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 conscience 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 together. 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 was on the very point of speaking. Almost instantly, 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 newspapers, 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 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, bottles 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.