a 
 touch of the sun. She hastened to her room and 
 sent to inquire if the signore were ill, and if she 
 might come to him. They brought back word that 
 he was dressing, and that nothing was the matter. 
 Then Leonora felt a cold chill descend to her heart, 
 the dreadful presentiment of a real terror, not far 
 distant. But when she met her husband in the 
 evening at dinner, she did not dare to refer to his 
 strange behaviour in the hall. 
 
 During dinner he. talked much as usual, except 
 that he did not laugh at all, and seemed very grave. 
 There was a preternatural calm about him that 
 increased Leonora's fears. She knew him so little 
 that she could not be sure what he would do, 
 whether anything had really occurred, or whether
 
 242 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 he were subject to fits of insanity. He had looked 
 like a madman in the afternoon. 
 
 When they were alone, he offered her his arm, 
 and led her out into the air, and they sat down 
 side by side in deep chairs. Marcantonio leisurely 
 lighted a cigarette, and puffed a few minutes in 
 silence. 
 
 "Leonora," he said at last, "I have heard a 
 curious thing, and I must tell you immediately." 
 His voice was even and cold; his whole manner 
 was different from anything she remembered in her 
 experience of him; he was more imposing, alto 
 gether more of a man and stronger. Leonora 
 trembled violently, knowing instinctively that he 
 had discovered something. She did not speak, but 
 let him continue. 
 
 "I chanced to inquire if you were at home this 
 afternoon, and the man said he supposed you were 
 gone out in the boat with Mr. Batiscombe, as you 
 did every day. Is it true ? The man who told me 
 said it as though it were quite natural, as though 
 every one in the house knew it except myself." 
 
 Leonora was dumb for a moment. The accusa 
 tion came so suddenly that she was taken off her 
 guard, besides being thoroughly frightened at her 
 husband's terrible calmness, so unlike his manner 
 under ordinary circumstances. She lay back in her 
 low chair and tried to collect her thoughts. 
 
 "The man had also observed," continued Marc 
 antonio, turning his keen dark e}^es upon her,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 243 
 
 "that Monsieur Batiscombe had a beard, and was 
 dressed like a fisherman. Altogether, it was ex 
 tremely curious." 
 
 Marcantonio and his sister always spoke the 
 truth. Batiscombe never lied in his life to save 
 himself, but could do it boldly when it was abso 
 lutely necessary to save some one else. He had 
 no principle about it, except that cowards told lies, 
 and men did -not, that was the way he put it. 
 He was not afraid of anything himself, but for a 
 woman he would perjure himself by all the oaths 
 in Christendom. It was his idea of chivalry to 
 women, and could not altogether be blamed. But 
 Leonora by a long apprenticeship to a very worldly 
 mother, and owing to the singular confusion of her 
 ideas, had acquired a moral obliquity which she 
 defended to herself on the ground that the ultimate 
 results she obtained were intended to be good. 
 The telling of untruths, she argued, was in itself 
 neither good nor bad; the consequences alone 
 deserved to be considered. But as the conse 
 quences of lies are not easily cast up into totals of 
 good and bad from the starting point, it sometimes 
 occurred that she got herself into trouble. How 
 ever, she was not hampered by prejudice, and she 
 was a very clever woman, much cleverer than the 
 great majority, arid she was just now in a very 
 hard position. In a few minutes she had made 
 up her mind, and she answered Marcantonio fluently 
 enough.
 
 244 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Why," said she calmly, "should I not go out 
 with Mr. Batiscombe when I please? If he chooses 
 to dress like a fisherman, I suppose he has the 
 right." 
 
 Marcantonio was rather staggered at her sudden 
 confession. He had expected a denial; but there 
 she sat as calmly as possible, telling him to his face 
 that it was all true. However, he was not likely 
 to lose his nerve again now that he was face to 
 face with the difficulty. 
 
 "It appears to me, Leonora," he said, "that when 
 I have turned a man out of my house for insulting 
 you, it is sufficient reason " 
 
 " For insulting me ? " exclaimed Leonora in well- 
 feigned astonishment. "Mr. Batiscombe never in 
 sulted me! You must be dreaming." She laughed 
 a small dry laugh. But Marcantonio was not so 
 easily put off. 
 
 "My sister," said he, "told me that Batiscombe 
 insulted you in her hearing. I have always known 
 my sister to speak the truth. Perhaps you will 
 explain." 
 
 "What explanation do you want? You sent 
 Mr. Batiscombe out of the house on the pretence 
 that I was ill. Of course Diana made you do it, 
 I do not know how, nor what she said. You must 
 talk it over with her. She was probably sick of 
 him, and wanted him out of the way." 
 
 Leonora spoke scornfully, and almost brutally, 
 and Marcantonio's blood began to grow hot.
 
 TO LEEWAED. 245 
 
 "That is absurd," he said instantly. "Perhaps 
 Monsieur Batiscombe would not object to being 
 confronted with me for five minutes ? " 
 
 "I am sure he would not object," said Leonora, 
 without hesitation. She was quite certain of hei 
 lover's courage, at all events. She knew he would 
 face anybody. 
 
 "Meanwhile," said Marcantonio, "you will oblige 
 me by giving up your harmless habit of going out 
 with him every day. I should have supposed that 
 you would at least have had the pride to deny it, 
 after what occurred when he was here." Marc 
 antonio was angry, but he reasoned rightly. 
 
 "You would have preferred that I should lie to 
 you, my dear," said his wife disdainfully, in the 
 full virtue of having told half the truth the first 
 half. 
 
 " I would not permit myself to apply such a word 
 to anything you say," answered Marcantonio, with 
 cold courtesy. "But I would have you observe 
 that you are mistaken with regard to my sister, 
 and that if she told me she heard the man insult 
 you, he did. Perhaps you did not understand what 
 he said. It is the same. You will not meet him 
 again at the rocks nor anywhere else." 
 
 "Why not? Why shall I not meet him?" she 
 inquired, raising her eyebrows in disdain. 
 
 "Because I forbid you." He spoke shortly, as if 
 that ended the matter. 
 
 Leonora shrugged her shoulders a little, with an
 
 246 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 expression of pity, and shifted her position, so as 
 to face him. 
 
 "You forbid me, do you?" she asked, lowering 
 her voice. 
 
 "Mais oui! I forbid you to see him anywhere." 
 
 "Do you know what you are saying?" she asked, 
 and there was a tone of menace in her words. 
 
 "Oh, perfectly," answered her husband calmly; 
 "and I will also take care that you obey me 
 bien entendu ! " 
 
 "Then it is war?" asked Leonora, as though she 
 hoped it might be, and to the knife. 
 
 "If you disobey, it is war," said Marcantonio, 
 "but you will not." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I will prevent you. It is useless to 
 prolong this discussion." 
 
 "Mon Dieu, I ask nothing better than to finish 
 it as soon as possible," said Leonora. 
 
 "In that case, good-night," replied Marcantonio, 
 rising. 
 
 "Good-night," answered Leonora, still seated. 
 "I am not sleepy yet. You are not afraid that 
 Monsieur Batiscombe will be announced after you 
 are gone to bed?" 
 
 She spoke scornfully, as though trying to drive 
 a wound with every word. She thought she knew 
 her husband, and she felt triumphant. 
 
 Marcantonio did not answer, and withdrew in 
 silence. In a few hours his whole character had
 
 TO LEEWARD. 247 
 
 developed, and he was a very different man from 
 the Marcantonio of that morning. He had passed 
 through a few hours of a desperate crisis, and had 
 come out of it with an immovable determination to 
 clear up the whole affair, and to force his wife to 
 break off her intimacy with Batiscombe. Even now 
 he could believe no evil, only the foolish infatua 
 tion of a young woman for a man who had the 
 romantic faculty strongly developed. It would cost 
 an effort to break it off, and Leonora would be 
 very much annoyed, of course, but it must be 
 done. And so Marcantonio had gone about it in 
 the boldest and simplest way, by attacking her 
 directly. He congratulated himself, for at one 
 stroke he had ascertained the truth of the servant's 
 statement, and had gone through the much dreaded 
 scene with his wife. Henceforth she knew what 
 to expect; he had declared himself as a jealous 
 husband, and had said he would be obeyed. He 
 went to bed in the consciousness that he had done 
 the best thing possible under the circumstances, 
 and promising himself an early explanation with 
 Batiscombe. 
 
 But for all the success of this first move, he was 
 wretchedly unhappy. He still loved Leonora, as 
 he would always love her, whatever she did, with 
 all his might and main, though he saw well enough 
 that she did not love him. But he was furiously 
 jealous, and he swore by all the saints in the 
 calendar that she should never love any one else. 
 His jealousy had made a man of him.
 
 248 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was clear that after what had passed between 
 Leonora and her husband, the relations must as 
 sume the aspect described in diplomatic language 
 as "strained," to say the least of it. The two met 
 many times in the course of the day, and never 
 referred to the subject of their difference; but 
 Leonora was well aware that she was watched. If 
 ever she sallied out into the garden, hoping to 
 escape observation, her husband was at hand, offer 
 ing to accompany her. She once even went so far 
 as to go down some distance with him towards the 
 rocks, she could not tell why, perhaps because it 
 would have been a comfort to her to catch a glimpse 
 of Julius in the boat. But he was probably lurking 
 behind the rocks, just out of sight, and she could 
 not see him. She knew that he still kept his 
 watch during half the day, not having yet invented 
 a better plan, for she was in correspondence with 
 him, and in the meanwhile, until new arrange 
 ments could be made, there was a bare chance that 
 she might escape for a moment in the morning and 
 be able to see him. Her husband never left her 
 side in the afternoon.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 249 
 
 Temistocle, the knave, had failed in his attempt 
 to gain Marcantonio's favour, as has been seen, but 
 he now reaped a golden harvest from the lovers, 
 who paid him handsomely for carrying letters, with 
 a reckless feeling that if he betrayed them the 
 deluge might come, but that without him they 
 were utterly cut off from each other. He had at 
 first carefully opened one or two letters and skil 
 fully closed them again, but had desisted on finding 
 that they were written in English, a language he 
 unfortunately did not understand. It was now his 
 business to encourage the correspondence to the 
 best of his ability, in order that whenever it should 
 be convenient to spring the mine, he might have 
 some letter passing through his hands, which he 
 could show to Marcantonio. He made a bargain 
 with an old man who had a little donkej^ cart, to 
 hang about the lane leading to the villa in the 
 afternoon hours, when Temistocle, being free from 
 the cares of the pantry, found it convenient to play 
 postman. As the distance was considerable, and 
 as Batiscombe always gave him a gold piece for a 
 letter, and Leonora another, he thought he could 
 afford himself ten sous a day for the hire of his 
 primitive cab, without any reckless extravagance. 
 
 The first letter he had carried was to Batiscombe. 
 Leonora informed him briefly of the scene with her 
 husband, and begged that he would wait as usual 
 for a few days, or until something better could be 
 devised. But he waited in vain. Then he wrote
 
 250 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 and proposed that she should drive somewhere and 
 meet him. But she answered that her husband 
 always drove with her when she went out. He 
 proposed to get into the garden at night, to scale 
 her window, anything. But Marcantonio had 
 bought a brace of abominable English terriers that 
 howled as though they had swallowed a banshee. 
 Marcantonio also kept pistols, and slept with his 
 windows open. 
 
 Meanwhile Marcantonio would have given any 
 thing to catch Batiscombe and call upon him for an 
 explanation, but he was afraid to leave his wife 
 for an hour, lest she should have an opportunity of 
 going down to the sea. He could never be quite 
 certain whether Batiscombe were there or not, for 
 the latter had grown cautious and lay very quietly 
 in his boat just out of sight, knowing that Leonora 
 would call if she wanted him, according to the 
 agreement, and he only came in the morning now 
 and waited till twelve o'clock, in order to be at 
 home to receive her letters in the afternoon. Yet 
 Marcantonio would not employ a spy to watch 
 whether Batiscombe were on the water. He could 
 not do that it was too utterly mean. 
 
 Leonora grew pale and thin. She was as thor 
 oughly in love with Julius as a woman of strong 
 temper and impulse can be with the first man she 
 has ever cared for. She dreamed of him, thought 
 of him, longed for him, during every hour of the 
 day and night. He was to her the realisation of
 
 TO LEEWARD. 251 
 
 the strongest fancy of her life, the passionate, ruth 
 less, all-daring lover; and the consciousness of utter 
 wrong that underlay her feelings only lent the 
 strength of moral desperation to her passion. Hav 
 ing lost all right to other things, she had that left, 
 and only that, on which to rely for all the happiness 
 the world owed her. She would go to the end of it, 
 and enjoy it all, now that she had found it; and 
 then then she would die, she said to herself, and 
 no one should suffer by her fault. But she was 
 long past the elementary stage, when love can be 
 put upon a block and modelled and shaped with 
 tools, or pulled to pieces, at will, being as yet but 
 a fragile clay sketch and very yielding. The clay 
 had been done into marble, and the marble set up 
 in the inmost sanctuary of the temple, and if the 
 idol were broken the pieces could not be joined, 
 and the temple must be empty and bare forever. 
 It had come about very quickly but what of that ? 
 Who shall say that passion born in a moment, ready 
 armed, is not so strong and enduring as that which 
 is evolved like man from a pitiful thing with a tail 
 a mere flirtation, to the semblance of humanity, 
 to the godlike presence of true love ? 
 
 Or who shall tell us that love is less a real thing, 
 because it is evil instead of being good? Devils 
 are quite as real as angels, as I have no doubt many 
 of us will find in due time. Do not underrate the 
 strength of a thing because it is bad, nor doubt its 
 reality because you do not like its looks.
 
 252 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Leonora was in love with all her might, and it 
 makes no difference in the effect upon the individual 
 whether love is lawful or not, so long as it is 
 thwarted and opposed at every turn. Her character, 
 from being vague and indistinct, reaching out after 
 many things, and never wholly grasping any, had 
 suddenly become definite and full of a mature 
 purpose the purpose to love Julius recklessly, 
 without consideration or question. The one real 
 thing which remained possible for her had come, 
 dominating and crushing down the army of her 
 most favourite unrealities. The man she loved stood 
 out from the chaotic darkness of the past and from 
 the dreary shadows of the present as a glorious 
 figure of light, magnificent in all that could be 
 noblest; and she gave to him her soul, her life, 
 and her strength, without hesitation and without 
 fear. She had no remorse, no pity for her hus 
 band, no present consciousness of sin, for she was 
 too near the wrong, and too new to it, not to 
 enjoy it. 
 
 The traditional hardened sinner, the very mon 
 strosity and arch-deformity of complicated vice, 
 held up by preachers as a bugbear and a moral 
 scarecrow to the young, the creature without heart, 
 conscience, or capacity of good, does not enjoy his 
 wickedness in the least. It has lost its novelty for 
 him and its sharp, peppery savour. The people who 
 really enjoy it are young; they are those who have 
 tasted little of life, and have yet all the sensibility
 
 TO LEEWARD. 253 
 
 and refinement of palate that can distinguish between 
 one sauce and another between green, red, and 
 black pepper. They have dreamed of the pepper, 
 have never been allowed to have it, and have been fed 
 on a kind of moral pap that disagreed with them 
 from childhood. Suddenly the spice is within their 
 reach, and they make to themselves a glorious feast 
 of hot things, vaguely hoping that they will recover 
 from the indigestion before they are found out. 
 And sometimes they do, though the recovery is very 
 painful and sometimes they do not. 
 
 Leonora had subsisted on what she could get in 
 the way of enjoyment, but her capacity far exceeded 
 the supply that presented itself. She was not one 
 of those people who can live for days in happiness 
 from one sight of something beautiful, from a 
 glimpse at a great picture, or from the memory of 
 one strain of music. She liked all that was artistic, 
 and especially that which was admirable for novelty, 
 fineness of execution, or boldness of conception. 
 She was not impressed with the beauty of small and 
 unpretending things, the art that amused her was 
 necessarily of the most brilliant kind. The people 
 she liked were the stirring, active, original people 
 who either make history or make public fools of 
 themselves, or both. The philosophies she had 
 dabbled in were such as could produce in her a 
 sensation of odd possibility rather than such as 
 could satisfy a logical intellect, and they resolved 
 themselves into a vast sea of aspirations, emotions,
 
 254 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 and potential passions, in which she loved to disport 
 herself, diving and splashing and floating, like a 
 magnificent sea-nymph in fullest enjoyment of her 
 wild vitality, sitting, an hour afterwards, on some 
 lonely rock, and wringing her white hands to 
 heaven in despair, because, being but half divine, 
 she was less goddess-like than the great goddesses 
 of Olympus. 
 
 She could not help it if she grew pale and thin, 
 she was so wretched without him; and, without 
 his letters and the sense that he was not so very far 
 from her after all, she would have gone mad. She 
 would sit for hours in her room staring at nothing ; 
 or she would go through elaborate processes of toilet 
 before the glass, looking at herself and wondering 
 if he would find her changed, perhaps that very 
 day some chance would offer, and she might see 
 him. Everything was possible. That was the 
 colour he liked best, and that bit of jewelry, put 
 it on, in case he should come. And again, she 
 would change it all, because she would not wear for 
 her husband the things she wore for her sweet lover ; 
 and then she would change once more, perhaps, and 
 put back the colours and the ornaments he loved, so 
 that she might the better think of him while she 
 was with Marcantonio ; she had a thousand idle 
 thoughts and fancies which she strove hard to train 
 into the semblance of a little happiness, the hoi- 
 lowest image of a little joy. 
 
 The days came and went miserably for nearly a
 
 TO LEEWARD. 255 
 
 fortnight. In all that time Marcantonio watched 
 her closely, never relaxing in his vigilance. She 
 might have escaped, perhaps, but she would have 
 been missed in half an hour, and she had not the 
 courage to do anj^thing so desperate, the time 
 must come, she thought, when things should change. 
 But meanwhile she grew haggard and worn. 
 
 Marcantonio had abandoned the idea of sending 
 for a friend to deal with Batiscombe. What he had 
 to say could, he thought, best be said directly, and 
 there could then be no difficulty in establishing a 
 pretext for fighting. But first of all he must keep 
 his wife out of danger. Feeling that he held her 
 entirely at his mercy, he was willing to take some 
 time for deliberation. She could not see Julius, 
 and it would be the best possible test to ascertain 
 how she bore the trial. Marcantonio had grown 
 hard and calculating in his jealousy, but he ground 
 his teeth as he watched her and saw that she was 
 falling ill, and it was not so much for sympathy 
 with her, as for anger that she should so love 
 another. At last he determined upon a new course. 
 
 "Leonora," he said briefly, one day, "we will 
 leave this place immediately, since it does not suit 
 you. Will you be so amiable as to give orders to 
 have your things packed?" 
 
 Leonora started a little, and looked at him. It 
 was not often that she cared to look at him 
 now. 
 
 " Why do you wish to go ? " she asked at last.
 
 256 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " Because, as I said, this place does not suit you. 
 You are ill miserable. Ma foi! do you think I 
 will allow you to stay in a place where you are 
 always pale and eat nothing?" 
 
 "I am not ill," said she, "and I have a very good 
 appetite. I do not wish to go away. Besides, you 
 have taken the villa for the whole summer. It 
 would be such' a useless waste of money to move 
 again." 
 
 " Ah ! You become economical. It is very well ; 
 but economy does not enter into this case at all. 
 We will go to Cadenabbia, or to any place in the 
 lakes, where it is far cooler." 
 
 " I do not mind the heat, " said Leonora, " as you 
 know. Why not say at once that you are tired of 
 Sorrento, and wish to go away to please yourself? 
 It would be much simpler and more honest." 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear, I am perfectly well here. 
 I could spend the rest of my life at Sorrento. But 
 you are not well whatever the cause may be 
 and there is a possibility that you may be better 
 elsewhere. Done " 
 
 "Oh, of course," interrupted Leonora, "if you 
 have made up your mind I must submit. If you 
 think you can make me more miserable anywhere 
 else than you can here, I must let you try. I hardly 
 think you can. You might be satisfied. Never 
 theless, let us go." 
 
 " I do not wish to make you miserable, you know 
 perfectly. I wish to make you happy and free."
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 257 
 
 "Free?" repeated Leonora. "Indeed, you have 
 a singular fashion of making me free, to watch 
 me day and night, as though I intended to run 
 away with your silver. Free, indeed! Free from 
 what?" 
 
 She laughed, scornfully enough, in his face. It 
 was the first time they had approached any subject 
 of this kind since the memorable night after Marc- 
 antonio's discovery. But since he had made up his 
 mind to take her away he was willing to undergo 
 another scene if it were absolutely necessary. 
 
 " To make you free from the society of Monsieur 
 Batiscombe," answered Marcantonio boldly. "You 
 can never be well until you are absolutely out of 
 his reach, and if I must go to the end of the world 
 I will accomplish that." 
 
 "You need not insult me in words," said Leonora, 
 disdainfully. "You have done it quite enough 
 already by your deeds." 
 
 Marcantonio was silent for a moment. The speech 
 hurt him, for he knew how he believed in her 
 innocence, and how it was his jealousy that now 
 prompted most of his actions. His voice changed 
 a little as he answered, and he was more like his 
 old self than he had been for days. 
 
 "Leonora," he said, "I would not insult yon for 
 anything. But, would you rather I were not a little 
 jealous, since I really love you ? " 
 
 Perhaps he spoke foolishly perhaps he hoped 
 to soften her heart: at all events he spoke seriously
 
 258 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 enough, and laid his hand on here. But she did 
 not like his touch and drew her fingers away. 
 
 " A little jealous ! " she cried. " So little that I 
 am kept like a prisoner and watched like a political 
 suspect ! Be jealous yes since you say you love 
 me ; but behave like a sensible creature. Moreover, 
 you might make sure that you had some cause for 
 jealousy before coupling the name of the first man 
 you chance to dislike with mine. Is not that an 
 insult?" 
 
 "Certainly it is and if I did that you would be 
 quite right," said he; "but things are a little 
 different. You do not understand Batiscombe I 
 do. You have taken a fancy for him so did I. 
 But you push your fancy too far. I now understand 
 him, and I do not think him a proper friend for you. 
 You make difficulties, you insist upon seeing him. 
 I forbid you, and prevent you. You turn pale and 
 ill, and I am angry that you should be so foolish. 
 Mon Dieu! I am angry voila." 
 
 " One must certainly allow, " said Leonora, with a 
 sneer, "that you have a singularly delicate way of 
 stating your own case." 
 
 It was the best thing she could find to say, though 
 she knew the sarcasm was not merited. He wished 
 once for all to put the matter clearly before her, and 
 he did it honestly and delicately, since he described 
 her passion as a "fancy," her strategy and secret 
 meetings as " insisting upon seeing " Mr. Batis 
 combe. It would be impossible to state such a case
 
 TO LEEWARD. 259 
 
 more delicately if it had to be stated at all. A 
 cleverer man, or a less jealous man than Marcantonio, 
 might have gone about it less directly; and that is 
 all that can be said. But he was a half-formed 
 character, as yet, with some good possibilities and 
 hardly any bad ones. He was naturally good, but 
 good as yet without much experience, and his 
 teaching in the troubles of life had come upon him 
 very suddenly. It had never struck him that it 
 could be difficult to manage a woman, and he did 
 not like the idea now that it was thrust upon him. 
 The woman he had made his wife would, he had 
 supposed, be like his sister, of the kind that manage 
 themselves, and do it well ; and if he had anticipated 
 exercising any influence over Leonora, it was influ 
 ence of a very different sort from that which he was 
 now driven to exert. He had made up his mind, 
 however, that she must obey him now, or that he 
 should perish in the struggle, and a certain family 
 obstinacy of purpose, inherited from his father and 
 all his race, suddenly made its appearance and 
 changed him from an easy-going, pleasant-spoken 
 young fellow into a very determined man, so far as 
 his wife was concerned. 
 
 He had said that she should go at once, and go 
 she should, without any delay whatsoever. Instead 
 of answering her sarcastic remark about his indeli 
 cacy, he went obstinately back to his proposition. 
 
 "Let us not talk any more about it," he said, to 
 cut the difficulty short. " You will doubtless be so
 
 260 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 amiable as to give the necessary orders about your 
 things ? " 
 
 Leonora shrugged her shoulders very slightly, as 
 much as it is possible for a great lady to do, and as 
 much as would horrify a very strict duenna. 
 
 "If you wish it," she said, "I must." 
 
 "Then we will start in two days, if it is agree 
 able to you." 
 
 "It is not agreeable to me," said Leonora, wearied 
 to death by his civility, "but we will start when 
 you please, in two days if you say it." 
 
 She was casting about in her mind for some 
 desperate means of seeing Julius and assuring 
 herself that he would follow her. Of course he 
 would do that, but she could not go without seeing 
 him once more in Sorrento; there was so much to 
 be said that she could not write, so very much! 
 
 The conversation with Marcantonio had taken 
 place little more than an hour before dinner. As 
 he left the room Leonora glanced at the clock. 
 There was time yet, if she could only get some 
 conveyance. She might see Julius and be back 
 before dinner. She could make some excuse for not 
 dressing if her husband noticed it, which was 
 unlikely. He had gone to his room, contrary to 
 his custom, for he generally did not leave her until 
 she went to dress. His windows were towards the 
 sea, and she could slip out through the garden. It 
 had rained a little, but that was no matter. There 
 would be the less dust.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 261 
 
 A garden hat she sometimes wore hung in the 
 hall, among her husband's hats and whips and 
 sticks ; she snatched it quickly and went out, walk 
 ing leisurely for a few yards, till she was hidden 
 by the orange-trees. Then she gathered up her 
 skirt a little and ran like a deer over the^moist path, 
 through the gate that stood ajar, and down the nar 
 row lane between the high damp walls towards 
 Sorrento, never looking behind her nor pausing to 
 take breath, for she feared that if she stopped to 
 breathe she might stop to think, and not do what 
 she most wished to. 
 
 There are always little open carriages hanging 
 about the lanes during the height of the season, in 
 the hope of picking up stray fares, and before she had 
 gone two hundred yards she overtook one of these, 
 moving lazily along. The man was all grins and 
 alacrity at the mere sight of her and pulled up, ges 
 ticulating wildly and leaning backward over his box 
 to arrange the cushions with one hand while he held 
 the reins with the other. The whole conveyance is so 
 small that the driver can touch every part of the inside 
 with his hands from his seat. She sprang in and told 
 the man the name of Batiscombe's hotel, promising 
 him anything if he would drive fast. In six or seven 
 minutes he brought her to the door, and she told him 
 to wait. She would have dismissed him at once 
 and taken another to return, but she found herself 
 without money. She could borrow something from 
 Batiscombe.
 
 262 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 He had chanced to tell her the number of his 
 rooms one day, when she was asking about the 
 hotel, and now she luckily remembered it. Stop 
 ping the first servant she met, she bade him show 
 her the way. One of Batiscombe's sailors, resplen 
 dent in dark -blue serge and a scarlet silk handker 
 chief, was seated on a bench outside the door. He 
 was a quick fellow, and Julius employed him as his 
 body servant. Sailors, he said, were always cleaner 
 than servants, and much neater. 
 
 The man sprang to his feet, saw the anxious 
 expression in Leonora's face and the general appear 
 ance of haste about her, and guessing that he could 
 not do wrong, opened the door and almost pushed 
 her in, closing it behind her and confronting the 
 astonished hotel servant with a perfectly grave face. 
 
 Sailors have good memories, especially for people 
 who own boats, and the man remembered Leonora 
 perfectly well, having helped to row her to Castel- 
 lamare, and having raced her crew on the occasion 
 when Batiscombe had attempted a precipitous flight. 
 In his opinion the Marchesa Carantoni would not 
 wish to be seen waiting outside his master's door, 
 whatever might be the errand which brought her in 
 such hot hurry. The hotel servant grumbled some 
 thing about the franc he had expected for bringing 
 the lady up, and the stalwart seaman laughed at him 
 so that he cursed the whole race of sea-folk, and 
 went away in anger of the serio-comic, hotel kind. 
 
 Leonora found herself in Batiscombe's sitting-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 263 
 
 room. For Batiscombe was a luxurious man, ex 
 cepting when he was roughing it in earnest, and he 
 had made up his mind of late years that a human 
 being could not exist in less than two rooms, if he 
 lived in rooms at all. 
 
 Leonora had not thought at all, from the moment 
 when she had taken her resolution in her own 
 drawing-room until she found herself standing 
 before Julius Batiscombe in the hotel. At such 
 times, women act first and think afterwards, lest 
 perchance the thinking should interfere with the 
 doing. But now that the thing was done, she 
 realised at once the whole importance of the step, 
 and at the same time she understood with what ease 
 it had been accomplished. She saw how, with one 
 bound, she was out of her prison, and with the man 
 she loved, and though she was frightened at the 
 magnitude of the deed, she knew that with him she 
 should find strength and comfort and happiness. 
 What mattered the past? 
 
 She had not seen Julius for a fortnight, and 
 though in that time she knew that her love had 
 increased tenfold, yet the outline of him had lost 
 distinctness, and she found him more than ever the 
 man she had dreamed of, and discovered, and loved. 
 He was one of those men whose magnificent vitality 
 casts a sort of magnetic influence on their sur 
 roundings, just as Leonora herself sometimes did. 
 When Batiscombe was away, his faults might be 
 detected and criticised, his selfishness, his com-
 
 264 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 bativeness, his vanities. But when he was talking 
 to people, and chose to be agreeable, it was hard not 
 to fall under the spell. He was so eminently a 
 man of action as well as of thought, that even those 
 who disliked him most were obliged to confess that 
 he had certain large qualities, comforting them 
 selves by describing them as "dangerous," as per 
 haps they were, to himself and others. 
 
 And now Leonora looked upon him and knew how 
 wholly and truly she loved him, and how ready she 
 was to sacrifice anything and anybody to her love, 
 even to herself and her own reputation and honour. 
 With heroic people that consideration of self might 
 first be thrown to the winds ; but Leonora was not 
 heroic. She was very passionate and sometimes 
 very foolish, but with all her "higher standard" 
 she believed in the social regulations and distinc 
 tions of life. It was the English part of her nature, 
 fighting for a show of Philistinism amidst so much 
 that was the very reverse. It was a strong passion 
 indeed that could make her throw it all away, or 
 even think such a step possible. 
 
 It was not that she had yielded weakly to a first 
 impression of weariness after her marriage, and had 
 at once begun to amuse herself with the first man 
 who crossed her path. Weariness alone, the mere 
 commonplace sensation of being bored, could never 
 have led her to such a length. A great variety of 
 circumstances had combined to bring about her 
 destruction. The wild ideas of her girlhood, invest-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 265 
 
 ing Marcantonio with just enough romance to make 
 him barely come within the line of her "standard," 
 but nerved and encouraged by the faculty she pos 
 sessed for deceiving herself, had led her into a rash 
 marriage, in which she had been helped and 
 applauded by all those sensible people who think 
 that when money and position are combined on both 
 sides, marriage must necessarily be a good thing. 
 Then followed the bitter disappointment and collapse 
 of all her theories and hopes, leaving a desperate 
 void and a certainty of misery, which gathered 
 strength even from the command of language she 
 had acquired in the study of the imaginary nothing 
 ness of everything. And at the very moment when 
 there seemed nothing before her but a dreary waste 
 of years, an individual had appeared who realised 
 the dream she had lost. 
 
 And it is indeed a noble quality so long as it is 
 locked close within the treasury of the soul, and so 
 long as one good woman, and one only, holds the 
 key. But of all the unutterable baseness in this 
 world, there is none more despicable than that of 
 the man who makes one woman after another believe 
 that he loves her to distraction, as he never loved 
 any one else, well knowing, the while, that if the 
 furies spare him to an unhonoured old age, it is out 
 of sheer contempt for the blear-eyed Adonis, sham 
 bling weak-kneed to his grave with a flower in his 
 button-hole and a ghastly leer at the last woman 
 he meets before death overtakes him.
 
 266 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Leonora was a woman who was probably incapable 
 of a second passion, and the wholeness of the first 
 might lend it some dignity, some simple loftiness of 
 disregard for lesser things, making it seem nobler 
 for being a single sin, sinned bravely for true love's 
 sake. There were such loves in the world long 
 before Launcelot loved Guinevere, or Heloise was 
 laid in the grave with Abelard. But the world has 
 no lack of men like Julius Batiscombe, men in no 
 way worthy of the women who love them, nor ever 
 able to be worthy. 
 
 Leonora had chosen, and she would not have given 
 him up for all the joys of paradise, any more than 
 she would have believed a word against his faithful 
 ness and loyalty to herself. He had sworn how 
 could he deceive her?
 
 TO LEEWARD. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHEN Leonora met her husband at dinner an 
 hour later, her face was set, for her mind was made 
 up, and every moment hardened her determination. 
 
 Julius had said to her "come," and she would go 
 to the very end of the world if need be. He had 
 stated the case with a show of fairness. She must 
 fully understand the step, he said, and that there 
 was no return possible from such an exile as they 
 undertook together. She must abandon everything, 
 and not only her husband, but her mother, her father, 
 her position before the world, her whole luxurious, 
 aristocratic existence. She must rely on his arm 
 alone to support her, and on his love to be her only 
 comfort and compensation. They must live an 
 isolated life, whether wandering, or resting in some 
 quiet place where society never came. She must 
 also take the chance of his being killed by Marc- 
 antonio, who would certainly make an effort to 
 destroy him, and the chance was not small, con 
 sidering the provocation. If it happened that he 
 fell, she would certainly be left alone in the world. 
 This was probably the strongest argument with her 
 against flight, but it had not weight enough to hold 
 her back, for she had the pride of a woman who had
 
 268 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 found a man ready to fight for her, in these latter 
 days when fighting is so terribly out of fashion; and 
 she felt in her heart that she should always be able 
 to prevent an encounter. 
 
 The resolution she had made had killed any doubt 
 that might still have remained as to the ultimate 
 result of her love for Julius. Henceforth it was 
 her duty to kill doubts in order to be happy; and, 
 indeed, there were few left, for her love was very 
 sincere and real. But if any should arise she meant 
 to smother them instantly. And now she remem 
 bered every word her lover had spoken in that brief 
 stolen interview, and she felt no fear. Her face 
 was set, and she looked defiantly at her husband. 
 A few hours more, she thought, and she should be 
 free from him, from the world, from everything 
 forever. 
 
 They would have gone at once, that very minute, 
 but Batiscombe pointed out that the time was ill 
 chosen. She had been seen to come to the hotel, 
 the servant who had shown her up-stairs had noticed 
 her, perhaps recognised her; in half an hour after 
 the dinner hour she would be missed at the villa, 
 and they would surely be overtaken on land, espe 
 cially as there was no train at that time. Julius said 
 his boat was moored at the foot of the cliff below 
 the hotel, but it would be impossible to reach it 
 without being observed by many people, some of 
 whom might recognise her. There was also no 
 wind, the sea was oily with a deadly calm, and the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 269 
 
 full moon, just rising, would make pursuit easy, for 
 though his boat could beat anything on the coast 
 under canvas, she was over heavy in the water for 
 his six men to row at any speed. 
 
 But at midnight, when the easterly breeze was 
 blowing from the land, he would be down. at the 
 landing of her villa, ready. Marcantonio was 
 always asleep at that hour, for he rose betimes in 
 the morning and went to bed early. The dogs? 
 Julius had thought of that, and sending his sailor 
 servant to the kitchen of the hotel, he obtained in 
 a few minutes a couple of solid lumps of meat, 
 which he caused to be wrapped in paper and then 
 tied up in a silk handkerchief for her to carry. She 
 might find it hard, he said, to get anything of the 
 kind in her own house. She was fond of animals, 
 and was sure she could manage to quiet the terriers 
 in a moment if she had something to give them. 
 Besides, they knew her, and would only bark a very 
 little at first. The moon was full, to be sure, but 
 that could not be helped. Once on the water, 
 nothing short of steam could catch them, and that 
 was not available at such short notice. She should 
 not hamper her flight with unnecessary things, he 
 said, for if any one were roused she might have to 
 run for her life as far as the beginning of the 
 descent where he would be in waiting for her. 
 These and a hundred other little directions he had 
 given her, with the quiet forethought for details 
 that was part of his remarkable intellect.
 
 270 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 And now she sat opposite her husband at their 
 small dinner-table, looking hard and determined, 
 but listening with more than usual complacency to 
 his talk, and striving to eat something, as Julius 
 had instructed hor. She made such a good pretence 
 that Marcantonio noticed it approvingly. 
 
 "I am glad to see, my angel," he said, "that you 
 are finding your appetite again. It is most encour 
 aging." 
 
 It was just like his want of tact, thought Leonora. 
 It was just like him to suppose that she would eat 
 the more because he wanted her to do so, and 
 watched her ! Dieu ! What a nuisance to be always 
 watched. It would soon be over now, however, 
 and she could afford to be indifferent. 
 
 "Oddly enough," said she, "I am hungry I 
 do not know why." 
 
 "Does any one know why they are hungry?" said 
 Marcantonio, with a little laugh. "It happens to 
 me to take much exercise. I rise with the sun, I 
 walk, I ride, I dispatch my correspondence, I work 
 like a dog et puis, at breakfast I eat nothing. 
 No appetite. Good! Another day, I lie in bed till 
 ten o'clock, rise with a cigarette, read a novel, and 
 voyez done, how droll I eat, perhaps, for four 
 people. But I have often observed that, if I eat a 
 mayonnaise at dinner, I have no appetite the next 
 day at breakfast. It is extremely singular, for the 
 cook makes the mayonnaise of great delicacy." 
 
 What could it possibly matter whether Marc-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 271 
 
 antonio were hungry or not, or what he ate for 
 dinner? But Leonora was glad to have him say 
 anything, so that she might be spared the effort of 
 talking. 
 
 "It is true," she said, absently, "his mayonnaise 
 is not bad." 
 
 She hoped he would go on ; it was an easy, neutral 
 subject of many ingredients, concerning each of 
 which it would be possible to differ and to raise a 
 fresh discussion. 
 
 "Apropos," said Marcantonio, "the gardener's 
 boy cut his finger very badly this afternoon " 
 
 "Apropos of mayonnaise?" Leonora could not 
 help asking the question. His conversation was 
 so absurd. 
 
 " Ma foi ! mayonnaise vegetables gardens 
 gardeners and the gardener's boy all that holds 
 together. As I was saying, he cut his finger, and 
 I sent your maid to get something to bind it 
 with." 
 
 " I hope she did not take one of my lace handker 
 chiefs," remarked Leonora. "It would be just like 
 her." 
 
 "It was not lace, I am sure," said Marcantonio, 
 with an air of conviction, as he helped himself to 
 the salad which Temistocle handed him. "But it 
 looked very new. I hope she made no mistake." 
 
 The comic side of the situation suddenly forced 
 itself on Leonora, as it often will happen with 
 people on the eve of great danger. A lackey in
 
 272 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Paris once danced a jig on the scaffold before he 
 was broken on the wheel. Leonora laughed aloud. 
 
 "Would it amuse you, for instance," inquired 
 Marcantonio with a puzzled look, "to have a good 
 handkerchief destroyed to tie up the boy's finger?" 
 
 It seemed so funny to Leonora to think that on 
 the morrow her entire stock of handkerchiefs would 
 be at the disposal of all the gardeners in Sorrento if 
 they chanced to cut their fingers. 
 
 "No not that," she said. "It is so odd that 
 you should take so much trouble about it or care." 
 
 "Poor people," said Marcantonio, "one must do 
 what one can for them." 
 
 And so their last conversation tottered to its end 
 in a round of domestic triviality, so that Leonora 
 wondered how she could have borne it so long. 
 But, in truth, Marcantonio was so much afraid of 
 rousing her opposition that evening, after the scene 
 that had taken place, that he purposely avoided every 
 intelligent subject, and did violence to his own 
 preference for the sake of keeping the peace. He 
 liked to talk politics, he liked to talk of Rome, of 
 society, of a hundred things, but of late he had 
 found it very hard to talk peaceably about anything. 
 
 After dinner Marcantonio smoked, and Leonora 
 sat beside him, with a little worsted work which 
 she did with a huge ivory needle. Her heart beat 
 fast as the hour approached when she must part 
 from her husband. She glanced at him from time 
 to time, sitting there so unsuspecting of any sur-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 273 
 
 prise, with his cigarette and his "Fanfulla," the 
 witty Roman paper that amused him so much. His 
 delicate, dark features, a little weak perhaps, looked 
 handsome enough in the lamplight, and Leonora 
 thought for a moment that she had never seen him 
 look so well. She was already so far from him in 
 her thoughts that she regarded him as from a 
 distance, with a certain abstracted consideration of 
 his merits that was new to her. Poor Marcanton io ! 
 A certain curiosity, which would have been pity 
 if she had allowed it, came over her. She wondered 
 how he would look when she was gone. Ten 
 o'clock two hours to midnight, and he never saw 
 her before nine in the morning now. Nine and two 
 were eleven. In eleven hours he must know 
 unless something happened. Would he rage and 
 storm, like a wild beast? Or would he break down 
 and shed tears ? Neither, she thought. He did not 
 love her he was only jealous. Heavens ! thought 
 she, if Julius had been in his position, and he in 
 Julius's, could things have ever got to this pass 
 without some fearful outbreak? Ah no! Julius 
 was so hot-tempered and strong. Her thoughts 
 went away with her, and she heaved a quick short 
 breath, suddenly interrupted in the recollection of 
 where she was. Marcantonio looked round. 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing I was going to sneeze," said Leonora 
 with a ready excuse. 
 
 "There is too much air," said he, rising and going 
 toward the window.
 
 274 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 He looked out for a moment. The first breath of 
 the easterly wind was coming over the mountains 
 and just stirring a ripple on the moonlit bay. It 
 had rained early in the afternoon, and they had sat 
 indoors on account of the dampness. Marcantonio 
 sniffed the breeze, said it was damp, and closed the 
 window. 
 
 "It must be late," said he. "En ve'rite', it is 
 twenty minutes to eleven! I should not have 
 thought it." 
 
 Leonora's heart beat fast. 
 
 "I suppose it is time to go to bed," she said, 
 with enough indifference to escape notice. 
 
 Marcantonio had not enjoyed the evening much, 
 and was sleepy. Leonora moved slowly about the 
 room, touching a book here and a photograph there 
 as though to make the room comfortable for the 
 night. Some women always do it. Her blood was 
 throbbing wildly the last strong effort of con 
 science was upon her. A great pity sprang up in 
 her a terrible regret a horror of great evil. Her 
 resolutions, her love, her determination to fly, her 
 better self, all struggled and reeled furiously to 
 gether. She felt an irresistible impulse to throw 
 herself at her husband's feet, to confess everything, 
 to implore his protection, and forgiveness, and help. 
 She turned towards him suddenly. He was in the 
 act of ringing the bell. 
 
 The sharp tinkle, sounding from far away through 
 the open doors of the house, checked her when she
 
 TO LEEWARD. 275 
 
 was on the very point of speaking. Almost in 
 stantly, the quick tread of the servant was heard. 
 He came, and the supreme moment was over. The 
 reality of her situation returned, and with it the 
 hardness it needed. The man had the candles ready 
 in his hands, and stood waiting to accompany 
 Leonora to her door. 
 
 "Good-night, Marcantoine, " said she, holding out 
 her hand. 
 
 It was cold and clammy with intense excitement, 
 and her face was pale to the lips. 
 
 "Good-night, my angel," said he, touching his 
 lips to her fingers, and she passed from him. Just 
 beyond the door she turned and looked back, with a 
 touch of sadness. 
 
 "Good-night," she said once more, faintly for 
 the last, the very last time. 
 
 When Marcantonio was alone, he took his news 
 papers, and one or two letters which had come by 
 the late post, he looked carefully round the room, to 
 see that he had forgotten nothing, as he had a bad 
 habit of doing, and he marched gloomily off to his 
 room, which was beyond Leonora's, and separated 
 from hers by her sitting-room. Her dressing-room 
 was on the other side of her bedroom, and had a 
 separate door, opening upon the head of the stairs. 
 
 As soon as Leonora had dismissed her maid for 
 the night, she began to make her preparations. She 
 had a large silk bag, of many colours, made like an 
 old-fashioned purse, with heavy silver rings. She
 
 276 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 used it for carrying her work, her books, or anything 
 she needed when she went into the garden to spend 
 the morning. It seemed the best thing to take with 
 her now, for it would hold a good deal and was 
 convenient. She filled it with handkerchiefs, bot 
 tles of eau-de-cologne, and hairpins, and she put 
 in a tiny looking-glass in a silver case, which she 
 had used all her life. It was of no use to think 
 of taking anything else, she thought, since she must 
 carry it all in her hand. Then she went over her 
 jewels and took her own, carefully setting aside all 
 that her husband had given her. She tied them up 
 in a handkerchief with two hard knots, the best 
 she knew how to make, and she put them into the 
 bag with the rest of the things. Then she found her 
 purse, and put into it all the money she had, for it 
 was her own, and she thought she might as well have 
 it, and there was her cheque-book in the drawer 
 of the writing-table. Of course she could draw her 
 own money just as well when she did not finish 
 the sentence to herself. 
 
 Presently she went into the sitting-room, and 
 listened at the small side door which opened into 
 Marcantonio's bedroom. She had taken an hour 
 over her preparations; it was half past eleven, and 
 he was asleep, she heard his regular breathing dis 
 tinctly. The full moon shone outside upon the 
 gravel walks, and the orange-trees, and the soft wind 
 was blowing steadily through the open windows. 
 She paused one moment before she went back, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 277 
 
 she looked out at the scene, so sweet and peaceful 
 in the ivory moonlight. Far off in the town the 
 clocks struck the half hour. Julius must be already 
 on the water, perhaps near the landing. She has 
 tened to her room, treading on tiptoe ; her maid had 
 left her in her loose white peignoir ; she must dress 
 again, and dress quickly, or she would be late. 
 
 It did not take long, though she put the candle 
 before her glass, and dallied a little with a ribbon 
 and a pin. The dress was* soft and dark, fitting 
 closely to her figure. In reality she had selected 
 it because it had a pocket, that would be such a 
 convenient thing on a journey. A hat yes, she 
 must have a hat, for of course they must land some 
 where, though a veil would be more convenient in 
 the wind. 
 
 There was a great vase of carnations, gathered that 
 day, that stood on a little table by the window. At 
 the last minute, Leonora stopped and took one. She 
 went back to the glass with the candle in her hand, 
 and pinned the flower in her dress, eying the effect 
 critically. They were the flowers he loved best, 
 it was an afterthought, and would please him. She 
 was ready, the bag hung over her arm, the package 
 of meat for the dogs in one hand, and a candle in 
 the other. She blew out the remaining lights as 
 the clocks struck midnight, put the one she carried 
 upon a chair by the door, while she softly turned 
 the latch, looked out cautiously, and left the room. 
 Once out of the passage and on the stairs, she had
 
 278 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 no fear of being heard, and she descended rapidly. 
 One moment more and she was in the open air. 
 The front door closed behind her. Something 
 touched her feet, and, looking down, she saw that 
 the white kitten had followed her out; she had not 
 noticed it, poor thing, and she could not risk open 
 ing the door again to put it back. 
 
 She glanced out into the moonlight from beneath 
 the porch, and she was frightened. It was only a 
 step a minute's run, -if she ran fast, to the begin 
 ning of the passage but she hesitated and hung 
 back. Oh, if the last step were not so hard! If 
 Julius had only met her at the door instead of 
 being down there but he was even now at the 
 head of the steps. She realised his presence, and 
 the garden was no longer a solitude she was not 
 alone any more. The kitten mewed discontentedly. 
 She bethought herself of the dogs, picked up the 
 little beast, and moved quickly down the walk, 
 running faster as she neared the end. 
 
 Her running on the path roused the terriers, 
 prowling about among the shrubbery in the warm 
 night, and they sprang upon her not ten yards from 
 the mouth of the descent, barking furiously and 
 snapping at her dress. She dropped the parcel of 
 meat instantly, but they did not see it at once, 
 and pursued her. In one moment more she was 
 lifted from the ground and held firmly in the mighty 
 grasp of the strong man who stood ready, and had 
 run forward to meet her when the dogs sprang out.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 279 
 
 But, in the quick act, the kitten fell to the ground 
 almost between the enraged terriers. 
 
 It was over in a minute. One frantic, piteous 
 death-scream and the poor little white cat lay dead 
 on the gravel path, and the terriers sniffed her little 
 body disdainfully, as though congratulating each 
 other on their brave deed. 
 
 " Oh, Julius, they have killed my kitten ! " cried 
 Leonora in real distress. They were already under 
 the archway, and Batiscombe was x urging her to 
 descend, but she clung to him, and stared back into 
 the moonlight at the dogs and her dead pet. 
 
 Julius himself was enraged at the thing it was 
 so wantonly cruel. 
 
 "Run on," said he, in a whisper; "I will settle 
 them." He had reflected quickly that they had 
 only barked for a moment, and that any one who 
 heard them must have heard the cat also and would 
 have taken no notice of the noise. 
 
 At that very moment Marcantonio turned on his 
 pillow, and, half waking, swore to himself, as he 
 had done every night of his life for weeks, that he 
 would send the dogs away in the morning. But all 
 was still, and he fell asleep again instantly. 
 
 Julius went back upon the path, and the terriers 
 growled, still scenting their vanquished prey. But 
 he moved quickly and softly, speaking gently to 
 them in a low voice, and holding out his hand to 
 them. He had a sort of influence over animals, and 
 they let him come close, pricking their ears and
 
 280 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 sniffing about his legs. Suddenly, as they smelled 
 at his boots, he caught them by their necks in an 
 iron grip, one in each hand, and held them up at 
 arm's length, struggling frantically, but utterly 
 incapable of making a sound. 
 
 "You killed her cat, did you, you brutes?" he 
 muttered, savagely. "I will kill you." 
 
 He broke their necks, one after the other, and 
 threw their quivering bodies far out under the 
 orange-trees. 
 
 Leonora had watched him from the archway. She 
 shuddered. 
 
 "They will not bark any more," said Julius, as 
 he came to her. 
 
 " What strong hands you have ! " she said. 
 
 A window opened, up in the house, a hundred 
 yards away. Batiscombe's quick ear caught the 
 sound. 
 
 "Come, sweetheart," he whispered; "some one is 
 stirring." 
 
 His arm was round her as he guided her down 
 the first steps, tenderly and strongly. She stumbled 
 a little. 
 
 "Oh, Julius, I am so frightened!" she said 
 piteously. 
 
 He stopped and took her off the ground as though 
 she had been a child, and bore her swiftly and surely 
 through the dark way. She could see his fiery blue 
 eyes in the gloom, and in the flashes of white light 
 as they passed the windows and arches where the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 281 
 
 moon streamed in, and as she looked she could feel 
 her own grow big and dark ; and she was frightened 
 and very happy. But she thought of that strange 
 thing she had dreamed this very flight of hers 
 exactly as it was to happen, so that she hid her face 
 against his coat and clung to him nervously. 
 
 "Put me down," she cried earnestly, as they 
 emerged upon the flat rock of the landing, " put me 
 down, Julius, I dreamed you fell here." 
 
 He obeyed her, and set her on her feet, still 
 supporting her with his arm about her waist. One 
 passionate kiss only one and then they came 
 out from the shadow of the high cliff, and saw the 
 boat riding lightly in the moonlight, two sailors 
 holding her off the rocks, and the rest busy on board 
 with the sails. The water plashed musically in 
 the little hollows, and from near by there came a 
 deep, mysterious murmur out of the many dark 
 caves that lined the shore. 
 
 Leonora stepped lightly in, and Julius arranged 
 the cushions about her carefully. Neither of them 
 spoke. With a few strong strokes of the oars the 
 boat shot out into the breeze from the lee of the 
 gorge. The foresail was already set, and jib and 
 mainsail went up in a moment, wing and wing, the 
 tapering, lateen-yards pointing to right and left, 
 like the horns of a great, soft, white moth; the 
 water rippled at the stern, and curled up and lapped 
 the rudder as the sails filled, and ever swiftly and 
 more swiftly the craft rushed down the bay in the 
 glorious moonlight, before the steady east wind.
 
 282 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Julius held the tiller with one hand, and the 
 other lovingly supported Leonora's head against his 
 breast, as she lay along the cushions in the stern. 
 
 "Darling," he said presently, "what was the 
 dream about my falling at the landing? You never 
 told me." 
 
 She did not answer, but lay quite still. 
 
 "Dear one," he murmured, bending down, "are 
 you so tired? Leonora sweetheart speak to 
 me!" 
 
 But the strain had been too strong, and Leonora 
 lay in his arms, whiter than death under the white 
 moon, unconscious of Julius or of the sea. Julius 
 saw that she had fainted.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 283 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 AT half past eight on the following morning 
 Temistocle found Leonora's maid at the door of her 
 mistress's room with an expression of blank aston 
 ishment on her face that made him laugh. He often 
 laughed, quietly, without the least noise. 
 
 "You look exactly like a lay figure in a milliner's 
 shop," he remarked. "Except, indeed, that you 
 look much more stupid." 
 
 The maid glared at him. 
 
 "The signora" she began, and then trembled 
 and looked round timidly. 
 
 "What about her?" inquired Temistocle, prick 
 ing up his ears. 
 
 The maid let her voice drop to a low whisper. 
 
 "She is not there," said she. 
 
 "Ebbene," said Temistocle with a grin, "what 
 has happened to you ? She is probably gone out 
 gone to church. A good place for heretics, too." 
 
 "Macche"," whispered the woman, "she has not 
 slept in her bed, and everything is upside down in 
 the room." 
 
 "May the devil carry you off!" said Temis 
 tocle, suddenly changing his voice, and whispering 
 hoarsely. "Let me see let me pass." He put
 
 284 TO LEEWAKD. 
 
 down the can of hot water he was taking to his 
 master, and pushed past the maid, into Leonora's 
 bedroom. 
 
 "Bada," said the woman, going after him cau 
 tiously, "take care! The signore might come in 
 and find you." 
 
 "What harm is there?" asked the servant. And 
 then he made a careful survey of the premises, 
 locking all the doors except the one by which they 
 had entered. 
 
 "It is true, what you said," he remarked, pushing 
 the maid out of the room. " An apoplexy on these 
 foreigners who go away without telling one. Fuori ! 
 Go along with you, my child. Ci penso io I will 
 look after all this." And he locked the door behind 
 him, put the key in his pocket, and took up his 
 water-can. 
 
 "What are you doing?" asked the maid. Temis- 
 tocle had seen a chance, and took it. 
 
 "Look here," said he, rubbing the thumb and 
 forefinger of his hand together before the girl's eyes, 
 which means " money " in gesture language 
 "look here. The signore accompanied the signora 
 to the early train from Castellamare this morning 
 at half past four. They had a hired carriage. She 
 went away and forgot her jewels on the table. She 
 is gone to Rome on business, they were talking 
 about it last night. Do you understand ? " 
 
 "No," answered the woman looking puzzled, 
 "you said she had gone out"
 
 TO LEEWARD. 285 
 
 "I said so to you," he answered with a sly grin, 
 "but I will not say so to any one else, nor you 
 either. Remember that she went to Rome this 
 morning. It will be worth your while to remember 
 that." 
 
 The woman smiled a cunning smile. She had 
 hated her mistress, and would have liked to make 
 a scandal before all the other servants, but Temis- 
 tocle's advice would be more profitable. So they 
 arranged the matter between them and parted. 
 
 Marcantonio was seated at his writing-table when 
 Temistocle entered. He always got up very early, 
 and did a great many things before he dressed. 
 
 Temistocle busied himself a moment about the 
 room, and when he was ready to go he came to the 
 table and laid the key he had taken from Leonora's 
 door at his master's elbow. 
 
 "What is that?" asked Marcantonio, looking up. 
 
 "It is the key of the Signora Marchesa's bed 
 room, eccellenza," answered Temistocle, edging away 
 toward the door. " Her excellency must have gone 
 away very early, and she left her room open and all 
 her jewelry strewed about. So I locked the doors 
 and brought you the key." 
 
 He was very near the door and could escape in a 
 moment. 
 
 But Marcantonio did not move; his jaw dropped, 
 and his colour changed to a yellow waxen hue, which 
 terrified the servant. But he did not move. Temis 
 tocle continued.
 
 286 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " I told the servants not to be astonished, as you 
 had accompanied the Signora Marchesa to the early 
 train for Rome before daybreak," he said, putting 
 his hand on the latch. 
 
 Marcantonio made as though he would rise. 
 Temistocle slipped nimbly through the door and 
 closed it behind him, running away as though the 
 police were after him. But he knew that when 
 Carantoni had recovered, he would be amply re 
 warded for his wisdom. It often chances that 
 villains play a good and sensible part in life, which 
 is quite as profitable as villainy, and is always safer. 
 
 Marcantonio struggled to rise, and at last got 
 upon his feet, staggering like a man stunned by a 
 physical blow. The door to Leonora's sitting-room 
 was open, but, beyond, the one to her bedroom was 
 locked. He had to go round by the passage, feeling 
 his way as though he were blind. At last he found 
 the lock, the key turned, and he entered. 
 
 It was just as she had left it. The white peignoir 
 she had taken off when she dressed for her flight lay 
 in a heap upon the floor where she had thrown it in 
 her haste. The dismal, half-burned candles stood 
 on the dressing-table. The drawer from which she 
 had taken the handkerchiefs was half open. The 
 windows were thrown back, and the blinds had not 
 been closed, so that the strong glare of the morning 
 poured rudely in on the confusion, and the flies 
 buzzed about the scented soap and the bottle of 
 lavender and the pot of carnations in the corner.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 287 
 
 Marcantonio dragged himself from one part of the 
 room to another till he stumbled against the table 
 on which Leonora had left her scattered jewelry, 
 all the things he had given her. He stood staring 
 down at the glittering gold and precious stones, 
 unconsciously realising that they were all his 
 presents that she had left behind her. There was 
 a strange old Maltese cross of diamonds and sap 
 phires among them, mounted in silver. It had 
 belonged to his mother, and he had given it to 
 Leonora with other things when he married her. 
 His eyes fastened upon it, and his hand crept across 
 the table and took it. 
 
 He raised it to his white lips and kissed it once 
 twice; he would have kissed it again, but the 
 bow of his strength was bent too far and snapped 
 asunder. With a short, fierce cry he threw up his 
 hands, and fell prostrate on the smooth tiled floor, 
 as a dead man might have fallen. 
 
 He lay entirely unconscious for hours, so that 
 when he at last came to himself and struggled to 
 move till he could sit up and stare about him, the 
 midday sun was pouring in, and the flies angrily 
 tormented his ghastly face, as though in derision of 
 anything so miserable. For some minutes he sat 
 upon the floor, dazed and stupid with the oppression 
 of returning grief, as well as stunned from the 
 physical pain resulting from his fall. He was not 
 hurt seriously, but he was bruised and weak. At 
 last he got to his feet, steadying himself by the
 
 288 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 table. He would not see what was about him any 
 more, for he knew it all, and the full consciousness 
 of his misfortune was on him. He regained his own 
 room, carefully locking Leonora's door behind him, 
 and taking with him his mother's diamond cross. 
 
 But the mere sense of grief could not long hold 
 the mastery with a man like Marcantonio. He had 
 loved his wife too well not to resent the injury and 
 scorn, as well as weep over it. As he pondered, 
 lying on his bed, there arose in his breast a desper 
 ate and concentrated anger against the man who 
 had deprived him of what he best loved in the 
 world, the anger of a mind that has never reasoned 
 much about anything, and will carry unreason to 
 any length when it comes. He must find his 
 enemy; that was the principal thought in his mind. 
 That he would kill him when he found him was a 
 conclusion that seemed a matter of course. 
 
 But, in order to find him, it was necessary to 
 move, to search, and turn everything over. He 
 turned on his pillow, feeling the first restless 
 stirrings of the demon that would by and by give 
 him no peace by day or night till the man was 
 found and the blow struck. He turned over and 
 rang a bell by his bedside. 
 
 "Give me some coffee, and order the carriage," he 
 said to the servant. 
 
 At the end of an hour, he found himself in the 
 town, and inquired for Batiscombe. It seemed as 
 though fate favoured Carantoni at the outset, for he
 
 TO LEEWARD. 289 
 
 found his name at once on the register of the hotel, 
 and found also the man who had waited on Julius. 
 This servant had been told that a lady had come in 
 great haste soon after seven on the previous evening, 
 and had stayed more than half an hour. As soon as 
 she was gone, Mr. Batiscombe had sent for his bill 
 and had ordered his boat to be ready at eleven, 
 the servant had heard the order. The man guessed 
 there was something wrong from Marcantonio's face, 
 but Batiscombe's sudden departure had excited no 
 remark. He had arrived late at night in his boat, 
 as many people had done, and as the moon was full 
 it was natural enough that he should sail away as 
 he had come. People arrive continually at Sorrento 
 in yachts, and no one takes any notice of them. 
 
 His luggage? Yes, he had taken most of his 
 things with him, except one large box, which he 
 had ordered to be sent to Turin. It had gone to 
 Castellamare at once. Mr. Batiscombe had been 
 in the hotel before. He was a very good signore. 
 
 At this hint Marcantonio gave the man a heavy 
 fee. Did he happen to know the address on the 
 box ? There was no address, except his name. The 
 box was to be left at Turin until called for. It was 
 to go by fast train, and Mr. Batiscombe had left 
 money to pay for its carriage in advance. Mr. 
 Batiscombe paid his bills by cheques on a banker 
 in Rome. Marcantonio might have the name if he 
 pleased. Before leaving he had paid his bill and 
 given a cheque for five or six hundred francs more.
 
 290 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 The proprietor knew him very well, and was always 
 glad to oblige him, so he had procured a little cash. 
 Before going he had sent for a silk merchant there 
 are hundreds in Sorrento and had bought a quan 
 tity of things of him. He had left the hotel at 
 eleven by the steps to the sea, and the servant had 
 seen him into his boat, for which parting civility, 
 Batiscombe had given him ten francs. The man 
 had watched the boat for a few minutes. She did 
 not make sail, but pulled away towards Castel- 
 lamare. 
 
 That was all, absolutely all, that the man could 
 tell Marcantonio. But it was sufficient for the 
 present. It was clear that Julius had taken Leonora 
 from the landing of the villa. She must have 
 slipped out soon after midnight. The barking of 
 the dogs suddenly came back to Marcantonio's 
 memory, and the scream of the poor cat. He sprang 
 into his carriage, and drove furiously homeward. 
 
 "Where are the dogs?" he asked, as soon as he 
 alighted. 
 
 The groom did not like to answer. He thought 
 Marcantonio would be angry and visit their death 
 on him. But, as his master insisted, he went away 
 without saying a word, and brought a large basket. 
 In it lay the two dead terriers and the dead kitten, 
 all three side by side. 
 
 "The dogs killed the cat," said the man, apolo 
 getically. "There are the marks of their teeth, 
 eccellenza."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 291 
 
 " But the dogs ? How were they killed ? " asked 
 Marcantonio savagely. 
 
 " Eccellenza, their necks are broken. I cannot un 
 derstand how it could have been done. We found 
 them all dead near the descent, the cat on the path, 
 and the dogs under the trees a few paces away." 
 
 Carantoni took up one of the terriers in his 
 hands, and looked at it. 
 
 "So you killed my dogs, did you, you brute?" 
 he muttered. "I will kill you." 
 
 He unconsciously used Batiscombe's own words. 
 His face was yellow, and his eyes bloodshot. He 
 dropped the dead beast into the basket. 
 
 "Bury them," he said aloud, and turned on his 
 heel, going into the house. 
 
 He had accomplished a great deal in a few hours. 
 He had ascertained that they had fled by sea; that 
 Julius had a bank account in Rome with a banker 
 whose address he had got ; that Julius had sent his 
 box to Turin, where he would most likely be ulti 
 mately heard of. More than that he could not know 
 for the present. It was four o'clock in the after 
 noon. He could still catch the train to Rome. 
 He could do nothing more in Sorrento, and he could 
 no more remain inactive for one moment than he 
 could give up the whole pursuit. While his things 
 were being hastily packed he thought of Diana. It 
 was the first time, since the morning, that he had 
 realised that he was not absolutely alone in the 
 world. He sat down and wrote a telegram, intend-
 
 292 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ing to send it from the station. It was brief and to 
 the point. 
 
 " She has left me. Can you meet me anywhere ? 
 Answer to Rome." 
 
 There are doubtless people in the world who take 
 a morbid and unwholesome delight in the contem 
 plation of sorrow. They can amuse themselves for 
 many hours in studying the effect of grief upon 
 their friends, and they can even find a curious 
 diversion in their own troubles, so long as they can 
 keep them far enough away to secure their bodily 
 comfort. They have neither the strength to sin, 
 the honesty to be good, nor the common sense to 
 be happy. And so they feebly paddle in their 
 shallow puddles of woe, neither dry nor wet, and 
 very muddy, when they might just as well sit on 
 the clean, hard ground and enjoy the cleanliness 
 and solidity of it, if they can enjoy nothing else. 
 But they will not. They will lie in the mud, and 
 kick and scream and swear that they are ship 
 wrecked, when they are a hundred miles from the 
 sea, and would take to their heels on the first sight 
 of it. 
 
 One of the favourite hobbies of these individuals 
 is a mysterious thing they call a "sweet sadness." 
 Their ideas about sorrow are not even artistic. 
 They might at least understand that even the 
 intensest grief, apart from its causes, has no gran 
 deur. The contemplation of sorrow is not elevating 
 unless it breeds a strong desire to alleviate it; nor
 
 TO LEEWARD. 293 
 
 is the study of vice and crime in the least edifying 
 unless it exhibits the nobility and power of purity 
 in a highly practical light. No vicious criminal 
 was 'ever reformed by realistic pictures of wicked 
 ness, any more than he can be improved by daily 
 association with other vicious criminals. And a 
 very little realism will throw a great ideal into the 
 shade, as far as most people are concerned. 
 
 Marcantonio may therefore be allowed to go to 
 Rome without being watched on the journey. His 
 bitter suffering had settled about him and taken 
 a shape and a complexion of its own, thinking its 
 own thoughts and acting its own acts, without refer 
 ence to the real Marcantonio, the easy, cheerful, 
 happy man of a few short weeks ago. It was no 
 change of character now, but rather the entire disap 
 pearance of the character beneath the flood of strong 
 passions that had come from without, sweeping away 
 the landmarks and beacons of all moral responsi 
 bility. One idea had taken possession of him, and 
 destroyed his consciousness of good and evil, and 
 his comprehension of the common things of life ; his 
 body and intelligence had become the mere tools of 
 this idea, and would strain their strength to carry 
 it out until one or the other gave way. Man is 
 said to be a free agent, and so long as he remembers 
 the fact, he is ; but when he forgets it, the freedom 
 is gone. 
 
 That morning, when the blow first struck him, 
 he had still some vague thought that there was a
 
 294 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 course to follow which should be right as well as 
 brave and honourable; it was the fast vanishing 
 outline of his former self, used always to the ways 
 of honour; it was vague and uncertain, and he had 
 no time nor inclination to think about it, but it 
 was present. The day wore on, bringing a fuller 
 realisation of his desperate case, and the possibility 
 of good in so much evil disappeared. When he was 
 at last in the express train on his way to Rome he 
 was only conscious of one thing the determination 
 to find Julius Batiscombe, and to kill him ruth 
 lessly, be the consequences what they might. 
 
 Rome looked much as usual when he at last came 
 out of the great ugly station upon the Piazza dei 
 Termini. It was morning, and riot yet eight 
 o'clock, but the pitiless August sun drove its fire 
 through everything through flesh and bone and 
 marrow of living things, through the glaring stones 
 and dusty trees, and even the great jet of water 
 looked like bright melting metal that would burn 
 if it touched one. 
 
 But Marcantonio Carantoni was past feeling heat 
 or cold or bodily hurt. He did not even remember 
 that he had a servant with him, and he mechanically 
 hailed a cab and was driven to his own house. 
 They put a telegram into his hand; it was from 
 Diana, in answer to his of the day before. It was 
 briefer than his and breathed authority. 
 
 "Have left Pegli. Wait for me in Rome." 
 
 That was all. He read it stupidly over two or
 
 TO LEEWARD. 295 
 
 three times. He would not have telegraphed to her 
 if he had waited till to-day. Some instinct told 
 him that she would prevent and hinder his ven 
 geance. Yesterday he wanted help; to-day he 
 wanted nothing but freedom from restraint and an 
 opportunity of meeting Julius Batiscombe. She 
 would not aid him in that, he was sure. 
 
 But she could not arrive to-day, it was a long 
 journey from Pegli to Rome; he did not know 
 exactly how long it took, his memor}' would not 
 serve him with any details. He should have time 
 in Rome to do the things he meant to do, and he 
 would go to Turin that very night and watch that 
 box of Batiscombe's. He would send for it, of 
 course, wherever he was, and the box would betray 
 him at last, if all other means failed. But mean 
 while there were the police there were detectives 
 to be had, and plenty of them; money could do 
 much, and his high position could do more. He 
 would set a whole pack of sharp-scented human 
 hounds at Batiscombe's heels they should find 
 him, and bring word, never fear. He laughed at 
 the idea of employing the law to hunt his prey, in 
 order that he might bid the law defiance and destroy 
 his man alone. 
 
 He threw down the telegram and went to his 
 room, followed closely by his servant, who had 
 arrived in mad haste in a second cab, believing that 
 his master was going to be insane, unless he had 
 a stroke of apoplexy, which seemed not unlikely.
 
 296 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 The man was a skilled valet, and Marcantonio 
 suffered himself to be dressed and combed and 
 smoothed, in perfect silence; and when it was over 
 he ate something that they brought him, without 
 the slightest idea of what he was doing. He knew 
 it was yet early, and that his business could not be 
 done until the officials he needed were in their offices. 
 
 No sooner had the clock struck ten, however, 
 than he took his hat and left the house. He found 
 a cab, and had himself driven from one office to 
 another all through the heat of the day, seeing 
 confidential detectives and stating his business with 
 a strange lucidity, never telling any single agent 
 that he was employing another, but giving to each 
 one a sum of money to begin his search and to each 
 the same precise statement of all that he knew. 
 The consequence was that before the sun was low 
 he had dispatched half a dozen of the best men that 
 could be found, and had got rid of about fifty thou 
 sand francs. Each one separately might have to go 
 to the end of the world to America perhaps, but 
 most probably to England before he could give 
 the required information. It was necessary that 
 his men should be perfectly free to move in any 
 direction. He himself would go to Turin, and there 
 receive their telegrams, himself watching that box 
 of Batiscombe's, which he was sure must some day 
 be claimed by its owner. 
 
 He was perfectly calm and self-possessed through 
 out all these arrangements. Only the strange
 
 TO LEEWARD. 297 
 
 ghastly colour that had overspread his face seemed 
 to settle and become permanent, and his eyes were 
 bloodshot and yellow, while his hand trembled 
 violently when he held a pen or lit a match for his 
 cigarette. But he felt no bodily ill, nor any 
 capacity for fatigue. He had not closed his eyes 
 for thirty-six hours, and had eaten little enough, 
 but there was not an ache nor a sensation of pain 
 in him, and he dreaded to pause or sit down, hating 
 the idea of rest. 
 
 When he had done all that he could think of as 
 being at all useful in his plan, he went home and 
 told his servant to prepare for the journey to Turin 
 that night. The train left at half past ten there 
 were some hours yet to wait. He moved restlessly 
 about the house, and ordered all the windows to 
 be opened. 
 
 The great rooms were in their summer dress. 
 The furniture, the huge pier glasses and the chan 
 deliers were all clothed in brown linen. The 
 carpets had all been taken up, and the floors 
 some of marble, some of red brick, and some of tiles 
 were bare and smooth. There was the coolness 
 and absence of all colour that seems to belong to 
 great palaces when the owners are out of town, and 
 the cold monotony of everything soothed him a lit 
 tle. After wandering aimlessly for half an hour, 
 he settled into a regular walk, up and down the 
 great ball-room, with its clere-story windows and 
 vaulted ceiling. Up and down, up and down, with
 
 298 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 an even, untiring tread he paced, his eyes bent 
 always on the floor and his hands behind him. His 
 walk was like clockwork, absolutely even and un 
 changing, with its rhythmic echo and unvarying 
 accuracy. 
 
 The broad da} r light softened into shadow, and the 
 shadow deepened into gloom, but still he kept on 
 his beat as though counting his steps and measuring 
 the time. There was a certain relief in it, though 
 not from his mastering thought, which held him in 
 a vise and never relaxed for a second, but from his 
 terrible restlessness. It was an outlet to his over 
 wrought activity, and he did it monotonously, with 
 out any consideration, because there was nothing 
 else to do, and it would have driven him mad to 
 sit still for five minutes. 
 
 As the night came on, strange faces seemed to 
 look upon him from the gathering darkness. The 
 thick, warm air took shape and substance, and he 
 could distinguish forms moving quickly before him 
 that he could not overtake. But there was no 
 sensation of horror or fear with the sight he gazed 
 curiously at the fleeting shadows and looked into 
 their faces as they came close to him and retreated, 
 but he could not recognise them, and did not ask 
 himself whence they came nor whither they were 
 going, nor why he saw them. It seemed very 
 natural somehow. 
 
 But at last, as he turned, there was one coming 
 toward him that had more substance than the rest,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 299 
 
 so that they all vanished but that one. It was a 
 woman, and she seemed moving towards him; but 
 it was almost quite dark. He came nearer; his 
 waking senses caught the sound of her footstep; she 
 was no shadow it was his wife coming back to 
 him it had all been a fearful dream, and she was 
 there again. He sprang forward with a quick cry. 
 
 "Leonora! Oh, thank God! " and he fell forward 
 into her arms. 
 
 "No, dearest brother it is not Leonora would 
 God it were!" 
 
 Diana had come already he could not tell how 
 and they stood together in the dark, empty ball 
 room, clasped in each other's arms.
 
 300 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DIANA had found ample time to think over the 
 situation during the journey, and she was prepared 
 for difficulties. Her brother could hardly be in 
 his right mind, she thought, and would certainly 
 be on the verge of doing something desperate, which 
 she must prevent. 
 
 As was usual with her in sudden emergencies, 
 she had been wonderfully quiet. She was shocked 
 and horrified at the news, but neither the shock nor 
 the horror were uppermost in her mind. What she 
 most felt was an unutterable and loving pity for 
 her brother; and as she sat in the express train 
 and looked out of the window at the interminable 
 miles of vineyard and cornland, the kind, womanly 
 tears gathered and fell softly. She could not help 
 it, and she would not. Poor fellow! he deserved 
 all her heart, and her soul's sympathy, and the tears 
 thereof. 
 
 Marcantonio was in no state to reason or to be 
 reasoned with. He had a strange illusion for a 
 moment, when he thought his wife had returned to 
 him, but he at once realised his folly and understood 
 that Diana had come to meet him had come, doubt 
 less, to prevent him from accomplishing his ven-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 301 
 
 geance. He had been so sure that she could not 
 arrive until the next morning that he had antici 
 pated no interruption in his plans, and he was 
 angry with her for being in his way. She would 
 watch him day and night, and hinder all his 
 movements. So long as she was with him it would 
 be impossible to do anything. He answered her 
 very coldly. 
 
 " You have come already ? I did not expect you 
 so soon." 
 
 They moved towards the door, groping in the 
 deep gloom, and presently reached a room where 
 there were lights. Then Diana saw her brother's 
 face and understood that he was mad or desperately 
 ill, or both. The ghastly colour, the bloodshot eyes, 
 the trembling hand, she saw it all. She had not 
 known what change his trouble would make in him, 
 but she knew it would be great. But she was 
 startled now that she was face to face with him. 
 It seemed too terribly real. She could not help it, 
 she bent her beautiful fair head on his shoulder and 
 threw her arms about him and sobbed aloud. 
 
 But Marcantonio only understood that she was 
 there to keep him from his ends, from the one thing 
 in the world which he wished to do, and meant to 
 do, and surely would accomplish. As she leaned 
 on him and shed those bitter tears for him, he stood 
 passive and dry-eyed, staring vacantly above her at 
 the wall, and his hands hung by his side, not offer 
 ing to support her or to comfort her. He only
 
 302 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 wished she were gone again and had never come to 
 trouble him. 
 
 It was only for a moment. Such outbursts of 
 feeling were rare with Diana; people said she was 
 a piece of ice, heartless, and without sympathy for 
 any human being. They judged her by her face 
 and by the dignity of her manner, not knowing of 
 the things she had done in her life that were neither 
 heartless nor cold. But now she recovered herself 
 quickly and dried her eyes, and made Marcantonio 
 sit down. She looked at him intently as though 
 trying to understand him. He had never met her 
 so coldly before in his life ; there must be a reason 
 for it, he was evidently beside himself with suffer 
 ing, but his temporary madness could hardly take 
 the form of a sudden dislike for herself unless there 
 were some cause. 
 
 "You did not expect me so soon," she said, 
 speaking very gently. "It was by a mere chance 
 that I managed it." 
 
 "I am very sorry," said Marcantonio in a monoto 
 nous voice that had no life in it, and seemed not 
 his own. " If you had waited a little while I could 
 have saved you the journey." 
 
 "The journey is nothing," said she. "I am not 
 tired at all, and I would come across the world to 
 be with you." 
 
 "Yes," said Marcantonio, "I know you would. 
 It would have been better if we had met further 
 on."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 303 
 
 "Further on?" she repeated, hoping he would 
 give her some clue to his intentions. 
 
 The old habit of confidence was too strong for 
 him; he wished her away, but he could not help 
 speaking and telling her something. He had never 
 concealed anything from her. 
 
 "In Turin," he answered briefly. 
 
 "Ah, is he there?" asked Diana in a low voice. 
 
 "He sent his box there, he will go and get it." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then," said Marcantonio, the sullen fire 
 burning in his reddened eyes, "we shall meet." 
 
 Diana was silent for a moment, determining what 
 to do. All this she had expected, but she had not 
 thought to find her brother so changed. 
 
 "Tell me, Marcantonio," she said earnestly, "did 
 you think I would prevent your meeting with 
 him?" He hesitated. She took his hand and 
 looked into his face as though urging him to 
 answer. 
 
 "Yes," he said hoarsely. 
 
 Diana understood. This was the reason of his 
 evident annoyance at her coming. He thought she 
 meant to prevent him from fighting Batiscombe. 
 
 "You know better than that," she said gravely. 
 Marcantonio turned upon her quickly with an angry 
 look. 
 
 " You prevented me before," he said. "If I had 
 shot him then, this trouble would not have come. 
 You know it, why do you look at me like that?"
 
 304 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "If you had shot him before," said she, "this 
 could not have happened. But if he had shot you, 
 that was possible, was it not? you gained 
 nothing. If neither of you had killed the other, 
 there would have been a useless scandal. The case 
 is different." 
 
 If she had found her brother overcome with his 
 sorrow and abandoned to the suffering it brought, 
 sensitive and shrinking from all allusion to his 
 shame, she would have acted very differently. But 
 she found him possessed of but one idea, how to kill 
 Julius Batiscombe; he was hard and unyielding; 
 he seemed to have forgotten the wife he had loved 
 so well, in the longing to destroy the man who had 
 stolen her away. She felt no hesitation in speaking 
 plainly of the matter in hand, since his feelings 
 needed no sparing. But her sympathy was so large 
 arid honest that she did not feel hurt herself because 
 he was cold to her; she understood that he was 
 scarcely in his right mind, and she could make all 
 allowance for him. 
 
 Marcantonio did not answer at once. But her 
 influence on him, as she sat there, was soothing, 
 and he was gradually yielding under it not in the 
 least abandoning his one idea, but feeling that she 
 might not hinder its execution after all. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," he asked suddenly, "that 
 you will not try to prevent my meeting with him ? " 
 He turned and looked into her eyes, that met his 
 honestly and fearlessly.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 305 
 
 "Assuredly I will not prevent you," said she. 
 
 " Really and truly ?" 
 
 "So truly that if I thought you had meant to 
 leave him alone, I would have tried to make you 
 fight him." 
 
 Marcantonio laughed scornfully, in a way that 
 was bad to hear. It had never struck him that he 
 could possibly have not wanted to fight. But in 
 a moment he was grave again. 
 
 "What a woman you are, Diana! " he exclaimed. 
 It sounded more like himself than anything he had 
 said yet, and Diana was encouraged. But she said 
 nothing. 
 
 In her simple code, fighting was a necessary thing 
 in the world. She had been brought up among 
 people who fought duels under provocation, and it 
 never entered her head that under certain circum 
 stances there was anything else to be done. Women 
 often scream with terror at the mention of such a 
 thing, but very few of them will have anything to 
 do with men who will not fight when they are 
 insulted. In preventing a challenge after the affair 
 at Sorrento she had done violence to her feelings 
 for the sake of Leonora's reputation. In the pres 
 ent instance that was no longer at stake. It was per 
 fectly clear that her brother must have satisfaction 
 from his enemy, as soon as might be. 
 
 She had never hesitated, therefore, in her view 
 of Marcantonio's situation, and when he put the 
 question to her she answered it boldly and naturally.
 
 306 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 But, somehow, he had not understood his sister 
 before, though he had yielded to her, and he was 
 astonished at her readiness to agree with him. He 
 looked at her with a sort of admiration, and his 
 feeling towards her changed. 
 
 " Then you will help me to find him ? " he asked. 
 
 "I will stay with you until you do," she 
 answered. 
 
 "It is the same thing," said he. "Will you come 
 to Turin with me at once?" 
 
 "I will not leave you," she said. "We can go 
 to Turin to-morrow, if you like." 
 
 "No to-night," he said, quickly. The idea of 
 wasting twelve hours seemed intolerable. 
 
 But Diana had made up her mind that he must 
 rest a while before doing anything more. She shud 
 dered when she looked at his face and saw the 
 change wrought there in six and thirty hours. 
 
 "If we start now," she said, "we shall arrive in 
 the evening. You could do nothing at night. Rest 
 until the morning, and then we will go. You will 
 need all the strength you have." 
 
 "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."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 307 
 
 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
 
 308 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 Marc-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 309 
 
 antonio 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 ser 
 vants 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 pre-
 
 310 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 pared 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 where 
 abouts, 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 male-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 311 
 
 factor, 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
 
 312 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 
 bear 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 ener 
 getic people.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 313 
 
 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 elo 
 quence 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 fright 
 ened 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
 
 314 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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.
 
 TO LEEWAED. 315 
 
 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.
 
 316 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 hus 
 band, who worships her, scatters trouble and tears 
 and madness broadcast, and she thinks of handker 
 chiefs 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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 317 
 
 night, or rather to-night, I should say. That is, 
 if yon 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 moon 
 light. "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."
 
 318 TO LEEWAED. 
 
 "Oh yes and just fancy the wrath when they 
 are found to-morrow morning. But they might 
 have bitten you dreadfully I was terribly fright 
 ened." 
 
 " 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 them 
 selves, whatever wind might blow. It was nothing 
 to them, who came from the north coast, whether
 
 TO LEEWARD. 319 
 
 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 "pa 
 drone " 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 every 
 thing 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
 
 320 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 portions of ourselves, no matter how we came by 
 them, nor when. 
 
 Out of nothing, nothing can come. Out of con 
 fusion and vanity and pure selfishness, out of con 
 fused 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 every 
 thing 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, crash-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 321 
 
 ing 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. 
 
 It is easy to moralise, it is hard to live. That is 
 the reason that great moralists are generally either 
 old men who have done with living and would like 
 to teach other people, or else young men and yoiing 
 women who have not enough vitality to animate 
 the most lymphatic oyster, but who manage to float 
 about by their own inflation. These latter never 
 save any one from drowning, and the former save 
 very few. The people who can help others are the 
 strong ones who can catch them just below the 
 shoulder, by the arm, and support them and push 
 them to land, themselves doing all the work. That 
 is a watery simile, but most similes are but water, 
 and can be poured into a tea-cup or into a bucket 
 they will take the shape of either. 
 
 The night wore on, the full moon sinking slowly 
 to the west, so that after a time she was hidden 
 from the lovers by the sails, and there was a broad 
 shadow behind them. Still the breeze blew fresh 
 from the land and carried them straight towards 
 Ischia, and the boat rocked smoothly over the rolling
 
 322 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 water. Leonora rested on the thick cushions, and 
 her head lay nestled in Batiscombe's arm while he 
 held the tiller carelessly with his other hand, steer 
 ing by the wind, in the certainty of making the 
 right course. He did not speak, for he wanted her 
 to rest, and so it came about that before long she 
 fell peacefully asleep, and Julius drew a light shawl 
 tenderly about her, and kissed her ruddy hair, and 
 looked out over the moonlit water, calmly as though 
 he were sailing for his pleasure. 
 
 He was thinking what strange things happened 
 in his life, and wondering within himself whether 
 he could ever grow old and be like other people. 
 But he could never be like other people now, for 
 he must live a life apart from the world, and create 
 an existence of a new kind, utterly free from the 
 ties and bonds and weariness of society. It would 
 also be without the amusements, the gayety, the 
 glitter, and the flattery of society. Batiscombe 
 liked all that, too; but he thought he could do 
 without it very well. Just now the fascination of 
 the hour was upon him. The sweet sea-breeze, the 
 moonlight on the water, the swirl of the boat's 
 wake and, above all, the beautiful woman by his 
 side sleeping so gently and nestled so lovingly close 
 to him, it was all perfect. 
 
 But with a curious duality that belonged to him, 
 he enjoyed the moment and thought intensely of the 
 future at the same time; not with any fear or regret 
 or even with the anticipation of remorse for what he
 
 TO LEEWARD. 323 
 
 had done, but with a far-seeing love of combination, 
 striving to know exactly what would happen and to 
 provide for it. 
 
 He went over in his mind the many places to 
 which he might take Leonora, and tried to select 
 the most beautiful and the most retired some ideal 
 spot, not yet invaded by society. Society, in the 
 long run, gets the best of everything; artists and 
 poets and adventurous tourists may seek out an 
 inaccessible region and keep it to themselves for a 
 while, revelling in the solitude and driving off 
 intruders by discouraging civilisation and affecting 
 a barbaric display of shirt-sleeves, paint, and beards. 
 But if the place is really beautiful, really healthy 
 or really convenient for flirting in the open air, 
 there will surely come at last a stray princess of 
 eccentric disposition and fond of a little discomfort. 
 She will say it is simply too delightful, and so very 
 natural, you know; and in the course of a summer 
 or two the society battalion will encamp there, the 
 houses will be newly painted, and there will be a 
 band and a casino, and a royal personage. 
 
 It is very hard to find the kind of place Julius 
 wanted, and he thought for a long time before he 
 hit upon it. But at last he had a happy idea and 
 was pleased with himself for having it, as he always 
 was. Very cautiously he got a cigarette out of his 
 pocket and lit it with one hand, steadying the helm 
 with his elbow. He did it so smoothly and quietly 
 that Leonora did not wake, and he puffed in silent
 
 324 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 enjoyment of the tobacco, taking care that the smoke 
 should not blow into her face. 
 
 It was very like Julius Batiscombe to risk waking 
 her in order that he might smoke, for he was a 
 selfish man and knew it, and delighted in it. But 
 it came upon him in gusts, and was not always a 
 part of him; only, when it did come, it covered 
 completely the better features of his nature. In 
 carrying away Leonora, he had done one of the most 
 absolutely selfish actions of his life, and for the 
 time being there was nothing he would not do so 
 long as he could keep her with him and make her 
 sure that he loved her. He knew well enough that 
 she loved him. He did not want to know anything 
 about his own motives. He was in love that was 
 motive enough for anything. 
 
 As a matter of fact, deep down in his soul there 
 were other incentives at play; but he would not 
 acknowledge that to himself. It was true that since 
 he had loved Diana he had never loved another 
 woman as he loved Leonora. There was a charm 
 about her which he could not explain, which over 
 came him and filled his whole life. His lingering 
 feeling for Diana was always real when no other 
 passion was in the way, and it had never happened 
 before that any one of his affairs had crossed her 
 path. But now it had chanced at last, and the 
 strong position she had taken against him from the 
 first had roused a bitter opposition in him. It 
 secretly delighted him to think of her anger, and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 325 
 
 sorrow, and humiliation at the success of his enter 
 prise. But, nevertheless, he loved Leonora with 
 all the strength of passion that remained to him, 
 and that was saying much. 
 
 Again, he had the vanity, in some directions, of 
 half a dozen ordinary men, a common peculiarity 
 of that unusual physical courage and strength which 
 he possessed in an eminent degree. But it did 
 not go into his work, for he was an artist at heart, 
 besides being a man of the world, and was never 
 long satisfied with anything he wrote. It was the 
 sort of vanity that hankers after the admiration of 
 women, and would not take the admiration of men 
 as a gift, an intensely virile characteristic of 
 immense power. He would like to rule men, to 
 lead them to do great things or to crush them under 
 his heel, according to his mood; and he sometimes 
 ground his teeth because he could do neither. But 
 he did not want their admiration, much less their 
 sympathy. They might flatter him, or abuse him 
 he was utterly indifferent. But he would sacri 
 fice a great deal for the approbation of a woman, and 
 he often got it ; for women, generally speaking, like 
 best the men who hang upon their words and will 
 do anything under heaven for a smile and a word 
 of praise as is natural. 
 
 Consequently, Leonora's evident interest in him 
 self had pleased Julius from the very first, and he 
 had often done things for the sake of hearing her 
 say something flattering, which had meant more
 
 326 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 than he had realised. There was no doubt whatever 
 that his vanity had played an important part in 
 bringing him into his present position. Nor was he 
 a very exceptional man in this respect, save in the 
 degree of his qualities. Hundreds of men fall in 
 love every day with women who flatter them, and the 
 passion is not less strong because it is of a low 
 order. 
 
 It was over now, however, and the plunge was 
 taken. The falling in love was accomplished, and 
 the being in love had begun. Henceforth the two 
 main considerations in his mind were to make life 
 convenient and easy for Leonora, in order that she 
 might not cease to love him out of discontent, and 
 then to get over his inevitable meeting with Marc- 
 antonio as soon as possible and as well as possible. 
 He easily saw that these two things were insepa 
 rable. If all question of future complication were 
 not removed at once by a decisive meeting with 
 Carantoni, Leonora might live in a state of fear and 
 trembling for months to come. In order to meet 
 him it was necessary to have some place of abode 
 for the time, where Leonora might be happy of 
 course she should not know of the encounter until 
 it was over and at the same time the spot must 
 be so chosen as to be tolerably accessible. He had 
 intended to go to France when it was over, and 
 had therefore sent his box to Turin, meaning to take 
 it as soon as he felt free to move ; Turin suggested 
 Piedmont, and Piedmont suggested a place where
 
 TO LEEWARD. 327 
 
 he had once spent a month in the summer, 
 scenery, trout-fishing, considerable comfort, and not 
 a soul there excepting some of the local society of 
 Turin, who found it convenient and cheap. He at 
 once determined to go thither, and to send Marc- 
 antonio information of the fact, in order that he 
 might find him as soon as he pleased. 
 
 He no more expected, or wished, to avoid a duel 
 than Marcantonio himself. The one virtue which 
 never deserted him was his courage. He would let 
 his adversary have a shot at him if he liked, but 
 he himself would fire in the air, of course. He did 
 not think much about it, to tell the truth, for he 
 accepted the fact as the consequence of his action, 
 and occupied himself in providing for it without 
 any judgment of himself, for good or evil. He had 
 once said to Leonora that the enjoyment belonged to 
 the man who ate, and not to the man who carved, 
 and she had guessed rightly that however well he 
 might analyse the lives of others, he never analysed 
 his own. He had got the forbidden fruit and he 
 was glad of it, and meant to keep it all for himself, 
 inwardly rejoicing at the anger of those who would 
 have prevented him, if they could. And with all 
 this, the fruit gave him an intense delight, inde 
 pendently of the triumph of having obtained it. 
 He was not a man who tired of anything he liked 
 so long as the thing itself did not change and 
 remained as sweet as ever. 
 
 There he sat at the helm all through the hours
 
 328 TO LEEWAKD. 
 
 from midnight to dawn, and Leonora slept peace 
 fully in the cool sea air, at rest after all her excite 
 ment and fatigue. Gradually the moonlight seemed 
 to lose distinctness, while gaining more strength 
 and permeating the shadows of the boat which had 
 before been dark and well defined. The breeze blew 
 cooler and fresher than ever, bearing a faint chill in 
 its breath, and the water, from being like black 
 velvet strewn with diamonds, turned gradually grey 
 and misty, so that the waves could all be seen with 
 their small crests and sharp rough edges. In front 
 the rocky height of Ischia seemed to tower to the 
 sky, and soon it caught the first soft tinge of the 
 dawn. Quickly the rosy light crept downwards, 
 falling gently from tree to tree and from rock to 
 rock, till it reached the water, and the sea rippled and 
 laughed in the sweetness of the summer morning. 
 
 Leonora moved in her sleep, and Julius, who was 
 watching her, saw her lips tremble a little as though 
 she were talking in her dreams. Then she started 
 slightly, put out her hand, and opened her eyes. 
 The blood mounted to her cheeks as she met her 
 lover's glance, and he looked from the colour on the 
 water to the colour on her face, and he saw that the 
 blush of the woman was fairer than the blush of 
 the summer sea. She sat up and turned from him 
 a moment, and her hands were busy with her hair. 
 
 "Have you slept well, my dear one?" asked 
 Julius. "I am afraid you were terribly uncomfort 
 able."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 329 
 
 "Oh, so well," said she, still looking away and 
 deftly putting a hairpin in its place. "But I 
 dreamed just as I woke up." 
 
 "What did you dream, sweetheart?" asked Ju 
 lius, stretching his stiffened limbs. He had scarcely 
 moved for four hours; he could have borne it for 
 four hours longer if he had not wanted anything, 
 but he had risked waking her in order to get a 
 cigarette. 
 
 "I dreamed about you," said she. "You behaved 
 so badly, I am not sure I shall forgive you, ever." 
 She gave him a hesitating look as she bent her head 
 to arrange her hair. 
 
 "Tell me, darling," said he, laughing. 
 
 "It is nothing to laugh at," she answered. 
 "And besides, I don't know whether I ought to 
 tell you." She stopped and watched him with a 
 little shy laugh. 
 
 "Please do." 
 
 "Well, of course this is in the strictest confi 
 dence, you will never tell any one. Do give me 
 the bag, dear. I want the cologne water." 
 
 "And the hairpins and the handkerchiefs," added 
 Julius, laughing, as he stooped to get the bag out 
 of the stern-sheets. "Please tell me the dream." 
 
 Leonora took a handkerchief and wet it from the 
 bottle of cologne water. Then she began to dab it 
 on her face. 
 
 " I dreamed that you " dab " picked me up in 
 your arms and" dab, dab "carried me down the
 
 330 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 stairs," dab, dab, dab, "and just as you were 
 putting me into the" dab "into the boat, you 
 dropped me into the sea." A furious succession of 
 dabs, then more cologne water and another hand 
 kerchief. 
 
 "But you said something about that last night. 
 You made me put you down on the rocks, because 
 you said you had dreamed I dropped you. Was 
 that another dream?" 
 
 Julius was watching her operations with a half- 
 amused interest. 
 
 "Yes," said she, drying her face, "I dreamed it 
 all over again, just now." 
 
 "But when did you dream it first, dear? Yes 
 terday?" 
 
 "Oh no! Ever so long ago, ages ago." She 
 looked down at the flower she had put in her dress 
 at the last minute. It was still fresh, and she 
 arranged it a little. 
 
 " Before you knew me ? " asked Julius. 
 
 " Oh yes, that is before " she blushed again. 
 
 "When was it?" he asked, amused and delighted. 
 
 "It was before that evening," she said at last, 
 "when you met me in the church. How long ago 
 is that?" 
 
 "About ten years, I should think," said Julius 
 gravely. It seemed an endless time. 
 
 "Is it not strange? and then, that I should 
 dream it all again it is so funny. Why should 
 you have dropped me ? It would have been so easy
 
 TO LEEWARD. 331 
 
 to carry me into the boat, and yet you seemed to 
 stumble on purpose, and we both fell in and were 
 drowned. Is it not very odd?" 
 
 She seemed to have settled herself now, for the 
 remainder of the journey ; the sun had risen quickly 
 over the land while they were talking, and she put 
 up a parasol which lay on the opposite seat. She 
 did it unconsciously, not realising that she had not 
 brought one with her, but when she held it up, she 
 looked at the handle and saw that it was not one 
 of her own. Then she remembered. 
 
 "Did you get it for me?" she asked, smiling. 
 
 "Yes," said Julius; "I knew you would want it, 
 so I sent out for it last night." 
 
 "A puggia! " shouted one of the men from behind 
 the sail. 
 
 Julius put the helm up accordingly, and, as the 
 boat fell off a little, a big fishing smack ran across 
 her bows. 
 
 A dozen rough fellows were lounging about in 
 their woollen caps and dirty shirts. They laughed 
 gayly at the crazy foreigners as they went by, and 
 some of them waved their caps. 
 
 "Buon viaggio, eccellenza! " they shouted. Ju 
 lius waved his hand in answer to the greeting. 
 Leonora was pleased. 
 
 "At all events," said she, "some one has wished 
 us a pleasant journey. It was sweet of you to get 
 the parasol, dear." 
 
 So they chattered together awhile, and presently
 
 332 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the boat went round the point of the island to the 
 north side, and they took in the sails, and the six 
 men pulled her lustily along under the shore, until 
 they reached the little harbour of Casamicciola. 
 
 "We can stay here and rest all day," said Julius, 
 as they entered the hotel on the hill, half an hour 
 later. "We shall not be disturbed, and this after 
 noon we will sail over to Naples, and you can do 
 your shopping when it is cool. " 
 
 At half past eight they sat down to a breakfast of 
 figs and bread-and-butter and coffee. At the same 
 moment over there in Sorrento, Temistocle laid the 
 key of Leonora's room on Marcantonio's writing- 
 table, and edged away to make sure of an easy 
 escape through the door. 
 
 "How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Leonora, 
 stopping in the consumption of a very ripe black 
 fig, to look out at the sea and the exquisite islands 
 that lie like jewels between Ischia and the main 
 land. 
 
 A waiter had brought a shabby book of ruled 
 paper, with a pen and some ink. He asked if his 
 excellency would be good enough to write his 
 name. Julius took the pen and wrote something, 
 glancing up with a smile at Leonora, who finished 
 her fig in silence. 
 
 "Let me see," said she, when he had done. He 
 handed her the book, while the servant waited 
 respectfully. 
 
 Julius had written simply, "Mil. AND MRS. 
 BATISCOMBE, ENGLAND."
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 333 
 
 "Give me the pen," said Leonora. "Oh, dip it 
 in the ink, please thanks! " She wrote something 
 and gave him back the book. Underneath his writ 
 ing she had put in another name. 
 
 "I wanted to write it," said she with a little 
 laugh. Julius looked, and laughed too. 
 
 "LEONORA BATiscoMBE,"that was all. 
 
 But as she wrote it, Marcantonio, over there in 
 Sorrento, fell upon the hard tiles with his mother's 
 diamond cross in his hand.
 
 334 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 LEONORA did all her errands or as many as she 
 said could be done in so short a time. There were 
 a great many things, she explained, which she could 
 order when they were settled, but which would be 
 in the way at present. Julius bought her a box, 
 and wrote a label for it, and pasted it on the cover. 
 She began to find out that, besides his other 
 qualities, he was a very practical man, and under 
 stood travelling better than any courier she had 
 ever had. 
 
 They had spent a few hours in Ischia as they had 
 intended, and had then come over to Naples in a 
 small steamer which plied daily between the island 
 and the city. Julius paid something to have his 
 boat towed across, and when he was in Naples he 
 paid the men a month's wages in advance, and told 
 them to go back to Genoa and wait for him there. 
 They might steal the boat or they might not, he 
 did not care. The thing had to be sent somewhere, 
 and if it ever reached Genoa so much the better. 
 
 He drove with Leonora up and down the Toledo 
 for hours, stopping at all manner of shops, and 
 buying all manner of things. Now and then he 
 would succeed in paying for something, but she
 
 TO LEEWARD. 335 
 
 generally insisted on using her own money. It was 
 fortunate that she had taken it, she thought, as it 
 would have been so awkward to let him pay for 
 everything. He remonstrated. 
 
 "All that I have is yours, darling," he said. 
 "You must not begin with such ideas." 
 
 "I do not mean to be a burden to you, Julius," 
 answered Leonora. "I am sure I must be much 
 richer than you. Nobody ever made himself rich 
 by writing books." She laughed, and he laughed 
 with her. It was so very amusing to talk to each 
 other about what they possessed. 
 
 "Ideas about being rich are comparative," said 
 Julius. "If I sent Worth two or three hundred 
 pounds for a dress every other week, I should 
 certainly not be very well off. But " 
 
 "Oh, Julius what an idea! There is no one so 
 cheap as Worth in the long run." 
 
 "I was going to say something very pretty," 
 remarked Julius. 
 
 " Oh, I would not have interrupted you if I had 
 known. What was it?" 
 
 "I was going to say that I must be richer than 
 you since I have got you, and you have only got 
 me." 
 
 "You always say things like that," said Leonora, 
 laughing lightly. " Be sure that you always do I 
 like them very much." 
 
 "Ah," said Julius, gravely, "I will sit up all 
 night and make them for you."
 
 336 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "They ought to be spontaneous," said Leonora. 
 
 "Everything that is pretty in the world is spon 
 taneous to you, my dear. But I have to work hard 
 to make pretty things, because I am only a man." 
 
 "That is really not bad," said she, laughing 
 again. 
 
 She wondered vaguely whether he would always 
 be the same. Her husband used to talk much like 
 that at first. But he grew so dull, and when he 
 said things he never looked as if he quite meant 
 them. Julius said sometimes a few words just 
 what any one might have said; but there was a 
 tone in his voice, and his eyes were so fiery. She 
 loved the fire ; it used to frighten her at first. 
 
 "We cannot stay here," said Julius, when they 
 sat over their dinner at the hotel on the Chiaja. 
 " It is altogether too ridiculously hot ; it is a perfect 
 caricature of a summer, with all its worst points 
 exaggerated." 
 
 "Yes; but where shall we go?" asked Leonora. 
 
 "I had thought of a charming place," said Julius. 
 "It is away in the Piedmontese Alps all moun 
 tains and chestnut woods and waterfalls. An old 
 convent built over a torrent. Only the people from 
 Turin go there." 
 
 "That sounds cool," said Leonora, fanning her 
 self, though whatever she might suffer from the 
 heat she never looked hot. "Let us go. When 
 were you there?" 
 
 " Years and years ago," said Julius. "I used to
 
 TO LEEWARD. 337 
 
 catch trout with caddis-worms, and write articles 
 about Italian politics. You may imagine how much 
 I knew of what was going on, shut up in an old 
 convent in the mountains. But it made no differ 
 ence. Writing about Italian politics is very like 
 fishing with worms." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You sit on a bank with a red, white, and green 
 float to your line. You have not the least idea what 
 is going on under the water. Now and then the 
 float dips a little, and then you write that the 
 national sentiment of honour is disturbed. That is a 
 bite. By and by the float disappears and your line 
 is pulled tight, and you think you have got a fine 
 fish. Then you write that a revolution is imminent, 
 and you haul up the line cautiously, and find that a 
 wretched little roach or a stickleback has swallowed 
 your hook. The red, white, and green float waves 
 over your head like a flag while you get the hook 
 out and bait it again. You make another cast, and 
 you write home that order has been restored. On 
 the other side of the bank sits another fellow, with 
 a float painted red, white, and blue. He is the 
 French correspondent. Sometimes you get his fish, 
 and sometimes he gets yours. It is very lively." 
 
 " You used to say that a simile was an explanation 
 and not an argument," said Leonora, rather amused 
 at his description. She always remembered what 
 he said, and enjo}^ed quoting him against himself. 
 
 "So it is. What I told you was an illustration
 
 338 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 of a correspondent's life, not an argument against 
 the existence of very fine fish in the stream." 
 
 "You are too quick," said Leonora, laughing. 
 
 "One has to be quick in order not to appear 
 too awfully slow in comparison with you, dear," 
 answered Julius at once. 
 
 "Again, there is no stopping you! " 
 
 It amused her to talk to him, he was so ready; 
 and always with something well turned, that pleased 
 her. There was something, too, that was refreshing 
 in hearing the small talk of a celebrity, often a 
 little doubtful in grammar, and interspersed now 
 and then with a little generous exaggeration that 
 she liked. She had read his books, and knew what 
 he could do with the language when he pleased. 
 And most of all she liked to speak and to be spoken 
 to in English, it seemed so much more natural. 
 
 It was no trouble to Julius to talk to her. With 
 some people he was as silent as the grave, which 
 produced the impression that he was very profound. 
 With others he was ready for a laugh and a jest at 
 any moment, and they thought him brilliant; but 
 there were very few with whom he talked seriously. 
 Leonora saw all his phases in turn, for she felt that 
 if she did not know his character, she was in 
 sympathy with his mind and understood him. 
 
 But Julius was anxious to reach the spot he had 
 chosen, in order to let Carantoni know of his where 
 abouts. He suggested to Leonora that if it was 
 quite convenient to her they might go the next day,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 339 
 
 when she had had a good night's rest. She assented 
 readily enough. To tell the truth, with all her 
 gayety and enjoyment of the novel situation, she 
 disliked Naples, and she hated to feel that in the 
 morning she should look out of her window across 
 the bay and see Sorrento, and think of her husband 
 as being there. She did not know that when she 
 laid her head on her pillow that night Marcantonio 
 would be in the station in Naples, on his way to 
 Rome, and not half a mile away from her. 
 
 "Are you ever seasick?" asked Julius suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, Julius! You know I am not," she said 
 reproachfully. He laughed. 
 
 "No? I mean in a steamer. Boats are quite 
 different." 
 
 "I don't know," said Leonora. "I have often 
 crossed the Channel, and I was never ill at all." 
 
 "Oh, then of course it's all right!" he said. 
 "You would not mind in the least. We had 
 better go to Genoa in the steamer; it is very de 
 cent and much cooler than all those miles of rail 
 and dust." 
 
 "Oh yes, far pleasanter," said Leonora. 
 
 And so they made their arrangements, and the 
 next day the day when Marcantonio was engaging 
 the detectives in Rome they went on board the 
 " Florio " steamer and left Naples, and Sorrento, and 
 Ischia, and all the countless reminiscences that 
 attached to the glorious bay, and were carried up the 
 coast.
 
 340 TO LEENVAKD. 
 
 "The dear place," said Leonora, looking astern as 
 she sat in her arm-chair under the awning on deck, 
 "I shall always love it." 
 
 "But you are glad to leave it, darling, are you 
 not?" asked Batiscombe, who stood beside her, and 
 was looking more at her than at the coast, though 
 he held a glass in his hand. 
 
 It was a curious question to ask, one might have 
 thought, and yet it was natural enough, and did 
 not jar on Leonora's thoughts. She was not sensi 
 tive in that way in the least. She did not mind his 
 referring to the past in any way he chose. 
 
 "Glad? Of course I am glad," she answered, 
 looking up into his face. "How could I not be 
 glad?" She seemed almost vexed at the simplicity 
 of the question. 
 
 "Then I am 'happy," said Julius, sitting down 
 beside her. 
 
 And he spoke the truth; for the time he was 
 utterly and supremely happy. He felt indeed the 
 grave and serious mood, which the bravest man must 
 feel when he knows that in a very few days his life 
 will be at stake. But his vanity told him he was 
 going to fight for her, and that gave him a happiness 
 apart; so he concealed the serious tendency of his 
 thoughts, talking easily and gayly. It was his 
 vanity that helped him most, telling him it was for 
 her; and, as always in his life, the prospect of a 
 woman's praise was a supreme incentive. He did 
 not reflect that he was not to fight for Leonora's
 
 TO LEEWARD. 341 
 
 honour, but for the greatest dishonour the world held 
 for her. 
 
 The broad sun poured down on the water, but the 
 west wind fanned their faces and the awning kept 
 the heat from them. Leonora lay back with half- 
 closed eyes, now and then carefully opening and 
 shutting a fan she held. She was wonderful to 
 look at, her marvellous skin, and the masses of her 
 red hair the true red of the Venetian women 
 contrasting strongly with her soft dark dress, and a 
 Sorrento handkerchief of crimson silk, just knotted 
 about her dazzling throat. She was a marvellous 
 specimen of vital nature, of pure living litheness 
 and elasticity, gloriously human and alive. And 
 the man beside her was almost as singular in a 
 different way : he was so quiet, and moved so easily, 
 and his bright blue eyes were so fiery and clear, his 
 skin so bronzed and even in colour; there was 
 strength about him too ; and the passengers as they 
 came and went would steal a glance at the couple, 
 and make remarks, quite audible to Julius and 
 Leonora, about the beauty of those Inglesi. 
 
 "Which do you like best, dear," asked Julius 
 presently, "the day or the night?" 
 
 " Oh that night was so beautiful," said Leonora ; 
 "I love the moon, and the freshness, and the white 
 sails, and all." 
 
 " Does ' all ' include anything especial ? " asked 
 Julius smiling. 
 
 "What do you think?" asked she, instead of
 
 342 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 answering. Her red lips remained just parted with 
 a loving smile. 
 
 "I don't think," said Julius. "I leave the think 
 ing to you, my dear. You can do it much better. 
 But I like the sunlight, the broad, good sunlight, 
 far more than the moon. It is so hot and splendid." 
 
 "Yes; I suppose it is like you to prefer it. All 
 men like the sun and I suppose all women like 
 the moon. At least I do. But you must always 
 like what I like now, you know." 
 
 "Including myself, I suppose?" 
 
 "Bah, my dear," laughed Leonora, "you will find 
 that very easy! " 
 
 How very unhappy she must have been, thought 
 Julius. She had not a regret in the world, it 
 seemed ; and the only fear she had shown had been 
 when she stumbled on the descent, so that he took 
 her up and carried her. 
 
 "Tell me," said he, "what did you do in all 
 those dreadful days when we could not meet?" 
 
 "I did nothing but write letters to you very- 
 nice letters too. You have never shown yourself 
 properly grateful." 
 
 "No," said Julius, "I have not had time." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Leonora with a 
 little frown. 
 
 "Why it must take a long time to show you 
 how grateful I am. A long time," he added, his 
 voice sinking to a deeper tone, that Leonora loved 
 to hear. "It will take my whole lifetime, darling."
 
 TO LEEWAKD. 343 
 
 "Thanks, dear one," said she quietly, laying her 
 hand on his. She did not mind the passengers, 
 why should she ? She would never mind the world 
 again, as long as she lived, for the world would 
 never care what she did any more. 
 
 Her experience of the world or of what she 
 understood by the term had not been very happy, 
 though it had not been the reverse. She remem 
 bered chiefly the mere technicalities of society, so 
 to speak. She had enjoyed them after a fashion, 
 inveighing all the while against their emptiness 
 and vanity, and now when she looked back she saw 
 only a confused perspective of brilliantly lighted, 
 noisy parties, of more or less solemn dinners, of 
 endless visits to people who bored her, and of an 
 occasional cotillon with a man she liked, in return 
 for numberless dances with individuals who seemed 
 to be trying to get dancing lessons gratis, or who 
 tore furiously up and down the room till she was 
 out of breath, or who caught their spurs in her 
 skirts, and scratched her arms with their decora 
 tions. She did not remember how she had enjoyed 
 motion for motion's sake, and had rarely refused 
 to go out, in spite of the aforesaid annoyances. 
 She did not remember the little thrills of pleasure 
 she had felt, as Marcantonio was gradually attracted 
 to her, till he was always the first to greet her and 
 to put his name on her card for a turn, and was 
 always the last to bid her good-night, devoting 
 himself to her mother when she was engaged with
 
 344 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 some one else. She did not remember the delight 
 she had often experienced in discussing society with 
 her philosophical friends, bowling over institutions 
 with a phrase and destroying characters with an 
 adjective. There were many things which Leonora 
 did not remember but which had given her great 
 pleasure a few months ago; but most of them 
 reminded her of her husband, and she did not wish 
 to be reminded of him in the least. 
 
 There was continually a sort of unconscious 
 comparison going on between him and Julius Batis- 
 combe; she could not help it, and it had been 
 perhaps the earliest phase of her love. Even at the 
 moment when Marcantonio offered himself to her, 
 Julius was standing in the doorway, and she had 
 wondered what he would have said if he had been 
 making the same proposal. She knew, now. She 
 thought she knew the difference between the intona 
 tion of the man who loved, and of the man who 
 merely wanted to marry. Ah if she had only 
 known in time, things would have been different. 
 She would have refused Marcantonio, after all his 
 devotion, and she would have married Julius. 
 
 She did not understand that Julius would never 
 have fallen in love with her then; that the mere 
 possibility of being led into marriage reared an 
 impassable barrier between him and the whole of 
 youngladydom. He had made up his mind that he 
 would not marry, and young ladies said he was the 
 most obstinate bore they knew; which was very
 
 TO LEEWARD. 345 
 
 unkind, for he kept out of their way, and only 
 bored them when he was obliged to talk to them, 
 doing it systematically and successfully in self- 
 defence. But Leonora innocently supposed that 
 if Julius had met her more intimately, in time, he 
 would have fallen in love with her just as he had 
 done now, and would have proposed after six weeks' 
 acquaintance, and they would have been happy 
 forever after. She chanced to think of this now, 
 and she sighed. 
 
 "What is the matter, sweetheart?" asked Julius. 
 
 "Nothing," said she, "I was thinking of some 
 thing, that is all." 
 
 "Tell me, dear," said he, bending towards her. 
 She hesitated a moment, looking into his eyes. 
 
 "I was thinking," she said at last, "of something 
 that happened once. Do you remember, at that 
 ball, when you stood in the doorway and looked 
 so dreadfully bored, and I was sitting not far off 
 with with the marchese?" 
 
 "Of course," said Julius, calmly, "I imagined he 
 was just proposing to you." 
 
 "Yes," said Leonora, in a low voice, "he was." 
 
 "I wish he had been at the bottom of the sea," 
 said Julius, fiercely. 
 
 Indeed, the idea disgusted him, being as much 
 in love as he was. Nevertheless, he thought she 
 was a singular woman to refer to the thing, so 
 very soon. He had at first expected that she would 
 never wish to mention her husband to him ; at least,
 
 346 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 not for very long; but she seemed rather to seek 
 the subject than to avoid it. He mused for a 
 moment, looking out under his half-closed lids, as 
 was his habit when he was thinking. Suddenly a 
 smile came into his face. 
 
 " Do you remember, dear, when you and he raced 
 me in the boat on the bay, one afternoon, ever so 
 long ago?" It was not much more than six weeks. 
 
 Yes perfectly, " said she. " Why ? " 
 
 "Have you any idea where I was going?" asked 
 Julius, laughing a little. 
 
 "Not the least. You were not going anywhere; 
 you were out for a row, I suppose, because you 
 wanted the air." She looked a little puzzled. 
 
 "If you had not overtaken me, I should never 
 have seen you again," he said, looking at her affec 
 tionately. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked, rather startled. 
 
 "Simply this, I was running away. I was en 
 gaged to dine with you that evening, and I was 
 going to Naples to get out of it. I would have 
 sent a telegram about urgent business or any 
 thing." 
 
 "What an idea!" she exclaimed, laughing. 
 "Why did you do that?" 
 
 "Because I knew what would happen if I stayed," 
 said he, softly. 
 
 " But you did not care for me then ? " she asked, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I did," he answered; "and I knew
 
 TO LEEWARD. 347 
 
 I should care a great deal more." His eyes burned 
 in the bright light of the afternoon. 
 
 "But I did not love you in the least then," said 
 Leonora, demurely. 
 
 " No, of course not and I did not flatter myself 
 that you would. But I knew I was going to love 
 you with all my heart." 
 
 Again their hands met for a moment, and a couple 
 of sailors, who watched them from a distance, 
 nudged each other and grinned. 
 
 "When did you first begin to care, dear?" he said 
 presently. 
 
 "Seriously? What a silly question, Julius. How 
 can I tell?" 
 
 " It was after I found you in the church, was it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Ever so long after that! " 
 
 "About two days?" he suggested gravely. 
 
 "How absurd, Julius," she said with a little air 
 of offended dignity that was charming. "You know 
 it was ever so long." 
 
 "I wonder what you thought of me, when you 
 turned round and saw me looking at you in the 
 church," said he. He really had not an idea, and 
 was curious to know. 
 
 "I thought you were very rude," said she. "And 
 afterwards I thought you were very nice." 
 
 "I did not mean to be rude," said Julius, "but I 
 could not help going in. I was in love with you, 
 and I knew you were there."
 
 348 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " In love already ? " asked Leonora. 
 
 " Why yes it was at least a week after I tried 
 to run away," said Julius innocently. 
 
 "It was exactly two days," said Leonora. 
 
 They both laughed, for it was quite true. It was 
 very pleasant to recall the beginnings of their love, 
 for it had all been sweet, arid easy; it seemed so to 
 them, at least, as the foreshore hid Sorrento from 
 their sight, and with it the scene of all they were 
 discussing. 
 
 It was a beautiful voyage, along the coast in the 
 summer sea. There was always enough breeze in 
 the daytime, and there was the moon at night, and 
 they always felt that if they were quite alone, on 
 land, it would be even more charming, if possible. 
 It is a great thing in happiness to know that there 
 is to be more of it, and more and more, till at last 
 the heart has its fill of joy. 
 
 They reached Genoa, and rested themselves for a 
 day and a night in the glorious rooms of an old 
 palace, turned into an hotel by the profane require 
 ments of modern travellers. But it is very agree 
 able for travellers to sleep in palaces, by whatever 
 names they are called, and it is foolish to say that 
 moderns should build new buildings instead of 
 making use of old ones when they have them ready 
 to hand. 
 
 There is a set of people in the world who deal in 
 cheap sentiments, and get themselves a reputation 
 for taste by abusing everything modern and kneeling
 
 TO LEEWARD. 349 
 
 in rows before everything that is old. They grind 
 out little mediaeval tunes with an expression of 
 ravished delight, and tell you there is no modern 
 music half so good, in fact, that there is no 
 modern music at all! Or they garnish themselves 
 in queer white robes and toddle through a vile 
 travesty of some ancient drama; or they build houses 
 of strange appearance and hideous complication of 
 style, having neither beauty without nor comfort 
 within: and last of all, they say to themselves, 
 Verily, we are the most artistic people in the world! 
 One of these persons could not have passed an 
 hour in the old palace which the Genoese have 
 turned into an hotel. The bare idea of such pro 
 fanity would have produced artistic convulsions at 
 once,, and untold suffering in the future by the mere 
 memory of it. But neither Batiscombe nor Leonora 
 were people of that sort. Julius took a very differ 
 ent view of life, believing to some extent in the 
 simple theory that useful things are good and use 
 less things are bad, and that everything that really 
 fulfils its purpose must have some beauty of its 
 own. Moreover, Julius had very little reverence, 
 but a profound intelligence of the comfortable; he 
 would have slept as well in a king's tomb as in 
 an American hotel, provided the furniture were to 
 his taste in respect of length and breadth and 
 upholstery. As for Leonora, she had been brought 
 up chiefly in Italy, and never troubled herself with 
 the intricacies of the art question in that country,
 
 350 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 taking everything to be natural so long as she 
 always had the very best of it. And at present, 
 being wholly in love, and having her heart's desire, 
 she would even have been willing to put up with 
 less luxury than usual. Her talent for supremacy, 
 as Julius used to call it, had taken a person for its 
 object, and found the dominion of a heart more 
 interesting than the dominion of fashionable luxury, 
 the finest horses, or even Mr. Worth. 
 
 "I used to hate hotels," said she to Julius, late 
 in the evening, "but they seem very pleasant after 
 all. There is never any fuss about anything; and 
 I always seem to get just what I want." 
 
 " Oh hotels are very well, if one understands 
 them," he answered. He did not explain to her 
 that her comfort was chiefly due to his forethought. 
 "You would soon find it a great bore, though," he 
 added. 
 
 "I am sure I should not," said she. "You are 
 so clever that you make everything seem easy for 
 me." 
 
 Julius laughed, out of sheer satisfaction. These 
 were just the little speeches he loved most from 
 women, and, most of all, from Leonora. It would 
 seem a harmless vanity of itself, but it leads to 
 doing acts of forethought and courtesy for the sake 
 of the praise instead of for the sake of the woman. 
 
 "It is very good of you to say so, my dear," he 
 answered, modestly. " But we will change all that, 
 by and by. When the heat is over we will go
 
 TO LEEWARD. 351 
 
 away, and live in the Greek islands. There are 
 places worth going to, there." 
 
 " Oh, of all things how delightful ! " cried 
 Leonora, carried away by the new idea. "And 
 have a house by the sea, and a boat, and Greek 
 servants, how lovely!" 
 
 "Meanwhile, dear," said Julius, "we will go and 
 be cool in the old Carthusian monastery. It does 
 not take long from here." 
 
 And so they left Genoa and reached Turin, where 
 Batiscombe found his box the one that Marcan- 
 tonio intended to watch so carefully and took it 
 away ; thence they went to a place called Cuneo, a 
 little southwards by the railway, in the Maritime 
 Alps, which Leonora said were beautiful ; and then 
 they drove in an ancient diligence to the Certosa 
 di Pesio, an old Carthusian monastery, as Julius 
 had said, built over a wonderful mountain tor 
 rent, and surrounded with ancient chestnut-trees. 
 Through the valley that opens away to northward 
 you can catch a glimpse of Monte Rosa, when the 
 setting sun gilds the snow, and the breeze brings 
 down with it the freshness of the Alps. Leonora 
 was enchanted with the place, with Batiscombe's 
 choice, with him, with everything. 
 
 "And to-morrow you will show me where you 
 used to catch fish, and write your articles on Italian 
 politics?" said she, as they came in from a short 
 walk late in the evening. 
 
 That night Batiscombe dispatched a letter to 
 Rome.
 
 352 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CERTOSA DI PKSIO, CUNEO, 
 
 MARITIME ALPS, August 31. 
 
 The Marchese Carantoni will find Mr. Julius 
 Batiscombe at the above address, with a friend. 
 
 That was all, but it gave Julius infinite satisfac 
 tion to send it. He had grudged the days that had 
 passed before he could send Carantoni the informa 
 tion. As for the "friend," he had seen two or 
 three cavalry officers about the place as soon as he 
 arrived, and he knew that he could rely on the 
 assistance of some of them. Duels are easily 
 arranged in Italy.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 WHEN Marcantonio met Diana in the morning, 
 she noticed at once the change in his appearance. 
 He was still very pale, and his face was drawn in 
 a peculiar expression ; but he did not look so wild, 
 and his eyes had regained their clearness. 
 
 Diana greeted him affectionately, but made no 
 remark about his health, thinking it would annoy 
 him. She herself had slept soundly and began the 
 day with a new supply of strength. 
 
 " You are still determined to go to Turin ? " she 
 said, with half a question in her voice, but as 
 though it were quite certain that he would answer 
 in the affirmative. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I am quite determined. It is 
 the best thing I can do." 
 
 "I was wondering this morning," said Diana, 
 " whether we ought not to let our uncle know. It 
 seems to me that he ought not to hear it from 
 strangers." 
 
 Marcantonio eyed her suspiciously. 
 
 "You cannot expect me to go and tell him now," 
 said he. "The train leaves in an hour there is 
 not time."
 
 354 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Of course not," said Diana, seeing how quickly 
 he suspected her of wishing to interfere with his 
 plan. "But, if you like, I will write and tell 
 him." 
 
 "We can write from Turin," said he moodily. 
 "No one knows yet." 
 
 He hurried her to the station, and got there long 
 before the hour of departure. He was determined 
 not to miss the train, and until he was seated in the 
 carriage and the train rolled out of the city he could 
 not feel sure that Diana would not stop him. He 
 was somewhat relieved when they passed the first 
 station on the way to Florence, and he saw that he 
 was fairly off. Donna Diana sat opposite to him 
 and watched him, thinking sadly of the last journey 
 they had made together, when he had taken her to 
 Sorrento by the night train. He looked quiet, 
 though, and she thanked Heaven things were no 
 worse; he might so easily have done himself a 
 mischief in the first outbreak of his solitary grief. 
 
 She still hoped for a chance of learning how it 
 had all happened, for she was very much in the 
 dark, and had no means of learning anything except 
 what he might choose to tell her. Perhaps the 
 intense inquiry in her mind reacted on his, as often 
 happens between brothers and sisters. At all 
 events, he began to speak before half an hour had 
 gone by. 
 
 "I have not told you anything about it yet, Diana 
 mia," he said. "I have been so busy, so many
 
 TO LEEWARD. 355 
 
 things to do." He passed his hand over his fore 
 head as he spoke, as though trying to collect 
 himself. 
 
 "Of course," said Diana gently. "Do not tire 
 yourself now, dear boy. Another time will do just 
 as well. I know all that is absolutely necessary." 
 
 Marcantonio laughed very slightly and a little 
 foolishly, and again put his hand to his head. 
 
 "Oh, no," he answered, "I shall not tire myself. 
 You do not know anything about the the 
 occurrence." 
 
 "No," said she, "that is true." 
 
 "They went away at night," said Marcantonio 
 quickly, and then stopped. 
 
 "Pray do not tell me about it, dear brother," said 
 Diana, rising and seating herself near to him on the 
 opposite side of the carriage. She laid her hand 
 on his arm, trying to soothe him, for she feared a 
 return of his old state. 
 
 "But I must tell you," he said impatiently, and 
 she saw it was useless to protest. "They went 
 away at night," he continued, "in a boat. I heard 
 the dogs barking, just for a moment, and then they 
 stopped, and I went to sleep. I went to sleep, 
 Diana," he cried savagely, "when she was running 
 away with him, and I could have killed him as 
 easily as possible. I could have killed them both 
 oh, so easily!" He groaned aloud and clenched 
 his thin hands. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Diana, softly.
 
 356 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "I could have killed them as easily as he killed 
 
 the dogs and stopped their barking," he went on; 
 
 "he killed them both, wrung their necks poverini 
 
 as though they were not right to call me. And 
 
 I never guessed anything, though I heard them! " 
 
 He was working himself into a frenzy, and Diana 
 was afraid he might go mad then and there. She 
 tried to draw his mind to another part of the story. 
 She was a woman of infinite tact and resource. 
 
 "Yes," said she, "I am sure you could. But how 
 long was it before you telegraphed to me ? " 
 
 "How long? I do not know," he said; and he 
 seemed trying to recollect himself. 
 
 " Was it in the afternoon ? " asked Diana, glad to 
 fix his attention on a detail. 
 
 "Let me see yes. I meant to send it from 
 Castellamare the dispatch, I mean; and instead 
 I stopped the carriage at a little town on the way 
 I forget the name, but there was a telegraph office 
 there and so I sent it sooner." 
 
 "Yes," said Diana. "I got it at about seven 
 o'clock. My husband was very quick and got a 
 carriage, and brought me as far as Genoa." 
 
 "How good of him!" exclaimed Marcantonio. 
 " How is he ? And the children, dear little things ; 
 are they all well?" 
 
 His face changed again, and a pleasant smile 
 showed that he had forgotten his troubles for a 
 moment. Diana was surprised at the ease with 
 which she could distract his attention, and she
 
 TO LEEWARD. 357 
 
 determined to make use of her power to the utmost. 
 It would be something gained if she could keep 
 him quiet during the journey. She began immedi 
 ately to speak of her children, a boy and girl of four 
 and three years old. She told him about their 
 games, their appearance, their nursery maids, and 
 their French governess. She branched off into a 
 dissertation on the beauties of the Riviera, and still 
 he listened and made intelligent answers, and talked 
 as though nothing had happened to him and they 
 were travelling for their amusement. Seeing that 
 she was accomplishing her object, she went on from 
 one subject to another, telling him all manner of 
 details about her life in France, in Austria, and 
 other places where her husband's official duties had 
 called him, during the five years since her marriage. 
 Only about Rome she would not speak, fearing lest 
 the smallest reference to. the scenes he had recently 
 passed through might take his mind back to his 
 great grief. 
 
 And all the while she marvelled at his calmness, 
 and at the ease with which she could amuse him. 
 For he was really amused, there could be no doubt. 
 He laughed, talked in his natural way, and seemed 
 enjoying himself very well, smoking a cigarette 
 now and then, and commenting on the weather, 
 which was abominably hot. 
 
 " Of course," said he, "we shall find it much cooler 
 in Pegli." 
 
 Diana started quickly, and then looked away to 
 hide her astonishment.
 
 358 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Of course," she answered, "it is very much 
 cooler there." 
 
 Did he really fancy he was going to Pegli ? Had 
 he forgotten Turin and his errand? W^s he gone 
 stark mad? She could not tell, and was frightened. 
 It might have been a slip of the tongue, but he 
 said it very quietly, as though he were anticipating 
 the delights of the climate. Nevertheless, she did 
 not dare to pause, and she talked bravely on in the 
 heat and the dust. 
 
 At one of the stations the train stopped ten 
 minutes for refreshments. Marcantonio said he 
 would get out and buy a sandwich and a bottle of 
 wine. He sprang nimbly from the step, and Diana 
 watched him as she sat by the open door of the 
 carriage. He looked more like his old self than she 
 had seen him since the catastrophe, and she watched 
 him with loving eyes, wondering how he would bear 
 what was to come, and for the first time wishing 
 that he might be kept always in this state, without 
 the necessity of a meeting with Batiscombe. 
 
 Presently he returned with the provisions, a 
 brace of rough-looking sandwiches, and a bottle of 
 wine. 
 
 "It is the best I could do," he remarked. "It is 
 the last place in the world." 
 
 He still looked cheerful and entirely himself. 
 Diana watched him closely, hoping and praying with 
 all her might that he might remain so forever, 
 even if he were out of his mind. Anything would
 
 TO LEEWARD. 359 
 
 be better than to see him suffer as he had been 
 suffering that morning. She began to talk again, 
 eating a little of the sandwich, for she was tired, 
 and needed all her strength. He ate, too, and drank 
 some of the wine, but he no longer listened as he 
 had done before, and he did not answer nor make a 
 remark of any kind. Diana had taken up what he 
 said about the station, and was talking about 
 travelling in France. 
 
 Suddenly Marcantonio's colour changed; he grew 
 pale again, his eyes stared, and he dropped the bread 
 he was eating. Diana was terrified, brave as she 
 was, for she knew that his mind had gone back to 
 his trouble, how, she could not tell; but it was 
 clear that for a space he had wholly forgotten it. 
 He seemed to take up the thread of his terrible 
 narration at the point at which he had been led 
 away from it. 
 
 "Temistocle brought me the key," he said, and 
 his voice sounded hollow again and far away. " He 
 had told the servants she had gone to Rome before 
 daybreak, and that I had gone with her, ha! ha! 
 he is a cunning fellow. I gave him something 
 for himself, I think I did, I am not quite cer 
 tain." Again his ideas seemed to wander, and he 
 tried to remember the detail that had escaped his 
 grasp. Quick as thought Diana seized the oppor 
 tunity. 
 
 "Did you give it to him in the evening?" she 
 asked.
 
 360 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " I am not sure. I am not quite sure that I did 
 give it to him after all. Oh, I cannot remember 
 anything any more." 
 
 He clasped his hands to his head as though 
 striving to compress his brain and to compel it to 
 action. The train moved away from the station. 
 
 "You can send it to him, in any case," suggested 
 Diana, in an agony of sympathy and suspense. She 
 would have added "from Pegli," if she had dared; 
 but she was not sure he would remember his stray 
 remark, or whether he had meant it. In a moment 
 it was too late. 
 
 "Of course," cried Marcantonio, delighted with 
 the idea. " I can send it from Turin. He deserves 
 it well. There will be time," he hesitated and 
 spoke slowly, "there will be time, yes, there 
 will be time, before I find him." His voice fell 
 almost to a whisper, barely audible to Diana in 
 the noise of the train as it gained speed in start 
 ing. He seemed unconscious of her at the mo 
 ment when he said the last words, and she sat 
 with clasped hands and set lips, not knowing what 
 to expect next. In a little while he began again. 
 She had been too much struck by his quick change 
 of manner to find the thing to say, in time to 
 lead him off. 
 
 "I went into her room," he said. He stopped and 
 fumbled in his pockets, producing at last the cross 
 of sapphires and diamonds. "I found this," he 
 added, showing it to Diana. She would have taken
 
 TO LEEWARD. 361 
 
 it, but he held it nervously in his hand, more than 
 half concealed. "Do you know it?" 
 
 "Yes," said she as quietly as she could. "It 
 belonged to our mother." 
 
 "It is beautifully made," he said suddenly, look 
 ing closely at it. " It is most beautifully made, and 
 the stones are very valuable. Should you not think 
 that they are worth a great deal '? " 
 
 " They must be the sapphires are of a very good 
 colour and the brilliants are large," said Diana, 
 humouring him. "I wonder where it was made?" 
 
 "I do not care where it was made," said Marc- 
 antonio roughly. "I have got it again. I will 
 give it back to her she must have missed it." He 
 looked at Diana with a strange pathetic inquiry in 
 his weary eyes. 
 
 "Leonora?" asked Diana, in surprise. Marcan- 
 tonio started as though he had been stung. He had 
 thought of his dead mother. 
 
 " Leonora ? Ah ! " he cried with a sort of muffled 
 scream. "It belonged to Leonora Ugh!" With 
 a quick movement he flung the jewel at the win 
 dow. It chanced that the pane was raised to keep 
 out the smoke on that side. The heavy cross cracked 
 the plate glass and knocked a small piece out of 
 the middle, but fell to the floor. 
 
 Marcantonio remained in the very act, as he had 
 thrown it, for one instant. Then his head sank on 
 his breast and his hands fell to his sides help 
 lessly.
 
 862 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "Oh, Diana, Diana," he moaned piteously, "I am 
 mad." Then he began to rock himself backward 
 and forward as though in pain. 
 
 It was no time to break clown in horror or grief, 
 and Diana was not the woman to waste idle tears. 
 The cross had fallen at her feet. She had instantly 
 stooped and picked it up and hid it away, lest he 
 should see it again. Then she heard him say that 
 he was mad, and she made a desperate effort. She 
 took him strongly in her arms, almost lifting him 
 from the ground, and laid his head upon her breast 
 and supported it, and took his hand. He was quite 
 passive; she could do anything with him for the 
 moment he might have been a child. 
 
 Diana bent down as she held him in her arms 
 and kissed him tenderly on the forehead and 
 breathed soft words. It was a prayer. 
 
 Poor woman ! what could she do ? Driven to the 
 last extremity of agony and horror, sitting by and 
 seeing her brother going mad raving mad before 
 her very eyes, unable to soothe his grief or to 
 strengthen his soul by any words of her own, not 
 knowing but that at any moment he might turn 
 upon herself poor woman, what could she do? 
 She breathed into his ear an ancient Latin prayer. 
 What a very foolish thing to do ! She was only a 
 woman, poor thing, and knew no better. 
 
 O woman, God-given helpmate of man, and noblest 
 of God's gifts and of all created things is there 
 any man bold enough to say that he can make praises
 
 TO LEEWARD. 363 
 
 for you out of ink and paper that shall be worthy 
 to rank as praise at all by the side of your good 
 deeds? You, who bow your gentle heads to the 
 burden, and think it sweet, out of the fulness of 
 your own sweet sympathy you, whose soft fingers 
 have the strength to bind up broken limbs and 
 rough, torn wounds you, who feel for each living 
 thing as you feel for your own bodily flesh, and 
 more you, who in love are more tender and faith 
 ful and long-suffering than we, and who, even 
 erring, erf for the sake of the over-great heart that 
 God has given you is it not enough that I say of 
 you, "You are only women, and you 'know no 
 better"? What greater, or higher, or nobler thing 
 can I say of you, in all humbleness and truth, than 
 that you are what you are, and that you know no 
 better? What better things can any know, than to 
 bear pain bravely, to heal the wounded, to feel for 
 all, even for those who cannot feel for themselves, 
 and to be tender and faithful and kind in love? 
 And even, being given of Heaven and loved of it, 
 that you should turn in time of need and trouble 
 and say a prayer for strength and knowledge, even 
 that is a part of you, and not the least divine part. 
 So that when the man who cannot suffer what you 
 can suffer, nor do the good that you can do, sneers 
 and scoffs at your prayers and your religion, I could 
 wring his cowardly neck to death. Even poor 
 Leonora, praying philosophical prayers to a power 
 in which she did not in the least believe, was not
 
 364 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ridiculous. She was pathetic, mistaken, miserable, 
 perhaps, but not ridiculous. 
 
 Perhaps Diana had done the best thing, out of 
 pure despair. The long familiar words, spoken in 
 her soothing voice, at the very moment when he was 
 conscious that he was on the verge of insanity, 
 chained his faculties and gradually brought him to 
 a calmer state. Perhaps, also, the strong magnetic 
 power of his sister acted more forcibly on him from 
 the moment when he suddenly abandoned himself 
 to her influence. Like many people who possess 
 that strange gift, she was wholly unconscious of it, 
 and she sometimes wondered why it was that those 
 about her yielded so easily to her will. Be that as 
 it may, Marcantonio lay quite still in her arms, and 
 at last his eyelids drooped, his limbs relaxed, and 
 he fell into a deep sleep. The hot hours wore on, 
 and the train rolled by the towns and hamlets and 
 castle-crested hills towards Florence, and still he 
 slept, and Diana tenderly supported him, though 
 her arm ached as though it must break, and her eyes 
 were dimmed from time to time with the sight and 
 consciousness of so much misery. 
 
 At length, as they entered the station, she waked 
 him. He was quite calm again, and collected, but 
 very sad, as she had seen him that morning. 
 
 "Have I slept like this so long?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, dear boy," said Diana. 
 
 "Dear, dear Diana, how good you are," he 
 exclaimed, and he kissed her hand gratefully.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 365 
 
 "We have an hour here, to dine, before the train 
 starts." 
 
 "Will you go on at once?" she asked. She had 
 vainly hoped that he might be induced to stay in 
 Florence. But he had recovered himself enough to 
 know perfectly well what he was doing. 
 
 "Yes certainly," said he. "We shall arrive in 
 the morning." She dared not object nor make a 
 suggestion, not knowing how soon he might break 
 out again, in some fresh burst of madness. 
 
 "Very well," she answered, as a station porter 
 took their handbags and smaller properties, "let us 
 dine at once." 
 
 She watched him and saw that he ate with a good 
 appetite. She had heard that lunatics always eat 
 well, and she would almost rather have seen him too 
 sad to care for his food ; nevertheless she thought it 
 would do him good. 
 
 There is probably nothing more wearing, more 
 racking to the nerves, than the care of an insane 
 person. To be ever on the watch, expecting always 
 an outbreak or a painful incoherence, to attempt 
 to follow the sensible nonsense that madmen talk, 
 always endeavouring to distract the attention from 
 the forbidden subject, are efforts requiring the high 
 est tact and the greatest coolness. Diana could 
 accomplish much by sheer common sense and endur 
 ance, and more, perhaps, by the strong affection 
 which had always existed between her brother and 
 herself. But she felt instinctively that she was
 
 366 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 not equal to the task, even while she hoped that 
 Marcantonio was not really mad. 
 
 She was mistaken, however, as any indifferent 
 person would have seen in a moment. He was 
 insane, and on the verge of becoming violent. 
 Nothing but her wonderful courage and strong will 
 had kept him within any bounds, and he might at 
 any moment become wholly uncontrollable. 
 
 She would have stopped in Florence if it had been 
 possible, but it seemed dangerous to thwart him at 
 present, and she felt sure that in Turin she could 
 get the help of some first-rate physician. So she 
 submitted once more, and in an hour they were off 
 again, in a reserved carriage, as before, flying north 
 wards towards the mountains, where the road winds 
 so wonderfully through a hundred tunnels, in its 
 rapid ascent. 
 
 It was a very long night for Diana. In all her 
 many journeys she had never felt fatigue such as 
 this. Marcantonio would sleep for an hour, and 
 then start up suddenly and begin to talk, sometimes 
 asking questions and sometimes volunteering re 
 marks that showed how his mind was wandering. 
 Once or twice he showed signs of returning to the 
 account of his doings after Leonora had left him, 
 but Diana was able to check him in time, for he was 
 growing tired and yielded more easily to her will 
 than in the daytime. 
 
 At last they were safe in the hotel, and Marc 
 antonio was in his room, intending to dress, he said,
 
 TO LEEWARD. 367 
 
 before going out. Diana was no sooner assured that 
 she was free from the responsibility of watching him 
 for a few minutes than she sent for the proprietor of 
 the hotel, inquired for the address of the best physi 
 cian in Turin, and dispatched a messenger with a 
 very urgent request for his attendance. 
 
 The apartment she had taken with her brother 
 consisted of a large sitting-room, with a bedroom 
 on each side of it. Marcantonio's room had but 
 that one door, which she could watch as she lay on 
 the sofa, awaiting the arrival of the doctor. 
 
 When he came at last, breathless in his haste to 
 put himself at the service of the great lady who sent 
 for him, he talked very learnedly for half an hour, 
 after listening to all Diana told him with grave 
 attention. He could not see the patient of course, 
 and the interview took place in a small antechamber, 
 from which he could escape if Marcantonio were 
 heard moving within. He was of opinion that it 
 was not a case of insanity, but of temporary derange 
 ment of the faculties from the severe strain they had 
 received. The sudden manifestations of violence 
 were natural enough to an Italian, if it had been 
 the case of an Englishman, it would have been 
 different, because, as the doctor said, half in earnest 
 and half in jest, Inglesi were generally mad to begin 
 with, and anything beyond that made them furious 
 maniacs. He had a man, he said, long accustomed 
 to dealing with lunatics. He would send him dis 
 guised as a servant, and he could be in constant
 
 868 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 attendance, thus relieving Diana of the care of 
 watching the marchese. He himself would call 
 every day and inquire, and would be ready at a 
 moment's notice to remove him to a place of safety. 
 In his present state, he said, to shut him up, and 
 treat him as though he were insane, might very 
 likely make a permanent madman of him. 
 
 The doctor retired, leaving Diana somewhat re 
 assured. All that he had said seemed reasonable, 
 and she would strictly follow his advice. Mean 
 while, she went to her own room, feeling sure that 
 she could hear Marcantonio's door open, if he fin 
 ished dressing and came out. But Marcantonio 
 rang his bell at the end of an hour, and sent word 
 to his sister that he felt tired and had gone to bed, 
 and would not rise till midday. 
 
 Poor fellow she was pleased at the intelligence, 
 but the fact was that his mind had strayed again ; 
 he had forgotten the object of his journey, and being 
 worn out had gone to bed like a tired child. The 
 new place, the strange room, and the necessity of 
 unpacking his clothes himself had confused him, 
 and driven everything else out of his head. 
 
 Before he awoke, the confidential man had ar 
 rived, arrayed in the ordinary dress of an hotel 
 servant. He was a quiet individual, with strong 
 hands and iron-grey hair, neat in his appearance, and 
 a little hesitating in his speech; but his eyes were 
 keen and searching, and he moved quickly. Diana 
 was pleased with him, and understood that the
 
 TO LEEWARI). 369 
 
 doctor had given her good advice, and that Marc- 
 antonio would be safely watched. The man said he 
 would serve them in their own sitting-room, and 
 perform the offices of valet for Marcantonio, and be 
 altogether in the position of a private servant, 
 which, however, was not his profession, as he took 
 care to add. 
 
 When at last Diana and Marcantonio met, each 
 rested and refreshed, he looked the less weary of 
 the two. Diana had suffered too much to be entirely 
 herself, and for the first time in her life felt as 
 though she had taxed her strength too severely. 
 Moreover, the strain was not removed, but increased 
 hourly. Her woman's instinct told her that, in 
 spite of the doctor's opinion, her brother was actu 
 ally out of his mind, perhaps past all recovery. 
 His sudden cheerfulness was horrible to her, and 
 made her shudder when she thought of the magni 
 tude of what he was forgetting. 
 
 "Let us take a carriage and see Turin, Diana," 
 he suggested gayly, as they finished their lunch and 
 he lit a cigarette. " I have never been in Turin with 
 you. There are some very pretty things to see." 
 
 "By all means," said she readily. "Let us go at 
 once." 
 
 The confidential servant was dispatched for a 
 carriage. The idea of seeing sights with his sister 
 pleased Marcantonio, and he never relapsed into his 
 sadder self during the afternoon. Diana did not 
 know whether to be glad or sorry ; his forgetfulness
 
 370 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 was terrible, but his memory was worse. She re 
 membered the scene with the cross on the previous 
 day, in the railway-carriage, and she thought that 
 if insanity brought peace it was better to be insane. 
 
 They drove about and saw what was to be seen, 
 the great squares, the memorial statues, the 
 armory, where the mail-clad wooden knights sit 
 silently on their mail-clad wooden horses, and they 
 drove out at last to Moncalieri, in the cool of the 
 evening. The confidential servant sat on the box 
 and directed the driver, pointing out to Diana and 
 Marcantonio the various objects of interest, so that 
 Carantoni suspected nothing. The man acted his 
 part perfectly. 
 
 " How charming it is here ! " exclaimed Marc 
 antonio, admiring the trees, and the life, and the 
 gay colours at Moncalieri. " Why did we not think 
 of coming here before, my dear?" He spoke in 
 French, which he rarely did with his sister, though 
 he had always done so with his wife. Diana hardly 
 noticed it at the moment, she was obliged to 
 answer something. 
 
 " It was hardly the right season for it before this, 
 I suppose," said she. "But now we can stay as 
 long as we please." 
 
 " Oh yes, " said he, in his old way, " if it is agree 
 able to you, I ask nothing better. It is infinitely 
 more pleasant than Sorrento. I never liked Sor 
 rento, I cannot tell why. It never wholly agreed 
 with you, mon ange n'est-ce-pas?"
 
 TO LEEWARD. 871 
 
 "I was always well there, well enough, at 
 least," answered Diana, puzzled at this new phase 
 of his humour. 
 
 " Ah no, you were never well after Diana left us. 
 She is so good, she makes every one well ! " He 
 spoke pleasantly and naturally. 
 
 It was horrible, and Diana started with a new 
 realisation of his state. He no longer recognised 
 persons, he took her for Leonora! 
 
 But some new object attracted his attention, and 
 he chattered on, almost to himself, almost childishly, 
 but with a sweet smile on his pale, delicate face. 
 Diana could scarcely restrain her tears, she who 
 had not wept for years until lately ! 
 
 Poor Diana! Batiscombe and Leonora were sin 
 fully, wholly, happy with each other, Batiscombe 
 selfishly so, perhaps, but none the less for that, and 
 Leonora with a wild delight in her new life, that 
 swallowed up the past and gilded the present. 
 Even poor, crazy Marcantonio, chattering and mak 
 ing small French jokes about the people's dresses 
 at Moncalieri, was happy for the moment. Only 
 Diana, the brave woman who had fought for the 
 right so well, seemed cut off from it all, bearing the 
 whole burden on her shoulders, and silently bowing 
 her queenly head to the storm of woe and grief and 
 destruction.
 
 372 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 DIANA would have taken her brother away from 
 Turin if she could, but there was a danger that the 
 mere suggestion might revive the fixed idea that 
 had driven him mad. His illusions had not the 
 absolutely permanent character which is the most 
 hopeless. For instance, on the evening of the very 
 day when he had called his sister by his wife's 
 name, he had known Diana perfectly well, and had 
 sat for an hour talking about old times with her. 
 Whether, at such moments, he had any recollection 
 of recent occurrences, would be hard to say ; and the 
 doctor advised for the present that he should have 
 perfect quiet and should be allowed to amuse him 
 self and to be amused in any way which seemed 
 best. In the course of a day or two the doctor saw 
 him, coming on pretence of seeing Madame de 
 Charleroi. He felt now, he said, from Marcantonio's 
 manner, that he would recover before long, though 
 his memory concerning the circumstances of the 
 time when he was insane would probably be very 
 uncertain. 
 
 But Diana felt relieved at this and devoted her 
 time to her brother from morning till night, reading 
 to him, driving with him, or talking to him as the
 
 TO LEEWARD. B73 
 
 case might be. She could do nothing more for the 
 present. Turin is a pleasant city enough, the 
 weather was not excessively hot, and the hotel was 
 large and comfortable. In the course of time it 
 would be possible to move Carantoni and take him 
 to Paris, but at present any sudden change of place 
 or surroundings was to be deprecated. 
 
 A week passed in this way, and Diana grew pale 
 with the constant strain of anxiety, and the great 
 dark rings circled her grey eyes. But she bore 
 bravely up, and rose each day with strength to do 
 what lay before her. She wrote to her husband, 
 and he offered at once to come and help her to take 
 care of Marcantonio, but she would not let him 
 come, fearing the effect of a new face, even that 
 of an old friend like Charleroi. She received all 
 the letters that came to her brother, and was sur 
 prised that there were no communications from the 
 detectives he had employed. The fact was that 
 Marcantonio had given a separate address to them, 
 and as they discovered nothing, after the manner of 
 most detectives, they only systematically telegraphed 
 that they had confidence of being on the track. The 
 telegrams were addressed to another hotel, and were 
 dropped into the box for unclaimed letters and were 
 never heard of again. Diana knew that business 
 communications would be harmless in Marcantonio's 
 present state, and when any came she let him have 
 them. He would read them over and often discuss 
 with her the information they contained, and at
 
 874 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 last he would let her answer them, saying it was 
 very good of her to save him so much trouble. 
 
 All these letters came from Rome, being forwarded 
 by the steward who lived at the Palazzo Carantoni 
 and managed the business of the household. Others 
 came, re-directed over the original address, from 
 friends in different parts of the country, and these 
 Diana carefully put aside unopened, fearing always 
 that some passing reference or message to Leonora 
 might disturb him and bring on a fresh outbreak. 
 She could always distinguish the business letters, be 
 cause they were either directed in the handwriting 
 of the steward, or they bore the outward and visible 
 printed address of the lawyer, farmer, or merchant, 
 from whom they came. 
 
 In the week they had spent in Turin there had 
 been already twenty or thirty communications of 
 various kinds. Poor Marcantonio never knew that 
 his sister sorted the mail for him. It was brought 
 to him by the confidential servant, and he always 
 took it and went to his room with an air of great 
 importance to "get through his business," as he 
 expressed it. He was evidently proud of doing it, 
 showing that unaccountable vanity in small things 
 which characterises so many lunatics. Indeed, he 
 had always been proud of his attention to details, 
 and now it became a sort of passion, though he was 
 never able to carry out his intentions, and always 
 left the unfinished work to Diana. 
 
 On the fourth of September Julius Batiscombe's
 
 TO LEEWARD. 375 
 
 letter, directed to Ma,rcan ton io in Rome, had come 
 back to Turin. Julius had marked it "very 
 urgent," and the steward had looked at it, had 
 thought Batiscombe's handwriting indistinct, and 
 to secure greater certainty had put it into another 
 envelope and directed it in his own business-like 
 way. The consequence was that it was mistaken 
 for a common business letter, and handed to Marc- 
 antonio with the rest. 
 
 It seemed to be the last blow that an evil fate 
 could strike at the unhappy man, and it was a 
 terrible one in itself and in its consequences. 
 
 He sat at his table by the window, opening one 
 letter after another, and looking over the contents 
 with a pleased expression, a little vacant perhaps, 
 but not altogether without intelligence. There was 
 a lacuna in his mind, and sometimes he was con 
 scious of being confused by faces and things about 
 him, but he was still capable of understanding the 
 questions about his estates, and farms, and buildings, 
 though he always seemed to lack the energy to write 
 the directions with his own hand. 
 
 He turned over the sheets and folded each one 
 neatly and put it back into its particular envelope. 
 Then he opened the one from the steward, and 
 found in it a letter directed to Rome in a strange 
 hand. 
 
 He held it in his fingers with a puzzled look for 
 a moment; it seemed as though one letter had 
 suddenly become two. Then he understood and
 
 376 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 smiled a little sadly at his own weakness of com 
 prehension, and broke the seal. 
 
 The effect was not instantaneous. He read it 
 over again, and a third time, his face still vacant, 
 and he put his hand to his head trying and striving 
 with all his might to remember. The week of 
 insanity had done its work and Diana need not have 
 feared that he could be easily recalled to an under 
 standing of the past. But it was not wholly gone 
 yet; he would try to remember. He rose to his 
 feet, and perhaps the slight physical effort helped 
 to stir his dull mind. 
 
 Suddenly he trembled violently from head to foot, 
 and his colour changed from the natural complexion 
 it had taken of late to a deadly pallor. For an 
 instant his whole nature seemed to be convulsed, 
 he reeled to and fro and caught himself by the 
 heavy frame of his bedstead, staring wildly about, 
 and fell backwards across the pillows, clutching the 
 counterpane to right and left of him with his two 
 hands, his face distorted and horrible to see. 
 
 It only lasted for a moment, and he regained his 
 feet, stood still for a few seconds, and passed his 
 hands across his eyes and seemed at once to recover 
 his faculties. He took Batiscombe's letter again 
 and read it over, as though fixing the few words 
 and the address in his mind. The vacant expres 
 sion of ten minutes ago had changed to a look of 
 supernatural intelligence and cunning. He put the 
 letter in his pocket and sat down at the table. He
 
 TO LEEWARD. 377 
 
 opened some of the envelopes again and scattered 
 the papers about, eying the effect rather critically. 
 He then took his dressing-case, opened it, and 
 removed one small tray, and then a second. In the 
 bottom of the box was a revolver, bright and ready, 
 with all its appurtenances, a few cartridges lying 
 loose in their little compartment. The weapon was 
 loaded, but he carefully opened it and examined 
 each chamber, turning it round slowly by the light. 
 It was not a large pistol, and when he was sure 
 that it was in order, he put it carefully into the 
 inside pocket of his coat, and surveyed the effect 
 in the glass. No one would have suspected that he 
 was armed. 
 
 He saw that his hat was ready in its place, and 
 he rang the bell and sat down at his table once 
 more, holding a letter in his hand, as though read 
 ing. The confidential servant appeared. 
 
 " Will you please to bring me a lemonade ? " said 
 Marcantonio, with perfectly natural intonation. 
 The man bowed and retired to execute the order. 
 His master seemed better than usual, he thought; 
 the appearance of the papers and Carantoni's bland 
 smile had completely deceived him. 
 
 As soon as he was alone he took his hat, felt that 
 he had his purse in his pocket, and opened the door 
 to the sitting-room. Diana was not there, for she 
 generally wrote her own letters until Marcantonio 
 appeared with his correspondence, asking her to 
 answer it for him. The servant was gone to get
 
 378 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the lemonade and Marcantonio slipped quietly out 
 on tiptoe. 
 
 Once upon the main staircase of the hotel he ran 
 nimbly down, humming a little tune in a jaunty 
 fashion, to show everybody that he was at his ease. 
 Of course the people in the house had no idea that 
 he was insane. It had been Diana's chiefest car.e 
 to conceal the fact from every one; and Marcantonio 
 walked calmly past the porter's lodge into the 
 street, and took a cab. It was nearly midday and 
 the thoroughfares were less crowded than in the 
 morning and evening ; the cab flew rapidly over the 
 smooth pavement to the station. 
 
 There are many trains to Cuneo in the summer 
 season, and before very long Carantoni found him 
 self in a smoking-carriage with three or four men, 
 all reading the papers and smoking long, black 
 cigars with straws in them. He lit a cigarette, 
 bought a paper just as the guard was closing the 
 doors, and he rolled out of the station, looking just 
 like anybody else. He pretended to read, and no 
 one noticed him. 
 
 When the servant returned with the lemonade 
 and found that Marcantonio was gone, he did not 
 suspect what was the matter, but put the glass on 
 the table and went back to the antechamber and 
 waited at his post. He waited a few minutes and 
 then knocked at Diana's door, and asked if the 
 signore were with her. 
 
 "No," said Diana quickly, and came out into the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 379 
 
 sitting-room in her loose morning gown. "Where 
 is he? Is he not in his room? He never comes 
 into mine." 
 
 "He is not there," said the man, who by this 
 time was thoroughly frightened. "He sent me for 
 a lemonade. He looked better than usual, and was 
 sitting just there, at his table, reading his letters. 
 When I came back he was gone. He seemed 
 entirely himself, better than I have ever seen him." 
 
 Diana was frightened and puzzled. After all it 
 was quite possible that Marcantonio had taken it 
 into his head to go out by himself. He had never 
 suggested such a thing yet, and always seemed 
 unwilling to cross the threshold alone ; but since he 
 was so much better that day, he might have gone 
 out. It was possible. She would not have believed 
 that without some immediate cause he could have 
 fallen back into a remembrance of his troubles; for 
 she had studied his moods very carefully, and was 
 convinced that, as the doctor said, there would 
 always be a blank in his mind now, destroying the 
 memory of those three or four days. She glanced 
 hastily over the papers on the table. They were 
 all of the usual sort, for Marcantonio had taken 
 Batiscombe's letter with him. 
 
 Nevertheless, she was very much frightened, and 
 was angry with the confidential servant for not 
 having sent some one else to get the lemonade. 
 She lost no time in dispatching him to make 
 inquiries. He was really an active man, and under-
 
 380 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 stood his business thoroughly, but Marcantonio's 
 manner had completely deceived him, and he had 
 conscientiously thought his charge perfectly safe. 
 Maniacs have more than once deceived their keepers, 
 and their doctors, and Marcantonio seemed to have 
 fallen into a very different sort of madness rather 
 foolish and gentle than cunning and dangerous. 
 
 The servant soon discovered that Marcantonio 
 had passed the porter's lodge and had taken a cab, 
 not many minutes earlier; but no one had heard 
 the order he gave to the driver. There were no 
 more carriages on the stand. The man lost no time 
 but ran down the street till he found one, and was 
 driven to the station, as he was, bareheaded and 
 clothed in a dress-coat and a white tie, after the 
 manner of hotel servants in the morning. His 
 experience told him that crazy people generally 
 made for the railway when they escaped. But he 
 was too late. A train had just left he made 
 anxious inquiries of every one, describing Marc 
 antonio's clothes and jewelry, which he knew by 
 heart. No one had noticed him. He might not 
 have come to the station after all. 
 
 But a dirty little boy elbowed his way through 
 the crowd of railway porters and guards that soon 
 surrounded the man, and the boy listened. 
 
 " Had that signore a great ring on his 'finger, 
 with a black stone in it, and a red one on each 
 side ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," cried the confidential servant. "You
 
 TO LEEWARD. 381 
 
 have seen him?" He seized the small boy by the 
 arm and held him fast. 
 
 "Yes," said the little fellow; "but you have no 
 need to pinch me like that. I sold him a paper, 
 and he gave me a silver half-franc, and I noticed 
 his fingers and his ring." 
 
 The servant released him. 
 
 Some one else had noticed the ring, which was 
 very large and brilliant, a great sapphire with a 
 ruby on each side of it. The individual remembered 
 hearing the gentleman ask for the train to Cuneo. 
 The confidential servant rushed back to the hotel, 
 after ascertaining that there would not be another 
 train for two hours. 
 
 He told Diana what he had learned, and she 
 listened attentively. She was pale and quiet, and 
 she did not reproach the man again. It was of no 
 use now. She had dressed herself, and she sent 
 for a cab; and then she also was driven to the 
 station, the man accompanying her. She did not 
 speak except to give her orders. 
 
 She went at once to the station-master, an ex 
 tremely civil individual with a great deal of silver 
 lace. 
 
 "Can you give me a special train to Cuneo at 
 once ? " she asked. 
 
 The station-master was in despair, he said. 
 There was only a single track, and it would be 
 impossible to arrange the line at such short notice. 
 He bowed, and looked grave, and put everything in
 
 382 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 the station at the disposal of the magnificent lady 
 who ordered special trains as other people order 
 cabs. But he could do nothing. Diana hesitated. 
 Something must be done at once. 
 
 "My brother," she said, "took the last train to 
 Cuneo, and I desire to stop him. He he is 
 insane." 
 
 It was a hard thing to have to tell a stranger, a 
 railway official, and Diana was whiter than death as 
 she said it. She would rather have put a knife into 
 her heart. 
 
 The station-master was graver and more polite 
 than ever. He could telegraph to all the stations 
 to have the passengers watched as they descended. 
 Would she give him a description, the name, 
 perhaps ? 
 
 It had to be done. She gave the details, and 
 the telegram was sent. Meanwhile she sat in the 
 station-master's private office, to wait for more than 
 an hour until the next train should be ready. 
 
 The consequence of all this was that when Marc- 
 antonio finally reached his destination, he was 
 politely asked, in company with the other pas 
 sengers, whether he had seen or heard of an insane 
 gentleman called the Marchese Carantoni. But his 
 newly-found cunning did not desert him. He 
 shrugged his shoulders, and said he did not know 
 the gentleman. He himself looked so quiet and 
 dignified, that no one could have suspected him of 
 being the person, and the short description tele-
 
 TO LEEWARD. 883 
 
 graphed would have answered to hundreds of Ital 
 ians all over the country. He had, of course, 
 expected to be pursued, as lunatics often do, and 
 he was prepared to baffle every attempt. His quiet 
 look and frank smile were a perfect passport. He 
 even inquired of a porter at the station how he 
 could best reach the Certosa di Pesio ; and the man 
 told him it was an hour's drive or more, and got 
 him a little carriage for the journey, and received 
 a few sous for his pains. 
 
 Marcantonio leaned back against the moth-eaten 
 cushions and smoked a cigarette and looked at the 
 scenery. He hummed a little tune occasionally, 
 and, when the dirty driver was not looking, he put 
 his hand into his breast pocket, and felt that his 
 pistol was in its place, and then the cunning smile 
 passed over his features. 
 
 He had managed it all so well, there could be 
 no mistake about it. He chuckled as he thought 
 how Batiscombe would expect to receive the visit 
 of a third party, and would thus be suddenly 
 brought face to face with the principal. He thought 
 he could anticipate just how Batiscombe would 
 look, and he revelled for a while in the contem 
 plation of his hatred. He had forgotten nothing 
 now, except that he had ever forgotten his ven 
 geance for a moment. 
 
 On and on he rolled in his rattling little 
 cab. Through a long and gradually-ascending val 
 ley, thickly clothed with chestnut-trees of mighty
 
 384 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 growth. By the roadside ran a stream, that gradu 
 ally became a torrent as the inclination of its course 
 grew steeper, and the road wound up towards the 
 source. Here and there the water fell over a natural 
 weir of dark-brown rock, forming a deep pool below, 
 where the trout lurked in the shadow. Again the 
 thick woods receded a little on each side, and the 
 bed of the stream, now shallow from the summer 
 heat, grew broad and stony; and further on there 
 was a bit of grassy bank overhung with many trees, 
 and the small river swept smoothly round. 
 
 Suddenly the carriage drew up before an old stone 
 gateway that seemed to start out of the foliage, and 
 there was a noise as of a deep fall of water, at once 
 wild and smooth. Marcantonio had reached the 
 Carthusian monastery at last. His purpose was 
 almost accomplished. 
 
 It is a strange building in a marvellous situation. 
 Those old monks knew where to live, as they have 
 always known in all ages and countries, from the 
 priests of Egypt to the monks of Buddha, from the 
 Benedictines of Subiaco to the hol} r men of ancient 
 Mexico, they have all reared spacious dwellings 
 in chosen sites, where the body might live in peace 
 and the soul be raised, by contemplating the beauties 
 of the earth, to the imagination of the beauties of 
 heaven. They were wise old men; some of them 
 were good, and some bad, as happens in all com 
 munities in the world; but they were men who did 
 the earth good in their day, and found out the places
 
 TO LEEWARD. 385 
 
 that have often become cities in our times, whereby 
 hundreds of thousands of souls have profited by 
 their choice. 
 
 The Certosa di Pesio, where Julius and Leonora 
 had taken up their abode for a time, is turned into 
 an establishment for cold-water cures. There are 
 generally some fifty or sixty people there from Turin 
 and the neighbourhood who take the baths, or not, 
 as they please, and lead a pleasant life for a few 
 months in the gr^at cloistered courts, and the bright 
 gardens, and out in the endless chestnut woods. A 
 cool breath of the Alps blows down the valley, and 
 the rush of the water, dammed up by a strong weir of 
 ancient masonry, and continually pouring down with 
 a steady, musical roar, pervades all the cool rooms 
 and the sounding halls and passages. It is an ideal 
 place for the summer, almost unknown to foreigners. 
 It is no wonder that Julius had thought it the very 
 spot for Leonora to rest in until the heat was over. 
 A little way from the buildings, up the valley, a 
 dilapidated summer-house overhangs the stream. 
 Sitting there you can see the whole wonderful 
 outline of the convent buildings, crowned with 
 chimneys which the old monk-architects seem to 
 have delighted in greatly, giving them a variety of 
 strange and grotesque shapes such as I never saw 
 anywhere else. Julius and Leonora used often to 
 come to the old summer-house in the afternoon, 
 with their books, which were seldom called into 
 requisition, and they would sit side by side for
 
 386 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 hours, till the evening sun warmed the colours of 
 the pine-trees on the heights to a green-gold, and 
 reddened the far-off snows of Monte Rosa with the 
 last, loving touch of his departing light. 
 
 An obsequious individual came forward from the 
 archway as Marcantonio drove up to the gate. 
 Marcantonio eyed him, and perceived that he was 
 a functionary of the pension. 
 
 " Is there an English gentleman here ? " he asked, 
 "a certain Signer Giulio Batiscombe?" His 
 voice was very calm, and had a certain suavity in 
 its tones; he smiled, too, as he asked the question. 
 
 "Si, signore," answered the man, bowing and 
 gesticulating toward the building. " Certainly. A 
 handsome signore, with his wife both Inglesi. 
 They arrived on the thirty-first of last month five 
 days. Will the signore do the favour to come in? 
 I will inquire whether the English gentleman is at 
 home." 
 
 The slightest shade passed over Marcantonio's 
 face at the mention of the wife in the case. But 
 the man would not have noticed it. Marcantonio 
 felt sure he had not betrayed himself. 
 
 "I will wait here," said he, "while you inquire." 
 
 The man disappeared, and Marcantonio was alone. 
 He looked up at the windows in the grey walls, and 
 saw no one. Nevertheless, at any moment Batis 
 combe might appear from the house or from the 
 woods he might be taking a walk. It seemed a 
 very long time to wait.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 387 
 
 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, 
 assuming 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 car 
 riage, 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 Batiscombe 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 
 passage that seemed to run through the house, and,
 
 388 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 ser 
 vant 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 
 pass. 
 
 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.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 880 
 
 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 think 
 ing, 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. '
 
 390 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 heart- 
 lessness 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 
 passion, 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 begin 
 ning. 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 conscious 
 ness 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 Batiscombe'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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 391 
 
 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 noble 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 nobility 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 shells 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 pass 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
 
 392 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 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 reckless 
 ness 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 stupen 
 dous 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
 
 TO LEEWARD. 393 
 
 the grass 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 grass. " 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 every 
 where, 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 grass 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.
 
 394 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 " 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 passion 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, Ju 
 lius," 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. Nobody would understand. It is 
 not what people say. It is the thing." She stared 
 out into the woods as she leaned against him.
 
 TO LEEWARD. 395 
 
 "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, passionately. 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. God bless you, dear one." He 
 kissed her tenderly, but she tried to turn away from 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, no, Julius God 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 fer 
 vently. " I will be everything to you, now and for 
 ever and ever." 
 
 He was astonished and puzzled by the sudden 
 outbreak. She had never spoken like this to him 
 before, though he had expected it at first, and had 
 wondered at her indifference. But now it seemed 
 to have come upon her suddenly with a great force, 
 and she would not be comforted. 
 
 "And I say it, too," she said, passionately. "I 
 will be everything to you, now and forever and ever. 
 We will give our lives to each other, and make it
 
 396 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 right." She wound her arms about him, and hid 
 her face against his coat. 
 
 "How can true love, like ours, not be right?" 
 asked Julius, clasping her to him. "God has put 
 it into the world, dear, and into our hearts." 
 
 Oh, the blasphemy and the hollowness and the 
 cruelty of those words! Even as Leonora lay in 
 his arms and felt his kisses on her hair, loving her 
 sinful love for him out to the last breath, she knew 
 that it was not true, what he said so fervently, 
 and she knew that he did not believe it, that no 
 man can believe a lie so great and wide and deep 
 and awful. 
 
 But the sun does not stand still in the heavens 
 for a man's lie; he hears too many untrue speeches, 
 and sees too many false faces in his daily task of 
 shining alike upon the just and the unjust he is 
 used to it and goes on his way; and time follows 
 him, striving to keep pace and to swell the puny 
 minutes of its pulse into an eternity. 
 
 Such moments when the rising sorrow and 
 sense of shame that a woman feels are choked down 
 and crushed by the overwhelming energy of false 
 ness in the man she loves are passionate, even 
 terrible; and they may come often, but they never 
 last long. 
 
 Half an hour later, Julius and Leonora were wan 
 dering on through the woods, and their talk had 
 taken again its ordinary course. The morning was 
 passing, and as Batiscombe talked and amused and
 
 TO LEEWARD. 397 
 
 interested Leonora, her doubts and fears disappeared, 
 for the time at least, and her old sense of enjoyment 
 returned again, sweeter to her now than ever before, 
 in proportion as it was more difficult for her to 
 attain it. She was happy again, and the clouds 
 were riven away and rent to shreds by the strong 
 breath of her stirring passion. 
 
 They walked for a while, and then returned to 
 their midday breakfast and spent an hour over it in 
 the cool, darkened hall, which had once been the 
 refectory of the monastery, and was now the dining- 
 room of the people who came to the water-cure. 
 Julius had suggested to Leonora that they should 
 have their breakfast and dinner in their own rooms, 
 but she said she liked to see the people. It amused 
 her to watch their faces and to wonder about them 
 and criticise them. They were so unlike the people 
 she had known hitherto, that there was a freshness 
 of amusement to her in learning their ways. 
 
 And by and by they had their coffee in a little 
 sitting-room of their own that overlooked the tor 
 rent, and Julius smoked a cigarette and read the 
 papers a little, amusing her with his daring com 
 ments on the conduct of nations and individuals. 
 He was a man who was never afraid to say what 
 he meant not only to Leonora, over a cup of coffee 
 in the summer, but to the world at large, in his 
 books and articles. That was one reason why the 
 world at large always said he was an uncommonly 
 fine fellow, with a great deal of pluck and judg-
 
 398 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 ment. For the world at large likes rough strength 
 and keen wit, always understanding that the strong 
 language is not applied to itself, but to its neighbour 
 next door. 
 
 At four o'clock Julius and Leonora went out 
 again. Julius carried a pair of shawls and a book 
 and Leonora's silk bag with the silver rings the 
 same she had used to bring her handkerchiefs when 
 she fled from Sorrento. They went into the garden 
 and out among the laurels and the geraniums for a 
 few minutes, but Julius was sure there would be 
 more breeze outside, in the old summer-house over 
 the water; for the garden was sheltered by high 
 walls all around, and the sun was still hot, almost 
 at its hottest at four o'clock on the fourth of 
 September. 
 
 Accordingly Julius took the things in his hands, 
 and the two went out of the garden by the door in 
 the wall and left it open. They walked down the 
 short open path to the old summer-house, and Julius 
 made Leonora very comfortable with the shawls for 
 cushions upon the old, wooden bench, which many 
 generations of people had hacked with their knives 
 and adorned with the insignificance of their un 
 known names. 
 
 Side by side they sat in the glory of the sum 
 mer's afternoon, and the birds perched on the grey 
 old ribs of the summer-house and hopped upon the 
 untrimmed creepers that grew thickly about it, mak 
 ing their small comments to each other about the
 
 TO LEEWARD. 399 
 
 two people who sat below them, and great green and 
 pink grasshoppers skipped into the open space and 
 out again, a perpetual astonishment in their round, 
 red eyes; all nature was warm and peaceful and 
 happy. The lovers talked together a little, enjoying 
 the sense that speech was not always necessary nor 
 even desirable. 
 
 "How do you like the 'Principe '?" Julius asked 
 at last, glancing at the book that lay open on 
 Leonora's knee. He had given it to her to read, 
 because she said she knew so little of Italian 
 thought. 
 
 "I hardly know," she said. "It is very wonder 
 ful, of course. But I cannot quite believe that 
 Macchiavelli believed in it himself, nor that any 
 one ever acted on the advice he gives. It is too 
 complicated and unhuman." 
 
 "It always seems to me," said Julius, taking up 
 the question, "that he wrote like a man who inferred 
 a great deal from his own experience a great deal 
 more than it is safe to infer. He knew men and 
 women very well. He might have been a despotic 
 lover." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Leonora. 
 
 "Do you notice that he always reckons, every 
 where and without exception, on the heart of the 
 people and on their personal affection for their 
 sovereign? But he never takes into consideration 
 the possible affection of the sovereign for his sub 
 jects."
 
 400 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 "That is true," said Leonora. "He was a very 
 heartless individual." 
 
 "Perhaps though I hardly think it," answered 
 Julius. "But he might have written a guide for 
 despotic lovers much better than a book of instruc 
 tion for tyrannical princes." 
 
 "What an idea! " said Leonora, laughing. "But 
 I think he was heartless all the same. He only 
 believed in the people's hearts as a means for 
 getting power." 
 
 "He never says so," said Julius. "I rather think 
 he loved the people, but knew them well and he 
 loved the ingenuities of his wit much better." 
 
 " If the heart does not come first, it never comes 
 at all," said Leonora thoughtfully. "If it does not 
 rule it is ruled, and might as well never exist at 
 all. Are you tyrannical, dear?" She smiled at 
 him, knowing how he loved her. 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed," said Julius, laughing; "but 
 only about love." 
 
 "But that is just the question," said Leonora. 
 "You ought not to be. Your heart ought to come 
 first." 
 
 "Yes, darling," he answered. "The heart comes 
 first, and the heart is a tyrant. Supposing my heart 
 says to yours, ' You shall love me ; I will have it at 
 any cost ; ' is not that tyranny ? " 
 
 "Perhaps," said Leonora, smiling and touching 
 his hand. " But then it is quite a mutual tyranny, 
 you know, because I say it to you, too, and you 
 do it."
 
 TO LEEWARD. 401 
 
 "I always do everything you say, darling," he 
 answered lovingly. 
 
 "Always?"' 
 
 "Always; and I always will, Leonora." 
 
 " Do you think, Julius it is a foolish question 
 do you think you would die for me, if it were 
 necessary?" 
 
 "You know I would, dear," he said quietly. 
 
 "Yes; I am sure you would," she answered. 
 " Do you know ? I used to think that one ought to 
 be willing to die for those one loves ; and I like to 
 think that you would give your life for me. Of 
 course it could never happen but then Don't 
 laugh at me, Julius." 
 
 "Why should I laugh?" he said. "What you 
 say is serious enough, I am sure." 
 
 "No but I thought you might. You laugh at 
 so many things I am always afraid you will laugh 
 at my love " 
 
 It was five o'clock. 
 
 Marcantonio, issuing from the door in the garden 
 wall, saw Julius and Leonora some twenty yards 
 away, in the summer-house. He gave the servant 
 a franc for showing him the way, and the man 
 retired. He stood alone, watching the pair, for he 
 could see them very distinctly. They were so 
 placed that they would see him if they turned and 
 looked upward, but they did not move, nor hear 
 him. Leonora was nearest to him, and was leaning 
 back a little, so that she could not see him; Batis-
 
 402 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 combe held her hand, and was looking at it, and 
 gently caressing the fair, white fingers as he talked. 
 
 Marcantonio turned away for a moment, and got 
 out his revolver. It was clean and bright, and he 
 had examined it, but he would look once more, 
 just to be sure there was a cartridge in each cham 
 ber, especially in that one beneath the barrels. One 
 could not be too certain of one's weapon. There 
 was no mistake, everything was in order. The 
 hour was come. 
 
 The hideous maniac smile played over his delicate 
 features, and he stepped cautiously forward, holding 
 the pistol* behind him. Every step he gained before 
 they observed him was an advantage. And besides, 
 Leonora was between him and Batiscombe. It was 
 not a fair shot, and it was too far. 
 
 He did not want to kill her; he would take her 
 home with him, when he had killed Julius Batis 
 combe. He had ordered the little carriage to wait 
 for them. How happy she would be! Cautiously 
 he moved on, ready for action if they saw him. He 
 trod so softly, so softly, it was like velvet on the 
 grass. 
 
 Then, as he came nearer, not ten paces off, he 
 brought his pistol before him and held it ready. So 
 softly he had crept to them that they had not yet 
 heard him, as the summer wind blew gently through 
 the long grasses and the vines about the old bower, 
 and made a sweet murmur of its own. 
 
 "I am always afraid you will laugh at my love "
 
 TO LEEWARD. 403 
 
 Leonora was saying, but the words that were to 
 follow were never spoken. 
 
 Some slight sound caught her quick woman's ear, 
 and she looked up in the direction whence it came. 
 There stood her husband, not ten paces from her, 
 with an expression in his face which would have 
 frozen the marrow in the bones of a wild beast. 
 
 The clean polished barrel of the pistol was pointed 
 full at Batiscombe. Leonora saw that, and saw that 
 Marcantonio's eyes were fixed on her lover and not 
 on herself. Batiscombe saw it all as well as she, 
 one second later. But that one second was enough. 
 
 With a spring and a clutching turn, as a tigress 
 will cover her young with herself and turn glaring 
 on her pursuers, Leonora threw her strong, lithe 
 body upon Julius, forcing him back to his seat, and 
 she turned and looked Marcantonio in the face. 
 Their eyes met for one moment. But it was too 
 late : the finger had pulled the trigger and the ball 
 sped true. 
 
 Without a sound, without a cry, she fell upon 
 her lover's breast. There she fell, there she died. 
 
 From the death wound the heart's blood fell in 
 great drops ; it fell down to the ground. 
 
 She died for his sake whom she loved; she died, 
 she gave for him her life, the joy and the woe and 
 the love of it for his sake. 
 
 Do you ask what is the moral of this ? Ask it of 
 yourselves.
 
 404 TO LEEWARD. 
 
 Ask it of that quiet man, with delicate features 
 and snow-white hair, who drives in the Villa 
 Borghese. He is well-known in Rome for his 
 honesty, his honour, and his unaffected good sense. 
 He is the Marchese Carantoni, he is Marcantonio, 
 and he is not yet forty years of age. 
 
 Ask it of Diana de Charleroi, Duchesse de 
 Charleroi now, for her husband has succeeded to the 
 elder title. Ask it of her, the mother of brave boys 
 and noble maidens. She has her beauty still, she is 
 as stately as of yore, and grander in the crown of 
 mature womanhood. But there is a streak of grey 
 even in her fair hair, and a line of sorrow on her 
 forehead, the masterly handwriting of a mastering 
 grief ; and her grey eyes are softer and sadder than 
 they were ten years ago. 
 
 Ask it of Julius Batiscombe, but of him you 
 will ask in vain. He has the mark of a bullet in 
 his throat, Marcantonio's second shot, that was so 
 nearly fatal to him. He stood aside from the world 
 for a while, and lived a year or two among the 
 monks of Subiaco ; he manifested some devotion for 
 her sake who had died for him. And now he is writ 
 ing novels again, and smoking cigarettes between 
 the phrases, to help his ideas and to stimulate his 
 imagination. 
 
 THE END.
 
 MR. CRAWFOIUVS LAST NOVEL. 
 
 KATHARINE LAUDERDALE. 
 
 TWO rOLUMES. CLOTH. $2.OO. 
 
 The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life. 
 
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 picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human passion 
 and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this one." The 
 News and Courier. 
 
 THE THREE FATES. 
 
 " Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of 
 human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and pictur 
 esque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most 
 pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain 
 phases of American, or perhaps we should say. of New York, life that have 
 not hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and felicity." 
 
 Boston Beacon. 
 
 A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE, 
 
 " The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done 
 more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and 
 cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble 
 conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . . 
 This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the 
 meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the 
 vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
 with these poor elements, scenes, and passages, the dramatic and emotional 
 power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest inter 
 est." New York Tribune. 
 
 AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 
 
 A Fantastic Tale. 
 Illustrated by W. J. HENNESSY. 
 
 " The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed 
 and carried out is admirable and delightful. ... Mr. Crawford has scored 
 a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . . 
 A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story." New York Tribune. 
 
 GREIFENSTEIN. 
 
 "... Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It pos 
 sesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual ability. Its 
 interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even on the previous 
 work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Crawford's work this novel is 
 crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read with a great deal of interest." 
 New York Evening Telegram. 
 
 WITH THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 " The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a 
 writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought and 
 progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary clothing, 
 could be successfully attempted only by one whose active literary ability 
 should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowledge both literary 
 and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The 
 book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader 
 of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite 
 above the ordinary plane of novel interest." Boston Advertiser. 
 
 ZOROASTER. 
 
 " It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity 
 of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a play. 
 By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and 
 lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage 
 could possibly do." The New York Times. 
 
 A ROMAN SINGER. 
 
 " One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist. . . . None 
 but a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, crossed 
 by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a perfect 
 specimen of literary art." The Newark Advertiser. 
 
 PAUL PATOFF. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 KHALED. 
 
 A Story of Arabia. 
 
 " Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, suggested 
 rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and motive, the building 
 out and development of the character of the woman who becomes the hero's 
 wife and whose love he finally wins being an especially acute and highly 
 finished example of the story-teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully written 
 and holds the interest of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none 
 who know the depth and artistic finish of Mr. Crawford's work need be 
 told." The Chicago Titties. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE KING. 
 
 " One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work that 
 Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and its surround 
 ings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salermo, with the bewitching 
 accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford, give Mr. Crawford rich oppor 
 tunities to show his rare descriptive powers. As a whole the book is strong 
 and beautiful through its simplicity, and ranks among the choicest of the 
 author's many fine productions." Public Opinion. 
 
 MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 
 
 " This work belongs to the highest department of character-painting in 
 words." The Churchman. 
 
 " We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses 
 in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His sense of 
 proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease and perspicuity. 
 It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the 
 story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident 
 after incident. As a story Marzio's Crucifix is perfectly constructed." 
 New York Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 MARION DARCHE. 
 
 " Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or four 
 stories. ... A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page unfolds 
 new possibilities, and the incidents multiply rapidly." Detroit Free Press. 
 
 " We are disposed to rank Marion Darche as the best of Mr. Crawford's 
 American stories." The Literary World. 
 
 THE NOVEL: What It Is. 
 
 1 Sino. Cloth. 75 cents. 
 
 " When a master of his craft speaks, the public may well listen with care 
 ful attention, and since no fiction-writer of the day enjoys in this country a 
 broader or more enlightened popularity than Marion Crawford, his explana 
 tion of The Novel : What It Is, will be received with flattering interest." 
 The Boston Beacon. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 WORKS BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD. 
 
 NEVERMORE. 
 
 121110. Cloth, 81.25. 
 
 ROBBERY UNDER ARMS. 
 
 New Edition. 12mo. Cloth, 91.25. 
 
 We have nothing but praise for this story. Of adventure 01 the most 
 stirring kind there is, as we have said, abundance. But there is mure than 
 this. The characters are drawn with great skill. Every one of the gang of 
 bushrangers is strongly individualized. We have not the mere catalogue 
 of fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus, but genuine men. The father, a sturdy 
 Englishman, whose whole nature is warped by early influences; the hero, 
 poor " Jim," his brother, a simple, lovable fellow who might have gone straight 
 under happier circumstances ; Starlight, a gentleman by birth and education, 
 who has a strange story behind him in the Old Country ; and, lastly, the half- 
 breed Warrigal, are all admirable figures. This is a book of no common, 
 literary lores. Spectator. 
 
 THE MINER'S RIGHT. 
 
 A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS. 
 1 -'111.1. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the color and 
 play of life. . . . The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid 
 pictures of the humors of the gold-fields ; tragic humors enough they are too, 
 here and again. . . . The various types of humanity that strut, or in those 
 days used to strut, across that strangest of the world's stage, an Australian 
 gold-field, are capitally touched in, for Mr. Boldrewood can draw a man as 
 well as tell a story. World. 
 
 THE SQUATTER'S DREAM. 
 
 12mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 A story of Australian life, told with directness and force. The author s 
 mastery of his subjects adds much to the impressiveness of the story, which 
 no doubt might be told as literally true of hundreds of restless and ambitious 
 young Australians. N. V. Tribune. 
 
 A COLONIAL REFORMER. 
 
 l-.'mii. Cloth, 91.25. 
 
 " Rolf Boldrewood " has written much and well on the Australian colonies, 
 but chiefly in the form of novels, and good novels they are too. The Austra 
 lian scenes, rural and urban, are vividly described by Mr. Boldrewood, and 
 there are among the characters examples of the various adventurers and 
 rogues that infest new countries, which recall pur early California days. 
 Whoever wants to know how they live in Australia will have the want sup 
 plied. Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 
 
 One of the most interesting books about Australia we have ever read. 
 Glasgow Herald. 
 
 Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point and vigor, and 
 there is no better reading than the adventurous parts of his books. Saturday 
 Review. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.