During the four hours which had elapsed between Madame de Charleroi's involuntary discovery in the afternoon and the dinner hour, she had found time to collect her thoughts and to form a plan of action.

It was absolutely necessary to do something at once, and, if possible, to understand afterwards how Leonora could have allowed herself in so short a time to fall a victim to the eloquence and personal charms of Julius Batiscombe. She wondered vaguely how it were all possible, but in the meantime she knew that the mischief existed, and that she must do her utmost to avert its growth and frightful consequences, since she alone could be of use.

Her first impulse had been to go to the window and disclose herself, whereby she thought she could have put Batiscombe to flight instantly. He could hardly have stayed in the house with her after such a scene as must have followed. But a proud instinct forbade her; she would not have it appear that she could possibly stand to Julius in the position of Leonora's rival. Nor could she have found it in her heart to inflict on her sister-in-law the indelible disgrace of an exposure. All this passed through her mind in a moment, and checked her first step towards the window. She frightened the lovers away by upsetting her table, instead of coming upon them herself, and she knew an hour later that she had thereby lost the power of managing them by anything she could say to Batiscombe. She would not—she could not—go to Leonora and force a confession. Besides, what good would be gained? Leonora was a person to be protected, not attacked. As for Julius, she knew perfectly well, when she led him out to the terrace while Marcantonio was up-stairs, that he would deny everything. He could do nothing else, and he did it boldly, though it was of no use. But Diana thought it possible that he would leave the house without a struggle, and abandon the position for a time.

If Julius had been a less passionate man, and a more accomplished villain, if he had loved Leonora less ardently and more designingly, or if he had been less furiously angry against Diana, he would have acted differently. He would have lied just as he had done, but blandly and with a great show of astonishment; he would have made a low bow, answering Diana that he was at all times ready to obey her, and he would have left the house in the morning, with an elaborate excuse to his hosts. But Batiscombe was quite another sort of person. One of the calmest and most diplomatic of men under ordinary circumstances, his passion when roused was wholly uncontrollable. He was madly in love, and madly angry, and he would have cheerfully fought the whole world single-handed for the sake of his love, or of his anger, separately, let alone in the present case, when both were roused to the fiercest pitch.

Diana knew him well, and, after the few words she had exchanged with him on the terrace, she knew what to expect. And she had foreseen the possibility of his refusal to leave the villa, and was prepared for it. The only question of difficulty was to direct Marcantonio's whole anger against Batiscombe, and to shield Leonora as far as possible; but Marcantonio must be told of the danger, since Diana alone was unable to avert it.

She sat beside him on the deep sofa in the drawing-room, and she laid her hand affectionately on his, as though to give him some strength to bear what was in store.

"It is very important," she said, "and you must be very patient. You must give me your word that you will do nothing violent for at least a day, for you will be very angry." She knew that, with all his good nature, she could rely on his courage. He was not easily frightened, after all. He looked earnestly at her, and his face was drawn into a look of determination that sat oddly on his delicate and rather weak features.

"Speak, Diana mia," he said simply. "I will do what I can for you." He supposed, of course, that something had occurred between herself and Batiscombe.

"It is not I," she said, "it is you who are concerned."

"I?" repeated her brother, in some astonishment.

"Yes. You are the person who must act in the matter. You must write a little note to Batiscombe, and tell him that your wife's sudden illness"—

"What? But it is only a little sun—a mere headache," interrupted Marcantonio.

"No matter;—that your wife's sudden illness is so severe that you must beg him to postpone the remainder of his visit to some future time."

Marcantonio looked more and more astonished.

"But I only asked him for a week. He will go of his own accord to-morrow or the day after. I am sorry, Diana, but you said you did not mind meeting him." He spoke seriously, with a puzzled expression on his face.

"It makes no difference," said Diana. "He must go to-morrow morning. He has not behaved honourably to you since he has been in the house."

Her brother looked suddenly very grave, and his voice dropped as he spoke.

"Has he insulted you, Diana?" he asked.

"Yes," said she, in low tones, "he has insulted me. But he has done worse, he has insulted your wife in my hearing."

Marcantonio turned suddenly on the sofa, and grasped his sister's arm as in a vise. His face turned a ghastly colour, and his voice trembled violently.

"Diana—are you telling me the truth?"

Her grey eyes turned honestly and bravely to him.

"You and I never learned to tell lies, Marcantonio. It is true."

She knew well enough that he would never suspect his wife, nor ask a question which could lead to such a conclusion. When she said that Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, she spoke the absolute truth. What greater insult can man offer an honest woman than by wittingly forcing upon her an unlawful love?

Marcantonio looked at her one moment, and then sprang to his feet. At that instant he could have killed Julius Batiscombe with his hands, as perhaps Diana herself would have done. She seized his hand as he stood, and drew him toward her.

"No," she said, understanding his thought, "remember your promise. You must do nothing now—except write the note."

But Carantoni was in no condition to write notes. He broke away, and walked wildly up and down the room, wringing his hands together, and muttering furious ejaculations. He was too angry, too much surprised, too much horrified at his own stupidity throughout the affair to be able to think clearly. Diana sat motionless on the sofa, as angry, perhaps, as he, in her own way, but full of pity and sympathy for him, and trying to devise some means of helping him. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her eyes followed him anxiously in his quick, irregular walk. And as she looked he seemed gradually to fall under her influence, and went and sat in a deep chair away from her, and buried his face.

Then Diana rose, and went to the table in the corner and arranged the light, and wrote, herself, the note to Batiscombe, leaving a blank at the foot for a signature. She looked round, and saw her brother watching her.

"Come, dear boy," she said kindly, "I have written the note for you; sign it, and I will see that he gets it in the morning."

Marcantonio rose and came to her with uncertain steps. He put his hand on her shoulder a moment. Then he fell on his knees beside her, and pressed her close to him, silently. Presently he rose, she put the pen between his fingers, still trembling with his anger, and he signed the note as best he could. She put it into an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to Julius Batiscombe.

"He will be out of the house before we are up," she said in a tone of certainty. "Go to bed, dear boy, and never let him trouble your peace again."

"But I will trouble his peace," answered Marcantonio, bending his smooth brows.

"We will see about that afterwards," said Diana. "If you think best to fight him, I will not oppose you; but we will talk about it. We cannot talk now. Good-night my dear, dear brother."

She kissed him on the forehead and held both his hands for a moment, and then led him away. He obeyed mechanically, and they parted for the night.

Diana often wished her brother were a stronger man in the ordinary things of life, but she knew that he was honest, and no coward in danger, and that he always spoke the truth and kept his word. It was his fault that he always imagined every one to be as honest as himself until the contrary was proved,—after which he never trusted the man again.

Diana went slowly to her room and locked the door behind her. With a candle in her hand she entered the boudoir and looked round upon the scene of the catastrophe. The glass of the long window was still open, and the refractory blinds still closed, the bolts rusted in, beyond her strength to draw them. The servants had raised the desk upright and washed away the ink from the tiles; there was no trace of disorder visible. She could hardly realise that in this neat room, that very day, only a few hours ago, she had passed through one of the most terrible experiences of her life.

She sat down in the chair before the desk and bent her queenly head. She had done her best for the right through that day, but it had all gone by so very quickly that she doubted whether she had done wisely. It seemed as though the burden of it all rested upon her—of the right and of the wrong; and the burden was very heavy. May God in his mercy give strength and courage to all brave women doing the right!

I think that ordinary women have more moral vanity than ordinary men; but that very good men have more of it than very good women. A good man always seems to have a conviction of goodness, to be quite sure when he has done right, and to enjoy the sense of having done it. A woman's sympathies are wider and reach further than a man's. When she has done her best, there always is something more that she would do if she could, and until that is done also she can never feel the comfortable delight in godliness experienced by man, the grosser creature, who hedges his possibilities more closely, and gets rid of his superfluous aspirations by the logical demonstration of the unattainable. But the sphere of ordinary women is narrower, and their sympathies are dispersed in a greater multiplicity and divergence of small channels, so that a little goodness, a little easy charity with a pretty name, is a luscious titbit to the tongue that speaketh vanity.

It was a dreary night to every one of the four,—least of all perhaps to Julius Batiscombe, whose fierce temper was thoroughly roused and would not be calmed again for days, giving him a kind of wicked satisfaction while it lasted. He spent most of the night at his window, smoking and going over the scenes of the day, and the scenes of the future. His mind ran in the direction of fighting,—to fight any one or anything would be a rare satisfaction; and ever as he fancied some struggle possible the hot blood rushed to his temples and longed for action, so that he bit his cigar through and through, and clasped his hands together till the veins stood out like ropes. He slept a little at last, and dreamed savage dreams of hand-to-hand combat, and woke with the roar of cannon in his ears. For he was a man of exaggerated fancies when his brain worked unconsciously, like many men who have ended in celebrity or in insane asylums.

The roar of the guns was only a servant knocking at his door, with hot water and a note. He saw Diana's handwriting, and suspected a new move, so that he was not altogether astonished by the contents. He understood that she had made Marcantonio sign her writing—by what means he could not tell—in order to force the position. There was evidently nothing to be done but to go. He would not have left the villa for anything Diana could have said, in his present humour, but it was impossible to bid defiance to the master of the house. Besides, he supposed that since Carantoni had invited him to leave, Diana had said something which would lead to a challenge from her brother, which could naturally not be delivered under his own roof.

He read the note through twice, and he went about his toilet with his usual care, looking angrily at himself in the glass as he shaved, but gradually composing his features to an appearance of calmness. Then he put his things together, rang the bell, told the servant he was going to Sorrento on business, and gave him a very handsome fee, requesting him to bring the things to the hotel in the course of the day. Julius took his hat and stick, and strolled out of the house toward the town.

Donna Diana and Marcantonio met in the morning. They saluted each other with the quiet, mournful understanding of people who have a common trouble, which they know must be spoken of, though they desire to put off the evil moment. They were both pale, and Diana's eyes were shaded by great dark rings that spoke of a sleepless night.

"Have you seen Leonora? How is she?" was her first question.

"Dio mio! She is very poorly. Poverina! It has made a terrible impression on her. Of course I did not speak of the subject."

"Of course." Diana sighed and looked drearily at the window, as though she wished she were outside, away, and beyond this trouble. She could not know what Leonora would say or do if Marcantonio ever broached the subject. "I do not think," said she, "that it will ever be necessary to say anything about it. She will understand that you sent him out of the house,—she will never see him again."

"Is he gone?" asked Marcantonio.

"Yes—early this morning. I sent to find out."

"Then there need be no time lost," said her brother. "I have just written a note to De Lancray, at Castellamare. It is much better to have a Frenchman in dealing with foreigners. He will be here by one o'clock, and will arrange everything."

Diana had expected that Marcantonio would send for a friend to arrange matters with Batiscombe. She did not look surprised.

"Have you sent the man yet?" she asked.

"He is getting a horse, I suppose. I have not heard him go."

"Tell him to wait five minutes. This is a serious affair, and we had better act deliberately."

Diana intended to prevent the duel if possible. Marcantonio was willing to humour her, and went out to stop the man. When he came back, she made him sit down beside her.

She explained to him the situation very clearly. Batiscombe had insulted Leonora, had done her a mortal offence. But Batiscombe was not the important person in the case. Leonora was the important person. If matters had been different, if, for instance, a man had run away with another man's wife, then, of course, they must necessarily fight,—and the woman made no difference, since her reputation would be already destroyed. But it would be a terrible injury to a young wife to have her husband fighting a duel about her before they had been married three months. People always say there is not much smoke without a little fire; society, being generally averse to standing up to be shot at, says that a man in Marcantonio's position would not go out unless he had very serious cause. Of course it would say in this case that the cause lay with Leonora, that she should never have allowed a man enough intimacy to give him a chance of insulting her, and so forth, and so on.

Diana would not use the argument of the Church's prohibition of duelling. She knew that Leonora's welfare was the chiefest thing present in her brother's mind, and that if she could show him that, for Leonora's sake, he ought to leave Batiscombe alone, he would assuredly conquer his anger and his pride. He had no sanguine and combative instincts, like Julius; he did not like fighting for the enjoyment of it, and if he could be convinced that his anger was unwise, he would ultimately get the better of it, now that the first sharp moment of wrath was over. To preserve Leonora's spotless fame was a much more important thing than to punish an insolent foreigner for vainly attempting to damage it, and thereby calling the attention of the world to the fact that her reputation was capable of damage.

It was a hard fight, and Diana's patience never wearied through the hours they talked together. More than once she thought it was lost, and that Marcantonio would order the note to be dispatched. Nothing but the real affection and trust that existed between her and her brother made it possible for her to succeed. But at last he was convinced, and silently went out and got the note he had written, and tore it up before his sister. The die was cast, and he did not mention the subject again, but went to see his wife. At her door he was told by her maid that Leonora was asleep, which was not true. But he asked no questions, and retired to his own room to solace himself as he might. He was too deeply distressed to wonder why Diana did not go to Leonora and sit with her.

Leonora had hardly spoken to any one since she and Batiscombe had parted on the previous evening before dinner. At table, as has been seen, she had said little, and no one had seen her since except her husband, who had gone to her in the morning. After his visit she rang for her maid and told her to see that no one disturbed her, as she was going to sleep again and would ring when she wanted anything.

At the moment when her husband was told she was not visible, she was sitting in her dressing-room, just behind the closed blinds of the window, listening to the monotonous, dry hum of the locusts in the garden, and wondering whether anything would ever happen again in the world. She was utterly dishevelled, her rich hair falling to her shoulders and halfway to the ground in wildest disorder; the gay coloured ribbons of her peignoir all untied and ruffled, her bare feet half thrust into her gold-embroidered slippers, her hands lying idly in her lap, as though there were nothing more for them to do. A strange, wild figure, sitting there surrounded by all the gorgeous little properties and knickknacks of a great lady's toilet.

Batiscombe was gone! Her husband had told her that he had been requested to postpone the remainder of his visit indefinitely. Of course he had gone, then. Marcantonio had supposed she would understand and be well satisfied. But she had only turned and hidden her face in the pillow,—as was perhaps natural to a very young woman when her husband mentioned anything that gave her a sense of shame. She must have been very much hurt by the insult, whatever it was, and she could not bear to hear it mentioned. Marcantonio had not told his sister of this, thinking it would be indelicate, and was nobody's business but his own and his wife's.

Batiscombe was gone—when should she see him again? How could he reach her, or she him? What was life to be like without him? And then the dazed, disappointed, terrified look came again to her face, and she stared at nothing, vacantly, and like a woman beside herself.

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.

Diana, who had really carried the heat of the battle alone, and bore the burden of the secret, was very quiet. She saw a little look of hardness in Leonora's face which she had seen long before, but rarely. She said kindly that she was very glad to see her up again, and hoped she was entirely recovered. Marcantonio, said Diana, had been very anxious.

For an instant the two women faced each other, and Leonora thought she was beginning to understand her sister-in-law.