To Leeward Part 32

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 fis.h.i.+ng smack ran across her bows.

A dozen rough fellows were lounging about in their woollen caps and dirty s.h.i.+rts. They laughed gayly at the crazy foreigners as they went by, and some of them waved their caps.

"Buon viaggio, eccellenza!" they shouted. Julius 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 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 l.u.s.tily along under the sh.o.r.e, 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 afternoon 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-b.u.t.ter 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 mainland.

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, "MR. AND MRS. BATIs...o...b.., ENGLAND."

"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 writing she had put in another name.

"I wanted to write it," said she with a little laugh. Julius looked, and laughed too.

"LEONORA BATIs...o...b..," 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.

CHAPTER XXI.

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 understood 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 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. n.o.body 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."

"They ought to be spontaneous," said Leonora.

"Everything that is pretty in the world is spontaneous 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 mountains 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 herself, 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 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 difference. Writing about Italian politics is very like fis.h.i.+ng 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 enjoyed quoting him against himself.

"So it is. What I told you was an ill.u.s.tration of a correspondent's life, not an argument against the existence of very fine fish in the stream."