THE COMPLETE WORKS OF
F. MARION CRAWFORD

TO LEEWARD

BY F. MARION CRAWFORD

WITH FRONTISPIECE

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

Copyright 1883 and 1892
By F. MARION CRAWFORD

All Rights Reserved

TO
My Uncle
SAMUEL WARD
OF NEW YORK
THIS NOVEL IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

THE LAST RAYS OF THE SUN SHONE HORIZONTALLY ACROSS THE TERRACE.

TO LEEWARD.

CHAPTER I.

There are two Romes. There is the Rome of the intelligent foreigner, consisting of excavations, monuments, tramways, hotels, typhoid fever, incense, and wax candles; and there is the Rome within, a city of antique customs, good and bad, a town full of aristocratic prejudices, of intrigues, of religion, of old-fashioned honour and new-fashioned scandal, of happiness and unhappiness, of just people and unjust. Besides all this, there is a very modern court and a government of the future, which may almost be said to make up together a third city.

Moreover, these several coexistent cities, and their corresponding inhabitants, are subdivided to an infinity of gradations, in order to contain all and make room for all. The foreigner who hunts excavations does not cross the path of the foreigner who sniffs after incense, any more than the primeval aristocrat sits down to dinner with the representative of fashionable scandal; any more than the just man would ever allow the unjust to be introduced to him. They all enjoy so thoroughly the freedom to ignore each other that they would not for worlds endanger the safety of the barrier that separates them. Of course, as they all say, this state of things cannot last. There must ultimately be an amalgamation, a deluge, a unity, fraternity and equality; a state of things in which we shall say, "Sois mon frère, ou je te tue,"—a future glorious, disgusting, or dull, according as you look at it. But, meanwhile, it is all very charming, and there is plenty for every one to enjoy, and an abundance for every one to abuse.

When Marcantonio Carantoni saw his sister married to a Frenchman, he was exceedingly glad that she had not married an Englishman, a Turk, a Jew, or an infidel. The Vicomte de Charleroi was, and is, a gentleman; rather easy-going, perhaps, and inclined to look upon republics in general, and the French republic in particular, with the lenient eye of the man who owns land and desires peace first—and a monarchy afterwards, whenever convenient. But in these days it is not altogether worthy of blame that a man should look after his worldly interests and goods; for how else can the aristocracy expect to make any headway against the stream of grimy bourgeois, who sell everything at a profit, while the nobles buy everything at a loss? So Marcantonio is satisfied with his brother-in-law, and just now is particularly delighted because Charleroi has got himself appointed to a post in Rome; and he goes to see his sister every day, for he is very fond of her.

In truth, it is not surprising that Marcantonio should like his sister, for she is a very charming woman. She is beautiful, too, in a grand way, with her auburn hair, and grey eyes, and fair skin; but no one can help feeling that she might be quite as beautiful, and yet be anything but charming; so many beautiful people are vain, or shy, or utterly idiotic. Madame de Charleroi is something of a paragon, and has as many enemies as most paragons have, but they can find nothing to feed their envy. She was very unhappy years ago, but time has closed the wounds, or has hidden them from sight, and her dearest friends can only say that she was cold and showed very little heart. When the world says that a woman is a piece of ice, you may generally be sure that she is both beautiful and good, so that it can find nothing worse to say. Marcantonio Carantoni's sister is a paragon, and there are only two things to be said against her,—she did not marry Charleroi for love, and she has not done half the things in the world that she might have done.

On the January afternoon which marks the opening of this story, the brother and sister sat together in a small boudoir in the Carantoni palace; there was room for all in the great house, and as Marcantonio was not married, it was natural that his sister and her husband, with their children, governesses, servants, and horses should occupy the untenanted part of the ancestral mansion. Up in the second story there is a room such as you would not expect to find within those grey and ancient walls, where the lower windows are heavily grated, and huge stone coats of arms frown forbiddingly from above. It is a room all sun and flowers and modern furniture, though not of the more hideous type of newness,—modern in the sense of comfortable, well padded and well aired. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the closed windows, and there was a small wood fire in the narrow fireplace. The Vicomtesse de Charleroi sat warming her toes, and her brother was rolling a cigarette as he looked at her. A short silence had succeeded a somewhat animated discussion. She looked at the fire, and he looked at her.

"My dear Diana," said Marcantonio at last, rising to get himself a match, "what in the world can you have against her? We are not Hindoos, you know, to talk about caste in these days; and even if that were the objection, she comes of very proper people, I am sure, though they are foreigners."

Madame moved her feet impatiently.

"Oh, you know it is not that!" she said petulantly. "As if I had not married a foreigner myself! But then, if you had felt about it as I feel about this, I would have thought twice"—

"Have I not thought twice—and three times?"

"Of course, yes—while your head is hot with this fancy. Yes, you have probably thought a hundred times, at least, this very day. Listen to me, my dear boy, and do what I tell you. Go away to Paris, or London, or Vienna, for a fortnight, and then come back and tell me what you think about it. Will you not do that—to please me?"

"But why?" objected Marcantonio, looking very uncomfortable, for he hated to refuse his sister anything. "Seriously, why should I not marry her? Is there anything against her? If there is, tell me."

Donna Diana rose rather wearily and went to the window.

"I wish you would abandon the whole idea," she said. "I am quite sure you will repent when it is too late. I do not believe in these young girls who occupy themselves with philosophy and the good of the human race. Politics—well, we all have a finger in politics; but this dreadful progressive thought—it is turning the world upside down."

"Oh—it is the philosophy that you do not like about her? Well, my dear sister, that is exactly what I think so interesting. This young English Hypatia"—

"Hypatia, indeed!" cried Donna Diana rather scornfully.

"Yes. Is she not learned?"

"Perhaps."

"And beautiful?"

"No,—certainly not. She is simply a little pretty."

Marcantonio shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course," he said, "you will not allow it." His sister looked round quickly.

"That is rude," she said. In a moment her brother was by her side.

"Forgive me, Diana mia; you know I did not mean it. But you see I think she is beautiful, and that is everything, after all."

"Yes," answered she, "I suppose it is everything, now. But philosophy is not everything. Put her out of your head, dear boy, and do not say any more rude things."

Marcantonio had the power to avoid being rude,