And oh, that other thought! How much did Marcantonio know? It was Diana, of course, who had made that frightful noise—she could hear the crash still sounding in her ears. She had remembered too late that corner room, cut off from all the others opening on the terrace, and communicating from within with Diana's bedroom—oh, the folly of it! If only Diana were to come to her—she could kill her, she thought! She was not so tall, perhaps, but she was much stronger—she was sure she could kill her! But how much did Marcantonio know? Diana was so truthful, she must have told him all. Those hateful people who always speak the truth! Ah, if only Batiscombe could come back—or see her one moment before he went. But he was gone already. If he could have seen her this morning, she might have arranged—it was impossible yesterday afternoon, he was so wild, so furiously, gloriously angry. It did her good to think of his blazing eyes, and strong, set teeth just showing between his parted lips. He was such a man among men! Never again—never—never, perhaps! She might be shut up—made a prisoner—Heaven only knew what was in store for her! Dreary, hopeless, no light, no life—no anything.
Hollow? She laughed dismally to herself. Yes, life was hollow indeed, now—empty of all joy, or peace, or rest, forever and ever. Pray? How could she pray? Prayer was an innocent 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 miserable, vegetable, hopeless existence.
The day dragged on; she took no thought of the hours, though she had taken neither food nor drink since the night before. And always the maid outside the door said she was asleep.
At five o'clock she could bear it no longer, but rang the bell and said she would dress, as she felt much better. The maid told her that one of the men had returned from Sorrento and wished to see her excellency, as he had executed a commission for her.
Leonora stared a moment, guessed there was something behind the message, and ordered the man to go into her sitting-room, whither she presently went, wrapped in a voluminous dressing-gown, that completely hid her disarranged peignoir. The man handed her a small parcel and waited. She turned her back, and, opening it, found a little olive-wood box, and inside that there was a small note with neither address nor name on it. She hastily closed the box again, and, turning carelessly, so that the man could see her, she examined it by the window, as though criticising the 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 secretary, found a purse, and gave the fellow a gold piece. He grinned, bowed his thanks, and retired. He was the man who had taken 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 would not have gone away unless she had given him something, she thought.
The note was brief to terseness. It conveyed in the fewest possible words the information that the writer—name not mentioned—intended to spend the day, in future, in a small boat with green oars—underlined with a very black stroke—in the vicinity of a certain landing known to both the writer and the receiver of the note—name of latter also not mentioned. And the writer added, laconically, "No fee to bearer."
She ought to have read the note through before paying the man. But what could she have done? He had stood staring at her, until he was paid.
Her heart gave a great leap. It was so like him, so daring, to send her word at once. At least she should feel, now, that he was always there, waiting for her—ready to help her at a moment's notice. If only she could be with him on the soft, blue water, out in the sun! She could fight now—she could face them all—for he was out there; at least, he would be there to-morrow. She went back to her bedroom, and gave herself up to her maid, and had strong tea and bread-and-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 distinguished her from other women. She found her husband and Diana together on the terrace.
Marcantonio's face softened and flushed with pleasure as he saw how well and beautiful she looked. She, at least, he thought, had not suffered long by all this trouble. It was so brave of her to forget it, now that the man was gone; he was so glad to think that he could have borne the brunt of it, and had saved her the pain of any discussion. But he said little, just kissing her hand, and affectionately leading her to a comfortable chair.