“Lonely!” she cried, in a tone which wounded poor Harry deeply. “Oh no, I shall not be lonely. I mean to amuse myself very much. I shall go everywhere. I shall not miss you at all. Ser Paolo will take care of me.”
“You will have your father to take care of you, my darling,” Harry said, very gravely, with a little surprise; and then he added, with a laugh, “he will be glad to be rid of me for once, to have you all to himself. But Paul-o, all the same, will stand by you, I know,” he said, turning round to his friend lest his susceptible feelings should be wounded; “it is not that I doubt Paul-o—who will do everything.”
“Yes, everything,” Paolo said, with a fervent grip of his friend’s hand.
And Rita laughed. Why should she laugh? She did not shed a tear to part with him. Harry looked over the bulwark of the ship and watched his little wife standing in the boat which had brought them on board as long as he could make her out. The boatmen lay on their oars, and Rita stood up, waving her handkerchief, with Paolo by her side. These two figures, and after them all the features of the well-known scene, and then the very place itself, which was his home, which contained all his independent life, dropped away into the mists, into the distance. He had said to himself many a day that he would never go back; yet he was going back, severing himself, as he had done before, from everything he knew or cared for. And Rita had not seemed to care! He was not sentimental, but he turned away when there was no longer anything to be seen of Leghorn, with a little shiver, and a pang at his heart.
CHAPTER XV.
AT SEA.
IT was a beautiful night, the stars shining like diamonds, like ethereal lamps in the sky, clear and crisp, with a twinkle and movement in them as of something living; the sea all in a ripple, in absolute peacefulness yet endless life, sweeping like a smooth, green, transparent flood of liquid metal under the bow, seething in white curd and spray behind, marking a long, moving line of white across its surface as the great boat rustled and fretted on. The air was so sweet, the sea so calm, that everybody stayed late on deck, except Lady Brotherton, who had placed herself at once on her sofa with her eyes closed, not to see the motion, of which, even when there was no motion at all, she was afraid. But Sir John sat on deck till it was late, enjoying the voyage greatly, and, in the absence of his wife, keeping his son near him, and addressing to him all his thousand questions. “’Shay, Lionel, what’sh that Consul fellow doing with Liddy, ’shgot a wife of hish own.” “You forget,” Lionel said, “that he’s her brother, Sir—Harry Joscelyn. Mr. Bonamy told you all about it to-day.” “Yesh, yesh, old Bonamy, easy-going old duffer. ’Shish own daughter—should take more care of her. You look after little Liddy; shgot wife of his own.” Lionel looked at the pair walking up and down with feelings it would be difficult to describe. It was easy to say, take care of little Liddy. Liddy was hanging on her brother’s arm, quite independent of him. They two were now the two who belonged to each other now. When they parted in England it was her brother who would take Lydia home. She had no need of Lionel to talk to, to make a companion of; Harry was much better—a novelty, and all women like novelty—and then he was her brother; what could be more natural and right? Lionel took to theorizing about women, as men naturally do when ill-used by them. This was the kind of thing to be expected from these unaccountable creatures, whom, of course, no man could understand—though every man is surrounded by them all his life; triumphant folly of sex which transcends all experience! He railed at women in his heart, because Lydia was occupied, and had no attention to give him. He heard her laugh, and the soft current of her voice running on continually, with a kind of maddening contempt. She leant on her brother’s arm, which she never did on his—Lionel’s. It made his heart sick to see her thus enjoying herself, enjoying the balmy night. There was nothing so bad that he did not think it as the hours of the delightful twilight, the soft, early night, flew by. Perhaps it was not her fault: were not all women the same? treacherous, fickle, blown about by every wind—off with the old whenever there was something new to take to; mysterious, worthless, untrustworthy creatures, who, however sweet they might be one day, were never to be relied upon for the next; who would part from you with the tenderest of farewells and meet you next time as if you were the merest acquaintance! Lionel felt that he hated the whole sex as he stood by his father’s side watching these two about the decks. When they passed she would nod at him, or give him one of her easy smiles, not in the least ignoring his position, recognizing it, and coolly suffering it so to be. At last he had to withdraw, helping Thomas to move his father into the cabin reserved for him, and consequently losing sight of them for a moment. When he returned he could not see them, and the rage in him burned fiercer than ever. Then, on the bridge, high up against the sky, he discerned something like Harry’s figure, with a red tip of a cigar appearing above the collar of his warm coat. Harry had become chilly after ten years of Italian life. Lionel laughed at this effeminacy. He liked to feel that his own coat was thin, yet quite enough for his muscular Anglicism. No doubt she had gone in, retired for the night, and all that was out of the question. He did not specify to himself what all that was. He had not the heart even for a cigar. If he smoked he would come across that fellow, and be compelled to talk to him. After all, it was a great mistake to dis-inter relations whom you know nothing about. One might be nice—though even of that he felt far from certain—but the rest were almost sure to be bores, like this fellow. Indeed, the brothers were all bores, and without any breeding. It was a mistake to have taken any trouble about them, or ever to have sought them out at all. “Confound them!” he said to himself, facing the breeze, diving his hands deep down to the bottom of his pockets, and angrily gazing into the night.
“Confound whom, Cousin Lionel?” said a voice by his side.
Lionel started violently, then turned round. “Oh! are you there? I did not know where you were. I thought you had gone to bed.”
“Must one go to bed? They say we get to Genoa quite early; and it is such a lovely, lovely night.”
“Do you think so?” he said, softened; “so do I. If you will stay with me, I don’t think you need go to bed; but if you are going off again with that fellow—I mean, of course, with your brother——”