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 before 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 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 perfectly 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 omitted 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 outbreak of reproach.
While Marcantonio was gone, Diana led Batiscombe 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 trembling 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."