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diff --git a/9087-8.txt b/9087-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..35aa5e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/9087-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17352 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eleanor, by Mrs. Humphry Ward + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Eleanor + +Author: Mrs. Humphry Ward + +Posting Date: July 30, 2011 [EBook #9087] +Release Date: October, 2005 +[This file was first posted on September 4, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELEANOR *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +ELEANOR + +BY + +MRS. HUMPHRY WARD + + +_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALBERT STERNER_ + +1900 + + + + TO ITALY THE BELOVED AND BEAUTIFUL, + INSTRUCTRESS OF OUR PAST, + DELIGHT OF OUR PRESENT, + COMRADE OF OUR FUTURE:-- + THE HEART OF AN ENGLISHWOMAN + OFFERS THIS BOOK. + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +ELEANOR + +THE VILLA + +LUCY FOSTER + +THE BEAUTIFYING OF LUCY + +THE LOGGIA + +FATHER BENECKE + + + + +PART I. + + + 'I would that you were all to me, + You that are just so much, no more. + Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! + Where does the fault lie? What the core + O' the wound, since wound must be?' + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +'Let us be quite clear, Aunt Pattie--when does this young woman arrive?' + +'In about half an hour. But really, Edward, you need take no trouble! she +is coming to visit me, and I will see that she doesn't get in your way. +Neither you nor Eleanor need trouble your heads about her.' + +Miss Manisty--a small elderly lady in a cap--looked at her nephew with +a mild and deprecating air. The slight tremor of the hands, which were +crossed over the knitting on her lap, betrayed a certain nervousness; but +for all that she had the air of managing a familiar difficulty in familiar +ways. + +The gentleman addressed shook his head impatiently. + +'One never prepares for these catastrophes till they actually arrive,' +he muttered, taking up a magazine that lay on the table near him, and +restlessly playing with the leaves. + +'I warned you yesterday.' + +'And I forgot--and was happy. Eleanor--what are we going to do with Miss +Foster?' + +A lady, who had been sitting at some little distance, rose and came +forward. + +'Well, I should have thought the answer was simple. Here we are fifteen +miles from Rome. The trains might be better--still there are trains. Miss +Foster has never been to Europe before. Either Aunt Pattie's maid or mine +can take her to all the proper things--or there are plenty of people in +Rome--the Westertons--the Borrows?--who at a word from Aunt Pattie would +fly to look after her and take her about. I really don't see that you need +be so miserable!' + +Mrs. Burgoyne stood looking down in some amusement at the aunt and nephew. +Edward Manisty, however, was not apparently consoled by her remarks. He +began to pace up and down the salon in a disturbance out of all proportion +to its cause. And as he walked he threw out phrases of ill-humour, so +that at last Miss Manisty, driven to defend herself, put the irresistible +question-- + +'Then why--why--my dear Edward, did you make me invite her? For it was +really his doing--wasn't it, Eleanor?' + +'Yes--I am witness!' + +'One of those abominable flashes of conscience that have so much to +answer for!' said Manisty, throwing up his hand in annoyance.--'If she +had come to us in Rome, one could have provided for her. But here in this +solitude--just at the most critical moment of one's work--and it's all +very well--but one can't treat a young lady, when she is actually in one's +house, as if she were the tongs!' + +He stood beside the window, with his hands on his sides, moodily looking +out. Thus strongly defined against the sunset light, he would have +impressed himself on a stranger as a man no longer in his first youth, +extraordinarily handsome so far as the head was concerned, but of a +somewhat irregular and stunted figure; stunted, however, only in comparison +with what it had to carry; for in fact he was of about middle height. But +the head, face and shoulders were all remarkably large and powerful; the +colouring--curly black hair, grey eyes, dark complexion--singularly vivid; +and the lines of the brow, the long nose, the energetic mouth, in their +mingled force and perfection, had made the stimulus of many an artist +before now. For Edward Manisty was one of those men of note whose portraits +the world likes to paint: and this 'Olympian head' of his was well known +in many a French and English studio, through a fine drawing of it made +by Legros when Manisty was still a youth at Oxford. 'Begun by David--and +finished by Rembrandt': so a young French painter had once described Edward +Manisty. + +The final effect of this discord, however, was an effect of power--of +personality--of something that claimed and held attention. So at least it +was described by Manisty's friends. Manisty's enemies, of whom the world +contained no small number, had other words for it. But women in general +took the more complimentary view. + +The two women now in his company were clearly much affected by the +force--wilfulness--extravagance--for one might call it by any of these +names--that breathed from the man before them. Miss Manisty, his aunt, +followed his movements with her small blinking eyes, timidly uneasy, but +yet visibly conscious all the time that she had done nothing that any +reasonable man could rationally complain of; while in the manner towards +him of his widowed cousin Mrs. Burgoyne, in the few words of banter or +remonstrance that she threw him on the subject of his aunt's expected +visitor, there was an indulgence, a deference even, that his irritation +scarcely deserved. + +'At least, give me some account of this girl'--he said, breaking in upon +his aunt's explanations. 'I have really not given her a thought--and--good +heavens!--she will be here, you say, in half an hour. Is she +young--stupid--pretty? Has she any experience--any conversation?' + +'I read you Adèle's letter on Monday,' said Miss Manisty, in a tone of +patience--'and I told you then all I knew--but I noticed you didn't listen. +I only saw her myself for a few hours at Boston. I remember she was +rather good-looking--but very shy, and not a bit like all the other girls +one was seeing. Her clothes were odd, and dowdy, and too old for her +altogether,--which struck me as curious, for the American girls, even the +country ones, have such a natural turn for dressing themselves. Her Boston +cousins didn't like it, and they tried to buy her things--but she was +difficult to manage--and they had to give it up. Still they were very fond +of her, I remember. Only she didn't let them show it much. Her manners +were much stiffer than theirs. They said she was very countrified and +simple--that she had been brought up quite alone by their old uncle, in a +little country town--and hardly ever went away from home.' + +'And Edward never saw her?' inquired Mrs. Burgoyne, with a motion of the +head towards Manisty. + +'No. He was at Chicago just those days. But you never saw anything like the +kindness of the cousins! Luncheons and dinners!'--Miss Manisty raised her +little gouty hands--'my dear--when we left Boston I never wanted to eat +again. It would be simply indecent if we did nothing for this girl. English +people are so ungrateful this side of the water. It makes me hot when I +think of all they do for us.' + +The small lady's blanched and wrinkled face reddened a little with a colour +which became her. Manisty, lost in irritable reflection, apparently took no +notice. + +'But why did they send her out all alone?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'Couldn't +they have found some family for her to travel with?' + +'Well, it was a series of accidents. She did come over with some Boston +people--the Porters--we knew very well. And they hadn't been three days in +London before one of the daughters developed meningitis, and was at the +point of death. And of course they could go nowhere and see nothing--and +poor Lucy Foster felt herself in the way. Then she was to have joined some +other people in Italy, and _they_ changed their plans. And at last I got a +letter from Mrs. Porter--in despair--asking me if I knew of anyone in Rome +who would take her in and chaperon her. And then--well, then you know the +rest.' + +And the speaker nodded again, still more significantly, towards her nephew. + +'No, not all,' said Mrs. Burgoyne, laughing. 'I remember he telegraphed.' + +'Yes. He wouldn't even wait for me to write. No--"Of course we must have +the girl!" he said. "She can join us at the villa. And they'll want to +know, so I'll wire." And out he went. And then that evening I had to write +and ask her to stay as long as she wished--and--well, there it is!' + +'And hence these tears,' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'What possessed him?' + +'Well, I think it was conscience,' said the little spinster, plucking up +spirit. 'I know it was with me. There had been some Americans calling on +us that day--you remember--those charming Harvard people? And somehow +it recalled to us both what a fuss they had made with us--and how kind +everybody was. At least I suppose that was how Edward felt. I know I did.' + +Manisty paused in his walk. For the first time his dark whimsical face was +crossed by an unwilling smile--slight but agreeable. + +'It is the old story,' he said. 'Life would be tolerable but for one's +virtues. All this time, I beg to point out, Aunt Pattie, that you have +still told us nothing about the young lady--except something about her +clothes, which doesn't matter.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne's amused gesture showed the woman's view of this remark. Miss +Manisty looked puzzled. + +'Well--I don't know. Yes--I have told you a great deal. The Lewinsons +apparently thought her rather strange. Adèle said she couldn't tell what to +be at with her--you never knew what she would like or dislike. Tom Lewinson +seems to have liked her better than Adèle did. He said "there was no +nonsense about her--and she never kept a fellow waiting." Adèle says she +is the oddest mixture of knowledge and ignorance. She would ask the most +absurd elementary questions--and then one morning Tom found out that she +was quite a Latin scholar, and had read Horace and Virgil, and all the +rest.' + +'Good God!' said Manisty under his breath, resuming his walk. + +'And when they asked her to play, she played--quite respectably.' + +'Of course:--two hours' practising in the morning,--I foresaw it,' said +Manisty, stopping short. 'Eleanor, we have been like children sporting over +the abyss!' + +Mrs. Burgoyne rose with a laugh--a very soft and charming laugh--by no +means the least among the various gifts with which nature had endowed her. + +'Oh, civilisation has resources,' she said--'Aunt Pattie and I will take +care of you. Now we have got a quarter of an hour to dress in. Only +first--one must really pay one's respects to this sunset.' + +And she stepped out through an open door upon a balcony beyond. Then +turning, with a face of delight, she beckoned to Manisty, who followed. + +'Every night more marvellous than the last'--she said, hanging over the +balustrade--'and one seems to be here in the high box of a theatre, with +the sun playing pageants for our particular benefit.' + +Before them, beneath them indeed, stretched a scene, majestic, +incomparable. The old villa in which they stood was built high on the ridge +of the Alban Hills. Below it, olive-grounds and vineyards, plough-lands and +pine plantations sank, slope after slope, fold after fold, to the Campagna. +And beyond the Campagna, along the whole shining line of the west, the sea +met the sunset; while to the north, a dim and scattered whiteness rising +from the plain--was Rome. + +The sunset was rushing to its height through every possible phase of +violence and splendour. From the Mediterranean, storm-clouds were rising +fast to the assault and conquest of the upper sky, which still above the +hills shone blue and tranquil. But the north-west wind and the sea were +leagued against it. They sent out threatening fingers and long spinning +veils of cloud across it--skirmishers that foretold the black and serried +lines, the torn and monstrous masses behind. Below these wild tempest +shapes, again,--in long spaces resting on the sea--the heaven was at peace, +shining in delicate greens and yellows, infinitely translucent and serene, +above the dazzling lines of water. Over Rome itself there was a strange +massing and curving of the clouds. Between their blackness and the deep +purple of the Campagna, rose the city--pale phantom--upholding one great +dome, and one only, to the view of night and the world. Round and above +and behind, beneath the long flat arch of the storm, glowed a furnace +of scarlet light. The buildings of the city were faint specks within +its fierce intensity, dimly visible through a sea of fire. St. Peter's +alone, without visible foundation or support, had consistence, form, +identity.--And between the city and the hills, waves of blue and purple +shade, forerunners of the night, stole over the Campagna towards the higher +ground. But the hills themselves were still shining, still clad in rose and +amethyst, caught in gentler repetition from the wildness of the west. Pale +rose even the olive-gardens; rose the rich brown fallows, the emerging +farms; while drawn across the Campagna from north to south, as though some +mighty brush had just laid it there for sheer lust of colour, sheer joy in +the mating it with the rose,--one long strip of sharpest, purest green. + +Mrs. Burgoyne turned at last from the great spectacle to her companion. + +'One has really no adjectives left,' she said. 'But I had used mine up +within a week.' + +'It still gives you so much pleasure?' he said, looking at her a little +askance. + +Her face changed at once. + +'And you?--you are beginning to be tired of it?' + +'One gets a sort of indigestion.--Oh! I shall be all right to-morrow.' + +Both were silent for a moment. Then he resumed.-- + +'I met General Fenton in the Borgia rooms this morning.' + +She turned, with a quick look of curiosity. + +'Well?' + +'I hadn't seen him since I met him at Simla three years ago. I always +found him particularly agreeable then. We used to ride together and talk +together,--and he put me in the way of seeing a good many things. This +morning he received me with a change of manner--can't exactly describe it; +but it was not flattering! So I presently left him to his own devices and +went on into another room. Then he followed me, and seemed to wish to talk. +Perhaps he perceived that he had been unfriendly, and thought he would +make amends. But I was rather short with him. We had been real friends; +we hadn't met for three years; and I thought he might have behaved +differently. He asked me a number of questions, however, about last year, +about my resignation, and so forth; and I answered as little as I could. So +presently he looked at me and laughed--"You remind me," he said, "of what +somebody said of Peel--that he was bad to go up to in the stable!--But what +on earth are you in the stable for?--and not in the running?"' + +Mrs. Burgoyne smiled. + +'He was evidently bored with the pictures!' she said, dryly. + +Manisty gave a shrug. 'Oh! I let him off. I wouldn't be drawn. I told him +I had expressed myself so much in public there was nothing more to say. +"H'm," he said, "they tell me at the Embassy you're writing a book!" You +should have seen the little old fellow's wizened face--and the scorn of +it! So I inquired whether there was any objection to the writing of books. +"Yes!"--he said--"when a man can do a d----d sight better for himself--as +you could! Everyone tells me that last year you had the ball at your feet." +"Well,"--I said--"and I kicked it--and am still kicking it--in my own +way. It mayn't be yours--or anybody else's--but wait and see." He shook +his head. "A man with what _were_ your prospects can't afford escapades. +It's all very well for a Frenchman; it don't pay in England." So then I +maintained that half the political reputations of the present day were +based on escapades. "Whom do you mean?"--he said--"Randolph Churchill?--But +Randolph's escapades were always just what the man in the street +understood. As for your escapade, the man in the street can't make head or +tail of it. That's just the, difference."' + +Mrs. Burgoyne laughed--but rather impatiently. + +'I should like to know when General Fenton ever considered the man in the +street!' + +'Not at Simla certainly. There you may despise him.--But the old man is +right enough as to the part he plays in England.--I gathered that all my +old Indian friends thought I had done for myself. There was no sympathy for +me anywhere. Oh!--as to the cause I upheld--yes. But none as to the mode of +doing it.' + +'Well--there is plenty of sympathy elsewhere! What does it matter what +dried-up officials like General Fenton choose to think about it?' + +'Nothing--so long as there are no doubts inside to open the gates to the +General Fentons outside!' + +He looked at her oddly--half smiling, half frowning. + +'The doubts are traitors. Send them to execution!' He shook his head. + +'Do you remember that sentence we came across yesterday in Chateaubriand's +letters "As to my career--I have gone from shipwreck to shipwreck." What if +I am merely bound on the same charming voyage?' + +'I accept the comparison,' she said with vivacity. 'End as he did in +re-creating a church, and regenerating a literature--and see who will count +the shipwrecks!' + +Her hand's disdainful gesture completed the sally. + +Manisty's face dismissed its shadow. + +As she stood beside him, in the rosy light--so proudly confident--Eleanor +Burgoyne was very delightful to see and hear. Manisty, one of the subtlest +and most fastidious of observers, was abundantly conscious of it. Yet she +was not beautiful, except in the judgment of a few exceptional people, to +whom a certain kind of grace--very rare, and very complex in origin--is of +more importance than other things. The eyes were, indeed, beautiful; so was +the forehead, and the hair of a soft ashy brown folded and piled round it +in a most skilful simplicity. But the rest of the face was too long; and +its pallor, the singularly dark circles round the eyes, the great thinness +of the temples and cheeks, together with the emaciation of the whole +delicate frame, made a rather painful impression on a stranger. It was +a face of experience, a face of grief; timid, yet with many strange +capacities and suggestions both of vehemence and pride. It could still +tremble into youth and delight. But in general it held the world aloof. +Mrs. Burgoyne was not very far from thirty, and either physical weakness, +or the presence of some enemy within more destructive still, had emphasised +the loss of youth. At the same time she had still a voice, a hand, a +carriage that lovelier women had often envied, discerning in them those +subtleties of race and personality which are not to be rivalled for the +asking. + +To-night she brought all her charm to bear upon her companion's +despondency, and succeeded as she had often succeeded before. She divined +that he needed flattery, and she gave it; that he must be supported and +endorsed, and she had soon pushed General Fenton out of sight behind a +cloud of witness of another sort. + +Manisty's mood yielded; and in a short time he was again no less ready to +admire the sunset than she was. + +'Heavens!' she said at last, holding out her watch.--'Just look at the +time--and Miss Foster!' + +Manisty struck his hand against the railing. + +'How is one to be civil about this visit! Nothing could be more +unfortunate. These last critical weeks--and each of us so dependent on +the other--Really it is the most monstrous folly on all our parts that we +should have brought this girl upon us.' + +'Poor Miss Foster!' said Mrs. Burgoyne, raising her eyebrows. 'But of +course you won't be civil!--Aunt Pattie and I know that. When I think of +what I went through that first fortnight--' + +'Eleanor!' + +'You are the only man I ever knew that could sit silent through a whole +meal. By to-morrow Miss Foster will have added that experience to her +collection. Well--I shall be prepared with my consolations--there's the +carriage--and the bell!' + +They fled indoors, escaping through the side entrances of the salon, before +the visitor could be shown in. + + * * * * * + +'Must I change my dress?' + +The voice that asked the question trembled with agitation and fatigue. But +the girl who owned the voice stood up stiffly, looking at Miss Manisty with +a frowning, almost a threatening shyness. + +'Well, my dear,' said Miss Manisty, hesitating. 'Are you not rather dusty? +We can easily keep dinner a quarter of an hour.' + +She looked at the grey alpaca dress before her, in some perplexity. + +'Oh, very well'--said the girl hurriedly.--'Of course I'll change. +Only'--and the voice fluttered again evidently against her will--'I'm +afraid I haven't anything very nice. I must get something in Rome. Mrs. +Lewinson advised me. This is my afternoon dress,--I've been wearing it in +Florence. But of course--I'll put on my other.--Oh! please don't send for a +maid. I'd rather unpack for myself--so much rather!' + +The speaker flushed crimson, as she saw Miss Manisty's maid enter the +room in answer to her mistress's ring. She stood up indeed with her hand +grasping her trunk, as though defending it from an assailant. + +The maid looked at her mistress. 'Miss Foster will ring, Benson, if she +wants you'--said Miss Manisty; and the black-robed elderly maid, breathing +decorous fashion and the ways of 'the best people,' turned, gave a swift +look at Miss Foster, and left the room. + +'Are you sure, my dear? You know she would make you tidy in no time. She +arranges hair beautifully.' + +'Oh quite--quite sure!--thank you,' said the girl with the same eagerness. +'I will be ready,--right away.' + +Then, left to herself, Miss Foster hastily opened her box and took out some +of its contents. She unfolded one dress after another,--and looked at them +unhappily. + +'Perhaps I ought to have let cousin Izza give me those things in Boston,' +she thought. 'Perhaps I was too proud. And that money of Uncle Ben's--it +might have been kinder--after all he wanted me to look nice'-- + +She sat ruefully on the ground beside her trunk, turning the things over, +in a misery of annoyance and mortification; half inclined to laugh too +as she remembered the seamstress in the small New England country town, +who had helped her own hands to manufacture them. 'Well, Miss Lucy, your +uncle's done real handsome by you. I guess he's set you up, and no mistake. +There's no meanness about him!' + +And she saw the dress on the stand--the little blonde withered head of the +dressmaker--the spectacled eyes dwelling proudly on the masterpiece before +them.-- + +Alack! There rose up the memory of little Mrs. Lewinson at Florence--of her +gently pursed lips--of the looks that were meant to be kind, and were in +reality so critical. + +No matter. The choice had to be made; and she chose at last a blue and +white check that seemed to have borne its travels better than the rest. It +had looked so fresh and striking in the window of the shop whence she had +bought it. 'And you know, Miss Lucy, you're so tall, you can stand them +chancy things'--her little friend had said to her, when _she_ had wondered +whether the check might not be too large. + +And yet only with a passing wonder. She could not honestly say that her +dress had cost her much thought then or at any other time. She had been +content to be very simple, to admire other girls' cleverness. There had +been influences upon her own childhood, however, that had somehow separated +her from the girls around her, had made it difficult for her to think and +plan as they did. + +She rose with the dress in her hands, and as she did so, she caught the +glory of the sunset through the open window. + +She ran to look, all her senses flooded with the sudden beauty,--when she +heard a man's voice as it seemed close beside her. Looking to the left, she +distinguished a balcony, and a dark figure that had just emerged upon it. + +Mr. Manisty--no doubt! She closed her window hurriedly, and began her +dressing, trying at the time to collect her thoughts on the subject of +these people whom she had come to visit. + +Yet neither the talk of her Boston cousins, nor the gossip of the Lewinsons +at Florence had left any very clear impression. She remembered well her +first and only sight of Miss Manisty at Boston. The little spinster, so +much a lady, so kind, cheerful and agreeable, had left a very favourable +impression in America. Mr. Manisty had left an impression too--that was +certain--for people talked of him perpetually. Not many persons, however, +had liked him, it seemed. She could remember, as it were, a whole track +of resentments, hostilities, left behind. 'He cares nothing about us'--an +irate Boston lady had said in her hearing--but he will exploit us! He +despises us,--but he'll make plenty of speeches and articles out of +us--you'll see!' + +As for Major Lewinson, the husband of Mr. Manisty's first cousin,--she had +been conscious all the time of only half believing what he said, of holding +out against it. He must be so different from Mr. Manisty--the little smart, +quick-tempered soldier--with his contempt for the undisciplined civilian +way of doing things. She did not mean to remember his remarks. For after +all, she had her own ideas of what Mr. Manisty would be like. She had +secretly formed her own opinion. He had been a man of letters and a +traveller before he entered politics. She remembered--nay, she would never +forget--a volume of letters from Palestine, written by him, which had +reached her through the free library of the little town near her home. +She who read slowly, but, when she admired, with a silent and worshipping +ardour, had read this book, had hidden it under her pillow, had been +haunted for days by its pliant sonorous sentences, by the colour, the +perfume, the melancholy of pages that seemed to her dreaming youth +marvellous, inimitable. There were descriptions of a dawn at Bethlehem--a +night wandering at Jerusalem--a reverie by the sea of Galilee--the very +thought of which made her shiver a little, so deeply had they touched her +young and pure imagination. + +And then--people talked so angrily of his quarrel with the Government--and +his resigning. They said he had been foolish, arrogant, unwise. Perhaps. +But after all it had been to his own hurt--it must have been for principle. +So far the girl's secret instinct was all on his side. + +Meanwhile, as she dressed, there floated through her mind fragments of what +she had been told as to his strange personal beauty; but these she only +entertained shyly and in passing. She had been brought up to think little +of such matters, or rather to avoid thinking of them. + +She went through her toilette as neatly and rapidly as she could, her mind +all the time so full of speculation and a deep restrained excitement that +she ceased to trouble herself in the least about her gown. As for her hair, +she arranged it almost mechanically, caring only that its black masses +should be smooth and in order. She fastened at her throat a small turquoise +brooch that had been her mother's; she clasped the two little chain +bracelets that were the only ornaments of the kind she possessed, and then +without a single backward look towards the reflection in the glass, she +left her room--her heart beating fast with timidity and expectation. + + * * * * * + +'Oh! poor child--poor child!--what a frock!' + +Such was the inward ejaculation of Mrs. Burgoyne, as the door of the salon +was thrown open by the Italian butler, and a very tall girl came abruptly +through, edging to one side as though she were trying to escape the +servant, and looking anxiously round the vast room. + +Manisty also turned as the door opened. Miss Manisty caught his momentary +expression of wonder, as she herself hurried forward to meet the new-comer. + +'You have been very quick, my dear, and I am sure you must be hungry.--This +is an old friend of ours--Mrs. Burgoyne--my nephew--Edward Manisty. He +knows all your Boston cousins, if not you. Edward, will you take Miss +Foster?--she's the stranger.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne pressed the girl's hand with a friendly effusion. Beyond her +was a dark-haired man, who bowed in silence. Lucy Foster took his arm, and +he led her through a large intervening room, in which were many tables and +many books, to the dining-room. + +On the way he muttered a few embarrassed words as to the weather and +the lateness of dinner, walking meanwhile so fast that she had to hurry +after him. 'Good heavens, why she is a perfect chess-board!' he thought +to himself, looking askance at her dress, in a sudden and passionate +dislike--'one could play draughts upon her. What has my Aunt been about?' + +The girl looked round her in bewilderment as they sat down. What a strange +place! The salon in her momentary glance round it had seemed to her all +splendour. She had been dimly aware of pictures, fine hangings, luxurious +carpets. Here on the other hand all was rude and bare. The stained walls +were covered with a series of tattered daubs, that seemed to be meant +for family portraits--of the Malestrini family perhaps, to whom the +villa belonged? And between the portraits there were rough modern doors +everywhere of the commonest wood and manufacture which let in all the +draughts, and made the room not a room, but a passage. The uneven brick +floor was covered in the centre with some thin and torn matting; many of +the chairs ranged against the wall were broken; and the old lamp that swung +above the table gave hardly any light. + +Miss Manisty watched her guest's face with a look of amusement. + +'Well, what do you think of our dining-room, my dear? I wanted to clean it +and put it in order. But my nephew there wouldn't have a thing touched.' + +She looked at Manisty, with a movement of the lips and head that seemed to +implore him to make some efforts. + +Manisty frowned a little, lifted his great brow and looked, not at Miss +Foster, but at Mrs. Burgoyne-- + +'The room, as it happens, gives me more pleasure than any other in the +villa.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne laughed. + +'Because it's hideous?' + +'If you like. I should only call it the natural, untouched thing.' + +Then while his Aunt and Mrs. Burgoyne made mock of him, he fell silent +again, nervously crumbling his bread with a large wasteful hand. Lucy +Foster stole a look at him, at the strong curls of black hair piled above +the brow, the moody embarrassment of the eyes, the energy of the lips and +chin. + +Then she turned to her companions. Suddenly the girl's clear brown skin +flushed rosily, and she abruptly took her eyes from Mrs. Burgoyne. + +Miss Manisty, however--in despair of her nephew--was bent upon doing her +own duty. She asked all the proper questions about the girl's journey, +about the cousins at Florence, about her last letters from home. Miss +Foster answered quickly, a little breathlessly, as though each question +were an ordeal that had to be got through. And once or twice, in the course +of the conversation, she looked again at Mrs. Burgoyne, more lingeringly +each time. That lady wore a thin dress gleaming with jet. The long white +arms showed under the transparent stuff. The slender neck and delicate +bosom were bare,--too bare surely,--that was the trouble. To look at her +filled the girl's shrinking Puritan sense with discomfort. But what small +and graceful hands!--and how she used them!--how she turned her neck!--how +delicious her voice was! It made the new-comer think of some sweet plashing +stream in her own Vermont valleys. And then, every now and again, how +subtle and startling was the change of look!--the gaiety passing in a +moment, with the drooping of eye and mouth, into something sad and harsh, +like a cloud dropping round a goddess. In her elegance and self-possession +indeed, she seemed to the girl a kind of goddess--heathenishly divine, +because of that mixture of unseemliness, but still divine. + +Several times Mrs. Burgoyne addressed her--with a gentle courtesy--and Miss +Foster answered. She was shy, but not at all awkward or conscious. Her +manner had the essential self-possession which is the birthright of the +American woman. But it suggested reserve, and a curious absence of any +young desire to make an effect. + +As for Mrs. Burgoyne, long before dinner was over, she had divined a great +many things about the new-comer, and amongst them the girl's disapproval of +herself. 'After all'--she thought--'if she only knew it, she is a beauty. +What a trouble it must have been first to find, and then to make that +dress!--Ill luck!--And her hair! Who on earth taught her to drag it back +like that? If one could only loosen it, how beautiful it would be! What +is it? Is it Puritanism? Has she been brought up to go to meetings and sit +under a minister? Were her forbears married in drawing-rooms and under +trees? The Fates were certainly frolicking when they brought her here! How +am I to keep Edward in order?' + +And suddenly, with a little signalling of eye and brow, she too conveyed to +Manisty, who was looking listlessly towards her, that he was behaving as +badly as even she could have expected. He made a little face that only she +saw, but he turned to Miss Foster and began to talk,--all the time adding +to the mountain of crumbs beside him, and scarcely waiting to listen to the +girl's answers. + +'You came by Pisa?' + +'Yes. Mrs. Lewinson found me an escort--' + +'It was a mistake--' he said, hurrying his words like a schoolboy. 'You +should have come by Perugia and Spoleto. Do you know Spello?' + +Miss Foster stared. + +'Edward!' said Miss Manisty, 'how could she have heard of Spello? It is the +first time she has ever been in Italy.' + +'No matter!' he said, and in a moment his moroseness was lit up, chased +away by the little pleasure of his own whim--'Some day Miss Foster must +hear of Spello. May I not be the first person to tell her that she should +see Spello?' + +'Really, Edward!' cried Miss Manisty, looking at him in a mild +exasperation. + +'But there was so much to see at Florence!' said Lucy Foster, wondering. + +'No--pardon me!--there is nothing to be seen at Florence--or nothing that +one ought to wish to see--till the destroyers of the town have been hung in +their own new Piazza!' + +'Oh yes!--that is a real disfigurement!' said the girl eagerly. 'And +yet--can't one understand?--they must use their towns for themselves. They +can't always be thinking of them as museums--as we do.' + +'The argument would be good if the towns were theirs,' he said, flashing +round upon her. 'One can stand a great deal from lawful owners.' + +Miss Foster looked in bewilderment at Mrs. Burgoyne. That lady laughed and +bent across the table. + +'Let me warn you, Miss Foster, this gentleman here must be taken with a +grain of salt when he talks about poor Italy--and the Italians.' + +'But I thought'--said Lucy Foster, staring at her host-- + +'You thought he was writing a book on Italy? That doesn't matter. It's the +new Italy of course that he hates--the poor King and Queen--the Government +and the officials.' + +'He wants the old times back?'--said Miss Foster, wondering--'when the +priests tyrannised over everybody? when the Italians had no country--and no +unity?' + +She spoke slowly, at last looking her host in the face. Her frown of +nervousness had disappeared. Manisty laughed. + +'Pio Nono pulled down nothing--not a brick--or scarcely. And it is a most +excellent thing, Miss Foster, to be tyrannised over by priests.' + +His great eyes shone--one might even say, glared upon her. His manner was +not agreeable; and Miss Foster coloured. + +'I don't think so'--she said, and then was too shy to say any more. + +'Oh, but you will think so,'--he said, obstinately--'only you must stay +long enough in the country. What people are pleased to call Papal tyranny +puts a few people in prison--and tells them what books to read. Well!--what +matter? Who knows what books they ought to read?' + +'But all their long struggle!--and their heroes! They had to make +themselves a nation--' + +The words stumbled on the girl's tongue, but her effort, the hot feeling in +her young face became her.--Miss Manisty thought to herself, 'Oh, we shall +dress, and improve her--We shall see!'-- + +'One has first to settle whether it was worth while. What does a new nation +matter? Theirs, anyway, was made too quick,' said Manisty, rising in answer +to his aunt's signal. + +'But liberty matters!' said the girl. She stood an instant with her hand on +the back of her chair, unconsciously defiant. + +'Ah! Liberty!' said Manisty--'Liberty!' He lifted his shoulders +contemptuously. + +Then backing to the wall, he made room for her to pass. The girl felt +almost as though she had been struck. She moved hurriedly, appealingly +towards Miss Manisty, who took her arm kindly as they left the room. + +'Don't let my nephew frighten you, my dear'--she said--'He never thinks +like anybody else.' + +'I read so much at Florence--and on the journey'--said Lucy, while her hand +trembled in Miss Manisty's--'Mrs. Browning--Mazzini--many things. I could +not put that time out of my head!' + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +On the way back to the salon the ladies passed once more through the large +book-room or library which lay between it and the dining-room. Lucy Foster +looked round it, a little piteously, as though she were seeking for +something to undo the impression--the disappointment--she had just +received. + +'Oh! my dear, you never saw such a place as it was when we arrived in +March'--said Miss Manisty. 'It was the billiard-room--a ridiculous +table--and ridiculous balls--and a tiled floor without a scrap of +carpet--and the _cold_! In the whole apartment there were just two bedrooms +with fireplaces. Eleanor went to bed in one; I went to bed in the other. +No carpets--no stoves--no proper beds even. Edward of course said it was +all charming, and the climate balmy. Ah, well!--now we are really quite +comfortable--except in that odious dining-room, which Edward will have left +in its sins.' + +Miss Manisty surveyed her work with a mild satisfaction. The table indeed +had been carried away. The floor was covered with soft carpets. The rough +uneven walls painted everywhere with the interlaced M's of the Malestrini +were almost hidden by well-filled bookcases; and, in addition, a profusion +of new books, mostly French and Italian, was heaped on all the tables. On +the mantelpiece a large recent photograph stood propped against a marble +head. It represented a soldier in a striking dress; and Lucy stopped to +look at it. + +'One of the Swiss Guards--at the Vatican'--said Mrs. Burgoyne kindly. 'You +know the famous uniform--it was designed by Michael Angelo.' + +'No--I didn't know'--said the girl, flushing again.--'And this head?' + +'Ah, that is a treasure! Mr. Manisty bought it a few months ago from a +Roman noble who has come to grief. He sold this and a few bits of furniture +first of all. Then he tried to sell his pictures. But the Government came +down upon him--you know your pictures are not your own in Italy. So the +poor man must keep his pictures and go bankrupt. But isn't she beautiful? +She is far finer than most of the things in the Vatican--real primitive +Greek--not a copy. Do you know'--Mrs. Burgoyne stepped back, looked first +at the bust, then at Miss Poster--'do you know you are really very like +her--curiously like her!' + +'Oh!'--cried Miss Foster in confusion--'I wish--' + +'But it is quite true. Except for the hair. And that's only arrangement. Do +you think--would you let me?--would you forgive me?--It's just this band of +hair here, yours waves precisely in the same way. Would you really allow +me--I won't make you untidy?' + +And before Miss Poster could resist, Mrs. Burgoyne had put up her deft +hands, and in a moment, with a pull here, and the alteration of a hairpin +there, she had loosened the girl's black and silky hair, till it showed the +beautiful waves above the ear in which it did indeed resemble the marble +head with a curious closeness. + +'I can put it back in a moment. But oh--that is so charming! Aunt Pattie!' + +Miss Manisty looked up from a newspaper which had just arrived. + +'My dear!--that was bold of you I But indeed it _is_ charming! I think I +would forgive you if I were Miss Foster. + +The girl felt herself gently turned towards the mirror that rose behind the +Greek head. With pink cheeks she too looked at herself for a moment. Then +in a shyness beyond speech, she lifted her hands. + +'Must you'--said Mrs. Burgoyne appealingly. 'I know one doesn't like to +be untidy. But it isn't really the least untidy--It is only +delightful--perfectly delightful!' + +Her voice, her manner charmed the girl's annoyance. + +'If you like it'--she said, hesitating--'But it will come down!' + +'I like it terribly--and it will not think of coming down! Let me show you +Mr. Manisty's latest purchase.' + +And, slipping her arm inside Miss Foster's, Mrs. Burgoyne dexterously +turned her away from the glass, and brought her to the large central table, +where a vivid charcoal sketch, supported on a small easel, rose among the +litter of books. + +It represented an old old man carried in a chair on the shoulders of a +crowd of attendants and guards. Soldiers in curved helmets, courtiers +in short velvet cloaks and ruffs, priests in floating vestments pressed +about him--a dim vast multitude stretched into the distance. The old man +wore a high cap with three lines about it; his thin and shrunken form was +enveloped in a gorgeous robe. The face, infinitely old, was concentrated +in the sharply smiling eyes, the long, straight, secret mouth. His arm, +supporting with difficulty the weight of the robe, was raised,--the hand +blessed. On either side of him rose great fans of white ostrich feathers, +and the old man among them was whiter than they, spectrally white from head +to foot, save for the triple cap, and the devices on his robe. But into +his emaciation, his weakness, the artist had thrown a triumph, a force +that thrilled the spectator. The small figure, hovering above the crowd, +seemed in truth to have nothing to do with it, to be alone with the huge +spaces--arch on arch--dome on dome--of the vast church through which it was +being borne.-- + +'Do you know who it is?' asked Mrs. Burgoyne, smiling. + +'The--the Pope?' said Miss Foster, wondering. + +'Isn't it clever? It is by one of your compatriots, an American artist +in Rome. Isn't it wonderful too, the way in which it shows you, not the +Pope--but the Papacy--not the man but the Church?' + +Miss Foster said nothing. Her puzzled eyes travelled from the drawing to +Mrs. Burgoyne's face. Then she caught sight of another photograph on the +table. + +'And that also?'--she said--For again it was the face of Leo +XIII.--feminine, priestly, indomitable--that looked out upon her from among +the books. + +'Oh, my dear, come away,' said Miss Manisty impatiently. 'In my days the +Scarlet Lady _was_ the Scarlet Lady, and we didn't flirt with her as all +the world does now. Shrewd old gentleman! I should have thought one picture +of him was enough.' + + * * * * * + +As they entered the old painted salon, Mrs. Burgoyne went to one of the +tall windows opening to the floor and set it wide. Instantly the Campagna +was in the room--the great moonlit plain, a thousand feet below, with the +sea at its further edge, and the boundless sweep of starry sky above it. +From the little balcony, one might, it seemed, have walked straight into +Orion. The note of a nightingale bubbled up from the olives; and the scent +of a bean-field in flower flooded the salon. + +Miss Foster sprang to her feet and followed Mrs. Burgoyne. She hung over +the balcony while her companion pointed here and there, to the line of the +Appian Way,--to those faint streaks in the darkness that marked the distant +city--to the dim blue of the Etrurian mountains.-- + +Presently, however, she drew herself erect, and Mrs. Burgoyne fancied that +she shivered. + +'Ah! this is a hill-air,' she said, and she took from her arm a light +evening cloak, and threw it round Miss Foster. + +'Oh, I am not cold!--It wasn't that!' + +'What was it?' said Mrs. Burgoyne pleasantly. 'That you feel Italy too much +for you? Ah! you must get used to that.' + +Lucy Foster drew a long breath--a breath of emotion. She was grateful for +being understood. But she could not express herself. + +Mrs. Burgoyne looked at her curiously. + +'Did you read a good deal about it before you came?' + +'Well, I read some--we have a good town library--and Uncle Ben gave me +two or three books--but of course it wasn't like Boston. Ours is a little +place.' + +'And you were pleased to come?' + +The girl hesitated. + +'Yes'--she said simply. 'I wanted to come.--But I didn't want to leave my +uncle. He is getting quite an old man.' + +'And you have lived with him a long time?' + +'Since I was a little thing. Mother and I came to live with him after +Father died. Then Mother died, five years ago.' + +'And you have been alone--and very good friends?' + +Mrs. Burgoyne smiled kindly. She had a manner of questioning that seemed to +Miss Foster the height of courtesy. But the girl did not find it easy to +answer. + +'I have no one else--' she said at last, and then stopped abruptly. + +'She is home-sick'--said Mrs. Burgoyne inwardly--'I wonder whether the +Lewinsons treated her nicely at Florence?' + +Indeed as Lucy Foster leant over the balcony, the olive-gardens and +vineyards faded before her. She saw in their stead, the snow-covered farms +and fields of a New England valley--the elms in along village street, +bare and wintry--a rambling wooden house--a glowing fire, in a simple +parlour--an old man sitting beside it.-- + +It _is_ chilly'--said Mrs. Burgoyne--'Let us go in. But we will keep the +window open. Don't take that off.' + +She laid a restraining hand on the girl's arm. Miss Foster sat down +absently not far from the window. The mingled lights of lamp and moon fell +upon her, upon the noble rounding of the face, which was grave, a little +austere even, but still sensitive and delicate. Her black hair, thanks to +Mrs. Burgoyne's devices, rippled against the brow and cheek, almost hiding +the small ear. The graceful cloak, with its touches of sable on a main +fabric of soft white, hid the ugly dress; its ample folds heightened the +natural dignity of the young form and long limbs, lent them a stately and +muse-like charm. Mrs. Burgoyne and Miss Manisty looked at each other, then +at Miss Foster. Both of them had the same curious feeling, as though a veil +were being drawn away from something they were just beginning to see. + +'You must be very tired, my dear'--said Miss Manisty at last, when she +and Mrs. Burgoyne had chatted a good deal, and the new-comer still sat +silent--'I wonder what you are thinking about so intently?' + +Miss Foster woke up at once. + +'Oh, I'm not a bit tired--not a bit! I was thinking--I was thinking of that +photograph in the next room--and a line of poetry.' + +She spoke with the _naïveté_ of one who had not known how to avoid the +confession. 'What line?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. + +'It's Milton. I learnt it at school. You will know it, of course,' she +said timidly. 'It's the line about "the triple tyrant" and "the Babylonian +woe"'-- + +Mrs. Burgoyne laughed. + + 'Their martyred blood and ashes sow + O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway + The triple tyrant-- + +Was that what you were thinking of?' + +Miss Foster had coloured deeply. + +'It was the cap--the tiara, isn't it?--that reminded me,' she said faintly; +and then she looked away, as though not wishing to continue the subject. + +'She wonders whether I am a Catholic,' thought Mrs. Burgoyne, amused, 'and +whether she has hurt my feelings.'--Aloud, she said--'Are you very, very +Puritan still in your part of America? Excuse me, but I am dreadfully +ignorant about America.' + +'We are Methodists in our little town mostly'--said Miss Foster. 'There +is a Presbyterian church--and the best families go there. But my father's +people were always Methodists. My mother was a Universalist.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne frowned with perplexity. 'I'm afraid I don't know what that +is?' she said. + +'They think everybody will be saved,' said Miss Foster in her shy deep +voice. 'They don't despair of anybody.' + +And suddenly Mrs. Burgoyne saw a very soft and tender expression pass +across the girl's grave features, like the rising of an inward light. + +'A mystic--and a beauty both?' she thought to herself, a little scornfully +this time. In all her politeness to the new-comer so far, she had been like +a person stealthily searching for something foreseen and desired. If she +had found it, it would have been quite easy to go on being kind to Miss +Foster. But she had not found it. + +At that moment the door between the library and the salon was thrown open, +and Manisty appeared, cigarette in hand. + +'Aunt Pattie--Eleanor--how many tickets do you want for this function next +Sunday?' + +'Four tribune tickets--we three'--Miss Manisty pointed to the other two +ladies--'and yourself. If we can't get so many, leave me at home.' + +'Of course we shall have tribune tickets--as many as we want,' said Manisty +a little impatiently.--'Have you explained to Miss Foster?' + +'No, but I will. Miss Foster, next Sunday fortnight the Pope celebrates +his 'Capella Papale'--the eighteenth anniversary of his coronation--in St. +Peter's. Rome is very full, and there will be a great demonstration--fifty +thousand people or more. Would you like to come?' + +Miss Foster looked up, hesitating. Manisty, who had turned to go back +to his room, paused, struck by the momentary silence. He listened with +curiosity for the girl's reply. + +'One just goes to see it like a spectacle?' she said at last, slowly. 'One +needn't do anything oneself?' + +Miss Manisty stared--and then laughed. 'Nobody will see what you do in such +a crowd--I should think,' she said. 'But you know one can't be rude--to an +old old man. If others kneel, I suppose we must kneel. Does it do anyone +harm to be blessed by an old man?' + +'Oh no!--no!' cried Miss Foster, flushing deeply. Then, after a moment, she +added decidedly--'Please--I should like to go very much.' + +Manisty grinned unseen, and closed the door behind him. + +Then Miss Foster, after an instant's restlessness, moved nearer to her +hostess. + +'I am afraid--you thought I was rude just now? It's so lovely of you to +plan things for me. But--I can't ever be sure whether it's right to go into +other people's churches and look at their services--like a show. I should +just hate it myself--and I felt it once or twice at Florence. And so--you +understand--don't you?'--she said imploringly. + +Miss Manisty's small eyes examined her with anxiety. 'What an extraordinary +girl!' she thought. 'Is she going to be a great bore?' + +At the same time the girl's look--so open, sweet and modest--disarmed and +attracted her. She shrugged her shoulders with a smile. + +'Well, my dear--I don't know. All I can say is, the Catholics don't mind! +They walk in and out of their own churches all the time mass is going +on--the children run about--the sacristans take you round. You certainly +needn't feel it on their account.' + +'But then, too, if I am not a Catholic--how far ought one to be taking +part--in--in what--' + +'In what one disapproves?' said Mrs. Burgoyne, smiling. 'You would make the +world a little difficult, wouldn't you, if you were to arrange it on that +principle?' + +She spoke in a dry, rather sharp voice, unlike that in which she had +hitherto addressed the new-comer. Lucy Foster looked at her with a +shrinking perplexity. + +'It's best if we're all straightforward, isn't it?'--she said in a low +voice, and then, drawing towards her an illustrated magazine that lay on +the table near her she hurriedly buried herself in its pages. + + * * * * * + +Silence had fallen on the three ladies. Eleanor Burgoyne sat lost in +reverie, her fair head thrown back against her low chair. + +She was thinking of her conversation with Edward Manisty on the +balcony--and of his book. That book indeed had for her a deep personal +significance. To think of it at all, was to be carried to the past, to feel +for the hundredth time the thrill of change and new birth. + +When she joined them in Rome, in mid-winter, she had found Manisty +struggling with the first drafts of it,--full of yeasty ideas, full also of +doubts, confusions and discouragements. He had not been at all glad to see +his half-forgotten cousin--quite the contrary. As she had reminded him, she +had suffered much the same things at his hands that Miss Foster was likely +to suffer now. It made her laugh to think of his languid reception of her, +the moods, the silences, the weeks of just civil acquaintanceship; and then +gradually, the snatches of talk--and those great black brows of his lifted +in a surprise which a tardy politeness would try to mask:--and at last, +the good, long, brain-filling, heart-filling talks, the break-down of +reserves--the man's whole mind, its remorses, ambitions, misgivings, poured +at her feet--ending in the growth of that sweet daily habit of common +work--side by side, head close to head--hand close to hand.-- + +Eleanor Burgoyne lay still and motionless in the soft dusk of the old room, +her white lids shut--Lucy Foster thought her asleep.-- + +He had said to her once, quoting some Frenchman, that she was 'good to +consult about ideas.' Ah well!--at a great price had she won that praise. +And with an unconscious stiffening of the frail hands lying on the arms +of the chair, she thought of those bygone hours in which she had asked +herself--'what remains?' Religious faith?--No!--Life was too horrible! +Could such things have happened to her in a world ruled by a God?--that was +her question, day and night for years. But books, facts, ideas--all the +riddle of this various nature--_that_ one might still amuse oneself with a +little, till one's own light went out in the same darkness that had already +engulfed mother--husband--child. + +So that 'cleverness,' of which father and husband had taken so little +account, which had been of so little profit to her so far in her course +through circumstance, had come to her aid. The names and lists of the +books that had passed through her hands, during those silent years of her +widowhood, lived beside her stern old father, would astonish even Manisty +were she to try and give some account of them. And first she had read +merely to fill the hours, to dull memory. But gradually there had sprung up +in her that inner sweetness, that gentle restoring flame that comes from +the life of ideas, the life of knowledge, even as a poor untrained woman +may approach it. She had shared it with no one, revealed it to no one. Her +nature dreaded rebuffs; and her father had no words sharp enough for any +feminine ambition beyond the household and the nursery. + +So she had kept it all to herself, till Miss Manisty, shocked as many other +people had begun to be by her fragile looks, had bearded the General, and +carried her off to Rome for the winter. And there she had been forced, as +it were, into this daily contact with Edward Manisty, at what might well +turn out to be the most critical moment of his life; when he was divided +between fierce regrets for the immediate past, and fierce resolves to +recover and assert himself in other ways; when he was taking up again his +earlier function of man of letters in order to vindicate himself as a +politician and a man of action. Strange and challenging personality!--did +she yet know it fully? + +Ah! that winter--what a healing in it all!--what a great human experience! +Yet now, as always, when her thoughts turned to the past, she did not allow +them to dwell upon it long. That past lay for her in a golden haze. To +explore it too deeply, or too long,--that she shrank from. All that she +prayed was to press no questions, force no issues. But at least she had +found in it a new reason for living; she meant to live; whereas last year +she had wished to die, and all the world--dear, kind Aunt Pattie first and +foremost--had thought her on the road for death. + +But the book?--she bent her brows over it, wrestling with various doubts +and difficulties. Though it was supposed to represent the thoughts and +fancies of an Englishman wandering through modern Italy, it was really +Manisty's Apologia--Manisty's defence of certain acts which had made him +for a time the scandal and offence of the English political party to which +ancestrally he belonged, in whose interests he had entered Parliament and +taken office. He had broken with his party on the ground that it had become +a party of revolution, especially in matters connected with Religion and +Education; and having come abroad to escape for a time from the personal +frictions and agitations which his conduct had brought upon him, he had +thrown himself into a passionate and most hostile study of Italy--Italy, +the new country, made by revolution, fashioned, so far as laws and +government can do it, by the lay modern spirit--as an object-lesson to +England and the world. The book was in reality a party pamphlet, written by +a man whose history and antecedents, independently of his literary ability, +made his work certain of readers and of vogue. + +That, however, was not what Mrs. Burgoyne was thinking of.--She was +anxiously debating with herself certain points of detail, points of form. + +These fragments of poetical prose which Manisty had interspersed amid a +serious political argument--were they really an adornment of the book, or +a blur upon it? He had a natural tendency towards colour and exuberance +in writing; he loved to be leisurely, and a little sonorous; there was +something old-fashioned and Byronic in his style and taste. His sentences, +perhaps, were short; but his manner was not brief. The elliptical fashion +of the day was not his. He liked to wander through his subject, dreaming, +poetising, discussing at his will. It was like a return to _vetturino_ +after the summary haste of the railway. And so far the public had welcomed +this manner of his. His earlier book (the 'Letters from Palestine'), with +its warm, over-laden pages, had found many readers and much fame. + +But here--in a strenuous political study, furnished with all the facts +and figures that the student and the debater require--representing, +too, another side of the man, just as vigorous and as real, were these +intrusions of poetry wise or desirable? Were they in place? Was the note of +them quite right? Was it not a little turbid--uncertain? + +That prose poem of 'The Priest of Nemi,' for example? + +Ah! Nemi!--the mere thought of it sent a thrill of pleasure through her. +That blue lake in its green cup on the edge of the Campagna, with its ruins +and its legends--what golden hours had she and Manisty spent there! It +had caught their fancy from the beginning--the site of the great temple, +the wild strawberry fields, the great cliffs of Nemi and Genzano, the +bright-faced dark-eyed peasants with their classical names--Aristodemo, +Oreste, Evandro. + +And that strange legend of the murdered priest-- + + 'The priest who slew the slayer, + And shall himself be slain'-- + +--what modern could not find something in that--some stimulus to +fancy--some hint for dreaming? + +Yes--it had been very natural--very tempting. But!-- + +... So she pondered,--a number of acute, critical instincts coming into +play. And presently her thoughts spread and became a vague reverie, +covering a multitude of ideas and images that she and Manisty now had +in common. How strange that she and he should be engaged in this work +together!--this impassioned defence of tradition, of Catholicism and the +Papacy, as the imperishable, indestructible things--'chastened and not +killed--dying, and behold they live'--let the puny sons of modern Italy +rage and struggle as they may. He--one of the most thorough sceptics of +his day, as she had good reason to know--she, a woman who had at one time +ceased to believe because of an intolerable anguish, and was now only +creeping slowly back to faith, to hope, because--because-- + +Ah!--with a little shiver, she recalled her thought, as a falconer +might his bird, before it struck. Oh! this old, old Europe, with its +complexities, its manifold currents and impulses, every human being +an embodied contradiction--no simplicity, no wholeness anywhere--none +possible! + +She opened her eyes languidly, and they rested on Lucy Foster's head and +profile bent over her book. Mrs. Burgoyne's mind filled with a sudden +amused pity for the girl's rawness and ignorance. She seemed the fitting +type of a young crude race with all its lessons to learn; that saw nothing +absurd in its Methodists and Universalists and the rest--confident, as a +child is, in its cries and whims and prejudices. The American girl, fresh +from her wilds, and doubtful whether she would go to see the Pope in St. +Peter's, lest she should have to bow the knee to Antichrist--the image +delighted the mind of the elder woman. She played with it, finding fresh +mock at every turn. + + * * * * * + +'Eleanor!--now I have rewritten it. Tell me how it runs.' + +Lucy Poster looked up. She saw that Mr. Manisty, carrying a sheaf of papers +in his hand, had thrown himself into a chair behind Mrs. Burgoyne. His look +was strenuous and absorbed, his tumbling black hair had fallen forward as +though in a stress of composition; he spoke in a low, imperative voice, +like one accustomed to command the time and the attention of those about +him. + +'Read!' said Mrs. Burgoyne, turning her slender neck that she might look +at him and hear. He began to read at once in a deep, tremulous voice, and +as though he were quite unconscious of any other presence in the room than +hers. Miss Foster, who was sitting at a little distance, supposed she ought +not to listen. She was about to close her book and rise, when Miss Manisty +touched her on the arm. + +'It disturbs him if we move about!' said the little spinster in a smiling +whisper, her finger on her lip. And suddenly the girl was conscious of a +lightning flash from lifted eyes--a look threatening and peremptory. She +settled herself into her chair again as quietly as possible, and sat with +head bent, a smile she could not repress playing round her lips. It was all +she could do indeed not to laugh, so startling and passionate had been the +monition conveyed in Mr. Manisty's signal. That the great man should take +little notice of his aunt's guest was natural enough. But to be frowned +upon the first evening, as though she were a troublesome child!--she did +not resent it at all, but it tickled her sense of humour. She thought +happily of her next letter to Uncle Ben; how she would describe these +rather strange people. + +And at first she hardly listened to what was being read. The voice +displeased her. It was too emphatic--she disliked its tremolo, its deep +bass vibrations. Surely one should read more simply! + +Then the first impression passed away altogether. She looked up--her eyes +fastened themselves on the reader--her lips parted--the smile changed. + + * * * * * + +What the full over-rich voice was calling up before her was a little +morning scene, as Virgil might have described it, passing in the hut of a +Latian peasant farmer, under Tiberius. + +It opened with the waking at dawn of the herdsman Cæculus and his little +son, in their round thatched cottage on the ridge of Aricia, beneath the +Alban Mount. It showed the countryman stepping out of his bed into the +darkness, groping for the embers on the hearth, re-lighting his lamp, and +calling first to his boy asleep on his bed of leaves, then to their African +servant, the negro slave-girl with her wide mouth, her tight woolly hair. +One by one the rustic facts emerged, so old, so ever new:--Cæculus grinding +his corn, and singing at his work--the baking of the flat wheaten cakes on +the hot embers--the gathering of herbs from the garden--the kneading them +with a little cheese and oil to make a relish for the day--the harnessing +of the white steers under the thonged yoke--the man going forth to his +ploughing, under the mounting dawn, clad in his goatskin tunic and his +leathern hat,--the boy loosening the goats from their pen beside the hut, +and sleepily driving them past the furrows where his father was at work, to +the misty woods beyond. + +With every touch, the earlier world revived, grew plainer in the sun, till +the listener found herself walking with Manisty through paths that cut the +Alban Hills in the days of Rome's first imperial glory, listening to his +tale of the little goatherd, and of Nemi. + + * * * * * + +'So the boy--Quintus--left the ploughed lands, and climbed a hill above the +sleeping town. And when he reached the summit, he paused and turned him to +the west. + +'The Latian plain spreads beneath him in the climbing sun; at its edge is +the sea in a light of pearl; the white fishing-boats sparkle along the +shore. Close at his feet runs a straight road high upon the hill. He can +see the country folk on their laden mules and donkeys journeying along +it, journeying northwards to the city in the plain that the spurs of the +mountain hide from him. His fancy goes with them, along the Appian Way, +trotting with the mules. When will his father take him again to Rome to +see the shops, and the Forum, and the new white temples, and Cæsar's great +palace on the hill? + +'Then carelessly his eyes pass southward, and there beneath him in its +hollow is the lake--the round blue lake that Diana loves, where are her +temple and her shadowy grove. The morning mists lie wreathed above it; the +just-leafing trees stand close in the great cup; only a few patches of roof +and column reveal the shrine. + +'On he moves. His wheaten cake is done. He takes his pipe from his girdle, +touches it, and sings. + +'His bare feet as he moves tread down the wet flowers. Round him throng the +goats; suddenly he throws down his pipe; he runs to a goat heavy with milk; +he presses the teats with his quick hands; the milk flows foaming into the +wooden cup he has placed below; he drinks, his brown curls sweeping the +cup; then he picks up his pipe and walks on proudly before his goats, his +lithe body swaying from side to side as he moves, dancing to the music that +he makes. The notes float up into the morning air; the echo of them runs +round the shadowy hollow of the lake. + +'Down trips the boy, parting the dewy branches with his brown shoulders. +Around him the mountain side is golden with the broom; at his feet the +white cistus covers the rock. The shrubs of the scattered wood send out +their scents; and the goats browse upon their shoots. + +'But the path sinks gently downward--winding along the basin of the lake. +And now the boy emerges from the wood; he stands upon a knoll to rest. + +'Ah! sudden and fierce comes the sun!--and there below him in the rich +hollow it strikes the temple--Diana's temple and her grove. Out flame the +white columns, the bronze roof, the white enclosing walls. Piercingly white +the holy and famous place shines among the olives and the fallows; the sun +burns upon the marble; Phoebus salutes his great sister. And in the waters +of the lake reappear the white columns; the blue waves dance around the +shimmering lines; the mists part above them; they rise from the lake, +lingering awhile upon the woods. + +'The boy lays his hands to his eyes and looks eagerly towards the temple. +Nothing. No living creature stirs. + +'Often has he been warned by his father not to venture alone within the +grove of the goddess. Twice, indeed, on the great June festivals has he +witnessed the solemn sacrifices, and the crowds of worshippers, and the +torches mirrored in the lake. But without his father, fear has hitherto +stayed his steps far from the temple. + +'To-day, however, as the sun mounts, and the fresh breeze breaks from the +sea, his youth and the wildness of it dance within his blood. He and his +goats pass into an olive garden. The red-brown earth has been freshly +turned amid the twisted trunks; the goats scatter, searching for the +patches of daisied grass still left by the plough. Guiltily the boy looks +round him--peers through the olives and their silvery foam of leaves, as +they fall past him down the steep. Then like one of his own kids he lowers +his head and runs; he leaves his flock under the olives; he slips into a +dense ilex-wood, still chill with the morning; he presses towards its edge; +panting he climbs a huge and ancient tree that flings its boughs forward +above the temple wall; he creeps along a branch among the thick small +leaves,--he lifts his head. + +'The temple is before him, and the sacred grove. He sees the great +terrace, stretching to the lake; he hears the little waves plashing on its +buttressed wall. + +'Close beneath him, towards the rising and the midday sun there stretches +a great niched wall girdling the temple on two sides, each niche a shrine, +and in each shrine a cold white form that waits the sun--Apollo the +Far-Darter, and the spear-bearing Pallas, and among them that golden Cæsar, +of whom the country talks, who has given great gifts to the temple--he and +his grandson, the young Gaius. + +'The boy strains his eye to see, and as the light strikes into the niche, +flames on the gleaming breastplate, and the uplifted hand, he trembles on +his branch for fear. Hurriedly he turns his look on the dwellings of the +priestesses, where all still sleeps; on the rows of shining pillars that +stand round about the temple; on the close-set trees of the grove that +stands between it and the lake. + +'Hark!--a clanging of metal--of great doors upon their hinges. From the +inner temple--from the shrine of the goddess, there comes a man. His head +is bound with the priest's fillet; sharply the sun touches his white +pointed cap; in his hand he carries a sword. + +'Between the temple and the grove there is a space of dazzling light. The +man passes into it, turns himself to the east, and raises his hand to +his mouth; drawing his robe over his head, he sinks upon the ground, and +prostrate there, adores the coming god. + +'His prayer lasts but an instant. Rising in haste, he stands looking around +him, his sword gathered in his hand. He is a man still young; his stature +is more than the ordinary height of men; his limbs are strong and supple. +His rich dress, moreover, shows him to be both priest and king. But again +the boy among his leaves draws his trembling body close, hiding, like +a lizard, when some passing step has startled it from the sun. For on +this haggard face the gods have written strange and terrible things; the +priest's eyes deep sunk under his shaggy hair dart from side to side in a +horrible unrest; he seems a creature separate from his kind--possessed of +evil--dedicate to fear. + +'In the midst of the temple grove stands one vast ilex,--the tree of trees, +sacred to Trivia. The other trees fall back from it in homage; and round it +paces the priest, alone in the morning light. + +'But his is no holy meditation. His head is thrown back; his ear listens +for every sound; the bared sword glitters as he moves ... + +'There is a rustle among the further trees. Quickly the boy stretches his +brown neck; for at the sound the priest crouches on himself; he throws the +robe from his right arm; and so waits, ready to strike. The light falls on +his pale features, the torment of his brow, the anguish of his drawn lips. +Beside the lapping lake, and under the golden morning, he stands as Terror +in the midst of Peace. + +'Silence again:--only the questing birds call from the olive-woods. +Panting, the priest moves onward, racked with sick tremors, prescient of +doom. + +'But hark! a cry!--and yet another answering--a dark form bursting from the +grove--a fierce locked struggle under the sacred tree. The boy crawls to +the furthest end of the branch, his eyes starting from his head. + +'From the temple enclosure, from the further trees, from the hill around, +a crowd comes running; men and white-robed priestesses, women, children +even--gathering in haste. But they pause afar off. Not a living soul +approaches the place of combat; not a hand gives aid. The boy can see the +faces of the virgins who serve the temple. They are pale, but very still. +Not a sound of pity escapes their white lips; their ambiguous eyes watch +calmly for the issue of the strife. + +'And on the further side, at the edge of the grove stand country folk, men +in goatskin tunics and leathern hats like the boy's father. And the little +goatherd, not knowing what he does, calls to them for help in his shrill +voice. But no one heeds; and the priest himself calls no one, entreats no +one. + +'Ah! The priest wavers--he falls--his white robes are in the dust. The +bright steel rises--descends:--the last groan speeds to heaven. + + * * * * * + +'The victor raised himself from the dead, all stained with the blood and +soil of the battle. Quintus gazed upon him astonished. For here was no +rude soldier, nor swollen boxer, but a youth merely--a youth, slender and +beautiful, fair-haired, and of a fair complexion. His loins were girt with +a slave's tunic. Pallid were his young features; his limbs wasted with +hunger and toil; his eyes blood-streaked as those of the deer when the dogs +close upon its tender life. + +'And looking down upon the huddled priest, fallen in his blood upon the +dust, he peered long into the dead face, as though he beheld it for the +first time. Shudders ran through him; Quintus listened to hear him weep or +moan. But at the last, he lifted his head, fiercely straightening his limbs +like one who reminds himself of black fate, and things not to be undone. +And turning to the multitude, he made a sign. With shouting and wild cries +they came upon him; they snatched the purple-striped robe from the murdered +priest, and with it they clothed his murderer. They put on him the priest's +fillet, and the priest's cap; they hung garlands upon his neck; and with +rejoicing and obeisance they led him to the sacred temple.... + +'And for many hours more the boy remained hidden in the tree, held there +by the spell of his terror. He saw the temple ministers take up the body +of the dead, and carelessly drag it from the grove. All day long was there +crowd and festival within the sacred precinct. But when the shadows began +to fall from the ridge of Aricia across the lake; when the new-made priest +had offered on Trivia's altar a white steer, nourished on the Alban grass; +when he had fed the fire of Vesta; and poured offerings to Virbius the +immortal, whom in ancient days great Diana had snatched from the gods' +wrath, and hidden here, safe within the Arician wood,--when these were +done, the crowd departed and the Grove-King came forth alone from the +temple. + +'The boy watched what he would do. In his hand he carried the sword, which +at the sunrise he had taken from the dead. And he came to the sacred tree +that was in the middle of the grove, and he too began to pace about it, +glancing from side to side, as that other had done before him. And once +when he was near the place where the caked blood still lay upon the ground, +the sword fell clashing from his hand, and he flung his two arms to heaven +with a hoarse and piercing cry--the cry of him who accuses and arraigns the +gods. + +'And the boy, shivering, slipped from the tree, with that cry in his ear, +and hastily sought for his goats. And when he had found them he drove them +home, not staying even to quench his thirst from their swollen udders. And +in the shepherd's hut he found his father Cæculus; and sinking down beside +him with tears and sobs he told his tale. + +'And Cæculus pondered long. And without chiding, he laid his hand upon the +boy's head and bade him be comforted. "For," said he, as though he spake +with himself--"such is the will of the goddess. And from the furthest +times it has happened thus, before the Roman fathers journeyed from the +Alban Mount and made them dwellings on the seven hills--before Romulus +gave laws,--or any white-robed priest had climbed the Capitol. From blood +springs up the sacred office; and to blood it goes! No natural death must +waste the priest of Trivia's tree. The earth is hungry for the blood in its +strength--nor shall it be withheld! Thus only do the trees bear, and the +fields bring forth." + +'Astonished, the boy looked at his father, and saw upon his face, as he +turned it upon the ploughed lands and the vineyards, a secret and a savage +joy. And the little goatherd's mind was filled with terror--nor would his +father tell him further what the mystery meant. But when he went to his bed +of dried leaves at night, and the moon rose upon the lake, and the great +woods murmured in the hollow far beneath him, he tossed restlessly from +side to side, thinking of the new priest who kept watch there--of his young +limbs and miserable eyes--of that voice which he had flung to heaven. And +the child tried to believe that he might yet escape.--But already in his +dreams he saw the grove part once more and the slayer leap forth. He saw +the watching crowd--and their fierce, steady eyes, waiting thirstily for +the spilt blood. And it was as though a mighty hand crushed the boy's +heart, and for the first time he shrank from the gods, and from his +father,--so that the joy of his youth was darkened within him.' + + * * * * * + +As he read the last word, Manisty flung the sheets down upon the table +beside him, and rising, he began to pace the room with his hands upon his +sides, frowning and downcast. When he came to Mrs. Burgoyne's chair he +paused beside her-- + +'I don't see what it has to do with the book. It is time lost'--he said to +her abruptly, almost angrily. + +'I think not,' she said, smiling at him. But her tone wavered a little, and +his look grew still more irritable. + +'I shall destroy it!'--he said, with energy--'nothing more intolerable than +ornament out of place!' + +'Oh don't!--don't alter it at all!' said a quick imploring voice. + +Manisty turned in astonishment. + +Lucy Foster was looking at him steadily. A glow of pleasure was on her +cheek, her beautiful eyes were warm and eager. Manisty for the first time +observed her, took note also of the loosened hair and Eleanor's cloak. + +'You liked it?' he said with some embarrassment. He had entirely forgotten +that she was in the room. + +She drew a long breath. + +'Yes!'--she said softly, looking down. + +He thought that she was too shy to express herself. In reality her feeling +was divided between her old enthusiasm and her new disillusion. She would +have liked to tell him that his reading had reminded her of the book she +loved. But the man, standing beside her, chilled her. She wished she had +not spoken. It began to seem to her a piece of forwardness. + +'Well, you're very kind'--he said, rather formally--'But I'm afraid it +won't do. That lady there won't pass it.' + +'What have I said?'--cried Mrs. Burgoyne, protesting. + +Manisty laughed. 'Nothing. But you'll agree with me.' Then he gathered up +his papers under his arm in a ruthless confusion, and walked away into his +study, leaving discomfort behind him. + +Mrs. Burgoyne sat silent, a little tired and pale. She too would have +liked to praise and to give pleasure. It was not wonderful indeed that the +child's fancy had been touched. That thrilling, passionate voice--her own +difficulty always was to resist it--to try and see straight in spite of it. + + * * * * * + +Later that evening, when Miss Foster had withdrawn, Manisty and Mrs. +Burgoyne were lingering and talking on a stone balcony that ran along the +eastern front of the villa. The Campagna and the sea were behind them. +Here, beyond a stretch of formal garden, rose a curved front of wall with +statues and plashing water showing dimly in the moonlight; and beyond the +wall there was a space of blue and silver lake; and girdling the lake the +forest-covered Monte Cavo rose towering into the moonlit sky, just showing +on its topmost peak that white speck which once was the temple of the +Latian Jupiter, and is now, alas! only the monument of an Englishman's +crime against history, art, and Rome. The air was soft, and perfumed with +scent from the roses in the side-alleys below. A monotonous bird-note came +from the ilex darkness, like the note of a thin passing bell. It was the +cry of a small owl, which, in its plaintiveness and changelessness, had +often seemed to Manisty and Eleanor the very voice of the Roman night. + +Suddenly Mrs. Burgoyne said--'I have a different version of your Nemi story +running in my head!--more tragic than yours. My priest is no murderer. He +found his predecessor dead under the tree; the place was empty; he took it. +He won't escape his own doom, of course, but he has not deserved it. There +is no blood on his hand--his heart is pure. There!--I imagine it so.' + +There was a curious tremor in her voice, which Manisty, lost in his own +thoughts, did not detect. He smiled. + +'Well!--you'll compete with Renan. He made a satire out of it. His priest +is a moral gentleman who won't kill anybody. But the populace soon settle +that. They knock him on the head, as a disturber of religion.' + +'I had forgotten--' said Mrs. Burgoyne absently. + +'But you didn't like it, Eleanor--my little piece!' said Manisty, after a +pause. 'So don't pretend!' + +She roused herself at once, and began to talk with her usual eagerness and +sympathy. It was a repetition of the scene before dinner. Only this time +her effect was not so great. Manisty's depression did not yield. + +Presently, however, he looked down upon her. In the kind, concealing +moonlight she was all grace and charm. The man's easy tenderness awoke. + +'Eleanor--this air is too keen for that thin dress.' + +And stooping over her he took her cloak from her arm, and wrapped it about +her. + +'You lent it to Miss Foster'--he said, surveying her. 'It became her--but +it knows its mistress!' + +The colour mounted an instant in her cheek. Then she moved further away +from him. + +'Have you discovered yet'--she said--'that that girl is extraordinarily +handsome?' + +'Oh yes'--he said carelessly--'with a handsomeness that doesn't matter.' + +She laughed. + +'Wait till Aunt Pattie and I have dressed her and put her to rights.' + +'Well, you can do most things no doubt--both with bad books, and raw +girls,'--he said, with a shrug and a sigh. + +They bade each other good-night, and Mrs. Burgoyne disappeared through the +glass door behind them. + + * * * * * + +The moon was sailing gloriously above the stone-pines of the garden. Mrs. +Burgoyne, half-undressed, sat dreaming in a corner room, with a high +painted ceiling, and both its windows open to the night. + +She had entered her room in a glow of something which had been half +torment, half happiness. Now, after an hour's dreaming, she suddenly bent +forward and, parting the cloud of fair hair that fell about her, she +looked in the glass before her, at the worn, delicate face haloed within +it--thinking all the time with a vague misery of Lucy Foster's untouched +bloom. + +Then her eyes fell upon two photographs that stood upon her table. One +represented a man in yeomanry uniform; the other a tottering child of two. + +'Oh! my boy--my darling!'--she cried in a stifled agony, and snatching up +the picture, she bowed her head upon it, kissing it. The touch of it calmed +her. But she could not part from it. She put it in her breast, and when she +slept, it was still there. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +'Eleanor--where are you off to?' + +'Just to my house of Simmon,' said that lady, smiling. She was standing on +the eastern balcony, buttoning a dainty grey glove, while Manisty a few +paces from her was lounging in a deck-chair, with the English newspapers. + +'What?--to mass? I protest. Look at the lake--look at the sky--look at that +patch of broom on the lake side. Come and walk there before _déjeuner_--and +make a round home by Aricia.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne shook her head. + +'No--I like my little idolatries,' she said, with decision. It was Sunday +morning. The bells in Marinata were ringing merrily. Women and girls with +black lace scarves upon their heads, handsome young men in short coats and +soft peaked hats, were passing along the road between the villa and the +lake, on their way to mass. It was a warm April day. The clouds of yellow +banksia, hanging over the statued wall that girdled the fountain-basin, +were breaking into bloom; and the nightingales were singing with a +prodigality that was hardly worthy of their rank and dignity. Nature in +truth is too lavish of nightingales on the Alban Hills in spring! She +forgets, as it were, her own sweet arts, and all that rareness adds to +beauty. One may hear a nightingale and not mark him; which is a _lèse +majesté_. + +Mrs. Burgoyne's toilette matched the morning. The grey dress, so fresh and +elegant, the broad black hat above the fair hair, the violets dewy from the +garden that were fastened at her slender waist, and again at her throat +beneath the pallor of the face,--these things were of a perfection quite +evident to the critical sense of Edward Manisty. It was the perfection +that was characteristic. So too was the faded fairness of hair and skin, +the frail distinguished look. So, above all, was the contrast between the +minute care for personal adornment implied in the finish of the dress, and +the melancholy shrinking of the dark-rimmed eyes. + +He watched her, through the smoke wreaths of his cigarette,--pleasantly and +lazily conscious both of her charm and her inconsistencies. + +'Are you going to take Miss Foster?' he asked her. + +Mrs. Burgoyne laughed. + +'I made the suggestion. She looked at me with amazement, coloured crimson, +and went away. I have lost all my chances with her.' + +'Then she must be an ungrateful minx'--said Manisty, lowering his voice and +looking round him towards the villa, 'considering the pains you take.' + +'_Some_ of us must take pains,' said Mrs. Burgoyne, significantly. + +'Some of us do'--he said, laughing. 'The others profit.--One goes on +praying for the primitive,--but when it comes--No!--it is not permitted to +be as typical as Miss Foster.' + +'Typical of what?' + +'The dissidence of Dissent, apparently--and the Protestantism of the +Protestant religion. Confess:--it was an odd caprice on the part of high +Jove to send her here?' + +'I am sure she has a noble character--and an excellent intelligence!' + +Manisty shrugged his shoulders. + +'--Her grandfather'--continued the lady--'was a divinity professor and +wrote a book on the Inquisition!'-- + +Manisty repeated his gesture. + +'--And as I told you last night, she is almost as handsome as your Greek +head--and very like her.' + +'My dear lady--you have the wildest notions!' + +Mrs. Burgoyne picked up her parasol. + +'Quite true.--Your aunt tells me she was so disappointed, poor child, that +there was no church of her own sort for her to go to this morning.' + +'What!'--cried Manisty--'Did she expect a conventicle in the Pope's own +town!' + +For Marinata owned a Papal villa and had once been a favourite summer +residence of the Popes. + +'No--but she thought she might have gone into Rome, and she missed the +trains. I found her wandering about the salon looking quite starved and +restless.' + +'Those are hungers that pass!--My heart is hard.--There--your bell is +stopping. Eleanor!--I wonder why you go to these functions?' + +He turned to look at her, his fine eye sharp and a little mocking. + +'Because I like it.' + +'You like the thought of it. But when you get there, the reality won't +please you at all. There will be the dirty floor, and the bad music,--and +the little priest intoning through his nose--and the scuffling boys,--and +the abominable pictures--and the tawdry altars. Much better stay at +home--and help me praise the Holy Roman Church from a safe distance!' + +'What a hypocrite people would think you, if they could hear you talk like +that!' she said, flushing. + +'Then they would think it unjustly.--I don't mean to be my own dupe, that's +all.' + +'The dupes are the happiest,' she said in a low voice. 'There is something +between them, and--Ah! well, never mind!'-- + +She stood still a moment, looking across the lake, her hands resting +lightly on the stone balustrade of the terrace. Manisty watched her in +silence, occasionally puffing at his cigarette. + +'Well, I shall be back very soon,' she said, gathering up her prayer-book +and her parasol. 'Will it then be our duty to take Miss Foster for a walk?' + +'Why not leave her to my aunt?' + +She passed him with a little nod of farewell. Presently, through the +openings of the balustrade, Manisty could watch her climbing the village +street with her dress held high above her daintily shod feet, a crowd of +children asking for a halfpenny following at her heels. Presently he saw +her stop irresolutely, open a little velvet bag that hung from her waist +and throw a shower of _soldi_ among the children. They swooped upon it, +fighting and shrieking. + +Mrs. Burgoyne looked at them half smiling, half repentant, shook her head +and walked on. + +'Eleanor--you coward!' said Manisty, throwing himself back in his chair +with a silent laugh. + +Under his protection, or his aunt's, as he knew well, Mrs. Burgoyne could +walk past those little pests of children, even the poor armless and legless +horrors on the way to Albano, and give a firm adhesion to Miss Manisty's +Scotch doctrines on the subject of begging. But by herself, she could not +refuse--she could not bear to be scowled on--even for a moment. She must +yield--must give herself the luxury of being liked. It was all of a piece +with her weakness towards servants and porters and cabmen--her absurdities +in the way of tips and gifts--the kindnesses she had been showing during +the last three days to the American girl. Too kind! Insipidity lay that +way. + +Manisty returned to his newspapers. When he had finished them he got up and +began to pace the stone terrace, his great head bent forward as usual, as +though the weight of it were too much for the shoulders. The newspapers had +made him restless again, had dissipated the good humour of the morning, +born perhaps of the mere April warmth and _bien être_. + +'Idling in a villa--with two women'--he said to himself, bitterly--'while +all these things are happening.' + +For the papers were full of news--of battles lost and won, on questions +with which he had been at one time intimately concerned. Once or twice in +the course of these many columns he had found his own name, his own opinion +quoted, but only as belonging to a man who had left the field--a man of the +past--politically dead. + +As he stood there with his hands upon his sides, looking out over the Alban +Lake, and its broom-clad sides, a great hunger for London swept suddenly +upon him, for the hot scent of its streets, for its English crowd, for +the look of its shops and clubs and parks. He had a vision of the club +writing-room--of well-known men coming in and going out--discussing the +news of the morning, the gossip of the House--he saw himself accosted +as one of the inner circle,--he was sensible again of those short-lived +pleasures of power and office. Not that he had cared half as much for these +pleasures, when he had them, as other men. To affirm with him meant to be +already half way on the road to doubt; contradiction was his character. +Nevertheless, now that he was out of it, alone and forgotten--now that the +game was well beyond his reach--it had a way of appearing to him at moments +intolerably attractive! + +Nothing before him now, in these long days at the villa, but the hours of +work with Eleanor, the walks with Eleanor, the meals with his aunt and +Eleanor--and now, for a stimulating change, Miss Foster! The male in him +was restless. He had been eager to come to the villa, and the quiet of the +hills, so as to push this long delaying book to its final end. And, behold, +day by day, in the absence of the talk and distractions of Rome, a thousand +discontents and misgivings were creeping upon him. In Rome he was still +a power. In spite of his strange detached position, it was known that he +was the defender of the Roman system, the panegyrist of Leo XIII., the +apologist of the Papal position in Italy. And this had been more than +enough to open to him all but the very inmost heart of Catholic life. Their +apartments in Rome, to the scandal of Miss Manisty's Scotch instincts, had +been haunted by ecclesiastics of every rank and kind. Cardinals, Italian +and foreign, had taken their afternoon tea from Mrs. Burgoyne's hands; the +black and white of the Dominicans, the brown of the Franciscans, the black +of the Jesuits,--the staircase in the Via Sistina had been well acquainted +with them all. Information not usually available had been placed lavishly +at Manisty's disposal; he had felt the stir and thrill of the great +Catholic organisation as all its nerve-threads gather to its brain and +centre in the Vatican. Nay, on two occasions, he had conversed freely with +Leo XIII. himself. + +All this he had put aside, impatiently, that he might hurry on his book, +and accomplish his _coup_. And in the tranquillity of the hills, was he +beginning to lose faith in the book, and the compensation it was to bring +him? Unless this book, with its scathing analysis of the dangers and +difficulties of the secularist State, were not only a book, but _an event_, +of what use would it be to him? He was capable both of extravagant conceit, +and of the most boundless temporary disgust with his own doings and ideas. +Such a disgust seemed to be mounting now through all his veins, taking +all the savour out of life and work. No doubt it would be the same to +the end,--the politician in him just strong enough to ruin the man of +letters--the man of letters always ready to distract and paralyse the +politician. And as for the book, there also he had been the victim of +a double mind. He had endeavoured to make it popular, as Chateaubriand +made the great argument of the _Génie du Christianisme_ popular, by the +introduction of an element of poetry and romance. For the moment he was +totally out of love with the result. What was the plain man to make of it? +And nowadays the plain man settles everything. + +Well!--if the book came to grief, it was not only he that would +suffer.--Poor Eleanor!--poor, kind, devoted Eleanor! + +Yet as the thought of her passed through his meditations, a certain +annoyance mingled with it. What if she had been helping to keep him, all +this time, in a fool's paradise--hiding the truth from him by this soft +enveloping sympathy of hers? + +His mind started these questions freely. Yet only to brush them away with a +sense of shame. Beneath his outer controlling egotism there were large and +generous elements in his mixed nature. And nothing could stand finally +against the memory of that sweet all-sacrificing devotion which had been +lavished upon himself and his work all the winter! + +What right had he to accept it? What did it mean? Where was it leading? + +He guessed pretty shrewdly what had been the speculations of the friends +and acquaintances who had seen them together in Rome. Eleanor Burgoyne +was but just thirty, very attractive, and his distant kinswoman. As for +himself, he knew very well that according to the general opinion of the +world, beginning with his aunt, it was his duty to marry and marry soon. +He was in the prime of life; he had a property that cried out for an heir; +and a rambling Georgian house that would be the better for a mistress. He +was tolerably sure that Aunt Pattie had already had glimpses of Eleanor +Burgoyne in that position. + +Well--if so, Aunt Pattie was less shrewd than usual. Marriage! The notion +of its fetters and burdens was no less odious to him now than it had been +at twenty. What did he want with a wife--still more, with a son? The +thought of his own life continued in another's filled him with a shock of +repulsion. Where was the sense of infusing into another being the black +drop of discontent that poisoned his own? A daughter perhaps--with the eyes +of his mad sister Alice? Or a son--with the contradictions and weaknesses, +without the gifts, of his father? Men have different ways of challenging +the future. But that particular way called paternity had never in his most +optimistic moments appealed to Manisty. + +And of course Eleanor understood him! He had not been ungrateful. No!--he +knew well enough that he had the power to make a woman's hours pass +pleasantly. Eleanor's winter had been a happy one; her health and spirits +had alike revived. Friendship, as they had known it, was a very rare and +exquisite thing. No doubt when the book was done with, their relations must +change somewhat. He confessed that he might have been imprudent; that he +might have been appropriating the energies and sympathies of a delightful +woman, as a man is hardly justified in doing, unless--. But, after all, a +few weeks more would see the end of it; and friends, dear, close friends, +they must always be. + +For now there was plenty of room and leisure in his life for these subtler +bonds. The day of great passions was gone by. There were one or two +incidents in his earlier manhood on which he could look back with the +half-triumphant consciousness that no man had dived deeper to the heart of +feeling, had drunk more wildly, more inventively, of passion than he, in +more than one country of Europe, in the East as in the West. These events +had occurred in those wander-years between twenty and thirty, which he had +spent in travelling, hunting and writing, in the pursuit, alternately eager +and fastidious, of as wide an experience as possible. But all that was +over. These things concerned another man, in another world. Politics and +ambition had possessed him since, and women now appealed to other instincts +in him--instincts rather of the diplomatist and intriguer than of the +lover. Of late years they had been his friends and instruments. And by +no unworthy arts. They were delightful to him; and his power with them +was based on natural sympathies and divinations that were perhaps his +birthright. His father had had the same gift. Why deny that both his father +and he had owed much to women? What was there to be ashamed of? His father +had been one of the ablest and most respected men of his day and so far as +English society was concerned, the son had no scandal, nor the shadow of +one, upon his conscience. + +How far did Eleanor divine him? He raised his shoulder with a smile. +Probably she knew him better than he knew himself. Besides, she was no +mere girl, brimful of illusions and dreaming of love-affairs. What a +history!--Good heavens! Why had he not known and seen something of her in +the days when she was still under the tyranny of that intolerable husband? +He might have eased the weight a little--protected her--as a kinsman may. +Ah well--better not! They were both younger then.-- + +As for the present,--let him only extricate himself from this coil in which +he stood, find his way back to activity and his rightful place, and many +things might look differently. Perhaps--who could say?--in the future, when +youth was still further forgotten by both of them, he and Eleanor might +after all take each other by the hand--sit down on either side of the same +hearth--their present friendship pass into one of another kind? It was +quite possible, only-- + +The sudden crash of a glass door made him look round. It was Miss Foster +who was hastening along the enclosed passage leading to the outer stair. +She had miscalculated the strength of the wind on the north side of the +house, and the glass door communicating with the library had slipped from +her hand. She passed Manisty with a rather scared penitent look, quickly +opened the outer door, and ran downstairs. + +Manisty watched her as she turned into the garden. The shadows of the +ilex-avenue chequered her straw bonnet, her prim black cape, her white +skirt. There had been no meddling of freakish hands with her dark hair +this morning. It was tightly plaited at the back of her head. Her plain +sun-shade, her black kid gloves were neatness itself--middle-class, +sabbatical neatness. + +Manisty recalled his thoughts of the last half-hour with a touch of +amusement. He had been meditating on 'women'--the delightfulness of +'women,' his own natural inclination to their society. But how narrow is +everybody's world! + +His collective noun of course had referred merely to that small, high-bred, +cosmopolitan class which presents types like Eleanor Burgoyne. And here +came this girl, walking through his dream, to remind him of what 'woman,' +average virtuous woman of the New or the Old World, is really like. + +All the same, she walked well,--carried her head remarkably well. There +was a free and springing youth in all her movements that he could not but +follow with eyes that noticed all such things as she passed through the old +trees, and the fragments of Græco-Roman sculpture placed among them. + + * * * * * + +That afternoon Lucy Foster was sitting by herself in the garden of the +villa. She had a volume of sermons by a famous Boston preacher in her +hand, and was alternately reading--and looking. Miss Manisty had told her +that some visitors from Rome would probably arrive between four and five +o'clock, and close to her indeed the little butler, running hither and +thither with an anxiety, an effusion that no English servant would have +deigned to show, was placing chairs and tea-tables and putting out +tea-things. + +Presently indeed Alfredo approached the silent lady sitting under the +trees, on tip-toe. + +Would the signorina be so very kind as to come and look at the tables? +The signora--so all the household called Miss Manisty--had given +directions--but he, Alfredo, was not sure--and it would be so sad if when +she came out she were not satisfied! + +Lucy rose and went to look. She discovered some sugar-tongs missing. +Alfredo started like the wind in search of them, running down the avenue +with short, scudding steps, his coat-tails streaming behind him. + +What a child-like eagerness to please! Yet he had been five years in the +cavalry; he was admirably educated; he wrote a better hand than Manisty's +own, and when his engagement at the villa came to an end he was already, +thanks to a very fair scientific knowledge, engaged as manager in a +firework factory in Rome. + +Lucy's look pursued the short flying figure of the butler with a smiling +kindness. What was wrong with this clever and loveable people that Mr. +Manisty should never have a good word for their institutions, or their +history, or their public men? Unjust! Nor was he even consistent with his +own creed. He, so moody and silent with Mrs. Burgoyne and Miss Manisty, +could always find a smile and a phrase for the natives. The servants adored +him, and all the long street of Marinata welcomed him with friendly eyes. +His Italian was fluency itself; and his handsome looks perhaps, his keen +commanding air gave him a natural kingship among a susceptible race. + +But to laugh and live with a people, merely that you might gibbet it before +Europe, that you might show it as the Helot among nations--there was a kind +of treachery in it! Lucy Foster remembered some of the talk and feeling in +America after the Manistys' visit there had borne fruit in certain hostile +lectures and addresses on the English side of the water. She had shared the +feeling. She was angry still. And her young ignorance and sympathy were up +in arms so far on behalf of Italy. Who and what was this critic that he +should blame so freely, praise so little? + +Not that Mr. Manisty had so far confided any of his views to her! It seemed +to her that she had hardly spoken with him since that first evening of her +arrival. But she had heard further portions of his book read aloud; taken +from the main fabric this time and not from the embroideries. The whole +villa indeed was occupied, and pre-occupied by the book. Mrs. Burgoyne was +looking pale and worn with the stress of it. + +Mrs. Burgoyne! The girl fell into a wondering reverie. She was Mr. +Manisty's second cousin--she had lost her husband and child in some +frightful accident--she was not going to marry Mr. Manisty--at least nobody +said so--and though she went to mass, she was not a Catholic, but on the +contrary a Scotch Presbyterian, by birth, being the daughter of a Scotch +laird of old family--one General Delafield Muir--? + +'She is very kind to me,' thought Lucy Foster in a rush of gratitude mixed +with some perplexity.--'I don't know why she takes so much trouble about +me. She is so different--so--so fashionable--so experienced. She can't care +a bit about me. Yet she is very sweet to me--to everybody, indeed. But--' + +And again she lost herself in ponderings on the relation of Mr. Manisty to +his cousin. She had never seen anything like it. The mere neighbourhood +of it thrilled her, she could not have told why. Was it the intimacy that +it implied--the intimacy of mind and thought? It was like marriage--but +married people were more reserved, more secret. Yet of course it was only +friendship. Miss Manisty had said that her nephew and Mrs. Burgoyne were +'very great friends.' Well--One read of such things--one did not often see +them. + + * * * * * + +The sound of steps approaching made her lift her eyes. + +It was not Alfredo, but a young man, a young Englishman apparently, who +was coming towards her. He was fair-haired and smiling; he carried his hat +under his arm; and he wore a light suit and a rose in his button-hole--this +was all she had time to see before he was at her side. + +'May I introduce myself? I must!--Miss Manisty told me to come and find +you. I'm Reggie Brooklyn--Mrs. Burgoyne's friend. Haven't you heard of me? +I look after her when Manisty ought to, and doesn't; I'm going to take you +all to St. Peter's next week.' + +Lucy looked up to see a charming face, lit by the bluest of blue eyes, +adorned moreover by a fair moustache, and an expression at once confident +and appealing. + +Was this the 'delightful boy' from the Embassy Mrs. Burgoyne had announced +to her? No doubt. The colour rose softly in her cheek. She was not +accustomed to young gentlemen with such a manner and such a _savoir faire_. + +'Won't you sit down?' She moved sedately to one side of the bench. + +He settled himself at once, fanning himself with his hat, and looking at +her discreetly. + +'You're American, aren't you? You don't mind my asking you?' + +'Not in the least. Yes; it's my first time in Europe.' + +'Well, Italy's not bad; is it? Nice place, Rome, anyway. Aren't you rather +knocked over by it? I was when I first came.' + +'I've only been here four days. + +'And of course nobody here has time to take you about. I can guess that! +How's the book getting on?' + +'I don't know,' she said, opening her eyes wide in a smile that would not +be repressed, a smile that broke like light in her grave face. + +Her companion looked at her with approval. + +'My word! she's dowdy'--he thought--'like a Sunday-school teacher. But +she's handsome.' + +The real point was, however, that Mrs. Burgoyne had told him to go out and +make himself agreeable, and he was accustomed to obey orders from that +quarter. + +'Doesn't he read it to you all day and all night?' he asked. 'That's his +way.' + +'I have heard some of it. It's very interesting.' + +The young man shrugged his shoulders. + +'It's a queer business that book. My chief here is awfully sick about it. +So are a good many other English. Why should an Englishman come out here +and write a book to run down Italy?--And an Englishman that's been in the +Government, too--so of course what he says'll have authority. Why, we're +friends with Italy--we've always stuck up for Italy! When I think what he's +writing--and what a row it'll make--I declare I'm ashamed to look one's +Italian friends in the face!--And just now, too, when they're so down on +their luck.' + +For it was the year of the Abyssinian disasters; and the carnage of Adowa +was not yet two months old. + +Lucy's expression showed her sympathy. + +'What makes him--' + +'Take such a twisted sort of a line? O goodness! what makes Manisty do +anything? Of course, I oughtn't to talk. I'm just an understrapper--and +he's a man of genius,--more or less--we all know that. But what made him +do what he did last year? I say it was because his chief--he was in the +Education Office you know--was a Dissenter, and a jam manufacturer, and had +mutton-chop whisker. Manisty just couldn't do what he was told by a man +like that. He's as proud as Lucifer. I once heard him tell a friend of mine +that he didn't know how to obey anybody--he'd never learnt. That's because +they didn't send him to a public school--worse luck; that was his mother's +doing, I believe. She thought him so clever--he must be treated differently +to other people. Don't you think that's a great mistake?' + +'What?' + +'Why--to prefer the cross-cuts, when you might stick to the high road?' + +The American girl considered. Then she flashed into a smile.-- + +'I think I'm for the cross-cuts!' + +'Ah--that's because you're American. I might have known you'd say that. All +your people want to go one better than anybody else. But I can tell you it +doesn't do for Englishmen. They want their noses kept to the grindstone. +That's my experience! Of course it was a great pity Manisty ever went into +Parliament at all. He'd been abroad for seven or eight years, living with +all the big-wigs and reactionaries everywhere. The last thing in the world +he knew anything about was English politics.--But then his father had been +a Liberal, and a Minister for ever so long. And when Manisty came home, and +the member for his father's division died, I don't deny it was very natural +they should put him in. And he's such a queer mixture, I dare say he didn't +know himself where he was.--But I'll tell you one thing--' + +He shook his head slowly,--with all the airs of the budding statesman. + +'When you've joined a party,--you must _dine_ with 'em:--It don't sound +much--but I declare it's the root of everything. Now Manisty was always +dining with the other side. All the great Tory ladies,--and the charming +High Churchwomen, and the delightful High Churchmen--and they _are_ nice +fellows, I can tell you!--got hold of him. And then it came to some +question about these beastly schools--don't you wish they were all at +the bottom of the sea?--and I suppose his chief was more annoying than +usual--(oh, but he had a number of other coolnesses on his hands by that +time--he wasn't meant to be a Liberal!) and his friends talked to him--and +so--Ah! there they are! + +And lifting his hat, the young man waved it towards Mrs. Burgoyne who with +Manisty and three or four other companions had just become visible at the +further end of the ilex-avenue which stretched from their stone bench to +the villa. + +'Why, that's my chief,'--he cried--'I didn't think he was to be here this +afternoon. I say, do you know my chief?' + +And he turned to her with the brightest, most confiding manner, as though +he had been the friend of her cradle. + +'Who?'--said Lucy, bewildered--'the tall gentleman with the white hair?' + +'Yes,--that's the ambassador. Oh! I'm glad you'll see him. He's a charmer, +is our chief! And that's his married daughter, who's keeping house for +him just now.--I'll tell you something, if you'll keep a secret'--he bent +towards her,--'He likes Mrs. Burgoyne of course,--everybody does--but +he don't take Manisty at his own valuation. I've heard him say some +awfully good things to Manisty--you'd hardly think a man would get over +them.--Who's that on the other side?' + +He put his hand over his eyes for a moment, then burst into a laugh.-- + +'Why, it's the other man of letters!--Bellasis. I should think you've read +some of his poems--or plays? Rome has hardly been able to hold the two +of them this winter. It's worse than the archæologists. Mrs. Burgoyne is +always trying to be civil to him, so that he mayn't make uncivil remarks +about Manisty. I say--don't you think she's delightful?' + +He lowered his voice as he looked round upon his companion, but his blue +eyes shone. + +'Mrs. Burgoyne?'--said Lucy--'Yes, indeed!--She's so--so very kind.' + +'Oh! she's a darling, is Eleanor Burgoyne. And I may call her that, you +know, for I'm her cousin, just as Manisty is--only on the other side. I +have been trying to look after her a bit this winter in Rome; she never +looks after herself. And she's not a bit strong.--You know her history of +course?' + +He lowered his voice with young importance, speaking almost in a whisper, +though the advancing party were still far away. Lucy shook her head. + +'Well, it's a ghastly tale, and I've only a minute.--Her husband, you see, +had pneumonia--they were in Switzerland together, and he'd taken a chill +after a walk--and one night he was raving mad, mad you understand with +delirium and fever--and poor Eleanor was so ill, they had taken her away +from her husband, and put her to bed on the other side of the hotel.--And +there was a drunken nurse--it's almost too horrible, isn't it?--and while +she was asleep Mr. Burgoyne got up, quite mad--and he went into the next +room, where the baby was, without waking anybody, and he took the child out +asleep in his arms, back to his own room where the windows were open, and +there he threw himself and the boy out together--headlong! The hotel was +high up,--built, one side of it, above a rock wall, with a stream below +it.--There had been a great deal of rain, and the river was swollen. The +bodies were not found for days.--When poor Eleanor woke up, she had lost +everything.--Oh! I dare say, when the first shock was over, the husband +didn't so much matter--he hadn't made her at all happy.--But the child!'-- + +He stopped, Mrs. Burgoyne's gay voice could be heard as she approached. +All the elegance of the dress was visible, the gleam of a diamond at the +throat, the flowers at the waist. Lucy Foster's eyes, dim with sudden +tears, fastened themselves upon the slender, advancing form. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +The party grouped themselves round the tea-tables. Mrs. Burgoyne laid +a kind hand on Lucy Foster's arm, and introduced one or two of the +new-comers. + +Then, while Miss Manisty, a little apart, lent her ear to the soft chat +of the ambassador, who sat beside her, supporting a pair of old and very +white hands upon a gold-headed stick, Mrs. Burgoyne busied herself with Mr. +Bellasis and his tea. For he was anxious to catch a train, and had but a +short time to spare. + +He was a tall stiffly built man, with a heavy white face, and a shock of +black hair combed into a high and bird-like crest. As to Mrs. Burgoyne's +attentions, he received them with a somewhat pinched but still smiling +dignity. Manisty, meanwhile, a few feet away, was fidgetting on his chair, +in one of his most unmanageable moods. Around him were two or three young +men bearing the great names of Rome. They all belonged to the Guardia +Nobile, and were all dressed by English tailors. Two of them, moreover, +were the sons of English mothers. They were laughing and joking together, +and every now and then they addressed their host. But he scarcely replied. +He gathered stalk after stalk of grass from the ground beside him, nibbled +it and threw it away--a constant habit of his when he was annoyed or out of +spirits. + +"So you have read my book?" said Mr. Bellasis pleasantly, addressing Mrs. +Burgoyne, as she handed him a cup of tea. The book in question was long; +it revived the narrative verse of our grandfathers; and in spite of the +efforts of a 'set' the world was not disposed to take much notice of it. + +'Yes, indeed! We liked it so much.--But I think when I wrote to you I told +you what we thought about it?' + +And she glanced towards Manisty for support. He, however, did not +apparently hear what she said. Mr. Bellasis also looked round in his +direction; but in vain. The poet's face clouded. + +'May I ask what reading you are at?' he said, returning to his tea. + +'What reading?'--Mrs. Burgoyne looked puzzled. + +'Have you read it more than once?' + +She coloured. + +'No--I'm afraid--' + +'Ah!--my friends tell me in Rome that the book cannot be really appreciated +except at a second or third reading--' + +Mrs. Burgoyne looked up in dismay, as a shower of gravel descended on the +tea-table. Manisty has just beckoned in haste to his great Newfoundland who +was lying stretched on the gravel path, and the dog bounding towards him, +seemed to have brought the path with him. + +Mr. Bellasis impatiently shook some fragments of gravel from his coat, and +resumed:-- + +'I have just got a batch of the first reviews. Really criticism has become +an absurdity! Did you look at the "Sentinel"?' + +Mrs. Burgoyne hesitated. + +'Yes--I saw there was something about the style--' + +'The style!'--Mr. Bellasis threw himself back in his chair and laughed +loud--'Why the style is done with a magnifying-glass!--There's not a +phrase,--not a word that I don't stand by.' + +'Mr. Bellasis'--said the courteous voice of the ambassador--'are you going +by this train?' + +The great man held out his watch. + +'Yes indeed--and I must catch it!' cried the man of letters. He started to +his feet, and bending over Mrs. Burgoyne, he said in an aside perfectly +audible to all the world--'I read my new play to-night--just finished--at +Madame Salvi's!' + +Eleanor smiled and congratulated him. He took his leave, and Manisty in an +embarrassed silence accompanied him half way down the avenue. + +Then returning, he threw himself into a chair near Lucy Foster and young +Brooklyn, with a sigh of relief. + +'Intolerable ass!'--he said under his breath, as though quite unconscious +of any bystander. + +The young man looked at Lucy with eyes that danced. + + * * * * * + +'Who is your young lady?' said the ambassador. + +Miss Manisty explained. + +'An American? Really? I was quite off the scent. But now--I see--I see! Let +me guess. She is a New Englander--not from Boston, but from the country. I +remember the type exactly. The year I was at Washington I spent some weeks +in the summer convalescing at a village up in the hills of Maine.--The +women there seemed to me the salt of the earth. May I go and talk to her?' + +Miss Manisty led him across the circle to Lucy, and introduced him. + +'Will you take me to the terrace and show me St. Peter's? I know one can +see it from here,' said the suave polished voice. + +Lucy rose in a shy pleasure that became her. The thought flashed happily +through her, as she walked beside the old man, that Uncle Ben would like +to hear of it! She had that 'respect of persons' which comes not from +snobbishness, but from imagination and sympathy. The man's office thrilled +her, not his title. + +The ambassador's shrewd eyes ran over her face and bearing, taking note of +all the signs of character. Then he began to talk, exerting himself as he +had not exerted himself that morning for a princess who had lunched at his +table. And as he was one of the enchanters of his day, known for such in +half a dozen courts, and two hemispheres, Lucy Foster's walk was a walk +of delight. There was only one drawback. She had heard some member of the +party say 'Your Excellency'--and somehow her lips would not pronounce it! +Yet so kind and kingly was the old man, there was no sign of homage she +would not have gladly paid him, if she had known how. + +They emerged at last upon the stone terrace at the edge of the garden +looking out upon the Campagna. + +'Ah! there it is!'--said the ambassador, and, walking to the corner of the +terrace, he pointed northwards. + +And there--just caught between two stone pines--in the dim blue distance +rose the great dome. + +'Doesn't it give you an emotion?' he said, smiling down upon her.--'When +I first stayed on these hills I wrote a poem about it--a very bad poem. +There's a kind of miracle in it, you know. Go where you will, that dome +follows you. Again and again, storm and mist may blot out the rest--that +remains. The peasants on these hills have a superstition about it. They +look for that dome as they look for the sun. When they can't see it, they +are unhappy--they expect some calamity.--It's a symbol, isn't it, an +idea?--and those are the things that touch us. I have a notion'--he turned +to her smiling, 'that it will come into Mr. Manisty's book?' + +Their eyes met in a smiling assent. + +"Well, there are symbols--and symbols. That dome makes my old heart beat +because it speaks of so much--half the history of our race. But looking +back--I remember another symbol--I was at Harvard in '69; and I remember +the first time I ever saw those tablets--you recollect--in the Memorial +Hall--to the Harvard men that fell in the war?" + +The colour leapt into her cheek. Her eyes filled. + +"Oh yes! yes!"--she said, half eager, half timid--"My father lost two +brothers--both their names are there." + +The ambassador looked at her kindly.--"Well--be proud of it!--be proud of +it! That wall, those names, that youth, and death--they remain with me, +as the symbol of the other great majesty in the world! There's one,"--he +pointed to the dome,--"that's Religion. And the other's Country. It's +country that Mr. Manisty forgets--isn't it?" + +The old man shook his head, and fell silent, looking out over the +cloud-flecked Campagna. + +"Ah, well"--he said, rousing himself--"I must go. Will you come and see me? +My daughter shall write to you." + +And five minutes later the ambassador was driving swiftly towards Rome, in +a good humour with himself and the day. He had that morning sent off what +he knew to be a masterly despatch, and in the afternoon, as he was also +quite conscious, he had made a young thing happy. + + * * * * * + +Manisty could not attend the ambassador to his carriage. He was absorbed by +another guest. Mrs. Burgoyne, young Brooklyn, and Lucy, paid the necessary +civilities. + +When they returned, they found a fresh group gathered on the terrace. Two +persons made the centre of it--a grey-haired cardinal--and Manisty. + +Lucy looked at her host in amazement. What a transformation! The man who +had been lounging and listless all the afternoon--barely civil to his +guests--making no effort indeed for anyone, was now another being. An hour +before he had been in middle age; now he was young, handsome, courteous, +animating, and guiding the conversation around him with the practised ease +of one who knew himself a master. + +Where was the spell? The Cardinal? + +The Cardinal sat to Manisty's right, one wrinkled hand resting on the neck +of the Newfoundland. It was a typical Italian face, large-cheeked and +large-jawed, with good eyes,--a little sleepy, but not unspiritual. His +red-edged cassock allowed a glimpse of red stockings to be seen, and his +finely worked cross and chain, his red sash, and the bright ribbon that lit +up his broad-brimmed hat, made spots of cheerful colour in the shadow of +the trees. + +He was a Cardinal of the Curia, belonging indeed to the Congregation of the +Index. The vulgar believed that he was staying on the hills for his health. + +The initiated, however, knew that he had come to these heights, bringing +with him the works of a certain German Catholic professor threatened with +the thunders of the Church. It was a matter that demanded leisure and a +quiet mind. + +As he sat sipping Miss Manisty's tea, however, nothing could be divined of +those scathing Latin sheets on which he had left his secretary employed. He +had the air of one at peace with all the world--hardly stirred indeed by +the brilliance of his host. + +'Italy again!'--said Reggie Brooklyn in Lucy's ear--poor old Italy!--one +might be sure of that, when one sees one of these black gentlemen about.' + +The Cardinal indeed had given Manisty his text. He had brought an account +of some fresh vandalism of the Government--the buildings of an old Umbrian +convent turned to Government uses--the disappearance of some famous +pictures in the process, supposed to have passed into the bands of a Paris +dealer by the connivance of a corrupt official. + +The story had roused Manisty to a white heat. This maltreatment of +religious buildings and the wasting of their treasures was a subject on +which he was inexhaustible. Encouraged by the slow smile of the Cardinal, +the laughter and applause of the young men, he took the history of a +monastery in the mountains of Spoleto, which had long been intimately known +to him, and told it,--with a variety, a passion, an irony, that only he +could achieve--that at last revealed indeed to Lucy Foster, as she sat +quivering with antagonism beside Miss Manisty, all the secret of the man's +fame and power in the world. + +For gradually--from the story of this monastery, and its suppression at +the hands of a few Italian officials--he built up a figure, typical, +representative, according to him, of the New Italy, small, insolent, +venal,--insulting and despoiling the Old Italy, venerable, beautiful and +defenceless. And then a natural turn of thought, or a suggestion from one +of the group surrounding him, brought him to the scandals connected with +the Abyssinian campaign--to the charges of incompetence and corruption +which every Radical paper was now hurling against the Crispi government. +He gave the latest gossip, handling it lightly, inexorably, as one more +symptom of an inveterate disease, linking the men of the past with the men +of the present, spattering all with the same mud, till Italian Liberalism, +from Cavour to Crispi, sat shivering and ugly--stripped of all those pleas +and glories wherewith she had once stepped forth adorned upon the page of +history. + +Finally--with the art of the accomplished talker--a transition! Back to the +mountains, and the lonely convent on the heights--to the handful of monks +left in the old sanctuary, handing on the past, waiting for the future, +heirs of a society which would destroy and outlive the New Italy, as it had +destroyed and outlived the Old Rome,--offering the daily sacrifice amid the +murmur and solitude of the woods,--confident, peaceful, unstained; while +the new men in the valleys below peculated and bribed, swarmed and sweated, +in the mire of a profitless and purposeless corruption. + +And all this in no set harangue--but in vivid broken sentences; in snatches +of paradox and mockery; of emotion touched and left; interrupted, moreover, +by the lively give and take of conversation with the young Italians, by +the quiet comments of the Cardinal. None the less, the whole final image +emerged, as Manisty meant it to emerge; till the fascinated hearers felt, +as it were, a breath of hot bitterness and hate pass between them and the +spring day, enveloping the grim phantom of a ruined and a doomed State. + +The Cardinal said little. Every now and then he put in a fact of his own +knowledge--a stroke of character--a phrase of compassion that bit more +sharply even than Manisty's scorns--a smile--a shake of the head. And +sometimes, as Manisty talked with the young men, the sharp wrinkled eyes +rested upon the Englishman with a scrutiny, instantly withdrawn. All the +caution of the Roman ecclesiastic,--the inheritance of centuries--spoke in +the glance. + +It was perceived by no one, however, but a certain dark elderly lady, who +was sitting restlessly silent beside Miss Manisty. Lucy Foster had noticed +her as a new-comer, and believed that her name was Madame Variani. + +As for Eleanor Burgoyne, she sat on Manisty's left while he talked--it was +curious to notice how a place was always made for her beside him!--her head +raised a little towards him, her eyes bright and fixed. The force that +breathed from him passed through her frail being, quickening every pulse of +life. She neither criticised nor accepted what he said. It was the man's +splendid vitality that subdued and mastered her. + +Yet she alone knew what no one else suspected. At the beginning of the +conversation Manisty had placed himself behind an old stone table of oblong +shape and thick base, of which there were several in the garden. Round it +grew up grasses and tall vetches which had sown themselves among the gaping +stones of the terrace. Nothing, therefore, could be seen of the talker as +he leant carelessly across the table but the magnificent head, and the +shoulders on which it was so freely and proudly carried. + +Anybody noticing the effect--for it was an effect--would have thought it +a mere happy accident. Eleanor Burgoyne alone knew that it was conscious. +She had seen the same pose, the same concealment practised too often to be +mistaken. But it made no difference whatever to the spell that held her. +The small vanities and miseries of Manisty's nature were all known to +her--and alas! she would not have altered one of them! + + * * * * * + +When the Cardinal rose to go, two Italian girls, who had come with their +brother, the Count Casaleschi, ran forward, and curtseying kissed the +Cardinal's ring. And as he walked away, escorted by Manisty, a gardener +crossed the avenue, who also at sight of the tall red-sashed figure fell on +his knees and did the same. The Cardinal gave him an absent nod and smile, +and passed on. + +'Ah! _j'étouffe_!'--cried Madame Variani, throwing herself down by Miss +Manisty. 'Give me another cup, _chère Madame_. Your nephew is too bad. +Let him show us another nation born in forty years--that has had to make +itself in a generation--let him show it us! Ah! you English--with all your +advantages--and your proud hearts.--Perhaps we too could pick some holes in +you!' + +She fanned herself with angry vigour. The young men came to stand round +her arguing and laughing. She was a favourite in Rome, and as a French +woman, and the widow of a Florentine man of letters, occupied a somewhat +independent position, and was the friend of many different groups. + +'And you--young lady, what do you think?'--she said suddenly, laying a +large hand on Lucy Foster's knee. + +Lucy, startled, looked into the sparkling black eyes brought thus close to +her own. + +'But I just _long_'--she said, catching her breath--'to hear the other +side.' + +'Ah, and you shall hear it, my dear--you shall!' cried Madame Variani. +'_N'est-ce pas, Madame?_' she said, addressing Miss Manisty--'We will get +rid of all those priests--and then we will speak our mind? Oh, and you +too,'--she waved her hand with a motherly roughness towards the young +men,--'What do you know about it, Signor Marchese? If there were no Guardia +Nobile, you would not wear those fine uniforms.--That is why you like the +Pope.' + +The Marchese Vitellucci--a charming boy of two and twenty, tall, thin-faced +and pensive,--laughed and bowed. + +'The Pope, Madame, should establish some _dames d'honneur_. Then he would +have all the ladies too on his side. + +'_O, mon Dieu!_--he has enough of them,' cried Madame Variani. 'But here +comes Mr. Manisty, I must drink my tea and hold my tongue. I am going out +to dinner to-night, and if one gets hot and cross, that is not good for the +complexion.' + +Manisty advanced at his usual quick pace, his head sunk once more between +his shoulders. + +Young Vitellucci approached him. 'Ah! Carlo!' he said, looking up +affectionately--'dear fellow!--Come for a stroll with me.' + +And linking his arm in the young man's, he carried him off. Their peals of +laughter could be heard coming back from the distance of the ilex-walk. + +Madame Variani tilted back her chair to look after them. + +'Ah! your nephew can be agreeable too, when he likes,' she said to Miss +Manisty. 'I do not say no. But when he talks of these poor Italians, he is +_méchant--méchant_!' + +As for Lucy Foster, as Manisty passed out of sight, she felt her pulses +still tingling with a wholly new sense of passionate hostility--dislike +even. But none the less did the stage seem empty and meaningless when he +had left it. + + * * * * * + +Manisty and Mrs. Burgoyne were closeted in the library for some time before +dinner. Lucy in the salon could hear him pacing up and down, and the deep +voice dictating. + +Then Mrs. Burgoyne came into the salon, and not noticing the girl who was +hidden behind a great pot of broom threw herself on the sofa with a long +sigh of fatigue. Lucy could just see the pale face against the pillow and +the closed eyes. Thus abandoned and at rest, there was something strangely +pitiful in the whole figure, for all its grace. + +A wave of feeling rose in the girl's breast. She slipped softly from her +hiding-place, took a silk wrap that was lying on a chair, and approached +Mrs. Burgoyne. + +'Let me put this over you. Won't you sleep before dinner? And I will shut +the window. It is getting cold.' + +Mrs. Burgoyne opened her eyes in astonishment, and murmured a few words of +thanks. + +Lucy covered her up, closed the window, and was stealing away, when Mrs. +Burgoyne put out a hand and touched her. + +'It is very sweet of you to think of me.' + +She drew the girl to her, enclosed the hand she had taken in both hers, +pressed it and released it. Lucy went quietly out of the room. + +Then till dinner she sat reading her New Testament, and trying rather +piteously to remind herself that it was Sunday. Far away in a New England +village, the bells were ringing for the evening meeting. Lucy, shutting +her eyes, could smell the spring scents in the church lane, could hear +the droning of the opening hymn. A vague mystical peace stole upon her, +as she recalled the service; the great words of 'sin,' 'salvation,' +'righteousness,' as the Evangelical understands them, thrilled through her +heart. + +Then, as she rose to dress, there burst upon her through the open window +the sunset blaze of the Campagna with the purple dome in its midst. And +with that came the memory of the afternoon,--of the Cardinal--and Manisty. + +Very often, in these first days, it was as though her mind ached, under +the stress of new thinking, like something stretched and sore. In the New +England house where she had grown up, a corner of the old-fashioned study +was given up to the books of her grandfather, the divinity professor. They +were a small collection, all gathered with one object,--the confuting and +confronting of Rome. Like many another Protestant zealot, the old professor +had brooded on the crimes and cruelties of persecuting Rome, till they +became a madness in the blood. How well Lucy remembered his books--with +their backs of faded grey or brown cloths, and their grim titles. Most of +them she had never yet been allowed to read. When she looked for a book, +she was wont to pass this shelf by in a vague horror. What Rome habitually +did or permitted, what at any rate she had habitually done or permitted in +the past, could not--it seemed--be known by a pure woman! And she would +glance from the books to the engraving of her grandfather above them,--to +the stern and yet delicate face of the old Calvinist, with its high-peaked +brow, and white neckcloth supporting the sharp chin; lifting her heart +to him in a passionate endorsement, a common fierce hatred of wrong and +tyranny. + +She had grown older since then, and her country with her. New England +Puritanism was no longer what it had been; and the Catholic Church had +spread in the land. But in Uncle Ben's quiet household, and in her own +feeling, the changes had been but slight and subtle. Pity, perhaps, had +insensibly taken the place of hatred. But those old words 'priest' and +'mass' still rung in her ears as symbols of all that man had devised to +corrupt and deface the purity of Christ. + +And of what that purity might be, she had such tender, such positive +traditions! Her mother had been a Christian mystic--a 'sweet woman,' meek +as a dove in household life, yet capable of the fiercest ardours as a +preacher and missionary, gathering rough labourers into barns and by the +wayside, and dying before her time, worn out by the imperious energies of +religion. Lucy had always before her the eyes that seemed to be shining +through a mist, the large tremulous mouth, the gently furrowed brow. Those +strange forces--'grace'--and 'the spirit'--had been the realities, the +deciding powers of her childhood, whether in what concerned the great +emotions of faith, or the most trivial incidents of ordinary life--writing +a letter--inviting a guest--taking a journey. The soul bare before God, +depending on no fleshly aid, distracted by no outward rite; sternly +defending its own freedom as a divine trust:--she had been reared on these +main thoughts of Puritanism, and they were still through all insensible +transformation, the guiding forces of her own being. + +Already, in this Catholic country, she had been jarred and repelled on all +sides. Yet she found herself living with two people for whom Catholicism +was not indeed a personal faith--she could not think of that side of it +without indignation--but a thing to be passionately admired and praised, +like art, or music, or scenery. You might believe nothing, and yet write +pages and pages in glorification of the Pope and the Mass, and in contempt +of everything else!--in excuse too of every kind of tyranny so long as it +served the Papacy and 'the Church.' + +She leaned out to the sunset, remembering sentence after sentence from the +talk on the terrace--hating or combating them all. + +Yet all the time a new excitement invaded her. For the man who had spoken +thus was, in a sense, not a mere stranger to her. Somewhere in his being +must be the capacity for those thoughts and feelings that had touched her +so deeply in his book--for that magical insight and sweetness-- + +Ah!--perhaps she had not understood his book--no more than she understood +him now. The sense of her own ignorance oppressed her--and of all that +_might_ be said, with regard apparently to anything whatever. Was there +nothing quite true--quite certain--in the world? + +So the girl's intense and simple nature entered like all its fellows, upon +the old inevitable struggle. As she stood there, with locked hands and +flushed cheeks, conscious through every vein of the inrush and shock of new +perceptions, new comparisons, she was like a ship that leaves the harbour +for the open, and feels for the first time on all her timbers the strain of +the unplumbed sea. + +And of this invasion, this excitement, the mind, in haunting debate and +antagonism, made for itself one image, one symbol--the face of Edward +Manisty. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +While he was thus--unknowing--the cause of so many new attractions and +repulsions in his guest's mind, Manisty, after the first shock of annoyance +produced by her arrival was over, hardly remembered her existence. He was +incessantly occupied by the completion of his book, working late and early, +sometimes in high and even extravagant spirits, but, on the whole, more +commonly depressed and discontented. + +Eleanor Burgoyne worked with him or for him many hours in each day. Her +thin pallor became more pronounced. She ate little, and Miss Manisty +believed that she slept less. The elder lady indeed began to fidget and +protest, to remonstrate now and then with Manisty himself, even to threaten +a letter to 'the General.' Eleanor's smiling obstinacy, however, carried +all before it. And Manisty, in spite of a few startled looks and +perfunctory dissuasions, whenever his aunt attacked him, soon slipped back +into his normal ways of depending on his cousin, and not being able to work +without her. Lucy Foster thought him selfish and inconsiderate. It gave her +one more cause of quarrel with him. + +For she and Mrs. Burgoyne were slowly but surely making friends. The +clearer it became that Manisty took no notice of Miss Foster, and refused +to be held in any way responsible for her entertainment, the more anxious, +it seemed, did Eleanor show herself to make life pleasant for the American +girl. Her manner, which had always been kind, became more natural and gay. +It was as though she had settled some question with herself, and settled it +entirely to Lucy Foster's advantage. + +Not much indeed could be done for the stranger while the stress of +Manisty's work lasted. Aunt Pattie braced herself once or twice, got out +the guide-books and took her visitor into Rome to see the sights. But the +little lady was so frankly worn out by these expeditions, that Lucy, full +of compunctions, could only beg to be left to herself in future. Were not +the garden and the lake, the wood-paths to Rocca di Papa, and the roads to +Albano good enough? + +So presently it came to her spending many hours alone in the terraced +garden on the hill-side, with all the golden Campagna at her feet. Her +young fancy, however, soon learnt to look upon that garden as the very +concentration and symbol of Italy. All the Italian elements, the Italian +magics were there. Along its topmost edge ran a vast broken wall, built +into the hill; and hanging from the brink of the wall like a long roof, +great ilexes shut out the day from the path below. Within the thickness of +the wall--in days when, in that dim Rome upon the plain, many still lived +who could remember the voice and the face of Paul of Tarsus--Domitian had +made niches and fountains; and he had thrown over the terrace, now darkened +by the great ilex boughs, a long portico roof supported on capitals and +shafts of gleaming marble. Then in the niches round the clear fountains, +he had ranged the fine statues of a still admirable art; everywhere he had +lavished marbles, rose and yellow and white, and under foot he had spread a +mosaic floor, glistening beneath the shadow-play of leaf and water, in the +rich reflected light from the garden and the Campagna outside; while at +intervals, he had driven through the very crest of the hill long tunnelled +passages, down which one might look from the garden and see the blue lake +shining at their further end. + +And still the niches and the recesses were there,--the huge wall too along +the face of the hill; all broken and gashed and ruinous, showing the fine +reticulated brickwork that had been once faced with marble; alternately +supported and torn by the pushing roots of the ilex-trees. The tunnelled +passages too were there, choked and fallen in; no flash of the lake now +beyond their cool darkness! And into the crumbling surface of the wall, +rude hands had built fragments of the goddesses and the Cæsars that had +once reigned there, barbarously mingled with warm white morsels from +the great cornice of the portico, acanthus blocks from the long buried +capitals, or dolphins orphaned of Aphrodite. + +The wreck was beautiful, like all wrecks in Italy where Nature has had her +way. For it was masked in the gloom of the overhanging trees; or hidden +behind dropping veils of ivy; or lit up by straggling patches of broom and +cytisus that thrust themselves through the gaps in the Roman brickwork and +shone golden in the dark. At the foot of the wall, along its whole length, +ran a low marble conduit that held still the sweetest liveliest water. +Lilies of the valley grew beside it, breathing scent into the shadowed air; +while on the outer or garden side of the path, the grass was purple with +long-stalked violets, or pink with the sharp heads of the cyclamen. And a +little further, from the same grass, there shot up in a happy neglect, tall +camellia-trees ragged and laden, strewing the ground red and white beneath +them. And above the camellias again, the famous stone-pines of the villa +climbed into the high air, overlooking the plain and the sea, peering at +Rome and Soracte. + +So old it was!--and yet so fresh with spring! In the mornings at least the +spring was uppermost. It silenced the plaint of outraged beauty which the +place seemed to be always making, under a flutter of growth and song. Water +and flowers and nightingales, the shadow, the sunlight, and the heat, were +all alike strong and living,--Italy untamed. It was only in the evenings +that Lucy shunned the path. For then, from the soil below and the wall +above, there crept out the old imprisoned forces of sadness, or of poison, +and her heart flagged or her spirits sank as she sat or walked there. +Marinata has no malaria; but on old soils, and as night approaches, there +is always something in the shade of Italy that fights with human life. The +poor ghosts rise from the earth--jealous of those that are still walking +the warm ways of the world. + +But in the evenings, when the Fountain Walk drove her forth, the central +hot zone of the garden was divine, with its roses and lilacs, its birds, +its exquisite grass alive with shining lizards, jewelled with every flower, +breathing every scent; and at its edge the old terrace with its balustrade, +set above the Campagna, commanding the plain and the sea, the sky and the +sunsets. + +Evening after evening Lucy might have been found perched on the stone +coping of the balustrade, sometimes trying, through the warm silent hours, +by the help of this book or that, to call up again the old Roman life; +sometimes dreaming of what there might still be--what the archæologists +indeed said must be--buried beneath her feet; of the marble limbs and faces +pressed into the earth, and all the other ruined things, small and great, +mean or lovely, that lay deep in a common grave below the rustling olives, +and the still leafless vineyards; and sometimes the mere passive companion +of the breeze and the sun, conscious only of the chirping of the crickets, +or the loudness of the nightingales, or the flight of a hoopoe, like some +strange bright bird of fairy-tale, flashing from one deep garden-shadow to +another. + +Yet the garden was not always given up to her and the birds. Peasant folk +coming from Albano or the olive-grounds between it and the villa would +take a short cut through the garden to Marinata; dark-faced gardeners, +in blue linen suits, would doff their peaked hats to the strange lady; +or a score or two of young black-frocked priestlings from a neighbouring +seminary would suddenly throng its paths, playing mild girlish games, +with infinite clamour and chatter, running races as far and fast as their +black petticoats would allow, twisting their long overcoats and red sashes +meanwhile round a battered old noseless bust that stood for Domitian at the +end of a long ilex-avenue, and was the butt for all the slings and arrows +of the day,--poor helpless State, blinded and buffeted by the Church! + +Lucy would hide herself among the lilacs and the arbutus when the seminary +invaded her; watching through the leaves the strapping Italian boys +in their hindering womanish dress; scorning them for their state of +supervision and dependence; pitying them for their destiny! + +And sometimes Manisty, disturbed by the noise, would come out--pale and +frowning. But at the sight of the seminarists and of the old priest in +command of them, his irritable look would soften. He would stand indeed +with his hands on his sides, laughing and chatting with the boys, his head +uncovered, his black curls blown backward from the great furrowed brow; and +in the end Lucy peering from her nook would see him pacing up and down the +ilex-walk with the priest,--haranguing and gesticulating--the old man in +a pleased wonder looking at the Englishman through his spectacles, and +throwing in from time to time ejaculations of assent, now half puzzled, +and now fanatically eager. "He is talking the book!"--Lucy would think to +herself--and her mind would rise in revolt. + +One day after parting with the lads he came unexpectedly past her +hiding-place, and paused at sight of her. "Do the boys disturb you?" he +said, glancing at her book, and speaking with the awkward abruptness which +with him could in a moment take the place of ease and mirth. + +"Oh no--not at all." + +He fidgeted, stripping leaves from the arbutus tree under which she sat. + +"That old priest who comes with them is a charming fellow!" + +Her shyness gave way. + +"Is he?--He looks after them like an old nurse. And they are such +babies--those great boys!" + +His eye kindled. + +"So you would like them to be more independent--more brutal. You prefer +a Harvard and Yale football match--with the dead and wounded left on the +ground?" + +She laughed, daring for the first time to assert herself. + +"No. I don't want blood! But there is something between. However--" + +She hesitated. He looked down upon her half irritable, half smiling. + +"Please go on." + +"It would do them no good, would it--to be independent?" + +"Considering how soon they must be slaves for life? Is that what you mean?" + +Her frank blue eyes raised themselves to his. He was instantly conscious of +something cool and critical in her attitude towards him. Very possibly he +had been conscious of it for some time, which accounted for his instinctive +avoidance of her. In the crisis of thought and production through which +he was passing he shrank from any touch of opposition or distrust. He +distrusted himself enough. It was as though he carried about with him +wounds that only Eleanor's soft touch could be allowed to approach. And +from the first evening he had very naturally divined in this Yankee girl, +with her mingled reserve and transparency, her sturdy Protestantisms of all +sorts, elements antagonistic to himself. + +She answered his question, however, by another--still referring to the +seminarists. + +'Isn't that the reason why they take and train them so young--that they may +have no will left?' + +'Well, is that the worst condition in the world--to give up your own will +to an idea--a cause?' + +She laughed shyly--a low musical sound that suddenly gave him, as it +seemed, a new impression of her. + +'You call the old priest an "idea"?' + +Both had the same vision of the most portly and substantial of figures. +Manisty smiled unwillingly. + +'The old priest is merely the symbol.' + +She shook her head obstinately. + +'He is all they know anything about. He gives orders, and they obey. Soon +it will be some one else's turn to give them the orders--' + +'Till the time comes for them to give orders themselves?--Well, what is +there to object to in that?' He scanned her severely. 'What does it mean +but that they are parts of a great system, properly organised, to a great +end? Show me anything better?' + +She coloured. + +'It is better, isn't it, that--sometimes--one should give oneself orders?' +she said in a low voice. + +Manisty laughed. + +'Liberty to make a fool of oneself--in short. No doubt,--that's the great +modern panacea.' He paused, staring at her without being conscious of it, +with his absent brilliant eyes. Then he broke out--'Well! so you despise +my little priests! Did you ever think of inquiring, however, which wears +best--their notion of human life, which after all has weathered 1900 years, +and is as strong and prevailing as it ever was--or the sort of notion +that their enemies here go to work upon? Look into the history of this +Abyssinian war--everybody free to make fools of themselves, in Rome +or Africa--and doing it magnificently! Private judgment--private aims +everywhere--from Crispi to the smallest lieutenant. Result--universal wreck +and muddle--thousands of lives thrown away--a nation brought to shame. +Then look about you at what's going on--here--this week--on these hills. +It's Holy Week. They're all fasting--they're all going to mass--the people +working in the fields, our servants, the bright little priests. To-morrow's +Holy Thursday. From now till Sunday, nobody here will eat anything but a +little bread and a few olives. The bells will cease to-morrow. If a single +church-bell rang in Rome--over this plain, and these mountains--through the +whole of Italy--from mass to-morrow till mass on Saturday--a whole nation +would feel pain and outrage. Then on Saturday--marvellous symbol!--listen +for the bells. You will hear them all loosed together, as soon as the +Sanctus begins--all over Italy. And on Sunday--watch the churches. If it +isn't Matthew Arnold's "One common wave of thought and joy--Lifting mankind +amain,"--what is it? To me, it's what keeps the human machine running. Make +the comparison!--it will repay you. My little muffs of priests with their +silly obedience won't come so badly out of it.' + +Unconsciously he had taken a seat beside her, and was looking at her with +a sharp imperious air. She dimly understood that he was not talking to her +but to a much larger audience, that he was still in fact in the grip of +"the book." But that he should have anyway addressed so many consecutive +sentences to her excited her after these many days of absolute neglect and +indifference on his part; she felt a certain tremor of pulse. Instead, +however, of diminishing self-command, it bestowed it. + +'Well, if that's the only way of running the machine--the Catholic way I +mean,'--her words came out a little hurried and breathless--'I don't see +how _we_ exist.' + +'You? America?' + +She nodded. + +'_Do_ you exist?--in any sense that matters?' + +He laughed as he spoke; but his tone provoked her. She threw up her head a +little, suddenly grave. + +'Of course we know that you dislike us.' + +He showed a certain embarrassment. + +'How do you know?' + +'Oh!--we read what you said of us.' + +'I was badly reported,' he said, smiling. + +'No,'--she insisted. 'But you were mistaken in a great many things--very, +very much mistaken. You judged much too quickly.' + +He rose, a covert amusement playing round his lips. It was the indulgence +of the politician and man of affairs towards the little backwoods girl who +was setting him to rights. + +'We must have it out,' he said, 'I see I shall have to defend myself. But +now I fear Mrs. Burgoyne will be waiting for me.' + +And lifting his hat with the somewhat stately and excessive manner, which +he could always substitute at the shortest notice for _brusquerie_ or +inattention, he went his way. + +Lucy Foster was left with a red cheek. She watched him till he had passed +into the shadow of the avenue leading to the house; then with an impetuous +movement she took up a book which had been lying beside her on the bench, +and began to read it with a peculiar ardour--almost passion. It was the +life of one of the heroes of the Garibaldian expedition of 1860-61. + +For of late she had been surrounding herself--by the help of a library +in Rome to which the Manistys had access--with the books of the Italian +_Risorgimento_, that great movement, that heroic making of a nation, in +which our fathers felt so passionate an interest, which has grown so dim +and far away now, not only in the mind of a younger England, but even in +that of a younger Italy. + +But to Lucy--reading the story with the plain of Rome, and St. Peter's in +sight, her wits quickened by the perpetual challenge of Manisty's talk with +Mrs. Burgoyne, or any chance visitor,--Cavour, Garibaldi, Mazzini; all the +striking figures and all the main stages in the great epic; the blind, +mad, hopeless outbreaks of '48; the hangings and shootings and bottomless +despairs of '49; the sullen calm of those waiting years from '49 to '58; +the ecstasy of Magenta and Solferino, and the fierce disappointment of +Villafranca; the wild golden days of Sicily in 1860; the plucking of Venice +like a ripe fruit in '66; of Rome, in 1870; all the deliriums of freedom, +vengeance, union--these immortal names and passions and actions, were +thrilling through the girl's fresh poetic sense, and capturing all her +sympathies. Had Italy indeed been 'made too quick'? Was all the vast +struggle, and these martyred lives for nothing--all to end like a choked +river in death and corruption? Well, if so, whose fault was it, but the +priests'?--of that black, intriguing, traitorous Italy, headed by the +Papacy, which except for one brief moment in the forties, had upheld every +tyranny, and drenched every liberty in blood, had been the supporter of the +Austrian and the Bourbon, and was now again tearing to pieces the Italy +that so many brave men had died to make? + +The priests!--the Church!--Why!--she wondered, as she read the story of +Charles Albert, and Metternich and the Naples Bourbons, that Italy still +dared to let the ignorant, persecuting brood live and thrive in her midst +at all! Especially was it a marvel to her that any Jesuit might still walk +Italian streets, that a nation could ever forgive or forget such crimes +against her inmost life as had been the crimes of the Jesuits. She would +stand at the end of the terrace, her hands behind her clasping her book, +her eyes fixed on the distant dome amid the stone-pines. Her book opened +with the experiences of a Neapolitan boy at school in Naples during the +priest-ridden years of the twenties, when Austrian bayonets, after the +rising of '21, had replaced Bourbons and Jesuits in power, and crushed the +life out of the young striving liberty of '21, as a cruel boy may crush and +strangle a fledgling bird. 'What did we learn,' cried the author of the +memoir--'from that monkish education which dwarfed both our mind and body? +How many have I seen in later life groaning over their own ignorance, and +pouring maledictions on the seminary or the college, where they had wasted +so many years and had learnt nothing!' + +'That monkish education which dwarfed both our mind and body'-- + +Lucy would repeat the words to herself--throwing them out as a challenge +to that great dome hovering amid the sunny haze. That old man there, among +his Cardinals--she thought of him with a young horror and revolt; yet not +without a certain tremor of the imagination. Well!--in a few days--Sunday +week--she was to see him, and judge for herself. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile visitors were almost shut out. The villa sank into a convent-like +quiet; for in a week, ten days, the book was perhaps to be finished. Miss +Manisty, as the crisis approached, kept a vigilant eye on Mrs. Burgoyne. +She was in constant dread of a delicate woman's collapse; and after the +sittings in the library had lasted a certain time she had now the courage +to break in upon them, and drive Manisty's Egeria out of her cave to rest +and to the garden. + +So Lucy, as the shadows lengthened in the garden, would hear the sound of a +light though languid step, and would look up to see a delicate white face +smiling down upon her. + +'Oh! how tired you must be!' she would say, springing up. 'Let me make a +place for you here under the trees.' + +'No, no. Let us move about. I am tired of sitting.' + +And they would pace up and down the terrace and the olive-garden beyond, +while Mrs. Burgoyne leant upon Lucy's arm, chatting and laughing with an +evident relief from tension which only betrayed the mental and physical +fatigue behind. + +Lucy wondered to see how exquisite, how dainty, she would emerge from these +wrestles with hard work. Her fresh white or pale dresses, the few jewels +half-hidden at her wrists or throat, the curled or piled masses of the fair +hair, were never less than perfection, it seemed to Lucy; she was never +more the woman of fashion and the great world than when she came out from +a morning's toil that would have left its disturbing mark on a strong man, +her eyes shining under the stress and ardour of those 'ideas,' as to which +it was good to talk with her. + +But how eagerly she would throw off that stress, and turn to wooing and +winning Lucy Foster! All hanging back in the matter was gone. Certain vague +thoughts and terrors were laid to sleep, and she must needs allow herself +the luxury of charming the quiet girl, like all the rest--the dogs, the +servants or the village children. There was a perpetual hunger for love in +Eleanor's nature which expressed itself in a thousand small and piteous +ways. She could never help throwing out tendrils, and it was rarely that +she ventured them in vain. + +In the case of Lucy Foster, however, her fine tact soon discovered that +caresses were best left alone. They were natural to herself, and once or +twice as the April days went by, she ventured to kiss the girl's fresh +cheek, or to slip an arm round her waist. But Lucy took it awkwardly. When +she was kissed she flushed, and stood passive; and all her personal ways +were a little stiff and austere. After one of these demonstrations indeed +Mrs. Burgoyne generally found herself repaid in some other form, by some +small thoughtfulness on Lucy's part--the placing of a stool, the fetching +of a cloak--or merely perhaps by a new softness in the girl's open look. +And Eleanor never once thought of resenting her lack of response. There +was even a kind of charm in it. The prevailing American type in Rome that +winter had been a demonstrative type. + +Lucy's manner in comparison was like a cool and bracing air. 'And when she +does kiss!' Eleanor would say to herself--'it will be with all her heart. +One can see that.' + +Meanwhile Mrs. Burgoyne took occasional note of the Mazzinian literature +that lay about. She would turn the books over and read their titles, her +eyes sparkling with a little gentle mischief, as she divined the girl's +disapproval of her host and his views. But she never argued with Lucy. She +was too tired of the subject, too eager to seek relief in talking of the +birds and the view, of people and _chiffons_. + +Too happy perhaps--also. She walked on air in these days before Easter. +The book was prospering; Manisty was more content; and as agreeable in all +daily ways and offices as only the hope of good fortune can make a man. +'The Priest of Nemi'--indeed, with several other prose poems of the same +kind, had been cast out of the text; which now presented one firm and +vigorous whole of social and political discussion. But the Nemi piece was +to be specially bound for Eleanor, together with some drawings that she had +made of the lake and the temple site earlier in the spring. And on the day +the book was finished--somewhere within the next fortnight--there was to be +a festal journey to Nemi--divine and blessed place! + +So she felt no fatigue, and was always ready to chatter to Lucy of the most +womanish things. Especially, as the girl's beauty grew upon her, was she +anxious to carry out those plans of transforming her dress and hair,--her +gowns and hats and shoes--the primness of her brown braids, which she and +Miss Manisty had confided to each other. + +But Lucy was shy--would not be drawn that way. There were fewer visitors +at the villa than she had expected. For this quiet life in the garden, and +on the country roads, it seemed to her that her dresses did very well. The +sense of discomfort excited by the elegance of her Florentine acquaintance +died away. And she would have thought it wrong and extravagant to spend +unnecessary money. + +So she had quietly ceased to think about her dress; and the blue and white +check, to Eleanor's torment, had frequently to be borne with. + +Even the promised invitation to the Embassy had not arrived. It was said +that the Ambassador's daughter had gone to Florence. Only Lucy wished +she had not written that letter to Uncle Ben from Florence:--that +rather troubled and penitent letter on the subject of dress. He might +misunderstand--might do something foolish. + + * * * * * + +And apparently Uncle Ben did do something foolish. For a certain letter +arrived from Boston on the day after the seminarists' invasion of the +garden. Lucy after an hour's qualms and hesitations, must needs reluctantly +confide the contents of it to Miss Manisty. And that lady with smiles and +evident pleasure called Mrs. Burgoyne--and Eleanor called her maid,--and +the ball began to roll. + + * * * * * + +On Saturday morning early, Mrs. Burgoyne's room indeed was in a +bustle--delightful to all but Lucy. Manisty was in Rome for the day, and +Eleanor had holiday. She had never looked more frail--a rose-leaf pink in +her cheek--nor more at ease. For she was at least as good to consult about +a skirt as an idea. + +'Marie!'--she said, giving her own maid a little peremptory push--'just run +and fetch Benson--there's an angel. We must have all the brains possible. +If we don't get the bodice right, it won't suit Miss Foster a bit.' + +Marie went in all haste. Meanwhile in front of a large glass stood a rather +red and troubled Lucy arrayed in a Paris gown belonging to Mrs. Burgoyne. +Eleanor had played her with much tact, and now had her in her power. + +'It is the crisis, my dear,' Miss Manisty had said in Eleanor's ear, as +they rose from breakfast, with a twinkle of her small eyes. 'The question +is; can we, or can we not, turn her into a beauty? _You_ can!' + +Eleanor at any rate was doing her best. She had brought out her newest +gowns and Lucy was submissively putting them on one after the other. +Eleanor was in pursuit first of all of some general conceptions. What was +the girl's true style?--what were the possibilities? + +'When I have got my lines and main ideas in my head,' she said pensively, +'then we will call in the maids. Of course you _might_ have the things made +in Rome. But as we have the models--and these two maids have nothing to +do--why not give ourselves the pleasure of looking after it?' + +Pleasure! Lucy Foster opened her eyes. + +Still, here was this absurd, this most extravagant cheque from Uncle Ben, +and these peremptory commands to get herself everything--everything--that +other girls had. Why, it was demanded of her, had she been economical and +scrupulous before starting? Folly and disobedience! He had been told of +her silly hesitations, her detestable frugalities--he had ferretted it all +out. And now she was at a disadvantage--was she? Let her provide herself at +once, or old as he was, he would take train and steamer and come and see to +it! + +She was not submissive in general--far from it. But the reading of Uncle +Ben's letter had left her very meek in spirit and rather inclined to cry. + +Had Uncle Ben really considered whether it was right to spend so much money +on oneself, to think so much about it? Their life together had been so +simple, the question had hardly emerged. Of course it was right to be neat +and fresh, and to please his taste in what she wore. But-- + +The net result of all this internal debate, however, was to give a peculiar +charm, like the charm of rippled and sensitive water, to features that were +generally too still and grave. She stood silently before the long glass +while Mrs. Burgoyne and the maids talked and pinned. She walked to the end +of the room and back, as she was bid; she tried to express a preference, +when she was asked for one; and as she was arrayed in one delicious gown +after another, she became more and more alive to the beauty of the soft +stuffs, the invention and caprice with which they were combined, the +daintiness of their pinks and blues, their greys and creams, their lilacs +and ivories. At last Mrs. Burgoyne happened upon a dress of white crape, +opening upon a vest of pale green, with thin edges of black here and there, +disposed with the tact, the feeling of the artist; and when Lucy's tall +form had been draped in this garment, her three attendants fell back with +one simultaneous cry: + +'Oh my dear!' said Mrs. Burgoyne drawing a long breath.--'Now you see, +Marie--I told you!--that's the cut. And just look how simple that is, and +how it falls! That's the green. Yes, when Mathilde is as good as that she's +divine.--Now all you've got to do is just to copy that. And the materials +are just nothing--you'll get them in the Corso in half-an-hour.' + +'May I take it off?' said Lucy. + +'Well yes, you may'--said Mrs. Burgoyne, reluctantly--'but it's a great +pity. Well now, for the coat and skirt,'--she checked them off on her slim +fingers--'for the afternoon gown, and one evening dress, I think I see my +way--' + +'Enough for one morning isn't it?' said Lucy half laughing, half imploring. + +'Yes,'--said Mrs. Burgoyne absently, her mind already full of further +developments. + +The gowns were carried away, and Aunt Pattie's maid departed. Then as Lucy +in her white cotton wrapper was retiring to her own room, Mrs. Burgoyne +caught her by the arm. + +'You remember,'--she said appealingly,--'how rude I was that evening +you came--how I just altered your hair? You don't know how I long to +do it properly! You know I shall have a little trouble with these +dresses--trouble I like--but still I shall pretend it's trouble, that you +may pay me for it. Pay me by letting me experiment! I just long to take all +your hair down, and do it as it ought to be done. And you don't know how +clever I am. _Let_ me!' + +And already, before the shamefaced girl could reply, she was gently pushed +into the chair before Mrs. Burgoyne's dressing-table, and a pair of skilled +hands went to work. + +'I can't say you look as though you enjoyed it,' said Mrs. Burgoyne by the +time she had covered the girl's shoulders with the long silky veil which +she had released from the stiff plaits confining it. 'Do you think it's +wrong to do your hair prettily?' Lucy laughed uneasily. + +'I was never brought up to think much about it. My mother had very strict +views.' + +'Ah!'--said Eleanor, with a discreet intonation. 'But you see, at Rome it +is really so much better for the character to do as Rome does. To be out of +the way makes one self-conscious. Your mother didn't foresee that.' + +Silence,--while the swift white fingers plaited and tied and laid +foundations. + +'It waves charmingly already'--murmured the artist--'but it must be just +a little more _ondulé_ in the right places--just a touch--here and there. +Quick, Marie!--bring me the stove--and the tongs--and two or three of those +finest hairpins.' + +The maid flew, infected by the ardour of her mistress, and between them +they worked to such purpose that when at last they released their victim, +they had turned the dark head into that of a stately and fashionable +beauty. The splendid hair was raised high in small silky ripples above +the white brow. The little love-locks on the temples had been delicately +arranged so as to complete the fine oval of the face, and at the back the +black masses drawn lightly upwards from the neck, and held in place there +by a pearl comb of Mrs. Burgoyne's, had been piled and twisted into a crown +that would have made Artemis herself more queenly. + +'Am I really to keep it like this?' cried Lucy, looking at herself in the +glass. + +'But of course you are!' and Mrs. Burgoyne instinctively held the girl's +arms, lest any violence should be offered to her handiwork--'And you must +put on your _old_ white frock--_not_ the check--the nice soft one that's +been washed, with the pink sash--Goodness, how the time goes! Marie, run +and tell Miss Manisty not to wait for me--I'll follow her to the village.' + +The maid went. Lucy looked down upon her tyrant-- + +You are very kind to me'--she said with a lip that trembled slightly. Her +blue eyes under the black brows showed a feeling that she did not know how +to express. The subdued responsiveness, indeed, of Lucy's face was like +that of Wordsworth's Highland girl struggling with English. You felt her +'beating up against the wind,'--in the current, yet resisting it. Or +to take another comparison, her nature seemed to be at once stiff and +rich--like some heavy church stuff, shot with gold. + +'Oh! these things are my snare,' said Eleanor, laughing--'If I have any +gift, it is for _chiffons_.' + +'Any gift!' said Lucy wondering--'when you do so much for Mr. Manisty?' + +Mrs. Burgoyne shrugged her shoulders. + +'Ah! well--he wanted a secretary--and I happened to get the place,' she +said, in a more constrained voice. + +'Miss Manisty told me how you helped him in the winter. And she and Mr. +Brooklyn--have--told me--other things--' said Lucy. She paused, colouring +deeply. But her eyes travelled timidly to the photographs on Mrs. +Burgoyne's table. + +Eleanor understood. + +'Ah!--they told you that, did they?'--The speaker turned a little white. +'And you wonder--don't you?--that I can go on talking about frocks, and new +ways of doing one's hair?' + +She moved away from Lucy, a touch of cold defensive dignity effacing all +her pliant sweetness. + +Lucy followed and caught her hand. + +'Oh no! no!'--she said--'it is only so brave and good of you--to be able +still--to take an interest--' + +'Do I take it?' said Eleanor, scornfully, raising her other hand and +letting it fall. + +Lucy was silenced. After a moment Eleanor looked round, calmly took the +photograph of the child from the table, and held it towards Lucy. + +'He was just two--his birthday was four days before this was taken. +It's the picture I love best, because I last saw him like that--in his +night-gown. I was very ill that night--they wouldn't let me stay with my +husband--but after I left him, I came and rocked the baby and tucked him +up--and leant my face against his. He was so warm and sweet always in his +sleep. The touch of him--and the scent of him--his dear breath--and his +curls--and the moist little hands--sometimes they used to intoxicate me--to +give me life--like wine. They did me such good--that night.' + +Her voice did not tremble. Tears softly found their way down Lucy's face. +And suddenly she stooped, and put her lips, tenderly, clingingly, to Mrs. +Burgoyne's hand. + +Eleanor smiled. Then she herself bent forward and lightly kissed the girl's +cheek. + +'Oh! I am not worthy either to have had him--or lost him--' she said +bitterly. There was a little pause, which Eleanor broke. 'Now really we +must go to Aunt Pattie--mustn't we?' + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +'Ah! here you are! Don't kill yourselves. Plenty of time--for us! +Listen--there's the bell--eight o'clock--now they open the doors. +Goodness!--Look at the rush--and those little Italian chaps tackling those +strapping priests. Go it, ye cripples!' + +Lucy tamed her run to a quick walk, and Mr. Reggie took care of her, while +Manisty disappeared ahead with Mrs. Burgoyne, and Aunt Pattie fell to the +share of a certain Mr. Vanbrugh Neal, an elderly man tall and slim, and +of a singular elegance of bearing, who had joined them at the Piazza, and +seemed to be an old friend of Mr. Manisty's. + +Lucy looked round her in bewilderment. Before the first stroke of the bell +the Piazza of St. Peter's had been thickly covered with freely moving +groups, all advancing in order upon the steps of the church. But as the +bell began to speak, there was a sudden charge mostly of young priests and +seminarists--black skirts flying, black legs leaping--across the open space +and up the steps. + +'Reminds me of nothing so much'--said Reggie laughing back over his +shoulder at a friend behind--'as the charge of the Harrow boys at Lord's +last year--when they stormed the pavilion--did you see it?--and that little +Harrow chap saved the draw? I say!--they've broken the line!--and there'll +be a bad squash somewhere.' + +And indeed the attacking priests had for a moment borne down the Italian +soldiers who were good-naturedly guarding and guiding the Pope's guests +from the entrance of the Piazza to the very door of the church. But the +little men--as they seemed to Lucy's eyes--recovered themselves in a +twinkling, threw themselves stoutly on the black gentry, like sheep dogs on +the sheep, worried them back into line, collared a few bold spirits here, +formed a new cordon there, till all was once more in tolerable order, and a +dangerous pressure on the central door was averted. + +Meanwhile Lucy was hurried forward with the privileged crowd going to the +tribunes, towards the sacristy door on the south. + +'Let's catch up Mrs. Burgoyne'--said the young man, looking ahead with some +anxiety--'Manisty's no use. He'll begin to moon and forget all about her. I +say!--Look at the building--and the sky behind it! Isn't it stunning?' + +And they threw up a hasty glance as they sped along at the superb walls and +apses and cornices of the southern side--golden ivory or wax against the +blue.--The pigeons flew in white eddies above their heads; the April wind +flushed Lucy's cheek, and played with her black mantilla. All qualms were +gone. After her days of seclusion in the villa garden, she was passionately +conscious of this great Rome and its magic; and under her demure and rather +stately air, her young spirits danced and throbbed with pleasure. + +'How that black lace stuff does become all you women!'--said Reggie +Brooklyn, throwing a lordly and approving glance at her and his cousin +Eleanor, as they all met and paused amid the crowd that was concentrating +itself on the sacristy door; and Lucy, instead of laughing at the +lad's airs, only reddened a little more brightly and found it somehow +sweet--April sweet--that a young man on this spring morning should admire +her; though after all, she was hardly more inclined to fall in love with +Reggie Brooklyn than with Manisty's dear collie puppy, that had been left +behind, wailing, at the villa. + +At the actual door the young man quietly possessed himself of Mrs. +Burgoyne, while Manisty with an unconscious look of relief fell behind. + +'And you, Miss Foster,--keep closer--my coat's all at your service--it'll +stand a pull. Don't you be swept away--and I'll answer for Mrs. Burgoyne.' + +So on they hurried, borne along with the human current through passages and +corridors, part of a laughing, pushing, chatting crowd, containing all the +types that throng the Roman streets--English and American tourists, Irish +or German or English priests, monks white and brown, tall girls who wore +their black veils with an evident delight in the new setting thus given to +their fair hair and brilliant skins, beside older women to whom, on the +contrary, the dress had given a kind of unwonted repose and quietness of +look, as though for once they dared to be themselves in it, and gave up the +struggle with the years. + +Reggie Brooklyn maintained a lively chatter all the time, mostly at +Manisty's expense. Eleanor Burgoyne first laughed at his sallies, then +gently turned her head in a pause of the general advance and searched the +crowd pressing at their heels. Lucy's eyes followed hers, and there far +behind, carried forward passively in a brown study, losing ground slightly +whenever it was possible, was Manisty. The fine significant face was turned +a little upward; the eyes were full of thoughts; he was at once the slave +of the crowd, and its master. + +And across Eleanor's expression--unseen--there passed the slightest, +subtlest flash of tenderness and pride. She knew and understood him--she +alone! + + * * * * * + +At last the doors are passed. They are in the vast barricaded and +partitioned space, already humming with the talk and tread of +thousands,--the 'Tu es Petrus' overhead. Reggie Brooklyn would have hurried +them on in the general rush for the tribunes. But Mrs. Burgoyne laid a +restraining hand upon him. 'No--we mustn't separate,' she said, gently +peremptory. And for a few minutes Mr. Reggie in an anguish must needs see +the crowd flow past him, and the first seats of Tribune D filled. Then +Manisty appeared, lifting his eyebrows in a frowning wonder at the young +man's impatience;--and on they flew. + +At last!--They are in the third row of Tribune D, close to the line by +which the Pope must pass, and to the platform from which he will deliver +the Apostolic Benediction. Reggie the unsatisfied, the idealist, grumbles +that they ought to have been in the very front. But Eleanor and Aunt Pattie +are well satisfied. They find their acquaintance all around them. It is a +general flutter of fans, and murmur of talk. Already people are standing on +their seats looking down on the rapidly filling church. In press the less +favoured thousands from the Piazza, through the Atrium and the Eastern +door--great sea of human life spreading over the illimitable nave behind +the two lines of Swiss and Papal Guards, in quick never-ending waves that +bewilder and dazzle the eye. + +Lucy found the three hours' wait but a moment. The passing and re-passing +of the splendid officials in their Tudor or Valois dress; the great names, +'Colonna,' 'Barberini,' 'Savelli,' 'Borghese' that sound about her, as Mrs. +Burgoyne who knows everybody, at least by sight, laughs and points and +chats with her neighbour, Mr. Neal; the constant welling up of processions +from behind,--the Canons and Monsignori in their fur and lace tippets, +the red Cardinals with their suites; the entry of the Guardia Nobile, +splendid, incredible, in their winged Achillean helmets above their Empire +uniforms--half Greek, half French, half gods, half dandies, the costliest +foolishest plaything that any court can show; and finally as the time draws +on, the sudden thrills and murmurs that run through the church, announcing +the great moment which still, after all, delays: these things chase the +minutes, blot out, the sense of time. + +Meanwhile, again and again, Lucy, the sedate, the self-controlled, cannot +prevent herself from obeying a common impulse with those about her--from +leaping on her chair--straining her white throat--her eyes. Then a handsome +chamberlain would come by, lifting a hand in gentle protest, motioning to +the ladies--'De grâce, mesdames--mesdames, de _grâce_!--' Or angry murmurs +would rise from those few who had not the courage or the agility to +mount--'_Giù! giù!_--Descendez, mesdames!--qu'est-ce que c'est done que ces +mánières?'--and Lucy, crimson and abashed, would descend in haste, only to +find a kind Irish priest behind smiling at her,--prompting her,--'Never +mind them!--take no notice!--who is it you're harmin'?'--And her excitement +would take him at his word--for who should know if not a priest? + +And from these risky heights she looked down sometimes on +Manisty--wondering where was emotion, sympathy. Not a trace of them! Of +all their party he alone was obviously and hideously bored by the long +wait. He leant back in his chair, with folded arms, staring at the +ceiling--yawning--fidgetting. At last he took out a small Greek book from +his pocket, and hung over it in a moody absorption. Once only, when a +procession of the inferior clergy went by, he looked at it closely, turning +afterwards to Mrs. Burgoyne with the emphatic remark: 'Bad faces!--aren't +they?--almost all of them?' + +Yet Lucy could see that even here in this vast crowd, amid the hubbub and +bustle, he still counted, was still remembered. Officials came to lean +and chat across the rope; diplomats stopped to greet him on the way to +the august seats beyond the Confession. His manner in return showed no +particular cordiality; Lucy thought it languid, even cold. She was struck +with the difference between his mood of the day, and that brilliant and +eager homage he had lavished on the old Cardinal in the villa garden. What +a man of change and fantasy! Here it was he _qui tendait la joue_. Cold, +distant, dreamy--one would have thought him either indifferent or hostile +to the whole great pageant and its meanings. + +Only once did Lucy see him bestir himself--show a gleam of animation. +A white-haired priest, all tremulous dignity and delicacy, stood for a +moment beside the rope-barrier, waiting for a friend. Manisty bent over and +touched him on the arm. The old man turned. The face was parchment, the +cheeks cavernous. But in the blue eyes there was an exquisite innocence and +youth. + +Manisty smiled at him. His manner showed a peculiar almost a boyish +deference. 'You join us afterwards--at lunch?' + +'Yes, yes.' The old priest beamed and nodded; then his friend came up and +he was carried on. + + * * * * * + +'A quarter to eleven,' said Manisty with a yawn, looking at his watch. +'Ah!--listen!' + +He sprang to his feet. In an instant half the occupants of Tribune D +were on their chairs, Lucy and Eleanor among them. A roar came up the +church--passionate--indescribable. Lucy held her breath. + +There--there he is,--the old man! Caught in a great shaft of sunlight +striking from south to north, across the church, and just touching the +chapel of the Holy Sacrament--the Pope emerges. The white figure, high +above the crowd, sways from side to side; the hand upraised gives the +benediction. Fragile, spiritual as is the apparition, the sunbeam refines, +subtilises, spiritualises it still more. It hovers like a dream above the +vast multitudes--surely no living man!--but thought, history, faith, taking +shape; the passion of many hearts revealed. Up rushes the roar towards +the Tribunes. 'Did you hear?' said Manisty to Mrs. Burgoyne, lifting a +smiling brow, as a few Papalino cries--'Viva il Papa Re'--make themselves +heard among the rest. Eleanor's thin face turns to him with responsive +excitement. But she has seen these things before. Instinctively her eyes +wander perpetually to Manisty's, taking their colour, their meaning from +his. It is not the spectacle itself that matters to her--poor Eleanor! +One heart-beat, one smile of the man beside her outweighs it all. And he, +roused at last from his nonchalance, watching hawk-like every movement of +the figure and the crowd, is going mentally through a certain page of his +book, repeating certain phrases--correcting here--strengthening there. + +Lucy alone--the alien and Puritan Lucy--Lucy surrenders herself completely. +She betrays nothing, save by the slightly parted lips, and the flutter of +the black veil fastened on her breast; but it is as though her whole inner +being were dissolving, melting away, in the flame of the moment. It is her +first contact with decisive central things, her first taste of the great +world-play, as Europe has known it and taken part in it, at least since +Charles the Great. + +Yet, as she looks, within the visible scene, there opens another: the +porch of a plain, shingled house, her uncle sitting within it, his pipe +and his newspaper on his knee, sunning himself in the April morning. She +passes behind him, looks into the stiff leaf-scented parlour--at the +framed Declaration of Independence on the walls, the fresh boughs in the +fire-place, the Bible on its table, the rag-carpet before the hearth. +She breathes the atmosphere of the house; its stern independence and +simplicities; the scorns and the denials, the sturdy freedoms both of +body and soul that it implies--conscience the only master--vice-master +for God, in this His house of the World. And beyond--as her lids sink for +an instant on the pageant before her--she hears, as it were, the voices +of her country, so young and raw and strong!--she feels within her the +throb of its struggling self-assertive life; she is conscious too of the +uglinesses and meannesses that belong to birth and newness, to growth and +fermentation. Then, in a proud timidity--as one who feels herself an alien +and on sufferance--she hangs again upon the incomparable scene. This is St. +Peter's; there is the dome of Michael Angelo; and here, advancing towards +her amid the red of the cardinals, the clatter of the guards, the tossing +of the flabellæ, as though looking at her alone--the two waxen fingers +raised for her alone--is the white-robed triple-crowned Pope. + +She threw herself upon the sight with passion, trying to penetrate and +possess it; and it baffled her, passed her by. Some force of resistance +within her cried out to it that she was not its subject--rather its enemy! +And august, unheeding, the great pageant swept on. Close, close to her now! +Down sink the crowd upon the chairs; the heads fall like corn before the +wind. Lucy is bending too. The Papal chair borne on the shoulders of the +guards is now but a few feet distant; vaguely she wonders that the old +man keeps his balance, as he clings with one frail hand to the arm of the +chair, rises incessantly--and blesses with the other. She catches the +very look and meaning of the eyes--the sharp long line of the closed and +toothless jaw. Spirit and spectre;--embodying the Past, bearing the clue to +the Future. + +'_Yeux de police!_'--laughed Reggie Brooklyn to Mrs. Burgoyne as the +procession passed--'don't you know?--that's what they say.' + +Manisty bent forward. The flush of excitement was still on his cheek, but +he threw a little nod to Brooklyn, whose gibe amused him. + +Lucy drew a long breath--and the spell was broken. + + * * * * * + +Nor was it again renewed, in the same way. The Pope and his cortège +disappeared behind the Confession, behind the High Altar, and presently, +Lucy, craning her neck to the right, could see dimly in the furthest +distance, against the apse, and under the chair of St. Peter, the chair of +Leo XIII. and the white shadow, motionless, erect, within it, amid a court +of cardinals and diplomats. As for the mass that followed, it had its +moments of beauty for the girl's wondering or shrinking curiosity, but also +its moments of weariness and disillusion. From the latticed choir-gallery, +placed against one of the great piers of the dome, came unaccompanied +music--fine, pliant, expressive--like a single voice moving freely in +the vast space; and at the High Altar, Cardinals and Bishops crossed and +recrossed, knelt and rose, offered and put off the mitre; amid wreaths of +incense, long silences, a few chanted words; sustained, enfolded all the +while by the swelling tide of _Gloria_, or _Sanctus_. + +At last--the elevation!--and at the bell the whole long double line of +soldiers, from the Pope's chair at the western end to the eastern door, +with a rattle of arms that ran from end to end of the church, dropped on +one knee--saluted. Then, crac!--and as they had dropped, they rose, the +stiff white breeches and towering helmets of the Guardia Nobile, the +red and yellow of the Swiss, the red and blue of the Papal guards--all +motionless as before. It was like the movement of some gigantic toy. And +who or what else took any notice? Lucy looked round amazed. Even the Irish +priest behind her had scarcely bowed his head. Nobody knelt. Most people +were talking. Eleanor Burgoyne indeed had covered her face with her long +delicate fingers. Manisty leaning back in his chair, looked up for an +instant at the rattle of the soldiers, then went back sleepily to his Greek +book. Yet Lucy felt her own heart throbbing. Through the candelabra of the +High Altar beneath the dome, she can see the moving figures of the priests, +the wreaths of incense ascending. The face of the celebrant Cardinal, +which had dropped out of sight, reappears. Since it was last visible, +according to Catholic faith, the great act of Catholic worship has been +accomplished--the Body and Blood are there--God has descended, has +mingled with a mortal frame. And who cares? Lucy looks round her at the +good-humoured indifference, vacancy, curiosity, of the great multitude +filling the nave; and her soul frees itself in a rush of protesting +amazement. + + * * * * * + +One more 'moment' however there was,--very different from the great moment +of the entry, yet beautiful. The mass is over, and a temporary platform has +been erected between the Confession and the nave. The Pope has been placed +upon it, and is about to chant the Apostolic Benediction. + +The old man is within thirty feet of Manisty, who sits nearest to the +barrier. The red Cardinal holding the service-book, the groups of guards, +clergy and high officials, every detail of the Pope's gorgeous dress, nay +every line of the wrinkled face, and fleshless hands, Lucy's eyes command +them all. The quavering voice rises into the sudden silence of St. Peter's. +Fifty thousand people hush every movement, strain their ears to listen. + +Ah! how weak it is! Surely the effort is too great for a frame so +enfeebled, so ancient. It should not have been exacted--allowed. Lucy's +ears listen painfully for the inevitable break. But no!--The Pope draws a +long sigh--the sigh of weakness,--('Ah! poveretto!' says a woman, close to +Lucy, in a transport of pity),--then once more attempts the chant--sighs +again--and sings. Lucy's face softens and glows; her eyes fill with tears. +Nothing more touching, more triumphant, than this weakness and this +perseverance. Fragile indomitable face beneath the Papal crown! Under the +eyes of fifty thousand people the Pope sighs like a child, because he is +weak and old, and the burden of his office is great; but in sighing, keeps +a perfect simplicity, dignity, courage. Not a trace of stoical concealment; +but also not a trace of flinching. He sings to the end, and St. Peter's +listens in a tender hush. + +Then there seems to be a moment of collapse. The long straight lips close +as though with a snap, the upper jaw protruding; the eyelids drop; the +emaciated form sinks upon itself.-- + +But his guards raise the chair, and the Pope's trance passes away. He opens +his eyes, and braces himself for the last effort. Whiter than the gorgeous +cope which falls about him, he raises himself, clinging to the chair; he +lifts the skeleton fingers of his partially gloved hand; his look searches +the crowd. + +Lucy fell on her knees, a sob in her throat. When the Pope had passed, some +influence made her look up. She met the eyes of Edward Manisty. They were +instantly withdrawn, but not before the mingling of amusement and triumph +in them had brought the quick red to the girl's cheek. + + * * * * * + +And outside, in the Piazza, amid the out-pouring thousands, as they were +rushing for their carriage, Manisty's stride overtook her. + +'Well--you were impressed?'--he said, looking at her sharply. + +The girl's pride was somehow nettled by his tone. + +'Yes--but by the old man--more than by the Pope,'--she said quickly. + +'I hope not,' he said, with emphasis.--'Otherwise you would have missed the +whole point.' + +'Why?--Mayn't one feel it was pathetic, and touching--' + +'No--not in the least!' he said, impatiently. 'What does the man himself +matter, or his age?--That's all irrelevant,--foolish sentiment. What makes +these ceremonies so tremendous is that there is no break between that man +and Peter--or Linus, if you like--it comes to the same thing:--that the +bones, if not of Peter, at any rate of men who might have known Peter, +are there, mingled with the earth beneath his feet--that he stands there +recognised by half the civilised world as Peter's successor--that five +hundred, a thousand years hence, the vast probability is there will still +be a Pope in St. Peter's to hand on the same traditions, and make the same +claims.' + +'But if you don't acknowledge the tradition or the claims!--why shouldn't +you feel just the human interest?' + +'Oh, of course, if you want to take the mere vulgar, parochial view--the +halfpenny interviewer's view--why, you must take it!' he said, almost with +violence, shrugging his shoulders. + +Lucy's eyes sparkled. There was always something of the overgrown, +provoking child in him, when he wanted to bear down an opinion or feeling +that displeased him. She would have liked to go on walking and wrangling +with him, for the great ceremony had excited her, and made it easier +for her to talk. But at that moment Mrs. Burgoyne's voice was heard +in front--'Joy! there is the carriage, and Reggie has picked up +another.--Edward, take Aunt Pattie through--we'll look after ourselves.' + + * * * * * + +And soon the whole party were driving in two of the little Roman victorias +through streets at the back of the Capitol, and round the base of the +Palatine, to the Aventine, where it appeared they were to lunch at an +open-air _trattoria_, recommended by Mr. Brooklyn. + +Mrs. Burgoyne, Lucy and Mr. Vanbrugh Neal found themselves together. Mrs. +Burgoyne and Mr. Neal talked of the function, and Lucy, after a few shy +expressions of gratitude and pleasure, fell silent, and listened. But she +noticed very soon that Mrs. Burgoyne was talking absently. Amid the black +that fell about her slim tallness, she was more fragile, more pale than +ever; and it seemed to Lucy that her eyes were dark with a fatigue that had +not much to do with St. Peter's. Suddenly indeed, she bent forward and said +in a lowered voice to Mr. Neal-- + +'You have read it?' + +He too bent forward, with a smile not quite free from embarrassment-- + +'Yes, I have read it--I shall have some criticisms to make.--You won't +mind?' + +She threw up her hands-- + +'Must you?' + +'I think I must--for the good of the book,'--he said reluctantly. 'Very +likely I'm all wrong. I can only look at it as one of the public. But +that's what he wants,'--what you both want--isn't it?' + +She assented. Then she turned her head away, looked out of the carriage and +said no more. But her face had drooped and dimmed, all in a moment; the +lines graven in it long years before, by grief and delicacy, came out with +a singular and sudden plainness. + +The man sitting opposite to her was of an aspect little less distinguished +than hers. He had a long face, with a high forehead, set in grizzled hair, +and a mouth and chin of peculiar refinement. The shortness of the chin gave +a first impression of weakness, which however was soon undone by the very +subtle and decided lines in which, so to speak, the mouth, and indeed the +face as a whole, were drawn. All that Lucy knew of him was that he was a +Cambridge don, a man versed in classical archæology who was an old friend +and tutor of Mr. Manisty's. She had heard his name mentioned several times +at the Villa, and always with an emphasis that marked it out from other +names. And she understood from various signs that before finally passing +his proofs for publication, Mr. Manisty had taken advantage of his old +friend's coming to Rome to ask his opinion on them. + +How brilliant was the April day on the high terrace of the Aventine +_trattoria_! As Lucy and Aunt Pattie stood together beside the little +parapet looking out through the sprays of banksia rose that were already +making a white canopy above the restaurant tables, they had before them +the steep sides and Imperial ruins of the Palatine; the wonderful group of +churches on the Coelian; the low villa-covered ridges to the right melting +into the Campagna; and far away, the blue, Sabine mountains--'suffused with +sunny air'--that look down with equal kindness on the refuge of Horace, and +the oratory of St. Benedict. What sharpness of wall and tree against the +pearly sky--what radiance of blossom in the neighbouring gardens--what ruin +everywhere, yet what indomitable life! + +Beneath on a lower terrace, Manisty and Mr. Vanbrugh Neal were walking up +and down. + +'He's such a clever man,' sighed Aunt Pattie, as she looked down upon them. +'But I do hope he won't discourage Edward.' + +Whereupon she glanced not at Manisty but at Eleanor, who was sitting near +them, pretending to talk to Reggie Brooklyn--but in reality watching the +conversation below. + +Presently some other guests arrived, and amongst them the tall and +fine-faced priest who had spoken to Manisty in St. Peter's. He came in very +shyly. Eleanor Burgoyne received him, made him sit by her, and took charge +of him till Manisty should appear. But he seemed to be ill at ease with +ladies. He buried his hands in the sleeves of his soutane, and would answer +little more than Yes and No. + +'There'll be a great fuss about him soon,' whispered Aunt Pattie in +Lucy's ear--'I don't quite understand--but he's written a book that's +been condemned; and the question is, will he submit? They give you a year +apparently to decide in. Edward says the book's quite right--and yet they +were quite right to condemn him. It's very puzzling!' + +When Manisty and Mr. Neal answered to the call of luncheon, Mr. Neal +mounted the steps leading to the open-air restaurant, with the somewhat +sheepish air of the man who has done his duty, and is inclined to feel +himself a meddler for his pains. The luncheon itself passed without gaiety. +Manisty was either moodily silent, or engaged in discussions with the +strange priest, Father Benecke, as to certain incidents connected with a +South German University, which had lately excited Catholic opinion. He +scarcely spoke to any of the ladies--least of all to Eleanor Burgoyne. She +and Aunt Pattie must needs make all the greater efforts to carry off the +festa. Aunt Pattie chattered nervously like one in dread of a silence, +while Eleanor was merry with young Brooklyn, and courteous to the other +guests whom Manisty had invited--a distinguished French journalist for +instance, an English member of Parliament and his daughter, and an Italian +senator with an English wife. + +Nevertheless when the party was breaking up, Reggie who had thrown her +occasional glances of disquiet, approached Lucy Foster and said to her in a +low voice, twirling an angry moustache-- + +'Mrs. Burgoyne is worn out. Can't you look after her?' + +Lucy, a little scared by so much responsibility, did her best. She +dissuaded Aunt Pattie from dragging Mrs. Burgoyne through an afternoon +of visits. She secured an early train for the return to Marinata, and so +earned a special and approving smile from Mr. Reggie, when at last he had +settled the three ladies safely in their carriage, and was raising his hat +to them on the platform. Manisty and Mr. Neal were to follow by a later +train. + +No sooner were they speeding through the Campagna than Eleanor sank back in +her corner with a long involuntary sigh. + +'My dear--you are very tired!'--exclaimed Miss Manisty. + +'No.--' + +Mrs. Burgoyne took off the hat which had by now replaced the black veil of +the morning, and closed her eyes. Her attitude by its sad unresistingness +appealed to Lucy as it had done once before. And it was borne in upon her +that what she saw was not mere physical fatigue, but a deep discouragement +of mind and heart. As to the true sources of it Lucy could only guess. She +guessed at any rate that they were somehow connected with Mr. Manisty and +his book; and she was indignant again--she hardly knew why. The situation +suggested to her a great devotion ill-repaid, a friendship, of which the +strong tyrannous man took advantage. Why should he behave as though all +that happened ill with regard to his book was somehow Mrs. Burgoyne's +fault? Claim all her time and strength--overstrain and overwork her--and +then make her tacitly responsible if anything went amiss! It was like the +petulant selfishness of his character. Miss Manisty ought to interfere! + + * * * * * + +Dreary days followed at the Villa. + +It appeared that Mr. Vanbrugh Neal had indeed raised certain critical +objections both to the facts and to the arguments of one whole section of +the book, and that Manisty had been unable to resist them. The two men +would walk up and down the ilex avenues of the garden for hours together, +Mr. Neal gentle, conciliating, but immovable; Manisty violent and excited, +but always submitting in the end. He would defend his point of view with +obstinacy, with offensiveness even, for an afternoon, and then give way, +with absolute suddenness. Lucy learnt with some astonishment that beneath +his outward egotism he was really amazingly dependent on the opinions of +two or three people, of whom Mr. Neal seemed to be one. This dependence +turned out indeed to be even excessive. He would make a hard fight for his +own way; but in the end he was determined that what he wrote should please +his friends, and please a certain public. At bottom he was a rhetorician +writing for this public--the slave of praise, and eager for fame, which +made his complete indifference as to what people thought of his actions +all the more remarkable. He lived to please himself; he wrote to be read; +and he had found reason to trust the instinct of certain friends in this +respect, Vanbrugh Neal among them. + +To do him justice, indeed, along with his dependence on Vanbrugh Neal's +opinion, there seemed to go a rather winning dependence on his affection. + +Mr. Neal was apparently a devout Anglican, of a delicate and scrupulous +type. His temper was academic, his life solitary; rhetoric left him +unmoved, and violence of statement caused him to shiver. To make the State +religious was his dearest wish. But he did not forget that to accomplish +it you must keep the Church reasonable. A deep, though generally silent +enthusiasm for the Anglican _Via Media_ possessed him; and, like the Newman +of Oriel, he was inclined to look upon the appearance of Antichrist as +coincident with the Council of Trent. In England it seemed to him that +persecution of the Church was gratuitous and inexcusable; for the Church +had never wronged the State. In Italy, on the contrary, supposing the State +had been violent, it could plead the earlier violences of the Church. He +did not see how the ugly facts could be denied; nor did a candid unveiling +of them displease his Anglican taste. + +'You should have made a study--and you have written a pamphlet,' he would +say, with that slow shake of the head which showed him inexorable. 'Why +have you given yourself to the Jesuits? You were an Englishman and an +outsider--enormous advantages! Why have you thrown them away?' + +'One must have information!--I merely went to headquarters.' + +'You have paid for it too dear. Your book is a plea for superstition!' + +Whereupon a flame in Manisty's black eyes, and a burst in honour of +superstition, which set the garden paths echoing. + +But Neal pushed quietly on; untiring, unappeasable; pointing to a +misstatement here, an exaggeration there, till Manisty was in a roar of +argument, furious half with his friend, half with himself. + +Meanwhile if the writer bore attack hardly, the man of piety found it still +harder to endure the praise of piety. When Manisty denounced irresponsible +science and free thought, as the enemies of the State, which must live, +and can only live by religion; when he asked with disdain 'what reasonable +man would nowadays weigh the membership of the Catholic church against +an opinion in geology or exegesis'; when he dwelt on the _easiness_ +of faith,--which had nothing whatever to do with knowledge, and had, +therefore, no quarrel with knowledge; or upon the incomparable social power +of religion;--his friend grew restive. And while Manisty, intoxicated with +his own phrases, and fluencies, was alternately smoking and declaiming, +Neal with his grey hair, his tall spare form, and his air of old-fashioned +punctilium, would sit near, fixing the speaker with his pale-blue eyes,--a +little threateningly; always ready to shatter an exuberance, to check an +oratorical flow by some quick double-edged word that would make Manisty +trip and stammer; showing, too, all the time, by his evident shrinking, by +certain impregnable reserves, or by the banter that hid a feeling too keen +to show itself, how great is the gulf between a literary and a practical +Christianity. + +Nevertheless, from the whole wrestle two facts emerged:--the pleasure which +these very dissimilar men took in each other's society; and that strange +ultimate pliancy of Manisty which lay hidden somewhere under all the surge +and froth of his vivacious rhetoric. Both were equally surprising to +Lucy Foster. How had Manisty ever attached himself to Vanbrugh Neal? For +Neal had a large share of the weaknesses of the student and recluse; the +failings, that is to say, of a man who had lived much alone, and found +himself driven to an old-maidish care of health and nerves, if a delicate +physique was to do its work. He had fads; and his fads were often +unexpected and disconcerting. One day he would not walk; another day he +would not eat; driving was out of the question, and the sun must be avoided +like the plague. Then again it was the turn of exercise, cold baths, +and hearty fare. It was all done with a grace that made his whims more +agreeable than other men's sense. But one might have supposed that such +claims on a friend's part would have annoyed a man of Manisty's equally +marked but very different peculiarities. Not at all. He was patience and +good temper itself on these occasions. + +'Isn't he _bon enfant_?' Mr. Neal said once to Mrs. Burgoyne in Lucy's +presence, with a sudden accent of affection and emotion--on some occasion +when Manisty had borne the upsetting of a cherished plan for the afternoon +with quite remarkable patience. + +'He has learnt how to spoil _you_!' said Eleanor, with a fluttering smile, +and an immediate change of subject. Lucy looking up, felt a little pang. + +For nothing could he more curious than the change in Manisty's manner +towards the most constant of companions and secretaries. He had given up +all continuous work at his book; he talked now of indefinite postponement; +and it seemed as if with the change of plan Mrs. Burgoyne had dropped out +of the matter altogether. He scarcely consulted her indeed; he consulted +Mr. Neal. Mr. Neal often, moved by a secret chivalry, would insist upon +bringing her in to their counsels; Manisty immediately became unmanageable, +silent, and embarrassed. And how characteristic and significant was that +embarrassment of his! It was as though he had a grievance against her; +which however he could neither formulate for himself nor express to her. + +On the other hand--perhaps inevitably--he began to take much more notice +of Lucy Foster, and to find talking with her an escape. He presently found +it amusing to 'draw' her; and subjects presented themselves in plenty. She +was now much less shy; and her secret disapproval gave her tongue. His +challenges and her replies became a feature of the day; Miss Manisty and +Mr. Neal began to listen with half-checked smiles, to relish the girl's +crisp frankness, and the quick sense of fun that dared to show itself now +that she was more at home. + +'And how improved she is! That's like all the Americans--they're so +adaptable,'--Miss Manisty would think, as she watched her nephew in the +evenings teasing, sparring, or arguing with Lucy Foster--she so adorably +young and fresh, the new and graceful lines of the _coiffure_ that Eleanor +had forced upon her, defining the clear oval of the face and framing the +large eyes and pure brow. Her hands, perhaps, would be lightly clasped on +her white lap, their long fingers playing with some flower she had taken +from her belt. The lines of the girlish figure would be full of dignity and +strength. She might have been herself the young America, arguing, probing, +deciding for herself--refusing to be overawed or brow-beaten by the old +Europe. + +Eleanor meanwhile was unfailingly gracious both to Lucy and the others, +though perhaps the grace had in it sometimes a new note of distance, of +that delicate _hauteur_, which every woman of the world has at command. She +gave as much attention as ever--more than ever--to the fashioning of Lucy's +dresses; the girl was constantly pricked with compunction and shame on the +subject. Who was she, that Mrs. Burgoyne--so elegant and distinguished a +person--should waste so much time and thought upon her? But sometimes she +could not help seeing that Mrs. Burgoyne was glad of the occupation. Her +days had been full to the brim; they were now empty. She said nothing; she +took up the new books; she talked to and instructed the maids; but Lucy +divined a secret suffering. + + * * * * * + +One evening, about a week after Mr. Neal's arrival at the Villa, Manisty +was more depressed than usual. He had been making some attempts to +rearrange a certain section of his book which had fallen especially under +the ban of Neal's criticism. He had not been successful; and in the process +his discontent with one chapter had spread to several. In talking about the +matter to Vanbrugh Neal in the salon after dinner he broke out into some +expression of disgust as to the waste of time involved in much of his +work of the winter. The two friends were in a corner of the vast room; +and Manisty spoke in an undertone. But his voice had the carrying and +penetrating power of his personality. + +Presently Eleanor Burgoyne rose, and softly approached Miss Manisty. 'Dear +Aunt Pattie--don't move'--she said, bending over her--'I am tired and will +go to bed.' + +Manisty, who had turned at her movement, sprang up, and came to her. + +'Eleanor! did we walk you too far this afternoon?' + +She smiled, but hardly replied. He busied himself with gathering up her +possessions, and lit her candle at the side-table. + +As she passed by him to the door, he looked at her furtively for a +moment,--hanging his head. Then he pressed her hand, and said so that only +she could hear-- + +'I should have kept my regrets to myself!' + +She shook her head, with faint mockery. + +'It would be the first time.' + +Her hand dropped from his, and she passed out of sight. Manisty walked back +to his seat discomfited. He could not defend himself against the charges of +secret tyranny and abominable ill-humour that his conscience was pricking +him with. He was sorry--he would have liked to tell her so. And yet somehow +her very weakness and sweetness, her delicate uncomplainingness seemed only +to develope his own small egotisms and pugnacities. + + * * * * * + +That night--a night of rain and scirocco--Eleanor wrote in her +journal--'Will he ever finish the book? Very possibly it has been all a +mistake. Yet when he began it, he was in the depths. Whatever happens, it +has been his salvation. + +'--Surely he will finish it? He cannot forego the effect he is almost sure +it will produce. But he will finish it with impatience and disgust; he is +out of love with it and all its associations. All that he was talking of +to-night represents what I had most share in,--the chapters which brought +us most closely together. How happy we were over them! And now, how +different! + +'It is curious--the animation with which he has begun to talk to Lucy +Foster. Pretty child! I like to feel that I have been the fairy god-mother, +dressing her for the ball. How little she knows what it means to be talked +to by him, to receive courtesies from him,--how many women would like to +be in her place. Yet now she is not shy; she has no alarms; she treats him +like an equal. If it were not ridiculous, one could be angry. + +'She dislikes and criticises him, and he can have no possible understanding +of or sympathy with her. But she is a way out of embarrassment. How +fastidious and proud he is with women!--malicious too, and wilful. Often I +have wished him more generous--more kind. + +'... In three weeks the anniversary will be here--the ninth. Why am I still +alive? How often have I asked myself that! Where is my place?--who needs +me?--My babe, if he still exists, is alone--there. And I still here. If I +had only had the courage to rejoin him! The doctors deceived me. They made +me think it could not be long. And now I am better--much better. If I were +happy I should be quite well. + +'How weary seems this Italian spring!--the restlessness of this eternal +wind--the hot clouds that roll up from the Campagna. "Que vivre est +difficile, ô mon coeur fatigué!"' + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +'I think it's lovely,' said Lucy in an embarrassed voice. 'And I just don't +know how to thank you--indeed I don't.' + +She was standing inside the door of Mrs. Burgoyne's room, arrayed in the +white crepe gown with the touches of pale green and vivid black that +Eleanor had designed for her. Its flowing elegance made her positively a +stranger to herself. The two maids moreover who had attired her had been +intent upon a complete, an indisputable perfection. Her hat had been +carried off and retrimmed, her white gloves, her dainty parasol, the bunch +of roses at her belt--everything had been thought for; she had been allowed +a voice in nothing. And the result was extraordinary. The day before +she had been still a mere fresh-cheeked illustration of those 'moeurs +de province' which are to be found all over the world, in Burgundy and +Yorkshire no less and no more than in Vermont; to-day she had become what +others copy, the best of its kind--the 'fleeting flower' that 'blooms +for one day at the summit'--as the maids would no doubt have expressed +themselves, had they been acquainted with the works of Mr. Clough. + +And thanks to that pliancy of her race, which Miss Manisty had discovered, +although she was shy in these new trappings, she was not awkward. She was +assimilating her new frocks, as she had already assimilated so many other +things, during her weeks at the villa--points of manner, of speech, of +mental perspective. Unconsciously she copied Mrs. Burgoyne's movements +and voice; she was learning to understand Manisty's paradoxes, and Aunt +Pattie's small weaknesses. She was less raw, evidently; yet not less +individual. Her provincialisms were dropping away; her character, perhaps, +was only emerging. + +'Are you pleased with it?' she said timidly, as Mrs. Burgoyne bade her come +in, and she advanced towards that lady, who was putting on her own hat +before the glass. + +Eleanor, with uplifted arms, turned and smiled.-- + +'Charming! You do one credit!--Is Aunt Pattie better?' + +Lucy was conscious of a momentary chill. Mrs. Burgoyne had been so kind +and friendly during the whole planning and making of this dress, the girl, +perhaps, had inevitably expected a keener interest in its completion. + +She answered in some discomfort:-- + +'I am afraid Miss Manisty's not coming. I saw Benson just now. Her headache +is still so bad.' + +'Ah!'--said Eleanor, absently, rummaging among her gloves; 'this scirocco +weather doesn't suit her.' + +Lucy fidgetted a little as she stood by the dressing-table, took up one +knick-knack after another and put it down. At last she said-- + +'Do you mind my asking you a question?' + +Mrs. Burgoyne turned in surprise. + +'By all means!--What can I do?' + +'Do you mind telling me whether you think I ought to stay on here? Miss +Manisty is so kind--she wants me to stay till you leave, and then go to +Vallombrosa with you--next month. But--' + +'Why "but"?'--said Mrs. Burgoyne, briskly, still in quest of rings, +handkerchief, and fan,--'unless you are quite tired of us.' + +The girl smiled. 'I couldn't be that. But--I think you'll be tired of me! +And I've heard from the Porters of a quiet pension in Florence, where some +friends of theirs will be staying till the middle of June. They would let +me join them, till the Porters are ready for me.' + +There was just a moment's pause before Eleanor said-- + +'Aunt Pattie would be very sorry. I know she counts on your going with her +to Vallombrosa. I must go home by the beginning of June, and I believe Mr. +Manisty goes to Paris.' + +'And the book?' Lucy could not help saying, and then wished vehemently that +she had left the question alone. + +'I don't understand'--said Mrs. Burgoyne, stooping to look for her +walking-shoes. + +'I didn't--I didn't know whether it was still to be finished by the +summer?' + +'No one knows,--certainly not the author! But it doesn't concern me in the +least.' + +'How can it be finished without you?' said Lucy wondering. Again she could +not restrain the spirit of eager championship which had arisen in her mind +of late; though she was tremulously uncertain as to how far she might +express it. + +Certainly Mrs. Burgoyne showed a slight stiffening of manner. + +'It will have to get finished without me, I'm afraid. Luckily I'm not +wanted; but if I were, I shall have no time for anything but my father this +summer.' + +Lucy was silent. Mrs. Burgoyne finished tying her shoes, then rose, and +said lightly-- + +'Besides--poor book! It wanted a change badly. So did I.--Now Mr. Neal will +see it through.' + + * * * * * + +Lucy went to say good-bye to Aunt Pattie before starting. Eleanor, left +alone, stood a moment, thoughtful, beside the dressing-table. + +'She is sorry for me!' she said to herself, with a sudden, passionate +movement. + +This was the Nemi day--the day of festival, planned a fortnight before, to +celebrate the end, the happy end of the book. It was to have been Eleanor's +special day--the sign and seal of that good fortune she had brought her +cousin and his work. + +And now?--Why were they going? Eleanor hardly knew. She had tried to stop +it. But Reggie Brooklyn had been asked, and the Ambassador's daughter. And +Vanbrugh Neal had a fancy to see Nemi. Manisty, who had forgotten all that +the day was once to signify, had resigned himself to the expedition--he who +hated expeditions!--' because Neal wanted it.' There had not been a word +said about it during the last few days that had not brought gall and wound +to Eleanor. She, who thought she knew all that male selfishness was capable +of, was yet surprised and pricked anew, hour after hour, by Manisty's +casual sayings and assumptions. + +It was like some gourd-growth in the night--the rise of this entangling +barrier between herself and him. She knew that some of it came from those +secret superstitions and fancies about himself and his work which she had +often detected in him. If a companion or a place, even a particular table +or pen had brought him luck, he would recur to them and repeat them with +eagerness. But once prove to him the contrary, and she had seen him drop +friend and pen with equal decision. + +And as far as she could gather--as far as he would discuss the matter at +all--it was precisely with regard to those portions of the book where her +influence upon it had been strongest, that the difficulties put forward by +Mr. Neal had arisen. + +Her lip quivered. She had little or no personal conceit. Very likely Mr. +Neal's criticisms were altogether just, and she had counselled wrongly. +When she thought of the old days of happy consultation, of that vibrating +sympathy of thought which had arisen between them, glorifying the winter +days in Rome, of the thousand signs in him of a deep, personal gratitude +and affection-- + +Vanished!--vanished! The soreness of heart she carried about with +her, proudly concealed, had the gnawing constancy of physical pain. +While he!--Nothing seemed to her more amazing than the lapses in mere +gentlemanliness that Manisty could allow himself. He was capable on +occasion of all that was most refined and tender in feeling. But once jar +that central egotism of his, and he could behave incredibly! Through the +small actions and omissions of every day, he could express, if he chose, a +hardness of soul before which the woman shuddered. + +Did he in truth mean her to understand, not only that she had been an +intruder, and an unlucky one, upon his work and his intellectual life, but +that any dearer hopes she might have based upon their comradeship were to +be once for all abandoned? She stood there, lost in a sudden tumult of +passionate pride and misery, which was crossed every now and then by a +strange and bitter wonder. + +Each of us carries about with him a certain mental image of +himself--typical, characteristic--as we suppose; draped at any rate to our +fancy; round which we group the incidents of life. Eleanor saw herself +always as the proud woman; it is a guise in which we are none of us loth +to masquerade. Haughtily dumb and patient during her married years; proud +morally, socially, intellectually; finding in this stiffening of the self +her only defence against the ugly realities of daily life. Proud too in her +loneliness and grief--proud of her very grief, of her very capacity for +suffering, of all the delicate shades of thought and sorrow which furnished +the matter of her secret life, lived without a sign beside the old father +whose coarser and commoner pride took such small account of hers! + +And now--she seemed to herself to be already drinking humiliation, and +foreseeing ever deeper draughts of it to come. She, who had never begged +for anything, was in the mood to see her whole existence as a refused +petition, a rejected gift. She had offered Edward Manisty her all of +sympathy and intelligence, and he was throwing it back lightly, inexorably +upon her hands. Her thin cheek burnt; but it was the truth. She annoyed and +wearied him; and he had shaken her off; her, Eleanor Burgoyne! She did not +know herself. Her inmost sense of identity was shaken. + +She leant her head an instant against the frame of the open window, closing +her tired eyes upon the great Campagna below her. A surge of rebellious +will passed through her. Always submission, patience, silence,--till now! +But there are moments when a woman must rouse herself, and fight--must not +accept, but make, her fate. + +Jealous! Was that last heat and ignominy of the soul to be hers too? She +was to find it a threat and offence that he should spend some of the +evenings that now went so heavily, talking with this girl,--this nice +simple girl, whom she had herself bade him cultivate, whom she had herself +brought into notice, rubbing off her angles,--drilling her into beauty? The +very notion was madness and absurdity. It degraded her in her own eyes. It +was the measure of her own self-ignorance. She--resign him at the first +threat of another claim! The passionate life of her own heart amazed and +stunned her. + +The clock in the salon struck. She started, and went to straighten her veil +at the glass. What would the afternoon bring her? Something it should bring +her. The Nemi days of the winter were shrined in memory--each with its +halo. Let her put out her full strength again, and now, before it was too +late--before he had slipped too far away from her. + +The poor heart beat hotly against the lace of her dress. What did she +intend or hope for? She only knew that this might be one of her last +chances with him--that the days were running out--and the moment of +separation approached. Her whole nature was athirst, desperately athirst +for she knew not what. Yet something told her that among these ups and +downs of daily temper and fortune there lay strewn for her the last chances +of her life. + + * * * * * + +'Please, ma'am, will you go in for a moment to Miss Manisty?' + +The voice was Benson's, who had waylaid Mrs. Burgoyne in the salon. + +Eleanor obeyed. + +From the shadows of her dark room Aunt Pattie raised a wan face. + +'Eleanor!--what do you think?'-- + +Eleanor ran to her. Miss Manisty handed her a telegram which read as +follows-- + +'Your letter arrived too late to alter arrangements. Coming to-morrow--two +or three nights--discuss plans.--ALICE.' + +Eleanor let her hand drop, and the two ladies looked at each other in +dismay. + +'But you told her you couldn't receive her here?' + +'Several times over. Edward will be in despair. How are we to have her +here with Miss Foster? Her behaviour the last two months has been too +extraordinary.' + +Aunt Pattie fell back a languid little heap upon her pillows. Eleanor +looked almost equally disconcerted. + +'Have you told Edward?' + +'No,' said Aunt Pattie miserably, raising a hand to her aching head, as +though to excuse her lack of courage. + +'Shall I tell him?' + +'It's too bad to put such things on you.' + +'No, not at all. But I won't tell him now. It would spoil the day. Some +time before the evening.' + +Aunt Pattie showed an aspect of relief. + +'Do whatever you think best. It's very good of you--' + +'Not at all. Dear Aunt Pattie!--lie still. By the way--has she anyone with +her?' + +'Only her maid--the one person who can manage her at all. That poor lady, +you know, who tried to be companion, gave it up some time ago. Where shall +we put her?' + +'There are the two east rooms. Shall I tell Andreina to get them ready?' + +Aunt Pattie acquiesced, with a sound rather like a groan. + +'There is no chance still of stopping her?' said Eleanor, moving away. + +'The telegram gives no address but Orte station,' said Aunt Pattie wearily; +'she must have sent it on her journey.' + +'Then we must be prepared. Don't fret--dear Aunt Pattie!--we'll help you +through.' + +Eleanor stood a moment in the salon, thinking. + +Unlucky! Manisty's eccentric and unmanageable sister had been for many +years the secret burden of his life and Aunt Pattie's. Eleanor had been a +witness of the annoyance and depression with which he had learnt during the +winter that she was in Italy. She knew something of the efforts that had +been made to keep her away from the villa.-- + +He would be furiously helpless and miserable under the +infliction.--Somehow, her spirits rose.-- + +She went to the door of the salon, and heard the carriage drive up that was +to take them to Nemi. Across Manisty's room, she saw himself on the balcony +lounging and smoking till the ladies should appear. The blue lake with its +green shores sparkled beyond him. The day was brightening. Certainly--let +the bad news wait! + + * * * * * + +As they drove along the Galleria di Sotto, Manisty seemed to be +preoccupied. The carriage had interrupted him in the midst of reading a +long letter which he still held crumpled in his hand. + +At last he said abruptly to Eleanor--'Benecke's last chance is up. He is +summoned to submit next week at latest.' + +'He tells you so?' + +'Yes. He writes me a heart-broken letter.' + +'Poor, poor fellow! It's all the Jesuits' doing. Mr. Neal told me the whole +story.' + +'Oh! it's tyranny of course. And the book's only a fraction of the +truth,--a little Darwinian yeast leavening a lump of theology. But they're +quite right. They can't help it.' + +Eleanor looked at Lucy Foster and laughed. + +'Dangerous to say those things before Miss Foster.' + +'Does Miss Foster know anything about it?'--he said coolly. + +Lucy hastily disclaimed any knowledge of Father Benecke and his affairs. + +'They're very simple'--said Manisty. 'Father Benecke is a priest, but also +a Professor. He published last year a rather Liberal book--very mildly +liberal--some evolution--some Biblical criticism--just a touch! And a good +deal of protest against the way in which the Jesuits are ruining Catholic +University education in Germany. Lord! more than enough. They put his book +on the Index within a month; he has had a year's grace to submit in; and +now, if the submission is not made within a week or so, he will be first +suspended, and then--excommunicated.' + +'Who's "they"? 'said Lucy. + +'Oh! the Congregation of the Index--or the people who set them on.' + +'Is the book a bad book?' + +'Quite the contrary.' + +'And you're pleased?' + +'I think the Papacy is keeping up discipline--and is not likely to go under +just yet.' + +He turned to her with his teasing laugh and was suddenly conscious of her +new elegance. Where was the 'Sunday school teacher'? Transformed!--in five +weeks--into this vision that was sitting opposite to him? Really, women +were too wonderful! His male sense felt a kind of scorn for the plasticity +of the sex. + +'He has asked your opinion?' said Lucy, pursuing the subject. + +'Yes. I told him the book was excellent--and his condemnation certain.' + +Lucy bit her lip. + +'Who did it?' + +'The Jesuits--probably.' + +'And you defend them?' + +'Of course!--They're the only gentlemen in Europe who thoroughly understand +their own business.' + +'What a business!' said Lucy, breathing quick.--'To rush on every little +bit of truth they see and stamp it out!' + +'Like any other dangerous firework,--your simile is excellent.' + +'Dangerous!' She threw back her head.--'To the blind and the cripples.' + +'Who are the larger half of mankind. Precisely.' + +She hesitated, then could not restrain herself. + +'But _you're_ not concerned?' + +'I? Oh dear no. I can be trusted with fireworks. Besides I'm not a +Catholic.' + +'Is that fair?--to stand outside slavery--and praise it?' + +'Why not?--if it suits my purpose?' + +The girl was silent. Manisty glanced at Eleanor; she caught the mischievous +laugh in his eyes, and lightly returned it. It was his old comrade's look, +come back. A warmer, more vital life stirred suddenly through all her +veins; the slight and languid figure drew itself erect; her senses told +her, hurriedly, for the first time that the May sun, the rapidly freshening +air, and the quick movement of the carriage were all physically delightful. + +How fast, indeed, the spring was conquering the hills! As they passed over +the great viaduct at Aricia, the thick Chigi woods to the left masked the +deep ravine in torrents of lightest foamiest green; and over the vast plain +to the right, stretching to Ardea, Lanuvium and the sea, the power of the +reawakening earth, like a shuttle in the loom, was weaving day by day its +web of colour and growth, the ever brightening pattern of crop, and grass +and vine. The beggars tormented them on the approach to Genzano, as they +tormented of old Horace and Mæcenas; and presently the long falling street +of the town, with its multitudes of short, wiry, brown-faced folk, its +clatter of children and mules, its barbers and wine shops, brought them in +sight again of the emerald-green Campagna, and the shiny hazes over the +sea. In front rose the tower-topped hill of Monte Giove, marking the site +of Corioli; and just as they turned towards Nemi the Appian Way ran across +their path. Overhead, a marvellous sky with scudding veils of white cloud. +The blur and blight of the scirocco had vanished without rain, under +a change of wind. An all-blessing, all-penetrating sun poured upon the +stirring earth. Everywhere fragments and ruins--ghosts of the great +past--yet engulfed, as it were, and engarlanded by the active and fertile +present. + +And now they were to follow the high ridge above the deep-sunk lake, toward +Nemi on its farther side--Nemi with its Orsini tower, grim and tall, rising +on its fortress rock, high over the lake and what was once the thick grove +or 'Nemus' of the Goddess, mantling the proud white of her inviolate +temple. + +'Look!'--said Eleanor, touching Lucy's hand. 'There's the niched wall--and +the platform of the temple.' + +And Lucy, bending eager brows, saw across the lake a line of great +recesses, overgrown and shadowy against the steep slopes or cliffs of the +crater, and in front of them a flat space, with one farm-shed upon it. + +In the crater-wall, just behind and above the temple-site, was a black +vertical cleft. Eleanor pointed it out to Manisty. + +'Do you remember we never explored it? But the spring must be +there?--Egeria's spring?' + +Manisty lazily said he didn't know. + +'Don't imagine you will be let off,' said Eleanor, laughing. 'We have +settled every other point at Nemi. This is left for to-day. It will make a +scramble after tea.' + +'You will find it further than you think,' said Manisty, measuring the +distance. + +'So it was somewhere on that terrace he died--poor priest!'--said Lucy, +musing. + +Manisty, who was walking beside the carriage, turned towards her. Her +little speech flattered him. But he laughed. + +'I wonder how much it was worth--that place--in hard cash,' he said, drily. +'No doubt that was the secret of it.' + +Lucy smiled--unwillingly. They were mounting a charming road high above the +lake. Stretching between them and the lake were steep olive gardens and +vineyards; above them light half-fledged woods climbed to the sky. In the +vineyards the fresh red-brown earth shone amid the endless regiments of +vines, just breaking into leaf; daisies glittered under the olives; and +below, on a mid-way crag, a great wild-cherry, sun-touched, flung its +boughs and blossoms, a dazzling pearly glory, over the dark blue hollow of +the lake. + +And on the farther side, the high, scooped-out wall of the crater rose +rich and dark above the temple-site. How white--_white_--it must have +shone!--thought Lucy. Her imagination had been caught by the priest's +story. She saw Nemi for the first time as one who had seen it before. +Timidly she looked at the man walking beside the carriage. Strange! She no +longer disliked him as she had done, no longer felt it impossible that he +should have written the earlier book which had been so dear to her. Was it +that she had seen him chastened and depressed of late--had realised the +comparative harmlessness of his vanity, the kindness and docility he could +show to a friend? Ah no!--if he had been kind for one friend, he had been +difficult and ungrateful for another. The thinness of Eleanor's cheek, the +hollowness of her blue eye accused him. But even here the girl's inner mind +had begun to doubt and demur. After all did she know much--or anything--of +their real relation? + +Certainly this afternoon he was a delightful companion. That phrase which +Vanbrugh Neal had applied to him in Lucy's hearing, which had seemed to her +so absurd, began after all to fit. He was _bon enfant_ both to Eleanor and +to her on this golden afternoon. He remembered Eleanor's love for broom and +brought her bunches of it from the steep banks; he made affectionate mock +of Neal's old-maidish ways; he threw himself with ejaculations, joyous, +paradoxical, violent, on the unfolding beauty of the lake and the spring; +and throughout he made them feel his presence as something warmly strong +and human, for all his provoking defects, and that element of the +uncommunicated and unexplained which was always to be felt in him. Eleanor +began to look happier and younger than she had looked for days. And Lucy +wondered why the long ascent to Nemi was so delightful; why the scirocco +seemed to have gone from the air, leaving so purpureal and divine a light +on mountain and lake and distance. + + * * * * * + +When they arrived at Nemi, Manisty as usual showed that he knew nothing of +the practical arrangements of the day, which were always made for him by +other people. + +'_What_ am I to do with these?' he said, throwing his hands in despair +towards the tea-baskets in the carriage.--'We can't drive beyond this--And +how are we to meet the others?--when do they come?--why aren't they here?' + +He turned with peremptory impatience to Eleanor. She laid a calming hand +upon his arm, pointing to the crowd of peasant folk from the little town +that had already gathered round the carriage. + +'Get two of those boys to carry the baskets. We are to meet the others at +the temple. They come by the path from Genzano.' + +Manisty's brow cleared at once like a child's. He went into the crowd, +chattering his easy Italian, and laid hands on two boys, one of whom was +straight and lithe and handsome as a young Bacchus, and bore the noble name +of Aristodemo. Then, followed by a horde of begging children which had +to be shaken off by degrees, they began the descent of the steep cliff +on which Nemi stands. The path zigzagged downwards, and as they followed +it, they came upon files of peasant women ascending, all bearing on their +kerchiefed heads great flat baskets of those small wood-strawberries, or +_fragole_, which are the chief crop of Nemi and its fields. + +The handsome women, the splendid red of the fruit and the scent which it +shed along the path, the rich May light upon the fertile earth and its +spray of leaf and blossom, the sense of growth and ferment and pushing life +everywhere--these things made Lucy's spirits dance within her. She hung +back with the two boys, shyly practising her Italian upon them, while +Eleanor and Manisty walked ahead. + +But Manisty did not forget her. Half-way down the path, he turned back to +look at her, and saw that she was carrying a light waterproof, which aunt +Pattie had forced upon her lest the scirocco should end in rain. He stopped +and demanded it. Lucy resisted. + +'I _can_ carry that,' he urged impatiently; 'it isn't baskets.' + +'You _could_ carry those,' she said laughing. + +'Not in a world that grows boys and sixpences. But I want that cloak. +Please!' + +The tone was imperious and she yielded. He hurried on to join Eleanor, +carrying the cloak with his usual awkwardness, and often trailing it in +the dust. Lucy, who was very neat and precise in all her personal ways, +suffered at the sight, and wished she had stood firm. But to be waited on +and remembered by him was not a disagreeable experience; perhaps because it +was still such a new and surprising one. + +Presently they were on the level of the lake, and their boys guided them +through a narrow and stony by-path, to the site of the temple, or as the +peasant calls it the 'Giardino del Lago.' + +It is a flat oblong space, with a two-storied farm building--part of it +showing brickwork of the early Empire--standing upon it. To north and east +runs the niched wall in which, deep under accumulations of soil, Lord +Savile found the great Tiberius, and those lost portrait busts which had +been waiting there through the centuries till the pick and spade of an +Englishman should release them. As to the temple walls which the English +lord uncovered, the trenches that he dug, and the sacrificial altar that he +laid bare--the land, their best guardian, has taken them back into itself. +The strawberries grow all over them; only strange billows and depressions +in the soil make the visitor pause and wonder. The earth seems to say to +him--'Here indeed are secrets and treasures--but not for you! I have been +robbed enough. The dead are mine. Leave them in my breast. And you!--go +your ways in the sun!' + +They made their way across the strawberry fields, looking for the friends +who were to join them--Reggie Brooklyn, Mr. Neal, and the two ladies. There +was no sign of them whatever. Yet, according to time and trains, they +should have been on the spot, waiting. + +'Annoying!' said Manisty, with his ready irritability. 'Reggie might really +have managed better.--Who's this fellow?' + +It was the padrone or tenant of the Giardino, who came up and parleyed with +them. Yes, 'Vostra Eccellenza' might put down their baskets and make their +tea. He pointed to a bench behind the shed. The _forestieri_ came every +day; he turned away in indifference. + +Meanwhile the girls and women gathering among the strawberries, raised +themselves to look at the party, flashing their white teeth at Aristodemo, +who was evidently a wit among them. They flung him gibes as he passed, +to which he replied disdainfully. A group of girls who had been singing +together, turned round upon him, 'chaffing' him with shrill voices and +outstretched necks, like a flock of young cackling geese, while he, holding +himself erect, threw them back flinty words and glances, hitting at every +stroke, striding past them with the port of a young king. Then they broke +into a song which they could hardly sing for laughing--about a lover who +had been jilted by his mistress. Aristodemo turned a deaf ear, but the +mocking song, sung by the harsh Italian voices, seemed to fill the hollow +of the lake and echoed from the steep side of the crater. The afternoon +sun, striking from the ridge of Genzano, filled the rich tangled cup, and +threw its shafts into the hollows of the temple wall. Lucy standing still +under the heat and looking round her, felt herself steeped and bathed in +Italy. Her New England reserve betrayed almost nothing; but underneath, +there was a young passionate heart, thrilling to nature and the spring, +conscious too of a sort of fate in these delicious hours, that were so much +sharper and full of meaning than any her small experience had yet known. + +She walked on to look at the niched wall, while Manisty and Eleanor +parleyed with Aristodemo as to the guardianship of the tea. Presently she +heard their steps behind her, and she turned back to them eagerly. + +'The boy was in that tree!'--she said to Manisty, pointing to a great olive +that flung its branches over a mass of ruin, which must once have formed +part of an outer enclosure wall beyond the statued recesses. + +'Was he?' said Manisty, surprised into a smile. 'You know best.--You are +very kind to that nonsense.' + +She hesitated. + +'Perhaps--perhaps you don't know why I liked it so particularly. It +reminded me of things in your other book.' + +'The "Letters from Palestine"?' said Manisty, half amused, half astonished. + +'I suppose you wonder I should have seen it? But we read a great deal in my +country! All sorts of people read--men and women who do the roughest work +with their hands, and never spend a cent on themselves they can help. Uncle +Ben gave it me. There was a review of it in the "Springfield Republican"--I +guess they will have sent it you. But'--her voice took a shy note--'do you +remember that piece about the wedding feast at Cana--where you imagined the +people going home afterwards over the hill paths--how they talked, and what +they felt?' + +'I remember something of the sort,' said Manisty--I wrote it at +Nazareth--in the spring. I'm sure it was bad!' + +'I don't know why you say that?' She knit her brows a little. 'If I shut +my eyes, I seemed to be walking with them. And so with your goat-herd. I'm +certain it was that tree!' she said, pointing to the tree, her bright smile +breaking. 'And the grove was here.--And the people came running down from +the village on the cliff,'--she turned her hand towards Nemi. + +Manisty was flattered again, all the more because the girl had evidently +no intention of flattery whatever, but was simply following the pleasure +of her own thought. He strolled on beside her, poking into the niches, and +talking, as the whim took him, pouring out upon her indeed some of the many +thoughts and fancies which had been generated in him by those winter visits +to Nemi that he and Eleanor had made together. + +Eleanor loitered behind, looking at the strawberry gatherers. + +'The next train should bring them here in about an hour,' she thought to +herself in great flatness of spirit. 'How stupid of Reggie!' + +Then as she lifted her eyes, they fell upon Manisty and Lucy, strolling +along the wall together, he talking, she turning her brilliant young face +towards him, her white dress shining in the sun. + +A thought--a perception--thrust itself like a lance-point through Eleanor's +mind.--She gave an inward cry--a cry of misery. The lake seemed to swim +before her. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +They made their tea under the shadow of the farm-building, which consisted +of a loft above, and a large dark room on the ground floor, which was +filled with the flat strawberry-baskets, full and ready for market. + +Lucy found the little festa delightful, though all that the ladies had +to do was to make an audience for Aristodemo and Manisty. The handsome +dare-devil lad began to talk, drawn out by the Englishman, and lo! instead +of a mere peasant they had got hold of an artist and a connoisseur! Did he +know anything of the excavations and the ruins? Why, he knew everything! He +chattered to them, with astonishing knowledge and shrewdness, for half an +hour. Complete composure, complete good-humour, complete good manners--he +possessed them all. Easy to see that he was the son of an old race, moulded +by long centuries of urbane and civilised living! + +A little boastful, perhaps. He too had found the head of a statue, digging +in his father's orchard. Man or woman?--asked Mrs. Burgoyne. A woman. And +handsome? The handsomest lady ever seen. And perfect? Quite perfect. Had +she a nose, for instance? He shook his young head in scorn. Naturally she +had a nose! Did the ladies suppose he would have picked up a creature +without one? + +Then he rose and beckoned smiling to Eleanor and Lucy. They followed him +through the cool lower room, where the strawberries gleamed red through the +dark, up the creaking stairs to the loft. And there on the ground was an +old box and in the box, a few score of heads and other fragments--little +terracottas, such as the peasants turn up every winter as they plough or +dig among the olives.. Delicate little hooded women, heads of Artemis with +the crown of Cybele, winged heads, or heads covered with the Phrygian +cap, portrait-heads of girls or children, with their sharp profiles still +perfect, and the last dab of the clay under the thumb of the artist, as +clear and clean as when it was laid there some twenty-two centuries ago. + +Lucy bent over them in a passion of pleasure, turning over the little +things quite silently, but with sparkling looks. + +'Would you like them?' said Manisty, who had followed them, and stood over +her, cigarette in hand. + +'Oh no!' said Lucy, rising in confusion. 'Don't get them for me.' + +'Come away,' said Eleanor, laughing. 'Never interfere between a man and a +bargain.' + +The _padrone_ indeed appeared at the moment. Manisty sent the ladies +downstairs, and the bargaining began. + +When he came downstairs ten minutes later a small basket was in his hand. +He offered it to Lucy, while he held out his other hand to Eleanor. The +hand contained two fragments only, but of exquisite quality, one a fine +Artemis head with the Cybele crown, the other merely the mask or shell of a +face, from brow to chin,--a gem of the purest and loveliest Greek work. + +Eleanor took them with a critical delight. Her comments were the comments +of taste and knowledge. They were lightly given, without the smallest +pedantry, but Manisty hardly answered them. He walked eagerly to Lucy +Foster, whose shy intense gratitude, covering an inward fear that he had +spent far, far too much money upon her, and that she had indecorously +provoked his bounty, was evidently attractive to him. He told her that he +had got them for a mere nothing, and they sat down on the bench behind +the house together, turning them over, he holding forth, and now and then +discovering through her modest or eager replies, that she had been somehow +remarkably well educated by that old Calvinist uncle of hers. The tincture +of Greek and Latin, which had looked so repellent from a distance, +presented itself differently now that it enabled him to give his talk rein, +and was partly the source in her of these responsive grateful looks which +became her so well. After all perhaps her Puritan stiffness was only on the +surface. How much it had yielded already to Eleanor's lessons! He really +felt inclined to continue them on his own account; to test for himself this +far famed pliancy of the American woman. + +Meanwhile Eleanor moved away, watching the path from Genzano which wound +downwards from the Sforza Cesarini villa to the 'Giardino,' and was now +visible, now hidden by the folds of the shore. + +Presently Manisty and Lucy heard her exclamation. + +'At last!--What has Reggie been about?' + +'Coming?' said Manisty. + +'Yes--thank goodness! Evidently they missed that first train. But now there +are four people coming down the hill--two men and two ladies. I'm sure +one's Reggie.' + +'Well, for the practical man he hasn't distinguished himself,' said +Manisty, taking out another cigarette. + +'I can't see them now--they're hidden behind that bend. They'll be ten +minutes more, I should think, before they arrive. Edward!' + +'Yes?--Don't be energetic!' + +'There's just time to explore that ravine--while they're having tea. Then +we shall have seen it all--done the last, last thing! Who knows--dear +Nemi!--if we shall ever see it again?' + +Her tone was quite gay, yet, involuntarily, there was a touching note in +it. Lucy looked down guiltily, wishing herself away. But Manisty resisted. + +'You'll be very tired, Eleanor--it's much further than you think--and it's +very hot.' + +'Oh no, it's not far--and the sun's going down fast. You wouldn't be +afraid? They'll be here directly,' she said, turning to Lucy. 'I'm sure it +was they.' + +'Don't mind me, please!' said Lucy. 'I shall be perfectly right. I'll boil +the kettle again, and be ready for them. Aristodemo will look after me.' + +Eleanor turned to Manisty. + +'Come!' she said. + +This time she rather commanded than entreated. There was a delicate +stateliness in her attitude, her half-mourning dress of grey and black, +her shadowy hat, the gesture of her hand, that spoke a hundred subtle +things--all those points of age and breeding, of social distinction and +experience, that marked her out from Lucy--from the girl's charming +immaturity. + +Manisty rose ungraciously. As he followed his cousin along the narrow path +among the strawberry beds his expression was not agreeable. Eleanor's +heart--if she had looked back--might have failed her. But she hurried on. + + * * * * * + +Lucy, left to herself, set the stove under the kettle alight and prepared +some fresh tea, while Aristodemo and the other boy leant against the wall +in the shade chattering to each other. + +The voices of Eleanor and Manisty had vanished out of hearing in the wood +behind the Giardino. But the voices from Genzano began to come nearer. A +quarter to six.--There would be only a short time for them to rest and have +their tea in, before they must all start home for the villa, where Miss +Manisty was expecting the whole party for dinner at eight. Was that Mr. +Brooklyn's voice? She could not see them, but she could hear them talking +in the narrow overgrown lane leading from the lake to the ruins. + +How _very_ strange! The four persons approaching entered the Giardino still +noisily laughing and talking--and Lucy knew none of them! The two men, of +whom one certainly resembled Mr. Brooklyn in height and build, were quite +strangers to her; and she felt certain that the two ladies, who were stout +and elderly, had nothing to do either with Mrs. Elliott, Mr. Reggie's +married sister, or with the Ambassador's daughter. + +She watched them with astonishment. They were English, tourists apparently +from Frascati, to judge from their conversation. And they were in a great +hurry. The walk had taken them longer than they expected, and they had only +a short time to stay. They looked carelessly at the niched wall, and the +shed with the strawberry baskets, remarking that there was 'precious little +to see, now you'd done it.' Then they walked past Lucy, throwing many +curious glances at the solitary English girl with the tea-things before +her, the gentlemen raising their hats. And finally they hurried away, and +all sounds of them were soon lost in the quiet of the May evening. + +Lucy was left, feeling a little forlorn and disconcerted. Presently she +noticed that all the women working on the Giardino land were going home. +Aristodemo and his companion ran after some of the girls, and their +discordant shouts and laughs could be heard in the distance, mingled with +the 'Ave Maria' sung by groups of woman and girls who were mounting the +zigzag path towards Nemi, their arms linked together. + +The evening stillness came flooding into the great hollow like a soft +resistless wave. Every now and then the voices of peasants going home +rippled up from unseen paths, then sank again into the earth. On the high +windows of Nemi the sunset light from the Campagna struck and flamed, '_Ave +Maria--gratia plena._' How softened now, how thinly, delicately far! The +singers must be nearing their homes in the little hill town. + +Lucy looked around her. No one on the Giardino, no one in the fields near, +no one on the Genzano road. She seemed to be absolutely alone. Her two +companions indeed could not be far away, and the boys no doubt would come +back for the baskets. But meanwhile she could see and hear no one. + +The sun disappeared behind the Genzano ridge, and it grew cold all in +a moment. She felt the chill, together with a sudden consciousness of +fatigue. Was there fever in this hollow of the lake? Certainly the +dwellings were all placed on the heights, save for the fisherman's cottage +half-way to Genzano. She got up and began to move about, wishing for her +cloak. But Mr. Manisty had carried it off, absently, on his arm. + +Then she packed up the tea-things. What had happened to the party from +Rome? + +Surely more than an hour had passed. Had it taken them longer to climb to +the spring's source than they supposed? How fast the light was failing, the +rich Italian light, impatient to be gone, claiming all or nothing! + +The girl began to be a little shaken with vague discomforts and terrors. +She had been accustomed to wander about the lake of Albano by herself, and +to make friends with the peasants. But after all the roads would not be so +closely patrolled by _carabinieri_ if all was quite as safe as in Vermont +or Middlesex; and there were plenty of disquieting stories current among +the English visitors, even among the people themselves. Was it not only a +month since a carriage containing some German royalties had been stopped +and robbed by masked peasants on the Rocca di Papa road? Had not an old +resident in Rome told her, only the day before, that when he walked about +these lake paths he always filled his pockets with cigars and divested them +of money, in order that the charcoal-burners might love him without robbing +him? Had not friends of theirs going to Cori and Ninfa been followed by +mounted police all the way? + +These things weighed little with her as she wandered in broad daylight +about the roads near the villa. But now she was quite alone, the night was +coming, and the place seemed very desolate. + +But of course they would be back directly! Why not walk to meet them? It +was the heat and slackness of the day which had unnerved her. Perhaps, too, +unknown to herself!--the stir of new emotions and excitements in a deep and +steadfast nature. + +She had marked the path they took, and she made her way to it. It proved +to be very steep, dark, and stony under meeting trees. She climbed it +laboriously, calling at intervals. + +Presently--a sound of steps and hoofs. Looking up she could just +distinguish a couple of led mules with two big lads picking their way down +the rocky lane. There was no turning aside. She passed them with as much +dispatch as possible. + +They stopped, however, and stared at her,--the elegant lady in her white +dress all alone. Then they passed, and she could not but be conscious of +relief, especially as she had neither money nor cigars. + +Suddenly there was a clatter of steps behind her, and she turned to see one +of the boys, holding out his hand-- + +'Signora!--un soldino!' + +She walked fast, shaking her head. + +'Non ho niente--niente.' + +He followed her, still begging, his whining note passing into something +more insolent. She hurried on. Presently there was a silence; the steps +ceased; she supposed he was tired of the pursuit, and had dropped back to +the point where his companion was waiting with the mules. + +But there was a sudden movement in the lane behind. She put up her hand +with a little cry. Her cheek was struck,--again!--another stone struck her +wrist. The blood flowed over her hand. She began to run, stumbling up the +path, wondering how she could defend herself if the two lads came back and +attacked her together. + +Luckily the path turned; her white dress could no longer offer them a mark. +She fled on, and presently found a gap in the low wall of the lane, and +a group of fig-trees just beyond it, amid which she crouched. The shock, +the loneliness, the pang of the boys' brutality, had brought a sob into +her throat. Why had her companions left her?--it was not kind!--till they +were sure that the people coming were their expected guests. Her cheek +seemed to be merely grazed, but her wrist was deeply cut. She wrapped her +handkerchief tightly round it, but it soon began to drip again upon her +pretty dress. Then she tore off some of the large young fig-leaves beside +her, not knowing what else to do, and held them to it. + + * * * * * + +A few minutes later, Manisty and Eleanor descended the same path in haste. +They had found the ascent longer and more intricate than even he had +expected, and had lost count of time in a conversation beside Egeria's +spring--a conversation that brought them back to Lucy changed beings, in +a changed relation. What was the meaning of Manisty's moody, embarrassed +look? and of that white and smiling composure that made a still frailer +ghost of Eleanor than before? + +'Did you hear that call?' said Manisty, stopping. + +It was repeated, and they both recognised Lucy Foster's voice, coming from +somewhere close to them on the richly grown hillside. Manisty exclaimed, +ran on--paused--listened again--shouted--and there, beside the path, +propping herself against the stones of the wall, was a white and tremulous +girl holding a swathed arm stiffly in front of her so that the blood +dripping from it should not fall upon her dress. + +Manisty came up to her in utter consternation. 'What has happened? How are +you here? Where are the others?' + +She answered dizzily, then said, faintly trying to smile, 'If you could +provide me with--something to tie round it?' + +'Eleanor!' Manisty's voice rang up the path. Then he searched his own +pockets in despair--remembering that he had wrapped his handkerchief round +Eleanor's precious terracottas just before they started, that the little +parcel was on the top of the basket he had given to Miss Foster, and that +both were probably waiting with the tea-things below. + +Eleanor came up. + +'Why did we leave her?' cried Manisty, turning vehemently upon his +cousin--'That was _not_ Reggie and his party! What a horrible mistake! +She has been attacked by some of these peasant brutes. Just look at this +bleeding!' + +Something in his voice roused a generous discomfort in Lucy even through +her faintness. + +'It is nothing,' she said. 'How could you help it? It is so silly!--I am +so strong--and yet any cut, or prick even, makes me feel faint. If only we +could make it stop--I should be all right.' + +Eleanor stooped and looked at the wound, so far as the light would +serve, touching the wrist with her ice-cold fingers. Manisty watched her +anxiously. He valued her skill in nursing matters. + +'It will soon stop,' she said. 'We must bind it tightly.' + +And with a spare handkerchief, and the long muslin scarf from her own neck, +she presently made as good a bandage as was possible. + +'My poor frock!' said Lucy, half laughing, half miserable,--'what will +Benson say to me?' + +Mrs. Burgoyne did not seem to hear. + +'We must have a sling,' she was saying to herself, and she took off the +light silk shawl she wore round her own shoulders. + +'Oh no! Don't, please!' said Lucy. 'It has grown so cold.' + +And then they both perceived that she was trembling from head to foot. + +'Good Heavens!' cried Manisty, looking at something on his own arm. 'And I +carried off her cloak! There it's been all the time! What a pretty sort of +care to take of you!' + +Eleanor meanwhile was turning her shawl into a sling in spite of Lucy's +remonstrances. Manisty made none. + +When the arm was safely supported, Lucy pulled herself together with a +great effort of will, and declared that she could now walk quite well. + +'But all that way round the lake to Genzano!'--said Manisty; 'or up that +steep hill to Nemi? Eleanor! how can she possibly manage it?' + +'Let her try,' said Eleanor quietly. 'It is the best. Now let her take your +arm.' + +Lucy looked up at Mrs. Burgoyne, smiling tremulously. 'Thank you!--thank +you! What a trouble I am!' + +She put out her free hand, but Mrs. Burgoyne seemed to have moved away. It +was taken by Manisty, who drew it within his arm. + +They descended slowly, and just as they were emerging from the heavy shadow +of the lane into the mingled sunset and moonlight of the open 'Giardino, +sounds reached them that made them pause in astonishment. + +'Reggie!' said Manisty--'and Neal! Listen! Good gracious!--there they are!' + +And sure enough, there in the dim light behind the farm-building, gathered +in a group round the tea-baskets, laughing, and talking eagerly with each +other, or with Aristodemo, was the whole lost party--the two ladies and the +two men. And beside the group, held by another peasant, was a white horse +with a side-saddle. + +Manisty called. The new-comers turned, looked, then shouted exultant. + +'Well!'--said Reggie, throwing up his arms at sight of Manisty, and +skimming over the strawberry furrows towards them. 'Of all the muddles! +I give you this blessed country. I'll never say a word for it again. +Everything on this beastly line altered for May--no notice to anybody!--all +the old trains printed as usual, and a wretched flyleaf tucked in somewhere +that nobody saw or was likely to see. Station full of people for the 2.45. +Train taken off--nothing till 4.45. Never saw such a confusion!--and the +_Capo-stazione_ as rude as he could be. I _say_!--what's the matter?' + +He drew up sharp in front of them. + +'We'll tell you presently, my dear fellow,' said Manisty peremptorily. +'But now just help us to get Miss Foster home. What a mercy you thought of +bringing a horse!' + +'Why!--I brought it for--for Mrs. Burgoyne,' said the young man, +astonished, looking round for his cousin. 'We found the carriage waiting at +the Sforza Cesarini gate, and the man told us you were an hour behind your +time. So I thought Eleanor would be dead-tired, and I went to that man--you +remember?--we got a horse from before--' + +But Manisty had hurried Lucy on without listening to a word; and she +herself was now too dizzy with fatigue and loss of blood to grasp what was +being said around her. + +Reggie fell back in despair on Mrs. Burgoyne. + +'Eleanor!--what have you been doing to yourselves! What a nightmare of an +afternoon! How on earth are you going to walk back all this way? What's +wrong with Miss Foster?' + +'Some rough boys threw stones at her, and her arm is badly cut. Edward will +take her on to Genzano, find a doctor and then bring her home.--We'll go on +first, and send back another carriage for them. You angel, Reggie, to think +of that horse!' + +'But I thought of it for you, Eleanor,' said the young man, looking in +distress at the delicate woman for whom he had so frank and constant an +affection. 'Miss Foster's as strong as Samson!--or ought to be. What +follies has she been up to?' + +'_Please_, Reggie--hold your tongue! You shall talk as much nonsense as you +please when once we have started the poor child off.' + +And Eleanor too ran forward. Manisty had just put together a rough mounting +block from some timber in the farm-building. Meanwhile the other two ladies +had been helpful and kind. Mrs. Elliott had wrapped a white Chudda shawl +round Lucy's shivering frame. A flask containing some brandy had been +extracted from Mr. Neal's pocket, more handkerchiefs and a better sling +found for the arm. Finally Lucy, all her New England pride outraged by the +fuss that was being made about her, must needs submit to be almost lifted +on the horse by Manisty and Mr. Brooklyn. When she found herself in the +saddle, she looked round bewildered. 'But this must have been meant for +Mrs. Burgoyne! Oh how tired she will be!' + +'Don't trouble yourself about me! I am as fresh as paint,' said Eleanor's +laughing voice beside her. + +'Eleanor! will you take them all on ahead?' said Manisty impatiently; 'we +shall have to lead her carefully to avoid rough places.' + +Eleanor carried off the rest of the party. Manisty established himself at +Lucy's side. The man from Genzano led the horse. + +After a quarter of an hour's walking, mixed with the give and take of +explanations on both sides as to the confusion of the afternoon, Eleanor +paused to recover breath an instant on a rising ground. Looking back, she +saw through the blue hazes of the evening the two distant figures--the +white form on the horse, the protecting nearness of the man. + +She stifled a moan, drawn deep from founts of covetous and passionate +agony. Then she turned and hurried up the stony path with an energy, a +useless haste that evoked loud protests from Reggie Brooklyn. Eleanor did +not answer him. There was beating within her veins a violence that appalled +herself. Whither was she going? What change had already passed on all the +gentle tendernesses and humanities of her being? + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Lucy was reviving in the cool freshness of the evening air. She +seemed to be travelling through a world of opal colour, arched by skies +of pale green, melting into rose above, and daffodil gold below. All about +her, blue and purple shadows were rising, like waves interfused with +moonlight, flooding over the land. Where did the lake end and the shore +begin? All was drowned in the same dim wash of blue--the olives and figs, +the reddish earth, the white of the cherries, the pale pink of the almonds. +In front the lights of Genzano gleamed upon the tall cliff. But in this +lonely path all was silence and woody fragrance; the honeysuckles threw +breaths across their path; tall orchises, white and stately, broke here +and there from the darkness of the banks. In spite of pain and weakness +her senses seemed to be flooded with beauty. A strange peace and docility +overcame her. + +'You are better?' said Manisty's voice beside her. The tones of it were +grave and musical; they expressed an enwrapping kindness, a 'human +softness' that still further moved her. + +'So much better! The bleeding has almost stopped. I--I suppose it would +have been better, if I had waited for you?--if I had not ventured on those +paths alone?' + +There was in her scrupulous mind a great penitence about the whole matter. +How much trouble she was giving!--how her imprudence had spoilt the little +festa! And poor Mrs. Burgoyne!--forced to walk up this long, long way. + +'Yes--perhaps it would have been better'--said Manisty. 'One never quite +knows about this population. After all, for an Italian lady to walk about +some English country lanes alone, might not be quite safe--and one ruffian +is enough. But the point is--we should not have left you.' + +She was too feeble to protest. Manisty spoke to the man leading the horse, +bidding him draw on one side, so as to avoid a stony bit of path. Then the +reins fell from her stiff right hand, which seemed to be still trembling +with cold. Instantly Manisty gathered them up, and replaced them in the +chill fingers. As he did so he realised with a curious pleasure that the +hand and wrist, though not small, were still beautiful, with a fine shapely +strength. + +Presently, as they mounted the steep ascent towards the Sforza Cesarini +woods, he made her rest half way. + +'How those stones must have jarred you!'--he said frowning, as he turned +the horse, so that she sat easily, without strain. + +'No! It was nothing. Oh--glorious!' + +For she found herself looking towards the woods of the south-eastern ridge +of the lake, over which the moon had now fully risen. The lake was half +shade, half light; the fleecy forests on the breast of Monte Cavo rose +soft as a cloud into the infinite blue of the night-heaven. Below, a +silver shaft struck the fisherman's hut beside the shore, where, deep +in the water's breast, lie the wrecked ships of Caligula,--the treasure +ships--whereof for seventy generations the peasants of Nemi have gone +dreaming. + +As they passed the hut,--half an hour before--Manisty had drawn her +attention, in the dim light, to the great beams from the side of the nearer +ship, which had been recently recovered by the divers, and were lying +at the water's edge. And he had told her,--with a kindling eye--how he +himself, within the last few months, had seen fresh trophies recovered from +the water,--a bronze Medusa above all, fiercely lovely, the work of a most +noble and most passionate art, not Greek though taught by Greece, fresh, +full-blooded, and strong, the art of the Empire in its eagle-youth. + +'Who destroyed the ships, and why?' he said, as they paused, looking +down upon the lake. 'There is not a shred of evidence. One can only +dream. They were a madman's whim; incredibly rich in marble, and metal, +and terra-cotta, paid for, no doubt, from the sweat and blood of this +country-side. Then the young monster who built and furnished them was +murdered on the Palatine. Can't you see the rush of an avenging mob +down this steep lane?--the havoc and the blows--the peasants hacking at +the statues and the bronzes--loading their ox-carts perhaps with the +plunder--and finally letting in the lake upon the wreck! Well!--somehow +like that it must have happened. The lake swallowed them; and, in spite of +all the efforts of the Renaissance people, who sent down divers, the lake +has kept them, substantially, till now. Not a line about them in any known +document! History knows nothing. But the peasants handed down the story +from father to son. Not a fisherman on this lake, for eighteen hundred +years, but has tried to reach the ships. They all believed--they still +believe--that they hold incredible treasures. But the lake is jealous--they +lie deep!' + +Lucy bent forward, peering into the blue darkness of the lake, trying to +see with his eyes, to catch the same ghostly signals from the past. The +romance of the story and the moment, Manisty's low, rushing speech, the +sparkle of his poet's look--the girl's fancy yielded to the spell of them; +her breath came quick and soft. Through all their outer difference, Manisty +suddenly felt the response of her temperament to his. It was delightful to +be there with her--delightful to be talking to her. + +'I was on the shore,' he continued, 'watching the divers at work, on the +day they drew up the Medusa. I helped the man who drew her up to clean the +slime and mud from them, and the vixen glared at me all the time, as though +she thirsted to take vengeance upon us all. She had had time to think about +it,--for she sank perhaps ten years after the Crucifixion,--while Mary +still lived in the house of John!' + +His voice dropped to the note of reverie, and a thrill passed through +Lucy. He turned the horse's head towards Genzano, and they journeyed on +in silence. She indeed was too weak for many words; but enwrapped as it +were by the influences around her,--of the place, the evening beauty, the +personality of the man beside her,--she seemed to be passing through a +many-coloured dream, of which the interest and the pleasure never ceased. + +Presently they passed a little wayside shrine. Within its penthouse eave +an oil-lamp flickered before the frescoed Madonna and Child; the shelf +in front of the picture was heaped with flowers just beginning to fade. +Manisty stayed the horse a moment; pointed first to the shrine, then to the +bit of road beneath their feet. + +'Do you see this travertine--these blocks? This is a bit of the old road to +the temple. I was with the exploring party when they carried up the Medusa +and some other of their finds along here past the shrine. It was nearly +dark--they did not want to be observed. But I was an old friend of the man +in command, and he and I were walking together. The bearers of the heavy +bronze things got tired. They put down their load just here, and lounged +away. My friend stepped up to the sort of wooden bier they were carrying, +to see that all was right. He uncovered the Medusa, and turned her to the +light of the lamp before the shrine. You never saw so strange and wild a +thing!--the looks she threw at the Madonna and Child. "Ah! Madam," I said +to her--"the world was yours when you went down--but now it's theirs! Tame +your insolence!" And I thought of hanging her here, at night, just outside, +under the lamp against the wall of the shrine--and how one might come in +the dark upon the fierce head with the snakes--and watch her gazing at the +Christ.' + +Lucy shuddered and smiled. + +'I'm glad she wasn't yours!' + +'Why? The peasants would soon have made a saint of her, and invented a +legend to fit. The snakes, for them, would have been the instruments +of martyrdom--turned into a martyr's crown. Italy and Catholicism +absorb--assimilate--everything. "_Santa Medusa!_"--I assure you, she would +be quite in order.' + +There was a pause. Then she heard him say under his breath--'Marvellous, +marvellous Italy!' + +She started and gave a slight cry--unsteady, involuntary. + +'But you don't love her!--you are ungrateful to her!' + +He looked up surprised--then laughed--a frank, pugnacious laugh. + +'There is Italy--and Italy.' + +'There is only one Italy!--Aristodemo's Italy--the Italy the peasants work +in.' + +She turned to him, breathing quicker, the colour returning to her pale +cheek. + +'The Italy that has just sent seven thousand of her sons to butchery in a +wretched colony, because her hungry politicians must have glory and keep +themselves in office? You expect me to love that Italy?' + +Within the kind new sweetness of his tone--a sweetness no man could use +more subtly--there had risen the fiery accustomed note. But so restrained, +so tempered to her weakness, her momentary dependence upon him! + +'You might be generous to her--just, at least!--for the sake of the old.' + +She trembled a little from the mere exertion of speaking, and he saw it. + +'No controversy to-night!' he said smiling. 'Wait till you are fit for +it, and I will overwhelm you. Do you suppose I don't know all about the +partisan literature you have been devouring?' + +'One had to hear the other side.' + +'Was I such a bore with the right side?' + +They both laughed. Then he said, shrugging his shoulders with sudden +emphasis: + +'What a nation of revolutionists you are in America! What does it feel +like, I wonder, to be a people without a past, without traditions?' + +Lucy exclaimed: 'Why, we are made of traditions!' + +'Traditions of revolt and self-will are no traditions,' he said +provokingly. 'The submission of the individual to the whole--that's what +you know nothing of.' + +'We shall know it when we want it! But it will be a free submission--given +willingly.' + +'No priests allowed? Oh! you will get your priests. You are getting them. +No modern nation can hold together without them.' + +They sparred a little longer. Then Lucy's momentary spirit of fight +departed. She looked wistfully to see how near they were to Genzano. +Manisty approached her more closely. + +'Did my nonsense cheer you--or tire you?' he said in a different voice. 'I +only meant it to amuse you, Hark!--did you hear that sound?' + +They stopped. Above them, to the right, they saw through the dusk a small +farm in a patch of vineyard. A dark figure suddenly hurled itself down a +steep path towards them. Other figures followed it--seemed to wrestle with +it; there was a confused wailing and crying--the piteous shrill lamenting +of a woman's voice. + +'Oh, what is it?' cried Lucy, clasping her hands. + +Manisty spoke a few sharp words to the man leading the horse. The man stood +still and checked his beast. Manisty ran towards the sounds and the dim +struggle on the slope above them. + +Such a cry! It rent and desolated the evening peace. It seemed to Lucy the +voice of an old woman, crossed by other voices--rough, chiding voices of +men. Oh, were they ill-treating her? The girl said hurriedly to the man +beside her that she would dismount. + +'No, no, signorina,' said the man, placidly, raising his hand. 'The signor +will be here directly. It happens often, often.' + +And almost at the same moment Manisty was beside her again, and the +gruesome sounds above were dying away. + +'Were you frightened?' he said, with anxiety. 'There was no need. How +strange that it should have happened just now! It's a score that _your_ +Italy must settle--_mine_ washes her hands of it!' and he explained that +what she had heard were the cries of a poor hysterical woman, a small +farmer's wife, who had lost both her sons in the Abyssinian war, in the +frightful retreat of Adowa, and had never been in her right mind since the +news arrived. With the smallest lapse in the vigilance of those about her, +she would rush down to the road, and throw herself upon any passer-by, +imploring them to intercede for her with the Government--that they should +give her back her sons--Nino, at least!--Nino, her youngest, and darling. +It was impossible that they should both be dead--impossible! The Holy +Virgin would never have suffered it. + +'Poor soul!--she tried to cling round my knees--wailing out the candles and +prayers she had offered--shrieking something about the "Governo." I helped +the sons to carry her in. They were quite gentle to her.' + +Lucy turned away her head; and they resumed their march. She governed +herself with all her power; but her normal self-control was weakened, and +that cry of anguish still haunted her. Some quiet tears fell--she hoped, +she believed that they were unseen. + +But Manisty perceived them. He gave not the smallest direct sign; he began +at once to talk of other things in a quite other vein. But underlying his +characteristic whims and sallies she was presently conscious of a new and +exquisite gentleness. It seemed to address itself both to her physical +fatigue, and to the painful impression of the incident which had just +passed. Her sudden tears--the tears of a tired child--and his delicate +feeling--there arose out of them, as out of their whole journey, a +relation, a bond, of which both were conscious, to which she yielded +herself in a kind of vague and timid pleasure. + +For Manisty--as she sat there, high above him, yet leaning a little +towards him--there was something in the general freshness and purity of +her presence, both physical and moral, that began most singularly to steal +upon his emotions. Certain barriers seemed to be falling, certain secret +sympathies emerging, drawn from regions far below their differences of age +and race, of national and intellectual habit. How was it she had liked his +Palestine book so much? He almost felt as though in some mysterious way +he had been talking to her, and she listening, for years,--since first, +perhaps, her sweet crude youth began. + +Then even his egotism felt the prick of humour. Five weeks had she been +with them at the villa?--and in a fortnight their party was to break +up. How profitably indeed he had used his time with her! How civil--how +kind--how discerning he had shown himself! + +Yet soreness of this kind was soon lost in the surge of this new and +unexpected impulse, which brought his youth exultantly back upon him. +A beautiful woman rode beside him, through the Italian evening. With +impatience, with an inward and passionate repudiation of all other bonds +and claims, he threw himself into that mingled process--at once exploring +and revealing--which makes the thrill of all the higher relations between +men and women, and ends invariably either in love--or tragedy. + + * * * * * + +They found a carriage waiting for them near the Sforza-Cesarini gate, and +in it Mrs. Elliott, Reggie Brooklyn's kind sister. Lucy was taken to a +doctor, and the hurt was dressed. By nine o'clock she was once more under +the villa-roof. Miss Manisty received her with lamentations and enquiries, +that the tottering Lucy was too weary even to hear aright. Amid what seemed +to her a babel of tongues and lights and kind concern, she was taken to bed +and sleep. + +Mrs. Burgoyne did not attend her. She waited in Manisty's library, and when +Manisty entered the room she came forward-- + +'Edward, I have some disagreeable news'-- + +He stopped abruptly. + +'Your sister Alice will be here to-morrow.' + +'My sister--Alice?'--he repeated incredulously. + +'She telegraphed this morning that she must see you. Aunt Pattie consulted +me. The telegram gave no address--merely said that she would come to-morrow +for two or three nights.' + +Manisty first stared in dismay, then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, +began to walk hurriedly to and fro. + +'When did this news arrive?' + +'This morning, before we started.' + +'Eleanor!--_Why_ was I not told?' + +'I wanted to save the day,'--the words were spoken in Eleanor's most +charming, most musical voice. 'There was no address. You could not have +stopped her.' + +'I would have managed somehow,'--said Manisty striking his hand on the +table beside him in his annoyance and impatience. + +Eleanor did not defend herself. She tried to soothe him, to promise him as +usual that the dreaded visit should be made easy to him. But he paid little +heed. He sat moodily brooding in his chair; and when Eleanor's persuasions +ceased, he broke out-- + +'That poor child!--After to-day's experiences,--to have Alice let loose +upon her!--I would have given anything--anything!--that it should not have +happened.' + +'Miss Foster?' said Eleanor lightly--'oh! she will bear up.' + +'There it is!'--said Manisty, in a sudden fury. 'We have all been +misjudging her in the most extraordinary way! She is the most sensitive, +tender-natured creature--I would not put an ounce more strain upon her for +the world.' + +His aunt called him, and he went stormily away. Eleanor's smile as she +stood looking after him--how pale and strange it was! + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +'Miss Foster is not getting up? How is she?' + +'I believe Aunt Pattie only persuaded her to rest till after breakfast, and +that was hard work. Aunt Pattie thought her rather shaken still.' + +The speakers were Manisty and Mrs. Burgoyne. Eleanor was sitting in the +deep shade of the avenue that ran along the outer edge of the garden. +Through the gnarled trunks to her right shone the blazing stretches of the +Campagna, melting into the hot shimmer of the Mediterranean. A new volume +of French memoirs, whereof not a page had yet been cut, was lying upon her +knee. + +Manisty, who had come out to consult with her, leant against the tree +beside her. Presently he broke out impetuously: + +'Eleanor! we must protect that girl. You know what I mean? You'll help me?' + +'What are you afraid of?' + +'Good heavens!--I hardly know. But we must keep Alice away from Miss +Foster. She mustn't walk with her, or sit with her, or be allowed to worry +her in any way. I should be beside myself with alarm if Alice were to take +a fancy to her.' + +Eleanor hesitated a moment. The slightest flush rose to her cheek, +unnoticed in the shadow of her hat. + +'You know--if you are in any real anxiety--Miss Foster could go to +Florence. She told me yesterday that the Porters have friends there whom +she could join.' + +Manisty fidgeted. + +'Well, I hardly think that's necessary. It's a great pity she should miss +Vallombrosa. I hoped I might settle her and Aunt Pattie there by about the +middle of June.' + +Eleanor made so sudden a movement that her book fell to the ground. + +'You are going to Vallombrosa? I thought you were due at home, the +beginning of June?' + +'That was when I thought the book was coming out before the end of the +month. But now-- + +'Now that it isn't coming out at all, you feel there's no hurry?' + +Manisty looked annoyed. + +'I don't think that's a fair shot. Of course the book's coming out! But if +it isn't June, it must be October. So there's no hurry.' + +The little cold laugh with which Eleanor had spoken her last words +subsided. But she gave him no sign of assent. He pulled a stalk of grass, +and nibbled at it uncomfortably. + +'You think I'm a person easily discouraged?' he said presently. + +'You take advice so oddly,' she said, smiling; 'sometimes so ill--sometimes +so desperately well.' + +'I can't help it. I am made like that. When a man begins to criticise my +work, I first hate him--then I'm all of his opinion--only more so.' + +'I know,' said Eleanor impatiently. 'It's this dreadful modern +humility--the abominable power we all have of seeing the other side. But an +author is no good till he has thrown his critics out of window.' + +'Poor Neal!' said Manisty, with his broad sudden smile, 'he would fall +hard. However, to return to Miss Foster. There's no need to drive her away +if we look after her. You'll help us, won't you, Eleanor?' + +He sat down on a stone bench beside her. The momentary cloud had cleared +away. He was his most charming, most handsome self. A shiver ran through +Eleanor. Her thought flew to yesterday--compared the kind radiance of the +face beside her, its look of brotherly confidence and appeal, with the +look of yesterday, the hard evasiveness with which he had met all her +poor woman's attempts to renew the old intimacy, reknit the old bond. She +thought of the solitary, sleepless misery of the night she had just passed +through. And here they were, sitting in cousinly talk, as though nothing +else were between them but this polite anxiety for Miss Foster's peace of +mind! What was behind that apparently frank brow--those sparkling grey-blue +eyes? Manisty could always be a mystery when he chose, even to those who +knew him best. + +She drew a long inward breath, feeling the old inexorable compulsion that +lies upon the decent woman, who can only play the game as the man chooses +to set it. + +'I don't know what I can do--' she said slowly. 'You think Alice is no +better?' + +Manisty shook his head. He looked at her sharply and doubtfully, as though +measuring her--and then said, lowering his voice: + +'I believe--I know I can trust you with this--I have some reason to suppose +that there was an attempt at suicide at Venice. Her maid prevented it, and +gave me the hint. I am in communication with the maid--though Alice has no +idea of it. + +'Ought she to come here at all?' said Eleanor after a pause. + +'I have thought of that--of meeting all the trains and turning her back. +But you know her obstinacy. As long as she is in Rome and we here, we can't +protect ourselves and the villa. There are a thousand ways of invading us. +Better let her come--find out what she wants--pacify her if possible--and +send her away. I am not afraid for ourselves, you included, Eleanor! She +would do us no harm. A short annoyance--and it would be over. But Miss +Foster is the weak point.' + +Eleanor looked at him inquiringly. + +'It is one of the strongest signs of her unsound state,' said Manisty, +frowning--'her wild fancies that she takes for girls much younger than +herself. There have been all sorts of difficulties in hotels. She will be +absolutely silent with older people--or with you and me, for instance--but +if she can captivate any quite young creature, she will pour herself out to +her, follow her, write to her, tease her.--Poor, poor Alice!' + +Manisty's voice had become almost a groan. His look betrayed a true and +manly feeling. + +'One must always remember,' he resumed, 'that she has still the power to +attract a stranger. Her mind is in ruins--but they are the ruins of what +was once fine and noble. But it is all so wild, and strange, and desperate. +A girl is first fascinated--and then terrified. She begins by listening, +and pitying--then Alice pursues her, swears her to secrecy, talks to her +of enemies and persecutors, of persons who wish her death, who open her +letters, and dog her footsteps--till the girl can't sleep at nights, and +her own nerve begins to fail her. There was a case of this at Florence last +year. Dalgetty, that's the maid, had to carry Alice off by main force. The +parents of the girl threatened to set the doctors in motion--to get Alice +sent to an asylum.' + +'But surely, surely,' cried Mrs. Burgoyne, 'that would be the right +course!' + +Manisty shook his head. + +'Impossible!' he said with energy. 'Don't imagine that my lawyers and I +haven't looked into everything. Unless the disease has made much progress +since I last saw her, Alice will always baffle any attempts to put her in +restraint. She is queer--eccentric--melancholy; she envelopes the people +she victimises with a kind of moral poison; but you can't _prove_--so far, +at least--that she is dangerous to herself or others. The evidence always +falls short.' He paused; then added with cautious emphasis: 'I don't speak +without book. It has been tried.' + +'But the attempt at Venice?' + +'No good. The maid's letter convinced me of two things--first, that she had +attempted her life, and next, that there is no proof of it.' + +Eleanor bent forward. + +'And the suitor--the man?' + +'Dalgetty tells me there have been two interviews. The first at +Venice--probably connected with the attempt we know of. The second some +weeks ago at Padua. I believe the man to be a reputable person, though no +doubt not insensible to the fact that Alice has some money. You know who he +is?--a French artist she came across in Venice. He is melancholy and lonely +like herself. I believe he is genuinely attached to her. But after the last +scene at Padua she told Dalgetty that she would never make him miserable by +marrying him.' + +'What do you suppose she is coming here for?' + +'Very likely to get me to do something for this man. She won't be his wife, +but she likes to be his Providence: I shall promise anything, in return for +her going quickly back to Venice--or Switzerland--where she often spends +the summer. So long as she and Miss Foster are under one roof, I shall not +have a moment free from anxiety.' + +Eleanor sank back in her chair. She was silent; but her eye betrayed the +bitter animation of the thoughts passing behind them, thoughts evoked not +so much by what Manisty had said, as by what he had _not_ said. All alarm, +all consideration to be concentrated on one point?--nothing, and no one +else, to matter? + +But again she fought down the rising agony, refused to be mastered by it, +or to believe her own terrors. Another wave of feeling rose. It was so +natural to her to love and help him! + +'Well, of course I shall do what you tell me! I generally do--don't I? What +are your commands?' + +He brought his head nearer to hers, his brilliant eyes bent upon her +intently: + +'Never let her be alone with Miss Foster! Watch her. If you see any sign of +persecution--if you can't check it--let me know at once. I shall keep Alice +in play of course. One day we can send Miss Foster into Rome--perhaps two. +Ah! hush!--here she comes!' + +Eleanor looked round. Lucy had just appeared in the cool darkness of the +avenue. She walked slowly and with a languid grace, trailing her white +skirts. The shy rusticity, the frank robustness of her earlier aspect were +now either gone, or temporarily merged in something more exquisite and +more appealing. Her youth too had never been so apparent. She had been too +strong too self-reliant. The touch of physical delicacy seemed to have +brought back the child. + +Then, turning back to her companion, Eleanor saw the sudden softness in +Manisty's face--the alert expectancy of his attitude. + +'What a wonderful oval of the head and cheek!' he said under his breath, +half to himself, half to her. 'Do you know, Eleanor, what she reminds me +of?' + +Eleanor shook her head. + +'Of that little head--little face rather--that I gave you at Nemi. Don't +you see it?' + +'I always said she was like your Greek bust,' said Eleanor slowly. + +'Ah, that was in her first archaic stage. But now that she's more at +ease with us--you see?--there's the purity of line just the same--but +subtilised--humanised--somehow! It's the change from marble to terra-cotta, +isn't it?' + +His fancy pleased him, and his smile turned to hers for sympathy. Then, +springing up, he went to meet Lucy. + +'Oh, there can be nothing in his mind! He could not +speak--look--smile--like that to _me_,' thought Eleanor with passionate +relief. + +Then as they approached, she rose, and with kind solicitude forced Lucy to +take her chair, on the plea that she herself was going back to the villa. + +Lucy touched her hand with timid gratitude. 'I don't know what's happened +to me,' she said, half wistful, half smiling; 'I never stayed in bed to +breakfast in my life before. At Greyridge, they'd think I had gone out of +my mind.' + +Eleanor inquired if it was an invariable sign of lunacy in America to take +your breakfast in bed. Lucy couldn't say. All she knew was that nobody ever +took it so in Greyridge, Vermont, unless they were on the point of death. + +'I should never be any good, any more,' she said, with an energy that +brought the red back to her cheeks,--'if they were to spoil me at home, as +you spoil me here.' + +Eleanor waved her hand, smiled, and went her way. + +As she moved further and further away from them down the long avenue, she +saw them all the time, though she never once looked back--saw the eager +inquiries of the man, the modest responsiveness of the girl. She was +leaving them to themselves--at the bidding of her own pride--and they had +the May morning before them. According to a telegram just received, Alice +Manisty was not expected till after lunch. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Manisty was talking of his sister to Lucy, With coolness, and as +much frankness as he thought necessary. + +'She is very odd--and very depressing. She is now very little with us. +There is no company she likes as well as her own. But in early days, she +and I were great friends. We were brought up in an old Yorkshire house +together, and a queer pair we were. I was never sent to school, and I got +the better of most of my tutors. Alice was unmanageable too, and we spent +most of our time rambling and reading as we pleased. Both of us dreamed +awake half our time. I had shooting and fishing to take me out of myself; +but Alice, after my mother's death, lived with her own fancies and got +less like other people every day. There was a sort of garden house in the +park,--a lonely, overgrown kind of place. We put our books there, and used +practically to live there for weeks together. That was just after I came +into the place, before I went abroad. Alice was sixteen. I can see her now +sitting in the doorway of the little house, hour after hour, staring into +the woods like a somnambulist, one arm behind her head. One day I said +to her: "Alice, what are you thinking of?" "Myself!" she said. So then I +laughed at her, and teased her. And she answered quite quietly, "I know it +is a pity--but I can't help it." + +Lucy's eyes were wide with wonder. 'But you ought to have given her +something to do--or to learn: couldn't she have gone to school, or found +some friends?' + +'Oh! I dare say I ought to have done a thousand things,' said Manisty +impatiently. 'I was never a model brother, or a model anything! I grew +up for myself and by myself, and I supposed Alice would do the same. You +disapprove?' + +He turned his sharp, compelling eyes upon her, so that Lucy flinched a +little. 'I shouldn't dare,' she said laughing. 'I don't know enough about +it. But it's plain, isn't it, that girls of sixteen shouldn't sit on +doorsteps and think about themselves?' + +'What did you think about at sixteen?' + +Her look changed. + +'I had mother then,'--she said simply. + +'Ah! then--I'm afraid you've no right to sit in judgment upon us. Alice +and I had no mother--no one but ourselves. Of course all our relations and +friends disapproved of us. But that somehow has never made much difference +to either of us. Does it make much difference to you? Do you mind if people +praise or blame you? What does it matter what anybody thinks? Who can know +anything about you but yourself?--Eh?' + +He poured out his questions in a hurry, one tumbling over the other. And he +had already begun to bite the inevitable stalk of grass. Lucy as usual was +conscious both of intimidation and attraction--she felt him at once absurd +and magnetic. + +'I'm sure we're meant to care what people think,' she said, with spirit. +'It helps us. It keeps us straight.' + +His eyes flashed. + +'You think so? Then we disagree entirely--absolutely--and _in toto_! I +don't want to be approved--outside my literary work any way--I want to be +happy. It never enters my head to judge other people--why should they judge +me?' + +'But--but'--Then she laughed out, remembering his book, and his political +escapade, 'Aren't you _always_ judging other people?' + +'Fighting them--yes! That's another matter. But I don't give myself +superior airs. I don't judge--I just love--and hate.' + +Her attention followed the bronzed expressive face, so bold in outline, so +delicate in detail, with a growing fascination. + +'It seems to me you hate more than you love.' + +He considered it. + +'Quite possible. It isn't an engaging world. But I don't hate readily--I +hate slowly and by degrees. If anybody offends me, for instance, at first I +hardly feel it,--it doesn't seem to matter at all. Then it grows in my mind +gradually, it becomes a weight--a burning fire--and drives everything else +out. I hate the men, for instance, that I hated last year in England, much +worse now than I did then!' + +She bit her lip, but could not help the broadening smile, to which his own +responded. + +'Do you take any interest, Miss Foster, in what happened to me last year?' + +'I often wonder whether you regret it,' she said, rather shyly. 'Wasn't +it--a great pity?' + +'Not at all,' he said peremptorily; 'I shall recover all I let slip.' + +She did not reply. But the smile still trembled on her lips, while she +copied his favourite trick in stripping the leaves from a spray of box. + +'You don't believe that?' + +'Does one ever recover all one lets slip--especially in politics?' + +'Goodness--you are a pessimist! Why should one not recover it?' + +Her charming mouth curved still more gaily. + +'I have often heard my uncle say that the man who "resigns" is lost.' + +'Ah!--never regret--never resign--never apologise? We know that creed. Your +uncle must be a man of trenchant opinions. Do you agree with him?' + +She tried to be serious. + +'I suppose one should count the cost before--' + +'Before one joins a ministry? Yes, that's a fair stroke. I wish to heaven +I had never joined it. But when I began to think that this particular +Ministry was taking English society to perdition, it was as well--wasn't +it?--that I should leave it?' + +Her face suddenly calmed itself to a sweet gravity. + +'Oh yes--yes!--if it was as bad as that.' + +'I'm not likely to confess, anyway, that it wasn't as bad as that!--But I +will confess that I generally incline to hate my own side,--and to love my +adversaries. English Liberals moreover hold the ridiculous opinion that the +world is to be governed by intelligence. I couldn't have believed it of +any sane men. When I discovered it, I left them. My foreign experience had +given the lie to all that. And when I left them, the temptation to throw a +paradox in their faces was irresistible.' + +She said nothing, but her expression spoke for her. + +'You think me mad?' + +She turned aside--dumb--plucking at a root of cyclamen beside her. + +'Insincere?' + +'No. But you like to startle people--to make them talk about you!' + +Her eyes were visible again; and he perceived at once her courage and her +diffidence. + +'Perhaps! English political life runs so smooth, that to throw in a stone +and make a splash was amusing.' + +'But was it fair?' she said, flushing. + +'What do you mean?' + +'Other people were in earnest; and you--' + +'Were not? Charge home. I am prepared,' he said, smiling. + +'You talk now--as though you were a Catholic--and you are not, you don't +believe,' she said suddenly, in a deep, low voice. + +He looked at her for a moment in a smiling silence. His lips were ready +to launch a reckless sentence or two; but they refrained. Her attitude +meanwhile betrayed an unconscious dread--like a child that fears a blow. + +'You charming saint!'--he thought; surprised at his own feeling of +pleasure. Pleasure in what?--in the fact that however she might judge his +opinions, she was clearly interested in the holder of them? + +'What does one's own point of view matter?' he said gently. 'I believe what +I can,--and as long as I can--sometimes for a whole twenty-four hours! Then +a big doubt comes along, and sends me floundering. But that has nothing +to do with it. The case is quite simple. The world can't get on without +morals; and Catholicism, Anglicanism too--the religions of authority in +short--are the great guardians of morals. They are the binding forces--the +forces making for solidarity and continuity. Your cocksure, peering +Protestant is the dissolvent--the force making for ruin. What's his +private judgment to me, or mine to him? But for the sake of it, he'll make +everything mud and puddle! Of course you may say to me--it is perfectly +open to you to say'--he looked away from her, half-forgetting her, +addressing with animation and pugnacity an imaginary opponent--'what +do morals matter?--how do you know that the present moral judgments +of the world represent any ultimate truth? Ah! well'--he shrugged his +shoulders--'I can't follow you there. Black may be really white--and white +black; but I'm not going to admit it. It would make me too much of a dupe. +I take my stand on morals. And if you give me morals, you must give me +the only force that can guarantee them,--Catholicism, more or less:--and +dogma,--and ritual,--and superstition,--and all the foolish ineffable +things that bind mankind together, and send them to "face the music" in +this world and the next!' + +She sat silent, with twitching lips, excited, yet passionately scornful +and antagonistic. Thoughts of her home, of that Puritan piety amid which +she had been brought up, flashed thick and fast through her mind. Suddenly +she covered her face with her hands, to hide a fit of laughter that had +overtaken her. + +'All that amuses you?'--said Manisty, breathing a little faster. + +'No--oh! no. But--I was thinking of my uncle--of the people in our village +at home. What you said of Protestants seemed to me, all at once, so odd--so +ridiculous!' + +'Did it? Tell me then about the people in your valley at home.' + +And turning on his elbows beside her, he put her through a catechism as to +her village, her uncle, her friends. She resisted a little, for the brusque +assurance of his tone still sounded oddly in her American ear. But he was +not easy to resist; and when she had yielded she soon discovered that to +talk to him was a no less breathless and absorbing business than to listen +to him. He pounced on the new, the characteristic, the local; he drew out +of her what he wanted to know; he made her see her own trees and fields, +the figures of her home, with new sharpness, so quick, so dramatic, so +voracious, one might almost say, were his own perceptions. + +Especially did he make her tell him of the New England winter; of the long +pauses of its snow-bound life; its whirling winds and drifts; its snapping, +crackling frosts; the lonely farms, and the deep sleigh-tracks amid the +white wilderness, that still in the winter silence bind these homesteads to +each other and the nation; the strange gleams of moonrise and sunset on the +cold hills; the strong dark armies of the pines; the grace of the stripped +birches. Above all, must she talk to him of the people in these farms, +the frugal, or silent, or brooding people of the hills; honourable, hard, +knotted, prejudiced, believing folk, whose lives and fates, whose spiritual +visions and madnesses, were entwined with her own young memories and +deepest affections. + +Figure after figure, story after story, did he draw from her,--warm from +the hidden fire of her own strenuous, loving life. Once or twice she +spoke of her mother--like one drawing a veil for an instant from a holy +of holies. He felt and saw the burning of a sacred fire; then the veil +dropped, nor would it lift again for any word of his. And every now +and then, a phrase that startled him by its quality,--its suggestions. +Presently he was staring at her with his dark absent eyes. + +'Heavens!'--he was thinking--'what a woman there is in her!--what a +nature!' + +The artist--the poet--the lover of things significant and moving,--all +these were stirred in him as he listened to her, as he watched her young +and noble beauty. + + * * * * * + +But, in the end, he would not grant her much, argumentatively. + +'You make me see strange things--magnificent things, if you like! But your +old New England saints and dreamers are not your last word in America. They +tell me your ancestral Protestantisms are fast breaking down. Your churches +are turning into concert and lecture rooms. Catholicism is growing among +you,--science gaining on the quack-medicines! But there--there--I'll not +prate. Forgive me. This has been a fascinating half-hour. Only, take care! +I have seen you a Catholic once, for three minutes!' + +'When?' + +'In St. Peter's.' + +His look, smiling, provocative, drove home his shaft. + +'I saw you overthrown. The great tradition swept upon you. You bowed to +it,--you felt!' + +She made no reply. Far within she was conscious of a kind of tremor. The +personality beside her seemed to be laying an intimate, encroaching hand +upon her own, and her maidenliness shrank before it. + +She threw herself hastily upon other subjects. Presently, he found to his +surprise that she was speaking to him of his book. + +'It would be so sad if it were not finished,' she said timidly. 'Mrs. +Burgoyne would feel it so.' + +His expression changed. + +'You think Mrs. Burgoyne cares about it so much?' + +'But she worked so hard for it!'--cried Lucy, indignant with something in +his manner, though she could not have defined what. Her mind, indeed, was +full of vague and generous misgivings on the subject of Mrs. Burgoyne. +First she had been angry with Mr. Manisty for what had seemed to her +neglect and ingratitude. Now she was somehow dissatisfied with herself too. + +'She worked too hard,' said Manisty gravely. 'It is a good thing the +pressure has been taken off. Have you found out yet, Miss Foster, what a +remarkable woman my cousin is?' + +He turned to her with a sharp look of inquiry. + +'I admire her all day long,' cried Lucy, warmly. + +'That's right,' said Manisty slowly--'that's right. Do you know her +history?' + +'Mr. Brooklyn told me-- + +'He doesn't know very much,--shall I tell it you?' + +'If you ought--if Mrs. Burgoyne would like it,' said Lucy, hesitating. +There was a chivalrous feeling in the girl's mind that she was too new an +acquaintance, that she had no right to the secrets of this friendship, and +Manisty no right to speak of them. + +But Manisty took no notice. With half-shut eyes, like a man looking into +the past, he began to describe his cousin; first as a girl in her father's +home; then in her married life, silent, unhappy, gentle; afterwards in +the dumb years of her irreparable grief; and finally in this last phase +of intellectual and spiritual energy, which had been such an amazement to +himself, which had first revealed to him indeed the true Eleanor. + +He spoke slowly, with a singular and scrupulous choice of words; building +up the image of Mrs. Burgoyne's life and mind with an insight and a +delicacy which presently held his listener spell-bound. Several times Lucy +felt herself flooded with hot colour. + +'Does he guess so much about--about us all?' she asked herself with a +secret excitement. + +Suddenly Manisty said, with an entire change of tone, springing to his feet +as he did so: + +'In short, Miss Foster--my cousin Eleanor is one of the ablest and dearest +of women--and she and I have been completely wasting each other's time this +winter!' + +Lucy stared at him in astonishment. + +'Shall I tell you why? We have been too kind to each other!' + +He waited, studying his companion's face with a hard, whimsical look. + +'Eleanor gave my book too much sympathy. It wanted brutality. I have +worn her out--and my book is in a mess. The best thing I could do for us +both--was to cut it short.' + +Lucy was uncomfortably silent. + +'There's no use in talking about it,' Manisty went on, impatiently, with +a shake of his great shoulders; 'I am not meant to work in partnership. A +word of blame depresses me; and I am made a fool by praise. It was all a +mistake. If only Eleanor could understand--that it's my own fault--and I +know it's my own fault--and not think me unjust and unkind. Miss Foster--' + +Lucy looked up. In the glance she encountered, the vigorous and wilful +personality beside her seemed to bring all its force to bear upon herself-- + +'--if Eleanor talks to you-- + +'She never does!' cried Lucy. + +'She might,' said Manisty, coolly. 'She might. If she does, persuade her of +my admiration, my gratitude! Tell her that I know very well that I am not +worth her help. Her inspiration would have led any other man to success. It +only failed because I was I. I hate to seem to discourage and disavow what +I once accepted so eagerly.--But a man must find out his own mistakes--and +thrash his own blunders. She was too kind to thrash them--so I have +appointed Neal to the office. Do you understand?' + +She rose, full of wavering approvals and disapprovals, seized by him,--and +feeling with Mrs. Burgoyne. + +'I understand only a very little,' she said, lifting her clear eyes to +his; 'except that I never saw anyone I--I cared for so much, in so short a +time--as Mrs. Burgoyne.' + +'Ah! care for her!' he said, in another voice, with another aspect. 'Go on +caring for her! She needs it.' + +They walked on together towards the villa, for Alfredo was on the balcony +signalling to them that the twelve o'clock breakfast was ready. + +On the way Manisty turned upon her. + +'Now, you are to be obedient! You are not to pay any attention to my +sister. She is not a happy person--but you are not to be sorry for her. You +can't understand her; and I beg you will not try. You are, please, to leave +her alone. Can I trust you?' + +'Hadn't you better send me into Rome?' said Lucy, laughing and embarrassed. + +'I always intended to do so,' said Manisty shortly. + + * * * * * + +Towards five o'clock, Alice Manisty arrived, accompanied by an elderly +maid. Lucy, before she escaped into the garden, was aware of a very +tall woman, possessing a harshly handsome face, black eyes, and a thin +long-limbed frame. These black eyes, uneasily bright, searched the salon, +as she entered it, only to fasten, with a kind of grip, in which there +was no joy, upon her brother. Lucy saw her kiss him with a cold +perfunctoriness, bowed herself, as her name was nervously pronounced +by Miss Manisty, and then withdrew. Mrs. Burgoyne was in Rome for the +afternoon. + +But at dinner they all met, and Lucy could satisfy some of the curiosity +that burnt in her very feminine mind. Alice Manisty was dressed in black +lace and satin, and carried herself with stateliness. Her hair, black like +her brother's, though with a fine line of grey here and there, was of +enormous abundance, and she wore it heavily coiled round her head in a mode +which gave particular relief to the fire and restlessness of the eyes which +flashed beneath it. Beside her, Eleanor Burgoyne, though she too was rather +tall than short, suffered a curious eclipse. The plaintive distinction that +made the charm of Eleanor's expression and movements seemed for the moment +to mean and say nothing, beside the tragic splendour of Alice Manisty. + +The dinner was not agreeable. Manisty was clearly ill at ease, and seething +with inward annoyance; Miss Manisty had the air of a frightened mouse; +Alice Manisty talked not at all, and ate nothing except some poached +eggs that she had apparently ordered for herself before dinner; and +Eleanor--chattering of her afternoon in Rome--had to carry through the +business as best she could, with occasional help from Lucy. + +From the first it was unpleasantly evident to Manisty that his sister took +notice of Miss Foster. Almost her only words at table were addressed to the +girl sitting opposite to her; and her roving eyes returned again and again +to Lucy's fresh young face and quiet brow. + +After dinner Manisty followed the ladies into the salon, and asked his +aunt's leave to smoke his cigarette with them. + +Lucy wondered what had passed between him and his sister before dinner. He +was polite to her; and yet she fancied that their relations were already +strained. + +Presently, as Lucy was busy with some embroidery on one of the settees +against the wall of the salon, she was conscious of Alice Manisty's +approach. The new-comer sat down beside her, bent over her work, asked +her a few low, deep-voiced questions. Those strange eyes fastened upon +her,--stared at her indeed. + +But instantly Manisty was there, cigarette in hand, standing between them. +He distracted his sister's attention, and at the same moment Eleanor called +to Lucy from the piano. + +'Won't you turn over for me? I can't play them by heart.' + +Lucy wondered at the scantiness of Mrs. Burgoyne's musical memory that +night. She, who could play by the hour without note, on most occasions, +showed herself, on this, tied and bound to the printed page; and that page +must be turned for her by Lucy, and Lucy only. + +Meanwhile Manisty sat beside his sister smoking, throwing first the left +leg over the right, then the right leg over the left, and making attempts +at conversation with her, that Eleanor positively must not see, lest music +and decorum both break down in a wreck of nervous laughter. + +Alice Manisty scarcely responded; she sat motionless, her wild black head +bent like that of a Mænad at watch, her gaze fixed, her long thin hands +grasping the arm of her chair with unconscious force. + +'What is she thinking of?' thought Lucy once, with a momentary shiver. +'Herself?' + +When bedtime came, Manisty gave the ladies their candles. As he bade +good-night to Lucy, he said in her ear: 'You said you wished to see the +Lateran Museum. My aunt will send Benson with you to-morrow.' + +His tone did not ask whether she wished for the arrangement, but simply +imposed it. + +Then, as Eleanor approached him, he raised his shoulders with a gesture +that only she saw, and led her a few steps apart in the dimly lighted +ante-room, where the candles were placed. + +'She wants the most impossible things, my dear lady,' he said in low-voiced +despair--'things I can no more do than fly over the moon!' + +'Edward!'--said his sister from the open door of the salon--'I should like +some further conversation with you before I go to bed.' + +Manisty with the worst grace in the world saw his aunt and Eleanor to their +rooms, and then went back to surrender himself to Alice. He was a man who +took family relations hardly, impatient of the slightest bond that was not +of his own choosing. Yet it was Eleanor's judgment that, considering his +temperament, he had not been a bad brother to this wild sister. He had +spent both heart and thought upon her case; and at the root of his relation +to her, a deep and painful pity was easily to be divined. + +Vast as the villa-apartment was, the rooms were all on one floor, and the +doors fitted badly. Lucy's sleep was haunted for long by a distant sound of +voices, generally low and restrained, but at moments rising and sharpening +as though their owners forgot the hour and the night. In the morning it +seemed to her that she had been last conscious of a burst of weeping, far +distant--then of a sudden silence ... + + * * * * * + +The following day, Lucy in Benson's charge paid her duty to the Sophocles +of the Lateran Museum, and, armed with certain books lent her by Manisty, +went wandering among the art and inscriptions of Christian Rome. She came +home, inexplicably tired, through a glorious Campagna, splashed with +poppies, embroidered with marigold and vetch; she climbed the Alban slopes +from the heat below, and rejoiced in the keener air of the hills, and the +freshness of the _ponente_, as she drove from the station to the villa. + +Mrs. Burgoyne was leaning over the balcony looking out for her. Lucy ran +up to her, astonished at her own eagerness of foot, at the breath of home +which seemed to issue from the great sun-beaten house. + +Eleanor looked pale and tired, but she took the girl's hand kindly. + +'Oh! you must keep all your gossip for dinner!' said Eleanor, as they +greeted. 'It will help us through. It has been rather a hard day.' + +Lucy's face showed her sympathy, and the question she did not like to put +into words. + +'Oh, it has been a wrestle all day,' said Eleanor wearily. 'She wants Mr. +Manisty to do certain things with her property, that as her trustee he +_cannot_ do. She has the maddest ideas--she _is_ mad. And when she is +crossed, she is terrible.' + +At dinner Lucy did her best to lighten the atmosphere, being indeed most +truly sorry for her poor friends and their dilemma. But her pleasant +girlish talk seemed to float above an abyss of trouble and discomfort, +which threatened constantly to swallow it up. + +Alice Manisty indeed responded. She threw off her silence, and talked +of Rome, exclusively to Lucy and with Lucy, showing in her talk a great +deal of knowledge and a great deal of fine taste, mingled with occasional +violence and extravagance. Her eyes indeed were wilder than ever. They +shone with a miserable intensity, that became a positive glare once or +twice, when Manisty addressed her. Her whole aspect breathed a tragic +determination, crossed with an anger she was hardly able to restrain. Lucy +noticed that she never spoke to or answered her brother if she could help +it. + +After dinner Lucy found herself the object of various embarrassing +overtures on the part of the new-comer. But on each occasion Manisty +interposed at first adroitly, then roughly. On the last occasion Alice +Manisty sprang to her feet, went to the side table where the candles +were placed, disappeared and did not return. Manisty, his aunt, and Mrs. +Burgoyne, drew together in a corner of the salon discussing the events of +the day in low anxious voices. Lucy thought herself in the way, and went to +bed. + + * * * * * + +After some hours of sleep, Lucy awoke, conscious of movement somewhere near +her. With the advent of the hot weather she had been moved to a room on the +eastern side of the villa, in one of two small wings jutting out from the +façade. She had locked her door, but the side window of her room, which +overlooked the balcony towards the lake, was open, and slight sounds came +from the balcony. Springing up she crept softly towards the window. The +wooden shutters had been drawn forward, but both they and the casements +were ajar. + +Through the chink she saw a strange sight. On the step leading from the +house to the terrace of the balcony sat Alice Manisty. Her head was +thrown back against the wall of the villa, and her hands were clasped upon +her knee. Her marvellous hair fell round her shoulders, and a strange +illumination, in which a first gleam of dawn mingled with the moonlight, +struck upon the white face and white hands emerging from the darkness of +her hair and of her loose black dress. + +Was she asleep? Lucy, holding back so as not to be seen, peered with held +breath. No!--the large eyes were wide open, though it seemed to Lucy that +they saw nothing. Minute after minute passed. The figure on the terrace +sat motionless. There were two statues on either side of her, a pair of +battered round-limbed nymphs, glorified by the moonlight into a grace and +poetry not theirs by day. They seemed to be looking down upon the woman at +their feet in a soft bewilderment--wondering at a creature so little like +themselves; while from the terrace came up the scent of the garden, heavy +with roses and bedrenched with dew. + +Suddenly it seemed to Lucy as though that white face, those intolerable +eyes, awoke--turned towards herself, penetrated her room, pursued her. The +figure moved, and there was a low sound of words. Her window was in truth +inaccessible from the terrace; but in a panic fear, Lucy threw herself +on the casement and the shutters, closed them and drew the bolts; as +noiselessly as: she could, still not without some noise. Then hurrying to +her bed, she threw herself upon it, panting--in a terror she could neither +explain nor compose. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +'My dear lady--there's nothing to be done with her whatever. She will not +yield one inch--and I cannot. But one thing at last is clear to me. The +mischief has made progress--I fear, great progress.' + +Manisty had drawn his cousin into the garden, and they were pacing the +avenue. With his last words he turned upon her a grave significant look. + +The cause of Alice Manisty's visit, indeed, had turned out to be precisely +what Manisty supposed. The sister had come to Marinata in order to persuade +her brother, as one of the trustees of her property, to co-operate with +her in bestowing some of her money on the French artist, Monsieur Octave +Vacherot, to whom, as she calmly avowed, her affections were indissolubly +attached, though she did not ever intend to marry him, nor indeed to +see much of him in the future. 'I shall never do him the disservice of +becoming his wife'--she announced, with her melancholy eyes full upon her +brother--'But money is of no use to me. He is young and can employ it.' +Manisty inquired whether the gentleman in question was aware of what she +proposed. Alice replied that if money were finally settled upon him he +would accept it; whereas his pride did not allow him to receive perpetual +small sums at her hands. 'But if I settle a definite sum upon him, he will +take it as an endowment of his genius. It would be giving to the public, +not to him. His great ideas would get their chance.' + +Manisty, in his way as excitable as she, had evidently found it difficult +to restrain himself when M. Octave Vacherot's views as to his own value +were thus explained to him. Nevertheless he seemed to have shown on the +whole a creditable patience, to have argued with his sister, to have even +offered her money of his own, for the temporary supply of M. Vacherot's +necessities. But all to no avail; and in the end it had come of course +to his flatly refusing any help of his to such a scheme, and without it +the scheme fell. For their father had been perfectly well aware of his +daughter's eccentricities, and had placed her portion, by his will, in the +hands of two trustees, of whom her brother was one, without whose consent +she could not touch the capital. + +'It always seemed to her a monstrous arrangement,' said Manisty, 'and I can +see now it galls her to the quick to have to apply to me, in this way. I +don't wonder--but I can't help it. The duty's there--worse luck!--and I've +got to face it, for my father's sake. Besides, if I were to consent, the +other fellow--an old cousin of ours--would never dream of doing it. So +what's the good? All the same, it makes me desperately anxious, to see the +effect that this opposition of mine produces upon her.' + +'I saw yesterday that she must have been crying in the night'--said +Eleanor. + +Her words evoked some emotion in Manisty. + +'She cried in my presence, and I believe she cried most of the night +afterwards,'--he said in hasty pain. 'That beast Vacherot!' + +'Why doesn't she marry him?' + +'For the noblest of reasons!--She knows that her brain is clouded, and she +won't let him run the risk.' + +Their eyes met in a quick sympathy. She saw that his poetic susceptibility, +the romantic and dramatic elements in him were all alive to his sister's +case. How critically, sharply perceptive he was--or could be--with regard +apparently to everybody in the world--save one! Often--as they talked--her +heart stirred in this way, far out of sight, like a fluttering and wounded +thing. + +'It is the strangest madness'--said Manisty presently--'Many people would +say it was only extravagance of imagination unless they knew--what I know. +She told me last night, that she was not one person but two--and the other +self was a brother!--not the least like me--who constantly told her what to +do, and what not to do. She calls him quite calmly "my brother John"--"my +heavenly brother." She says that he often does strange things, things that +she does not understand; but that he tells her the most wonderful secrets; +and that he is a greater poet than any now living. She says that the first +time she perceived him as separate from herself was one day in Venice, when +a friend came for her to the hotel. She went out with the friend, or seemed +to go out with her--and then suddenly she perceived that she was lying +on her bed, and that the other Alice--had been John! He looks just like +herself--but for the eyes. The weirdness of her look as she tells these +things! But she expresses herself often with an extraordinary poetry. I +envy her the words, and the phrases!--It seemed to me once or twice, that +she had all sorts of things I wished to have. If one could only be a little +mad--one might write good books!' + +He turned upon his companion, with a wild brilliance in his own blue eyes, +that, taken together with the subject of their conversation and his many +points of physical likeness to his sister, sent an uncomfortable thrill +through Eleanor. Nevertheless, as she knew well, at the very bottom of +Manisty's being, there lay a remarkable fund of ordinary capacity, an +invincible sanity in short, which had always so far rescued him in the long +run from that element which was extravagance in him, and madness in his +sister. + +And certainly nothing could have been more reasonable, strong and kind, +than his further talk about his sister. He confided to his cousin that his +whole opinion of Alice's state had changed; that certain symptoms for which +he had been warned to be on the watch had in his judgment appeared; that he +had accordingly written to a specialist in Rome, asking him to come and see +Alice, without warning, on the following day; and that he hoped to be able +to persuade her without too much conflict to accept medical watching and +treatment for a time. + +'I feel that it is plotting against her,' he said, not without feeling, +'but it has gone too far--she is not safe for herself or others. One of the +most anxious things is this night-wandering, which has taken possession of +her. Did you hear her last night?' + +'Last night?'--said Eleanor, startled. + +'I had been warned by Dalgetty,' said Manisty. 'And between three and four +I thought I heard sounds somewhere in the direction of the Albano balcony. +So I crept out through the salon into the library. And there, sitting on +the step of the glass passage--was Alice--looking as though she were turned +to marble--and staring at Miss Foster's room! To my infinite relief I saw +that Miss Foster's shutters and windows were fast closed. But I felt I +could not leave Alice there. I made a little noise in the library to warn +her, and then I came out upon her. She showed no surprise--nor did I. I +asked her to come and look at the sunrise striking over the Campagna. +She made no objection, and I took her through my room and the salon to +the salon balcony. The sight was marvellous; and first, it gave her +pleasure--she said a few things about it with her old grace and power. +Then--in a minute--a veil seemed to fall over her eyes. The possessed, +miserable look came back. She remembered that she hated me--that I had +thwarted her. Yet I was able to persuade her to go back to her room. I +promised that we would have more talk to-day. And when she had safely shut +her own door--you know that tiled ante-room, that leads to her room?--I +found the key of it, and locked it safely from outside. That's one access +to her. The other is through the room in which Dalgetty was sleeping. I'd +have given a good deal to warn Dalgetty, but I dared not risk it. She had +not heard Alice go out by the ante-room, but she told me the other day the +smallest sound in her own room woke her. So I felt tolerably safe, and I +went to bed.--Eleanor! do you think that child saw or knew anything of it?' + +'Lucy Foster? I noticed nothing.' + +The name, even on her own lips, struck Eleanor's aching sense like a +sound of fate. It seemed now as if through every conversation she foresaw +it--that all talk led up to it. + +'She looks unlike herself still, this morning--don't you think?' said +Manisty, in disquiet. + +'Very possibly she got some chill at Nemi--some slight poison--which will +pass off.' + +'Well, now'--he said, after a pause--'how shall we get through the day? I +shall have another scene with Alice, I suppose. I don't see how it is to +be avoided. Meanwhile--will you keep Miss Foster here?'--he pointed to the +garden--'out of the way?' + +'I must think of Aunt Pattie, remember,' said Eleanor quickly. + +'Ah! dear Aunt Pattie!--but bring her too.--I see perfectly well that Alice +has already marked Miss Foster. She has asked me many questions about her. +She feels her innocence and freshness like a magnet, drawing out her own +sorrows and grievances. My poor Alice--what a wreck! Could I have done +more?--could I?' + +He walked on absently, his hands behind his back, his face working +painfully. + +Eleanor was touched. She did her best to help him throw off his misgivings; +she defended him from himself; she promised him her help, not with the old +effusion, but still with a cousinly kindness. And his mercurial nature soon +passed into another mood--a mood of hopefulness that the doctor would set +everything right, that Alice would consent to place herself under proper +care, that the crisis would end well--and in twenty-four hours. + +'Meanwhile for this afternoon?' said Eleanor. + +'Oh! we must be guided by circumstances. We understand each +other.--Eleanor!--what a prop, what a help you are!' + +She shrank into herself. It was true indeed that she had passed through +a good many disagreeable hours since Alice Manisty arrived, on her own +account; for she had been left in charge several times; and she had a +secret terror of madness. Manisty had not given her much thanks till now. +His facile gratitude seemed to her a little tardy. She smiled and put it +aside. + + * * * * * + +Manisty wrestled with his sister again that morning, while the other three +ladies, all of them silent and perturbed, worked and read in the garden. +Lucy debated with herself whether she should describe what she had seen +the night before. But her instinct was always to make no unnecessary fuss. +What harm was there in sitting out of doors, on an Italian night in May? +She would not add to the others' anxieties. Moreover she felt a curious +slackness and shrinking from exertion--even the exertion of talking. As +Eleanor had divined, she had caught a slight chill at Nemi, and the effects +of it were malarious, in the Italian way. She was conscious of a little +shiveriness and languor, and of a wish to lie or sit quite still. But Aunt +Pattie was administering quinine, and keeping a motherly eye upon her. +There was nothing, according to her, to be alarmed about. + +At the end of a couple of hours, Manisty came out from his study much +discomposed. Alice Manisty shut herself up in her room, and Manisty +summoned Eleanor to walk up and down a distant path with him. + +When luncheon came Alice Manisty did not appear. Dalgetty brought a message +excusing her, to which Manisty listened in silence. + +Aunt Pattie slipped out to see that the visitor had everything she +required. But she returned almost instantly, her little parchment face +quivering with nervousness. + +'Alice would not see me,' she said to Manisty. + +'We must leave her alone,' he said quickly. 'Dalgetty will look after her.' + +The meal passed under a cloud of anxiety. For once Manisty exerted himself +to make talk, but not with much success. + +As the ladies left the dining-room, he detained Lucy. + +'Would it be too hot for you in the garden now? Would you mind returning +there?' + +Lucy fetched her hat. There was only one short stretch of sun-beaten path +to cross, and then, beyond, one entered upon the deep shade of the ilexes, +already penetrated, at the turn of the day, by the first breaths of the +sea-wind from the west. Manisty carried her books, and arranged a chair for +her. Then he looked round to see if any one was near. Yes. Two gardeners +were cutting the grass in the central zone of the garden--well within call. + +'My aunt, or Mrs. Burgoyne will follow you very shortly,' he said 'You do +not mind being alone?' + +'Please, don't think of me!' cried Lucy. 'I am afraid I am in your way.' + +'It will be all right to-morrow,' he said, following his own thoughts. 'May +I ask that you will stay here for the present?' + +Lucy promised, and he went. + +She was left to think first, to think many times, of the constant courtesy +and kindness which had now wholly driven from her mind the memory of his +first manner to her; then to ponder, with a growing fascination which her +own state of slight fever and the sultry heat of the day seemed to make it +impossible for her to throw off, on Alice Manisty, on the incident of the +night before, and on the meaning of the poor lady's state and behaviour. +She had taken Mrs. Burgoyne's word of 'mad' in a general sense, as meaning +eccentricity and temper. But surely they were gravely anxious--and +everything was most strange and mysterious. The memory of the white staring +face under the moonlight appalled her. She tried not to think of it; but it +haunted her. + +Her nerves were not in their normal state; and as she sat there in the +cool, dark, vague, paralysing fears swept across her, of which she was +ashamed, One minute she longed to go back to them, and help them. The next, +she recognised that the best help she could give was to stay where she was. +She saw very well that she was a responsibility and a care to them. + +'If it lasts, I must go away'--she said to herself firmly. 'Certainly I +must go.' + +But at the thought of going, the tears came into her eyes. At most, there +was little more than a fortnight before the party broke up, and she went +with Aunt Pattie to Vallombrosa. + +She took up the book upon her knee. It was a fine poem in Roman dialect, +on the immortal retreat of Garibaldi after '49. But after a few lines, +she let it drop again, listlessly. One of the motives which had entered +into her reading of these things--a constant heat of antagonism and of +protest--seemed to have gone out of her. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Aunt Pattie, Eleanor and Manisty held conclave in Aunt Pattie's +sitting-room, which was a little room at the south-western corner of the +apartment. It opened out of the salon, and overlooked the Campagna. + +On the north-eastern side, Dalgetty, Alice Manisty's maid, sat sewing in a +passage-room, which commanded the entrance to the glass passage--her own +door--the door of the ante-room that Manisty had spoken of to Eleanor, and +close beside her a third door--which was half open--communicating with +Manisty's library. The glass passage, or conservatory, led directly to the +staircase and the garden, past the French windows of the library. + +Dalgetty was a person of middle age, a strongly made Scotchwoman with +a high forehead and fashionable rolls of sandy hair. Her face was thin +and freckled, and one might have questioned whether its expression was +shrewd, or self-important. She was clearly thinking of other matters than +needlework. Her eyes travelled constantly to one or other of the doors in +sight; and her lips had the pinched tension that shows preoccupation. + +Her mind indeed harboured a good many disagreeable thoughts. In the first +place she was pondering the qualities of a certain drug lately recommended +as a sedative to her mistress. It seemed to Dalgetty that its effect had +not been good, but evil; or rather that it acted capriciously, exciting as +often as it soothed. Yet Miss Alice would take it. On coming to her room +after her interview with her brother, she had fallen first into a long fit +of weeping, and then, after much restless pacing to and fro, she had put +her hands to her head in a kind of despair, and had bidden Dalgetty give +her the new medicine. 'I must lie down and sleep--_sleep!_'--she had said, +'or--' + +And then she had paused, looking at Dalgetty with an aspect so piteous and +wild that the maid's heart had quaked within her. Nevertheless she had +tried to keep the new medicine away from her mistress. But Miss Alice had +shown such uncontrollable anger on being crossed, that there was nothing +for it but to yield. And as all was quiet in her room, Dalgetty hoped that +this time the medicine would prove to be a friend, and not a foe, and that +the poor lady would wake up calmer and less distraught. + +She was certainly worse--much worse. The maid guessed at Mr. Manisty's +opinion; she divined the approach of some important step. Very likely she +would soon be separated from her mistress; and the thought depressed her. +Not only because she had an affection for her poor charge; but also because +she was a rather lazy and self-indulgent woman. Miss Alice had been very +trying certainly; but she was not exacting in the way of late hours and +needlework; she had plenty of money, and she liked moving about. All these +qualities suited the tastes of the maid, who knew that she would not easily +obtain another post so much to her mind. + +The electric bell on the outer landing rang. Alfredo admitted the caller, +and Dalgetty presently perceived a tall priest standing in the library. He +was an old man with beautiful blue eyes, and he seemed to Dalgetty to have +a nervous timid air. + +Alfredo had gone to ask Mr. Manisty whether he could receive this +gentleman--and meanwhile the stranger stood there twisting his long bony +hands, and glancing about him with the shyness of a bird. + +Presently Alfredo came back, and conducted the priest to the salon. + +He had not been gone five minutes before Mr. Manisty appeared. He came +through the library, and stood in the doorway of the passage room where she +sat. + +'All right, Dalgetty?' he said, stooping to her, and speaking in a whisper. + +'I think and hope she's asleep, sir,' said the maid, in his ear--'I have +heard nothing this half-hour.' + +Manisty looked relieved, repeated his injunctions to be watchful, and went +back to the salon. Dalgetty presently heard his voice in the distance, +mingling with those of the priest and Mrs. Burgoyne. + +Now she had nothing left to amuse her but the view through the glass +passage to the balcony and the lake. It was hot, and she was tired of her +sewing. The balcony however was in deep shade, and a breath of cool air +came up from the lake. Dalgetty could not resist it. She glanced at her +mistress's door and listened a moment. All silence. + +She put down her work and slipped through the glass passage on to the broad +stone balcony. + +There her ears were suddenly greeted with a sound of riotous shouting and +singing on the road, and Alfredo ran out from the dining-room to join her. + +'_Festa!_'--he said, nodding to her in a kindly patronage, and speaking as +he might have spoken to a child--'_Festa!_' + +And Dalgetty began to see a number of carts adorned with green boughs and +filled with singing people, coming along the road. Each cart had a band of +girls dressed alike--red, white, orange, blue, and so forth. + +Alfredo endeavoured to explain that these were Romans who after visiting +the church of the 'Madonna del Divino Amore' in the plain were now bound to +an evening of merriment at Albano. According to him it was not so much a +case of 'divino amore' as of 'amore di vino,' and he was very anxious that +the English maid should understand his pun. She laughed--pretended--showed +off her few words of Italian. She thought Alfredo a funny, handsome little +man, a sort of toy wound up, of which she could not understand the works. +But after all he was a man; and the time slipped by. + +After ten minutes, she remembered her duties with a start, and hastily +crossing the glass passage, she returned to her post. All was just as she +had left it. She listened at Miss Alice's door. Not a sound was to be +heard; and she resumed her sewing. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Manisty and Eleanor were busy with Father Benecke. The poor +priest had come full of a painful emotion, which broke its bounds as soon +as he had Manisty's hand in his. + +'You got my letter?' he said. 'That told you my hopes were dead--that the +sands for me were running out?--Ah! my kind friend--there is worse to tell +you!' + +He stood clinging unconsciously to Manisty's hand, his eyes fixed upon the +Englishman's face. + +'I had submitted. The pressure upon me broke me down. I had given way. They +brought me a message from the Holy Father which wrung my heart. Next week +they were to publish the official withdrawal--"_librum reprobavit, et se +laudabiliter subjecit_"--you know the formula? But meanwhile they asked +more of me. His Eminence entreated of me a private letter that he might +send it to the Holy Father. So I made a condition. I would write,--but they +must promise, on their part, that nothing should be published beyond the +formal submission,--that my letter should be for his eyes alone, and for +the Pope. They promised,--oh! not in writing--I have nothing written!--so I +wrote. I placed myself, like a son, in the hands of the Holy Father.--Now, +this morning there is my letter--the whole of it--in the _Osservatore +Romano_! To-morrow!--I came to tell you--I withdraw it. I withdraw my +submission!' + +He drew himself up, his blue eyes shining. Yet they were swollen with +fatigue and sleeplessness, and over the whole man a blighting breath of age +and pain had passed since the day in St. Peter's. + +Manisty looked at him in silence a moment. Then he said-- + +'I'm sorry--heartily, heartily sorry!' + +At this Eleanor, thinking that the two men would prefer to be alone, turned +to leave the room. The priest perceived it. + +'Don't leave us, madame, on my account. I have no secrets, and I know that +you are acquainted with some at least of my poor history. But perhaps I am +intruding; I am in your way?' + +He looked round him in bewilderment. It was evident to Eleanor that he +had come to Manisty in a condition almost as unconscious of outward +surroundings as that of the sleep-walker. And she and Manisty, on their +side, as they stood looking at him, lost the impression of the bodily man +in the overwhelming impression of a wounded spirit, struggling with mortal +hurt. + +'Come and sit down,' she said to him gently, and she led him to a chair. +Then she went into the next room, poured out and brought him a cup of +coffee. He took it with an unsteady hand and put it down beside him +untouched. Then he looked at Manisty and began in detail the story of all +that had happened to him since the letter in which he had communicated to +his English friend the certainty of his condemnation. + +Nothing could have been more touching than his absorption in his own +case; his entire unconsciousness of anything in Manisty's mind that could +conflict with it. Eleanor turning from his tragic simplicity to Manisty's +ill-concealed worry and impatience, pitied both. That poor Father Benecke +should have brought his grief to Manisty, on this afternoon of all +afternoons! + +It had been impossible to refuse to see him. He had come a pilgrimage from +Rome and could not be turned away. But she knew well that Manisty's ear was +listening all the time for every sound in the direction of his sister's +room; his anxieties indeed betrayed themselves in every restless movement +as he sat with averted head--listening. + +Presently he got up, and with a hurried 'Excuse me an instant'--he left the +room. + +Father Benecke ceased to speak, his lips trembling. To find himself alone +with Mrs. Burgoyne embarrassed him. He sat, folding his soutane upon his +knee, answering in monosyllables to the questions that she put him. But +her sympathy perhaps did more to help him unpack his heart than he knew; +for when Manisty returned, he began to talk rapidly and well, a natural +eloquence returning to him. He was a South German, but he spoke a fine +literary English, of which the very stumbles and occasional naïvetés had +a peculiar charm; like the faults which reveal a pure spirit even more +plainly than its virtues. + +He reached his climax, in a flash of emotion-- + +'My submission, you see--the bare fact of it--left my cause intact. It +was the soldier falling by the wall. But my letter must necessarily be +misunderstood--my letter betrays the cause. And for that I have no right. +You understand? I thought of the Pope--the old man. They told me he was +distressed--that the Holy Father had suffered--had lost sleep--through me! +So I wrote out of my heart--like a son. And the paper this morning!--See--I +have brought it you--the _Osservatore Romano_. It is insolent--brutal--but +not to me! No, it is all honey to me! But to the truth--to our +ideas.--No!--I cannot suffer it. I take it back!--I bear the consequences.' + +And with trembling fingers, he took a draft letter from his pocket, and +handed it, with the newspaper, to Manisty. + +Manisty read the letter, and returned it, frowning. + +'Yes--you have been abominably treated--no doubt of that. But have you +counted the cost? You know my point of view! It's one episode, for me, in a +world-wide struggle. Intellectually I am all with you--strategically, all +with them. They can't give way! The smallest breach lets in the flood. And +then, chaos!' + +'But the flood is truth!' said the old man, gazing at Manisty. There was a +spot of red on each wasted cheek. + +Manisty shrugged his shoulders, then dropped his eyes upon the ground, and +sat pondering awhile in a moody silence. Eleanor looked at him in some +astonishment. It was as though for the first time his habitual paradox hurt +him in the wielding--or rather as though he shrank from using what was a +conception of the intellect upon the flesh and blood before him. She had +never yet seen him visited by a like compunction. + +It was curious indeed to see that Father Benecke himself was not affected +by Manisty's attitude. From the beginning he had always instinctively +appealed from the pamphleteer to the man. Manisty had been frank, brutal +even. But notwithstanding, the sensitive yet strong intelligence of the +priest had gone straight for some core of thought in the Englishman +that it seemed only he divined. And it was clear that his own utter +selflessness--his poetic and passionate detachment from all the objects +of sense and ambition--made him a marvel to Manisty's more turbid and +ambiguous nature. There had been a mystical attraction between them from +the first; so that Manisty, even when he was most pugnacious, had yet a +filial air and way towards the old man. + +Eleanor too had often felt the spell. Yet to-day there were both in herself +and Manisty hidden forces of fever and unrest which made the pure idealism, +the intellectual tragedy of the priest almost unbearable. Neither--for +different and hidden reasons--could respond; and it was an infinite relief +to both when the old man at last rose to take his leave. + +They accompanied him through the library to the glass passage. + +'Keep me informed,' said Manisty, wringing him by the hand; 'and tell me if +there is anything I can do.' + +Eleanor said some parting words of sympathy. The priest bowed to her with a +grave courtesy in reply. + +'It will be as God wills,' he said gently; and then went his way in a sad +abstraction. + +Eleanor was left a moment alone. She put her hands over her heart, and +pressed them there. 'He suffers from such high things!'--she said to +herself in a sudden passion of misery--'and I?' + + * * * * * + +Manisty came hurrying back from the staircase, and crossed the library +to the passage-room beyond. When he saw Dalgetty there, still peacefully +sewing, his look of anxiety cleared again. + +'All right?' he said to her. + +'She hasn't moved, sir. Miss Manisty's just been to ask, but I told her +it's the best sleep Miss Alice has had this many a day. After all, that +stuff do seem to have done her good.' + +'Well, Eleanor--shall we go and look after Miss Foster?'--he said, +returning to her. + +They entered the garden with cheered countenances. The secret terror of +immediate and violent outbreak which had possessed Manisty since the +morning subsided; and he drew in the _ponente_ with delight. + +Suddenly, however, as they turned into the avenue adorned by the battered +bust of Domitian, Manisty's hand went up to his eyes. He stopped; he gave a +cry. + +'Good God!'--he said--'She is there!' + +And halfway down the shadowy space, Eleanor saw two figures, one white, the +other dark, close together. + +She caught Manisty by the arm. + +'Don't hurry!--don't excite her!' + +As they came nearer, they saw that Lucy was still in the same low chair +where Manisty had left her. Her head was thrown back against the cushions, +and her face shone deathly white from the rich sun-warmed darkness shed by +the over-arching trees. And kneeling beside her, holding both her helpless +wrists, bending over her in a kind of passionate, triumphant possession, +was Alice Manisty. + +At the sound of the steps on the gravel she looked round; and at the sight +of her brother, she slowly let fall the hands she held--she slowly rose to +her feet. Her tall emaciated form held itself defiantly erect; her eyes +flashed hatred. + +'Alice!'--said Manisty, approaching her--'I have something important to say +to you. I have reconsidered our conversation of this morning, and I came to +tell you so. Come back with me to the library--and let us go into matters +again.' + +He spoke with gentleness, controlling her with a kind look. She shivered +and hesitated; her eyes wavered. Then she began to say a number of rapid, +incoherent things, in an under-voice. Manisty drew her hand within his arm. + +'Come,' he said, and turned to the house. + +She pulled herself angrily away. + +'You are deceiving me,' she said. 'I won't go with you.' + +But Manisty captured her again. + +'Yes--we must have our talk,' he said, with firm cheerfulness; 'there will +be no time to-night.' + +She broke into some passionate reproach, speaking in a thick low voice +almost inaudible. + +He answered it, and she replied. It was a quick dialogue, soothing on his +side, wild on hers. Lucy, who had dragged herself from her attitude of +mortal languor, sat with both hands grasping her chair, staring at the +brother and sister. Eleanor had eyes for none but Manisty. Never had she +seen him so adequate, so finely master of himself. + +He conquered. Alice dropped her head sullenly, and let herself be led away. +Then Eleanor turned to Lucy, and the girl, with a great sob, leant against +her dress, and burst into uncontrollable tears. + +'Has she been long here?' said Eleanor, caressing the black hair. + +'Very nearly an hour, I think. It seemed interminable. She has been telling +me of her enemies--her unhappiness--how all her letters are opened--how +everybody hates her--especially Mr. Manisty. She was followed at +Venice by people who wished to kill her. One night, she says, she +got into her gondola, in a dark canal, and found there a man with a +dagger who attacked her. She only just escaped. There were many other +things,--so--so--horrible!'--said Lucy, covering her eyes. But the next +moment she raised them. 'Surely,' she said imploringly, 'surely she is +insane?' + +Eleanor looked down upon her, mutely nodding. + +'There is a doctor coming to-morrow,' she said, almost in a whisper. + +Lucy shuddered. + +'But we have to get through the night,' said Eleanor. + +'Oh! at night'--said Lucy--'if one found her there--beside one--one would +die of it! I tried to shake her off just now, several times; but it was +impossible.' + +She tried to control herself, to complain no more, but she trembled +from head to foot. It was evident that she was under some overmastering +impression, some overthrow of her own will-power which had unnerved and +disorganised her. Eleanor comforted her as best she could. + +'Dalgetty and Edward will take care of her to-night,'--she said. 'And +to-morrow, she will be sent to some special care. How she escaped from her +room this afternoon I cannot imagine. We were all three on the watch.' + +Lucy said nothing. She clung to Eleanor's hand, while long shuddering +breaths, gradually subsiding, passed through her; like the slow departure +of some invading force. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +After Manisty had carried off his sister, Eleanor and Lucy sat together in +the garden, talking sometimes, but more often silent, till the sun began to +drop towards Ostia and the Mediterranean. + +'You must come in,' said Eleanor, laying her hand on the girl's. 'The chill +is beginning.' + +Lucy rose, conscious again of the slight giddiness of fever, and they +walked towards the house. Half way, Lucy said with sudden, shy energy-- + +'I do _wish_ I were quite myself! It is I who ought to be helping you +through this--and I am just nothing but a worry!' + +Eleanor smiled. + +'You distract our thoughts,' she said. 'Nothing could have made this visit +of Alice's other than a trial.' + +She spoke kindly, but with that subtle lack of response to Lucy's sympathy +which had seemed to spring first into existence on the day of Nemi. Lucy +had never felt at ease with her since then, and her heart, in truth, was +a little sore. She only knew that something intangible and dividing had +arisen between them; and that she felt herself once more the awkward, +ignorant girl beside this delicate and high-bred woman, on whose confidence +and friendship she had of course no claim whatever. Already she was +conscious of a certain touch of shame when she thought of her new dresses +and of Mrs. Burgoyne's share in them. Had she been after all the mere +troublesome intruder? Her swimming head and languid spirits left her the +prey of these misgivings. + +Aunt Pattie met them at the head of the long flight of stone stairs which +led from the garden to the first floor. Her finger was on her lip. + +'Will you come through my room?' she said under her breath. 'Edward and +Alice are in the library.' + +So they made a round--every room almost in the apartment communicating with +every other--and thus reached Aunt Pattie's sitting-room and the salon. +Lucy sat shivering beside the wood-fire in Aunt Pattie's room, which Miss +Manisty had lit as soon as she set eyes upon her; while the two other +ladies murmured to each other in the salon. + +The rich wild light from the Campagna flooded the room; the day sank +rapidly and a strange hush crept through the apartment. The women +working among the olives below had gone home; there were no sounds from +the Marinata road; and the crackling of the fire alone broke upon the +stillness--except for a sound which emerged steadily as the silence grew. +It seemed to be a man's voice reading. Once it was interrupted by a laugh +out of all scale--an ugly, miserable laugh--and Lucy shuddered afresh. + +Meanwhile Aunt Pattie was whispering to Eleanor. + +'He was wonderful--quite wonderful! I did not think he could--' + +'He can do anything he pleases. He seems to be reading aloud?' + +'He is reading some poems, my dear, that she wrote at Venice. She gave them +to him to look at the day she came. I daresay they're quite mad, but he's +reading and discussing them as though they were the most important things, +and it pleases her,--poor, poor Alice! First, you know, he quieted her very +much about the money. I listened at the door sometimes, before you came in. +She seems quite reconciled to him.' + +'All the same, I wish this night were over and the doctor here!' said +Eleanor, and Miss Manisty, lifting her hands, assented with all the energy +her small person could throw into the gesture. + + * * * * * + +Lucy, in the course of dressing for dinner, decided that to sit through a +meal was beyond her powers, and that she would be least in the way if she +went to bed. So she sent a message to Miss Manisty, and was soon lying at +ease, with the window opposite her bed opened wide to Monte Cavo and the +moonlit lake. The window on her left hand, which looked on the balcony, +she herself had closed and fastened with all possible care. And she had +satisfied herself that her key was in her door. As soon as Miss Manisty and +Eleanor had paid her their good-night visit, she meant to secure herself. + +And presently Aunt Pattie came in, to see that she had her soup and had +taken her quinine. The little old lady did not talk to Lucy of her niece, +nor of the adventure of the afternoon, though she had heard all from +Eleanor. Her family pride, as secret as it was intense, could hardly endure +this revelation of the family trouble and difficulty to a comparative +stranger, much as she liked the stranger. Nevertheless her compunctions +on the subject showed visibly. No cares and attentions could be too much +for the girl in her charge, who had suffered annoyance at the hands of a +Manisty, while her own natural protectors were far away. + +'Benson, my dear, will come and look after you the last thing,' said the +old lady, not without a certain stateliness. 'You will lock your door--and +I hope you will have a very good night.' + +Half an hour later came Mrs. Burgoyne. Lucy's candle was out. A wick +floating on oil gave a faint light in one corner of the room. Across the +open window a muslin curtain had been drawn, to keep out bats and moths. +But the moonlight streamed through, and lay in patches on the brick floor. +And in this uncertain illumination Lucy could just see the dark pits of +Eleanor's eyes, the sharp slightness of her form, the dim wreath of hair. + +'You may be quite happy,' said Eleanor bending over her, and speaking +almost in a whisper. 'She is much quieter. They have given her a stronger +sleeping draught and locked all the doors--except the door into Dalgetty's +room. And that is safe, for Dalgetty has drawn her bed right across it. +If Alice tries to come through, she must wake her, and Dalgetty is quite +strong enough to control her. Besides, Manisty would be there in a moment. +So you may be quite, quite at ease.' + +Lucy thanked her. + +'And you?' she said wistfully, feeling for Eleanor's hand. + +Eleanor yielded it for an instant, then withdrew it, and herself.--'Oh, +thank you--I shall sleep excellently. Alice takes no interest, alas! in +me! You are sure there is nothing else we can do for you?' She spoke in a +light, guarded voice, that seemed to Lucy to come from a person miles away. + +'Thank you--I have everything.' + +'Benson will bring you milk and lemonade. I shall send Marie the first +thing for news of you. You know she sleeps just beyond you, and you have +only to cross the dining room to find me. Good-night. Sleep well.' + +As Eleanor closed the door behind her, Lucy was conscious of a peculiar +sinking of heart. Mrs. Burgoyne had once made all the advances in their +friendship. Lucy thought of two or three kisses that formerly had greeted +her cheek, to which she had been too shy and startled to respond. Now it +seemed to her difficult to imagine that Mrs. Burgoyne had ever caressed +her, had ever shown herself so sweet and gay and friendly as in those first +weeks when all Lucy's pleasure at the villa depended upon her. What was +wrong?--what had she done? + +She lay drooping, her hot face pressed upon her hands, pondering the last +few weeks, thoughts and images passing through her brain with a rapidity +and an occasional incoherence that was the result of her feverish state. +How much she had seen and learnt in these flying days!--it often seemed to +her as though her old self had been put off along with her old clothes. +She was carried back to the early time when she had just patiently adapted +herself to Mr. Manisty's indifference and neglect, as she might have +adapted herself to any other condition of life at the villa. She had made +no efforts. It had seemed to her mere good manners to assume that he did +not want the trouble of her acquaintance, and be done with it. To her +natural American feeling indeed, as the girl of the party, it was strange +and disconcerting that her host should not make much of her. But she had +soon reconciled herself. After all, what was he to her or she to him? + +Then, of a sudden, a whole swarm of incidents and impressions rushed upon +memory. The semi-darkness of her room was broken by images, brilliant or +tormenting--Mr. Manisty's mocking look in the Piazza of St. Peter's--his +unkindness to his cousin--his sweetness to his friend--the aspect, now +petulant, even childish, and now gracious and commanding beyond any other +she had ever known, which he had worn at Nemi. His face, upturned beside +her, as she and her horse climbed the steep path; the extraordinary +significance, fulness, warmth of the nature behind it; the gradual +unveiling of the man's personality, most human, faulty, self-willed, yet +perpetually interesting and challenging, whether to the love or hate of the +bystander:--these feelings or judgments about her host pulsed through the +girl's mind with an energy that she was powerless to arrest. They did not +make her happy, but they seemed to quicken and intensify all the acts of +thinking and living. + +At last, however, she succeeded in recapturing herself, in beating back +the thoughts which, like troops over-rash on a doubtful field, appeared +to be carrying her into the ambushes and strongholds of an enemy. She +was impatient and scornful of them. For, crossing all these memories of +things, new or exciting, there was a constant sense of something untoward, +something infinitely tragic, accompanying them, developing beside them. In +this feverish silence it became a nightmare presence filling the room. + +What was the truth about Mr. Manisty and his cousin? Lucy searched her own +innocent mind and all its new awakening perceptions in vain. The intimacy +of the friendship, as she had first seen it; the tone used by Mr. Manisty +that afternoon in speaking of Mrs. Burgoyne; the hundred small signs of a +deep distress in her, of a new detachment in him--Lucy wandered in darkness +as she thought of them, and yet with vague pangs and jarring vibrations of +the heart. + +Her troubled dream was suddenly broken by a sound. She sprang up trembling. +Was it an angry, distant voice? Did it come from the room across the +balcony? No!--it was the loud talking of a group of men on the road +outside. She shook all over, unable to restrain herself. 'What would Uncle +Ben think of me?' she said to herself in despair. For Uncle Ben loved calm +and self-control in women, and had often praised her for not being flighty +and foolish, as he in his bachelor solitude conceived most other young +women to be. + +She looked down at her bandaged wrist. The wound still ached and burned +from the pressure of that wild grip which she had not been able to ward off +from it. Lucy herself had the strength of healthy youth, but she had felt +her strength as nothing in Alice Manisty's hands. And the tyranny of those +black eyes!--so like her brother's, without the human placable spark--and +the horror of those fierce possessing miseries that lived in them! + +Perhaps after all Uncle Ben would not have thought her so cowardly! As she +sat up in bed, her hands round her knees, a pitiful home-sickness invaded +her. A May scent of roses coming from the wall below the open window +recalled to her the spring scents at home--not these strong Italian scents, +but thin northern perfumes of lilac and lavender, of pine-needles and fresh +grass. It seemed to her that she was on the slope behind Uncle Ben's house, +with the scattered farms below--and the maple green in the hollow--and the +grassy hillsides folded one upon another--and the gleam of a lake among +them--and on the furthest verge of the kind familiar scene, the blue and +shrouded heads of mountain peaks. She dropped her head on her knees, and +could hear the lowing of cattle and the clucking of hens; she saw the +meeting-house roof among the trees, and groups scattered through the lanes +on the way to the prayer meeting, the older women in their stuff dresses +and straw bonnets, the lean, bronzed men. + +Benson's knock dispelled the mirage. The maid brought lemonade and milk, +brushed Lucy's long hair and made all straight and comfortable. + +When her tendance was over she looked at the door and then at Lucy. 'Miss +Manisty said, Miss, I was to see you had your key handy. It's there all +right--but it is the door that's wrong. Never saw such flimsy things as the +doors in all this place.' + +And Benson examined the two flaps of the door, filled with that frank +contempt for the foreigner's powers and intelligence which makes the +English race so beloved of Europe. + +'Why, the floor-bolts'll scarcely hold, neither of them; and the lock's +that loose, it's a disgrace. But I shouldn't think the people that own this +place had spent a shilling on it since I was born. When you go to lay hold +on things they're just tumbling to bits.' + +'Oh! never mind, Benson,' said Lucy--shrinking. 'I'm sure it'll be all +right. Thank you--and good-night.' + +She and Benson avoided looking at each other; and the maid was far too +highly trained to betray any knowledge she was not asked for. But when +she had taken her departure Lucy slipped out of bed, turned the key, and +tightened the bolts herself. It was true that their sockets in the brick +floor were almost worn away; and the lock-case seemed scarcely to hold +upon the rotten wood. The wood-work, indeed, throughout the whole villa +was not only old and worm-eaten, but it had been originally of the rudest +description, meant for summer uses, and a villeggiatura existence in which +privacy was of small account. The Malestrini who had reared the villa above +the Campagna in the late seventeenth century had no money to waste on the +superfluities of doors that fitted and windows that shut; he had spent +all he had, and more, on the sprawling _putti_ and fruit wreaths of the +ceilings, and the arabesques of the walls. And now doors, windows, and +shutters alike, shrunken and scorched and blistered by the heat of two +hundred summers, were dropping into ruin. + +The handling of this rotten lock and its rickety accompaniments suddenly +brought back a panic fear on Lucy. What if Alice Manisty and the wind, +which was already rising, should burst in upon her together? She looked +down upon her night-gown and her bare feet. Well, at least she would not be +taken quite unawares! She opened her cupboard and brought from it a white +wrapper of a thin woollen stuff which she put on. She thrust her feet into +her slippers, and so stood a moment listening, her long hair dropping +about her. Nothing! She lay down, and drew a shawl over her. 'I +won't--won't--sleep,' she said to herself. + +And the last sound she was conscious of was the cry of the little downy +owl--so near that it seemed to be almost at her window. + + * * * * * + +'You are unhappy,' said a voice beside her. + +Lucy started. The self in her seemed to wrestle its way upward from black +and troubled depths of sleep. She opened her eyes. Someone was bending over +her. She felt an ineffable horror, but not the smallest astonishment. Her +dreams had prophesied; and she saw what she foreknew. + +In the wavering light she perceived a stooping form, and again she noticed +a whiteness of hands and face set in a black frame. + +'Yes!' she said, lifting herself on her elbow. 'Yes!--what do you want?' + +'You have been sobbing in your sleep,' said the voice. 'I know why you are +unhappy. My brother is beginning to love you--you might love him. But there +is some one between you--and there always will be. There is no hope for +you--unless I show you the way out.' + +'Miss Manisty!--you oughtn't to be here,' said Lucy, raising herself higher +in bed and trying to speak with absolute self-command. 'Won't you go back +to bed--won't you let me take you?' + +And she made a movement. Instantly a hand was put out. It seized her arm +first gently, then irresistibly. + +'Don't, don't do that,' said the voice. 'It makes me angry--and--that +hurts.' + +Alice Manisty raised her other hand to her head, with a strange piteous +gesture. Lucy was struck with the movement of the hand. It was shut over +something that it concealed. + +'I don't want to make you angry,' she said, trying to speak gently and keep +down the physical tumult of the heart; 'but it is not good for you to be up +like this. You are not strong--you ought to have rest.' + +The grip upon her arm relaxed. + +'I don't rest now'--a miserable sigh came out of the darkness. 'I sleep +sometimes--but I don't rest. And it used all to be so happy once--whether +I was awake or asleep. I was extraordinarily happy, all the winter, at +Venice. One day Octave and I had a quarrel. He said I was mad--he seemed to +be sorry for me--he held my arms and I saw him crying. But it was quite a +mistake--I wasn't unhappy then. My brother John was always with me, and he +told me the most wonderful things--secrets that no one else knows. Octave +could never see him--and it was so strange--I saw him so plain. And my +mother and father were there too--there was nothing between me and any dead +person. I could see them and speak to them whenever I wished. People speak +of separation from those who die. But there is none--they are always there. +And when you talk to them, you know that you are immortal as they are--only +you are not like them. You remember this world still--you know you have +to go back to it. One night John took me--we seemed to go through the +clouds--through little waves of white fire--and I saw a city of light, full +of spirits--the most beautiful people, men and women--with their souls +showing like flames through their frail bodies. They were quite kind--they +smiled and talked to me. But I cried bitterly--because I knew I couldn't +stay with them--in their dear strange world--I must come back--back to all +I hated--all that strangled and hindered me.' + +The voice paused a moment. Through Lucy's mind certain incredible words +which it had spoken echoed and re-echoed. Consciousness did not master +them; but they made a murmur within it through which other sounds hardly +penetrated. Yet she struggled with herself--she remembered that only +clearness of brain could save her. + +She raised herself higher on her pillows that she might bring herself more +on a level with her unbidden guest. + +'And these ideas gave you pleasure?' she said, almost with calm. + +'The intensest happiness,' said the low, dragging tones. 'Others pity +me.--"Poor creature--she's mad"--I heard them say. And it made me smile. +For I had powers they knew nothing of; I could pass from one world to +another; one place to another. I could see in a living person the soul of +another dead long ago. And everything spoke to me--the movement of leaves +on a tree--the eyes of an animal--all kinds of numbers and arrangements +that come across one in the day. Other people noticed nothing. To me it was +all alive--everything was alive. Sometimes I was so happy, so ecstatic, +I could hardly breathe. The people who pitied me seemed to me dull and +crawling beings. If they had only known! But now--' + +A long breath came from the darkness--a breath of pain. And again the +figure raised its hand to its head. + +'Now--somehow, it is all different. When John comes, he is cold and +unkind--he won't open to me the old sights. He shows me things instead +that shake me with misery--that kill me. My brain is darkening--its powers +are dying out. That means that I must let this life go--I must pass into +another. Some other soul must give me room. Do you understand?' + +Closer came the form. Lucy perceived the white face and the dimly burning +eyes, she felt herself suffocating, but she dared make no sudden move for +fear of that closed hand and what it held. + +'No--I don't understand,' she said faintly; 'but I am sure--no good can +come to you--from another's harm.' + +'What harm would it be? You are beginning to love--and your love will never +make you happy. My brother is like me. He is not mad--but he has a being +apart. If you cling to him, he puts you from him--if you love him he tires. +He has never loved but for his own pleasure--to complete his life. How +could you complete his life? What have you that he wants? His mind now is +full of you--his senses, his feeling are touched--but in three weeks he +would weary of and despise you. Besides--you know--you know well--that is +not all. There is another woman--whose life you must trample on--and you +are not made of stuff strong enough for that. No, there is no hope for you, +in this existence--this body. But there is no death; death is only a change +from one form of being to another. Give up your life, then--as I will give +up mine. We will escape together. I can guide you--I know the way. We shall +find endless joy--endless power! I shall be with Octave then, as and when I +please--and you with Edward. Come!' + +The face bent nearer, and the iron hold closed again stealthily on the +girl's wrist. Lucy lay with her own face turned away and her eyes shut. She +scarcely breathed. A word of prayer passed through her mind--an image of +her white-haired uncle, her second father left alone and desolate. + +Suddenly there was a quick movement beside her. Her heart fluttered wildly. +Then she opened her eyes. Alice Manisty had sprung up, had gone to the +window, and flung back the muslin curtains. Lucy could see her now quite +plainly in the moonlight--the haggard energy of look and movement, the wild +dishevelled hair. + +'I knew the end was come--this afternoon,' said the hurrying voice. 'When I +came out to you, as I walked along the terrace--the sun went out! I saw it +turn black above the Campagna--all in a moment--and I said to myself, "What +will the world do without the sun?--how will it live?" And now--do you +see?'--she raised her arm, and Lucy saw it for an instant as a black bar +against the window, caught the terrible dignity of gesture,--'there is not +one moon--but many! Look at them! How they hurry through the clouds--one +after the other! Do you understand what that means? Perhaps not--for your +sight is not like mine. But I know. It means that the earth has left its +orbit--that we are wandering--wandering in space--like a dismasted vessel! +We are tossed this way and that, sometimes nearer to the stars--and +sometimes further away. That is why they are first smaller--and then +larger. But the crash must come at last--death for the world--death for us +all--' + +Her hands fell to her side, the left hand always tightly closed--her head +drooped; her voice, which had been till now hoarse and parched as though +it came from a throat burnt with fever, took a deep dirge-like note. +Noiselessly Lucy raised herself--she measured the distance between herself +and the door--between the mad woman and the door. Oh God!--was the door +locked? Her eyes strained through the darkness. How deep her sleep must +have been that she had heard no sound of its yielding! Her hand was +ready to throw off the shawl that covered her, when she was startled +by a laugh--a laugh vile and cruel that seemed to come from a new +presence--another being. Alice Manisty rapidly came back to her, stood +between her bed and the wall, and Lucy felt instinctively that some hideous +change had passed. + +'Dalgetty thought that all was safe, so did Edward. And indeed the locks +were safe--the only doors that hold in all the villa--I tried _yours_ in +the afternoon while Manisty and the priest were talking! But mine held. So +I had to deal with Dalgetty.' She stooped, and whispered:--'I got it in +Venice one day--the chemist near the Rialto. She might have found it--but +she never did--she is very stupid. I did her no harm--I think. But if it +kills her, death is nothing!--nothing!--only the gate of life. Come!--come! +prove it!' + +A hand darted and fell, like a snake striking. Lucy just threw herself +aside in time--she sprang up--she rushed--she tore at the door--pulling +at it with a frantic strength. It yielded with a crash, for the lock +was already broken. Should she turn left or right?--to the room of Mrs. +Burgoyne's maid, or to Mr. Manisty's library? She chose the right and fled +on. She had perhaps ten seconds start, since the bed had been between +her enemy and the door. But if any other door interposed between her and +succour, all was over!--for she heard a horrible cry behind her, and knew +that she was pursued. On she dashed, across the landing at the head of the +stairs. Ah! the dining-room door was open! She passed it, and then turned, +holding it desperately against her pursuer. + +'Mr. Manisty! help!' + +The agonised voice rang through the silent rooms. Suddenly--a sound from +the library--a chair overturned--a cry--a door flung open. Manisty stood in +the light. + +He bounded to her side. His strength released hers. The upper part of the +door was glass, and that dark gasping form on the other side of it was +visible to them both, in a pale dawn light from the glass passage. + +'Go!'--he said--'Go through my room--find Eleanor!' + +She fled. But as she entered the room, she tottered--she fell upon the +chair that Manisty had just quitted,--and with a long shudder that relaxed +all her young limbs, her senses left her. + +Meanwhile the whole apartment was alarmed. The first to arrive upon the +scene was the strong housemaid, who found Alice Manisty stretched upon +the floor of the glass passage, and her brother kneeling beside her, his +clothes and hands torn in the struggle with her delirious violence. Alfredo +appeared immediately afterwards; and then Manisty was conscious of the +flash of a hand-lamp, and the soft, hurrying step of Eleanor Burgoyne. + +She stood in horror at the entrance of the glass passage. Manisty gave his +sister into Alfredo's keeping as he rose and went towards her. + +'For God's sake'--he said under his breath--'go and see what has happened +to Dalgetty.' + +He took for granted that Lucy had taken refuge with her, and Eleanor stayed +to ask no questions, but fled on to Dalgetty's room. As she opened the +door the fumes of chloroform assailed her, and there on the bed lay the +unfortunate maid, just beginning to moan herself back to consciousness from +beneath the chloroformed handkerchief that had reduced her to impotence. + +Her state demanded every care. While Manisty and the housemaid Andreina +conveyed Alice Manisty, now in a state of helpless exhaustion, to her room, +and secured her there, Alfredo ran for the Marinata doctor. Eleanor and +Aunt Pattie forced brandy through the maid's teeth, and did what they could +to bring back warmth and circulation. + +They were still busy with their task when the elderly Italian arrived who +was the communal doctor and chemist of the village. The smell of the room, +the sight of the woman, was enough. The man was efficient and discreet, and +he threw himself into his work without more questions than were absolutely +necessary. In the midst of their efforts Manisty reappeared, panting. + +'Ought he not to see Miss Foster too?' he said anxiously to Eleanor +Burgoyne. + +Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. + +A smothered exclamation broke from him. He rushed away, back to the library +which he had seen Lucy enter. + +The cool clear light was mounting. It penetrated the wooden shutters of +the library and mingled with the dying light of the lamp which had served +him to read with through the night, beside which, in spite of his utmost +efforts, he had fallen asleep at the approach of dawn. There, in the +dream-like illumination, he saw Lucy lying within his deep arm-chair. Her +face was turned away from him and hidden against the cushion; her black +hair streamed over the white folds of her wrapper: one arm was beneath her, +the other hung helplessly over her knee. + +He went up to her and called her name in an agony. + +She moved slightly, made an effort to rouse herself and raised her hand. +But the hand fell again, and the word half-formed upon her lips died away. +Nothing could be more piteous, more disarmed. Yet even her disarray and +helplessness were lovely; she was noble in her defeat; her very abandonment +breathed youth and purity; the man's wildly surging thoughts sank abashed. + +But words escaped him--words giving irrevocable shape to feeling. For he +saw that she could not hear. + +'Lucy!--Lucy--dear, beautiful Lucy!' + +He hung over her in an ardent silence, his eyes breathing a respect that +was the very soul of passion, his hand not daring to touch even a fold of +her dress. Meanwhile the door leading to the little passage-room opened +noiselessly. Eleanor Burgoyne entered. Manisty was not aware of it. He bent +above Lucy in a tender absorption speaking to her as he might have spoken +to a child, calling to her, comforting and rousing her. His deep voice had +an enchanter's sweetness; and gradually it wooed her back to life. She did +not know what he was saying to her, but she responded. Her lids fluttered; +she moved in her chair, a deep sigh lifted her breast. + +At that moment the door in Eleanor's hand escaped her and swung to. Manisty +started back and looked round him. + +'Eleanor!--is that you?' + +In the barred and ghostly light Eleanor came slowly forward. She looked +first at Lucy--then at Manisty. Their eyes met. + +Manisty was the first to move uneasily. + +'Look at her, Eleanor!--poor child!--Alice must have attacked her in her +room. She escaped by a marvel. When I wrestled with Alice, I found this in +her hand. One second more, and she would have used it on Miss Foster.' + +He took from his pocket a small surgical knife, and looked, shuddering, at +its sharpness and its curved point. + +Eleanor too shuddered. She laid her hand on Lucy's shoulder, while Manisty +withdrew into the shadows of the room. + +Lucy raised herself by a great effort. Her first half-conscious impulse was +to throw herself into the arms of the woman standing by her. Then as she +perceived Eleanor clearly, as her reason came back, and her gaze steadied, +the impulse died. + +'Will you help me?' she said, simply--holding out her hand and tottering to +her feet. + +A sudden gleam of natural feeling lit up the frozen whiteness of Eleanor's +face. She threw her arm round Lucy's waist, guiding her. And so, closely +entwined, the two passed from Manisty's sight. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +The sun had already deserted the eastern side of the villa when, on the +morning following these events, Lucy woke from a fitful sleep to find +Benson standing beside her. Benson had slept in her room since the dawn; +and, thanks to exhaustion and the natural powers of youth, Lucy came back +to consciousness, weak but refreshed, almost free from fever and in full +possession of herself. Nevertheless, as she raised herself in bed to drink +the tea that Benson offered her--as she caught a glimpse through the open +window of the convent-crowned summit and wooded breast of Monte Cavo, +flooded with a broad white sunlight--she had that strange sense of change, +of a yesterday irrevocably parted from to-day, that marks the entry into +another room of life. The young soul at such times trembles before a +power unknown, yet tyrannously felt. All in a moment without our knowledge +or co-operation something has happened. Life will never be again as it +was last week. 'How?--or why?' the soul cries. 'I knew nothing--willed +nothing.' And then dimly, through the dark of its own tumult, the veiled +Destiny appears. + +Benson was not at all anxious that Lucy should throw off the invalid. + +'And indeed, Miss, if I may say so, you'll be least in the way where you +are. They're expecting the doctor from Rome directly.' + +The maid looked at her curiously. All that the household knew was that +Miss Alice Manisty had escaped from her room in the night, after pinioning +Dalgetty's arms and throwing a chloroformed handkerchief over her face. +Miss Foster, it seemed, had been aroused and alarmed, and Mr. Manisty +coming to the rescue had overpowered his sister by the help of the stout +_cameriera_, Andreina. This was all that was certainly known. + +Nor did Lucy shew herself communicative. As the maid threw back all the +shutters and looped the curtains, the girl watched the summer light conquer +the room with a shiver of reminiscence. + +'And Mrs. Burgoyne?' she asked eagerly. + +The maid hesitated. + +'She's up long ago, Miss. But she looks that ill, it's a pity to see her. +She and Mr. Manisty had their coffee together an hour ago--and she's been +helping him with the arrangements. I am sure it'll be a blessing when the +poor lady's put away. It would soon kill all the rest of you.' + +'Will she go to-day, Benson?' said Lucy, in a low voice. + +The maid replied that she believed that was Mr. Manisty's decision, that +he had been ordering a carriage, and that it was supposed two nurses were +coming with the doctor. Then she enquired whether she might carry good news +of Lucy to Miss Manisty and the master. + +Lucy hurriedly begged they might be told that she was quite well, and +nobody was to take the smallest trouble about her any more. Benson threw a +sceptical look at the girl's blanched cheek, shook her head a little, and +departed. + +A few minutes afterwards there was a light tap at the door and Eleanor +Burgoyne entered. + +'You have slept?--you are better,' she said, standing at Lucy's bedside. + +'I am only ashamed you should give me a thought,' the girl protested. 'I +should be up now but for Benson. She said I should be out of the way.' + +'Yes,' said Eleanor quietly. 'That is so.' She hesitated a moment, and then +resumed--'If you should hear anything disagreeable don't be alarmed. There +will be a doctor and nurses. But she is quite quiet this morning--quite +broken--poor soul! My cousins are going into Rome with her. The home where +she will be placed is on Monte Mario. Edward wishes to assure himself that +it is all suitable and well managed. And Aunt Pattie will go with him.' + +Through the girl's mind flashed the thought--'Then _we_ shall be +alone together all day,'--and her heart sank. She dared not look into +Mrs. Burgoyne's tired eyes. The memory of words spoken to her in the +darkness--of that expression she had surprised on Mrs. Burgoyne's face as +she woke from her swoon in the library, suddenly renewed the nightmare in +which she had been living. Once more she felt herself walking among snares +and shadows, with a trembling pulse. + +Yet the feeling which rose to sight was nothing more than a stronger form +of that remorseful tenderness which had been slowly invading her during +many days. She took Eleanor's hand in hers and kissed it shyly. + +'Then _I_ shall look after _you_,' she said trying to smile. 'I'll have my +way this time!' + +'Wasn't that a carriage?' said Eleanor hurriedly. She listened a moment. +Yes--a carriage had drawn up. She hastened away. + +Lucy, left alone, could hear the passage of feet through the glass passage, +and the sound of strange voices, representing apparently two men, and +neither of them Mr. Manisty. + +She took a book from her table and tried not to listen. But she could not +distract her mind from the whole scene which she imagined must be going +on,--the consultation of the doctors, the attitude of the brother. + +How had Mr. Manisty dealt with his sister the night before? What weapon +was in Alice Manisty's hand? Lucy remembered no more after that moment at +the door, when Manisty had rushed to her relief, bidding her go to Mrs. +Burgoyne. He himself had not been hurt, or Mrs. Burgoyne would have told +her. Ah!--he had surely been kind, though strong. Her eyes filled. She +thought of the new light in which he had appeared to her during these +terrible days with his sister; the curb put on his irritable, exacting +temper; his care of Alice, his chivalry towards herself. In another man +such conduct would have been a matter of course. In Manisty it touched and +captured, because it could not have been reckoned on. She had done him +injustice, and--unknowing--he had revenged himself. + +The first carriage apparently drove away; and after an interval another +replaced it. Nearly an hour passed:--then sudden sounds of trampling feet +and opening doors broke the silence which had settled over the villa. +Voices and steps approached, entered the glass passage. Lucy sprang up. +Benson had flung the window looking on the balcony and the passage open, +but had fastened across it the outside sun-shutters. Lucy, securely hidden +herself, could see freely through the wooden strips of the shutter. + +Ah!--sad procession! Manisty came first through the passage, the sides +of which were open to the balcony. His sister was on his arm, veiled and +in black. She moved feebly, sometimes hesitating and pausing, and Lucy +distinguished the wild eyes, glancing from side to side. But Manisty bent +his fine head to her; his left hand secured hers upon his arm; he spoke +to her gently and cheerfully. Behind walked Aunt Pattie, very small and +nervously pale, followed by a nurse. Then two men--Lucy recognised one as +the Marinata doctor--and another nurse; then Alfredo, with luggage. + +They passed rapidly out of her sight. But the front door was immediately +below the balcony, and her ear could more or less follow the departure. And +there was Mrs. Burgoyne, leaning over the balcony. Mr. Manisty spoke to her +from below. Lucy fancied she caught her own name, and drew back indignant +with herself for listening. + +Then a sound of wheels--the opening of the iron gate--the driving up of +another carriage--some shouting between Alfredo and Andreina--and it was +all over. The villa was at peace again. + +Lucy drew herself to her full height, in a fierce rigidity of +self-contempt. What was she still listening for--still hungering for? What +seemed to have gone suddenly out of heaven and earth, with the cessation of +one voice? + +She fell on her knees beside her bed. It was natural to her to pray, to +throw herself on a sustaining and strengthening power. Such prayer in such +a nature is not the specific asking of a definite boon. It is rather a +wordless aspiration towards a Will not our own--a passionate longing, in +the old phrase, to be 'right with God,' whatever happens, and through all +the storms of personal impulse. + + * * * * * + +An hour later Lucy entered the salon just as Alfredo, coming up behind her, +announced that the midday breakfast was ready. Mrs. Burgoyne was sitting +near the western window with her sketching things about her. Some western +clouds had come up from the sea to veil the scorching heat with which the +day had opened. Eleanor had thrown the sun-shutters hack, and was finishing +and correcting one of the Nemi sketches she had made during the winter. + +She rose at sight of Lucy. + +'Such a relief to throw oneself into a bit of drawing!' She looked down at +her work. 'What hobby do you fly to?' + +'I mend the house-linen, and I tie down the jam,' said Lucy, laughing. 'You +have heard me play--so you know I don't do that well! And I can't draw a +hay-stack.' + +'You play very well,' said Eleanor embarrassed, as they moved towards the +dining-room. + +'Just well enough to send Uncle Ben to sleep when he's tired! I learnt it +for that. Will you play to me afterwards?' + +'With pleasure,' said Eleanor, a little formally. + +How long the luncheon seemed! Eleanor, a white shadow in her black +transparent dress, toyed with her food, eat nothing, and complained of the +waits between the courses. + +Lucy reminded her that there were fifty steps between the kitchen and their +apartment. Eleanor did not seem to hear her; she had apparently forgotten +her own remark, and was staring absently before her. When she spoke next +it was about London, and the June season. She had promised to take a young +cousin, just 'come out,' to some balls. Her talk about her plans was +careless and languid, but it showed the woman naturally at home in the +fashionable world, with connections in half the great families, and access +to all doors. The effect of it was to make Lucy shrink into herself. Mrs. +Burgoyne had spoken formerly of their meeting in London. She said nothing +of it to-day, and Lucy felt that she could never venture to remind her. + +From Eleanor's disjointed talk, also, there flowed another subtle +impression. Lucy realised what kinship means to the English wealthy and +well-born class--what a freemasonry it establishes, what opportunities it +confers. The Manistys and Eleanor Burgoyne were part of a great clan with +innumerable memories and traditions. They said nothing of them; they merely +took them for granted with all that they implied, the social position, the +'consideration,' the effect on others. + +The American girl is not easily overawed. The smallest touch of English +assumption in her new acquaintances would have been enough, six weeks +before, to make Lucy Foster open her dark eyes in astonishment or contempt. +That is not the way in which women of her type understand life. + +But to-day the frank forces of the girl's nature felt themselves harassed +and crippled. She sat with downcast eyes, constrainedly listening and +sometimes replying. No--it was very true. Mr. Manisty was not of her world. +He had relations, friendships, affairs, infinitely remote from hers--none +of which could mean anything to her. Whereas his cousin's links with +him were the natural inevitable links of blood and class. He might be +unsatisfactory or uncivil; but she had innumerable ways of recovering him, +not to be understood even, by those outside. + +When the two women returned to the salon, a kind of moral distance had +established itself between them. Lucy was silent; Eleanor restless. + +Alfredo brought the coffee. Mrs. Burgoyne looked at her watch as he +retired. + +'Half past one,' she said in a reflective voice. 'By now they have made all +arrangements.' + +'They will be back by tea-time?' + +'Hardly,--but before dinner. Poor Aunt Pattie! She will be half dead.' + +'Was she disturbed last night?' asked Lucy in a low voice. + +'Just at the end. Mercifully she heard nothing till Alice was safe in her +room.' + +Then Eleanor's eyes dwelt broodingly on Lucy. She had never yet questioned +the girl as to her experiences. Now she said with a certain abruptness-- + +'I suppose she forced your door?' + +'I suppose so.--But I was asleep.' + +'Were you terribly frightened when you found her there?' + +As she spoke Eleanor said to herself that in all probability Lucy knew +nothing of Manisty's discovery of the weapon in Alice's hand. While she was +helping the girl to bed, Lucy, in her dazed and shivering submission, was +true to her natural soberness and reserve. Instead of exaggerating, she had +minimised what had happened. Miss Alice Manisty had come to her room,--had +behaved strangely,--and Lucy, running to summon assistance, had roused Mr. +Manisty in the library. No doubt she might have managed better, both then +and in the afternoon. And so, with a resolute repression of all excited +talk, she had turned her blanched face from the light, and set herself to +go to sleep, as the only means of inducing Mrs. Burgoyne also to leave her +and rest. + +Eleanor's present question, however, set the girl's self-control +fluttering, so sharply did it recall the horror of the night. She curbed +herself visibly before replying. + +'Yes,--I was frightened. But I don't think she could have hurt me. I should +have been stronger when it came to the point.' + +'Thank God Edward was there!' cried Eleanor. + +'Where did he come to you?' + +'At the dining-room door. I could not have held it much longer. Then he +told me to go to you. And I tried to. But I only just managed to get to +that chair in the library.' + +'Mr. Manisty found you quite unconscious.' + +A sudden red dyed Lucy's cheek. + +'Mr. Manisty!--was he there? I hoped he knew nothing about it. I only saw +you.' + +Eleanor's thought drew certain inferences. But they gave her little +comfort. She turned away abruptly, complaining of the heat, and went to the +piano. + +Lucy sat listening, with a book on her knee. Everything seemed to have +grown strangely unreal in this hot silence of the villa--the high room +with its painted walls--the marvellous prospect outside, just visible in +sections through the half-closed shutters--herself and her companion. Mrs. +Burgoyne played snatches of Brahms and Chopin; but her fingers stumbled +more than usual. Her attention seemed to wander. + +Inevitably the girl's memory went back to the wild things which Alice +Manisty had said to her. In vain she rebuked herself. The fancies of a +mad-woman were best forgotten,--so common-sense told her. But over the +unrest of her own heart, over the electrical tension and dumb hostility +that had somehow arisen between her and Eleanor Burgoyne, common-sense +had small power. She could only say to herself with growing steadiness of +purpose that it would be best for her not to go to Vallombrosa, but to make +arrangements as soon as possible to join the Porters' friends at Florence, +and go on with them to Switzerland. + +To distract herself, she presently drew towards her the open portfolio of +Eleanor's sketches, which was lying on the table. Most of them she had seen +before, and Mrs. Burgoyne had often bade her turn them over as she pleased. + +She looked at them, now listlessly, now with sudden stirs of feeling. Here +was the niched wall of the Nemi temple; the arched recesses overgrown with +ilex and fig and bramble; in front the strawberry pickers stooping to +their work. Here, an impressionist study of the lake at evening, with the +wooded height of Genzano breaking the sunset; here a sketch from memory of +Aristodemo teasing the girls. Below this drawing, lay another drawing of +figures. Lucy drew it out, and looked at it in bewilderment. + +At the foot of it was written--'The Slayer and the Slain.' Her thoughts +rushed back to her first evening at the villa--to the legend of the priest. +The sketch indeed contained two figures--one erect and triumphant, the +other crouching on the ground. The prostrate figure was wrapped in a cloak +which was drawn over the head and face. The young victor, sword in hand, +stood above his conquered enemy. + +Or--Was it a man? + +Lucy looked closer, her cold hand shaking on the paper. The vague classical +dress told nothing. But the face--whose was it?--and the long black hair? +She raised her eyes towards an old mirror on the wall in front, then +dropped them to the drawing again, in a sudden horror of recognition. And +the piteous figure on the ground, with the delicate woman's hand?--Lucy +caught her breath. It was as though the blow at her heart, which Manisty +had averted the night before, had fallen. + +Then she became aware that Eleanor had turned round upon her seat at the +piano, and was watching her. + +'I was looking at this strange drawing,' she said. Her face had turned a +sudden crimson. She pushed the drawing from her and tried to smile. + +Eleanor rose and came towards her. + +'I thought you would see it,' she said. 'I wished you to see it.' + +Her voice was hoarse and shaking. She stood opposite to Lucy, supporting +herself by a marble table that stood near. + +Lucy's colour disappeared, she became as pale as Eleanor. + +'Is this meant for me?' + +She pointed to the figure of the victorious priest. Eleanor nodded. + +'I drew it the night after our Nemi walk,' she said with a fluttering +breath. 'A vision came to me so--of you--and me.' + +Lucy started. Then she put her arms on the table and dropped her face into +her arms. Her voice became a low and thrilling murmur that just reached +Eleanor's ears. + +'I wish--oh! how I wish--that I had never come here!' + +Eleanor wavered a moment, then she said with gentleness, even with +sweetness: + +'You have nothing to blame yourself for. Nor has anyone. That picture +accuses no one. It draws the future--which no one can stop or change--but +you.' + +'In the first place,' said Lucy, still hiding her eyes and the bitter tears +that dimmed them--'what does it mean? Why am I the slayer?--and--and--you +the slain? What have I done? How have I deserved such a thing?' + +Her voice failed her. Eleanor drew a little nearer. + +'It is not you--but fate. You have taken from me--or you are about to take +from me--the last thing left to me on this earth! I have had one chance of +happiness, and only one, in all my life, till now. My boy is dead--he has +been dead eight years. And at last I had found another chance--and after +seven weeks, you--you--are dashing it from me!' + +Lucy drew back from the table, like one that shrinks from an enemy. + +'Mrs. Burgoyne!' + +'You don't know it!' said Eleanor calmly. 'Oh! I understand that. You are +too good--too loyal. That's why I am talking like this. One could only dare +it with some one whose heart one knew. Oh! I have had such gusts of feeling +towards you--such mean, poor feeling. And then, as I sat playing there, I +said to myself, "I'll tell her! She will find that drawing, and--I'll tell +her! She has a great, true nature--she'll understand. Why shouldn't one try +to save oneself? It's the natural law. There's only the one life."' + +She covered her eyes with her hand an instant, choking down the sob which +interrupted her. Then she moved a little nearer to Lucy. + +'You see,' she said, appealing,--'you were very sweet and tender to me one +day. It's very easy to pretend to mourn with other people--because one +thinks one ought--or because it makes one liked. I am always pretending in +that way--I can't help it. But you--no: you don't say what you don't feel, +and you've the gift to feel. It's so rare--and you'll suffer from it. +You'll find other people doing what I'm doing now--throwing themselves +upon you--taking advantage--trusting to you. You pitied me because I had +lost my boy. But you didn't know--you couldn't guess how bare my life has +been always--but for him. And then--this winter--' her voice changed and +broke--'the sun rose again for me. I have been hungry and starving for +years, and it seemed as though I--even I!--might still feast and be +satisfied. + +'It would not have taken much to satisfy me. I am not young, like you--I +don't ask much. Just to be his friend, his secretary, his companion--in +time--perhaps--his wife--when he began to feel the need of home, and +peace--and to realise that no one else was so dear or so familiar to him +as I. I understood him--he me--our minds touched. There was no need for +"falling in love." One had only to go on from day to day--entering into +each other's lives--I ministering to him and he growing accustomed to +the atmosphere I could surround him with, and the sympathy I could give +him--till the habit had grown so deep into heart and flesh that it could +not be wrenched away. His hand would have dropped into mine, almost without +his willing or knowing it.... And I should have made him happy. I could +have lessened his faults--stimulated his powers. That was my dream all +these later months--and every week it seemed to grow more reasonable, more +possible. Then you came--' + +She dropped into a chair beside Lucy, resting her delicate hands on the +back of it. In the mingled abandonment and energy of her attitude, there +was the power that belongs to all elemental human emotion, made frankly +visible and active. All her plaintive clinging charm had disappeared. It +was the fierceness of the dove--the egotism of the weak. Every line and +nerve of the fragile form betrayed the exasperation of suffering and a +tension of the will, unnatural and irresistible. Lucy bowed to the storm. +She lay with her eyes hidden, conscious only of this accusing voice close +to her,--and of the song of two nightingales without, rivalling each other +among the chestnut trees above the lower road. Eleanor resumed after a +momentary pause--a momentary closing of the tired eyes, as though in search +of calm and recollection. + +'You came. He took no notice of you. He was rude and careless--he +complained that our work would be interrupted. It teased him that you +should be here--and that you represented something so different from his +thoughts and theories. That is like him. He has no real tolerance. He wants +to fight, to overbear, to crush, directly he feels opposition. Among women +especially, he is accustomed to be the centre--to be the master always. +And you resisted--silently. That provoked and attracted him. Then came the +difficulties with the book--and Mr. Neal's visit. He has the strangest +superstitions. It was ill-luck, and I was mixed up with it. He began to +cool to me--to avoid me. You were here; you didn't remind him of failure. +He found relief in talking to you. His ill-humour would all have passed +away like a child's sulkiness, but that--Ah! well!--' + +She raised her hand with a long, painful sigh, and let it drop. + +'Don't imagine I blame anyone. You were so fresh and young--it was all so +natural. Yet somehow I never really feared--after the first evening I felt +quite at ease. I found myself drawn to like--to love--you. And what could +you and he have in common? Then on the Nemi day I dared to reproach him--to +appeal to the old times--to show him the depth of my own wound--to make him +explain himself. Oh! but all those words are far, far too strong for what +I did? Who could ever suppose it to their advantage to make a scene with +him--to weary or disgust him? It was only a word--a phrase or two here and +there. But he understood,--and he gave me my answer. Oh! what humiliations +we women can suffer from a sentence--a smile--and show nothing--nothing!' + +Her face had begun to burn. She lifted her handkerchief to brush away two +slow tears that had forced their way. Lucy's eyes had been drawn to her +from their hiding-place. The girl's brow was furrowed, her lips parted; +there was a touch of fear--unconscious, yet visible--in her silence. + +'It was that day, while you and he were walking about the ruins, that +a flash of light came to me. I suppose I had seen it before. I know I +had been unhappy long before! But as long as one can hide things from +oneself--it seems to make them not true,--as though one's own will still +controlled them. But that day--after our walk--when we came back and found +you on the hill-side! How was it your fault? Yet I could almost have +believed that you had invented the boys and the stone! Certainly he spared +me nothing. He had eyes and ears only for you. After he brought you home +all his thoughts were for you. Nobody else's fatigues and discomforts +mattered anything. And it was the same with Alice. His only terrors +were for you. When he heard that she was coming, he had no alarms for +Aunt Pattie or for me. But you must be shielded--you must be saved from +everything repulsive or shocking. He sat up last night to protect you--and +even in his sleep--he heard you.' + +Her voice dropped. Eleanor sat staring before her into the golden shadows +of the room, afraid of what she had said, instinctively waiting for its +effect on Lucy. + +And Lucy crouched no longer. She had drawn herself erect. + +'Mrs. Burgoyne, is it kind--is it _bearable_--that you should say these +things to me? I have not deserved them! No! no!--I have _not_. What right +have you? I can't protect myself--I can't escape you--but--' + +Her voice shook. There was in it a passion of anger, pain, loneliness, and +yet something else--the note of something new-born and transforming. + +'What right?' repeated Eleanor, in low tones--tones almost of astonishment. +She turned to her companion. 'The right of hunger--the right of +poverty--the right of one pleading for a last possession!--a last hope!' + +Lucy was silenced. The passion of the older woman bore her down, made the +protest of her young modesty seem a mere trifling and impertinence. Eleanor +had slid to her knees. Her face had grown tremulous and sweet. A strange +dignity quivered in the smile that transformed her mouth as she caught the +girl's reluctant hands and drew them against her breast. + +'Is it forbidden to cry out when grief--and loss--go beyond a certain +point? No!--I think not. I couldn't struggle with you--or plot against +you--or hate you. Those things are not in my power. I was not made so. But +what forbids me to come to you and say?--"I have suffered terribly. I had a +dreary home. I married, ignorantly, a man who made me miserable. But when +my boy came, that made up for all. I never grumbled. I never envied other +people after that. It seemed to me I had all I deserved--and so much, +much more than many! Afterwards, when I woke up without him that day in +Switzerland, there was only one thing that made it endurable. I overheard +the Swiss doctor say to my maid--he was a kind old man and very sorry for +me--that my own health was so fragile that I shouldn't live long to pine +for the child. But oh!--what we can bear and not die! I came back to my +father, and for eight years I never slept without crying--without the ghost +of the boy's head against my breast. Again and again I used to wake up in +an ecstasy, feeling it there--feeling the curls across my mouth."' A deep +sob choked her. Lucy, in a madness of pity, struggled to release herself +that she might throw her arms round the kneeling figure. But Eleanor's +grasp only tightened. She hurried on. + +'But last year, I began to hope. Everybody thought badly of me; the doctors +spoke very strongly; and even Papa made no objection when Aunt Pattie asked +me to come to Rome. I came to Rome in a strange state--as one looks at +things and loves them, for the last time, before a journey. And then--well, +then it all began!--new life for me, new health. The only happiness--except +for the child--that had ever come my way. I know--oh! I don't deceive +myself--I know it was not the same to Edward as to me. But I don't ask +much. I knew he had given the best of his heart to other women--long +ago--long before this. But the old loves were all dead, and I could +almost be thankful for them. They had kept him for me, I thought,--tamed +and exhausted him, so that I--so colourless and weak compared to those +others!--might just slip into his heart and find the way open--that he +might just take me in, and be glad, for sheer weariness.' + +She dropped Lucy's hands, and rising, she locked her own, and began to walk +to and fro in the great room; her head thrown back, her senses turned as it +were inward upon the sights and sounds of memory. + +Lucy gazed upon her in bewilderment. Then she too rose and approached Mrs. +Burgoyne. + +'When shall I go?' she said simply. 'You must help me to arrange it with +Miss Manisty. It might be to-morrow--it would be easy to find some excuse.' + +Eleanor looked at her with a convulsed face. + +'That would help nothing,' she said--'nothing! He would guess what I had +done.' + +Lucy was silent a moment. Then she broke out piteously. + +'What can I do?' + +'What claim have I that you should do anything?' said Eleanor despairingly. +'I don't know what I wanted, when I began this scene.' + +She moved on, her eyes bent upon the ground--Lucy beside her. + +The girl had drawn Mrs. Burgoyne's arm through her own. The tears were on +her cheek, but she was thinking, and quite calm. + +'I believe,' she said at last, in a voice that was almost steady--'that +all your fears are quite, quite vain. Mr. Manisty feels for me nothing +but a little kindness--he could feel nothing else. It will all come +back to you--and it was not I that took it away. But--whatever you tell +me--whatever you ask, I will do.' + +With a catching breath Eleanor turned and threw her arm round the girl's +neck. + +'Stay,' she breathed--'stay for a few days. Let there be no shock--nothing +to challenge him. Then slip away--don't let him know where--and there is +one woman in the world who will hold you in her inmost heart, who will pray +for you with her secretest, sacredest prayers, as long as you live!' + +The two fell into each other's embrace. Lucy, with the maternal tenderness +that should have been Eleanor's, pressed her lips on the hot brow that +lay upon her breast, murmuring words of promise, of consolation, of +self-reproach, feeling her whole being passing out to Eleanor's in a great +tide of passionate will and pity. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +They were all going down to the midday train for Rome. + +At last the Ambassador--who had been passing through a series of political +and domestic difficulties, culminating in the mutiny of his Neapolitan +cook--had been able to carry out his whim. A luncheon had been arranged for +the young American girl who had taken his fancy. At the head of his house +for the time being was his married daughter, Lady Mary, who had come from +India for the winter to look after her babies and her father. When she +was told to write the notes for this luncheon, she lifted her eyebrows in +good-humoured astonishment. + +'My dear,' said the Ambassador, 'we have been doing our duty for six +months--and I find it pall!' + +He had been entertaining Royalties and Cabinet Ministers in heavy +succession, and his daughter understood. There was an element of +insubordination in her father, which she knew better than to provoke. + +So the notes were sent. + +'Find her some types, my dear,' said the Ambassador;--'and little of +everything.' + +Lady Mary did her best. She invited an Italian Marchesa whom she had heard +her father describe as 'the ablest woman in Rome,' while she herself knew +her as one of the most graceful and popular; a young Lombard landowner +formerly in the Navy, now much connected with the Court, whose blue eyes +moreover were among the famous things of the day; a Danish professor and +savant who was also a rich man, collector of flints and torques, and other +matters of importance to primitive man; an artist or two; an American +Monsignore blessed with some Irish wit and much influence; Reggie Brooklyn, +of course, and his sister; Madame Variani, who would prevent Mr. Manisty +from talking too much nonsense; and a dull English Admiral and his wife, +official guests, whom the Ambassador admitted at the last moment with a +groan, as still representing the cold tyranny of duty invading his snatch +of pleasure. + +'And Mr. Bellasis, papa?' said Lady Mary, pausing, pen in hand, like +Fortitude prepared for all extremities. + +'Heavens, no!' said the Ambassador, hastily. 'I have put him off twice. +This time I should have to read him.' + + * * * * * + +Manisty accordingly was smoking on the balcony of the villa while he waited +for the ladies to appear. Miss Manisty, who was already suffering from the +heat, was not going. The fact did not improve Manisty's temper. Three is no +company--that we all know. + +If Lady Mary, indeed, had only planned this luncheon because she must, +Manisty was going to it under a far more impatient sense of compulsion. It +would be a sickening waste of time. Nothing now had any attraction for him, +nothing seemed to him desirable or important, but that conversation with +Lucy Foster which he was bent on securing, and she apparently was bent on +refusing him. + +His mind was full of the sense of injury. During all the day before, while +he had been making the arrangements for his unhappy sister--during the +journeys backward and forward to Rome--a delicious image had filled all +the background of his thoughts, the image of the white Lucy, helpless and +lovely, lying unconscious in his chair. + +In the evening he could hardly command his eagerness sufficiently to help +his tired little aunt up the steps of the station, and put her safely in +her cab, before hurrying himself up the steep short-cut to the villa. +Should he find her perhaps on the balcony, conscious of his step on the +path below, weak and shaken, yet ready to lift those pure, tender eyes of +hers to his in a shy gratitude? + +He had found no one on the balcony, and the evening of that trying day had +been one of baffling disappointment. Eleanor was in her room, apparently +tired out by the adventures of the night before; and although Miss Foster +appeared at dinner she had withdrawn immediately afterwards, and there had +been no chance for anything but the most perfunctory conversation. + +She had said of course all the proper things, so far as they could be said. +'I trust you have been able to make the arrangements you wished. Mrs. +Burgoyne and I have been so sorry! Poor Miss Manisty must have had a very +tiring day--' + +Bah!--he could not have believed that a girl could speak so formally, so +trivially to a man who within twenty-four hours had saved her from the +attack of a madwoman. For that was what it came to--plainly. Did she +know what had happened? Had her swoon blotted it all out? If so, was he +justified in revealing it. There was an uneasy feeling that it would be +more chivalrous towards her, and kinder towards his sister, if he left the +veil drawn, seeing that she seemed to wish it so--if he said no more about +her fright, her danger, her faint. But Manisty was not accustomed to let +himself be governed by the scruples of men more precise or more timid. He +wished passionately to force a conversation with her more intimate, more +personal than any one had yet allowed him; to break down at a stroke most +if not all of the barriers that separate acquaintance from-- + +From what? He stood, cigarette in hand, staring blindly at the garden, lost +in an intense questioning of himself. + +Suddenly he found himself back again, as it were, among the feelings and +sensations of Lucy Foster's first Sunday at the villa; his repugnance +towards any notion of marriage; his wonder that anybody should suppose that +he had any immediate purpose of marrying Eleanor Burgoyne; the mood, half +lazy, half scornful, in which he had watched Lucy, in her prim Sunday +dress, walking along the avenue. + +What had attracted him to this girl so different from himself, so +unacquainted with his world? + +There was her beauty of course. But he had passed the period when mere +beauty is enough. He was extremely captious and difficult to please where +the ordinary pretty woman was concerned. Her arts left him now quite +unmoved. Of self-conscious vanity and love of effect he had himself enough +and to spare. He could not mend himself; but he was often weary of his own +weaknesses, and detested them in other people. If Lucy Foster had been +merely a beauty, aware of her own value, and bent upon making him aware of +it also, he would probably have been as careless of her now in the eighth +week of their acquaintance as he had been in the first. + +But it was a beauty so innocent, so interfused with suggestion, with an +enchanting thrill of prophecy! It was not only what she said and looked, +but what a man might divine in her--the 'white fire' of a nature most pure, +most passionate, that somehow flashed through her maiden life and aspect, +fighting with the restraints imposed upon it, and constantly transforming +what might otherwise have been a cold seemliness into a soft and delicate +majesty. + +In short, there was a mystery in Lucy, for all her simplicity;--a mystery +of feeling, which piqued and held the fastidious taste of Manisty. It was +this which made her loveliness tell. Her sincerity was so rich and full, +that it became dramatic,--a thing to watch, for the mere joy of the fresh, +unfolding spectacle. She was quite unconscious of this significance of +hers. Rather she was clearly and always conscious of weakness, ignorance, +inexperience. And it was this lingering childishness, compared with the +rarity, the strength, the tenderness of the nature just emerging from +the sheath of first youth, that made her at this moment so exquisitely +attractive to Manisty. + +In the presence of such a creature marriage began to look differently. +Like many men with an aristocratic family tradition, who have lived for a +time as though they despised it, there were in him deep stores of things +inherited and conventional which re-emerged at the fitting moment. Manisty +disliked and had thrown aside the rôle of country gentleman; because, in +truth, he had not money enough to play it magnificently, and he had set +himself against marriage; because no woman had yet appeared to make the +probable boredoms of it worth while. + +But now, as he walked up and down the balcony, plunged in meditation, he +began to think with a new tolerance of the English _cadre_ and the English +life. He remembered all those illustrious or comely husbands and wives, +his forebears, whose portraits hung on the walls of his neglected house. +For the first time it thrilled him to imagine a new mistress of the +house--young, graceful, noble--moving about below them. And even--for the +first time--there gleamed from out the future the dim features of a son, +and he did not recoil. He caressed the whole dream with a new and strange +complacency. What if after all the beaten roads are best? + + To the old paths, my soul! + +Then he paused, in a sudden chill of realisation. His thoughts might rove +as they please. But Lucy Foster had given them little warrant. To all her +growing spell upon him, there was added indeed the charm of difficulty +foreseen, and delighted in. He was perfectly aware that he puzzled and +attracted her. And he was perfectly aware also of his own power with women, +often cynically aware of it. But he could not flatter himself that so far +he had any hold over the senses or the heart of Lucy Foster. He thought +of her eager praise of his Palestine letters--of the Nemi tale. She was +franker, more enthusiastic than an English girl would have been--and at the +same time more remote, infinitely more incalculable! + +His mind filled with a delicious mingling of desire and doubt. He foresaw +the sweet approach of new emotions,--of spells to make 'the colours freshen +on this threadbare world.' All his life he had been an epicurean, in search +of pleasures beyond the ken of the crowd. It was pleasure of this kind that +beckoned to him now,--in the wooing, the conquering, the developing of +Lucy. + +A voice struck on his ear. It was Eleanor calling to Lucy from the salon. + +Ah!--Eleanor? A rush of feeling--half generous, half audacious--came upon +him. He knew that he had given her pain at Nemi. He had been a brute, an +ungrateful brute! Women like Eleanor have very exalted and sensitive ideals +of friendship. He understood that he had pulled down Eleanor's ideal, that +he had wounded her sorely. What did she expect of him? Not any of the +things which the ignorant or vulgar bystander expected of him--that he +was certain. But still her claim had wearied him; and he had brushed it +aside. His sulkiness about the book had been odious, indefensible. And +yet--perhaps from another point of view--it had not been a bad thing for +either of them. It had broken through habits which had become, surely, an +embarrassment to both. + +But now, let him make amends; select fresh ground; and from it rebuild +their friendship. His mind ran forward hazily to some bold confidence or +other, some dramatic appeal to Eleanor for sympathy and help. + +The affection between her and Miss Foster seemed to be growing closer. He +thought of it uncomfortably, and with vague plannings of counter-strokes. +It did not suit him--nay, it presented itself somehow as an obstacle in his +path. For he had a half remorseful, half humorous feeling that Eleanor knew +him too well. + + * * * * * + +'Ah! my dear lady,' said the Ambassador--'how few things in this world one +does to please oneself! This is one of them.' + +Lucy flushed with a young and natural pleasure. She was on the Ambassador's +left, and he had just laid his wrinkled hand for an instant on hers, with a +charming and paternal freedom. + +'Have you enjoyed yourself?--Have you lost your heart to Italy?' said her +host, stooping to her. He was amused to see the transformation in her, the +pretty dress, the developed beauty. + +'I have been in fairy-land,' said Lucy, shyly, opening her blue eyes upon +him. 'Nothing can ever be like it again.' + +'No--because one can never be twenty again,' said the old man, sighing. +'Twenty years hence you will wonder where the magic came from. Never +mind--just now, anyway, the world's your oyster.' + +Then he looked at her a little more closely. And it seemed to him that, +though she was handsomer, she was not so happy. He missed some of that +quiver of youth and enjoyment he had felt in her before, and there were +some very dark lines under the beautiful eyes. What was wrong? Had she met +the man--the appointed one? + +He began to talk to her with a kindness that was at once simple and +stately. + +'We must all have our ups and downs,' he said to her presently. 'Let me +just give you a word of advice. It'll carry you through most of them. +Remember you are very young, and I shall soon be very old.' + +He stopped and surveyed her. His kind humorous eyes blinked through their +blanched lashes. Lucy dropped her fork and looked back at him with smiling +expectancy. + +'_Learn Persian!_' said the old man in an urgent whisper--'and get the +dictionary by heart!' + +Lucy still looked--wondering. + +'I finished it this morning,' said the Ambassador, in her ear. 'To-morrow I +shall begin it again. My daughter hates the sight of the thing. She says I +over-tire myself, and that when old people have done their work they should +take a nap. But I know that if it weren't for my dictionary, I should +have given up long ago. When too many tiresome people dine here in the +evening--or when they worry me from home--I take a column. But generally +half a column's enough--good tough Persian roots, and no nonsense. Oh! of +course I can read Hafiz and Omar Khayyam, and all that kind of thing. But +that's the whipped cream. That don't count. What one wants is something +to set one's teeth in. Latin verse will do. Last year I put half Tommy +Moore into hendecasyllables. But my youngest boy who's at Oxford, said he +wouldn't be responsible for them--so I had to desist. And I suppose the +mathematicians have always something handy. But, one way or another, one +must learn one's dictionary. It comes next to cultivating one's garden. Now +Mr. Manisty--how is he provided in that way?' + +His sudden question took Lucy by surprise, and the quick rise of colour in +the clear cheeks did not escape him. + +'Well--I suppose he has his book?' she said, smiling. + +'Oh! no use at all! He can do what he likes with his book. But you can't +do what you like with the dictionary. You must take it or leave it. That's +what makes it so reposeful. Now if I were asked, I could soon find some +Persian roots for Mr. Manisty--to be taken every day!' + +Lucy glanced across the table. Her eyes fell, and she said in the low full +voice that delighted the old man's ears: + +'I suppose you would send him home?' + +The Ambassador nodded. + +'Tenants, turnips, and Petty Sessions! Persian's pleasanter--but those +would serve.' + +He paused a moment, then said seriously, under the cover of a loud buzz of +talk, 'He's wasting his time, dear lady--there's no doubt of that.' + +Lucy still looked down, but her attitude changed imperceptibly. 'The +subject interests her!' thought the old man. 'It's a thousand pities,' he +resumed, with the caution, masked by the ease, of the diplomat, 'he came +out here in a fit of pique. He saw false--and as far as I can hear, the +book's a mistake. Yet it was not a bad subject. Italy _is_ just now an +object lesson and a warning. But our friend there could not have taken +it more perversely. He has chosen to attack not the violence of the +Church--but the weakness of the State. And meanwhile--if I may be allowed +to say so--his own position is something of an offence. Religion is too big +a pawn for any man's personal game. Don't you agree? Often I feel inclined +to apply to him the saying about Benjamin Constant and liberty--"Grand +homme devant la religion--_s'il y croyait!_" I compare with him a poor old +persecuted priest I know--Manisty knows too.--Ah! well, I hear the book is +very brilliant--and venomous to a degree. It will be read of course. He has +the power to be read. But it is a blunder--if not a crime. And meanwhile +he is throwing away all his chances. I knew his father. I don't like to +see him beating the air. If you have any influence with him'--the old man +smiled--'send him home! Or Mrs. Burgoyne there. He used to listen to her.' + +A great pang gripped Lucy's heart. + +'I should think he always took his own way,' she said, with difficulty. +'Mr. Neal sometimes advises him.' + +The Ambassador's shrewd glance rested upon her for a moment. Then without +another word he turned away. 'Reggie!' he said, addressing young Brooklyn, +'you seem to be ill-treating Madame Variani. Must I interpose?' + +Reggie and his companion, who were in a full tide of 'chaff' and laughter, +turned towards him. + +'Sir,' said Brooklyn, 'Madame Variani is attacking my best friend.' + +'Many of us find that agreeable,' said the Ambassador. + +'Ah! but she makes it so personal,' said Reggie, dallying with his banana. +'She abuses him because he's not married--and calls him a selfish fop. +Now _I'm_ not married--and I object to these wholesale classifications. +Besides, my friend has the most conclusive answer.' + +'I wait for it,' said Madame Variani. + +Reggie delicately unsheathed his banana. + +'Well, some of us once enquired what he meant by it, and he said: "My dear +fellow, I've asked all the beautiful women I know to marry me, and they +won't! Now!--I'd be content with cleanliness and conduct."' + +There was a general laugh, in the midst of which Reggie remarked: + +'I thought it the most touching situation. But Madame Variani has the heart +of a stone.' + +Madame Variani looked down upon him unmoved. She and the charming lad were +fast friends. + +'I will wager you he never asked,' she said quietly. + +Reggie protested. + +'No--he never asked. Englishmen don't ask ladies to marry them any more.' + +'Let Madame Variani prove her point,' said the Ambassador, raising one +white hand above the hubbub, while he hollowed the other round his deaf +ear. 'This is a most interesting discussion.' + +'But it is known to all that Englishmen don't get married any more!' cried +Madame Variani. 'I read in an English novel the other day that it is +spoiling your English society, that the charming girls wait and wait--and +nobody marries them.' + +'Well, there are no English young ladies present,' said the Ambassador, +looking round the table; 'so we may proceed. How do you account for this +phenomenon, Madame?' + +'Oh! you have now too many French cooks in England!' said Madame Variani, +shrugging her plump shoulders. + +'What in the world has that got to do with it?' cried the Ambassador. + +'Your young men are too comfortable,' said the lady, with a calm wave +of the hand towards Reggie Brooklyn. 'That's what I am told. I ask an +English lady, who knows both France and England--and she tells me--your +young men get now such good cooking at their clubs, and at the messes of +their regiments--and their sports amuse them so well, and cost so much +money--they don't want any wives!--they are not interested any more in the +girls. That is the difference between them and the Frenchman. The Frenchman +is still interested in the ladies. After dinner the Frenchman wants to go +and sit with the ladies--the Englishman, no! That is why the French are +still agreeable.' + +The small black eyes of the speaker sparkled, but otherwise she looked +round with challenging serenity on the English and Americans around her. +Madame Variani--stout, clever, middle-aged, and disinterested--had a +position of her own in Rome. She was the correspondent of a leading French +paper; she had many English friends; and she and the Marchesa Fazzoleni, at +the Ambassador's right hand, had just been doing wonders for the relief of +the Italian sick and wounded after the miserable campaign of Adowa. + +'Oh! I hide my diminished head!' said the old Ambassador, taking his white +locks in both hands. 'All I know is, I have sent twenty wedding presents +already this year--and that the state of my banking account is wholly +inconsistent with these theories.' + +'Ah! you are exceptional,' said the lady. 'Only this morning I get an +account of an English gentleman of my acquaintance. He is nearly forty--he +possesses a large estate--his mother and sisters are on their knees to +him to marry--it will all go to a cousin, and the cousin has forged--or +something. And he--not he! He don't care what happens to the estate. He has +only got the one life, he says--and he won't spoil it. And of course it +does your women harm! Women are always dull when the men don't court them!' + +The table laughed. Lucy, looking down it, caught first the face of Eleanor +Burgoyne, and in the distance Manisty's black head and absent smile. The +girl's young mind was captured by a sudden ghastly sense of the human +realities underlying the gay aspects and talk of the luncheon-table. It +seemed to her she still heard that heart-rending voice of Mrs. Burgoyne: +'Oh! I never dreamed it could be the same for him as for me. I didn't ask +much.' + +She dreaded to let herself think. It seemed to her that Mrs. Burgoyne's +suffering must reveal itself to all the world, and the girl had moments of +hot shame, as though for herself. To her eyes, the change in aspect and +expression, visible through all the elegance and care of dress, was already +terrible. + +Oh! why had she come to Rome? What had changed the world so? Some wounded +writhing thing seemed to be struggling in her own breast--while she was +holding it down, trying to thrust it out of sight and hearing. + +She had written to Uncle Ben, and to the Porters. To-morrow she must break +it to Aunt Pattie that she could not go to Vallombrosa, and must hurry back +to England. The girl's pure conscience was tortured already by the thought +of the excuses she would have to invent. And not a word, till Mr. Manisty +was safely started on his way to that function at the Vatican which he was +already grumbling over, which he would certainly shirk if he could. But, +thank Heaven, it was not possible for him to shirk it. + +Again her eyes crossed those of Manisty. He was now discussing the strength +of parties in the recent Roman municipal elections with the American +Monsignore, talking with all his usual vehemence. Nevertheless, through it +all, it seemed to her, that she was watched, that in some continuous and +subtle way he held her in sight. + +How cold and ungrateful he must have thought her the night before! To-day, +at breakfast, and in the train, he had hardly spoken to her. + +Yet--mysteriously--Lucy felt herself threatened, hard pressed. Alice +Manisty's talk in that wild night haunted her ear. Her hand, cold and +tremulous, shook on her knee. Even the voice of the Ambassador startled +her. + +After luncheon the Ambassador's guests fell into groups on the large shady +lawn of the Embassy garden. + +The Ambassador introduced Lucy to the blue-eyed Lombard, Fioravanti, while +he, pricked with a rueful sense of duty, devoted himself for a time to the +wife of the English Admiral who had been Lady Mary's neighbour at luncheon. +The Ambassador examined her through his half-closed eyes, as he meekly +offered to escort her indoors to see his pictures. She was an elegant and +fashionable woman with very white and regular false teeth. Her looks were +conventional and mild. In reality the Ambassador knew her to be a Tartar. +He walked languidly beside her; his hands were lightly crossed before him; +his white head drooped under the old wideawake that he was accustomed to +wear in the garden. + +Meanwhile the gallant and be-whiskered Admiral would have liked to secure +Manisty's attention. To get hold of a politician, or something near a +politician, and explain to them a new method of fusing metals in which he +believed, represented for him the main object of all social functions. + +But Manisty peremptorily shook him off. Eleanor, the American Monsignore, +and Reggie Brooklyn were strolling near. He retreated upon them. Eleanor +addressed some question to him, but he scarcely answered her. He seemed to +be in a brown study, and walked on beside her in silence. + +Reggie fell back a few paces, and watched them. + +'What a bear he can be when he chooses!' the boy said to himself +indignantly. 'And how depressed Eleanor looks! Some fresh worry I +suppose--and all his fault. Now look at that!' + +For another group--Lucy, her new acquaintance the Count, and Madame +Variani--had crossed the path of the first. And Manisty had left Eleanor's +side to approach Miss Foster. All trace of abstraction was gone. He looked +ill at ease, and yet excited; his eyes were fixed upon the girl. He stooped +towards her, speaking in a low voice. + +'There's something up'--thought Brooklyn. 'And if that girl's any hand in +it she ought to be cut! I thought she was a nice girl.' + +His blue eyes stared fiercely at the little scene. Since the day at Nemi, +the boy had understood half at least of the situation. He had perceived +then that Eleanor was miserably unhappy. No doubt Manisty was disappointing +and tormenting her. What else could she expect? + +But really--that she should be forsaken and neglected for this chit of a +girl--this interloping American--it was too much! Reggie's wrath glowed +within him. + +Meanwhile Manisty addressed Lucy. + +'I have something I very much wish to say to you. There is a seat by the +fountain, quite in shade. Will you try it?' + +She glanced hurriedly at her companions. + +'Thank you--I think we were going to look at the rose-walk.' + +Manisty gave an angry laugh, said something inaudible, and walked +impetuously away; only to be captured however by the Danish Professor, +Doctor Jensen, who took no account of bad manners in an Englishman, holding +them as natural as daylight. The flaxen-haired savant therefore was soon +happily engaged in pouring out upon his impatient companion the whole of +the latest _Boletino_ of the Accademia. + +Meanwhile Lucy, seeing nothing, it is to be feared, of the beauty of the +Embassy garden, followed her two companions and soon found herself sitting +with them on a stone seat beneath a spreading ilex. In front was a tangled +mass of roses; beyond, an old bit of wall with Roman foundations; and in +the hot blue sky above the wall, between two black cypresses, a slender +brown Campanile--furthest of all a glimpse of Sabine mountains. The air was +heavy with the scent of the roses, with the heat that announced the coming +June, with that indefinable meaning and magic, which is Rome. + +Lucy drooped and was silent. The young Count Fioravanti however was not the +person either to divine oppression in another or to feel it for himself. +He sat with his hat on the back of his head, smoking and twisting his +cane, displaying to the fullest advantage those china-blue eyes, under +the blackest of curls, which made him so popular in Rome. His irregular +and most animated face was full of talent and wilfulness. He liked Madame +Variani, and thought the American girl handsome. But it mattered very +little to him with whom he talked; he could have chattered to a tree-stump. +He was over-flowing with the mere interest and jollity of life. + +'Have you known Mr. Manisty long?' he asked of Lucy, while his gay look +followed the Professor and his captive. + +'I have been staying with them for six weeks at Marinata.' + +'What--to finish the book?' he said, laughing. + +'Mr. Manisty hoped to finish it.' + +The Count laughed again, more loudly and good-humouredly, and shook his +head. + +'Oh! he won't finish it. It's a folly! And I know, for I made him read some +of it to me and my sister. No; it is a strange case--is Manisty's. Most +Englishmen have two sides to their brain--while we Latins have only one. +But Manisty is like a Latin--he has only one. He takes a whim, and then +he must cut and carve the world to it. But the world is tough--_et ça ne +marche pas_! We can't go to ruin to please him. Italy is not falling to +pieces--not at all. This war has been a horror--but we shall get through. +And there will be no revolution. The people in the streets won't cheer the +King and Queen for a little bit--but next year, you will see, the House +of Savoy will be there all the same. And he thinks that our priests will +destroy us. Nothing of the sort. We can manage our priests!' + +Madame Variani made a gesture of dissent. Her heavy, handsome face was +turned upon him rather sleepily, as though the heat oppressed her. But her +slight frown betrayed, to anyone who knew her, alert attention. + +'We can, I say!' cried the Count, striking his knee. 'Besides, the battle +is not ranged as Manisty sees it. There are priests, and priests. Up in +my part of the world the older priests are all right. We landowners who +go with the monarchy can get on with them perfectly. Our old Bishop is a +dear: but it is the young priests, fresh from the seminaries--I grant you, +they're a nuisance! They swarm over us like locusts, ready for any bit of +mischief against the Government. But the Government will win!--Italy will +win! Manisty first of all takes the thing too tragically. He doesn't see +the farce in it. We do. We Italians understand each other. Why, the Vatican +raves and scolds--and all the while, as the Prefect of Police told me only +the other day, there is a whole code of signals ready between the police +headquarters and a certain window of the Vatican; so that directly they +want help against the populace they can call us in. And after that function +the other day--where I saw you, Mademoiselle'--he bowed to Lucy--'one of +the first things the Vatican did was to send their thanks to the Government +for having protected and policed them so well. No; Manisty is in the +clouds.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'We are half acting all the time. The +Clericals must have their politics, like other people--only they call it +religion.' + +'But your poor starved peasants--and your corruption--and your war?' said +Lucy. + +She spoke with energy, frowning a little as though something had nettled +her. 'She is like a beautiful nun,' thought the young man, looking with +admiration at the austere yet charming face. + +'Oh! we shall pull through,' he said, coolly. 'The war was an +abomination--a misery. But we shall learn from it. It will no more ruin us +than a winter storm can ruin the seed in the ground. Manisty is like all +the other clever foreigners who write dirges about us--they don't feel the +life-blood pulsing through the veins as we landowners do.' He flung out his +clasped hand in a dramatic gesture. 'Come and live with us for a summer on +one of our big farms near Mantua--and you shall see. My land brings me just +double what it brought my father!--and our contadini are twice as well off. +There! that's in our starving Italy--in the north of course, mind you!' + +He threw himself back, smoking furiously. + +'Optimist!' said a woman's voice. + +They looked round to see the Marchesa Fazzoleni upon them. She stood +smiling, cigarette in hand, a tall woman, still young--though she was the +mother of five robust children. Her closely-fitting black dress somehow +resembled a riding-habit; her grey gauntletted gloves drawn to the elbow, +her Amazon's hat with its plume, the alertness and grace of the whole +attitude, the brilliancy of her clear black eye--all these carried with +them the same suggestions of open-air life, of health of body and mind--of +a joyous, noble, and powerful personality. + +'Look well at her,' the Ambassador had said to Lucy as they stepped into +the garden after luncheon. 'She is one of the mothers of the new Italy. +She is doing things here--things for the future--that in England it would +take twenty women to do. She has all the practical sense of the north; and +all the subtlety of the south. She is one of the people who make me feel +that Italy and England have somehow mysterious affinities that will work +themselves out in history. It seems to me that I could understand all her +thoughts--and she mine--if it were worth her while. She is a modern of the +moderns; and yet there is in her some of the oldest stuff in the world. She +belongs, it is true, to a nation in the making--but that nation, in its +earlier forms, has already carried the whole weight of European history!' + +And Lucy, looking up to the warm, kind face, felt vaguely comforted and +calmed by its mere presence. She made room for the Marchesa beside her. + +But the Marchesa declared that she must go home and drag one of her +boys, who was studying for an examination, out for exercise. 'Oh! these +examinations--they are _horrors_!' she said, throwing up her hands. +'No--these poor boys!--and they have no games like the English boys. But +you were speaking about the war--about our poor Italy?' + +She paused. She laid her hand on Lucy's shoulder and looked down into the +girl's face. Her eyes became for a moment veiled and misty, as though +ghosts passed before them--the grisly calamities and slaughters of the war. +Then they cleared and sparkled. + +'I tell you, Mademoiselle,' she said slowly, in her difficult picturesque +English, 'that what Italy has done in forty years is colossal!--not to be +believed! You have taken a hundred years--you!--to make a nation, and you +have had a big civil war. Forty years--not quite!--since Cavour died. And +all that time Italy has been like that cauldron--you remember?--into which +they threw the members of that old man who was to become young. There has +been a bubbling, and a fermenting! And the scum has come up--and up. And it +comes up still--and the brewing goes on. But in the end the young strong +nation will step forth. Now Mr. Manisty--oh! I like Mr. Manisty very +well!--but he sees only the ugly gases and the tumult of the cauldron. He +has no idea--' + +'Oh! Manisty,' said the young Count, flinging away his cigarette; 'he is a +_poseur_ of course. His Italian friends don't mind. He has his English fish +to fry. _Sans cela_--!' + +He bent forward, staring at Lucy in a boyish absent-mindedness which was no +discourtesy, while his hat slipped further down the back of his curly head. +His attitude was all careless good-humour; yet one might have felt a touch +of southern passion not far off. + +'No; his Italian friends don't mind,' said Madame Variani. 'But his English +friends should look after him. Everybody should be angry wid som-thin--it +is good for the character; but Mr. Manisty is angry wid too many things. +That is stupid--that is a waste of time.' + +'His book is a blunder,' said Fioravanti with decision. 'By the time it is +out, it will look absurd. He says we have become atheists, because we don't +let the priests have it all their own way. Bah! we understand these gentry +better than he does. Why! my father was all for the advance on Rome--he was +a member of the first Government after 1870--he wouldn't give way to the +Clericals an inch in what he thought was for the good of the country. But +he was the most religious man I ever knew. He never missed any of the old +observances in which he had been brought up. He taught us the same. Every +Sunday after Mass he read the Gospel for the day to us in Italian, and +explained it. And when he was dying he sent for his old parish priest--who +used to denounce him from the pulpit and loved him all the same! "And don't +make any secret of it!" he said to me. "Bring him in openly--let all the +world see. _Non crubesco evangelium!_"' + +The young man stopped--reddened and a little abashed by his own eloquence. + +But Madame Variani murmured--still with the same aspect of a shrewd and +sleepy cat basking in the sun-- + +'It is the same with all you Anglo-Saxons. The North will never understand +the South--never! You can't understand our _à peu près_. You think +Catholicism is a tyranny--and we must either let the priests oppress us, or +throw everything overboard. But it is nothing of the kind. We take what we +want of it, and leave the rest. But you!--if you come over to us, that is +another matter! You have to swallow it all. You must begin even with Adam +and Eve!' + +'Ah! but what I can't understand,' said Fioravanti, 'is how Mrs. Burgoyne +allowed it. She ought to have given the book another direction--and she +could. She is an extremely clever woman! She knows that caricature is not +argument.' + +'But what has happened to Mrs. Burgoyne?' said the Marchesa to Lucy, +throwing up her hands, 'Such a change! I was so distressed--' + +'You think she looks ill?' said Lucy quickly. + +Her troubled eyes sought those kind ones looking down upon her almost in +appeal. Instinctively the younger woman, far from home and conscious of a +hidden agony of feeling, threw herself upon the exquisite maternity that +breathed from the elder. 'Oh! if I could tell you!--if you could advise +me!' was the girl's unspoken cry. + +'She looks terribly ill--to me,' said the Marchesa, gravely. 'And the +winter had done her so much good. We all loved her here. It is deplorable. +Perhaps the hill climate has been too cold for her, Mademoiselle?' + + * * * * * + +Lucy walked hurriedly back to the lawn to rejoin her companions. The flood +of misery within made movement the only relief. Some instinct of her own +came to the aid of the Marchesa's words, helped them to sting all the more +deeply. She felt herself a kind of murderer. + +Suddenly as she issued blindly from the tangle of the rose-garden she came +upon Eleanor Burgoyne talking gaily, surrounded by a little knot of people, +mostly older men, who had found her to-day, as always, one of the most +charming and distinguished of companions. + +Lucy approached her impetuously. + +Oh! how white and stricken an aspect--through what a dark eclipse of pain +the eyes looked out! + +'Ought we not to be going?' Lucy whispered in her ear. 'I am sure you are +tired.' + +Eleanor rose. She took the girl's hand in a clinging grasp, while she +turned smiling to her neighbour the Dane: + +'We must be moving to the Villa Borghese--some friends will be meeting us +there. Our train does not go for a long, long while.' + +'Does any Roman train ever go?' said Doctor Jensen, stroking his +straw-coloured beard. 'But why leave us, Madame? Is not one garden as good +as another? What spell can we invent to chain you here?' + +He bowed low, smiling fatuously, with his hand on his heart. He was one of +the most learned men in the world. But about that he cared nothing. The +one reputation he desired was that of a 'sad dog'--a terrible man with the +ladies. That was the paradox of his existence. + +Eleanor laughed mechanically; then she turned to Lucy. + +'Come!' she said in the girl's ear, and as they walked away she half closed +her eyes against the sun, and Lucy thought she heard a gasp of fatigue. But +she spoke lightly. + +'Dear, foolish, old man! he was telling me how he had gone back to the +Hermitage Library at St. Petersburg the other day to read, after thirty +years. And there in a book that had not been taken down since he had used +it last he found a leaf of paper and some pencil words scribbled on it by +him when he was a youth--"my own darling." "And if I only knew now _vich_ +darling!" he said, looking at me and slapping his knee. "Vich darling"!' +Eleanor repeated, laughing extravagantly. Then suddenly she wavered. Lucy +instinctively caught her by the arm, and Eleanor lent heavily upon her. + +'Dear Mrs. Burgoyne--you are not well,' cried the girl, terrified. 'Let us +go to a hotel where you can rest till the train goes--or to some friend.' + +Eleanor's face set in the effort to control herself--she drew her hand +across her eyes. 'No, no, I am well,' she said, hurriedly. 'It is the +sun--and I could not eat at luncheon. The Ambassador's new cook did not +tempt me. And besides'--she suddenly threw a look at Lucy before which Lucy +shrank--'I am out of love with myself. There is one hour yesterday which I +wish to cancel--to take back. I give up everything--everything.' + +They were advancing across a wide lawn. The Ambassador and Mrs. Swetenham +were coming to meet them. The Ambassador, weary of his companion, was +looking with pleasure at the two approaching figures, at the sweep of +Eleanor's white dress upon the grass, and the frame made by her black lace +parasol for the delicacy of her head and neck. + +Meanwhile Eleanor and Lucy saw only each other. The girl coloured proudly. +She drew herself erect. + +'You cannot give up--what would not be taken--what is not desired,' she +said fiercely. Then, in another voice: 'But please, please let me take care +of you! Don't let us go to the Villa Borghese!' + +She felt her hand pressed passionately, then dropped. + +'I am all right,' said Eleanor, almost in her usual voice. '_Eccellenza_! +we must bid you good-bye--have you seen our gentleman?' + +'_Ecco_,' said the Ambassador, pointing to Manisty, who, in company with +the American Monsignore, was now approaching them. 'Let him take you out of +the sun at once--you look as though it were too much for you.' + +Manisty, however, came up slowly, in talk with his companion. The frowning +impatience of his aspect attracted the attention of the group round the +Ambassador. As he reached them, he said to the priest beside him-- + +'You know that he has withdrawn his recantation?' + +'Ah! yes'--said the Monsignore, raising his eyebrows, 'poor fellow!'-- + +The mingled indifference and compassion of the tone made the words bite. +Manisty flushed. + +'I hear he was promised consideration,' he said quickly. + +'Then he got it,' was the priest's smiling reply. + +'He was told that his letter was not for publication. Next morning it +appeared in the _Osservatore Romano_.' + +'Oh no!--impossible! Your facts are incorrect.' + +The Monsignore laughed, in unperturbed good humour. But after the laugh, +the face reappeared, hard and a little menacing, like a rock that has been +masked by a wave. He watched Manisty for a moment silently. + +'Where is he?' said Manisty abruptly. + +'Are you talking of Father Benecke'?' said the Ambassador. 'I heard of him +yesterday. He has gone into the country, but he gave me no address. He +wished to be undisturbed.' + +'A wise resolve'--said the Monsignore, holding out his hand. 'Your +Excellency must excuse me. I have an audience of his Holiness at three +o'clock.' + +He made his farewells to the ladies with Irish effusion, and departed. The +Ambassador looked curiously at Manisty. Then he fell back with Lucy. + +'It will be a column to-night,' he said with depression. 'Why didn't +you stand by me? I showed Mrs. Swetenham my pictures--my beauties--my +ewe-lambs--that I have been gathering for twenty years--that the National +Gallery shall have, when I'm gone, if it behaves itself. And she asked me +if they were originals, and took my Luini for a Raphael! Yes! it will be +a column,' said the Ambassador pensively. Then, with a brisk change, he +looked up and took the hand that Lucy offered him. + +'Good-bye--good-bye! You won't forget my prescription?--nor me?' said the +old man, smiling and patting her hand kindly. 'And remember!'--he bent +towards her, dropping his voice with an air in which authority and +sweetness mingled--'send Mr. Manisty home!' + +He felt the sudden start in the girl's hand before he dropped it. Then he +turned to Manisty himself. + +'Ah! Manisty, here you are. Your ladies want to leave us.' + +Manisty made his farewells, and carried Lucy off. But as they walked +towards the house he said not a word, and Lucy, venturing a look at him, +saw the storm on his brow, the stiffness of the lips. + +'We are going to the Villa Borghese, are we not?' she said timidly--'if +Mrs. Burgoyne ought to go?' + +'We must go somewhere, I suppose,' he said, stalking on before her. 'We +can't sit in the street.' + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +The party returning to Marinata had two hours to spend in the gallery and +garden of the Villa Borghese. Of the pictures and statues of the palace, of +the green undulations, the stone pines, the _tempietti_ of the garden, Lucy +afterwards had no recollection. All that she remembered was flight on her +part, pursuit on Manisty's, and finally a man triumphant and a girl brought +to bay. + +It was in a shady corner of the vast garden, where hedges of some fragrant +yellow shrub shut in the basin of a fountain, surrounded by a ring of +languid nymphs, that Lucy at last found herself face to face with Manisty, +and knew that she must submit. + +'I do not understand how I have missed Mrs. Burgoyne,' she said hastily, +looking round for her companion Mrs. Elliot, who had just left her to +overtake her brother and go home; while Lucy was to meet Eleanor and Mr. +Neal at this rendezvous. + +Manisty looked at her with his most sparkling, most determined air. + +'You have missed her--because I have misled her.' Then, as Lucy drew back, +he hurried on,--'I cannot understand, Miss Foster, why it is that you +have constantly refused all yesterday evening--all to-day--to give me the +opportunity I desired! But I, too, have a will,--and it has been roused! + +'I don't understand,' said Lucy, growing white. + +'Let me explain, then,' said Manisty, coolly. 'Miss Foster, two nights ago +you were attacked,--in danger--under my roof, in my care. As your host, you +owe it to me, to let me account and apologise for such things--if I can. +But you avoid me. You give me no chance of telling you what I had done +to protect you--of expressing my infinite sorrow and regret. I can only +imagine that you resent our negligence too deeply even to speak of it--that +you cannot forgive us!' + +'Forgive!' cried Lucy, fairly taken aback. 'What could I have to forgive, +Mr. Manisty?--what can you mean?' + +'Explain to me then,' said he, unflinching, 'why you have never had a kind +word for me, or a kind look, since this happened. Please sit down, Miss +Foster'--he pointed to a marble bench close beside her--'I will stand here. +The others are far away. Ten minutes you owe me--ten minutes I claim.' + +Lucy sat down, struggling to maintain her dignity and presence of mind. + +'I am afraid I have given you very wrong ideas of me,' she said, throwing +him a timid smile. 'I of course have nothing to forgive anybody--far, far +the contrary. I know that you took all possible pains that no harm should +happen to me. And through you--no harm did happen to me.' + +She turned away her head, speaking with difficulty. To both that moment +of frenzied struggle at the dining-room door was almost too horrible for +remembrance. And through both minds there swept once more the thrill of her +call to him--of his rush to her aid. + +'You knew'--he said eagerly, coming closer. + +'I knew--I was in danger--that but for you--perhaps--your poor sister--' + +'Oh! don't speak of it,' he said, shuddering. + +And leaning over the edge of one of the nymphs' pedestals, beside her, he +stared silently into the cool green water. + +'There,' said Lucy tremulously, 'you don't want to speak of it. And that +was my feeling. Why should we speak of it any more? It must be such a +horrible grief to you. And I can't do anything to help you and Miss +Manisty. It would be so different if I could.' + +'You can,--you must--let me tell you what I had done for your safety that +night,' he said firmly, interrupting her. 'I had made such arrangements +with Dalgetty--who is a strong woman physically--I had so imprisoned my +poor sister, that I could not imagine any harm coming to you or any other +of our party. When my aunt said to me that night before she went to bed +that she was afraid your door was unsafe, I laughed--"That doesn't matter!" +I said to her. I felt quite confident. I sat up all night,--but I was not +anxious,--and I suppose it was that which at last betrayed me into sleep. +Of course, the fatal thing was that we none of us knew of the chloroform +she had hidden away.' + +Lucy fidgetted in distress. + +'Please--please--don't talk as though anyone were to blame--as though there +were anything to make excuses for--'. + +'How should there not be? You were disturbed--attacked--frightened. You +might--' + +He drew in his breath. Then he bent over her. + +'Tell me,' he said in a low voice, 'did she attack you in your room?' + +Lucy hesitated. 'Why will you talk about it?' she said despairingly. + +'I have a right to know.' + +His urgent imperious look left her no choice. She felt his will, and +yielded. In very simple words, faltering yet restrained, she told the whole +story. Manisty followed every word with breathless attention. + +'My God!' he said, when she paused, 'my God!' And he hid his eyes with his +hand a moment. Then-- + +'You knew she had a weapon?' he said. + +'I supposed so,' she said quietly. 'All the time she was in my room, she +kept her poor hand closed on something.' + +'Her poor hand!'--the little phrase seemed to Manisty extraordinarily +touching. There was a moment's pause--then he broke out: + +'Upon my word, this has been a fine ending to the whole business. Miss +Foster, when you came out to stay with us, you imagined, I suppose, that +you were coming to stay with friends? You didn't know much of us; but after +the kindness my aunt and I had experienced from your friends and kinsfolk +in Boston--to put it in the crudest way--you might have expected at least +that we should welcome you warmly--do all we could for you--take you +everywhere--show you everything?' + +Lucy coloured--then laughed. + +'I don't know in the least what you mean, Mr. Manisty! I knew you would be +kind to me; and of course--of course--you have been!' + +She looked in distress first at the little path leading from the fountain, +by which he barred her exit, and then at him. She seemed to implore, either +that he would let her go, or that he would talk of something else. + +'Not I,' he said with decision. 'I admit that since Alice appeared on the +scene you have been my chief anxiety. But before that, I treated you, Miss +Foster, with a discourtesy, a forgetfulness, that you can't, that you +oughtn't to forget; I made no plans for your amusement; I gave you none of +my time. On your first visit to Rome, I let you mope away day after day +in that stifling garden, without taking a single thought for you. I even +grudged it when Mrs. Burgoyne looked after you. To be quite, quite frank, +I grudged your coming to us at all. Yet I was your host--you were in my +care--I had invited you. If there ever was an ungentlemanly boor, it was I. +There! Miss Foster, there is my confession. Can you forgive it? Will you +give me another chance?' + +He stood over her, his broad chest heaving with an agitation that, do what +she would, communicated itself to her. She could not help it. She put out +her hand, with a sweet look, half smiling, half appealing--and he took it. +Then, as she hurriedly withdrew it, she repeated: + +'There is nothing--nothing--to forgive. You have _all_ been good to me. And +as for Mrs. Burgoyne and Aunt Pattie, they have been just angels!' + +Manisty laughed. + +'I don't grudge them their wings. But I should like to grow a pair of my +own. You have a fortnight more with us--isn't it so?' Lucy started and +looked down. 'Well, in a fortnight, Miss Foster, I could yet redeem myself; +I could make your visit really worth while. It is hot, but we could get +round the heat. I have many opportunities here--friends who have the keys +of things not generally seen. Trust yourself to me. Take me for a guide, a +professor, a courier! At last I will give you a good time!' + +He smiled upon her eagerly, impetuously. It was like him, this plan +for mending all past errors in a moment, for a summary and energetic +repentance. She could hardly help laughing; yet far within her heart made a +leap towards him--beaten back at once by its own sad knowledge. + +She turned away from him--away from his handsome face, and that touch in +him of the 'imperishable child,' which moved and pleased her so. Playing +with some flowers on her lap, she said shyly-- + +'Shall I tell you what you ought to do with this fortnight?' + +'Tell me,' said Manisty, stooping towards her. It was well for her that +she could not see his expression, as he took in with covetous delight her +maidenly simpleness and sweetness. + +'Oughtn't you--to finish the book? You could--couldn't you? And Mrs. +Burgoyne has been so disappointed. It makes one sad to see her.' + +Her words gave her courage. She looked at him again with a grave, friendly +air. + +Manisty drew himself suddenly erect. After a pause, he said in another +voice: 'I thought I had explained to you before that the book and I had +reached a _cul de sac_--that I no longer saw my way with it.' + +Lucy thought of the criticisms upon it she had heard at the Embassy, and +was uncomfortably silent. + +'Miss Foster!' said Manisty suddenly, with determination. + +Lucy's heart stood still. + +'I believe I see the thought in your mind. Dismiss it! There have been +rumours in Rome--in which even perhaps my aunt has believed. They are +unjust--both to Eleanor and to me. She would be the first to tell you so.' + +'Of course,' said Lucy hurriedly, 'of course,'--and then did not know what +to say, torn as she was between her Puritan dread of falsehood, her natural +woman's terror of betraying Eleanor, and her burning consciousness of the +man and the personality beside her. + +'No!--you still doubt. You have heard some gossip and you believe it.' + +He threw away the cigarette with which he had been playing, and came to sit +down on the curving marble bench beside her. + +'I think you must listen to me,' he said, with a quiet and manly force that +became him. 'The friendship between my cousin and me has been unusual, +I know. It has been of a kind that French people, rather than English, +understand; because for French people literature and conversation are +serious matters, not trifles that don't count, as they are with us. She has +been all sweetness and kindness to me, and I suppose that she, like a good +many other people, has found me an unsatisfactory and disappointing person +to work with!' + +'She is so ill and tired,' said Lucy, in a low voice. + +'Is she?' said Manisty, concerned. 'But she never can stand heat. She +will pick up when she gets to England.--But now suppose we grant all my +enormities. Then please tell me what I am to do? How am I to appease +Eleanor?--and either transform the book, to satisfy Neal,--or else bury it +decently? Beastly thing!--as if it were worth one tithe of the trouble it +has cost her and me. Yet there are some uncommon good things in it too!' he +said, with a change of tone. + +'Well, if you did bury it,' said Lucy, half laughing, yet trying to +pluck up courage to obey the Ambassador,--'what would you do? Go back to +England?--and--and to your property?' + +'What! has that dear old man been talking to you?' he said with amusement. +'I thought as much. He has snubbed my views and me two or three times +lately. I don't mind. He is one of the privileged. So the Ambassador thinks +I should go home?' + +He threw one arm over the back of the seat, and threw her a brilliant +hectoring look which led her on. + +'Don't people in England think so too?' + +'Yes--some of them,' he said considering. 'I have been bombarded with +letters lately as to politics, and the situation, and a possible new +constituency. A candid friend says to me this morning, "Hang the +Italians!--what do you know about them,--and what do they matter? English +people can only be frightened by their own bogies. Come home, for God's +sake! There's a glorious fight coming, and if you're not in it, you'll be a +precious fool."' + +'I daren't be as candid as that!' said Lucy, her face quivering with +suppressed fun. + +Their eyes met in a common flash of laughter. Then Manisty fell heavily +back against the seat. + +'What have I got to go home for?' he said abruptly, his countenance +darkening. + +Lucy's aspect changed too, instantly. She waited. + +Manisty's lower jaw dropped a little. A sombre bitterness veiled the eyes +fixed upon the distant vistas of the garden. + +'I hate my old house,' he said slowly. 'Its memories are intolerable. +My father was a very eminent person, and had many friends. His children +saw nothing of him, and had not much reason to love him. My mother died +there--of an illness it is appalling to think of. No, no--not Alice's +illness!--not that. And now, Alice,--I should see her ghost at every +corner!' + +Lucy watched him with fascination. Every note of the singular voice, every +movement of the picturesque ungainly form, already spoke to her, poor +child, with a significance that bit these passing moments into memory, as +an etcher's acid bites upon his plate. + +'Oh! she will recover!' she said, softly, leaning towards him +unconsciously. + +'No!--she will never recover,--never! And if she did, she and I have long +ceased to be companions and friends. No, Miss Foster, there is nothing +to call me home,--except politics. I may set up a lodging in London, of +course. But as for playing the country squire--' He laughed, and shrugged +his shoulders. 'No,--I shall let the place as soon as I can. Anyway, I +shall never return to it--alone!' + +He turned upon her suddenly. The tone in which the last word was spoken, +the steady ardent look with which it was accompanied, thrilled the hot May +air. + +A sickening sense of peril, of swift intolerable remorse, rushed upon Lucy. +It gave her strength. + +She changed her position, and spoke with perfect self-possession, gathering +up her parasol and gloves. + +'We really must find the others, Mr. Manisty. They will wonder what has +become of us.' + +She rose as she spoke. Manisty drew a long breath as he still sat +observing her. Her light, cool dignity showed him that he was either not +understood--or too well understood. In either case he was checked. He +took back his move; not without a secret pleasure that she was not too +yielding--too much of the _ingénue_! + +'We shall soon discover them,' he said carelessly, relighting his +cigarette. 'By the way, I saw what company you were in after lunch! You +didn't hear any good of the book or me--there!' + +'I liked them all,' she said with spirit. 'They love their country, and +they believe in her. Where, Mr. Manisty, did you leave Mr. Neal and Mrs. +Burgoyne?' + +'I will show you,' he said, unwillingly. 'They are in a part of the garden +you don't know.' + +Her eye was bright, a little hostile. She moved resolutely forward, and +Manisty followed her. Both were conscious of a hidden amazement. But a +minute, since he had spoken that word, looked that look? How strange a +thing is human life! He would not let himself think,--talked of he hardly +knew what. + +'They love their country, you say? Well, I grant you that particular group +has pure hands, and isn't plundering their country's vitals like the +rest--as far as I know. A set of amiable dreamers, however, they appear to +me; fiddling at small reforms, while the foundations are sinking from under +them. However, you liked them,--that's enough. Now then, when and how shall +we begin our campaign? Where will you go?--what will you see? The crypt of +St. Peter's?--that wants a Cardinal's order. The Villa Albani?--closed to +the public since the Government laid hands on the Borghese pictures,--but +it shall open to you. The great function at the Austrian Embassy next week +with all the Cardinals? Give me your orders,--it will be hard if I can't +compass them!' + +But she was silent, and he saw that she still hurried, that her look +sought the distance, that her cheek was flushed. Why? What new thing had +he said to press--to disturb her? A spark of emotion passed through him. +He approached her gently, persuasively, as one might approach a sweet, +resisting child-- + +You'll come? You'll let me make amends?' + +'I thought,' said Lucy, uncertainly, 'that you were going home directly--at +the beginning of June. Oh! please, Mr. Manisty, will you look? Is that Mrs. +Burgoyne?' + +Manisty frowned. + +'They are not in that direction.--As to my going home, Miss Foster, I have +no engagements that I cannot break.' + +The wounded feeling in the voice was unmistakable. It hurt her ear. + +'I should love to see all those things,' she said vaguely, still trying, as +it seemed to him, to outstrip him, to search the figures in the distance; +'but--but--plans are so difficult. Oh! that is--that is Mr. Neal!' + +She began to run towards the approaching figure, and presently Manisty +could hear her asking breathlessly for Mrs. Burgoyne. + +Manisty stood still. Then as they approached him, he said-- + +'Neal!--well met! Will you take these ladies to the station, or, at any +rate, put them in their cab? It is time for their train. I dine in Rome.' + +He raised his hat formally to Lucy, turned, and went his way. + + * * * * * + +It was night at the villa. + +Eleanor was in her room, the western room overlooking the olive-ground +and the Campagna, which Lucy had occupied for a short time on her first +arrival. + +It was about half an hour since Eleanor had heard Manisty's cab arrive, and +his voice in the library giving his orders to Alfredo. She and Lucy Foster +and Aunt Pattie had already dispersed to their rooms. It was strange that +he should have dined in town. It had been expressly arranged on their way +to Rome that he should bring them back. + +Eleanor was sitting in a low chair beside a table that carried a paraffin +lamp. At her back was the window, which was open save for the sun-shutter +outside, and the curtains, both of which had been drawn close. A manuscript +diary lay on Eleanor's lap, and she was listlessly turning it over, with +eyes that saw nothing, and hands that hardly knew what they touched. Her +head, with its aureole of loosened hair, was thrown back against the chair, +and the crude lamplight revealed each sharpened feature with a merciless +plainness. She was a woman no longer young--ill--and alone. + +By the help of the entries before her she had been living the winter over +again. + +How near and vivid it was,--how incredibly, tangibly near!--and yet as dead +as the Cæsars on the Palatine. + +For instance:-- + +'November 22. To-day we worked well. Three hours this morning--nearly three +this afternoon. The survey of the financial history since 1870 is nearly +finished. I could not have held out so long, but for his eagerness, for my +head ached, and last night it seemed to me that Rome was all bells, and +that the clocks never ceased striking. + +'But how his eagerness carries one through, and his frank and generous +recognition of all that one does for him! Sometimes I copy and arrange; +sometimes he dictates; sometimes I just let him talk till he has got a page +or section into shape. Even in this handling of finance, you feel the flame +that makes life with him so exciting. It is absurd to say, as his enemies +do, that he has no steadiness of purpose. I have seen him go through the +most tremendous drudgery the last few weeks,--and then throw it all into +shape with the most astonishing ease and rapidity. And he is delightful to +work with. He weighs all I say. But no false politeness! If he doesn't like +it, he frowns and bites his lip, and tears me to pieces. But very often I +prevail, and no one can yield with a better grace. People here talk of his +vanity. I don't deny it--perhaps I think it part of his charm. + +'He thinks too much of me, far, far too much. + +'December 16. A luncheon at the Marchesa's. The Fioravantis were there, and +some Liberal Catholics. Manisty was attacked on all sides. At first he was +silent and rather sulky--it is not always easy to draw him. Then he fired +up,--and it was wonderful how he met them all in an Italian almost as quick +as their own. I think they were amazed: certainly I was. + +'Of course I sometimes wish that it were conviction with him and not +policy. My heart aches, hungers sometimes--for another note. If instead +of this praise from outside, this cool praise of religion as the great +policeman of the world, if only his voice, his dear voice, spoke for one +moment the language of faith!--all barren tension and grief and doubt would +be gone then for me, at a breath. But it never, never does. And I remind +myself--painfully--that his argument holds whether the arguer believe +or no. "Somehow or other you must get conduct out of the masses or +society goes to pieces. But you can only do this through religion. What +folly, then, for nations like Italy and France to quarrel with the only +organisation which can ever get conduct out of the ignorant!--in the way +they understand!"--It is all so true. I know it by heart--there is no +answering it. But if instead he once said to me--"Eleanor, there is a +God!--and it is He that has brought us together in this life and work,--He +that will comfort you, and open new ways for me"--Ah then--then!-- + + * * * * * + +'Christmas Day. We went last night to the midnight mass at Santa Maria +Maggiore. Edward is always incalculable at these functions; sometimes bored +to death, sometimes all enthusiasm and sympathy. Last night the crowd +jarred him, and I wished we had not come. But as we walked home through the +moonlit streets, full of people hurrying in and out of the churches, of +the pifferari with their cloaks and pipes--black and white nuns--brown +monks--lines of scarlet seminarists, and the like, he suddenly broke out +with the prayer of the First Christmas Mass--I must give it in English, for +I have forgotten the Latin: + +'"_O God, who didst cause this most holy Night to be illumined by the +rising of the true Light, we beseech Thee that we who know on earth the +secret shining of His splendour may win in Heaven His eternal joys_." + +'We were passing through Monte Cavallo, beside the Two Divine Horsemen who +saved Rome of old. The light shone on the fountains--it seemed as if the +two godlike figures were just about to leap, in fierce young strength, upon +their horses. + +'Edward stopped to look at them. + +'"And we say that the world lives by Science! Fools! when has it lived by +anything else than Dreams--at Athens, at Rome, or Jerusalem?" + +'We stayed by the fountains talking. And as we moved away, I said: "How +strange at my age to be enjoying Christmas for the first time!" And he +looked at me as though I had given him pleasure, and said with his most +delightful smile--"Who else should enjoy life if not you--kind, kind +Eleanor?" + +'When I got home, and to my room, I opened my windows wide. Our apartment +is at the end of the Via Sistina, and has a marvellous view over Rome. +It was a gorgeous moon--St. Peter's, the hills, every dome and tower +radiantly clear. And at last it seemed to me that I was not a rebel and an +outlaw--that beauty and I were reconciled. + +'Such peace in the night! It opened and took me in. Oh! my little, little +son!--I have had such strange visions of you all these last days. That +horror of the whirling river--and the tiny body--tossed and torn. Oh! my +God! my God!--has it not filled all my days and nights for eight years? +And now I see him so no more. I see him always carried in the arms of dim +majestic forms--wrapped close and warm. Sometimes the face that bends over +him is that of some great Giotto angel--sometimes, so dim and faint! the +pure Mother herself--sometimes the Hands that fold him in are marred. Is it +the associations of Rome--the images with which this work with Edward fills +my mind? Perhaps. + +'But at least I am strangely comforted--some kind hand seems to be drawing +the smart from the deep deep wound. Little golden-head! you lie soft and +safe, but often you seem to me to turn your dear eyes--the baby-eyes that +still know all--to look out over the bar of heaven--to search for me--to +bid me be at peace, _at last_. + +'February 20. How delicious is the first breath of the spring! The almond +trees are pink in the Campagna. The snow on the Sabine peaks is going. The +Piazza di Spagna is heaped with flowers--anemones and narcissus and roses. +And for the first time in my life I too feel the "Sehnsucht"--the longing +of the spring! At twenty-nine!' + +'March 24, Easter week. I went to a wedding at the English church to-day. +Some barrier seems to have fallen between me and life. The bride--a dear +girl who has often been my little companion this winter--kissed me as she +was going up to take off her dress. And I threw my arms round her with such +a rush of joy. Other women have felt all these things ten years earlier +perhaps than I. But they are not less heavenly when they come late--into a +heart seared with grief. + +'March 26. It is my birthday. From the window looking on the Piazza, I have +just seen Edward bargaining with the flower woman. Those lilacs and pinks +are for me--I know it! Already he has given me the little engraved emerald +I wear at my watch-chain. A little genius with a torch is cut upon it. He +said I was to take it as the genius of our friendship. + +'I changed the orders for my dress to-day. I have discovered that black is +positively disagreeable to him. So Mathilda will have to devise something +else. + +'April 5. He is away at Florence, and I am working at some difficult points +for him--about some suppressed monasteries. I have asked Count B--, who +knows all about such things, to help me, and am working very hard. He comes +back in four days. + +'April 9. He came back to-day. Such a gay and happy evening. When he saw +what I had done, he took both my hands, and kissed them impetuously. +"Eleanor, my queen of cousins!" And now we shall be at the villa directly. +And there will be no interruption. There is one visitor coming. But Aunt +Pattie will look after her. I think the book should be out in June. Of +course there are some doubtful things. But it must, it will have a great +effect.--How wonderfully well I have been lately! The doctor last week +looked at me in astonishment. He thought that the Shadow and I were to be +soon acquainted, when he saw me first! + +'I hope that Edward will get as much inspiration from the hills as from +Rome. Every little change makes me anxious. Why should we change? Dear +beloved, golden Rome!--even to be going fourteen miles away from you +somehow tears my heart.' + + * * * * * + +Yes, there they were, those entries,--mocking, ineffaceable, for ever. + +As she had read them, driving through all the memories they suggested, +like a keen and bitter wind that kills and blights the spring bloom, +there had pressed upon her the last memory of all,--the memory of this +forlorn, this intolerable day. Had Manisty ever yet forgotten her so +completely--abandoned her so utterly? She had simply dropped out of his +thoughts. She had become as much of a stranger to him again, as on her +first arrival at Rome. Nay, more! For when two people are first brought +into a true contact, there is the secret delightful sense on either side of +possibilities, of the unexplored. But when the possibilities are all known, +and all exhausted? + +What had happened between him and Lucy Foster? Of course she understood +that he had deliberately contrived their interview. But as Lucy and she +came home together they had said almost nothing to each other. She had +a vision of their two silent figures in the railway-carriage side by +side,--her hand in Lucy's. And Lucy--so sad and white herself!--with the +furrowed brow that betrayed the inner stress of thought. + +Had the crisis arrived?--and had she refused him? Eleanor had not dared to +ask. + +Suddenly she rose from her chair. She clasped her hands above her head, +and began to walk tempestuously up and down the bare floor of her room. In +this creature so soft, so loving, so compact of feeling and of tears, there +had gradually arisen an intensity of personal claim, a hardness, almost +a ferocity of determination, which was stiffening and transforming the +whole soul. She could waver still--as she had wavered in that despairing, +anguished moment with Lucy in the Embassy garden. But the wavering would +soon be over. A jealousy so overpowering that nothing could make itself +heard against it was closing upon her like a demoniacal possession. Was it +the last effort of self-preservation?--the last protest of the living thing +against its own annihilation? + +He was not to be hers--but this treachery, this wrong should be prevented. + +She thought of Lucy in Manisty's arms--of that fresh young life against his +breast--and the thought maddened her. She was conscious of a certain terror +of herself--of this fury in the veins, so strange, so alien, so debasing. +But it did not affect her will. + +Was Lucy's own heart touched? Over that question Eleanor had been racking +herself for days past. But if so it could be only a passing fancy. It made +it only the more a duty to protect her from Manisty. Manisty--the soul of +caprice and wilfulness--could never make a woman like Lucy happy. He would +tire of her and neglect her. And what would be left for Lucy--Lucy the +upright, simple, profound--but heartbreak? + +Eleanor paused absently in front of the glass, and then looked at herself +with a start of horror. That face--to fight with Lucy's! + +On the dressing-table there were still lying the two terra-cotta heads from +Nemi, the Artemis, and the Greek fragment with the clear brow and nobly +parted hair, in which Manisty had seen and pointed out the likeness to +Lucy. Eleanor recalled his words in the garden--his smiling, absorbed look +as the girl approached. + +Yes!--it was like her. There was the same sweetness in strength, the same +adorable roundness and youth. + +And that was the beauty that Eleanor had herself developed and made doubly +visible--as a man may free a diamond from the clay. + +A mad impulse swept through her--that touch of kinship with the criminal +and the murderer that may reveal itself in the kindest and the noblest. + +She took up the little mask, and, reaching to the window, she tore back the +curtains and pushed open the sun-shutters outside. + +The night burst in upon her, the starry night hanging above the immensity +of the Campagna, and the sea. There was still a faint glow in the western +heaven. On the plain were a few scattered lights, fires lit, perhaps, by +wandering herdsmen against malaria. On the far edge of the land to the +south-west, a revolving light flashed its message to the Mediterranean and +the passing ships. Otherwise, not a sign of life. Below, a vast abyss of +shadow swallowed up the olive-garden, the road, and the lower slopes of the +hills. + +Eleanor felt herself leaning out above the world, alone with her agony +and the balmy peace which mocked it. She lifted her arm, and, stretching +forward, she flung the little face violently into the gulf beneath. The +villa rose high above the olive-ground, and the olive-ground itself sank +rapidly towards the road. The fragment had far to fall. It seemed to +Eleanor that in the deep stillness she heard a sound like the striking of +a stone among thick branches. Her mind followed with a wild triumph the +breaking of the terra-cotta,--the shivering of the delicate features--their +burial in the stony earth. + +With a long breath she tottered from the window and sank into her chair. A +horrible feeling of illness overtook her, and she found herself gasping for +breath. 'If I could only reach that medicine on my table!' she thought. But +she could not reach it. She lay helpless. + +The door opened. + +Was it a dream? She seemed to struggle through rushing waters back to land. + +There was a low cry. A light step hurried across the room. Lucy Foster sank +on her knees beside her and threw her arms about her. + +'Give me--those drops--on the table,' said Eleanor, with difficulty. + +Lucy said not a word. Quietly, with steady hands, she brought and measured +the medicine. It was a strong heart-stimulant, and it did its work. But +while her strength came back, Lucy saw that she was shivering with cold, +and closed the window. + +Then, silently, Lucy looked down upon the figure in the chair. She was +almost as white as Eleanor. Her eyes showed traces of tears. Her forehead +was still drawn with thought as it had been in the train. + +Presently she sank again beside Eleanor. + +'I came to see you, because I could not sleep, and I wanted to suggest a +plan to you. I had no idea you were ill. You should have called me before.' + +Eleanor put out a feeble hand. Lucy took it tenderly, and laid it against +her cheek. She could not understand why Eleanor looked, at her with this +horror and wildness,--how it was that she came to be up, by this open +window, in this state of illness and collapse. But the discovery only +served an antecedent process--a struggle from darkness to light--which had +brought her to Eleanor's room. + +She bent forward and said some words in Eleanor's ear. + +Gradually Eleanor understood and responded. She raised herself piteously +in her chair. The two women sat together, hand locked in hand, their faces +near to each other, the murmur of their voices flowing on brokenly, for +nearly an hour. + +Once Lucy rose to get a guide book that lay on Eleanor's table. And on +another occasion, she opened a drawer by Eleanor's direction, took out +a leather pocket-book and counted some Italian notes that it contained. +Finally she insisted on Eleanor's going to bed, and on helping her to +undress. + +Eleanor had just sunk into her pillows, when a noise from the library +startled them. Eleanor looked up with strained eyes. + +'It must be Mr. Manisty,' said Lucy hurriedly. 'He was out when I came +through the glass passage. The doors were all open, and his lamp burning.' +I am nearly sure that I heard him unbar the front door. I must wait now +till he is gone.' + +They waited--Eleanor staring into the darkness of the room--till there had +been much opening and shutting of doors, and all was quiet again. + +Then the two women clung to each other in a strange and pitiful +embrace--offered with passion on Lucy's side, accepted with a miserable +shame on Eleanor's--and Lucy slipped away. + +'He was out?--in the garden?' said Eleanor to herself bewildered. And with +those questions on her lips, and a mingled remorse and fever in her blood, +she lay sleepless waiting for the morning. + + * * * * * + +Manisty indeed had also been under the night, bathing passion and doubt in +its cool purity. + +Again and again had he wandered up and down the terrace in the starlight, +proving and examining his own heart, raised by the growth of love to a more +manly and more noble temper than had been his for years. + +What was in his way? His conduct towards his cousin? He divined what seemed +to him the scruple in the girl's sensitive and tender mind. He could only +meet it by truth and generosity--by throwing himself on Eleanor's mercy. +_She_ knew what their relations had been--she would not refuse him this +boon of life and death--the explanation of them to Lucy. + +Unless! There came a moment when his restless walk was tormented with the +prickly rise of a whole new swarm of fears. He recalled that moment in +the library after the struggle with Alice, when Lucy was just awakening +from unconsciousness--when Eleanor came in upon them. Had she heard? He +remembered that the possibility of it had crossed his mind. Was she in +truth working against him--avenging his neglect--establishing a fatal +influence over Lucy? + +His soul cried out in fierce and cruel protest. Here at last was the great +passion of his life. Come what would, Eleanor should not be allowed to +strangle it. + +Absently he wandered down a little path leading from the terrace to the +_podere_ below, and soon found himself pacing the dim grass walks among +the olives. The old villa rose above him, dark and fortress-like. That was +no longer her room--that western corner? No--he had good cause to remember +that she had been moved, to the eastern side, beyond his library, beyond +the glass passage! Those were now Eleanor's windows, he believed. + +Ah!--what was that sudden light? He threw his head back in astonishment. +One of the windows at which he had been looking was flung open, and in the +bright lamplight a figure appeared. It stooped forward. Eleanor! Something +fell close beside him. He heard the breaking of a branch from one of the +olives. + +In his astonishment, he stood motionless, watching the window. It remained +open for a while. Then again some one appeared--not the same figure as +at first. A thrill of delight and trouble ran through him. He sent his +salutation, his homage through the night. + +But the window shut--the light went out. All was once more still and dark. + +Then he struck a match and groped under the tree close by him. Yes, there +was the fallen branch. But what had broken it? He lit match after match, +holding the light with his left hand while he turned over the dry ground +with his knife. Presently he brought up a handful of stones and earth, and +laid them on a bit of ruined wall close by. Stooping over them with his +dim, sputtering lights, he presently discovered some terra-cotta fragments. +His eye, practised in such things, detected them at once. They were the +fragments of a head, which had measured about three inches from brow to +chin. + +The head, or rather the face, which he had given Eleanor at Nemi! The +parting of the hair above the brow was intact--so was the beautiful curve +of the cheek. + +He knew it--and the likeness to Lucy. He remembered his words to Eleanor in +the garden. Holding the pieces in his hand, he went slowly back towards the +terrace. + +Thrown out?--flung out into the night--by Eleanor? But why? He thought--and +thought. A black sense of entanglement and fate grew upon him in the +darkness, as he thought of the two women together, in the midnight silence, +while he was pacing thus, alone. He met it with the defiance of newborn +passion--with the resolute planning of a man who feels himself obscurely +threatened, and realises that his chief menace lies, not in the power of +any outside enemy, but in the very goodness of the woman he loves. + + + + +PART II. + + + '_Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-- + + The heart--which may be broken: happy they! + Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, + The precious porcelain of human clay, + Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold + The long year linked with heavy day on day, + And all which must be borne, and never told._' + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +'Can you stand this heat?' said Lucy, anxiously. + +'Oh, it will soon be cooler,' was Eleanor's languid reply. + +She and Lucy sat side by side in a large and ancient landau; Mrs. +Burgoyne's maid, Marie Véfour, was placed opposite to them, a little sulky +and silent. On the box, beside the driver of the lean brown horses, was a +bright-eyed, neatly-dressed youth who was going with the ladies to Torre +Amiata. + +They had just left the hill-town of Orvieto, had descended rapidly into +the valley lying to the south-west of its crested heights, and were now +mounting again on the further side. As they climbed higher and higher Lucy, +whose attention had been for a time entirely absorbed by the weariness +of the frail woman beside her, began to realise that they were passing +through a scene of extraordinary beauty. Her eyes, which had been drawn and +anxious, relaxed. She looked round her with a natural and rising joy. + +To their left, as the road turned in zig-zag to the east, was the +marvellous town which the traveller who has seen Palestine likens to +Jerusalem, so steep and high and straight is the crest of warm brown +and orange precipice on which it stands, so deep the valleys round it, +so strange and complete the fusion between the city and the rock, so +conspicuous the place of the great cathedral, which is Orvieto, as the +Temple was Zion. + +It was the sixth of June, and the day had been very hot. The road was deep +in thick white dust. The fig-trees and vines above the growing crops were +almost at a full leafiness; scarlet poppies grew thick among the corn; and +at the dusty edges of the road, wild roses of a colour singularly vivid and +deep, the blue flowers of love-in-a-mist, and some spikes of wine-coloured +gladiolus struck strangely on a northern eye. + +Then as the road turned back again--behold! a great valley, opening out +westward, beyond Orvieto,--the valley of the Paglia; a valley with wooded +hills on either side, of a bluish-green colour, chequered with hill-towns +and slim campaniles and winding roads; and binding it all in one, the loops +and reaches of a full brown river. Heat everywhere!--on the blinding walls +of the buildings, on the young green of the vineyards, on the yellowing +corn, on the beautiful ragged children running barefoot and bareheaded +beside the carriage, on the peasants working among the vines, on the +drooping heads of the horses, on the brick-red face of the driver. + +'If Madame had only stayed at Orvieto!' murmured Marie the maid, looking +back at the city and then at her mistress. + +Eleanor smiled faintly and tapped the girl's hand. + +'_Rassure-toi_, Marie! Remember how soon we made ourselves comfortable at +the villa.' + +Marie shook her much be-curled head. Because it had taken them three months +to make the Marinata villa decently habitable, was that any reason for +tempting the wilderness again? + +Lucy, too, had her misgivings. Nominally she was travelling, she supposed, +under Eleanor Burgoyne's chaperonage. Really she was the guardian of the +whole party, and she was conscious of a tender and anxious responsibility. +Already they had been delayed a whole week in Orvieto by Eleanor's +prostrate state. She had not been dangerously ill; but it had been clearly +impossible to leave doctor and chemist behind and plunge into the wilds. So +they had hidden themselves in a little Italian inn in a back street, and +the days had passed somehow. + + * * * * * + +Surely this hot evening and their shabby carriage and the dusty unfamiliar +road were all dream-stuff--an illusion from which she was to wake directly +and find herself once more in her room at Marinata, looking out on Monte +Cavo? + +Yet as this passed across Lucy's mind, she felt again upon her face the +cool morning wind, as she and Eleanor fled down the Marinata hill in the +early sunlight, between six and seven o'clock,--through the streets of +Albano, already full and busy,--along the edge of that strange green crater +of Aricia, looking up to Pio Nono's great viaduct, and so to Cecchina, the +railway station in the plain. + +An escape!--nothing else; planned the night before when Lucy's strong +commonsense had told her that the only chance for her own peace and +Eleanor's was to go at once, to stop any further development of the +situation, and avoid any fresh scene with Mr. Manisty. + +She thought of the details--the message left for Aunt Pattie that they +had gone into Rome to shop before the heat; then the telegram 'Urgente,' +despatched to the villa after they were sure that Mr. Manisty must +have safely left it for that important field day of his clerical and +Ultramontane friends in Rome, in which he was pledged to take part; then +the arrival of the startled and bewildered Aunt Pattie at the small hotel +where they were in hiding--her conferences--first with Eleanor, then with +Lucy. + +Strange little lady, Aunt Pattie! How much had she guessed? What had passed +between her and Mrs. Burgoyne? When at last she and Lucy stood together +hand in hand, the girl's sensitive spirit had divined in her a certain +stiffening, a certain diminution of that constant kindness which she had +always shown her guest. Did Aunt Pattie blame her? Had she cherished her +own views and secret hopes for her nephew and Mrs. Burgoyne? Did she feel +that Lucy had in some way unwarrantably and ambitiously interfered with +them? + +At any rate, Lucy had divined the unspoken inference 'You must have given +him encouragement!' and behind it--perhaps?--the secret ineradicable pride +of family and position that held her no fitting match for Edward Manisty. +Lucy's inmost mind was still sore and shrinking from this half-hour's +encounter with Aunt Pattie. + +But she had not shown it. And at the end of it Aunt Pattie had kissed +her ruefully with tears--'It's _very_ good of you! You'll take care of +Eleanor!' + +Lucy could hear her own answer--'Indeed, indeed, I will!'--and Aunt +Pattie's puzzled cry, 'If only someone would tell me what I'm to do with +_him_!' + +And then she recalled her own pause of wonder as Aunt Pattie left +her--beside the hotel window, looking into the narrow side street. Why +was it 'very good of her'?--and why, nevertheless, was this dislocation +of all their plans felt to be somehow her fault and responsibility?--even +by herself? There was a sudden helpless inclination to laugh over the +topsy-turviness of it all. + +And then her heart had fluttered in her breast, stabbed by the memory of +Eleanor's cry the night before. 'It is of no use to say that you know +nothing--that he has said nothing. _I_ know. If you stay, he will give you +no peace--his will is indomitable. But if you go, he will guess my part in +it. I shall not have the physical strength to conceal it--and he can be +a hard man when he is resisted! What am I to do? I would go home at +once--but--I might die on the way. Why not?' + +And then--in painful gasps--the physical situation had been revealed to +her--the return of old symptoms and the reappearance of arrested disease. +The fear of the physical organism alternating with the despair of the +lonely and abandoned soul,--never could Lucy forget the horror of that +hour's talk, outwardly so quiet, as she sat holding Eleanor's hands in +hers, and the floodgates of personality and of grief were opened before +her. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile the patient, sweating horses climbed and climbed. Soon they were +at the brow of the hill, and looking back for their last sight of Orvieto. +And now they were on a broad tableland, a bare, sun-baked region where huge +flocks of sheep, of white, black, and brown goats wandered with ragged +shepherds over acres of burnt and thirsty pasture. Here and there were +patches of arable land and groups of tilling peasants in the wide untidy +expanse; once or twice too an _osteria_, with its bush or its wine-stained +tables under the shadow of its northern wall. But scarcely a farmhouse. +Once indeed a great building like a factory or a workhouse, in the midst of +wide sun-beaten fields. 'Ecco! la fattoria,' said the driver, pointing to +it. And once a strange group of underground dwellings, their chimneys level +with the surrounding land, whence wild swarms of troglodyte children rushed +up from the bowels of the earth to see the carriage pass and shriek for +_soldi_. + +But the beauty of the sun-scorched upland was its broom! Sometimes they +were in deep tufa lanes; like English lanes, save for their walls and +canopies of gold; sometimes they journeyed through wide barren stretches, +where only broom held the soil against all comers, spreading in sheets +of gold beneath the dazzling sky. Large hawks circled overhead; in the +rare woods the nightingales were loud and merry; and goldfinches were +everywhere. A hot, lonely, thirsty land--the heart of Italy--where the +rocks are honeycombed with the tombs of that mysterious Etruscan race, the +Melchisedek of the nations, coming no one knows whence, 'without father +and without mother'--a land which has to the west of it the fever-stricken +Maremma and the heights of the Amiata range, and to the south the forest +country of Viterbo. + +Eleanor looked out upon the road and the fields with eyes that faintly +remembered, and a heart held now, as always, in the grip of that _tempo +felice_ which was dead. + +It was she who had proposed this journey. Once in late November she and +Aunt Pattie and Manisty had spent two or three days at Orvieto with +some Italian friends. They had made the journey back to Rome, partly by +_vetturino_, driving from Orvieto to Bolsena and Viterbo, and spending a +night on the way at a place of remote and enchanting beauty which had left +a deep mark on Eleanor's imagination. They owed the experience to their +Italian friends, acquaintances of the great proprietor whose agent gave +the whole party hospitality for the night; and as they jogged on through +this June heat she recalled with bitter longing the bright November day, +the changing leaves, the upland air, and Manisty's delight in the strange +unfamiliar country, in the vast oak woods above the Paglia, and the +marvellous church at Monte Fiascone. + +But it was not the agent's house, the scene of their former stay, to which +she was now guiding Lucy. When she and Manisty, hurrying out for an early +walk before the carriage started, had explored a corner of the dense oak +woods below the _palazzo_ on the hill, they had come across a deserted +convent, with a contadino's family in one corner of it, and a ruinous +chapel with a couple of dim frescoes attributed to Pinturicchio. + +How well she remembered Manisty's rage over the spoliation of the convent +and the ruin of the chapel! He had gone stalking over the deserted place, +raving against 'those brigands from Savoy,' and calculating how much it +would cost to buy back the place from the rascally Municipio of Orvieto, to +whom it now belonged, and return it to its former Carmelite owners. + +Meanwhile Eleanor had gossiped with the _massaja_, or farmer's wife, and +had found out that there were a few habitable rooms in the convent still, +roughly furnished, and that in summer, people of a humble sort came there +sometimes from Orvieto for coolness and change--the plateau being 3,000 +feet above the sea. Eleanor had inquired if English people ever came. + +'_Inglesi! no!--mai Inglesi_,' said the woman in astonishment. + +The family were, however, in some sort of connection with an hotel +proprietor at Orvieto, through whom they got their lodgers. Eleanor had +taken down the name and all particulars in a fit of enthusiasm for the +beauty and loneliness of the place. 'Suppose some day we came here to +write?' Manisty had said vaguely, looking round him with regret as they +drove away. The mere suggestion had made the name of Torre Amiata sweet to +Eleanor thenceforward. + +Was it likely that he would remember?--that he would track them? Hardly. He +would surely think that in this heat they would go northward. He would not +dream of looking for them in Italy. + +She too was thinking of nothing--nothing!--but the last scenes at the villa +and in Rome, as the carriage moved along. The phrases of her letter to +Manisty ran through her mind. Had they made him her lasting enemy? The +thought was like a wound draining blood and strength. But in her present +state of jealous passion it was more tolerable than that other thought +which was its alternative--the thought of Lucy surrendered, Lucy in her +place. + +'Lucy Foster is with me,' she had written. 'We wish to be together for a +while before she goes back to America. And that we may be quite alone, we +prefer to give no address for a few weeks. I have written to Papa to say +that I am going away for a time with a friend, to rest and recruit. You and +Aunt Pattie could easily arrange that there should be no talk and no gossip +about the matter. I hope and think you will. Of course if we are in any +strait or difficulty we shall communicate at once with our friends.' + +How had he received it? Sometimes she thought of his anger and +disappointment with terror, sometimes with a vindictive excitement that +poisoned all her being. Gentleness turned to hate and violence,--was it of +that in truth, and not of that heart mischief to which doctors gave long +names, that Eleanor Burgoyne was dying? + + * * * * * + +They had turned into a wide open space crossed by a few wire fences at vast +intervals. The land was mostly rough pasture, or mere sandy rock and scrub. +In the glowing west, towards which they journeyed, rose far purple peaks +peering over the edge of the great tableland. To the east and south vast +woods closed in the horizon. + +The carriage left the main road and entered an ill-defined track leading +apparently through private property. + +'Ah! I remember!' cried Eleanor, starting up. 'There is the _palazzo_--and +the village.' + +In front of them, indeed, rose an old villa of the Renaissance, with its +long flat roofs, its fine _loggia_, and terraced vineyards. A rude village +of grey stone, part, it seemed, of the tufa rocks from which it sprang, +pressed round the villa, invaded its olive-gardens, crept up to its very +walls. Meanwhile the earth grew kinder and more fertile. The vines and figs +stood thick again among the green corn and flowering lucerne. Peasants +streaming home from work, the men on donkeys, the women carrying their +babies, met the carriage and stopped to stare after it, and talk. + +Suddenly from the ditches of the roadside sprang up two martial figures. + +'Carabinieri!' cried Lucy in delight. + +She had made friends with several members of this fine corps on the closely +guarded roads about the Alban lake, and to see them here gave her a sense +of protection. + +Bending over the side of the carriage, she nodded to the two handsome +brown-skinned fellows, who smiled back at her. + +'How far,' she said, 'to Santa Trinità?' + +'_Un miglio grasso_ (a good mile), Signorina. _È tutto_. But you are late. +They expected you half an hour ago.' + +The driver took this for reproach, and with a shrill burst of defence +pointed to his smoking horses. The Carabinieri laughed, and diving into the +field, one on either side, they kept up with the carriage as it neared the +village. + +'Why, it is like coming home!' said Lucy, wondering. And indeed they were +now surrounded by the whole village population, just returned from the +fields--pointing, chattering, laughing, shouting friendly directions to the +driver. 'Santa Trinità!' 'Ecco!--Santa Trinità!' sounded on all sides, amid +a forest of gesticulating hands. + +'How could they know?' said Eleanor, looking at the small crowd with +startled eyes. Lucy spoke a word to the young man on the box. + +'They knew, he says, as soon as the carriage was ordered yesterday. Look! +there are the telegraph wires! The whole countryside knows! They are +greatly excited by the coming of _forestieri_--especially at this time of +year.' + +'Oh! we can't stay!' said Eleanor with a little moan, wringing her hands. + +'It's only the country people,' said Lucy tenderly, taking one of the hands +in hers. 'Did you see the Contessa when you were here before?' + +And she glanced up at the great yellow mass of the _palazzo_ towering above +the little town, the sunset light flaming on its long western face. + +'No. She was away. And the _fattore_ who took us in left in January. There +is a new man.' + +'Then it's quite safe!' said Lucy in French. And her kind deep eyes looked +steadily into Eleanor's, as though mutely cheering and supporting her. + +Eleanor unconsciously pressed her hand upon her breast. She was looking +round her in a sudden anguish of memory. For, now they were through the +village, they were descending--they were in the woods. Ah! the white walls +of the convent--the vacant windows in its ruined end--and at the gate +of the rough farmyard that surrounded it the stalwart _capoccia_, the +grinning, harsh-featured wife that she remembered. + +She stepped feebly down upon the dusty road. When her feet last pressed it, +Manisty was beside her, and the renewing force of love and joy was filling +all the sources of her being. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +'Can you bear it? Can you be comfortable?' said Lucy, in some dismay. + +They were in one of the four or five bare rooms that had been given up to +them. A bed with a straw palliasse, one or two broken chairs, and bits of +worm-eaten furniture filled what had formerly been one of a row of cells +running along an upper corridor. The floor was of brick and very dirty. +Against the wall a tattered canvas, a daub of St. Laurence and his +gridiron, still recalled the former uses of the room. + +They had given orders for a few comforts to be sent out from Orvieto, but +the cart conveying them had not yet arrived. Meanwhile Marie was crying in +the next room, and the _contadina_ was looking on astonished and a little +sulky. The people who came from Orvieto never complained. What was wrong +with the ladies? + +Eleanor looked round her with a faint smile. + +'It doesn't matter,' she said under her breath. Then she looked at Lucy. + +'What care we take of you! How well we look after you!' + +And she dropped her head on her hands in a fit of hysterical laughter--very +near to sobs. + +'I!' cried Lucy. 'As if I couldn't sleep anywhere, and eat anything! But +you--that's another business. When the cart comes, we can fix you up a +little better--but to-night!' + +She looked, frowning, round the empty room. + +'There is nothing to do anything with--or I'd set to work right away.' + +'Ecco, Signora!' said the farmer's wife. She carried triumphantly in her +hands a shaky carpet-chair, the only article of luxury apparently that the +convent provided. + +Eleanor thanked her, and the woman stood with her hands on her hips, +surveying them. She frowned, but only because she was thinking hard how +she could somehow propitiate these strange beings, so well provided, as it +seemed, with superfluous _lire_. + +'Ah!' she cried suddenly; 'but the ladies have not seen our _bella +vista_!--our _loggia_! Santa Madonna! but I have lost my senses! Signorina! +_venga--venga lei_.' + +And beckoning to Lucy she pulled open a door that had remained unnoticed in +the corner of the room. + +Lucy and Eleanor followed. + +Even Eleanor joined her cry of delight to Lucy's. + +'Ecco!' said the _massaja_ proudly, as though the whole landscape were her +chattel,--'Monte Amiata! Selvapendente--the Paglia--does the Signora see +the bridge down there?--_veda lei_, under Selvapendente? Those forests on +the mountain there--they belong all to the Casa Guerrini--_tutto, tutto_! +as far as the Signorina can see! And that little house there, on the +hill--that _casa di caccia_--that was poor Don Emilio's, that was killed in +the war.' + +And she chattered on, in a _patois_ not always intelligible, even to +Eleanor's trained ear, about the widowed Contessa, her daughter, and her +son; about the new roads that Don Emilio had made through the woods; of the +repairs and rebuilding at the Villa Guerrini--all stopped since his death; +of the Sindaco of Selvapendente, who often came up to Torre Amiata for the +summer; of the nuns in the new convent just built there under the hill, and +their _fattore_,--whose son was with Don Emilio after he was wounded, when +the poor young man implored his own men to shoot him and put him out of his +pain--who had stayed with him till he died, and had brought his watch and +pocket-book back to the Contessa-- + +'Is the Contessa here?' said Eleanor, looking at the woman with the +strained and startled air that was becoming habitual to her, as though each +morsel of passing news only served somehow to make life's burden heavier. + +But certainly the Contessa was here! She and Donna Teresa were always at +the Villa. Once they used to go to Rome and Florence part of the year, but +now--no more! + +A sudden uproar arose from below--of crying children and barking dogs. The +woman threw up her hands. 'What are they doing to me with the baby?' she +cried, and disappeared. + +Lucy went back to fetch the carpet-chair. She caught up also a couple of +Florentine silk blankets that were among their wraps. She laid them on +the bricks of the _loggia_, found a rickety table in Eleanor's room, her +travelling-bag, and a shawl. + +'Don't take such trouble about me!' said Eleanor, almost piteously, as Lucy +established her comfortably in the chair, with a shawl over her knees and a +book or two beside her. + +Lucy with a soft little laugh stooped and kissed her. + +'Now I must go and dry Marie's tears. Then I shall dive downstairs and +discover the kitchen. They say they've got a cook, and the dinner'll soon +be ready. Isn't that lovely? And I'm sure the cart'll be here directly. +It's the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life!' said Lucy, clasping +her hands a moment in a gesture familiar to her, and turning towards the +great prospect of mountain, wood, and river. 'And it's so strange--so +strange! It's like another Italy! Why, these woods--they might be just in a +part of Maine I know. You can't see a vineyard--not one. And the air--isn't +it fresh? Isn't it lovely? Wouldn't you guess you were three thousand feet +up? I just know this--we're going to make you comfortable. I'm going right +down now to send that cart back to Orvieto for a lot of things. And you're +going to get ever, ever so much better, aren't you? Say you will!' + +The girl fell on her knees beside Eleanor, and took the other's thin +hands into her own. Her face, thrown back, had lost its gaiety; her mouth +quivered. + +Eleanor met the girl's tender movement dry-eyed. For the hundredth time +that day she asked herself the feverish, torturing question--'Does she love +him?' + +'Of course I shall get better,' she said lightly, stroking the girl's hair; +'or if not--what matter?' + +Lucy shook her head. + +'You must get better,' she said in a low, determined voice. 'And it must +all come right.' + +Eleanor was silent. In her own heart she knew more finally, more +irrevocably every hour that for her it would never come right. But how say +to Lucy that her whole being hung now--not on any hope for herself, but on +the fierce resolve that there should be none for Manisty? + +Lucy gave a long sigh, rose to her feet, and went off to household duties. + +Eleanor was left alone. Her eyes, bright with fever, fixed themselves, +unseeing, on the sunset sky, and the blue, unfamiliar peaks beneath it. + +Cheerful sounds of rioting children and loud-voiced housewives came from +below. Presently there was a distant sound of wheels, and the _carro_ from +Orvieto appeared, escorted by the whole village, who watched its unpacking +with copious comment on each article, and a perpetual scuffling for places +in the front line of observation. Even the _padre parroco_ and the doctor +paused as they passed along the road, and Lucy as she flitted about caught +sight of the smiling young priest, in his flat broad-brimmed hat and caped +soutane, side by side with the meditative and gloomy countenance of the +doctor, who stood with his legs apart, smoking like a chimney. + +But Lucy had no time to watch the crowd. She was directing the men with +the _carro_ where to place the cooking-stove that had been brought from +Orvieto, in the dark and half-ruinous kitchen on the lower floor of the +convent; marvelling the while at the _risotto_ and the _pollo_ that the +local artist, their new cook, the sister of the farmer's wife, was engaged +in producing, out of apparently nothing in the way either of fire or tools. +She was conferring with Cecco the little manservant, who, with less polish +than Alfredo, but with a like good-will, was running hither and thither, +intent only on pleasing his ladies, and on somehow finding enough spoons +and forks to lay a dinner-table with; or she was alternately comforting and +laughing at Marie, who was for the moment convinced that Italy was pure and +simple Hades, and Torre Amiata the lowest gulf thereof. + +Thus--under the soft, fresh evening--the whole forlorn and ruinous building +was once more alive with noise and gaiety, with the tread of men carrying +packages, with the fun of skirmishing children, with the cries of the cook +and Cecco, with Lucy's stumbling yet sweet Italian. + +Eleanor only was alone--but how terribly alone! + +She sat where Lucy had left her--motionless--her hands hanging listlessly. +She had been always thin, but in the last few weeks she had become a +shadow. Her dress had lost its old perfection, though its carelessness was +still the carelessness of instinctive grace, of a woman who could not throw +on a shawl or a garden-hat without a natural trick of hand, that held even +through despair and grief. The delicacy and emaciation of the face had now +gone far beyond the bounds of beauty. It spoke of disease, and drew the +pity of the passer-by. + +Her loneliness grew upon her--penetrated and pursued her. She could not +resign herself to it. She was always struggling with it, beating it away, +as a frightened child might struggle with the wave that overwhelms it on +the beach. A few weeks ago she had been so happy, so rich in friends--the +world had been so warm and kind! + +And now it seemed to her that she had no friends; no one to whom she could +turn; no one she wished to see, except this girl--this girl she had known +barely a couple of months--by whom she had been made desolate! + +She thought of those winter gatherings in Rome which she had enjoyed with +so keen a pleasure; the women she had liked, who had liked her in return, +to whom her eager wish to love and be loved had made her delightful. But +beneath her outward sweetness she carried a proud and often unsuspected +reserve. She had made a _confidante_ of no one. That her relation to +Manisty was accepted and understood in Rome; that it was regarded as +a romance, with which it was not so much ill-natured as ridiculous to +associate a breath of scandal--a romance which all kind hearts hoped might +end as most of such things should end--all this she knew. She had been +proud of her place beside him, proud of Rome's tacit recognition of her +claim upon him. But she had told her heart to nobody. Her wild scene with +Lucy stood out unique, unparalleled in the story of her life. + +And now there was no one she craved to see--not one. With the instinct of +the stricken animal she turned from her kind. Her father? What had he ever +been to her? Aunt Pattie? Her very sympathy and pity made Eleanor thankful +to be parted from her. Other kith and kin? No! Happy, she could have loved +them; miserable, she cared for none of them. Her unlucky marriage had +numbed and silenced her for years. From that frost the waters of life had +been loosened, only to fail now at their very source. + +Her whole nature was one wound. At the moment when, standing spell-bound in +the shadow, she had seen Manisty stooping over the unconscious Lucy, and +had heard his tender breathless words, the sword had fallen, dividing the +very roots of being. + +And now--strange irony!--the only heart on which she leant, the only hand +to which she clung, were the heart and the hand of Lucy! + +'Why, why are we here?' she cried to herself with a sudden change of +position and of anguish. + +Was not their flight a mere absurdity?--humiliation for herself, since it +revealed what no woman should reveal--but useless, ridiculous as any check +on Manisty! Would he give up Lucy because she might succeed in hiding +her for a few weeks? Was that passionate will likely to resign itself to +the momentary defeat she had inflicted on it? Supposing she succeeded in +despatching Lucy to America without any further interview between them; are +there no steamers and trains to take impatient lovers to their goal? What +childish folly was the whole proceeding! + +And would she even succeed so far? Might he not even now be on their track? +How possible that he should remember this place--its isolation--and her +pleasure in it! She started in her chair. It seemed to her that she already +heard his feet upon the road. + +Then her thought rebounded in a fierce triumph, an exultation that shook +the feeble frame. She was secure! She was entrenched, so to speak, in +Lucy's heart. Never would that nature grasp its own joy at the cost of +another's agony. No! no!--she is not in love with him!--the poor hurrying +brain insisted. She has been interested, excited, touched. That, he can +always achieve with any woman, if he pleases. But time and change soon +wear down these first fancies of youth. There is no real congruity between +them--there never, never could be. + +But supposing it were not so--supposing Lucy could be reached and affected +by Manisty's pursuit, still Eleanor was safe. She knew well what had been +the effect, what would now be the increasing effect of her weakness and +misery on Lucy's tender heart. By the mere living in Lucy's sight she would +gain her end. From the first she had realised the inmost quality of the +girl's strong and diffident personality. What Manisty feared she counted +on. + +Sometimes, just for a moment, as one may lean over the edge of a precipice, +she imagined herself yielding, recalling Manisty, withdrawing her own +claim, and the barrier raised by her own vindictive agony. The mind sped +along the details that might follow--the girl's loyal resistance--Manisty's +ardour--Manisty's fascination--the homage and the seduction, the quarrels +and the impatience with which he would surround her--the scenes in which +Lucy's reserve mingling with her beauty would but evoke on the man's side +all the ingenuity, all the delicacy of which he was capable--and the final +softening of that sweet austerity which hid Lucy's heart of gold.-- + +No!--Lucy had no passion!--she would tell herself with a feverish, an angry +vehemence. How would she ever bear with Manisty, with the alternate excess +and defect of his temperament? + +And suddenly, amid the shadows of the past winter Eleanor would see +herself writing, and Manisty stooping over her,--his hand taking her pen, +his shoulder touching hers. His hand was strong, nervous, restless like +himself. Her romantic imagination that was half natural, half literary, +delighted to trace in it both caprice and power. When it touched her own +slender fingers, it seemed to her they could but just restrain themselves +from nestling into his. She would draw herself back in haste, lest some +involuntary movement should betray her. But not before the lightning +thought had burnt its way through her--'What if one just fell back +against his breast--and all was said--all ventured in a moment! +Afterwards--ecstasy, or despair--what matter!'-- + +When would Lucy have dared even such a dream? Eleanor's wild jealousy would +secretly revenge itself on the girl's maidenly coldness, on the young +stiffness, Manisty had once mocked at. How incredible that she should have +attracted him!--how, impossible that she should continue to attract him! +All Lucy's immaturities and defects passed through Eleanor's analysing +thought. + +For a moment she saw her coldly, odiously, as an enemy might see her. + +And then!--quick revulsion--a sudden loathing of herself--a sudden terror +of these new meannesses and bitterness that were invading her, stealing +from her her very self, robbing her of the character that unconsciously +she had loved in herself, as other people loved it--knowing that in deed +and truth she was what others thought her to be, kind, and gentle, and +sweet-natured. + +And last of all--poor soul!--an abject tenderness and repentance towards +Lucy, which yet brought no relief, because it never affected for an instant +the fierce tension of will beneath. + +A silvery night stole upon the sunset, absorbed, transmuted all the golds +and crimsons of the west into its own dimly shining blue. + +Eleanor was in bed; Lucy's clever hands had worked wonders with her room; +and now Eleanor had been giving quick remorseful directions to Marie to +concern herself a little with Miss Foster's comfort and Miss Foster's +luggage. + +Lucy escaped from the rooms littered with trunks and clothes. She took +her hat and a light cape, and stole out into the broad passage, on either +side of which opened the long series of small rooms which had once been +Carmelite cells. Only the four or five rooms at the western end, the bare +'apartment' which they occupied, were still whole and water-tight. Half-way +down the passage, as Lucy had already discovered, you came to rooms where +the windows had no glass and the plaster had dropped from the walls, and +the ceilings hung down in great gaps and rags of ruin. There was a bay +window at the eastern end of the passage, which had been lately glazed +for the summer tenants' sake. The rising moon streamed through on the +desolation of the damp-stained walls and floors. And a fresh upland wind +was beginning to blow and whistle through the empty and windowless cells. +Even Lucy shivered a little. It was perhaps not wonderful that the French +maid should be in revolt. + +Then she went softly down an old stone staircase to the lower floor. Here +was the same long passage with rooms on either side, but in even worse +condition. At the far end was a glow of light and a hum of voices, coming +from the corner of the building occupied by the _contadino_, and their own +kitchen. But between the heavy front door, that Lucy was about to open, +and the distant light, was an earthen floor full of holes and gaps, and +on either side--caverns of desolation--the old wine and oil stores, the +kitchens and wood cellars of the convent, now black dens avoided by the +cautious, and dark even at midday because of the rough boarding-up of the +windows. There was a stable smell in the passage, and Lucy already knew +that one of the further dens held the _contadino's_ donkey and mule. + +'_Can_ we stay here?' she said to herself, half laughing, half doubtful. + +Then she lifted the heavy iron bar that closed the old double door, and +stepped out into the courtyard that surrounded the convent, half of which +was below the road as it rapidly descended from the village, and half above +it. + +She took a few steps to the right. + +Exquisite! + +There opened out before her a little cloister, with double shafts carrying +Romanesque arches; and at the back of the court, the chapel, and a tiny +bell-tower. The moon shone down on every line and moulding. Under its +light, stucco and brick turned to ivory and silver. There was an absolute +silence, an absolute purity of air; and over all the magic of beauty and of +night. Lucy thought of the ruined frescoes in the disused chapel, of the +faces of saints and angels looking out into the stillness. + +Then she mounted some steps to the road, and turned downwards towards the +forest that crept up round them on all sides. + +Ah! was there yet another portion of the convent?--a wing running at right +angles to the main building in which they were established, and containing +some habitable rooms? In the furthest window of all was a light, and a +figure moving across it. A tall black figure--surely a priest? Yes!--as +the form came nearer to the window, seen from the back, Lucy perceived +distinctly the tonsured head and the soutane. + +How strange! She had heard nothing from the _massaja_ of any other tenant. +And this tall gaunt figure had nothing in common with the little smiling +_parroco_ she had seen in the crowd. + +She moved on, wondering. + +Oh, those woods! How they sank, like great resting clouds below her, to the +shining line of the river, and rose again on the further side! They were +oak woods, and spoke strangely to Lucy of the American and English north. +Yet, as she came nearer, the moon shone upon delicate undergrowth of heath +and arbutus, that chid her fancy back to the 'Saturnian land.' + +And beyond all, the blue mountains, ætherially light, like dreams on the +horizon; and above all, the radiant serenity of the sky. + +Ah! there spoke the nightingales, and that same melancholy note of the +little brown owl which used to haunt the olive grounds of Marinata. Lucy +held her breath. The tears rushed into her eyes--tears of memory, tears of +longing. + +But she drove them back. Standing on a little cleared space beside the road +that commanded the whole night scene, she threw herself into the emotion +and poetry which could be yielded to without remorse, without any unnerving +of the will. How far, far she was from Uncle Ben, and that shingled house +in Vermont! It was near midsummer, and all the English and Americans had +fled from this Southern Italy. Italy was at home, and at ease in her own +house, living her own rich immemorial life, knowing and thinking nothing of +the foreigner. Nor indeed on those uplands and in those woods had she ever +thought of him; though below in the valley ran the old coach road from +Florence to Rome, on which Goethe and Winckelmann had journeyed to the +Eternal City. Lucy felt as though, but yesterday a tourist and stranger, +she had now crept like a child into the family circle. Nay, she had raised +a corner of Italy's mantle, and drawn close to the warm breast of one of +the great mother-lands of the world. + +Ah! but feeling sweeps fast and far, do what we will. Soon she was +struggling out of her depth. These weeks of rushing experience had been +loosening soul and tongue. To-night how she could have talked of these +things to one now parted from her, perhaps for ever! How he would have +listened to her--impatiently often! How he would have mocked and rent her! +But then the quick softening--and the beautiful kindling eye--the dogmatism +at once imperative and sweet--the tyranny that a woman might both fight and +love! + +Yet how painful was the thought of Manisty! She was ashamed--humiliated. +Their flight assumed as a certainty what after all, let Eleanor say what +she would, he had never, never said to her--what she had no clear authority +to believe. Where was he? What was he thinking? For a moment, her heart +fluttered towards him like a homing bird. + +Then in a sharp and stern reaction she rebuked, she chastened herself. +Standing there in the night, above the forests, looking over to the dim +white cliffs on the side of Monte Amiata, she felt herself, in this strange +and beautiful land, brought face to face with calls of the spirit, with +deep voices of admonition and pity that rose from her own inmost being. + +With a long sigh, like one that lifts a weight she raised her young arms +above her head, and then brought her hands down slowly upon her eyes, +shutting out sight and sense. There was a murmur-- + +'Mother!--darling mother!--if you were just here--for one hour--' + +She gathered up the forces of the soul. + +'So help me God!' she said. And then she started, perceiving into what +formula she had slipped, unwittingly. + + * * * * * + +She moved on a few paces down the road, meaning just to peep into the woods +and their scented loneliness. The night was so lovely she was loth to leave +it. + +Suddenly she became aware of a point of light in front, and the smell of +tobacco. + +A man rose from the wayside. Lucy stayed her foot, and was about to retreat +swiftly when she heard a cheerful-- + +'Buona sera, Signorina!' She recognised a voice of the afternoon. It was +the handsome carabiniere. Lucy advanced with alacrity. + +'I came out because it was so fine,' she said. 'Are you on duty still? +Where is your companion?' + +He smiled, and pointed to the wood. 'We have a hut there. First Ruggieri +sleeps--then I sleep. We don't often come this way; but when there are +_forestieri_, then we must look out.' + +'But there are no brigands here?' + +He showed his white teeth. 'I shot two once with this gun,' he said, +producing it. + +'But not here?' she said, startled. + +'No--but beyond the mountains--over there--in Maremma.' He waved his +hand vaguely towards the west. Then he shook his head. 'Bad country--bad +people--in Maremma.' + +'Oh yes, I know,' said Lucy, laughing. 'If there is anything bad here, you +say it comes from Maremma. When our harness broke this afternoon our driver +said, "_Che vuole?_ It was made in Maremma!"--Tell me--who lives in that +part of the convent--over there?' + +And, turning back, she pointed to the distant window and the light. + +The man spat upon the road without replying. After replenishing his pipe he +said slowly: 'That, Signorina, is a _forestiere_, too.' + +'A priest--isn't it?' + +'A priest--and not a priest,' said the man after another pause. + +Then he laughed, with the sudden _insouciance_ of the Italian. + +'A priest that doesn't say his Mass!--that's a queer sort of priest--isn't +it?' + +'I don't understand,' said Lucy. + +'_Per Dio!_ what does it matter?' said the man, laughing. 'The people here +wouldn't trouble their heads, only--But you understand, Signorina'--he +dropped his voice a little--'the priests have much power--_molto, molto_! +Don Teodoro, the _parroco_ there,--it was he founded the _cassa rurale_. +If a _contadino_ wants some money for his seed-corn--or to marry his +daughter--or to buy himself a new team of oxen--he must go to the +_parroco_. Since these new banks began, it is the priests that have the +money--_capisce?_ If you want it you must ask them! So you understand, +Signorina, it doesn't profit to fall out with them. You must love their +friends, and--' His grin and gesture finished the sentence. + +'But what's the matter?' said Lucy, wondering. 'Has he committed any +crime?' And she looked curiously at the figure in the convent window. + +'_È un prete spretato, Signorina._' + +'_Spretato_?' (unpriested--unfrocked). The word was unfamiliar to her. She +frowned over it. + +'_Scomunicato!_' said the _carabiniere_, with a laugh. + +'Excommunicated?' She felt a thrill of pity, mingled with a vague horror. + +'Why?--what has he done?' + +The _carabiniere_ laughed again. The laugh was odious, but she was already +acquainted with that strange instinct of the lower-class Italian which +leads him to make mock of calamity. He has passion, but no sentiment; he +instinctively hates the pathetic. + +'_Chi sa, Signorina?_ He seems a quiet old man. We keep a sharp eye on him; +he won't do any harm. He used to give the children _confetti_, but the +mothers have forbidden them to take them. Gianni there'--he pointed to the +convent, and Lucy understood that he referred to the _contadino_--'Gianni +went to Don Teodoro, and asked if he should turn him out. But Don Teodoro +wouldn't say Yes or No. He pays well, but the village want him to go. They +say he will bring them ill-luck with their harvest.' + +'And the _Padre parroco_? Does he not speak to him?' + +Antonio laughed. + +'When Don Teodoro passes him on the road he doesn't see him--_capisce_, +Signorina? And so with all the other priests. When he comes by they have no +eyes. The Bishop sent the word.' + +'And everybody here does what the priests tell them?' + +Lucy's tone expressed that instinctive resentment which the Puritan feels +against a ruling and dominant Catholicism. + +Antonio laughed again, but a little stupidly. It was the laugh of a man who +knows that it is not worth while even to begin to explain certain matters +to a stranger. + +'They understand their business--_i preti!_'--was all he would say. +Then--'_Ma!_--they are rich--the priests! All these last years--so many +banks--so many _casse_--so many _societâ_! That holds the people better +than prayers.' + + * * * * * + +When Lucy turned homewards she found herself watching the light in the far +window with an eager attention. A priest in disgrace?--and a foreigner? +What could he be hiding here for?--in this remote corner of a district +which, as they had been already told at Orvieto, was Catholic, _fino al +fanatismo_? + + * * * * * + +The morning rose, fresh and glorious, over mountain and forest. + +Eleanor watched the streaks of light that penetrated through the wooden +sun-shutters grow brighter and brighter on the white-washed wall. She was +weary of herself, weary of the night. The old building was full of strange +sounds--of murmurs and resonances, of slight creepings and patterings, that +tried the nerves. Her room communicated with Lucy's, and their doors were +provided with bolts, the newness of which, perhaps, testified to the fears +of other summer tenants before them. Nevertheless, Eleanor had been a prey +to starts and terrors, and her night had passed in a bitter mingling of +moral strife and physical discomfort. + +Seven o'clock striking from the village church. She slipped to her feet. +Ready to her hand lay one of the soft and elegant wrappers--fresh, not long +ago, from Paris--as to which Lucy had often silently wondered how anyone +could think it right to spend so much money on such things. + +Eleanor, of course, was not conscious of the smallest reproach in the +matter. Dainty and costly dress was second nature to her; she never thought +about it. But this morning as she first took up the elaborate silken thing, +to which pale girls in hot Parisian workrooms had given so much labour +of hand and head, and then caught sight of her own face and shoulders +in the cracked glass upon the wall, she was seized with certain ghastly +perceptions that held her there motionless in the semi-darkness, shivering +amid the delicate lace and muslin which enwrapped her. Finished!--for +her--all the small feminine joys. Was there one of her dresses that did not +in some way speak to her of Manisty?--that had not been secretly planned +with a view to tastes and preferences she had come to know hardly less +intimately than her own? + +She thought of the face of the Orvieto doctor, of certain words that she +had stopped on his lips because she was afraid to hear them. A sudden +terror of death,--of the desolate, desolate end swept upon her. To die, +with this cry of the heart unspent, untold for ever! Unloved, unsatisfied, +unrewarded--she whose whole nature gave itself--gave itself perpetually, as +a wave breaks upon a barren shore. How can any God send human beings into +the world for such a lot? There can be no God. But how is the riddle +easier, for thinking Him away? + +When at last she rose, it was to make quietly for the door opening on the +_loggia_. + +Still there, this radiant marvel of the world!--this pageant of rock and +stream and forest, this pomp of shining cloud, this silky shimmer of the +wheat, this sparkle of flowers in the grass; while human hearts break, and +human lives fail, and the graveyard on the hill yonder packs closer and +closer its rows of metal crosses and wreaths! + +Suddenly, from a patch of hayfield on the further side of the road, she +heard a voice singing. A young man, tall and well made, was mowing in a +corner of the field. The swathes fell fast before him: every movement spoke +of an assured rejoicing strength. He sang with the sharp stridency which is +the rule in Italy--the words clear, the sounds nasal. + +Gradually Eleanor made out that the song was the farewell of a maiden to +her lover who is going for winter work to the Maremma. + + The labourers go to Maremma-- + Oh! 'tis long till the days of June, + And my heart is all in a flutter + Alone here, under the moon. + + O moon!--all this anguish and sorrow! + Thou know'st why I suffer so-- + Oh! send him me back from Maremma, + Where he goes, and I must not go! + +The man sang the little song carelessly, commonly, without a thought of +the words, interrupting himself every now and then to sharpen his scythe, +and then beginning again. To Eleanor it seemed the natural voice of the +morning; one more, echo of the cry of universal parting, now for a day, now +for a season, now for ever--which fills the world. + + * * * * * + +She was too restless to enjoy the _loggia_ and the view, too restless +to go back to bed. She pushed back the door between her and Lucy, only +to see that Lucy was still fast asleep. But there were voices and stops +downstairs. The farm-people had been abroad for hours. + +She made a preliminary toilette, took her hat, and stole downstairs. As she +opened the outer door the children caught sight of her and came crowding +round, large-eyed, their fingers in their mouths. She turned towards the +chapel and the little cloister that she remembered. The children gave a +shout and swooped back into the convent. And when she reached the chapel +door, there they were on her skirts again, a big boy brandishing the key. + +Eleanor took it and parleyed with them. They were to go away and leave +her alone--quite alone. Then when she came back they should have _soldi_. +The children nodded shrewdly, withdrew in a swarm to the corner of the +cloister, and watched events. + +Eleanor entered. From some high lunette windows the cool early sunlight +came creeping and playing into the little whitewashed place. On either hand +two cinque-cento frescoes had been rescued from the whitewash. They shone +like delicate flowers on the rough, yellowish-white of the walls; on one +side a martyrdom of St. Catharine, on the other a Crucifixion. Their pale +blues and lilacs, their sharp pure greens and thin crimsons, made subtle +harmony with the general lightness and cleanness of the abandoned chapel. +A poor little altar with a few tawdry furnishings at the further end, a +confessional box falling to pieces with age, and a few chairs--these were +all that it contained besides. + +Eleanor sank kneeling beside one of the chairs. As she looked round her, +physical weakness and the concentration of all thought on one subject and +one person made her for the moment the victim of an illusion so strong that +it was almost an 'apparition of the living.' + +Manisty stood before her, in the rough tweed suit he had worn in November, +one hand, holding his hat, upon his hip, his curly head thrown back, his +eyes just turning from the picture to meet hers; eyes always eagerly +confident, whether their owner pronounced on the affinities of a picture or +the fate of a country. + +'School of Pinturicchio certainly!--but local work. Same hand--don't +you think so?--as in that smaller chapel in the cathedral. Eleanor! you +remember?' + +She gave a gasp, and hid her face, shaking. Was this haunting of eye and +ear to pursue her now henceforward? Was the passage of Manisty's being +through the world to be--for her--ineffaceable?--so that earth and air +retained the impress of his form and voice, and only her tortured heart and +sense were needed to make the phantom live and walk and speak again? + +She began to pray--brokenly and desperately, as she had often prayed during +the last few weeks. It was a passionate throwing of the will against a +fate, cruel, unjust, intolerable; a means not to self-renunciation, but to +a self-assertion which was in her like madness, so foreign was it to all +the habits of the soul. + +'That he should make use of me to the last moment, then fling me to the +winds--that I should just make room, and help him to his goal--and then die +meekly--out of the way--No! He too shall suffer!--and he shall know that it +is Eleanor who exacts it!--Eleanor who bars the way!' + +And in the very depths of consciousness there emerged the strange and +bitter recognition that from the beginning she had allowed him to hold +her cheaply; that she had been content, far, far too content, with what +he chose to give; that if she had claimed more, been less delicate, less +exquisite in loving, he might have feared and regarded her more. + +She heard the chapel door open. But at the same moment she became aware +that her face was bathed in tears, and she did not dare to look round. She +drew down her veil, and composed herself as she best could. + +The person behind, apparently, also knelt down. The tread and movements +were those of a heavy man--some countryman, she supposed. + +But his neighbourhood was unwelcome, and the chapel ceased to be a place +of refuge where feeling might have its way. In a few minutes she rose and +turned towards the door. + +She gave a little cry. The man kneeling at the back of the chapel rose in +astonishment and came towards her. + +'Madame!' + +'Father Benecke! _you_ here,' said Eleanor, leaning against the wall for +support--so weak was she, and so startling was this sudden apparition of +the man whom she had last seen on the threshold of the glass passage at +Marinata, barely a fortnight before. + +'I fear, Madame, that I intrude upon you,' said the old priest, staring at +her with embarrassment. 'I will retire.' + +'No, no,' said Eleanor, putting out her hand, with some recovery of her +normal voice and smile. 'It was only so--surprising; so--unexpected. Who +could have thought of finding you here, Father?' + +The priest did not reply. They left the chapel together. The knot of +waiting children in the cloister, as soon as they saw Eleanor, raised a +shout of glee, and began to run towards her. But the moment they perceived +her companion, they stopped dead. + +Their little faces darkened, stiffened, their black eyes shone with malice. +Then suddenly the boys swooped on the pebbles of the courtyard, and with +cries of '_Bestia!--bestia!_' they flung them at the priest over their +shoulders, as they all fled helter-skelter, the brothers dragging off the +sisters, the big ones the little ones, out of sight. + +'Horrid little imps!' cried Eleanor in indignation. 'What is the matter +with them? I promised them some _soldi_. Did they hit you, Father?' + +She paused, arrested by the priest's face. + +'They?' he said hoarsely. 'Did you mean the children? Oh! no, they did no +harm?' + +What had happened to him since they met last at the villa? No doubt he +had been in conflict with his superiors and his Church. Was he already +suspended?--excommunicate? But he still wore the soutane? + +Then panic for herself swept in upon and silenced all else. All was over +with their plans. Father Benecke either was, or might at any moment be, in +communication with Manisty. Alas, alas!--what ill-luck! + +They walked together to the road--Eleanor first imagining, then rejecting +one sentence after another. At last she said, a little piteously: + +'It is so strange, Father--that you should be here!' + +The priest did not answer immediately. He walked with a curiously uncertain +gait. Eleanor noticed that his soutane was dusty and torn, and that he was +unshaven. The peculiar and touching charm that had once arisen from the +contrast between the large-limbed strength which he inherited from a race +of Suabian peasants, and an extraordinary delicacy of feature and skin, a +childish brightness and sweetness in the eyes, had suffered eclipse. He was +dulled and broken. One might have said almost that he had become a mere +ungainly, ill-kept old man, red-eyed for lack of sleep, and disorganised by +some bitter distress. + +'You remember--what I told you and Mr. Manisty, at Marinata?' he said at +last, with difficulty. + +'Perfectly. You withdrew your letter?' + +'I withdrew it. Then I came down here. I have an old friend--a Canon of +Orvieto. He told me once of this place.' + +Eleanor looked at him with a sudden return of all her natural kindness and +compassion. + +'I am afraid you have gone through a great deal, Father,' she said, +gravely. + +The priest stood still. His hand shook upon his stick. + +'I must not detain you, Madame,' he said suddenly, with a kind of tremulous +formality. 'You will be wishing to return to your apartment I heard that +two English ladies were expected--but I never thought--' + +'How could you?' said Eleanor hurriedly. 'I am not in any hurry. It is very +early still. Will you not tell me more of what has happened to you? You +would'--she turned away her head--'you would have told Mr. Manisty?' + +'Ah! Mr. Manisty!' said the priest, with a long, startled sigh. 'I trust he +is well, Madame?' + +Eleanor flushed. + +'I believe so. He and Miss Manisty are still at Marinata. Father Benecke!' + +'Madame?' + +Eleanor turned aside, poking at the stones on the road with her parasol. + +'You would do me a kindness if for the present you would not mention my +being here to any of your friends in Rome, to--to anybody, in fact. Last +autumn I happened to pass by this place, and thought it very beautiful. It +was a sudden determination on my part and Miss Foster's--you remember the +American lady who was staying with us?--to come here. The villa was getting +very hot, and--and there were other reasons. And now we wish to be quite +alone for a little while--to be in retirement even from our friends. You +will, I am sure, respect our wish?' + +She looked up, breathing quickly. All her sudden colour had gone. Her +anxiety and discomposure were very evident. The priest bowed. + +'I will be discreet, Madame,' he said, with the natural dignity of his +calling. 'May I ask you to excuse me? I have to walk into Selvapendente to +fetch a letter.' + +He took off his flat beaver hat, bowed low and departed, swinging along +at a great pace. Eleanor felt herself repulsed. She hurried back to the +convent. The children were waiting for her at the door, and when they +saw that she was alone they took their _soldi_, though with a touch of +sulkiness. + +And the door was opened to her by Lucy. + +'Truant!' said the girl reproachfully, throwing her arm round Eleanor. 'As +if you ought to go out without your coffee! But it's all ready for you on +the _loggia_. Where have you been? And why!--what's the matter?' + +Eleanor told the news as they mounted to their rooms. + +'Ah! _that_ was the priest I saw last night!' cried Lucy. 'I was just going +to tell you of my adventure. Father Benecke! How very, very strange! And +how very tiresome! It's made you look so tired.' + +And before she would hear a word more Lucy had put the elder woman into her +chair in the deep shade of the _loggia_, had brought coffee and bread and +fruit from the little table she herself had helped Cecco to arrange, and +had hovered round till Eleanor had taken at least a cup of coffee and a +fraction of roll. Then she brought her own coffee, and sat down on the rug +at Eleanor's feet. + +'I know what you're thinking about!' she said, looking up with her sweet, +sudden smile. 'You want to go--right away!' + +'Can we trust him?' said Eleanor, miserably. 'Edward doesn't know where he +is,--but he could write of course to Edward at any moment.' + +She turned away her face from Lucy. Any mention of Manisty's name dyed it +with painful colour--the shame of the suppliant living on the mercy of the +conqueror. + +'He might,' said Lucy, thinking. 'But if you asked him? No; I don't believe +he would. I am sure his soul is beautiful--like his face.' + +'His poor face! You don't know how changed he is.' + +'Ah! the _carabiniere_ told me last night. He is excommunicated,' said +Lucy, under her breath. + +And she repeated her conversation with the handsome Antonio. Eleanor capped +it with the tale of the children. + +'It's his book,' said Lucy, frowning. 'What a tyranny!' + +They were both silent. Lucy was thinking of the drive to Nemi, of Manisty's +words and looks; Eleanor recalled the priest's last visit to the villa +and that secret storm of feeling which had overtaken her as she bade him +good-bye. + +But when Lucy speculated on what might have happened, Eleanor hardly +responded. She fell into a dreamy silence from which it was difficult to +rouse her. It was very evident to Lucy that Father Benecke's personal +plight interested her but little. Her mind could not give it room. What +absorbed her was the feverish question: Were they safe any longer at Torre +Amiata, or must they strike camp and go further? + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +The day grew very hot, and Eleanor suffered visibly, even though the +quality of the air remained throughout pure and fresh, and Lucy in the +shelter of the broad _loggia_ felt nothing but a keen physical enjoyment of +the glow and blaze that held the outer world. + +After their midday meal Lucy was sitting idly on the outer wall of the +_loggia_ which commanded the bit of road just outside the convent, when she +perceived a figure mounting the hill. + +'Father Benecke!' she said to Eleanor. 'What a climb for him in this heat! +Did you say he had gone to Selvapendente? Poor old man!--how hot and tired +he looks!--and with that heavy parcel too!' + +And withdrawing herself a little out of sight she watched the priest. He +had just paused in a last patch of shade to take breath after the long +ascent. Depositing the bundle he had been carrying on a wayside stone, he +took out his large coloured handkerchief and mopped the perspiration from +his face with long sighs of exhaustion. Then with his hands on his sides he +looked round him. Opposite to him was a little shrine, with the usual rude +fresco and enthroned Madonna behind a grating. The priest walked over to +it, and knelt down. + +In a few minutes he returned and took up his parcel. As he entered the +outer gate of the convent, Lucy could see him glancing nervously from side +to side. But it was the hour of siesta and of quiet. His tormentors of the +morning were all under cover. + +The parcel that he carried had partly broken out of its wrappings during +the long walk, and Lucy could see that it contained clothes of some kind. + +'Poor Father!' she said again to Eleanor. 'Couldn't he have got some boy to +carry that for him? How I should like to rest him and give him some coffee? +Shall I send Cecco to ask him to come here?' + +Eleanor shook her head. + +'Better not. He wouldn't come. We shall have to tame him like a bird.' + +The hours passed on. At last the western sun began to creep round into +the _loggia_. The empty cells on the eastern side were now cool, but +they looked upon the inner cloistered court which was alive with playing +children, and all the farm life. Eleanor shrank both from noise and +spectators. Yet she grew visibly more tired and restless, and Lucy went out +to reconnoitre. She came back recommending a descent into the forest. + +So they braved a few yards of sun-scorched road and plunged into a little +right-hand track, which led downward through a thick undergrowth of heath +and arbutus towards what seemed the cool heart of the woods. + +Presently they came to a small gate, and beyond appeared a broad, well-kept +path, winding in zig-zags along the forest-covered side of the hill. + +'This must be private,' said Eleanor, looking at the gate in some doubt. +'And there you see is the Palazzo Guerrini.' + +She pointed. Above them through a gap in the trees showed the great yellow +pile on the edge of the plateau, the forest stretching steeply up to it and +enveloping it from below. + +'There is nothing to stop us,' said Lucy. 'They won't turn us out, if it is +theirs. I can't have you go through that sun again.' + +And she pressed on, looking for shade and rest. + +But soon she stopped, with a little cry, and they both stood looking in +astonishment at the strange and lovely thing upon which they had stumbled +unawares. + +'I know!' cried Lucy. 'The woman at the convent tried to tell me--and I +couldn't understand. She said we must see the "Sassetto"--that it was a +wonder--and all the strangers thought so. And it _is_ a wonder! And so +cool!' + +Down from the very brow of the hill, in an age before man was born, the +giant force of some primeval convulsion had flung a lava torrent of +molten rock to the bed of the Paglia. And there still was the torrent--a +rock-stream composed of huge blocks of basalt--flowing in one vast steep +fall, a couple of hundred yards wide, through the forest from top to bottom +of the hill. + +And very grim and stern would that rock-river have been but for Italy, and +the powers of the Italian soil. But the forest and its lovely undergrowths, +its heaths and creepers, its ferns and periwinkles, its lichen and mosses +had thrown themselves on the frozen lava, had decked and softened its wild +shapes, had reared oaks and pines amid the clefts of basalt, and planted +all the crannies below with lighter, featherier green, till in the dim +forest light all that had once been terror had softened into grace, and +Nature herself had turned her freak to poetry. + +And throughout the 'Sassetto' there reigned a peculiar and delicious +coolness--the blended breath of mountain and forest. The smooth path that +Eleanor and Lucy had been following wound in and out among the strange +rock-masses, bearing the signs of having been made at great cost and +difficulty. Soon, also, benches of grey stone began to mark the course of +it at frequent intervals. + +'We must live here!' cried Lucy in enchantment. 'Let me spread the shawl +for you--there!--just in front of that glimpse of the river.' + +They had turned a corner of the path. Lucy, whose gaze was fixed upon the +blue distance towards Orvieto, heard a hurried word from Eleanor, looked +round, and saw Father Benecke just rising from a seat in front. + +A shock ran through her. The priest stood hesitating and miserable before +them, a hot colour suffusing his hollow cheeks. Lucy saw that he was no +longer in clerical dress. He wore a grey alpaca suit, and a hat of fine +Leghorn straw with a broad black ribbon. Both ladies almost feared to speak +to him. + +Then Lucy ran forward, her cheeks too a bright red, her eyes wet and +sparkling. 'How do you do, Father Benecke? You won't remember me, but I was +just introduced to you that day at luncheon--don't you remember--on the +Aventine?' + +The priest took her offered hand, and looked at her in astonishment. + +'Yes--I remember--you were with Miss Manisty.' + +'I wish you had asked me to come with you this morning,' cried the girl +suddenly. 'I'd have helped you carry that parcel up the hill. It was too +much for you in the heat.' + +Her face expressed the sweetest, most passionate sympathy, the indignant +homage of youth to old age unjustly wounded and forsaken. Eleanor was no +less surprised than Father Benecke. Was this the stiff, the reticent Lucy? + +The priest struggled for composure, and smiled as he withdrew his hand. + +'You would have found it a long way, Signorina. I tried to get a boy at +Selvapendente, but no one would serve me.' + +He paused a moment, then resumed speaking with a sort of passionate +reluctance, his eyes upon the ground. + +'I am a suspended priest--and the Bishop of Orvieto has notified the fact +to his clergy. The news was soon known through the whole district. And now +it seems the people hate me. They will do nothing for me. Nay, if they +could, they would willingly do me an injury.' + +The flush had died out of the old cheeks. He stood bareheaded before them, +the tonsure showing plainly amid his still thick white locks--the delicate +face and hair, like a study in ivory and silver, thrown out against the +deep shadows of the Sassetto. + +'Father, won't you sit down and tell me about it all?' said Eleanor gently. +'You didn't send me away, you know--the other day--at the villa.' + +The priest sighed and hesitated. 'I don't know, Madame, why I should +trouble you with my poor story. + +'It would not trouble me. Besides, I know so much of it already.' + +She pointed to the bench he had just left. + +'And I,' said Lucy, 'will go and fetch a book I left in the _loggia_. +Father Benecke, Mrs. Burgoyne is not strong. She has walked more than +enough. Will you kindly make her rest while I am gone?' + +She fixed upon him her kind beseeching eyes. The sympathy, the homage of +the two women enveloped the old man. His brow cleared a little. + +She sped down the winding path, aglow with anger and pity. The priest's +crushed strength and humiliated age--what a testimony to the power of that +tradition for which Mr. Manisty was working--its unmerciful and tyrannous +power! + +Why such a penalty for a 'mildly Liberal' book?--'a fraction of the truth'? +She could hear Manisty's ironic voice on that bygone drive to Nemi. If he +saw his friend now, would he still excuse--defend?-- + +Her thoughts wrestled with him hotly--then withdrew themselves in haste, +and fled the field. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Father Benecke's reserve had gradually yielded. He gave Eleanor a +long troubled look, and said at last, very simply-- + +'Madame, you see a man broken hearted--' + +He stopped, staring desolately at the ground. Eleanor threw in a few gentle +words and phrases, and presently he again mustered courage to speak: + +'You remember, Madame, that my letter was sent to the _Osservatore +Romano_ after a pledge had been given to me that only the bare fact of my +submission, the mere formula that attends the withdrawal of any book that +has been placed upon the Index, should be given to the public. Then my +letter appeared. And suddenly it all became clear to me. I cannot explain +it. It was with me as it was with St. Paul: "Placuit Domino ut revelaret +filium suum in me!" My heart rose up and said: "Thou hast betrayed the +truth"--"_Tradidisti Sanctum et Justum!_" After I left you that day I wrote +withdrawing my letter and my submission. And I sent a copy to one of the +Liberal papers. Then my heart smote me. One of the Cardinals of the Holy +Office had treated me with much kindness. I wrote to him--I tried to +explain what I had done. I wrote to several other persons at the Vatican, +complaining of the manner in which I had been dealt with. No answer--not +one. All were silent--as though I were already a dead man. Then I tried to +see one or two of my old friends. But no one would receive me; one and all +turned me from their doors. So then I left Rome. But I could not make up +my mind to go home till I knew the worst. You understand, Madame, that I +have been a Professor of Theology; that my Faculty can remove me--that my +Faculty obeys the Bishops, and the Bishops obey the Holy See. I remembered +this place--I left my address in Rome--and I came down here to wait. Ah! it +was not long!' + +He drew himself up, smiling bitterly. + +'Two days after I arrived here I received two letters simultaneously--one +from my Bishop, the other from the Council of my Faculty--suspending +me both from my priestly and my academical functions. By the next post +arrived a communication from the Bishop of this diocese, forbidding me the +Sacraments.' + +He paused. The mere recital of his case had brought him again into the +bewilderment of that mental anguish he had gone through. Eleanor made a +murmur of sympathy. He faced her with a sudden ardour. + +'I had expected it, Madame; but when it came I was stunned--I was bowed to +the earth. A few days later, I received an anonymous letter--from Orvieto, +I think--reminding me that a priest suspended _a divinis_ has no right +to the soutane. "Let the traitor," it said, "give up the uniform he has +disgraced--let him at least have the decency to do that." In my trouble I +had not thought of it. So I wrote to a friend in Rome to send me clothes.' + +Eleanor's eyes filled with tears. She thought of the old man staggering +alone up the dusty hill under his unwelcome burden. + +He himself was looking down at his new clothes in a kind of confusion. +Suddenly he said under his breath, 'And for what?--because I said what +every educated man in Europe knows to be true?' + +'Father,' said Eleanor, longing to express some poor word of comfort and +respect, 'you have suffered greatly--you will suffer--but it is not for +yourself.' + +He shook his head. + +'Madame, you see a man dying of hunger and thirst! He cannot cheat himself +with fine words. He starves!' + +She stared at him, startled--partly understanding. + +'For forty-two years,' he said, in a low, pathetic voice, 'have I received +my Lord--day after day--without a break. And now "they have taken Him +away--and I know not where they have laid Him!"' + +Nothing could be more desolate than tone and look. Eleanor understood. She +had seen this hunger before. She remembered a convent in Rome where on Good +Fridays some of the nuns were often ill with restlessness and longing, +because for twenty-four hours the Sacrament was not upon the altar. + +Under the protection of her reverent and pitying silence he gradually +recovered himself. With great delicacy, with fine and chosen words, she +began to try and comfort him, dwelling on his comradeship with all the +martyrs of the world, on the help and support that would certainly gather +round him, on the new friends that would replace the old. And as she talked +there grew up in her mind an envy of him so passionate, so intense, that +she could have thrown herself at his feet there and then and opened her own +wretched heart to him. + +He, tortured by the martyrdom of thought, by the loss of Christian +fellowship!--She, scorched and consumed by a passion that was perfectly +ready to feed itself on the pain and injury of the beloved, or the +innocent, as soon as its own selfish satisfaction was denied it! There was +a moment when she felt herself unworthy to breathe the same air with him. + +She stared at him, frowning and pale, her hand clasping her breast, lest he +should hear the beating of her heart. + + * * * * * + +Then the hand dropped. The inner tumult passed. And at the same moment the +sound of steps was heard approaching. + +Round the further corner of the path came two ladies, descending towards +them. They were both dressed in deep mourning. The first was an old woman, +powerfully and substantially built. Her grey hair, raised in a sort of +toupé under her plain black bonnet, framed a broad and noticeable brow, +black eyes, and other features that were both benevolent and strong. She +was very pale, and her face expressed a haunting and prevailing sorrow. +Eleanor noticed that she was walking alone, some distance ahead of her +companion, and that she had gathered up her black skirts in an ungloved +hand, with an absent disregard of appearances. Behind her came a younger +lady, a sallow and pinched woman of about thirty, very slight and tall. + +As they passed Eleanor and her companion, the elder woman threw a lingering +glance at the strangers. The scrutiny of it was perhaps somewhat imperious. +The younger lady walked past stiffly with her eyes on the ground. + +Eleanor and Father Benecke were naturally silent as they passed. Eleanor +had just begun to speak again when she heard herself suddenly addressed in +French. + +She looked up in astonishment and saw that the old lady had returned and +was standing before her. + +'Madame--you allow me to address you?' + +Eleanor bowed. + +'You are staying at Santa Trinità, I believe!' + +'_Oui, Madame_. We arrived yesterday.' + +The Contessa's examining eye, whereof the keenness was but just duly +chastened by courtesy, took note of that delicate and frail refinement +which belonged both to Eleanor's person and dress. + +'I fear, Madame, you are but roughly housed at the Trinità. They are not +accustomed to English ladies. If my daughter and I, who are residents here, +can be of any service to you, I beg that you will command us.' + +Eleanor felt nothing but an angry impatience. Could even this remote place +give them no privacy? She answered however with her usual grace. + +'You are very good, Madame. I suppose that I am speaking to the Contessa +Guerrini?' + +The other lady made a sign of assent. + +'We brought a few things from Orvieto--my friend and I,' Eleanor continued. +'We shall only stay a few weeks. I think we have all that is necessary. But +I am very grateful to you for your courtesy.' + +Her manner, however, expressed no effusion, hardly even adequate response. +The Contessa understood. She talked for a few moments, gave a few +directions as to paths and points of view, pointed out a drive beyond +Selvapendente on the mountain side, bowed and departed. + +Her bow did not include the priest. But he was not conscious of it. While +the ladies talked, he had stood apart, holding the hat that seemed to burn +him, in his finger-tips, his eyes, with their vague and troubled intensity, +expressing only that inward vision which is at once the paradise and the +torment of the prophet. + + * * * * * + +Three weeks passed away. Eleanor had said no more of further travelling. +For some days she lived in terror, startled by the least sound upon the +road. Then, as it seemed to Lucy, she resigned herself to trust in Father +Benecke's discretion, influenced also no doubt by the sense of her own +physical weakness, and piteous need of rest. + +And now--in these first days of July--their risk was no doubt much less +than it had been. Manisty had not remembered Torre Amiata--another thorn in +Eleanor's heart! He must have left Italy. As each fresh morning dawned, she +assured herself drearily that they were safe enough. + +As for the heat, the sun indeed was lord and master of this central Italy. +Yet on the high tableland of Torre Amiata the temperature was seldom +oppressive. Lucy, indeed, soon found out from her friend the Carabiniere +that while malaria haunted the valley, and scourged the region of Bolsena +to the south, the characteristic disease of their upland was pneumonia, +caused by the daily ascent of the labourers from the hot slopes below to +the sharp coolness of the night. + +No, the heat was not overwhelming. Yet Eleanor grew paler and feebler. Lucy +hovered round her in a constantly increasing anxiety. And presently she +began to urge retreat, and change of plan. It was madness to stay in the +south. Why not more at once to Switzerland, or the Tyrol? + +Eleanor shook her head. + +'But I can't have you stay here,' cried Lucy in distress. + +And coming closer, she chose her favourite seat on the floor of the +_loggia_ and laid her head against Eleanor's arm. + +'Oughtn't you to go home?' she said, in a low urgent voice, caressing +Eleanor's hand. 'Send me back to Uncle Ben. I can go home any time. But you +ought to be in Scotland. Let me write to Miss Manisty!' + +Eleanor laid her hand on her mouth. 'You promised!' she said, with her +sweet stubborn smile. + +'But it isn't right that I should let you run these risks. It--it--isn't +kind to me.' + +'I don't run risks. I am as well here as anywhere. The Orvieto doctor saw +no objection to my being here--for a month, at any rate.' + +'Send me home,' murmured Lucy again, softly kissing the hand she held. 'I +don't know why I ever came.' + +Eleanor started. Her lips grew pinched and bitter. But she only said: + +'Give me our six weeks. All I want is you--and quiet.' + +She held out both her hands very piteously, and Lucy took them, conquered, +though not convinced. + +'If anything went really wrong,' said Eleanor, 'I am sure you could appeal +to that old Contessa. She has the face of a mother in Israel.' + +'The people here seem to be pretty much in her hand,' said Lucy, as +she rose. 'She manages most of their affairs for them. But poor, poor +thing!--did you see that account in the _Tribuna_ this morning?' + +The girl's voice dropped, as though it had touched a subject almost too +horrible to be spoken of. + +Eleanor looked up with a sign of shuddering assent. Her daily _Tribuna_, +which the postman brought her, had in fact contained that morning a letter +describing the burial--after three months!--of the remains of the army +slain in the carnage of Adowa on March 1. For three months had those +thousands of Italian dead lain a prey to the African sun and the African +vultures, before Italy could get leave from her victorious foe to pay the +last offices to her sons. + +That fine young fellow of whom the neighbourhood talked, who seemed to have +left behind him such memories of energy and goodness, his mother's idol, +had his bones too lain bleaching on that field of horror? It did not bear +thinking of. + +Lucy went downstairs to attend to some household matters. It was about +ten o'clock in the morning, and presently Eleanor heard the postman from +Selvapendente knock at the outer door. Marie brought up the letters. + +There were four or five for Lucy, who had never concealed her address from +her uncle, though she had asked that it might be kept for a while from +other people. He had accordingly forwarded some home-letters, and Marie +laid them on the table. Beside them were some letters that Lucy had just +written and addressed. The postman went his round through the village; then +returned to pick them up. + +Marie went away, and suddenly Eleanor sprang from the sofa. With a flush +and a wild look she went to examine Lucy's letters. + +Was all quite safe? Was Lucy not tampering with her, betraying her in any +way? The letters were all for America, except one, addressed to Paris. No +doubt an order to a tradesman? But Lucy had said nothing about it--and the +letter filled Eleanor with a mad suspicion that her weakness could hardly +repress. + +'Why! by now--I am not even a lady!' she said to herself at last with +set teeth, as she dragged herself from the table, and began to pace the +_loggia_. + +But when Lucy returned, in one way or another Eleanor managed to inform +herself as to the destination of all the letters. And then she scourged and +humbled herself for her doubts, and became for the rest of the morning the +most winning and tender of companions. + +As a rule they never spoke of Manisty. What Lucy's attitude implied was +that she had in some unwitting and unwilling way brought trouble on +Eleanor; that she was at Torre Amiata to repair it; and that in general she +was at Eleanor's orders. + +Of herself she would not allow a word. Beyond and beneath her sweetness +Eleanor divined a just and indomitable pride. And beyond that Mrs. Burgoyne +could not penetrate. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Meanwhile Eleanor found some distraction in Father Benecke. + +The poor priest was gradually recovering a certain measure of serenity. The +two ladies were undoubtedly of great assistance to him. They became popular +in the village, where they and their wants set flowing a stream of _lire_, +more abundant by far than had hitherto attended the summer guests, even the +Sindaco of Selvapendente. They were the innocent causes, indeed, of some +evil. Eleanor had been ordered goats' milk by the Orvieto doctor, and the +gentleman who had secured the order from the _massaja_ went in fear of his +life at the hands of two other gentlemen who had not been equally happy. +But in general they brought prosperity, and the popular smile was granted +them. + +So that when it was discovered that they were already acquainted with +the mysterious foreign priest, and stoutly disposed to befriend him, +the village showed the paralysing effect of a conflict of interests. At +the moment and for various reasons the clericals were masters. And the +clericals denounced Father Benecke as a traitor and a heretic. At the same +time the village could not openly assail the ladies' friend without running +the risk of driving the ladies themselves from Torre Amiata. And this +clearly would have been a mere wanton slight to a kind Providence. Even the +children understood the situation, and Father Benecke now took his walks +unmolested by anything sharper than sour looks and averted faces. + +Meanwhile he was busy in revising a new edition of his book. This review +of his own position calmed him. Contact with all the mass of honest and +laborious knowledge of which it was a summary gave him back his dignity, +raised him from the pit of humiliation into which he seemed to have fallen, +and strengthened him to resist. The spiritual privations that his state +brought him could be sometimes forgotten. There were moments indeed when +the iron entered into his soul. When the bell of the little church rang at +half-past five in the morning, he was always there in his corner by the +door. The peasants brushed past him suspiciously as they went in and out. +He did not see them. He was absorbed in the function, or else in a bitter +envy of the officiating priest, and at such moments he suffered all that +any 'Vaticanist' could have wished him to suffer. + +But when he was once more among his books, large gusts of a new and strange +freedom began, as it were, to blow about him. In writing the philosophical +book which had now brought him into conflict with the Church, he had +written in constraint and timidity. A perpetual dread, not only of +ecclesiastical censure but of the opinion of old and valued friends; a +perpetual uncertainty as to the limits of Catholic liberty; these things +had held him in bondage. What ought he say? What must he leave unsaid? He +understood perfectly that hypothesis must not be stated as truth. But the +vast accumulation of biological fact on the one hand, and of historical +criticism on the other, that has become the common property of the +scientific mind, how was it to be recapitulated--within Catholic limits? He +wrote in fear, like one walking on the burning ploughshares of the ordeal. +Religion was his life; but he had at once the keen intelligence and the +mystical temperament of the Suabian. He dreaded the collision which +ultimately came. Yet the mental process could not be stayed. + +Now, with the final act of defiance, obscurely carried out, conditioned he +knew not how, there had arrived for him a marvellous liberation of soul. +Even at sixty-five he felt himself tragically new-born--naked and feeble +indeed, but still with unknown possibilities of growth and new life before +him. + +His book, instead of being revised, must be re-written. No need now to +tremble for a phrase! Let the truth be told. He plunged into his old +studies again, and the world of thought met him with a friendlier and +franker welcome. On all sides there was a rush and sparkle of new light. +How far he must follow and submit, his trembling soul did not yet know. But +for the moment there was an extraordinary though painful exhilaration--the +excitement of leading-strings withdrawn and walls thrown down. + +This enfranchisement brought him, however, into strange conflict with +his own character. His temperament was that of the ascetic and visionary +religious. His intelligence had much the same acuteness and pliancy as that +of another and more pronounced doubter--a South German also, like Father +Benecke,--the author of the 'Leben Jesu.' But his _character_ was the joint +product of his temperament and his habits, and was often difficult to +reconcile with the quick play of his intelligence. + +For instance, he was, in daily habit, an austere and most devout priest, +living alone with his old sister, as silent and yet fervent as himself, and +knowing almost nothing of other women, except through the Confessional. To +his own astonishment he was in great request as a director. But socially he +knew very little of his penitents; they were to him only 'souls,' spiritual +cases which he studied with the ardour of a doctor. Otherwise the small +benefice which he held in a South German town, his university class, and +the travail of his own research absorbed him wholly. + +Hence a great innocence and unworldliness; but also an underlying sternness +towards himself and others. His wants were small, and for many years the +desires of the senses had been dead within him. Towards women he felt, if +the truth were known, with that strange unconscious arrogance which is a +most real and very primitive element in Catholicism, notwithstanding the +worship of Mary and the glories of St. Teresa and St. Catharine. The Church +does not allow any woman, even a 'religious,' to wash the corporal and +other linen which has been used in the Mass. There is a strain of thought +implied in that prohibition which goes deep and far--back to the dim dawn +of human things. It influences the priest in a hundred ways; it affected +even the tender and spiritual mind of Father Benecke. As a director of +women he showed them all that impersonal sweetness which is of the essence +of Catholic tradition; but they often shrank nevertheless from what they +felt to be a fundamental inflexibility mingled with pity. + +Thus when he found himself brought into forced contact with the two ladies +who had invaded his retreat, when Lucy in a hundred pretty ways began to +show him a young and filial homage, when Eleanor would ask him to coffee +with them, and talk to him about his book and the subjects it discussed, +the old priest was both amazed and embarrassed. + +How in the world did she know anything about such things? He understood +that she had been of assistance to Mr. Manisty: but that it had been the +assistance of a comrade and an equal--that had never entered his head. + +So that at first Mrs. Burgoyne's talk silenced and repelled him. He was +conscious of the male revolt of St. Paul!--'I suffer not a woman to teach'; +and for a time he hung back. + +On his visit to the villa, and on her first meeting with him at Torre +Amiata, he had been under the influence of a shock which had crushed the +child in him and broken down his reserve. Yet that reserve was naturally +strong, together with certain despotic instincts which Eleanor perceived +with surprise beneath his exquisite gentleness. She sometimes despaired of +taming him. + +Nevertheless when Eleanor presently advised him to publish a statement of +his case in a German periodical; when the few quick things she said showed +a knowledge of the German situation and German current literature that +filled him with astonishment; when with a few smiles, hints, demurs, she +made plain to him that she perfectly understood where he had weakened his +book--which lay beside her--out of deference to authority, and where it +must be amended, if it was to produce any real influence upon European +cultivated opinion, the old priest was at first awkward or speechless. +Then slowly he rose to the bait. He began to talk; he became by degrees +combative, critical, argumentative. His intelligence took the field; his +character receded. Eleanor had won the day. + +Presently, indeed, he began to haunt them. He brought to Eleanor each +article and letter as it arrived, consulting her on every phase of a +controversy, concerning him and his book, which was now sweeping through +certain Catholic circles and newspapers. He was eager, forgetful, exacting +even. Lucy began to dread the fatigue that he sometimes produced. While +for Lucy he was still the courteous and paternal priest, for Eleanor he +gradually became--like Manisty--the intellectual comrade, crossing swords +often in an equal contest, where he sometimes forgot the consideration due +to the woman in the provocation shown him by the critic. + +And when she had tamed him, it was to Eleanor all ashes and emptiness! + +'_This_ is the kind of thing I can always do,' she said to herself one day, +throwing out her hands in self-scorn, as he left her on the _loggia_, where +he had been taking coffee with herself and Lucy. + +And meanwhile what attracted her was not in the least the controversialist +and the man of letters--it was the priest, the Christian, the ascetic. + +Torn with passion and dread as she was, she divined in him the director; +she felt towards him as the woman so often feels towards that sexless +mystery, the priest. Other men are the potential lovers of herself or +other women; she knows herself their match. But in this man set apart, she +recognises the embodied conscience, the moral judge, who is indifferent +to her as a woman, observant of her as a soul. Round this attraction she +flutters, and has always fluttered since the beginning of things. It is +partly a yearning for guidance and submission; partly also a secret pride +that she who for other men is mere woman, is, for the priest, spirit, and +immortal. She prostrates herself; but at the same time she seems to herself +to enter through her submission upon a region of spiritual independence +where she is the slave, not of man but of God. + +What she felt also, tortured as she was by jealousy and angry will, was the +sheer longing for human help that must always be felt by the lonely and the +weak. Confession, judgment, direction--it was on these tremendous things +that her inner mind was brooding all the time that she sat talking to +Father Benecke of the Jewish influence in Bavaria, or the last number of +the 'Civiltà Cattolica.' + + * * * * * + +One evening at the beginning of July Eleanor and Lucy were caught in the +woods by a thunder-shower. The temperature dropped suddenly, and as they +mounted the hill towards the convent Eleanor in her thin white dress met a +blast of cold wind that followed the rain. + +The result was chill and fever. Lucy and Marie tended her as best they +could, but her strength appeared to fail her with great rapidity, and there +came an evening when Lucy fell into a panic of anxiety. + +Should she summon the local doctor--a man who was paid 80_l._ a year by the +Municipio of Selvapendente, and tended the Commune of Torre Amiata? + +She had discovered, however, that he was not liked by the peasants. His +appearance was not attractive, and she doubted whether she could persuade +Eleanor to see him. + +An idea struck her. Without consulting Mrs. Burgoyne, she took her hat and +boldly walked up to the Palazzo on the hill. Here she inquired for the +Contessa Guerrini. The Contessa, however, was out; Lucy left a little note +in French asking for advice. Could they get a good doctor at Selvapendente, +or must she send to Orvieto? + +She had hardly reached home before an answer followed her from the +Contessa, who regretted extremely that Mademoiselle Foster should not +have found her at home. There was a good doctor at Selvapendente, and the +Contessa would have great pleasure in sending a mounted messenger to fetch +him. She regretted the illness of Madame. There was a fair _farmacia_ in +the village. Otherwise she was afraid that in illness the ladies would not +find themselves very well placed at Torre Amiata. Would Mademoiselle kindly +have her directions for the doctor ready, and the messenger would call +immediately? + +Lucy was sincerely grateful and perhaps a little astonished. She was +obliged to tell Eleanor, and Eleanor showed some restlessness, but was too +unwell to protest. The doctor came and proved to be competent. The fever +was subdued, and Eleanor was soon convalescent. Meanwhile flowers, fruit, +and delicacies were sent daily from the Palazzo, and twice did the Contessa +descend from her little victoria at the door of the convent courtyard, to +inquire for the patient. + +On each occasion Lucy saw her, and received the impression of a dignified, +kind, and masterful woman, bowed by recent grief, but nevertheless +sensitively alive in a sort of old-fashioned stately way to the claims of +strangers on the protection of the local grandee. It seemed to attract her +that Lucy was American, and that Eleanor was English. + +'I have twice visited England,' she said, in an English that was correct, +but a little rusty. 'My husband learnt many things from England--for the +estate. But I wonder, Mademoiselle, that you come to us at this time of +year?' + +Lucy laughed and coloured. She said it was pleasant to see Italy without +the _forestieri_; that it was like surprising a bird on its nest. But +she stumbled a little, and the Contessa noticed both the blush and the +stumbling. + +When Eleanor was able to go out, the little carriage was sent for her, +and neither she nor Lucy knew how to refuse it. They drove up and down +the miles of zig-zag road that Don Emilio had made through the forest on +either side of the river, connecting the Palazzo Guerrini with the _casa +di caccia_ on the mountain opposite. The roads were deserted; grass was +beginning to grow on them. The peasants scarcely ever used them. They clung +to the old steep paths and tracts that had been theirs for generations. But +the small smart horses, in their jingling harness, trotted briskly along; +and Eleanor beside her companion, more frail and languid than ever, looked +listlessly out upon a world of beauty that spoke to her no more. + +And at last a note from the Contessa arrived, asking if the ladies would +honour her and her daughter by taking tea with them at the Palazzo. 'We are +in deep mourning and receiving no society,' said the note; 'but if Madame +and her friend will visit us in this quiet way it will give us pleasure, +and they will perhaps enjoy the high view from here over our beautiful +country.' + +Eleanor winced and accepted. + + * * * * * + +The Palazzo, as they climbed up through the village towards it, showed +itself to be an imposing pile of the later seventeenth century, with +heavily-barred lower windows, and, above, a series of graceful _loggie_ +on its northern and western fronts which gave it a delicate and habitable +air. On the north-eastern side the woods, broken by the stone-fall of the +Sassetto, sank sharply to the river; on the other the village and the +vineyards pressed upon its very doors. The great entrance gateway opened on +a squalid village street, alive with crawling babies and chatting mothers. + +At this gateway, however--through which appeared a courtyard aglow with +oleanders and murmurous with running water--they were received with +some state. An old majordomo met them, accompanied by two footmen and a +carrying-chair. Eleanor was borne up a high flight of stone stairs, and +through a vast and bare 'apartment' of enormous rooms with tiled or brick +floors and wide stone _cheminées_, furnished with a few old chests and +cabinets, a collection of French engravings of the last century, and some +indifferent pictures. A few of the rooms were frescoed with scenes of +hunting or social life in a facile eighteenth-century style. Here and +there was a piece of old tapestry or a Persian carpet. But as a whole, the +Palazzo, in spite of its vastness, made very much the impression of an old +English manor house which has belonged to people of some taste and no great +wealth, and has grown threadbare and even ugly with age. Yet tradition and +the family remain. So here. A frugal and antique dignity, sure of itself +and needing no display, breathed in the great cool spaces. + +The Contessa and her daughter were in a small and more modern _salone_ +looking on the river and the woods. Eleanor was placed in a low chair +near the open window, and her hostess could not forbear a few curious and +pitying glances at the sharp, high-bred face of the Englishwoman, the +feverish lips, and the very evident emaciation, which the elegance of the +loose black dress tried in vain to hide. + +'I understand, Madame,' she said, after Eleanor had expressed her thanks +with the pretty effusion that was natural to her, 'that you were at Torre +Amiata last autumn?' + +Eleanor started. The _massaja_, she supposed, had been gossiping. It was +disagreeable, but good-breeding bade her be frank. + +'Yes, I was here with some friends, and your agent gave us hospitality for +the night.' + +The Contessa looked astonished. + +'Ah!' she said, 'you were here with the D----'s?' + +Eleanor assented. + +'And you spent the winter in Rome?' + +'Part of it. Madame, you have the most glorious view in the world!' And she +turned towards the great prospect at her feet. + +The Contessa understood. + +'How ill she is!' she thought; 'and how distinguished!' + +And presently Eleanor on her side, while she was talking nervously and fast +on a good many disconnected subjects, found herself observing her hostess. +The Contessa's strong square face had been pale and grief-stricken when she +saw it first. But she noticed now that the eyelids were swollen and red, as +though from constant tears; and the little sallow daughter looked sadder +and shyer than ever. Eleanor presently gathered that they were living in +the strictest seclusion and saw no visitors. 'Then why'--she asked herself, +wondering--'did she speak to us in the Sassetto?--and why are we admitted +now? Ah! that is his portrait!' + +For at the Contessa's elbow, on a table specially given up to it, she +perceived a large framed photograph draped in black. It represented a +tall young man in an Artillery uniform. The face was handsome, eager, and +yet melancholy. It seemed to express a character at once impatient and +despondent, but held in check by a strong will. With a shiver Eleanor again +recalled the ghastly incidents of the war; and the story they had heard +from the _massaja_ of the young man's wound and despair. + +Her heart, in its natural lovingness, went out to his mother. She found +her tongue, and she and the Contessa talked till the twilight fell of the +country and the peasants, of the improvements in Italian farming, of the +old convent and its history. + +Not a word of the war; and not a word, Eleanor noticed, of their +fellow-lodger, Father Benecke. From various indications she gathered that +the sallow daughter was _dévote_ and a 'black.' The mother, however, seemed +to be of a different stamp. She was at any rate a person of cultivation. +That, the books lying about were enough to prove. But she had also the +shrewdness and sobriety, the large pleasant homeliness, of a good man of +business. It was evident that she, rather than her _fattore_, managed her +property, and that she perfectly understood what she was doing. + +In truth, a secret and strong sympathy had arisen between the two women. +During the days that followed they met often. + +The Contessa asked no further questions as to the past history or future +plans of the visitors. But indirectly, and without betraying her new +friends, she made inquiries in Rome. One of the D---- family wrote to her: + +'The English people we brought with us last year to your delicious Torre +Amiata were three--a gentleman and two ladies. The gentleman was a Mr. +Manisty, a former member of the English Parliament, and very conspicuous +in Rome last winter for a kind of Brunetière alliance with the Vatican and +hostility to the Italian _régime_. People mostly regarded it as a pose; and +as he and his aunt were rich and of old family, and Mr. Manisty was--when +he chose--a most brilliant talker, they were welcome everywhere, and Rome +certainly fêted them a good deal. The lady staying with them was a Mrs. +Burgoyne, a very graceful and charming woman whom everybody liked. It was +quite plain that there was some close relation between her and Mr. Manisty. +By which I mean nothing scandalous! Heavens! nobody ever thought of such +a thing. But I believe that many people who knew them well felt that it +would be a very natural and right thing that he should marry her. She was +evidently touchingly devoted to him--acting as his secretary, and hanging +on his talk. In the spring they went out to the hills, and a young American +girl--quite a beauty, they say, though rather raw--went to stay with them. +I heard so much of her beauty from Madame Variani that I was anxious to see +her. Miss Manisty promised to bring her here before they left in June. But +apparently the party broke up suddenly, and we saw no more of them. + +'Now I think I have told you the chief facts about them. I wonder what +makes you ask? I often think of poor Mrs. Burgoyne, and hope she may be +happy some day. I can't say, however, that Mr. Manisty ever seemed to me a +very desirable husband! And yet I was very sorry you were not at home in +the autumn. You might have disliked him heartily, but you would have found +him _piquant_ and stimulating. And of all the glorious heads on man's +shoulders he possesses the most glorious--the head of a god attached to a +rather awkward and clumsy body.' + +Happy! Well, whatever else might have happened, the English lady was not +yet happy. Of that the Contessa Guerrini was tolerably certain after a +first conversation with her. Amid the gnawing pressure of her own grief +there was a certain distraction in the observance of this sad and delicate +creature, and in the very natural speculations she aroused. Clearly Miss +Foster was the young American girl. Why were they here together, in this +heat, away from all their friends? + + * * * * * + +One day Eleanor was sitting with the Contessa on a _loggia_ in the Palazzo, +looking north-west towards Radicofani. It was a cool and rather cloudy +evening, after a day of gasping heat. The majordomo suddenly announced; +'His reverence, Don Teodoro.' + +The young _padre parroco_ appeared--a slim, engaging figure, as he stood +for an instant amid the curtains of the doorway, glancing at the two ladies +with an expression at once shy and confiding. + +He received the Contessa's greeting with effusion, bowing low over +her hand. When she introduced him to the English lady, he bowed again +ceremoniously. But his blue eyes lost their smile. The gesture was formal, +the look constrained. Eleanor, remembering Father Benecke, understood. + +In conversation with the Contessa however he recovered a boyish charm and +spontaneity that seemed to be characteristic. Eleanor watched him with +admiration, noticing also the subtle discernment of the Italian, which +showed through all his simplicity of manner. It was impossible to mistake, +for instance, that he felt himself in a house of mourning. The movements +of body and voice were all at first subdued and sympathetic. Yet the +mourning had passed into a second stage, and ordinary topics might now be +introduced. He glided into them with the most perfect tact. + +He had come for two reasons. First, to announce his appointment as Select +Preacher for the coming Advent at a well-known church in Rome; secondly, to +bring to the Contessa's notice a local poet--gifted, but needy--an Orvieto +man, whose Muse the clergy had their own reasons for cultivating. + +The Contessa congratulated him, and he bowed profoundly in a silent +pleasure. + +Then he took up the poet, repeating stanza after stanza with a perfect +_naïveté_, in his rich young voice, without a trace of display; ending at +last with a little sigh, and a sudden dropping of the eyes, like a child +craving pardon. + +Eleanor was delighted with him, and the Contessa, who seemed more difficult +to please, also smiled upon him. Teresa, the pious daughter, was with Lucy +in the Sassetto. No doubt she was the little priest's particular friend. He +had observed at once that she was not there, and had inquired for her. + +'One or two of those lines remind me of Carducci, and that reminds me +that I saw Carducci for the first time this spring,' said the Contessa, +turning to Eleanor. 'It was at a meeting of the Accademia in Rome. A +great affair--the King and Queen--and a paper on Science and Religion, by +Mazzoli. Perhaps you don't remember his name? He was our Minister of the +Interior a few years ago.' + +Eleanor did not hear. Her attention was diverted by the sudden change in +the aspect of the _padre parroco_. It was the dove turned hawk. The fresh +face seemed to have lost its youth in a moment, to have grown old, sharp, +rancorous. + +'Mazzoli!'--he said, as the Contessa paused--'_Eccellenza, è un Ebreo!_' + +The Contessa frowned. Yes, Mazzoli was a Jew, but an honest man; and his +address had been of great interest, as bearing witness to the revival of +religious ideas in circles that had once been wholly outside religion. +The _parroco's_ lips quivered with scorn. He remembered the affair--a +scandalous business! The King and Queen present, and a _Jew_ daring before +them, to plead the need of 'a new religion'--in Italy, where Catholicism, +Apostolic and Roman, was guaranteed as the national religion--by the first +article of the _Statuto_. The Contessa replied with some dryness that +Mazzoli spoke as a philosopher. Whereupon the _parroco_ insisted with heat +that there could be no true philosophy outside the Church. The Contessa +laughed and turned upon the young man a flashing and formidable eye. + +'Let the Church add a little patriotism to her philosophy, Father,--she +will find it better appreciated.' + +Don Teodoro straightened to the blow. 'I am a Roman, _Eccellenza_--you +also--_Scusi_!' + +'I am an Italian, Father--you also. But you hate your country.' + +Both speakers had grown a little pale. + +'I have nothing to do with the Italy of Venti Settembre,' said the priest, +twisting and untwisting his long fingers in a nervous passion. 'That Italy +has three marks of distinction before Europe--by which you may know her.' + +'And those--?' said the Contessa, calm and challenging. + +'Debt, _Eccellenza_--hunger!--crimes of blood! _Sono il suo +primato--l'unico!_' + +He threw at her a look sparkling and venomous. All the grace of his +youth had vanished. As he sat there, Eleanor in a flash saw in him the +conspirator and the firebrand that a few more years would make of him. + +'Ah!' said the Contessa, flushing. 'There were none of these things in the +old Papal States?--under the Bourbons?--the Austrians? Well--we understand +perfectly that you would destroy us if you could!' + +'_Eccellenza_, Jesus Christ and his Vicar come before the House of Savoy!' + +'Ruin us, and see what you will gain!' + +'_Eccellenza_, the Lord rules. + +'Well--well. Break the eggs--that's easy. But whether the omelet will be as +the Jesuits please--that's another affair.' + +Each combatant smiled, and drew a long breath. + +'These are our old battles,' said the Contessa, shaking her head. '_Scusi!_ +I must go and give an order.' + +And to Eleanor's alarm, she rose and left the room. + +The young priest showed a momentary embarrassment at being left alone with +the strange lady. But it soon passed. He sat a moment, quieting down, with +his eyes dropped, his finger-tips lightly joined upon his knee. Then he +said sweetly: + +'You are perhaps not acquainted with the pictures in the Palazzo, Madame. +May I offer you my services? I believe that I know the names of the +portraits.' + +Eleanor was grateful to him, and they wandered through the bare rooms, +looking at the very doubtful works of art that they contained. + +Presently, as they returned to the _salone_ from which they had started, +Eleanor caught sight of a fine old copy of the Raphael St. Cecilia at +Bologna. The original has been much injured, and the excellence of the copy +struck her. She was seized, too, with a stabbing memory of a day in the +Bologna Gallery with Manisty! + +She hurried across the room to look at the picture. The priest followed +her. + +'Ah! that, Madame,' he said with enthusiasm--that is a _capolavoro_. It is +by Michael Angelo.' + +Eleanor looked at him in astonishment. 'This one? It is a copy, Padre, of +Raphael's St. Cecilia at Bologna--a very interesting and early copy.' + +Don Teodoro frowned. He went up to look at it doubtfully, pushing out his +lower lip. + +'Oh! no, Madame,' he said, returning to her, and speaking with a soft +yet obstinate complacency. 'Pardon me--but you are mistaken. That is an +original work of the great Michael Angelo.' + +Eleanor said no more. + +When the Contessa returned, Eleanor took up a volume of French translations +from the Greek Anthology that the Contessa had lent her the day before. She +restored the dainty little book to its mistress, pointing to some of her +favourites. + +The _parroco's_ face fell as he listened. + +'Ah!--these are from the Greek!' he said, looking down modestly, as the +Contessa handed him the book. 'I spent five years, _Eccellenza_, in +learning Greek, but--!' He shrugged his shoulders gently. + +Then glancing from one lady to the other, he said with a deprecating smile: + +'I could tell you some things. I could explain what some of the Greek words +in Italian come from--"mathematics," for instance.' + +He gave the Greek word with a proud humility, emphasising each syllable. + +'"Economy"--"theocracy"--"aristocracy."' + +The Greek came out like a child's lesson. He was not always sure; he +corrected himself once or twice; and at the end he threw back his head with +a little natural pride. + +But the ladies avoided looking either at him or each other. + +Eleanor thought of Father Benecke; of the weight of learning on that silver +head. Yet Benecke was an outcast, and this youth was already on the ladder +of promotion. + +When he departed the Contessa threw up her hands. + +'And that man is just appointed Advent Preacher at one of the greatest +churches in Rome!' + +Then she checked herself. + +'At the same time, Madame,' she said, looking a little stiffly at Eleanor, +'we have learned priests--many of them.' + +Eleanor hastened to assent. With what heat had Manisty schooled her +during the winter to the recognition of Catholic learning, within its own +self-chosen limits! + +'It is this deplorable Seminary education!' sighed the Contessa. 'How +is one half of the nation ever to understand the other? They speak a +different language. Imagine all our scientific education on the one side, +and this--this dangerous innocent on the other! And yet we all want +religion--we all want some hope beyond this life.' + +Her strong voice broke. She turned away, and Eleanor could only see the +massive outline of head and bust, and the coils of grey hair. + +Mrs. Burgoyne drew her chair nearer to the Contessa. Silently and timidly +she laid a hand upon her knee. + +'I can't understand,' she said in a low voice, 'how you have had the +patience to be kind to us, these last weeks!' + +'Do you know why?' said the Contessa, turning round upon her, and no longer +attempting to conceal the tears upon her fine old face. + +'No--tell me!' + +'It was because Emilio loved the English. He once spent a very happy summer +in England. I--I don't know whether he was in love with anyone. But, at +any rate, he looked back to it with deep feeling. He always did everything +that he could for any English person--and especially in these wilds. I have +known him often take trouble that seemed to me extravagant or quixotic. +But he always would. And when I saw you in the _Sassetto_ that day, I knew +exactly what he would have done. You looked so delicate--and I remembered +how rough the convent was. I had hardly spoken to anybody but Teresa since +the news came, but I could not help speaking to you.' + +Eleanor pressed her hand. After a pause she said gently: + +'He was with General Da Bormida?' + +'Yes--he was with Da Bormida. There were three columns, you remember. +He was with the column that seemed for a time to be successful. I only +got the full account last week from a brother-officer, who was a prisoner +till the end of June. Emilio, like all the rest, thought the position was +carried--that it was a victory. He raised his helmet and shouted, _Viva il +Re! Viva l'Italia!_ And then all in a moment the Scioans were on them like +a flood. They were all carried away. Emilio rallied his men again and again +under a hail of bullets. Several heard him say: "Courage, lads--courage! +Your Captain dies with you! _Avanti! avanti! Viva l'Italia!_" Then at +last he was frightfully wounded, and perhaps you may have heard in +the village'--again the mother turned her face away--' that he said +to a _caporale_ beside him, who came from this district, whom he knew +at home--"Federigo, take your gun and finish it." He was afraid--my +beloved!--of falling into the hands of the enemy. Already they had passed +some wounded, horribly mutilated. The _caporale_ refused. "I can't do that, +_Eccellenza_," he said; "but we will transport you or die with you!" Then +again there was a gleam of victory. He thought the enemy were repulsed. A +brother-officer saw him being carried along by two soldiers, and Emilio +beckoned to him. "You must be my Confessor!" he said, smiling. And he gave +him some messages for me and Teresa--some directions about his affairs. +Then he asked: "It is victory--isn't it? We have won, after all?" And the +other--who knew--couldn't bear to tell him the truth. He said, "Yes." And +Emilio said, "You swear it?" "I swear." And the boy made the sign of the +cross--said again, _Viva l'Italia!_--and died.... They buried him that +night under a little thicket. My God! I thank Thee that he did not lie on +that accursed plain!' + +She raised her handkerchief to hide her trembling lips. Eleanor said +nothing. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay on the Contessa's +knee. + +'His was not a very happy temperament,' said the poor mother presently.' He +was always anxious and scrupulous. I sometimes thought he had been too much +influenced by Leopardi; he was always quoting him. That is the way with +many of our young men. Yet Emilio was a Christian--a sincere believer. It +would have been better if he had married. But he gave all his affection +to me and Teresa--and to this place and the people. I was to carry on his +work--but I am an old woman--and very tired. Why should the young go before +their time?... Yet I have no bitterness about the war. It was a ghastly +mistake--and it has humiliated us as a nation. But nations are made by +their blunderings as much as by their successes. Emilio would not have +grudged his life. He always thought that Italy had been "made too quick," +as they say--that our day of trial and weakness was not done.... But, _Gesù +mio!_--if he had not left me so much of life.' + +Eleanor raised her head. + +'I, too,' she said, almost in a whisper--'I, too, have lost a son. But he +was a little fellow.' + +The Contessa looked at her in astonishment and burst into tears. + +'Then we are two miserable women!' she said, wildly. + +Eleanor clung to her--but with a sharp sense of unfitness and unworthiness. +She felt herself a hypocrite. In thought and imagination her boy now +was but a hovering shadow compared to Manisty. It was not this sacred +mother-love that was destroying her own life. + + * * * * * + +As they drove home through the evening freshness, Eleanor's mind pursued +its endless and solitary struggle. + +Lucy sat beside her. Every now and then Eleanor's furtive guilty look +sought the girl's face. Sometimes a flying terror would grip her by the +heart. Was Lucy graver--paler? Were there some new lines round the sweet +eyes? That serene and virgin beauty--had it suffered the first withering +touch since Eleanor had known it first? And if so, whose hand? whose fault? + +Once or twice her heart failed within her; foreseeing a remorse that was no +sooner imagined than it was denied, scouted, hurried out of sight. + +That brave, large-brained woman with whom she had just been talking; there +was something in the atmosphere which the Contessa's personality shed round +it, that made Eleanor doubly conscious of the fever in her own blood. As in +Father Benecke's case, so here; she could only feel herself humiliated and +dumb before these highest griefs--the griefs that ennoble and enthrone. + +That night she woke from a troubled sleep with a stifled cry of horror. In +her dreams she had been wrestling with Manisty, trying to thrust him back +with all the frenzied force of her weak hands. But he had wrenched himself +from her hold. She saw him striding past her--aglow, triumphant. And that +dim white form awaiting him--and the young arms outstretched! + +'No, no! False! She doesn't--doesn't love him!' her heart cried, throwing +all its fiercest life into the cry. She sat up in bed trembling and +haggard. Then she stole into the next room. Lucy lay deeply, peacefully +asleep. Eleanor sank down beside her, hungrily watching her. 'How could +she sleep like that--if--if she cared?' asked her wild thoughts, and she +comforted herself, smiling at her own remorse. Once she touched the girl's +hand with her lips, feeling towards her a rush of tenderness that came like +dew on the heat of the soul. Then she crept back to bed, and cried, and +cried--through the golden mounting of the dawn. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +The days passed on. Between Eleanor and Lucy there had grown up a close, +intense, and yet most painful affection. Neither gave the other her full +confidence, and on Eleanor's side the consciousness both of the futility +and the enormity of what she had done only increased with time, embittering +the resistance of a will which was still fierce and unbroken. + +Meanwhile she often observed her companion with a quick and torturing +curiosity. What was it that Manisty had found so irresistible, when all her +own subtler arts had failed? + +Lucy was in some ways very simple, primitive even, as Manisty had called +her. Eleanor knew that her type was no longer common in a modern America +that sends all its girls to college, and ransacks the world for an +experience. But at the same time the depth and force of her nature promised +rich developments in the future. She was still a daughter of New England, +with many traits now fast disappearing; but for her, too, there was +beginning that cosmopolitan transformation to which the women of her race +lend themselves so readily. + +And it was Manisty's influence that was at work! Eleanor's miserable eyes +discerned it in a hundred ways. Half the interests and questions on which +Manisty's mind had been fixed for so long were becoming familiar to Lucy. +They got books regularly from Rome, and Eleanor had been often puzzled by +Lucy's selections--till one day the key to them flashed across her. + +The girl indeed was making her way, fast and silently, into quite new +regions of thought and feeling. She read, and she thought. She observed the +people of the village; she even frequented their humble church, though she +would never go with Eleanor to Sunday Mass. There some deep, unconquerable +instinct held her back. + +All through, indeed, her personal beliefs and habits--Evangelical, +unselfish, strong, and a little stern--seemed to be quite unchanged. But +they were differently tinged, and would be in time differently presented. +Nor would they ever, of themselves, divide her from Manisty. Eleanor saw +that clearly enough. Lucy could hold opinion passionately, unreasonably +even; but she was not of the sort that makes life depend upon opinion. Her +true nature was large, tolerant, patient. The deepest forces in it were +forces of feeling, and no intellectual difference would ever be able to +deny them their natural outlet. + +Meanwhile Lucy seemed to herself the most hopelessly backward and ignorant +person, particularly in Eleanor's company. + +'Oh! I am just a dunce,' she said one day to Eleanor, with a smile and +sigh, after some questions as to her childhood and bringing up. 'They ought +to have sent me to college. All the girls I knew went. But then Uncle Ben +would have been quite alone. So I just had to get along.' + +'But you know what many girls don't know.' + +Lucy gave a shrug. + +'I know some Latin and Greek, and other things that Uncle Ben could teach +me. But oh! what a simpleton I used to feel in Boston!' + +'You were behind the age? + +Lucy laughed. + +'I didn't seem to have anything to do with the age, or the age with me. You +see, I was slow, and everybody else was quick. But an American that isn't +quick's got no right to exist. You're bound to have heard the last thing, +and read the last book, or people just want to know why you're there!' + +'Why should people call you slow?' said Eleanor, in that voice which Lucy +often found so difficult to understand, because of the strange note of +hostility which, for no reason at all, would sometimes penetrate through +the sweetness. 'It's absurd. How quickly you've picked up Italian--and +frocks!--and a hundred things.' + +She smiled, and stroked the brown head beside her. + +Lucy coloured, bent over her work, and did not reply. + +Generally they passed their mornings in the _loggia_ reading and working. +Lucy was a dexterous needle-woman, and a fine piece of embroidery had made +much progress since their arrival at Torre Amiata. Secretly she wondered +whether she was to finish it there. Eleanor now shrank from the least +mention of change; and Lucy, having opened her generous arms to this +burden, did not know when she would be allowed to put it down. She carried +it, indeed, very tenderly--with a love that was half eager remorse. Still, +before long Uncle Ben must remonstrate in earnest. And the Porters, whom +she had treated so strangely? They were certainly going back to America in +September, if not before. And must she not go with them? + +And would the heat at Torre Amiata be bearable for the sensitive Northerner +after July? Already they spent many hours of the day in their shuttered and +closed rooms, and Eleanor was whiter than the convolvulus which covered the +new-mown hayfields. + +What a darling--what a kind and chivalrous darling was Uncle Ben! She had +asked him to trust her, and he had done it nobly, though it was evident +from his letters that he was anxious and disturbed. 'I cannot tell you +everything,' she had written, 'or I should be betraying a confidence; but +I am doing what I feel to be right--what I am sure you would consent to my +doing if you knew. Mrs. Burgoyne is _very_ frail--and she clings to me. I +can't explain to you how or why--but so it is. For the present I must look +after her. This place is beautiful; the heat not yet too great; and you +shall hear every week. Only, please, tell other people that I wish you to +forward letters, and cannot long be certain of my address.' + +And he: + +'Dear child, this is very mysterious. I don't like it. It would be absurd +to pretend that I did. But I haven't trusted my Lucy for fourteen years in +order to begin to persecute her now because she can't tell me a secret. +Only I give you warning that if you don't write to me every week, my +generosity, as you call it, will break down--and I shall be for sending out +a search party right away.... Do you want money? I must say that I hope +July will see the end of your adventure.' + +Would it? Lucy found her mind full of anxious thoughts as Eleanor read +aloud to her. + +Presently she discovered that a skein of silk she wanted for her work was +not in her basket. She turned to look also in her old inlaid workbox, which +stood on a small table beside her. But it was not there. + +'Please wait a moment,' she said to her companion. 'I am afraid I must get +my silk.' + +She stood up hastily, and her movement upset the rickety cane table. With a +crash her workbox fell to the ground, and its contents rolled all over the +_loggia_. She gave a cry of dismay. + +'Oh! my terra-cottas!--my poor terra-cottas!' + +Eleanor started, and rose too, involuntarily, to her feet. There on the +ground lay all the little Nemi fragments which Manisty had given to Lucy, +and which had been stowed away, each carefully wrapped in tissue paper, in +the well of her old workbox. + +Eleanor assisted to pick them up, rather silently. The note of keen +distress in Lucy's voice rang in her ears. + +'They are not much hurt, luckily,' she said. + +And indeed, thanks to the tissue paper, there were only a few small chips +and bruises to bemoan when Lucy at last had gathered them all safely into +her lap. Still, chips and bruises in the case of delicate Græco-Roman +terra-cottas are more than enough to make their owner smart, and Lucy bent +over them with a very flushed and rueful face, examining and wrapping them +up again. + +'Cotton-wool would be better,' she said anxiously. 'How have you put your +two away?' + +Directly the words were out of her mouth she felt that they had been better +unspoken. + +A deep flush stained Eleanor's thin face. + +'I am afraid I haven't taken much care of them,' she said hurriedly. + +They were both silent for a little. But while Lucy still had her lap full +of her treasures, Eleanor again stood up. + +'I will go in and rest for an hour before _déjeuner_. I _think_ I might go +to sleep.' + +She had passed a very broken night, and Lucy looked at her with tender +concern. She quickly but carefully laid aside her terra-cottas, that she +might go in with Eleanor and 'settle her' comfortably. + +But when she was left to rest in her carefully darkened room, and Lucy had +gone back to the _loggia_, Eleanor got no wink of sleep. She lay in an +anguish of memory, living over again that last night at the villa--thinking +of Manisty in the dark garden and her own ungovernable impulse. + +Presently a slight sound reached her from the _loggia_. She turned her head +quickly. A sob?--from Lucy? + +Her heart stood still. Noiselessly she slipped to her feet. The door +between her and the _loggia_ had been left ajar for air. It was partially +glazed, with shutters of plain green wood outside, and inside a muslin +blind. Eleanor approached it. + +Through the chink of the door she saw Lucy plainly. The girl had been +sitting almost with her back to the door, but she had turned so that her +profile and hands were visible. + +How quiet she was! Yet never was there an attitude more eloquent. She held +in her hands, which lay upon her knee, one of the little terra-cottas. +Eleanor could see it perfectly. It was the head of a statuette, not unlike +her own which she had destroyed,--a smaller and ruder Artemis with the +Cybele crown. There flashed into her mind the memory of Manisty explaining +it to the girl, sitting on the bench behind the strawberry hut; his black +brows bent in the eagerness of his talk; her sweet eyes, her pure pleasure. + +And now Lucy had no companion--but thought. Her face was raised, the eyes +were shut, the beautiful mouth quivered in the effort to be still. She was +mistress of herself, yet not for the moment wholly mistress of longing and +of sorrow. A quick struggle passed over the face. There was another slight +sob. Then Eleanor saw her raise the terra-cotta, bow her face upon it, +press it long and lingeringly to her lips. It was like a gesture of eternal +farewell; the gesture of a child expressing the heart of a woman. + +Eleanor tottered back. She sat on the edge of her bed, motionless in the +darkness, till the sounds of Cecco bringing up the _pranzo_ in the corridor +outside warned her that her time of solitude was over. + + * * * * * + +In the evening Eleanor was sitting in the Sassetto. Lucy with her young +need of exercise had set off to walk down through the wood to the first +bridge over the Paglia. Eleanor had been very weary all day, and for the +first time irritable. It was almost with a secret relief that Lucy started, +and Eleanor saw her depart. + +Mrs. Burgoyne was left stretched on her long canvas chair, in the green +shade of the Sassetto. All about her was a chaos of moss-grown rocks +crowned with trees young and old; a gap in the branches showed her a +distant peachy sky suffused with gold above the ethereal heights of the +Amiata range; a little wind crept through the trees; the birds were silent, +but the large green lizards slipped in and out, and made a friendly life in +the cool shadowed place. + +The Contessa was to have joined Eleanor here at six o'clock. But a note had +arrived excusing her. The visit of some relations detained her. + +Nevertheless a little after six a step was heard approaching along the +winding path which while it was still distant Eleanor knew to be Father +Benecke. For his sake, she was glad that the Contessa was not with her. + +As for Donna Teresa, when she met the priest in the village or on the road +she shrank out of his path as though his mere shadow brought malediction. + +Her pinched face, her thin figure seemed to contract still further under an +impulse of fear and repulsion. Eleanor had seen it, and wondered. + +But even the Contessa would have nothing to say to him. + +'_Non, Madame; c'est plus fort que moi!_' she had said to Eleanor one day +that she had come across Mrs. Burgoyne and Father Benecke together in the +Sassetto--in after-excuse for her behaviour to him. 'For you and me--_bien +entendu!_--we think what we please. Heaven knows I am not bigoted. Teresa +makes herself unhappy about me.' The stout, imperious woman stifled a +sigh that betrayed much. 'I take what I want from our religion--and I +don't trouble about the rest. Emilio was the same. But a priest that +disobeys--that deserts--! No! that is another matter. I can't argue; it +seizes me by the throat.' She made an expressive movement. 'It is an +instinct--an inheritance--call it what you like. But I feel like Teresa; I +could run at the sight of him.' + +Certainly Father Benecke gave her no occasion to run. Since his recovery +from the first shock and agitation of his suspension he had moved about the +roads and tracks of Torre Amiata with the 'recollected' dignity of the pale +and meditative recluse. He asked nothing; he spoke to no one, except to +the ladies at the convent, and to the old woman who served him unwillingly +in the little tumble-down house by the river's edge to which he had now +transferred himself and his books, for greater solitude. Eleanor understood +that he shrank from facing his German life and friends again till he had +completed the revision of his book, and the evolution of his thought; and +she had some reason to believe that he regarded his isolation and the +enmity of this Italian neighbourhood as a necessary trial and testing, to +be borne without a murmur. + +As his step came nearer, she sat up and threw off her languor. It might +have been divined, even, that she heard it with a secret excitement. + +When he appeared he greeted her with the manner at once reticent and +cordial that was natural to him. He had brought her an article in a German +newspaper of the 'Centre' on himself and his case, the violence of which +had provoked him to a reply, whereof the manuscript was also in his pocket. + +Eleanor took the article and turned it over. But some inward voice told her +that her _rôle_, of counsellor and critic was--again--played out. Suddenly +Father Benecke said: + +'I have submitted my reply to Mr. Manisty. I would like to show you what he +says.' + +Eleanor fell back in her chair. 'You know where he is?' she cried. + +Her surprise was so great that she could not at once disguise her emotion. +Father Benecke was also taken aback. He lifted his eyes from the papers he +held. + +'I wrote to him through his bankers the other day, Madame. I have always +found that letters so addressed to him are forwarded.' + +Then he stopped in distress and perturbation. Mrs. Burgoyne was still +apparently struggling for breath and composure. His absent, seer's eyes at +last took note of her as a human being. He understood, all at once, that +he had before him a woman very ill, apparently very unhappy, and that what +he had just said had thrown her into an anguish with which her physical +weakness was hardly able to cope. + +The colour rose in his own cheeks. + +'Madame! let me hasten to say that I have done your bidding precisely. +You were so good as to tell me that you wished no information to be given +to anyone as to your stay here. I have not breathed a word of it to Mr. +Manisty or to any other of my correspondents. Let me show you his letter.' + +He held it out to her. Eleanor took it with uncertain fingers. + +'Your mention of him took me by surprise,' she said, after a moment. 'Miss +Foster and I--have been--so long--without hearing of our friends.' + +Then she stooped over the letter. It seemed to her the ink was hardly dry +on it--that it was still warm from Manisty's hand. The date of it was only +three days old. And the place from which it came? Cosenza?--Cosenza in +Calabria? Then he was still in Italy? + +She put the letter back into Father Benecke's hands. + +'Would you read it for me? I have rather a headache to-day.' + +He read it with a somewhat embarrassed voice. She lay listening, with her +eyes closed under her large hat, each hand trying to prevent the trembling +of the other. + +A strange pride swelled in her. It was a kind and manly letter, expressing +far more personal sympathy with Benecke than Manisty had ever yet allowed +himself--a letter wholly creditable indeed to the writer, and marked with +a free and flowing beauty of phrase that brought home to Eleanor at every +turn his voice, his movements, the ideas and sympathies of the writer. + +Towards the end came the familiar Manisty-ism: + +'All the same, their answer to you is still as good as ever. The system +must either break up or go on. They naturally prefer that it should go on. +But if it is worked by men like you, it cannot go on. Their instinct never +wavers; and it is a true one.' + +Then: + +'I don't know how I have managed to write this letter--poor stuff as it is. +My mind at this moment is busy neither with speculation nor politics. I am +perched for the night on the side of a mountain thickly covered with beech +woods, in a remote Calabrian hamlet, where however last year some pushing +person built a small 'health resort,' to which a few visitors come from +Naples and even from Rome. The woods are vast, the people savage. The +brigands are gone, or going; of electric light there is plenty. I came +this morning, and shall be gone to-morrow. I am a pilgrim on the face of +Italy. For six weeks I have wandered like this, from the Northern Abruzzi +downwards. Wherever holiday folk go to escape from the heat of the plains, +I go. But my object is not theirs.... Nor is it yours, Padre. There are +many quests in the world. Mine is one of the oldest that man knows. My +heart pursues it, untired. And in the end I shall win to my goal.' + +The old priest read the last paragraph in a hurried, unsteady voice. At +every sentence he became aware of some electrical effect upon the delicate +frame and face beside him; but he read on--not knowing how to save +himself--lest she should think that he had omitted anything. + +When he dropped the letter his hands, too, shook. There was a silence. + +Slowly Eleanor dragged herself higher in her chair; she pushed her hat back +from her forehead; she turned her white drawn face upon the priest. + +'Father,' she said, bending towards him, 'you are a priest--and a +confessor?' + +His face changed. He waited an instant before replying. + +'Yes, Madame--I am!' he said at last, with a firm and passionate dignity. + +'Yet now you cannot act as a priest. And I am not a Catholic. Still, I am +a human being--with a soul, I suppose--if there are such things!--and you +are old enough to be my father, and have had great experience. I am in +trouble--and probably dying. Will you hear my case--as though it were a +confession--under the same seal?' + +She fixed her eyes upon him. Insensibly the priest's expression had +changed; the priestly caution, the priestly instinct had returned. He +looked at her steadily and compassionately. + +'Is there no one, Madame, to whom you might more profitably make this +confession--no one who has more claim to it than I?' + +'No one.' + +'I cannot refuse,' he said, uneasily. 'I cannot refuse to hear anyone in +trouble and--if I can--to help them. But let me remind you that this could +not be in any sense a true confession. It could only be a conversation +between friends.' + +She drew her hand across her eyes. + +'I must treat it as a confession, or I cannot speak. I shall not ask you +to absolve me. That--that would do me no good,' she said, with a little +wild laugh, 'What I want is direction--from some one accustomed to look at +people as they are--and--and to speak the truth to them. Say "yes," Padre. +You--you may have the fate of three lives in your hands.' + +Her entreating eyes hung upon him. His consideration took a few moments +longer. Then he dropped his own look upon the ground, and clasped his +hands. + +'Say, my daughter, all that you wish to say.' + +The priestly phrase gave her courage. + +She drew a long breath, and paused a little to collect her thoughts. When +she began, it was in a low, dragging voice full of effort. + +'What I want to know, Father, is--how far one may fight--how far one +_should_ fight--for oneself. The facts are these. I will not mention any +names. Last winter, Father, I had reason to think that life had changed for +me--after many years of unhappiness. I gave my whole, whole heart away.' +The words came out in a gasp, as though a large part of the physical power +of the speaker escaped with them. 'I thought that--in return--I was held +in high value, in true affection--that--that my friend cared for me more +than for anyone else--that in time he would be mine altogether. It was a +great hope, you understand--I don't put it at more. But I had done much +to deserve his kindness--he owed me a great deal. Not, I mean, for the +miserable work I had done for him; but for all the love, the thought by day +and night that I had given him.' + +She bowed her head on her hands for a moment. The priest sat motionless and +she resumed, torn and excited by her strange task. + +'I was not alone in thinking and hoping--as I did. Other people thought it. +It was not merely presumptuous or foolish on my part. But--ah! it is an old +story, Padre. I don't know why I inflict it on you!' + +She stopped, wringing her hands. + +The priest did not raise his eyes, but sat quietly--in an attitude a little +cold and stern, which seemed to rebuke her agitation. She composed herself, +and resumed: + +'There was of course some one else, Father--you understood that from the +beginning--some one younger, and far more attractive than I. It took five +weeks--hardly so much. There was no affinity of nature and mind to go +upon--or I thought so. It seemed to me all done in a moment by a beautiful +face. I could not be expected to bear it--to resign myself at once to the +loss of everything that made life worth living--could I, Father?' she said +passionately. + +The priest still did not look up. + +'You resisted?' he said. + +'I resisted--successfully,' she said with fluttering breath. 'I separated +them. The girl who supplanted me was most tender, dear, and good. She +pitied me, and I worked upon her pity. I took her away from--from my +friend. And why should I not? Why are we called upon perpetually to give +up--give up? It seemed to me such a cruel, cold, un-human creed. I knew my +own life was broken--beyond mending; but I couldn't bear the unkindness--I +couldn't forgive the injury--I couldn't--couldn't! I took her away; and my +power is still great enough, and will be always great enough, if I choose, +to part these two from each other!' + +Her hands were on her breast, as though she were trying to still the heart +that threatened to silence her. When she spoke of giving up, her voice had +taken a note of scorn, almost of hatred, that brought a momentary furrow to +the priest's brow. + +For a little while after she had ceased to speak he sat bowed, and +apparently deep in thought. When he looked up she braced herself, as though +she already felt the shock of judgment. But he only asked a question. + +'Your girl-friend, Madame--her happiness was not involved?' + +Eleanor shrank and turned away. + +'I thought not--at first.' It was a mere murmur. + +'But now?' + +'I don't know--I suspect,' she said miserably. 'But, Father, if it were so +she is young; she has all her powers and chances before her. What would +kill me would only--anticipate--for her--a day that must come. She is born +to be loved.' + +Again she let him see her face, convulsed by the effort for composure, the +eyes shining with large tears. It was like the pleading of a wilful child. + +A veil descended also on the pure intense gaze of the priest, yet he bent +it steadily upon her. + +'Madame--God has done you a great honour.' + +The words were just breathed, but they did not falter. Mutely, with parted +lips, she seemed to search for his meaning. + +'There are very few of whom God condescends to ask, as plainly, as +generously, as He now asks of you. What does it matter, Madame, whether God +speaks to us amid the thorns or the flowers? But I do not remember that +He ever spoke among the flowers, but often--often, amongst deserts and +wildernesses. And when He speaks--Madame! the condescension, the gift is +that He should speak at all; that He, our Maker and Lord, should plead +with, should as it were humble Himself to, our souls. Oh! how we should +hasten to answer, how we should hurry to throw ourselves and all that we +have into His hands!' + +Eleanor turned away. Unconsciously she began to strip the moss from a tree +beside her. The tears dropped upon her lap. + +But the appeal was to religious emotion, not to the moral judgment, and she +rallied her forces. + +'You speak, Father, as a priest--as a Christian. I understand of course +that that is the Christian language, the Christian point of view.' + +'My daughter,' he said simply, 'I can speak no other language.' + +There was a pause. Then he resumed: 'But consider it for a moment from +another point of view. You say that for yourself you have renounced the +expectation of happiness. What, then, do you desire? Merely the pain, +the humiliation of others? But is that an end that any man or woman may +lawfully pursue--Pagan or Christian? It was not a Christian who said, "Men +exist for the sake of one another." Yet when two other human beings--your +friends--have innocently--unwittingly--done you a wrong--' + +She shook her head silently. + +The priest observed her. + +'One at least, you said, was kind and good--showed you a compassionate +spirit--and intended you no harm. Yet you will punish her--for the sake of +your own pride. And she is young. You who are older, and better able to +control passion, ought you not to feel towards her as a tender elder +sister--a mother--rather than a rival?' + +He spoke with a calm and even power, the protesting force of his own soul +mounting all the time like a tide. + +Eleanor rose again in revolt. + +'It is no use,' she said despairingly. 'Do you understand, Father, what +I said to you at first?--that I have probably not many months--a year +perhaps--to live? And that to give these two to each other would embitter +all my last days and hours--would make it impossible for me to believe, to +hope, anything?' + +'No, no, poor soul!' he said, deeply moved. 'It would be with you as with +St. John: "Now we know that we have passed from death unto life, because we +love the brethren."' + +She shrugged her shoulders. + +'I have no faith--and no hope.' + +His look kindled, took a new aspect almost of command. + +'You do yourself wrong. Could you have brought yourself to ask this counsel +of me, if God had not been already at work in your soul--if your sin were +not already half conquered?' + +She recoiled as though from a blow. Her cheek burnt. + +'Sin!' she repeated bitterly, with a kind of scorn, not able to bear the +word. + +But he did not quail. + +'All selfish desire is sin--desire that defies God and wills the hurt of +man. But you will cast it out. The travail is already begun in you that +will form the Christ.' + +'Father, creeds and dogmas mean nothing to me!' + +'Perhaps,' he said calmly. 'Does religion also mean nothing to you?' + +'Oh! I am a weak woman,' she said with a quivering lip. 'I throw myself on +all that promises consolation. When I see the nuns from down below pass up +and down this road, I often think that theirs is the only way out; that +the Catholic Church and a convent are perhaps the solution to which I must +come--for the little while that remains.' + +'In other words,' he said after a pause, 'God offers you one discipline, +and you would choose another. Well, the Lord gave the choice to David of +what rod he would be scourged with; but it always has seemed to me that the +choice was an added punishment. I would not have chosen. I would have left +all to His Divine Majesty! This cross is not of your own making; it comes +to you from God. Is it not the most signal proof of His love? He asks of +you what only the strongest can bear; gives you just time to serve Him with +the best. As I said before, is it not His way of honouring His creature?' + +Eleanor sat without speaking, her delicate head drooping. + +'And, Madame,' the priest continued with a changed voice, 'you say that +creeds and dogmas mean nothing to you. How can I, who am now cast out +from the Visible Church, uphold them to you--attempt to bind them on your +conscience? But one thing I can do, whether as man or priest; I can bid you +ask yourself whether in truth _Christ_ means nothing to you--and Calvary +nothing?' + +He paused, staring at her with his bright and yet unseeing eyes, the wave +of feeling rising within him to a force and power born of recent storm, of +the personal wrestling with a personal anguish. + +'Why is it'--he resumed, each word low and pleading,--'that this divine +figure is enshrined, if not in all our affections--at least in all our +imaginations? Why is it that at the heart of this modern world, with all +its love of gold, its thirst for knowledge, its desire for pleasure, there +still lives and burns '-- + +--He held out his two strong clenched hands, quivering, as though he held +in them the vibrating heart of man-- + +--'this strange madness of sacrifice, this foolishness of the Cross? Why +is it that in these polite and civilised races which lead the world, while +creeds and Churches divide us, what still touches us most deeply, what +still binds us together most surely, is this story of a hideous death, +which the spectators said was voluntary--which the innocent Victim embraced +with joy as the ransom of His brethren--from which those who saw it +received in very truth the communication of a new life--a life, a Divine +Mystery, renewed amongst us now, day after day, in thousands of human +beings? What does it mean, Madame? Ask yourself! How has our world of lust +and iron produced such a thing? How, except as the clue to the world's +secret, is man to explain it to himself? Ah! my daughter, think what you +will of the nature and dignity of the Crucified--but turn your eyes to the +Cross! Trouble yourself with no creeds--I speak this to your weakness--but +sink yourself in the story of the Passion and its work upon the world! +Then bring it to bear upon your own case. There is in you a root of evil +mind--an angry desire--a _cupido_ which keeps you from God. Lay it down +before the Crucified, and rejoice--rejoice!--that you have something to +give to your God--before He gives you Himself!' + +The old man's voice sank and trembled. + +Eleanor made no reply. Her capacity for emotion was suddenly exhausted. +Nerve and brain were tired out. + +After a minute or two she rose to her feet and held out her hand. + +'I thank you with all my heart. Your words touch me very much, but they +seem to me somehow remote--impossible. Let me think of them. I am not +strong enough to talk more now.' + +She bade him good-night, and left him. With her feeble step she slowly +mounted the Sassetto path, and it was some little time before her slender +form and white dress disappeared among the trees. + +Father Benecke remained alone--a prey to many conflicting currents of +thought. + + * * * * * + +For him too the hour had been strangely troubling and revolutionary. On the +recognised lines of Catholic confession and direction, all that had been +asked of him would have been easy to give. As it was, he had been obliged +to deal with the moral emergency as he best could; by methods which, now +that the crisis was over, filled him with a sudden load of scrupulous +anguish. + +The support of a great system had been withdrawn from him. He still felt +himself neither man nor priest--wavering in the dark. + +This poor woman! He was conscious that her statement of her case had roused +in him a kind of anger; so passionate and unblushing had been the egotism +of her manner. Even after his long experience he felt in it something +monstrous. Had he been tender, patient enough? + +What troubled him was this consciousness of the _woman_, as apart from +the penitent, which had overtaken him; the woman with her frail physical +health, possibly her terror of death, her broken heart. New perplexities +and compunctions, not to be felt within the strong dykes of Catholic +practice, rushed upon him as he sat thinking under the falling night. The +human fate became more bewildering, more torturing. The clear landscape +of Catholic thought upon which he had once looked out was wrapping itself +in clouds, falling into new aspects and relations. How marvellous are the +chances of human history! The outward ministry had been withdrawn; in its +stead this purely spiritual ministry had been offered to him. '_Domine, in +cælo misericordia tua--judicia tua abyssus multa!_' + + * * * * * + +Recalling what he knew of Mrs. Burgoyne's history and of Manisty's, his +mind trained in the subtleties of moral divination soon reconstructed the +whole story. Clearly the American lady now staying with Mrs. Burgoyne--who +had showed towards himself such a young and graceful pity--was the other +woman. + +He felt instinctively that Mrs. Burgoyne would approach him again, coldly +as she had parted from him. She had betrayed to him all the sick confusion +of soul that existed beneath her intellectual competence and vigour. The +situation between them, indeed, had radically changed. He laid aside +deference and humility; he took up the natural mastery of the priest as the +moral expert. She had no faith; and faith would save her. She was wandering +in darkness, making shipwreck of herself and others. And she had appealed +to him. With an extraordinary eagerness the old man threw himself into +the task she had so strangely set him. He longed to conquer and heal her; +to bring her to faith, to sacrifice, to God. The mingled innocence and +despotism of his nature were both concerned. And was there something +else?--the eagerness of the soldier who retrieves disobedience by some +special and arduous service? To be allowed to attempt it is a grace; to +succeed in it is pardon. + +Was she dying--poor lady!--or was it a delusion on her part, one of the +devices of self-pity? Yet he recalled the emaciated face and form, the +cough, the trailing step, Miss Foster's anxiety, some comments overheard in +the village.-- + +And if she died unreconciled, unhappy? Could nothing be done to help her, +from outside,--to brace her to action--and in time? + +He pondered the matter with all the keenness of the casuist, all the +_naïveté_ of the recluse. In the tragical uprooting of established habit +through which he was passing, even those ways of thinking and acting which +become the second nature of the priest were somewhat shaken. Had Eleanor's +confidence been given him in Catholic confession he might not even by word +or look have ever reminded herself of what had passed between them; still +less have acted upon it in any way. Nor under the weight of tradition +which binds the Catholic priest, would he ever have been conscious of the +remotest temptation to what his Church regards as one of the deadliest of +sins. + +And further. If as his penitent, yet outside confession,--in a letter or +conversation--Eleanor had told him her story, his passionately scrupulous +sense of the priestly function would have bound him precisely in the same +way. Here, all Catholic opinion would not have agreed with him; but his own +conviction would have been clear. + +But now in the general shifting of his life from the standpoint of +authority, to the standpoint of conscience, new aspects of the case +appeared to him. He recalled certain questions of moral theology, +with which as a student he was familiar. The modern discipline of the +confessional 'seal' is generally more stringent than that of the middle +ages. Benecke remembered that in the view of St. Thomas, it is sometimes +lawful for a confessor to take account of what he hears in confession so +far as to endeavour afterwards to remove some obstacle to the spiritual +progress of his penitent, which has been revealed to him under the seal. +The modern theologian denies altogether the legitimacy of such an act, +which for him is a violation of the Sacrament. + +But for Benecke, at this moment, the tender argument of St. Thomas suddenly +attained a new beauty and compulsion. + +He considered it long. He thought of Manisty, his friend, to whom his +affectionate heart owed a debt of gratitude, wandering about Italy, in a +blind quest of the girl who had been snatched away from him. He thought of +the girl herself, and the love that not all Mrs. Burgoyne's jealous anguish +had been able to deny. And then his mind returned to Mrs. Burgoyne, and the +arid misery of her struggle.-- + +The darkness was falling. As he reached the last of the many windings of +the road, he saw his tiny house by the riverside, with a light in the +window. + +He leant upon his stick, conscious of inward excitement, feeling suddenly +on his old shoulders the burden of those three lives of which Mrs. Burgoyne +had spoken. + +'My God, give them to me!'--he cried, with a sudden leap of the heart that +was at once humble and audacious. Not a word to Mr. Manisty, or to any +other human being, clearly, as to Mrs. Burgoyne's presence at Torre Amiata. +To that he was bound. + +But-- + +'May I not entertain a wayfarer, a guest?'--he thought, trembling, 'like +any other solitary?' + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +The hot evening was passing into night. Eleanor and Lucy were on the +_loggia_ together. + +Through the opening in the parapet wall made by the stairway to what had +once been the enclosed monastery garden, Eleanor could see the fire-flies +flashing against the distant trees; further, above the darkness of the +forest, ethereal terraces of dimmest azure lost in the starlight; and where +the mountains dropped to the south-west a heaven still fiery and streaked +with threats of storm. Had she raised herself a little she could have +traced far away, beyond the forest slopes, the course of those white mists +that rise at night out of the wide bosom of Bolsena. + +Outside, the country-folk were streaming home from their work; the men +riding their donkeys or mules, the women walking, often with burdens on +their heads, and children dragging at their hands; dim purplish figures, in +the evening blue, charged with the eternal grace of the old Virgilian life +of Italy, the life of corn and vine, of chestnut and olive. Lucy hung over +the balcony, looking at the cavalcades, sometimes waving her hand to a +child or a mother that she recognised through the gathering darkness. It +was an evening spectacle of which she never tired. Her feeling clung to +these labouring people, whom she idealised with the optimism of her clean +youth. Secretly her young strength envied them their primal, necessary +toils. She would not have shrunk from their hardships; their fare would +have been no grievance to her. Sickness, old age, sin, cruelty, violence, +death,--that these dark things entered into their lives, she knew vaguely. +Her heart shrank from what her mind sometimes divined; all the more perhaps +that there was in her the promise of a wide and rare human sympathy, which +must some day find its appointed tasks and suffer much in the finding. Now, +when she stumbled on the horrors of the world, she would cry to herself, +'God knows!'--with a catching breath, and the feeling of a child that runs +from darkness to protecting arms; and so escape her pain. + +Presently she came to sit by Eleanor again, trying to amuse her by +the account of a talk on the roadside, with an old _spaccapietre_, or +stone-breaker, who had fought at Mentana. + +Eleanor listened vaguely, hardly replying. But she watched the girl in her +simple white dress, her fine head, her grave and graceful movements; she +noticed the voice, so expressive of an inner self-mastery through all its +gaiety. And suddenly the thought flamed through her-- + +'If I told her!--if she knew that I had seen a letter from him this +afternoon?--that he is in Italy?--that he is looking for _her_, day and +night! If I just blurted it out--what would she say?--how would she take +it?' + +But not a word passed her lips. She began again to try and unravel the +meaning of his letter. Why had he gone in search of them to the Abruzzi of +all places? + +Then, suddenly, she remembered. + +One day at the villa, some Italian friends--a deputy and his wife--had +described to them a summer spent in a wild nook of the Abruzzi. The young +husband had possessed a fine gift of phrase. The mingled savagery and +innocence of the people; the vast untrodden woods of chestnut and beech; +the slowly advancing civilisation; the new railway line that seemed to +the peasants a living and hostile thing, a kind of greedy fire-monster, +carrying away their potatoes to market and their sons to the army; the +contrasts of the old and new Italy; the joys of summer on the heights, +of an unbroken Italian sunshine steeping a fresh and almost northern +air: he had drawn it all, with the facility of the Italian, the broken, +impressionist strokes of the modern. Why must Italians nowadays always rush +north, to the lakes, or Switzerland or the Tyrol? Here in their own land, +in the Abruzzi, and further south, in the Volscian and Calabrian mountains, +were cool heights waiting to be explored, the savour of a primitive life, +the traces of old cities, old strongholds, old faiths, a peasant world +moreover, unknown to most Italians of the west and north, to be observed, +to be made friends with. + +They had all listened in fascination. Lucy especially. The thought of +scenes so rarely seen, so little visited, existing so near to them, in this +old old Italy, seemed to touch the girl's imagination--to mingle as it were +a breath from her own New World with the land of the Cæsars. + +'One can ride everywhere?' she had asked, looking up at the traveller. + +'Everywhere, mademoiselle.' + +'I shall come,' she had said, drawing pencil circles on a bit of paper +before her, with pleased intent eyes, like one planning. + +And the Italian, amused by her enthusiasm, had given her a list of places +where accommodation could be got, where hotels of a simple sort were +beginning to develop, whence this new land that was so old could be +explored by the stranger. + +And Manisty had stood by, smoking and looking down at the girl's graceful +head, and the charming hand that was writing down the names. + +Another pang of the past recalled,--a fresh one added! + +For Torre Amiata had been forgotten, while Lucy's momentary whim had +furnished the clue which had sent him on his vain quest through the +mountains. + + * * * * * + +'I do think '--said Lucy, presently, taking Eleanor's hand,--'you haven't +coughed so much to-day?' + +Her tone was full of anxiety, of tenderness. + +Eleanor smiled. 'I am very well,' she said, dryly. But Lucy's frown did not +relax. This cough was a new trouble. Eleanor made light of it. But Marie +sometimes spoke of it to Lucy with expressions which terrified one who had +never known illness except in her mother. + +Meanwhile Eleanor was thinking--'Something will bring him here. He is +writing to Father Benecke--Father Benecke to him. Some accident will +happen--any day, any hour. Well--let him come!' + +Her hands stiffened under her shawl that Lucy had thrown round her. A +fierce consciousness of power thrilled through her weak frame. Lucy was +hers! The pitiful spectacle of these six weeks had done its work. Let him +come. + +His letter was not unhappy!--far from it. She felt herself flooded with +bitterness as she remembered the ardour that it breathed; the ardour of +a lover to whom effort and pursuit are joys only second to the joys of +possession. + +But some day no doubt he would be unhappy--in earnest; if her will held. +But it would hold. + +After all, it was not much she asked. She might live till the winter; +possibly a year. Not long, after all, in Lucy's life or Manisty's. Let them +only wait a little. + +Her hand burnt in Lucy's cool clasp. Restlessly, she asked the girl some +further questions about her walk. + +'I met the Sisters--the nuns--from Selvapendente, on the hill,' said Lucy. +'Such sweet faces some of them have.' + +'I don't agree,' said Eleanor petulantly. 'I saw two of them yesterday. +They smile at you, but they have the narrowest, stoniest eyes. Their pity +would be very difficult to bear.' + +A few minutes later Lucy left her for a moment, to give a message to Marie. + +'These Christians are hard--_hard_!' thought Eleanor sharply, closing her +tired lids. + +Had Father Benecke ever truly weighed her case, her plea at all? Never! It +had been the stereotyped answer of the priest and the preacher. Her secret +sense resented the fact that he had been so little moved, apparently, by +her physical state. It humiliated her that she should have brought so big a +word as death into their debate--to no effect. Her thin cheek flushed with +shame and anger. + +The cracked bell which announced their meals tinkled from the sitting-room. + +Eleanor dragged herself to her feet, and stood a moment by the parapet +looking into the night. + +'I cough less?' she thought. 'Why?--for I get worse every day. That I may +make less noise in dying? Well! one would like to go without ugliness and +fuss. I might as well be dead now, I am so broken--so full of suffering. +How I hide it all from that child! And what is the use of it--of living a +single day or hour more?' + + * * * * * + +She was angry with Father Benecke; but she took care to see him again. + +By means of a little note about a point in the article he was just +completing, she recalled him. + +They met without the smallest reference to the scene which had passed +between them. He asked for her literary opinion with the same simplicity, +the same outward deference as before. She was once more the elegant and +languid woman, no writer herself, but born to be the friend and muse of +writers. She made him feel just as clearly as before the clumsiness of a +phrase, the _naïveté_ of a point of view. + +And yet in truth all was changed between them. Their talk ranged further, +sank deeper. From the controversy of science with the Vatican, from the +position of the Old Catholics, or the triumph of Ultramontanism in France, +it would drop of a sudden, neither knew how, and light upon some small +matter of conduct or feeling, some 'flower in the crannied wall,' charged +with the profoundest things--things most intimate, most searching, +concerned with the eternal passion and trouble of the human will, the 'body +of this death,' the 'burden' of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' + +Then the priest's gentle insistent look would steal on hers; he would speak +from his heart; he would reveal in a shrinking word or two the secrets of +his own spiritual life, of that long inner discipline, which was now his +only support in rebellion, the plank between him and the abyss. + +She felt herself pursued; felt it with a mixture of fear and attraction. +She had asked him to be her director; and then refused his advice. She had +tried to persuade him that she was a sceptic and unbeliever. But he had +not done with her. She divined the ardour of the Christian; perhaps the +acuteness of the ecclesiastic. Often she was not strong enough to talk to +him, and then he read to her--the books that she allowed him to choose. +Through a number of indirect and gradual approaches he laid siege to her, +and again and again did she feel her heart fluttering in his grasp, only to +draw it back in fear, to stand once more on a bitter unspoken defence of +herself that would not yield. Yet he recognised in her the approach of some +crisis of feeling. She seemed herself to suspect it, and to be trying to +ward it off, in a kind of blind anguish. Nothing meanwhile could be more +touching than the love between her and Lucy. The old man looked on and +wondered. + +Day after day he hesitated. Then one evening, in Lucy's absence, he found +her so pale, and racked with misery--so powerless either to ask help, or to +help herself, so resolute not to speak again, so clearly tortured by her +own coercing will, that his hesitation gave way. + +He walked down the hill, in a trance of prayer. When he emerged from it his +mind was made up. + + * * * * * + +In the days that followed he seemed to Eleanor often agitated and ill +at ease. She was puzzled, too, by his manner towards Lucy. In truth, +he watched Miss Foster with a timid anxiety, trying to penetrate her +character, to divine how presently she might feel towards him. He was not +afraid of Mrs. Burgoyne, but he was sometimes afraid of this girl with her +clear, candid eyes. Her fresh youth, and many of her American ways and +feelings were hard for him to understand. She showed him friendship in a +hundred pretty ways; and he met her sometimes eagerly, sometimes with a +kind of shame-facedness. + +Soon he began to neglect his work of a morning that he might wander out to +meet the postman beyond the bridge. And when the man passed him by with +a short 'Non c' è niente,' the priest would turn homeward, glad almost +that for one day more he was not called upon to face the judgment in Lucy +Foster's face on what he had done. + + * * * * * + +The middle of July was past. The feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel had +come and gone, bringing processions and music, with a Madonna under a gold +baldacchino, to glorify the little deserted chapel on the height. + +Eleanor had watched the crowds and banners, the red-robed Compagni di Gesù, +the white priests, and veiled girls, with a cold averted eye. Lucy looked +back with a pang to Marinata, and to the indulgent pleasure that Eleanor +had once taken in all the many-coloured show of Catholicism. Now she was +always weary, and often fretful. It struck Lucy too that she was more +restless than ever. She seemed to take no notice of the present--to be +always living in the future--expecting, listening, waiting. The gestures +and sudden looks that expressed this attitude of mind were often of the +weirdest effect. Lucy could have thought her haunted by some unseen +presence. Physically she was not, perhaps, substantially worse. But her +state was more appealing, and the girl's mind towards her more pitiful day +by day. + +One thing, however, she was determined on. They would not spend August at +Torre Amiata. It would need stubbornness with Eleanor to bring her to the +point of change. But stubbornness there should be. + +One morning, a day or two after the festa, Lucy left Eleanor on the +_loggia_, while she herself ran out for a turn before their midday meal. +There had been fierce rain in the morning, and the sky was still thick with +thunder clouds promising more. + +She escaped into a washed and cooled world. But the thirsty earth had drunk +the rain at a gulp. The hill which had been running with water was almost +dry, the woods had ceased to patter; on all sides could be felt the fresh +restoring impulse of the storm. Nature seemed to be breathing from a deeper +chest--shaking her free locks in a wilder, keener air--to a long-silent +music from the quickened river below. + +Lucy almost ran down the hill, so great was the physical relief of the rain +and the cloudy morning. She needed it. Her spirits, too, had been uneven, +her cheek paler of late. + +She wore a blue cotton dress, fitting simply and closely to the young +rounded form. Round her shapely throat and the lace collar that showed +Eleanor's fancy and seemed to herself a little too elaborate for the +morning, she wore a child's coral necklace--a gleam of red between the +abundant black of her hair and the soft blue of her dress. Her hat, a large +Leghorn, with a rose in it, framed the sweet gravity of her face. She was +more beautiful than when she had said good-bye to Uncle Ben on the Boston +platform. But it was a beauty that for his adoring old heart would have +given new meaning to 'that sad word, Joy.' + +She turned into the Sassetto and pushed upwards through its tumbled rocks +and trees to the seat commanding the river and the mountains. + +As she approached it, she was thinking of Eleanor and the future, and her +eyes were absently bent on the ground. + +But a scent familiar and yet strange distracted her. Suddenly, on the path +in front of the seat, she saw a still burning cigarette, and on the seat a +book lying. + +She stopped short; then sank upon the seat, her eyes fixed upon the book. + +It was a yellow-bound French novel, and on the outside was written in a +hand she knew, a name that startled every pulse in her young body. + +_His_ book? And that cigarette? Father Benecke neither smoked nor did he +read French novels. + +Beyond the seat the path branched, upwards to the Palazzo, and downwards to +the river. She rose and looked eagerly over its steep edge into the medley +of rock and tree below. She saw nothing, but it seemed to her that in the +distance she heard voices talking--receding. + +They had left the seat only just in time to escape her. Mr. Manisty had +forgotten his book! Careless and hasty--how well she knew the trait! But he +would miss it--he would come back. + +She stood up and tried to collect her thoughts. If he was here, he was with +Father Benecke. So the priest had betrayed the secret he had promised Mrs. +Burgoyne to keep? + +No, no!--that was impossible! It was chance--unkind, unfriendly chance. + +And yet?--as she bit her lip in fear or bewilderment, her heart was rising +like the Paglia after the storm--swelling, thundering within her. + +'What shall I--what shall I do?' she cried under her breath, pressing her +hands to her eyes. + +Then she turned and walked swiftly homewards. Eleanor must not know--must +not see him. The girl was seized with panic terror at the thought of what +might be the effect of any sudden shock upon Mrs. Burgoyne. + +Halfway up the hill, she stopped involuntarily, wringing her hands in front +of her. It was the thought of Manisty not half a mile away, of his warm, +living self so close to her that had swept upon her, like a tempest wind on +a young oak. + +'Oh! I mustn't--_mustn't_--be glad!'--she cried, gulping down a sob, +hating, despising herself. + +Then she hurried on. With every step, she grew more angry with Father +Benecke. At best, he must have been careless, inconsiderate. A man of true +delicacy would have done more than keep his promise, would have actively +protected him. + +That he had kept the letter of his promise was almost proved by the fact +that Mr. Manisty had not yet descended upon the convent. For what could it +mean--his lingering in Italy--but a search, a pursuit? Her cheek flamed +guiltily over the certainty thus borne in upon her. But if so, what could +hold back his impetuous will--but ignorance? He could not know they were +there. That was clear. + +So there was time--a chance. Perhaps Father Benecke was taken by surprise +too--puzzled to know what to do with him? Should she write to the priest; +or simply keep Eleanor indoors and watch? + +At thought of her, the girl lashed herself into an indignation, an anguish +that sustained her. After devotion so boundless, service so measureless--so +lightly, meagrely repaid--were Mrs. Burgoyne's peace and health to be again +in peril at her cousin's hands? + + * * * * * + +Luckily Eleanor showed that day no wish to move from her sofa. The storm +had shaken her, given her a headache, and she was inclined to shiver in the +cooler air. + +After luncheon Lucy coaxed her to stay in one of the inner rooms, where +there was a fire-place; out of sight and sound of the road. Marie made a +fire on the disused hearth of what had once been an infirmary cell. The +logs crackled merrily; and presently the rain streamed down again across +the open window. + +Lucy sat sewing and reading through the afternoon in a secret anguish +of listening. Every sound in the corridor, every sound from downstairs, +excited the tumult in the blood. 'What is the matter with you?' Eleanor +would say, reaching out first to pinch, then to kiss the girl's cheek. 'It +is all very well that thunder should set a poor wretch like me on edge--but +you! Anyway it has given you back your colour. You look superbly well this +afternoon.' + +And then she would fall to gazing at the girl under her eyebrows with that +little trick of the bitten lip, and that piteous silent look, that Lucy +could hardly bear. + +The rain fell fast and furious. They dined by the fire, and the night fell. + +'Clearing--at last,' said Eleanor, as they pushed back their little table, +and she stood by the open window, while Cecco was taking away the meal; +'but too late and too wet for me.' + +An hour later indeed the storm had rolled away, and a bright and rather +cold starlight shone above the woods. + +'Now I understand Aunt Pattie's tales of fires at Sorrento in August,' said +Eleanor, crouching over the hearth. 'This blazing Italy can touch you when +she likes with the chilliest fingers. Poor peasants!--are their hearts +lighter to-night? The rain was fierce, but mercifully there was no hail. +Down below they say the harvest is over. Here they begin next week. +The storm has been rude--but not ruinous. Last year the hail-storms in +September stripped the grape; destroyed half their receipts--and pinched +their whole winter. They will think it all comes of their litanies and +banners the other day. If the vintage goes well too, perhaps they will give +the Madonna a new frock. How simple!--how satisfying!' + +She hung over the blaze, with her little pensive smile, cheered physically +by the warmth, more ready to talk, more at ease than she had been for days. +Lucy looked at her with a fast beating heart. How fragile she was, how +lovely still, in the half light! + +Suddenly Eleanor turned to her, and held out her arms. Lucy knelt down +beside her, trembling lest any look or word should betray the secret in her +heart. But Eleanor drew the girl to her, resting her cheek tenderly on the +brown head. + +'Do you miss your mother very much?' she said softly, turning her lips to +kiss the girl's hair. 'I know you do. I see it in you, often.' + +Lucy's eyes filled with tears. She pressed Eleanor's hand without speaking. +They clung together in silence each mind full of thoughts unknown to the +other. But Eleanor's features relaxed; for a little while she rested, body +and mind. And as Lucy lingered in the clasp thrown round her, she seemed +for the first time since the old days at the villa to be the cherished, and +not the cherisher. + + * * * * * + +Eleanor went early to bed, and then Lucy took a warm shawl and paced up and +down the _loggia_ in a torment of indecision. Presently she was attracted +by the little wooden stair which led down from the _loggia_ to what had +once been the small walled garden of the convent, where the monks of this +austere order had taken their exercise in sickness, or rested in the sun, +when extreme old age debarred them from the field labour of their comrades. + +The garden was now a desolation, save for a tangle of oleanders and myrtle +in its midst. But the high walls were still intact, and an old wooden door +on the side nearest to the forest. Beneath the garden was a triangular +piece of open grass land sloping down towards the entrance of the Sassetto +and bounded on one side by the road. + +Lucy wandered up and down, in a wild trance of feeling. Half a mile away +was he sitting with Father Benecke?--winning perhaps their poor secret from +the priest's incautious lips'? With what eagle-quickness could he pounce on +a sign, an indication! And then the flash of those triumphant eyes, and the +onslaught of his will on theirs! + +Hark! She caught her breath. + +Voices! Two men were descending the road. She hurried to hide her white +dress, close, under the wall--she strained every sense. + +The sputter of a match--the trail of its scent in the heavy air--an +exclamation. + +'Father!--wait a moment! Let me light up. These matches are damp. Besides I +want to have another look at this old place--' + +The steps diverged from the road; approached the lower wall of the garden. +She pressed herself against its inner surface, trembling in every limb. +Only the old door between her and them! She dared not move--but it was not +only fear of discovery that held her. It was a mad uncontrollable joy, that +like a wind on warm embers, kindled all her being into flame. + +'One more crime--that!--of your Parliamentary Italy! What harm had the poor +things done that they should be turned out? You heard what that carabiniere +said?--that they farmed half the plateau. And now look at that! I feel as I +do when I see a blackbird's nest on the ground, that some beastly boy has +been robbing and destroying. I want to get at the boy.' + +'The boy would plead perhaps that the blackbirds were too many--and the +fruit too scant. Is it wise, my dear sir, to stand there in the damp?' + +The voice was pitched low. Lucy detected the uneasiness of the speaker. + +'One moment. You remember, I was here before in November. This summer night +is a new impression. What a pure and exquisite air!'--Lucy could hear the +long inhalation that followed the words. 'I recollect a vague notion of +coming to read here. The _massaja_ told us they took in people for the +summer. Ah! There are some lights, I see, in those upper windows.' + +'There are rooms in several parts of the building. Mine were in that +further wing. They were hardly watertight,' said the priest hastily, and in +the same subdued voice. + +'It is a place that one might easily rest in--or hide in,' said Manisty +with a new accent on the last words. 'To-morrow morning I will ask the +woman to let me walk through it again.--And to-morrow midday, I must be +off.' + +'So soon? My old Francesca will owe you a grudge. She is almost reconciled +to me because you eat--because you praised her omelet.' + +'Ah! Francesca is an artist. But--as I told you--I am at present a wanderer +and a pilgrim. We have had our talk--you and I--grasped hands, cheered each +other, "passed the time of day," _undweiter noch--noch weiter--mein treuer +Wanderstab_!' + +The words fell from the deep voice with a rich significant note. Lucy heard +the sigh, the impatient, despondent sigh, that followed. + +They moved away. The whiffs of tobacco still came back to her on the light +westerly wind; the sound of their voices still reached her covetous ear. +Suddenly all was silent. + +She spread her hands on the door in a wild groping gesture. + +'Gone! gone!' she said under her breath. Then her hands dropped, and she +stood motionless, with bent head, till the moment was over, and her blood +tamed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +'Maso! look here!' said Lucy, addressing a small boy, who with his brother +was driving some goats along the road. + +She took from a basket on her arm, first some _pasticceria_, then a square +of chocolate, lastly a handful of _soldi_. + +'You know the _casetta_ by the river where Mamma Brigitta lives?' + +'Yes.' The boy looked at her with his sharp stealthy eyes. + +'Take down this letter to Mamma Brigitta. If you wait a little, she'll give +you another letter in exchange, and if you bring it up to me, you shall +have all those!' + +And she spread out her bribes. + +The boys' faces were sulky. The house by the river was unpopular, owing +to its tenant. But the temptation was of a devilish force. They took the +letter and scampered down the hill driving their goats before them. + +Lucy also walked down some three or four of the innumerable zig-zags of the +road. Presently she found a rocky knoll to the left of it. A gap in the +trees opened a vision of the Amiata range, radiantly blue under a superb +sky, a few shreds of moving mist still wrapped about its topmost peaks. +She took her seat upon a moss-covered stone facing the road which mounted +towards her. But some bushes of tall heath and straggling arbutus made a +light screen in front of her. She saw, but she could hardly be seen, till +the passer-by coming from the river was close upon her. + +She sat there with her hands lightly crossed upon her knees, holding +herself a little stiffly--waiting. + +The phrases of her letter ran in her head. It had been short and +simple.--'Dear Father Benecke,--I have reason to know that Mr. Manisty is +here--is indeed staying with you. Mrs. Burgoyne is not aware of it and I am +anxious that she should not be told. She wishes--as I think she made clear +to you--to be quite alone here, and if she desired to see her cousins she +would of course have written to them herself. She is too ill to be startled +or troubled in any way. Will you do us a great kindness? Will you persuade +Mr. Manisty to go quietly away without letting Mrs. Burgoyne know that he +has been here? Please ask him to tell Miss Manisty that we shall not be +here much longer, that we have a good doctor, and that as Torre Amiata is +on the hills the heat is not often oppressive.' + +... The minutes passed away. Presently her thoughts began to escape the +control she had put upon them; and she felt herself yielding to a sense of +excitement. She resolutely took a book of Italian stories from the bottom +of her basket, and began to read. + +At last! the patter of the goats and the shouts of the boys. + +They rushed upon her with the letter. She handed over their reward and +broke the seal. + +'Hochgeerhrtes Fräulein,-- + +'It is true that Mr. Manisty is here. I too am most anxious that Mrs. +Burgoyne should not be startled or disturbed. But I distrust my own +diplomacy; nor have I yet mentioned your presence here to my guest. I am +not at liberty to do so, having given my promise to Mrs. Burgoyne. Will +you not see and speak to Mr. Manisty yourself? He talks of going up this +morning to see the old convent. I cannot prevent him, without betraying +what I have no right to betray. At present he is smoking in my garden. But +his carriage is ordered from Selvapendente two hours hence. If he does go +up the hill, it would surely be easy for you to intercept him. If not, you +may he sure that he has left for Orvieto.' + +Lucy read the letter with a flush and a frown. It struck her that it was +not quite simple; that the priest knew more, and was more concerned in the +new turn of events than he avowed. + +She was well aware that he and Eleanor had had much conversation; that +Eleanor was still possessed by the same morbid forces of grief and anger +which, at the villa, had broken down all her natural reticence and +self-control. Was it possible--? + +Her cheek flamed. She felt none of that spell in the priestly office which +affected Eleanor. The mere bare notion of being 'managed' by this kind old +priest was enough to rouse all her young spirit and defiance. + +But the danger was imminent. She saw what she must do, and prepared herself +to do it--simply, without any further struggle. + +The little goatherds left her, munching their cakes and looking back at her +from time to time in a childish curiosity. The pretty blue lady had seated +herself again as they had found her--a few paces from the roadside, under +the thick shadow of an oak. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile, Manisty was rejoined by Father Benecke--who had left him for +a few minutes to write his letter--beside the Paglia, which was rushing +down in a brown flood, after the rain of the day before. Around and above +them, on either side of the river, and far up the flanks of the mountains +opposite, stretched the great oak woods, which are still to-day the lineal +progeny of that vast Ciminian forest where lurked the earliest enemies of +Rome. + +'But for the sun, it might be Wales!' said Manisty, looking round him, as +he took out another cigarette. + +Father Benecke made no reply. He sat on a rock by the water's side, in what +seemed to be a reverie. His fine white head was uncovered. His attitude was +gentle, dignified, abstracted. + +'It is a marvellous country this!' Manisty resumed. 'I thought I knew it +pretty well. But the last five weeks have given one's mind a new hold upon +it. The forests have been wasted--but by George!--what forests there are +still!--and what a superb mountain region, half of which is only known to +a few peasants and shepherds. What rivers--what fertility--what a climate! +And the industry of the people. Catch a few English farmers and set them to +do what the Italian peasant does, year in and year out, without a murmur! +Look at all the coast south of Naples. There is not a yard of it, scarcely, +that hasn't been _made_ by human hands. Look at the hill-towns; and think +of the human toil that has gone to the making and maintaining of them since +the world began.' + +And swaying backwards and forwards he fell into the golden lines: + + Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem, + Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis, + Fluminaque antiquos subterlabentia muros. + +'_Congesta manu! Ecco!_--there they are'--and he pointed down the river to +the three or four distant towns, each on its mountain spur, that held the +valley between them and Orvieto--pale jewels on the purple robe of rock and +wood. + +'So Virgil saw them. So the latest sons of time shall see them--the homes +of a race that we chatter about without understanding--the most laborious +race in the wide world.' + +And again he rolled out under his breath, for the sheer joy of the verse: + + Salve, magna parens frugum, Saturnia tellus, + Magna virûm. + +The priest looked at him with a smile; preoccupied yet shrewd. + +'I follow you with some astonishment. Surely--I remember other sentiments +on your part?' + +Manisty coloured a little, and shook his black head, protesting. + +'I never said uncivil things, that I remember, about Italy or the Italians +as such. My quarrel was with the men that run them, the governments that +exploit them. My point was that Piedmont and the North had been too greedy, +had laid hands too rapidly on the South and had risked this damnable +quarrel with the Church, without knowing what they were running their +heads into. And in consequence they found themselves--in spite of rivers +of corrupt expenditure--without men, or money, or credit to work their big +new machine with; while the Church was always there, stronger than ever for +the grievance they had presented her with, and turned into an enemy with +whom it was no longer possible to parley. Well!--that struck me as a good +object lesson. I wanted to say to the secularising folk everywhere--England +included--just come here, and look what your policy comes to, when it's +carried out to the bitter end, and not in the gingerly, tinkering fashion +you affect at home! Just understand what it means to separate Church from +State, to dig a gulf between the religious and the civil life.--Here's a +country where nobody can be at once a patriot and a good Christian--where +the Catholics don't vote for Parliament, and the State schools teach +no religion--where the nation is divided into two vast camps, hating +and thrusting at each other with every weapon they can tear from life. +Examine it! That's what the thing looks like when it's full grown. Is it +profitable--does it make for good times? In your own small degree, are you +going to drive England that way too?--You'll admit, Father--you always did +admit--that it was a good theme.' + +The priest smiled--a little sadly. + +'Excellent. Only--you seemed to me--a little irresponsible.' + +Manisty nodded, and laughed. + +'An outsider, with no stakes on? Well--that's true. But being a Romantic +and an artist I sided with the Church. The new machine, and the men that +were running it, seemed to me an ugly jerry-built affair, compared with the +Papacy and all that it stood for. But then--' + +--He leant back in his chair, one hand snatching and tearing at the bushes +round him, in his absent, destructive way.-- + +'Well then--as usual--facts began to play the mischief with one's ideas. +In the first place, as one lives on in Italy you discover the antiquity of +this quarrel; that it is only the Guelf and Ghibelline quarrel over again, +under new names. And in the next--presently one begins to divine an Italy +behind the Italy we know, or history knows!--Voices come to one, as Goethe +would say, from the caves where dwell "Die Mütter"--the creative generative +forces of the country.'-- + +He turned his flashing look on Benecke, pleased now as always with the mere +task of speech. + +'Anyway, as I have been going up and down their country, especially during +the last six weeks; prating about their poverty, and their taxes, their +corruption, the incompetence of their leaders, the folly of their quarrel +with the Church; I have been finding myself caught in the grip of things +older and deeper--incredibly, primevally old!--that still dominate +everything, shape everything here. There are forces in Italy, forces of +land and soil and race--only now fully let loose--that will remake Church +no less than State, as the generations go by. Sometimes I have felt as +though this country were the youngest in Europe; with a future as fresh and +teeming as the future of America. And yet one thinks of it at other times +as one vast graveyard; so thick it is with the ashes and the bones of men! +The Pope--and Crispi!--waves, both of them, on a sea of life that gave them +birth, "with equal mind"; and that with equal mind will sweep them both to +its own goal--not theirs.' + +He smiled at his own eloquence, and returned to his cigarette. + +The priest had listened to him all through with the same subtle embarrassed +look. + +'This must have some cause,' he said slowly, when Manisty ceased to speak. +'Surely?--this change? I recall language so different--forecasts so +gloomy.' + +'Gracious!--I can give you books-full of them,' said Manisty, reddening, +'if you care to read them. I came out with a _parti-pris_--I don't deny it. +Catholicism had a great glamour for me; it has still, so long as you don't +ask me to put my own neck under the yoke! But Rome itself is disenchanting. +And outside Rome!--During the last six weeks I have been talking to every +priest I could come across in these remote country districts where I +have been wandering. _Per Dio!_--Marcello used to talk--I didn't believe +him. But upon my word, the young fellows whom the seminaries are now +sending out in shoals represent a fact to give one pause!--Little black +devils!--_Scusi!_ Father,--the word escaped me. Broadly speaking, they +are a political militia,--little else. Their hatred of Italy is a venom +in their bones, and they themselves are mad for a spiritual tyranny which +no modern State could tolerate for a week. When one thinks of the older +men--of Rosmini, of Gioberti, of the priests who died on the Milan +barricades in '48!' + +His companion made a slow movement of assent. + +Manisty smoked on, till presently he launched the _mot_ for which he had +been feeling. 'The truth of the matter seems to be that Italy is Catholic, +because she hasn't faith enough to make a heresy; and anti-clerical, +because it is her destiny to be a nation!' + +The priest smiled, but with a certain languor, turning his head once or +twice as though to listen for sounds behind him, and taking out his watch. +His eyes meanwhile--and their observation of Manisty--were not languid; +seldom had the mild and spiritual face been so personal, so keen. + +'Well, it is a great game,' said Manisty again--'and we shan't see the end. +Tell me--how have they treated _you_--the priests in these parts?' + +Benecke started and shrank. + +'I have no complaint to make,' he said mildly. 'They seem to me good men.' + +Manisty smoked in silence. + +Then he said, as though summing up his own thoughts,-- + +'No,--there are plenty of dangers ahead. This war has shaken the +_Sabaudisti_--for the moment. Socialism is serious.--Sicily is +serious.--The economic difficulties are serious.--The House of Savoy will +have a rough task, perhaps, to ride the seas that may come.--But _Italy_ +is safe. You can no more undo what has been done than you can replace the +child in the womb. The birth is over. The organism is still weak, but it +lives. And the forces behind it are indefinitely, mysteriously stronger +than the Vatican thinks.' + +'A great recantation,' said the priest quickly. + +Manisty winced, but for a while said nothing. All at once he jerked away +his cigarette. + +'Do you suspect some other reason for it, than the force of evidence?'--he +said, in another manner. + +The priest, smiling, looked him full in the face without replying. + +'You may,' said Manisty, coolly. 'I shan't play the hypocrite. Father, I +told you that I had been wandering about Italy on a quest that was not +health, nor piety, nor archæology. How much did you guess?' + +'Naturally, something--_lieber Herr_.' + +'Do you know that I should have been at Torre Amiata weeks ago but for +you?' + +'For me! You talk in riddles.' + +'Very simple. Your letters might have contained a piece of news--and did +not. Yet if it had been there to give, you would have given it. So I +crossed Torre Amiata off my list. No need to go _there_! I said to myself.' + +The priest was silent. + +Manisty looked up. His eyes sparkled; his lips trembled as though they +could hardly bring themselves to launch the words behind them. + +'Father--you remember a girl--at the Villa?' + +The priest made a sign of assent. + +'Well--I have been through Italy--with that girl's voice in my ears--and, +as it were, her eyes rather than my own. I have been searching for her +for weeks. She has hidden herself from me. But I shall find her!--now or +later--here or elsewhere.' + +'And then?' + +'Well, then,--I shall know some "eventful living"!' + +He drew a long breath. + +'And you hope for success?' + +'Hope?' said Manisty, passionately. 'I live on something more nourishing +than that!' + +The priest lifted his eyebrows. + +'You are so certain?' + +'I must be certain'--said Manisty, in a low voice,--'or in torment! I +prefer the certainty.' + +His face darkened. In its frowning disorganisation his companion saw for +the first time a man hitherto unknown to him, a man who spoke with the +dignity, the concentration, the simplicity of true passion. + +Dignity! The priest recalled the voice, the looks of Eleanor Burgoyne. +Not a word for her--not a thought! His old heart began to shrink from his +visitor, from his own scheme. + +'Then how do you explain the young lady's disappearance?' he asked, after a +pause. + +Manisty laughed. But the note was bitter. + +'Father!--I shall make her explain it herself.' + +'She is not alone?' + +'No--my cousin Mrs. Burgoyne is with her.' + +Benecke observed him, appreciated the stiffening of the massive shoulders. + +'I heard from some friends in Rome,' said the priest, after a +moment--'distressing accounts of Mrs. Burgoyne's health.' + +Manisty's look was vague and irresponsive. + +'She was always delicate,' he said abruptly,--not kindly. + +'What makes you look for them in Italy?' + +'Various causes. They would think themselves better hidden from their +English friends, in Italy than elsewhere, at this time of year. Beside, I +remember one or two indications--' + +There was a short silence. Then Manisty sprang up. + +'How long, did you say, before the trap came? An hour and a half?' + +'Hardly,' said the priest, unwillingly, as he drew out his watch.--'And you +must give yourself three hours to Orvieto--' + +'Time enough. I'll go and have a look at those frescoes again--and a chat +with the woman. Don't interrupt yourself. I shall be back in half an hour.' + +'Unfortunately I must write a letter,' said the priest. + +And he stood at the door of his little bandbox of a house, watching the +departure of his guest. + +Manisty breasted the hill, humming as he walked. The irregular vigorous +form, the nobility and animation of his carriage drew the gaze of the +priest after him. + +'At what point'--he said to himself,--'will he find her?' + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +Eleanor did not rise now, as a rule, till half way through the morning. +Lucy had left her in bed. + +It was barely nine o'clock. Every eastern or southern window was already +fast closed and shuttered, but her door stood open to the _loggia_ into +which no sun penetrated till the afternoon. + +A fresh breeze, which seemed the legacy of the storm, blew through the +doorway. Framed in the yellow arches of the _loggia_ she saw two cypresses +glowing black upon the azure blaze of the sky. And in front of them, +springing from a pot on the _loggia_, the straggly stem and rosy bunches +of an oleander. From a distance the songs of harvesters at their work; and +close by, the green nose of a lizard peeping round the edge of the door. + +Eleanor seemed to herself to have just awakened from sleep; yet not from +unconsciousness. She had a confused memory of things which had passed in +sleep--of emotions and experiences. Her heart was beating fast, and as +she sat up, she caught her own reflection in the cracked glass on the +dressing-table. Startled, she put up her hand to her flushed cheek. It was +wet. + +'Crying!' she said, in wonder--'what have I been dreaming about? And why do +I feel like this? What is the matter with me?' + +After a minute or two, she rang a handbell beside her, and her maid +appeared. + +'Marie, I am so well--so strong! It is extraordinary! Bring everything. I +should like to get up.' + +The maid, in fear of Lucy, remonstrated. But her mistress prevailed. + +'Do my hair as usual to-day,' she said, as soon as that stage of her +toilette was reached, and she was sitting in her white wrapper before the +cracked glass. + +Marie stared. + +'It will tire you, madame.' + +'No, it won't. _Mais faites vite!_' + +Ever since their arrival at Torre Amiata Eleanor had abandoned the various +elaborate _coiffures_ in which she had been wont to appear at the villa. +She would allow nothing but the simplest and rapidest methods; and Marie +had been secretly alarmed lest her hand should lose her cunning. + +So that to-day she coiled, crimped, curled with a will. When she had +finished, Eleanor surveyed herself and laughed. + +'_Ah! mais vraiment, Marie, tu es merveilleuse!_ What is certain is that +neither that glass nor Torre Amiata is worthy of it. _N'importe._ One must +keep up standards.' + +'Certainly, madame, you look better to-day.' + +'I slept. Why did I sleep? I can't imagine. After all, Torre Amiata is not +such a bad place--is it Marie?' + +And with a laugh, she lightly touched her maid's cheek. + +Marie looked a little sullen. + +'It seems that madame would like to live and die here.' + +She had no sooner said the words than she could have bitten her tongue out. +She was genuinely attached to her mistress; and she knew well that Eleanor +was no _malade imaginaire_. + +Eleanor's face changed a little. + +'Oh! you foolish girl--we shall soon be gone. No, not that old frock. Look, +please, at that head you've made me--and consider! _Noblesse oblige._' + +So presently, she stood before her table in a cream walking +dress--perfect--but of the utmost simplicity; with her soft black hat tied +round the ripples and clouds of her fair hair. + +'How it hangs on me!' she said, gathering up the front of her dress in her +delicate hand. + +Marie made a little face of pity and concern. + +'_Mais oui, Madame. Il faudrait le cacher un peu._' + +'Padding? _Tiens! j'en ai déjà._ But if Mathilde were to put any more, +there would be nothing else. One day, Marie, you see, there will be only my +clothes left to walk about--by their little selves!' + +She smiled. The maid said nothing. She was on her knees buttoning her +mistress's shoes. + +'Now then--_fini!_ Take all those books on to the _loggia_ and arrange my +chair. I shall be there directly.' + +The maid departed. Eleanor sat down to rest from the fatigue of dressing. + +'How weak I am!--weaker than last month. And next month it will be a little +more--and a little more--then pain perhaps--horrid pain--and one day it +will be impossible to get up--and all one's poor body will fail one like a +broken vessel. And then--relief perhaps--if dying is as easy as it looks. +No more pangs or regrets--and at the end, either a sudden puff that blows +out the light--or a quiet drowning in deep waters--without pain.... And +to-day how little I fear it!' + +A _prie-dieu_ chair, old and battered like everything else in the convent, +was beside her, and above it her child's portrait. She dropped upon her +knees, as she always did for a minute or two morning and evening, mostly +out of childish habit. + +But her thoughts fell into no articulate words. Her physical weakness +rested against the chair; but the weakness of the soul seemed also to rest +on some invisible support. + +'What is the matter with me to-day?'--she asked herself again, in +bewilderment. 'Is it an omen--a sign? All bonds seem loosened--the air +lighter. What made me so miserable yesterday? I wanted him to come--and yet +dreaded--dreaded it so! And now to-day I don't care--I don't care!' + +She slipped into a sitting position and looked at the picture. A tiny +garland of heath and myrtle was hung round it. The little fellow seemed to +be tottering towards her, the eyes a little frightened, yet trusting, the +gait unsteady. + +'Childie!'--she said in a whisper, smiling at him--'Childie!' + +Then with a long sigh, she rose, and feebly made her way to the _loggia_. + +Her maid was waiting for her. But Eleanor refused her sofa. She would +sit, looking out through the arches of the _loggia_, to the road, and the +mountains. + +'Miss Foster is a long time,' she said to Marie. 'It is too hot for her to +be out. And how odd! There is the Contessa's carriage--and the Contessa +herself--at this time of day. Run, Marie! Tell her I shall be delighted to +see her. And bring another comfortable chair--there's a dear.' + +The Contessa mounted the stone stairs with the heavy masculine step that +was characteristic of her. + +'_Vous permettez, madame!_'--she said, standing in the doorway--'at this +unseasonable hour.' + +Eleanor made her welcome. The portly Contessa seated herself with an +involuntary gesture of fatigue. + +'What have you been doing?' said Eleanor. 'If you have been helping the +harvesters, _je proteste_!' + +She laid her hand laughingly on the Contessa's knee. It seemed to her that +the Contessa knew far more of the doings and affairs of her _contadini_ +than did the rather magnificent _fattore_ of the estate. She was in and out +among them perpetually. She quarrelled with them and hectored them; she had +as good a command of the local dialect as they had; and an eye that pounced +on cheating like an osprey on a fish. Nevertheless, as she threw in yet +another evident trifle--that she cared more for them and their interests +than for anything else in the world, now that her son was gone--they +endured her rule, and were not actively ungrateful for her benefits. And, +in her own view at any rate, there is no more that any rich person can ask +of any poor one till another age of the world shall dawn. + +She received Eleanor's remark with an embarrassed air. + +'I have been doctoring an ox,' she said, bluntly, as though apologising for +herself. 'It was taken ill last night, and they sent for me.' + +'But you are too, too wonderful!' cried Eleanor in amusement. 'Is it all +grist that comes to your mill--sick oxen--or humans like me?' + +The Contessa smiled, but she turned away her head. + +'It was Emilio's craze,' she said abruptly. 'He knew every animal on the +place. In his regiment they called him the "vet.," because he was always +patching up the sick and broken mules. One of his last messages to me +was about an old horse. He taught me a few things--and sometimes I am of +use--till the farrier comes.' + +There was a little silence, which the Contessa broke abruptly. + +'I came, however, madame, to tell you something about myself. Teresa has +made up her mind to leave me.' + +'Your daughter?' cried Eleanor amazed. '_Fiancée?_' + +The Contessa shook her head. + +'She is about to join the nuns of Santa Francesca. Her novitiate begins in +October. Now she goes to stay with them for a few weeks.' + +Eleanor was thunderstruck. + +'She leaves you alone?' + +The Contessa mutely assented. + +'And you approve?' said Eleanor hotly. + +'She has a vocation'--said the Contessa with a sigh. + +'She has a mother!' cried Eleanor. + +'Ah! madame--you are a Protestant. These things are in our blood. When we +are devout, like Teresa, we regard the convent as the gate of heaven. When +we are Laodiceans--like me--we groan, and we submit.' + +'You will be absolutely alone,' said Eleanor, in a low voice of emotion, +'in this solitary place.' + +The Contessa fidgetted. She was of the sort that takes pity hardly. + +'There is much to do,'--she said, shortly. + +But then her fortitude a little broke down. 'If I were ten years older, it +would be all right,' she said, in a voice that betrayed the mind's fatigue +with its own debate. 'It's the time it all lasts; when you are as strong as +I am.' + +Eleanor took her hand and kissed it. + +'Do you never take quite another line?' she said, with sparkling eyes. 'Do +you never say--"This is my will, and I mean to have it! I have as much +right to my way as other people?" Have you never tried it with Teresa?' + +The Contessa opened her eyes. + +'But I am not a tyrant,' she said, and there was just a touch of scorn in +her reply. + +Eleanor trembled. + +'We have so few years to live and be happy in,' she said in a lower voice, +a voice of self-defence. + +'That is not how it appears to me,' said the Contessa slowly. 'But then I +believe in a future life.' + +'And you think it wrong ever to press--to _insist_ upon--the personal, the +selfish point of view?' + +The Contessa smiled. + +'Not so much wrong, as futile. The world is not made so--_chère madame_.' + +Eleanor sank back in her chair. The Contessa observed her emaciation, her +pallor--and the pretty dress. + +She remembered her friend's letter, and the 'Signor Manisty' who should +have married this sad, charming woman, and had not done so. It was easy +to see that not only disease but grief was preying on Mrs. Burgoyne. The +Contessa was old enough to be her mother. A daughter whom she had lost in +infancy would have been Eleanor's age, if she had lived. + +'Madame, let me give you a piece of advice'--she said suddenly, taking +Eleanor's hands in both her own--'leave this place. It does not suit you. +These rooms are too rough for you--or let me carry you off to the Palazzo, +where I could look after you.' + +Eleanor flushed. + +'This place is very good for me,' she said with a wild fluttering breath. +'To-day I feel so much better--so much lighter!' + +The Contessa felt a pang. She had heard other invalids say such things +before. The words rang like a dirge upon her ear. They talked a little +longer. Then the Contessa rose, and Eleanor rose, too, in spite of her +guest's motion to restrain her. + +As they stood together the elder woman in her strength suddenly felt +herself irresistibly drawn towards the touching weakness of the other. +Instead of merely pressing hands, she quickly threw her strong arms round +Mrs. Burgoyne, gathered her for an instant to her broad breast, and kissed +her. + +Eleanor leant against her, sighing: + +'A vocation wouldn't drag _me_ away,' she said gently. + +And so they parted. + + * * * * * + +Eleanor hung over the _loggia_ and watched the Contessa's departure. As the +small horses trotted away, with a jingling of bells and a fluttering of the +furry tails that hung from their ears, the _padre parroco_ passed. He took +off his hat to the Contessa, then seeing Mrs. Burgoyne on the _loggia_, he +gave her, too, a shy but smiling salutation. + +His light figure, his young and dreamy air, suited well with the beautiful +landscape through which it passed. Shepherd? or poet? Eleanor thought of +David among the flocks. + +'He only wants the crook--the Scriptural crook. It would go quite well with +the soutane.' + +Then she became aware of another figure approaching on her right from the +piece of open land that lay below the garden. + +It was Father Benecke, and he emerged on the road just in front of the +_padre parroco_. + +The old priest took off his hat. Eleanor saw the sensitive look, the +slow embarrassed gesture. The _padre parroco_ passed without looking +to the right or left. All the charming pliancy of the young figure had +disappeared. It was drawn up to a steel rigidity. + +Eleanor smiled and sighed. + +'David among the Philistines!--_Ce pauvre Goliath_! Ah! he is coming here?' + +She withdrew to her sofa, and waited. + +Marie, after instructions, and with that austerity of demeanour which +she, too, never failed to display towards Father Benecke, introduced the +visitor. + +'Entrez, mon père, entrez,' said Eleanor, holding out a friendly hand. 'Are +you, too, braving the sun? Did you pass Miss Foster? I wish she would come +in--it is getting too hot for her to be out.' + +'Madame, I have not been on the road. I came around through the Sassetto. +There I found no one.' + +'Pray sit down, Father. That chair has all its legs. It comes from +Orvieto.' + +But he did not accept her invitation--at least not at once. He remained +hesitating--looking down upon her. And she, struck by his silence, struck +by his expression, felt a sudden seizing of the breath. Her hand slid to +her heart, with its fatal, accustomed gesture. She looked at him wildly, +imploringly. + +But the pause came to an end. He sat down beside her. + +'Madame, you have taken so kind an interest in my unhappy affairs that you +will perhaps allow me to tell you of the letter that has reached me this +morning. One of the heads of the Old Catholic community invites me to go +and consult with them before deciding on the course of my future life. +There are many difficulties. I am not altogether in sympathy with them. +A married priesthood such as they have now adopted, is in my eyes a +priesthood shorn of its strength. But the invitation is so kind, so +brotherly, I must needs accept it.' + +He bent forward, looking not at her, but at the brick floor of the +_loggia_. Eleanor offered a few words of sympathy; but felt there was more +to come. + +'I have also heard from my sister. She refuses to keep my house any +longer. Her resentment at what I have done is very bitter--apparently +insurmountable. She wishes to retire to a country place in Bavaria where we +have some relations. She has a small _rente_, and will not be in any need.' + +'And you?' said Eleanor quickly. + +'I must find work, madame. My book will bring me in a little, they say. +That will give me time--and some liberty of decision. Otherwise of course I +am destitute. I have lost everything. But my education will always bring me +enough for bread. And I ask no more.' + +Her compassion was in her eyes. + +'You too--old and alone--like the Contessa!' she said under her breath. + +He did not hear. He was pursuing his own train of thought, and presently +he raised himself. Never had the apostolic dignity of his white head, his +broad brow been more commanding. But what Eleanor saw, what perplexed her, +was the subtle tremor of the lip, the doubt in the eyes. + +'So you see, madame, our pleasant hours are almost over. In a few days I +must be gone. I will not attempt to express what I owe to your most kind, +most indulgent sympathy. It seems to me that in the "dark wood" of my life +it was your conversation--when my heart was so sorely cast down--which +revived my intelligence--and so held me up, till--till I could see my way, +and choose my path again. It has given me a great many new ideas--this +companionship you have permitted me. I humbly confess that I shall always +henceforward think differently of women, and of the relations that men and +women may hold to one another. But then, madame--' + +He paused. Eleanor could see his hand trembling on his knee. + +She raised herself on her elbow. + +'Father Benecke! you have something to say to me!' + +He hurried on. + +'The other day you allowed us to change the _rôles_. You had been my +support. You threw yourself on mine. Ah! Madame, have I been of any +assistance to you--then, and in the interviews you have since permitted me? +Have I strengthened your heart at all as you strengthened mine?' + +His ardent, spiritual look compelled--and reassured her. + +She sank back. A tear glittered on her brown lashes. She raised a hand to +dash it away. + +'I don't know, Father--I don't know. But to-day--for some mysterious +reason--I seem almost to be happy again. I woke up with the feeling of one +who had been buried under mountains of rocks and found them rolled away; +of one who had been passing through a delirium which was gone. I seem to +care for nothing--to grieve for nothing. Sometimes you know that happens to +people who are very ill. A numbness comes upon them.--But I am not numb. I +feel everything. Perhaps, Father'--and she turned to him with her old sweet +instinct--of one who loved to be loved--'perhaps you have been praying for +me?' + +She smiled at him half shyly. But he did not see it. His head bent lower +and lower. + +'Thank God!' he said, with the humblest emphasis. 'Then, +madame--perhaps--you will find the force--to forgive me!' + +The words were low--the voice steady. + +Eleanor sprang up. + +'Father Benecke!--what have you been doing? Is--is Mr. Manisty here?' + +She clung to the _loggia_ parapet for support. The priest looked at her +pallor with alarm, with remorse, and spoke at once. + +'He came to me last night.' + +Their eyes met, as though in battle--expressed a hundred questions--a +hundred answers. Then she broke the silence. + +'Where is he?' she said imperiously.' Ah!--I see--I see!' + +She sat down, fronting him, and panting a little. + +'Miss Foster is not with me. Mr. Manisty is not with you. The inference +is easy.--And you planned it! You took--you _dared_ to take--as much as +this--into your own hands!' + +He made no reply. He bent like a reed in the storm. + +'There is no boldness like a saint's'--she said bitterly,--'no +hardness--like an angel's! What I would not have ventured to do with my +closest friend, my nearest and dearest--you--a stranger--have done--with a +light heart. Oh! it is monstrous!--monstrous!' + +She moved her neck from side to side as though she was +suffocating--throwing back the light ruffle that encircled it. + +'A stranger?'--he said slowly. His intense yet gentle gaze confronted hers. + +'You refer, I suppose, to that most sacred, most intimate confidence I +made to you?--which no man of honour or of heart could have possibly +betrayed,'--she said passionately. 'Ah! you did well to warn me that it +was no true confession--under no true seal! You should have warned me +further--more effectually.' + +Her paleness was all gone. Her cheeks flamed. The priest felt that she was +beside herself, and, traversed as his own mind was with the most poignant +doubts and misgivings, he must needs wrestle with her, defend himself. + +'Madame!--you do me some wrong,' he said hurriedly. 'At least in words +I have told nothing--betrayed nothing. When I left him an hour ago Mr. +Manisty had no conception that you were here. After my first letter to him, +he tells me that he relinquished the idea of coming to Torre Amiata, since +if you had been staying here, I must have mentioned it.' + +Eleanor paused. 'Subterfuge!' she cried, under her breath. Then, +aloud--'You asked him to come.' + +'That, madame, is my crime,' he admitted, with a mild and painful humility. +'Your anger hits me hard. But--do you remember?--you placed three lives in +my hands. I found you helpless; you asked for help. I saw you day by day, +more troubled, yet, as it seemed to me, more full of instincts towards +generosity, towards peace. I felt--oh! madame, I felt with all my heart, +that there lay just one step between you and a happiness that would +compensate you a thousand times for all you had gone through. You say that +I prayed for you. I did--often--and earnestly. And it seemed to me that--in +our later conversations--I saw such signs of grace in you--such exquisite +dispositions of the heart--that were the chance of action once more given +to you--you would find the strength to seize the blessing that God offered +you. And one evening in particular, I found you in an anguish that seemed +to be destroying you. And you had opened your heart to me; you had asked my +help as a Christian priest. And so, madame, as you say--I dared. I said, in +writing to Mr. Manisty, who had told me he was coming northward--"if Torre +Amiata is not far out of your road--look in upon me." Neither your name nor +Miss Foster's passed my lips. But since--I confess--I have lived in much +disturbance of mind!' + +Eleanor laughed. + +'Are all priests as good casuists as you, Father?' + +His eyes wavered a little as though her words stung. But he did not reply. + +There was a pause. Eleanor turned towards the parapet and looked outward +towards the road and the forest. Her face and eyes were full of an +incredible animation; her lips were lightly parted to let the quick breath +pass. + +Then of a sudden she withdrew. Her eyes moved back to Father Benecke; she +bent forward and held out both her hands. + +'Father--I forgive you! Let us make peace.' + +He took the small fingers into his large palms with a gratitude that was at +once awkward and beautiful. + +'I don't know yet'--he said, in a deep perplexity--'whether I absolve +myself.' + +'You will soon know,' she said almost with gaiety. 'Oh! it is quite +possible'--she threw up one hand in a wild childish gesture--'it is quite +possible that to-morrow I may be at your feet, asking you to give me +penance for my rough words. On the other hand--Anyway, Father, you have not +found me a very dutiful penitent?' + +'I expected castigation,' he said meekly. 'If the castigation is done, I +have come off better than I could have hoped.' + +She raised herself, and took up her gloves that were lying on the little +table beside her sofa. + +'You see'--she said, talking very fast--'I am an Englishwoman, and my race +is not a docile one. Here, in this village, I have noticed a good deal, +and the _massaja_ gossips to me. There was a fight in the street the other +night. The men were knifing each other. The _parroco_ sent them word that +they should come at once to his house--_per pacificarli_. They went. There +is a girl, living with her sister, whose husband has a bad reputation. The +_parroco_ ordered her to leave--found another home for her. She left. There +is a lad who made some blasphemous remarks in the street on the day of the +Madonna's procession. The _parroco_ ordered him to do penance. He did it. +But those things are not English. Perhaps they are Bavarian?' + +He winced, but he had recovered his composure. + +'Yes, madame, they are Bavarian also. But it seems that even an +Englishwoman can sometimes feel the need of another judgment than her own?' + +She smiled. All the time that she had made her little speech about the +village, she had been casting quick glances along the road. It was evident +that her mind was only half employed with what she was saying. The +rose-flush in her cheeks, the dainty dress, the halo of fair hair gave her +back youth and beauty; and the priest gazed at her in astonishment. + +'Ah!'--she said, with a vivacity that was almost violence--'here she is. +Father--please--!' And with a peremptory gesture, she signed to him to draw +back, as she had done, into the shadow, out of sight of the road. + +But the advancing figure was plain to both of them. + +Lucy mounted the hill with a slow and tired step. Her eyes were on the +ground. The whole young form drooped under the heat, and under a weight of +thought still more oppressive. As it came nearer a wave of sadness seemed +to come with it, dimming the sunshine and the green splendour of the woods. + +As she passed momentarily out of sight behind some trees that sheltered the +gate of the courtyard, Mrs. Burgoyne crossed the _loggia_, and called to +her maid. + +'Marie--be so good as to tell Miss Foster when she comes in that I have +gone out; that she is not to trouble about me, as I shall soon return; and +tell her also that I felt unusually well and strong.' + +Then she turned and beckoned to Father Benecke. + +'This way, Father, please!' + +And she led him down the little stair that had taken Lucy to the garden the +night before. At the foot of the stairs she paused. The wall of the garden +divided them from the courtyard, and on the other side of it they could +hear Lucy speaking to the _massaja_. + +'Now!' said Eleanor, 'quick I--before she discovers us!' + +And opening the garden door with the priest's help she passed into the +field, and took a wide circuit to the right so as to be out of view of the +_loggia_. + +'Dear madame, where are you going?' said the priest in some alarm. 'This is +too fatiguing for you.' + +Eleanor took no notice. She, who for days had scarcely dragged one languid +foot after another, sped through the heat and over the broken ground like +one of the goldfinches in the convent garden. The old priest followed her +with difficulty. Nor did she pause till they were in the middle of the +Sassetto. + +'Explain what we are doing!' he implored her, as she allowed him to press +his old limbs for a moment on his stick, and take breath. + +She, too, leant against a tree panting. + +'You said, Father, that Mr. Manisty was to leave you at midday.' + +'And you wish to see him?' he cried. + +'I am determined to see him,' she said in a low voice, biting her lip. + +And again she was off, a gleam of whiteness gliding down, down, through the +cool green heart of the Sassetto, towards the Paglia. + +They emerged upon the fringe of the wood, where amid scrub and sapling +trees stood the little sun-baked house. + +From the distance came a sound of wheels--a carriage from Selvapendente +crossing the bridge over the Paglia? + +Mrs. Burgoyne looked at the house for a moment in silence. Then, sheltered +under her large white parasol, she passed round to the side that fronted +the river. + +There, in the shade, sat Manisty, his arms upon his knees, his head buried +in his hands. + +He did not at first hear Mrs. Burgoyne's step, and she paused a little way +off. She was alone. The priest had not followed her. + +At last, as she moved, either the sound of her dress or the noise of the +approaching wheels roused him. He looked up--started--sprang to his feet. + +'Eleanor!--' + +They met. Their eyes crossed. She shivered, for there were tears in his. +But through that dimness there shone the fierce unspoken question that had +leapt to them at the sight of his cousin-- + +'Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?' + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +Eleanor was the first to break the silence. + +'You have had a long pilgrimage to find us,' she said quietly. 'Yet perhaps +Torre Amiata might have occurred to you. It was you that praised it--that +proposed to find quarters at the convent.' + +He stared at her in amazement. + +'Eleanor--in God's name!' he broke out violently, 'tell me what this +all means! What has been the meaning of this mad--this extraordinary +behaviour?' + +She tottered a little and leant against the wall of the house. + +'Find me a chair, please, before we begin to talk. And--is that your fly? +Send it away--to wait under the trees. It can take me up the hill, when we +have finished.' + +He controlled himself with difficulty and went round the house. + +She pressed her hands upon her eyes to shut out the memory of his face. + +'She has refused him!' she said to herself; 'and--what is more--she has +made him believe it!' + +Very soon his step was heard returning. The woman he had left in the shade +listened for it, as though in all this landscape of rushing river and +murmuring wood it the one audible, significant sound. But when he came back +to her again, he saw nothing but a composed, expectant Eleanor; dressed, +in these wilds, with a dainty care which would have done honour to London +or Paris, with a bright colour in her cheeks, and the quiver of a smile on +her lips. Ill! He thought he had seldom seen her look so well. Had she not +always been of a thistle-down lightness? 'Exaggeration!--absurdity!' he +said to himself fiercely, carrying his mind back to certain sayings in a +girl's voice that were still ringing in his ears. + +He, however, was in no mood to smile. Eleanor had thrown herself sideways +on the chair he had brought her; her arms resting on the back of it, her +delicate hands hanging down. It was a graceful and characteristic attitude, +and it seemed to him affectation--a piece of her fine-ladyism. + +She instantly perceived that he was in a state of such profound and +passionate excitement that it was difficult for him to speak. + +So she began, with a calmness which exasperated him: + +'You asked me, Edward, to explain our escapade?' + +He raised his burning eyes. + +'What can you explain?--how can you explain?' he said roughly. 'Are you +going to tell me why my cousin and comrade hates me and plots against +me?--why she has inflicted this slight and outrage upon me--why, finally, +she has poisoned against me the heart of the woman I love?' + +He saw her shrink. Did a cruel and secret instinct in him rejoice? He was +mad with rage and misery, and he was incapable of concealing it. + +She knew it. As he dropped his head again in an angry stare at the grass +between them, she was conscious of a sudden childish instinct to put out +her hand and stroke the black curls and the great broad shoulders. He was +not for her; but, in the old days, who had known so well as she how to +soothe, manage, control him? + +'I can't tell you those things--certainly,' she said, after a pause. 'I +can't describe what doesn't exist.' + +And to herself she cried: 'Oh! I shall lie--lie--lie--like a fiend, if I +must!' + +'What doesn't exist'?' he repeated scornfully. 'Will you listen to my +version of what has happened--the barest, unadorned tale? I was your host +and Miss Foster's. I had begun to show the attraction that Miss Foster had +for me, to offer her the most trifling, the most ordinary attention. From +the moment I was first conscious of my own feeling, I knew that you were +against me--that you were influencing--Lucy'--the name dropped from his +lips in a mingled anguish and adoration--'against me. And just as I was +beginning to understand my own heart--to look forward to two or three last +precious weeks in which to make, if I could, a better impression upon her, +after my abominable rudeness at the beginning--_you_ interfered--you, my +best friend! Without a word our party is broken up; my chance is snatched +from me; Miss Foster is spirited away. You and she disappear, and you leave +me to bear my affront--the outrage done me--as best I may. You alarm, you +distress all your friends. Your father takes things calmly, I admit. But +even he has been anxious. Aunt Pattie has been miserable. As for me--' + +He rose, and began to pace up and down before her; struggling with his own +wrath. + +'And at last'--he resumed, pausing in front of her--'after wandering up and +down Italy, I find you--in this remote place--by the merest chance. Father +Benecke said not a word. But what part he has played in it I don't yet +understand. In another half-hour I should have been off; and again you +would have made the veriest fool of me that over walked this earth. Why, +Eleanor?--why? What have I done to you?' + +He stood before her--a superb, commanding presence. In his emotion all +unshapeliness of limb or movement seemed to have disappeared. Transfigured +by the unconsciousness of passion, he was all energy and all grace. + +'Eleanor!--explain! Has our old friendship deserved this? Why have you done +this thing to me?--And, my God!'--he began to pace up and down again, his +hands in his pockets--'how well--how effectually you have gone to work! You +have had--Lucy--in your hands for six weeks. It is plain enough what has +been going on. This morning--on that hill--suddenly,'--he raised his hand +to his brow, as though the surprise, the ecstacy of the moment returned +upon him--'there among the trees--was her face! What I said I shall never +remember. But when a man feels as I do he has no need to take thought +what he shall say. And she? Impatience, coldness, aversion!--not a word +permitted of my long pilgrimage--not a syllable of explanation for this +slight, this unbearable slight that had been put upon me as her host, +her guardian, for the time being! You and she fly me as though I were no +longer fit to be your companion. Even the servants talked. Aunt Pattie and +I had to set ourselves at once to devise the most elaborate falsehoods, or +Heaven knows where the talk would have spread. How had I deserved such a +humiliation?--Yet, when I meet Miss Foster again, she behaves as though she +owed me not a word of excuse. All her talk of you and your health! I must +go away at once--because it would startle and disturb you to see me. She +had already found out by chance that I was here--she had begged Father +Benecke to use his influence with me not to insist on seeing you--not to +come to the convent. It was the most amazing, the most inexplicable thing! +What in the name of fortune does it mean? Are we all mad? Is the world and +everyone on it rushing together to Bedlam?' + +Still she did not speak. Was it that his mere voice, the familiar torrent +of words, was delightful to her?--that she cared very little what he said, +so long as he was there, living, breathing, pleading before her?--that, +like Sidney, she could have cried to him: 'Say on, and all well said, still +say the same'? + +But he meant to be answered. He came close to her. + +'We have been comrades, Eleanor--fellow-workers--friends. You have come to +know me as perhaps no other woman has known me. I have shown you a thousand +faults. You know all my weaknesses. You have a right to despise me as an +unstable, egotistical, selfish fool; who must needs waste other people's +good time and good brains for his own futile purposes. You have a right +to think me ungrateful for the kindest help that ever man got. You have +a right as Miss Foster's friend--and perhaps, guessing as you do at some +of my past history,--to expect of me probation and guarantees. You have +a right to warn her how she gives away anything so precious as herself. +But you have not a right to inflict on me such suffering--such agony of +mind--as you have imposed on me the last six weeks! I deny it, Eleanor--I +deny it altogether! The punishment, the test goes beyond--far beyond--your +right and my offences!' + +He calmed--he curbed himself. + +'The reckoning has come, Eleanor. I ask you to pay it.' + +She drew a long breath. + +'But I can't go at that pace. You must give me time.' + +He turned away in a miserable impatience. + +She closed her eyes and thought a little, 'Now'--she said to herself--'now +is the time for lying. It must be done. Quick! no scruples!' + +And aloud: + +'You understand,' she said slowly, 'that Miss Foster and I had become much +attached to each other?' + +'I understand.' + +'That she had felt great sympathy for me in the failure of the book, and +was inclined--well, you have proof of it!--to pity me, of course a great +deal too much, for being a weakling. She is the most tender--the most +loving creature that exists.' + +'How does that explain why you should have fled from me like the plague?' +he said doggedly. + +'No--no--but--Anyway, you see Lucy was likely to do anything she could to +please me. That's plain, isn't it?--so far?' + +Her head dropped a little to one side, interrogatively. + +He made no reply. He still stood in front of her, his eyes bent upon her, +his hands in his pockets. + +'Meanwhile'--the colour rushed over her face--'I had been, most innocently, +an eavesdropper.' + +'Ah!' he said, with a movement, 'that night? I imagined it.' + +'You were not as cautious as you might have been--considering all the +people about--and I heard.' + +He waited, all ear. But she ceased to speak. She bent a little farther over +the back of the chair, as though she were making a mental enumeration of +the leaves of a tiny myrtle bush that grew near his heel. + +'I thought that bit of truth would have stiffened the lies,' she thought to +herself; 'but somehow--they don't work.' + +'Well: then, you see'--she threw back her head again and looked at him--'I +had to consider. As you say, I knew you better than most people. It was all +remarkably rapid--you will hardly deny that? For a fortnight you took no +notice of Lucy Foster. Then the attraction began--and suddenly--Well, we +needn't go into that any more; but with your character it was plain that +you would push matters on--that you would give her no time--that you would +speak, _coûte qua coûte_--that you would fling caution and delay to the +winds--and that all in a moment Lucy Foster would find herself confronted +by a great decision that she was not at all prepared to make. It was not +fair that she should even be asked to make it. I had become her friend, +specially. You will see there was a responsibility. Delay for both of +you--wasn't that to be desired? And no use whatever to go and leave you +the address!--you'll admit that?' she said hurriedly, with the accent of a +child trying to entrap the judgment of an angry elder who was bringing it +to book. + +He stood there lost in wrath, bewilderment, mystification. Was there ever a +more lame, more ridiculous tale? + +Then he turned quickly upon her, searching her face for some clue. A sudden +perception--a perception of horror--swept upon him. Eleanor's first flush +was gone; in its place was the pallor of effort and excitement. What a +ghost, what a spectre she had become! Manisty looked at her aghast,--at her +unsteady yet defiant eyes, at the uncontrollable trembling of the mouth she +did her best to keep at its hard task of smiling. + +In a flash, he understood. A wave of red invaded the man's face and neck. +He saw himself back in the winter days, working, talking, thinking; always +with Eleanor; Eleanor his tool, his stimulus; her delicate mind and heart +the block on which he sharpened his own powers and perceptions. He recalled +his constant impatience of the barriers that hamper cold and cautious +people. He must have intimacy, feeling, and the moods that border on and +play with passion. Only so could his own gift of phrase, his own artistic +divinations develop to a fine subtlety and clearness, like flowers in a +kind air. + +An experience,--for him. And for her? He remembered how, in a leisurely and +lordly way, he had once thought it possible he might some day reward his +cousin; at the end of things, when all other adventures were done. + +Then came that tragi-comedy of the book; his disillusion with it; his +impatient sense that the winter's work upon it was somehow bound up in +Eleanor's mind with a claim on him that had begun to fret and tease; and +those rebuffs, tacit or spoken, which his egotism had not shrunk from +inflicting on her sweetness. + +How could he have helped inflicting them? Lucy had come!--to stir in +him the deepest waters of the soul. Besides, he had never taken Eleanor +seriously. On the one hand he had thought of her as intellect, and +therefore hardly woman; on the other he had conceived her as too gentle, +too sweet, too sensitive to push anything to extremes. No doubt the flight +of the two friends and Eleanor's letter had been a rude awakening. He +had then understood that he had offended Eleanor, offended her both as a +friend, and as a clever woman. She had noticed the dawn of his love for +Lucy Foster, and had determined that he should still recognise her power +and influence upon his life. + +This was part of his explanation. As to the rest, it was inevitable that +both his vanity and passion should speak soft things. A girl does not take +such a wild step, or acquiesce in it--till she has felt a man's power. +Self-assertion on Eleanor's part--a sweet alarm on Lucy's--these had been +his keys to the matter, so far. They had brought him anger, but also hope; +the most delicious, the most confident hope. + +Now remorse shot through him, fierce and stinging--remorse and terror! Then +on their heels followed an angry denial of responsibility, mingled with +alarm and revolt. Was he to be robbed of Lucy because Eleanor had misread +him? No doubt she had imprinted what she pleased on Lucy's mind. Was he +indeed undone?--for good and all? + +Then shame, pity, rushed upon him headlong. He dared not look at the face +beside him with its record of pain. He tried to put out of his mind what it +meant. Of course he must accept her lead. He was only too eager to accept +it; to play the game as she pleased. She was mistress! That he realised. + +He took up the camp-stool on which he had been sitting when she arrived and +placed himself beside her. + +'Well--that explains something'--he said more gently. 'I can't complain +that I don't seem to you or anyone a miracle of discretion; I can't +wonder--perhaps--that you should wish to protect Miss Foster, if--if you +thought she needed protecting. But I must think--I can't help thinking, +that you set about it with very unnecessary violence. And for yourself +too--what madness! Eleanor! what have you been doing to yourself?' + +He looked at her reproachfully with that sudden and intimate penetration +which was one of his chief spells with women. Eleanor shrank. + +'Oh! I am ill,' she said hastily; 'too ill in fact to make a fuss about. It +would only be a waste of time.' + +'Of course you have found this place too rough for you. Have you any +comforts at all in that ruin? Eleanor, what a rash,--what a wild thing to +do!' + +He came closer to her, and Eleanor trembled under the strong expostulating +tenderness of his face and voice. It was so like him--to be always somehow +in the right! Would he succeed, now as always, in doing with her exactly as +he would? And was it not this, this first and foremost that she had fled +from? + +'No'--she said,--'no. I have been as well here as I should have been +anywhere else. Don't let us talk of it.' + +'But I must talk of it. You have hurt yourself--and Heaven knows you have +hurt me--desperately. Eleanor--when I came back from that function the +day you left the Villa, I came back with the intention of telling you +everything. I knew you were Miss Foster's friend. I thought you were mine +too. In spite of all my stupidity about the book, Eleanor, you would have +listened to me?--you would have advised me?' + +'When did you begin to think of Lucy?' + +Her thin fingers, crossed over her brow, as she rested her arm on the back +of the chair, hid from him the eagerness, the passion, of her curiosity. + +But he scented danger. He prepared himself to walk warily. + +'It was after Nemi--quite suddenly. I can't explain it. How can one ever +explain those things?' + +'What makes you want to marry her? What possible congruity is there between +her and you?' + +He laughed uneasily. + +'What's the good of asking those things? One's feeling itself is the +answer.' + +'But I'm the spectator--the friend.'--The word came out slowly, with a +strange emphasis. 'I want to know what Lucy's chances are.' + +'Chances of what?' + +'Chances of happiness.' + +'Good God!'--he said, with an impatient groan.--'You talk as though she +were going to give herself any opportunity to find out.' + +'Well, let us talk so, for argument. You're not exactly a novice, you +know, in these things. How is one to be sure that you're not playing with +Lucy--as you played with the book--till you can go back to the play you +really like best?' + +'What do you mean?' he cried, starting with indignation--'the play of +politics?' + +'Politics--ambition--what you will. Suppose Lucy finds herself taken up and +thrown down--like the book?--when the interest's done?' + +She uncovered her eyes, and looked at him steadily, coldly. It was an +Eleanor he did not know. + +He sprang up in his anger and discomfort, and began to pace again in front +of her. + +'Oh well--if you think as badly of me as that'--he said fiercely,--'I don't +see what good can come of this conversation.' + +There was a pause. At the end of it, Eleanor said in another voice: + +'Did you ever give her any indication of what you felt--before to-day?' + +'I came near--in the Borghese gardens,' he said reluctantly. 'If she had +held out the tip of her little finger--But she didn't. And I should have +been a fool. It was too soon--too hasty. Anyway, she would not give me +the smallest opening. And afterwards--' He paused. His mind passed to his +night-wandering in the garden, to the strange breaking of the terra-cotta. +Furtively his gaze examined Eleanor's face. But what he saw of it told +him nothing, and again his instinct warned him to let sleeping dogs lie. +'Afterwards I thought things over, naturally. And I determined, that night, +as I have already said, to come to you and take counsel with you. I saw you +were out of charity with me. And, goodness knows, there was not much to +be said for me! But at any rate I thought that we, who had been such old +friends, had better understand each other; that you'd help me if I asked +you. You'd never yet refused, anyway.' + +His voice changed. She said nothing for a little, and her hands still made +a penthouse for her face. + +At last she threw him a question. + +'Just now--what happened?' + +'Good Heavens, as if I knew!' he said, with a cry of distress. 'I tried +to tell her how I had gone up and down Italy, seeking for her, hungering +for any shred of news of you. And she?--she treated me like a troublesome +intruder, like a dog that follows you unasked and has to be beaten back +with your stick!' + +Eleanor smiled a little. His heart and his vanity had been stabbed alike. +Certainly he had something to complain of. + +She dropped her hands, and drew herself erect. + +'Well, yes,' she said in a meditative voice, 'we must think--we must see.' + +As she sat there, rapt in a sudden intensity of reflection, the fatal +transformation in her was still more plainly visible; Manisty could hardly +keep his eyes from her. Was it his fault? His poor, kind Eleanor! He felt +the ghastly tribute of it, felt it with impatience, and repulsion. Must a +man always measure his words and actions by a foot-rule--lest a woman take +him too seriously? He repented; and in the same breath told himself that +his penalty was more than his due. + +At last Eleanor spoke. + +'I must return a moment to what we said before. Lucy Foster's ways, +habits, antecedents are wholly different from yours. Suppose there were a +chance for you. You would take her to London--expect her to play her part +there--in your world. Suppose she failed. How would you get on?' + +'Eleanor--really!--am I a "three-tailed bashaw"?' + +'No. But you are absorbing--despotic--fastidious. You might break that +girl's heart in a thousand ways--before you knew you'd done it. You don't +give; you take.' + +'And you--hit hard!' he said, under his breath, resuming his walk. + +She sat white and motionless, her eyes sparkling. Presently he stood still +before her, his features working with emotion. + +'If I am incapable of love--and unworthy of hers,' he said in a stifled +voice,--'if that's your verdict--if that's what you tell her--I'd better +go. I know your power--don't dispute your right to form a judgment--I'll +go. The carriage is there. Good-bye.' + +She lifted her face to his with a quick gesture. + +'She loves you!'--she said, simply. + +Manisty fell back, with a cry. + +There was a silence. Eleanor's being was flooded with the strangest, most +ecstatic sense of deliverance. She had been her own executioner; and this +was not death--but life! + +She rose. And speaking in her natural voice, with her old smile, she +said--'I must go back to her--she will have missed me. Now then--what shall +we do next?' + +He walked beside her bewildered. + +'You have taken my breath away--lifted me from Hell to Purgatory anyway,' +he said, at last, trying for composure. 'I have no plans for myself--no +particular hope--you didn't see and hear her just now! But I leave it all +in your hands. What else can I do?' + +'No,' she said calmly. 'There is nothing else for you to do.' + +He felt a tremor of revolt, so quick and strange was her assumption of +power over both his destiny and Lucy's. But he suppressed it; made no +reply. + +They turned the corner of the house. 'Your carriage can take me up the +hill,' said Eleanor. 'You must ask Father Benecke's hospitality a little +longer; and you shall hear from me to-night.' + +They walked towards the carriage, which was waiting a hundred yards +away. On the way Manisty suddenly said, plunging back into some of the +perplexities which had assailed him before Eleanor's appearance: + +'What on earth does Father Benecke know about it all? Why did he never +mention that you were here; and then ask me to pay him a visit? Why did he +send me up the hill this morning? I had forgotten all about the convent. He +made me go.' + +Eleanor started; coloured; and pondered a moment. + +'We pledged him to secrecy as to his letters. But all priests are +Jesuits, aren't they?--even the good ones. I suppose he thought we had +quarrelled, and he would force us for our good to make it up. He is very +kind--and--rather romantic.' + +Manisty said no more. Here, too, he divined mysteries that were best +avoided. + +They stood beside the carriage. The coachman was on the ground remedying +something wrong with the harness. + +Suddenly Manisty put out his hand and seized his companion's. + +'Eleanor!'--he said imploringly--'Eleanor!' + +His lips could not form a word more. But his eyes spoke for him. They +breathed compunction, entreaty; they hinted what neither could ever say; +they asked pardon for offences that could never be put into words. + +Eleanor did not shrink. Her look met his in the first truly intimate gaze +that they had ever exchanged; hers infinitely sad, full of a dignity +recovered, and never to be lost again, the gaze, indeed, of a soul that +was already withdrawing itself gently, imperceptibly from the things of +earth and sense; his agitated and passionate. It seemed to him that he saw +the clear brown of those beautiful eyes just cloud with tears. Then they +dropped, and the moment was over, the curtain fallen, for ever. + +They sighed, and moved apart. The coachman climbed upon the box. + +'To-night!'--she said, smiling--waving her hand--'Till to-night.' + +'_Avanti!_' cried the coachman, and the horses began to toil sleepily up +the hill. + + * * * * * + +'Sapphira was nothing to me!' thought Eleanor as she threw herself back in +the old shabby landau with a weariness of body that made little impression +however on the tension of her mind. + +Absently she looked out at the trees above and around her; at the +innumerable turns of the road. So the great meeting was over! Manisty's +reproaches had come and gone! With his full knowledge--at his humble +demand--she held his fate in her hands. + +Again that extraordinary sense of happiness and lightness! She shrank from +it in a kind of terror. + +Once, as the horses turned corner after corner, the sentence of a +meditative Frenchman crossed her mind; words which said that the only +satisfaction for man lies in being _dans l'ordre_; in unity, that is, with +the great world-machine in which he finds himself; fighting with it, not +against it. + +Her mind played about this thought; then returned to Manisty and Lucy. + +A new and humbled Manisty!--shaken with a supreme longing and fear which +seemed to have driven out for the moment all the other elements in his +character--those baser, vainer, weaker elements that she knew so well. The +change in him was a measure of the smallness of her own past influence upon +him; of the infinitude of her own self-deception. Her sharp intelligence +drew the inference at once, and bade her pride accept it. + +They had reached the last stretch of hill before the convent. Where was +Lucy? She looked out eagerly. + +The girl stood at the edge of the road, waiting. As Eleanor bent forward +with a nervous 'Dear, I am not tired--wasn't it lovely to find this +carriage?' Lucy made no reply. Her face was stern; her eyes red. She helped +Eleanor to alight without a word. + +But when they had reached Eleanor's cool and shaded room, and Eleanor was +lying on her bed physically at rest, Lucy stood beside her with a quivering +face. + +'Did you tell him to go at once? Of course you have seen him?' + +'Yes, I have seen him. Father Benecke gave me notice.' + +'Father Benecke!' said the girl with a tightening of the lip. + +There was a pause; then Eleanor said: + +'Dear, get that low chair and sit beside me.' + +'You oughtn't to speak a word,' said Lucy impetuously; 'you ought to rest +there for hours. Why we should be disturbed in this unwarrantable, this +unpardonable way, I can't imagine.' + +She looked taller than Eleanor had ever seen her; and more queenly. Her +whole frame seemed to be stiff with indignation and will. + +'Come!' said Eleanor, holding out her hand. + +Unwillingly Lucy obeyed. + +Eleanor turned towards her. Their faces were close together; the ghastly +pallor of the one beside the stormy, troubled beauty of the other. + +'Darling, listen to me. For two months I have been like a person in a +delirium--under suggestion, as the hypnotists say. I have not been myself. +It has been a possession. And this morning--before I saw Edward at all--I +felt the demon--go! And the result is very simple. Put your ear down to +me.' + +Lucy bent. + +'The one thing in the world that I desire now--before I die--(Ah! dear, +don't start!--you know!)--the only, only thing--is that you and Edward +should be happy--and forgive me.' + +Her voice was lost in a sob. Lucy kissed her quickly, passionately. Then +she rose. + +'I shall never marry Mr. Manisty, Eleanor, if that is what you mean. It is +well to make that clear at once.' + +'And why?' Eleanor caught her--kept her prisoner. + +'Why?--why?' said Lucy impatiently--'because I have no desire to marry +him--because--I would sooner cut off my right hand than marry him.' + +Eleanor held her fast, looked at her with a brilliant eye--accusing, +significant. + +'A fortnight ago you were on the _loggia_--alone. I saw you from my room. +Lucy!--I saw you kiss the terra-cotta he gave you. Do you mean to tell me +that meant nothing--_nothing_--from you, of all people? Oh! you dear, dear +child!--I knew it from the beginning--I knew it--but I was mad.' + +Lucy had grown very white, but she stood rigid. + +'I can't be responsible for what you thought, or--for anything--but what I +do. And I will never marry Mr. Manisty.' + +Eleanor still held her. + +'Dear--you remember that night when Alice attacked you? I came into the +library, unknown to you both. You were still in the chair--you heard +nothing. He stooped over you. I heard what he said. I saw his face. Lucy! +there are terrible risks--not to you--but to him--in driving a temperament +like his to despair. You know how he lives by feeling, by imagination--how +much of the artist, of the poet, there is in him. If he is happy--if there +is someone to understand, and strengthen him, he will do great things. If +not he will waste his life. And that would be so bitter, bitter to see!' + +Eleanor leant her face on Lucy's hands, and the girl felt her tears. She +shook from head to foot, but she did not yield. + +'I can't--I can't'--she said in a low, resolute voice. 'Don't ask me. I +never can.' + +'And you told him so?' + +'I don't know what I told him--except that he mustn't trouble you--that we +wanted him to go--to go directly.' + +'And he--what did he say to you?' + +'That doesn't matter in the least,' cried Lucy. 'I have given him no right +to say what he does. Did I encourage him to spend these weeks in looking +for us? Never!' + +'He didn't want encouraging,' said Eleanor. 'He is in love--perhaps for the +first time in his life. If you are to give him no hope--it will go hard +with him.' + +Lucy's face only darkened. + +'How can you say such things to me?' she said passionately. 'How can you?' + +Eleanor sighed. 'I have not much right to say them, I know,' she said +presently, in a low voice. 'I have poisoned the sound of them to your +ears.' + +Lucy was silent. She began to walk up and down the room, with her hands +behind her. + +'I will never, never forgive Father Benecke,' she said presently, in a low, +determined voice. + +'What do you think he had to do with it?' + +'I know,' said Lucy. 'He brought Mr. Manisty here. He sent him up the +hill this morning to see me. It was the most intolerable interference and +presumption. Only a priest could have done it.' + +'Oh! you bigot!--you Puritan! Come here, little wild-cat. Let me say +something.' + +Lucy came reluctantly, and Eleanor held her. + +'Doesn't it enter into your philosophy--tell me--that one soul should be +able to do anything for another?' + +'I don't believe in the professional, anyway,' said Lucy stiffly--'nor in +the professional claims.' + +'My dear, it is a training like any other.' + +'Did you--did you confide in him?' said the girl after a moment, with a +visible effort. + +Eleanor made no reply. She lay with her face hidden. When Lucy bent down to +her she said with a sudden sob: + +'Don't you understand? I have been near two griefs since I came here--his +and the Contessa's. And mine didn't stand the comparison.' + +'Father Benecke had no right to take matters into his own hands,' said Lucy +stubbornly. + +'I think he was afraid--I should die in my sins,' said Eleanor wildly. 'He +is an apostle--he took the license of one.' + +Lucy frowned, but did not speak. + +'Lucy! what makes you so hard--so strange?' + +'I am not hard. But I don't want to see Mr. Manisty again. I want to take +you safely back to England, and then to go home--home to Uncle Ben--to my +own people.' + +Her voice showed the profoundest and most painful emotion. Eleanor felt a +movement of despair. What could he have said or done to set this tender +nature so on edge? If it had not been for that vision on the _loggia_, she +would have thought that the girl's heart was in truth untouched, and that +Manisty would sue in vain. But how was it possible to think it? + +She lost herself in doubts and conjectures, while Lucy still moved up and +down. + +Presently Cecco brought up their meal, and Eleanor must needs eat and drink +to soothe Lucy's anxiety. The girl watched her every movement, and Eleanor +dared neither be tired nor dainty, lest for every mouthful she refused +Manisty's chance should be the less. + +After dinner she once more laid a detaining hand on her companion. + +'Dear, I can't send him away, you know--at once--to please you.' + +'Do _you_ want him to stay?' said Lucy, holding herself aloof. + +'After all, he is my kinsman. There are many things to discuss--much to +hear.' + +'Very well. It won't be necessary for me to take part.' + +'Not unless you like. But, Lucy, it would make me very unhappy--if you were +unkind to him. You have made him suffer, my dear; he is not the meekest of +men. Be content.' + +'I will be quite polite,' said the girl, turning away her head. 'You will +be able to travel--won't you--very soon?' + +Eleanor assented vaguely, and the conversation dropped. + +In the afternoon Marie took a note to the cottage by the river. + +'Ask Father Benecke to let you stay a few days. Things look bad. What did +you say? If you attacked me, it has done you harm.' + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Lucy, who felt herself exiled from the woods, the roads, the +village, by one threatening presence, shut herself up for a while in her +own room, in youth's most tragic mood, calling on the pangs of thought to +strengthen still more her resolve and clear her mind. + +She forced her fingers to an intermittent task of needlework, but there +were long pauses when her hands lay idle on her lap, when her head drooped +against the back of her chair, and all her life centred in her fast beating +heart, driven and strained by the torment of recollection. + +That moment when she had stepped out upon the road from the shelter of the +wood--the thrill of it even in memory made her pale and cold. His look--his +cry--the sudden radiance of the face, which, as she had first caught sight +of it, bent in a brooding frown over the dusty road, had seemed to her the +very image of discontent. + +'Miss Foster!--_Lucy!_' + +The word had escaped him, in his first rush of joy, his spring towards her. +And she had felt herself tottering, in a sudden blindness. + +What could she remember? The breathless contradiction of his questions--the +eager grasp of her hand--the words and phrases that were the words and +phrases of love--dictated, justified only by love--then her first mention +of Eleanor--the short stammering sentences, which as she spoke them sounded +to her own ear so inconclusive, unintelligible, insulting--and his growing +astonishment, the darkening features, the tightening lips, and finally his +step backward, the haughty bracing of the whole man. + +'Why does my cousin refuse to see me? What possible reason can you or she +assign?' + +And then her despairing search for the right word, that would not come! He +must please, please, go away--because Mrs. Burgoyne was ill--because the +doctors were anxious--because there must be no excitement. She was acting +as nurse, but it was only to be for a short time longer. In a week or +two, no doubt Mrs. Burgoyne would go to England, and she would return to +America with the Porters. But for the present, quiet was still absolutely +necessary. + +Then--silence!--and afterwards a few sarcastic interrogations, quick, +practical, hard to answer--the mounting menace of that thunderbrow, +extravagant, and magnificent,--the trembling of her own limbs. And at +last that sharp sentence, like lightning from the cloud, as to 'whims and +follies' that no sane man could hope to unravel, which had suddenly nerved +her to be angry. + +'Oh! I was odious--odious!'--she thought to herself, hiding her face in her +hands. + +His answering indignation seemed to clatter through her room. + +'And you really expect me to do your bidding calmly,--to play this +ridiculous part?--to leave my cousin and you in these wilds--at this time +of year--she in the state of health that you describe--to face this heat, +and the journey home, without comforts, without assistance? It is a great +responsibility, Miss Foster, that you take, with me, and with her! I refuse +to yield it to you, till I have given you at least a little further time +for consideration. I shall stay here a few hours longer. If you change your +mind, send to me--I am with Father Benecke. If not--good-bye! But I warn +you that I will be no party to further mystification. It is undesirable for +us all. I shall write at once to General Delafield-Muir, and to my aunt. I +think it will be also my duty to communicate with your friends in London or +in Boston.' + +'Mr. Manisty!--let me beg of you to leave my personal affairs alone!' + +She felt again the proud flush upon her cheek, the shock of their two +wills, the mingled anguish and relief as she saw him turn upon his heel, +and go. + +Ah! how unready, how _gauche_ she had shown herself! From the beginning +instead of conciliating she had provoked him. But how to make a plausible +story out of their adventure at all? There was the deciding, the fatal +difficulty! Her face burnt anew as she tried to think his thoughts, to +imagine all that he might or must guess; as she remembered the glow of +swift instinctive triumph with which he had recognised her, and realised +from it some of the ideas that must have been his travelling companions all +these weeks. + +No matter: let him think what he pleased! She sat there in the gathering +dark; at one moment, feeling herself caught in the grip of a moral +necessity that no rebellion could undo; and the next, childishly catching +to her heart the echoes and images of that miserable half-hour. + +No wonder he had been angry! + +'_Lucy!_' + +Her name was sweetened to her ear for ever. He looked way-worn and tired; +yet so eager, so spiritually alert. Never had that glitter and magic he +carried about with him been more potent, more compelling. + +Alack! what woman ever yet refused to love a man because he loved himself? +It depends entirely on how she estimates the force of his temptation. And +it would almost seem as though nature, for her own secret reasons, had +thrown a special charm round the egotist of all types, for the loving and +the true. Is it that she is thinking of the race--must needs balance in it +the forces of death and life? What matters the separate joy or pain! + +Yes. Lucy would have given herself to Manisty, not blind to risks, +expecting thorns!--if it had been possible. + +But it was not possible. She rose from her seat, and sternly dismissed her +thoughts. She was no conscious thief, no willing traitor. Not even Eleanor +should persuade her. Eleanor was dying because she, Lucy, had stolen from +her the affections of her inconstant lover. Was there any getting over +that? None! The girl shrank in horror from the very notion of such a base +and plundering happiness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +On the following morning when Lucy entered Eleanor's room she found her +giving some directions to Marie. + +'Tell Mamma Doni that we give up the rooms next week--Friday in next week. +Make her understand.' + +'_Parfaitement_, Madame.' And Marie left the room. Lucy advanced with a +face of dismay. + +'Ten days more!--Eleanor. + +Eleanor tapped her lightly on the cheek, then kissed her, laughing. + +'Are you too hot?' + +'Dear!--don't talk about me! But you promised me to be gone before August.' + +She knelt down by Eleanor's bedside, holding her hands, imploring her with +her deep blue eyes. + +'Well, it's only a few days more,' said Eleanor, guiltily. 'Do let's take +it leisurely! It's so horrid to be hurried in one's packing. Look at all +these things!' + +She waved her hand desperately round the little room, choked up with +miscellaneous boxes; then laid both hands on Lucy's shoulders, coaxing and +smiling at her like a child. + +Lucy soon convinced herself that it was of no use to argue. She must just +submit, unless she were prepared to go to lengths of self-assertion which +might excite Eleanor and bring on a heart attack. + +So, setting her teeth, she yielded. + +'Friday week, then--for the last, last day!--And Mr. Manisty?' + +She had risen from her knees and stood looking down at Eleanor. Her cheek +had reddened, but Eleanor admired her stateliness. + +'Oh, we must keep Edward. We want him for courier. I gave you trouble +enough, on the journey here.' + +Lucy said nothing. Her heart swelled a little. It seemed to her that under +all this sweetness she was being treated with a certain violence. She went +to the balcony, where the breakfast had just been laid, that she might +bring Eleanor's coffee. + +'It _is_ just a little crude,' Eleanor thought, uneasily. 'Dear bird!--the +net is sadly visible. But what can one do?--with so little time--so few +chances! Once part them, and the game is up!' + +So she used her weakness once more as a tyranny, this time for different +ends. + +The situation that she dictated was certainly difficult enough. Manisty +appeared, by her summons, in the afternoon, and found them on the _loggia_. +Lucy greeted him with a cold self-possession. Of all that had happened on +the previous day, naturally, not a word. So far indeed as allusions to the +past were concerned, the three might just have travelled together from +Marinata. Eleanor very flushed, and dressed in her elegant white dress and +French hat, talked fast and well, of the country folk, the _padre parroco_, +the Contessa. Lucy looked at her with alarm, dreading the after fatigue. +But Eleanor would not be managed; would have her way. + +Manisty, however, was no longer deceived. Lucy was aware of some of the +glances that he threw his cousin. The trouble which they betrayed gave the +girl a bitter satisfaction. + +Presently she left them alone. After her disappearance Eleanor turned to +Manisty with a smile. + +'On your peril--not another word to her!--till I give you leave. That would +finish it.' + +He lifted hands and shoulders in a despairing gesture; but said nothing. +In Lucy's absence, however, then and later, he did not attempt to control +his depression, and Eleanor was soon distracting and comforting him in +the familiar ways of the past. Before forty-eight hours had elapsed the +relations between them indeed had resumed, to all appearance, the old and +close intimacy. On his arm she crept down the road, to the Sassetto, while +Lucy drove with the Contessa. Or Manisty read aloud to her on the _loggia_, +while Lucy in the courtyard below sat chatting fast to a swarm of village +children who would always henceforward associate her white dress and the +pure oval of her face with their dreams of the Madonna. + +In their _tête-à-têtes_, the talk of Manisty and Eleanor was always either +of Lucy or of Manisty's own future. He had been at first embarrassed or +reluctant. But she had insisted, and he had at length revealed himself +as in truth he had never revealed himself in the days of their early +friendship. With him at least, Eleanor through all anguish had remained +mistress of herself, and she had her reward. No irreparable word had passed +between them. In silence the old life ceased to be, and a new bond arose. +The stifled reproaches, the secret impatiences, the _ennuis_, the hidden +anguish of those last weeks at Marinata were gone. Manisty, freed from +the pressure of an unspoken claim which his conscience half acknowledged +and his will repulsed, was for his cousin a new creature. He began to +treat her as he had treated his friend Neal, with the same affectionate +consideration, the same easy sweetness; even through all the torments that +Lucy made him suffer. 'His restlessness as a lover,--his excellence as a +friend,'--so a man who knew him well had written of him in earlier days. +As for the lover, discipline and penance had overtaken him. But now that +Eleanor's claim of another kind was dead, the friend in him had scope. +Eleanor possessed him as the lover of Lucy more truly than she had ever yet +done in the days when she ruled alone. + +One evening finding her more feeble than usual, he implored her to let him +summon a doctor from Rome before she risked the fatigue of the Mont Cenis +journey. + +But she refused. 'If necessary,' she said, 'I will go to Orvieto. There is +a good man there. But there is some one else you shall write to, if you +like:--Reggie! Didn't you see him last week?' + +'Certainly. Reggie and the first secretary left in charge, sitting in their +shirt-sleeves, with no tempers to speak of, and the thermometer at 96. But +Reggie was to get his holiday directly.' + +'Write and catch him.' + +'Tell him to come not later than Tuesday, please,' said Lucy, quietly, who +was standing by. + +'Despot!' said Eleanor, looking up. 'Are we really tied and bound to +Friday?' + +Lucy smiled and nodded. When she went away Manisty sat in a black silence, +staring at the ground. Eleanor bit her lip, grew a little restless, and at +last said: + +'She gives you no openings?' + +Manisty laughed. + +'Except for rebuffs!' he said, bitterly. + +'Don't provoke them!' + +'How can I behave as though that--that scene had never passed between us? +In ordinary circumstances my staying on here would be an offence, of which +she might justly complain. I told her last night I would have gone--but for +your health.' + +'When did you tell her?' + +'I found her alone here for a moment before dinner.' + +'Well?' + +Manisty moved impatiently. + +'Oh! she was very calm. Nothing I say puts her out. She thought I might be +useful!--And she hopes Aunt Pattie will meet us in London, that she may be +free to start for New York by the 10th, if her friends go then. She has +written to them.' + +Eleanor was silent. + +'I must have it out with her!' said Manisty presently under his breath. In +his unrest he rose, that he might move about. His face had grown pale. + +'No--wait till I give you leave,' said Eleanor again, imploring. 'I never +forget--for a moment. Leave it to me.' + +He came and stood beside her. She put out her hand, which he took. + +'Do you still believe--what you said?' he asked her, huskily. + +Eleanor looked up smiling. + +'A thousand times more!' she said, under her breath. 'A thousand times +more.' + +But here the conversation reached an _impasse_. Manisty could not +say--'Then why?--in Heaven's name!'--for he knew why. Only it was not +a _why_ that he and Eleanor could discuss. Every hour he realised more +plainly with what completeness Eleanor held him in her hands. The situation +was galling. But her sweetness and his own remorse disarmed him. To be +helpless--and to be kind!--nothing else apparently remained to him. The +only gracious look Lucy had vouchsafed him these two days had been in +reward for some new arrangement of Eleanor's sofa which had given the +invalid greater ease. + +He returned to his seat, smiling queerly. + +'Well, I am not the only person in disgrace. Do you notice how Benecke is +treated?' + +'She avoids him?' + +'She never speaks to him if she can help it. I know that he feels it.' + +'He risked his penalty,' said Eleanor laughing. 'I think he must bear it.' +Then in another tone, and very softly, she added-- + +'Poor child!' + +Manisty thought the words particularly inappropriate. In all his experience +of women he never remembered a more queenly and less childish composure +than Lucy had been able to show him since their scene on the hill. It +had enlarged all his conceptions of her. His passion for her was thereby +stimulated and tormented, yet at the same time glorified in his own eyes. +He saw in her already the _grande dame_ of the future--that his labour, his +ambitions, and his gifts should make of her. + +If only Eleanor spoke the truth! + + * * * * * + +The following day Manisty, returning from a late walk with Father Benecke, +parted from the priest on the hill, and mounted the garden stairway to the +_loggia_. + +Lucy was sitting there alone, her embroidery in her hands. + +She had not heard him in the garden; and when he suddenly appeared she was +not able to hide a certain agitation. She got up and began vaguely to put +away her silks and thimble. + +'I won't disturb you,' he said formally. 'Has Eleanor not come back?' + +For Eleanor had been driving with the Contessa. + +'Yes. But she has been resting since.' + +'Don't let me interrupt you,' he said again. + +Then he looked at her fingers and their uncertain movements among the +silks; at the face bent over the workbasket. + +'I want if I can to keep some bad news from my cousin,' he said abruptly. + +Lucy started and looked up. He had her face full now, and the lovely +entreating eyes. + +'My sister is very ill. There has been another crisis. I might be summoned +at any time.' + +'Oh!'--she said, faltering. Unconsciously she moved a step nearer to him. +In a moment she was all enquiry, and deep, shy sympathy--the old docile +Lucy. 'Have you had a letter?' she asked. + +'Yes, this morning. I saw her the other day when I passed through Rome. She +knew me, but she is a wreck. The whole constitution is affected. Sometimes +there are intervals, but they get rarer. And each acute attack weakens her +seriously.' + +'It is terrible--terrible!' + +As she stood there before him in her white dress under the twilight, he +had a vision of her lying with shut eyes in his chair at Marinata; he +remembered the first wild impulse that had bade him gather her, unconscious +and helpless, in his arms. + +He moved away from her. For something to do, or say, he stooped down to +look into her open workbasket. + +'Isn't that one of the Nemi terra-cottas!' + +He blundered into the question from sheer nervousness, wishing it unspoken +the instant it was out. + +Lucy started. She had forgotten. How could she have forgotten! There in a +soft bed of many-coloured silks, wrapped tenderly about, yet so as to show +the face and crown, was the little Artemis. The others were beneath the +tray of the box. But this for greater safety lay by itself, a thin fold +of cotton-wool across its face. In that moment of confusion when he had +appeared on the _loggia_ she had somehow displaced the cotton-wool without +knowing it, and uncovered the head. + +'Yes, it is the Artemis,' she said, trying to keep herself from trembling. + +Manisty bent without speaking, and took the little thing into his hand. He +thought of that other lovelier head--her likeness?--whereof the fragments +were at that moment in a corner of his dressing-case, after journeying with +him through the mountains. + +As for Lucy it was to her as though the little head nestling in his hand +must somehow carry there the warmth of her kisses upon it, must somehow +betray her. He seemed to hold a fragment of her heart. + +'Please let me put it away,' she said hurriedly. 'I must go to Eleanor. It +is nearly time for dinner.' + +He gave it up silently. She replaced it, smoothed down her silks and her +work, and shut the box. His presence, his sombre look, and watching eye, +affected her all the time electrically. She had never yet been so near the +loss of self-command. + +The thought of Eleanor calmed her. As she finished her little task, she +paused and spoke again. + +'You won't alarm her about poor Miss Manisty, without--without consulting +with me?' she said timidly. + +He bowed. + +'Would you rather I did not tell her at all? But if I have to go?' + +'Yes then--then you must.' + +An instant--and she added hastily in a voice that wavered,' I am so very, +very sorry--' + +'Thank you. She often asks about you.' + +He spoke with a formal courtesy, in his 'grand manner.' Her gleam +of feeling had made him sensible, of advantage, given him back +self-confidence. + +The soft flutter of her dress disappeared, and he was left to pace up and +down the _loggia_ in alternations of hope and despair. He, too, felt with +Eleanor that these days were fatal. If he lost her now, he lost her for +ever. She was of those natures in which a scruple only deepens with time. + +She would not take what should have been Eleanor's. There was the case in +a nutshell. And how insist in these circumstances, as he would have done +vehemently in any other, that Eleanor had no lawful grievance? + +He felt himself bound and pricked by a thousand delicate lilliputian bonds. +The 'regiment of women' was complete. He could do nothing. Only Eleanor +could help. + + * * * * * + +The following day, just outside the convent gate, he met Lucy, returning +from the village, whither she had been in quest of some fresh figs for +Eleanor's breakfast. It was barely eight o'clock, but the sun was already +fierce. After their formal greeting, Lucy lingered a moment. + +'It's going to be frightfully hot to-day,' she said, looking round her with +a troubled face at the glaring road, at the dusty patch of vines beyond +it, at the burnt grass below the garden wall. 'Mr. Manisty!--you will make +Eleanor go next Friday?--you won't let her put it off--for anything?' + +She turned to him, in entreaty, the colour dyeing her pure cheek and +throat. + +'I will do what I can. I understand your anxiety,' he said stiffly. + +She opened the old door of the courtyard and passed in before him. As he +rejoined her, she asked him in a low voice-- + +'Have you any more news?' + +'Yes. I found a letter at Selvapendente last night. The state of things is +better. There will be no need I hope to alarm Eleanor--for the present.' + +'I am so glad!'--The voice hurried and then paused. 'And of course, for you +too,' she added, with difficulty. + +He said nothing, and they walked up to the inner door in silence. Then as +they paused on the threshold, he said suddenly, with a bitter accent-- + +'You are very devoted!' + +She looked at him in surprise. Her young figure drew itself erect. 'That +isn't wonderful--is it?--with her?' + +Her tone pierced him. + +'Oh! nothing's wonderful in women. You set the standard so high--the men +can't follow.' + +He stared at her, pale and frowning. She laughed artificially, but he could +see the breath hurrying under the blue cotton dress. + +'Not at all! When it comes to the serious difficulties we must, it seems, +apply to you. Eleanor is thankful that you will take her home. + +'Oh! I can be a decent courier--when I put my mind into it,' he said +angrily. 'That, I dare say, you'll admit.' + +'Of course I shall,' she said, with a lip that smiled unsteadily. 'I know +it'll be invaluable. Please, Mr. Manisty, let me pass. I must get Eleanor +her breakfast.' + +But he still stood there, barring the way. + +'Then, Miss Foster, admit something else!--that I am not the mere +intruder--the mere burden--that you took me for.' + +The man's soreness expressed itself in every word, every movement. + +Lucy grew white. + +'For Eleanor's sake, I am glad you came,' she said struggling for +composure. But the dignity, the pride behind the agitation were so evident +that he dared not go a step further. He bowed, and let her pass. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile the Contessa was useful. After a very little observation, based +on the suggestions of her letter from Home, she divined the situation +exactly. Her affection and pity for Mrs. Burgoyne grew apace. Lucy she +both admired and acquitted; while she half liked, half hated Manisty. He +provoked her perpetually to judgment, intellectual and moral; and they +fell into many a sparring which passed the time and made a shelter for +the others. Her daughter had just left her; and the more she smarted, +the more she bustled in and out of the village, the more she drove about +the country, attending to the claims, the sicknesses, and the animals of +distant _contadini_, the more she read her newspapers, and the more nimbly +did her mind move. + +Like the Marchesa Fazzoleni, she would have no pessimism about Italy, +though she saw things in a less poetic, more practical way. + +'I dare say the taxes are heavy--and that our officials and bankers and +_impiegali_ are not on as good terms as they might be with the Eighth +Commandment. Well! was ever a nation made in a night before? When your +Queen came to the throne, were you English so immaculate? You talk +about our Socialists--have we any disturbances, pray, worse than your +disturbances in the twenties and thirties? The _parroco_ says to me day +after day: "The African campaign has been the ruin of Italy!" That's only +because he wants it to be so. The machine marches, and the people pay +their taxes, and the farming improves every year, all the same. A month or +two ago, the newspapers were full of the mobbing of trains starting with +soldiers for Erythrea. Yet all that time, if you went down into the Campo +de' Fiori you could find poems sold for a _soldo_, that only the people +wrote and the people read, that were as patriotic as the poor King +himself.' + +'Ah! I know,' said Manisty. 'I have seen some of them. The oddest, naïvest +things!--the metre of Tasso, the thoughts of a child--and every now and +then the cry a poet.' + +And he repeated a stanza or two from these broad-sheets of the war, in a +rolling and musical Italian. + +The Contessa looked at him with cool admiration; and then aside, at Lucy. +Certainly, when this Englishman was taking pains, his good-looks deserved +all that could be said of them. That he was one of the temperaments to +which other lives minister without large return--that she had divined at +once. But, like Lucy, she was not damped by that. The Contessa had known +few illusions, and only one romance; her love for her dead son. Otherwise +she took the world as it came, and quarrelled with very few of its marked +and persistent phenomena. + +They were sitting on a terrace beneath the north-western front of the +Palazzo. The terrace was laid out in a formal garden. Fountains played; +statues stood in rows; and at the edge cypresses, black against the evening +blue and rose, threw back the delicate dimness of the mountains, made +their farness more far, and the gay foreground--oleanders, geraniums, +nasturtiums--more gay. + +Eleanor was lying on a deck-chair, smiling often, and at ease. Lucy sat a +little apart, busy with her embroidery. She very seldom talked, but Eleanor +could not make a movement or feel a want without her being aware of it. + +'But, Madame, I cannot allow you to make an enemy out of me!'--said Manisty +to the Contessa, resuming the conversation. 'When you talk to me of this +Country and its future, _vous prêchez un converti_.' + +'I thought you were the Jonah of our day,' she said, with her abrupt and +rather disdainful smile. + +Manisty laughed. + +'A Jonah who needn't complain anyway that his Nineveh is too ready to hear +him.' + +'Where is the preaching?' she asked. + +'In the waste-paper basket,' said Manisty, throwing away his cigarette. +'Nowadays, apparently it is the prophets who repent.' + +Involuntarily his eye wandered, sought for Lucy withdrew. She was hidden +behind her work. + +'Oh! preach away,' cried the Contessa. 'Take up your book again. Publish +it. We can bear it.' + +Manisty searched with both hands for his matches; his new cigarette between +his lips. + +'My book, Madame'--he said coolly--' outlived the pleasure its author took +in writing it. My cousin was its good angel; but not even she could bring a +blunder to port. Eleanor!--_n'est-ce pas?_' + +He gathered a spray of oleander that grew near him, and laid it on her +hand, like a caress. Eleanor's emaciated fingers closed upon it gently. She +looked up, smiling. The Contessa abruptly turned away. + +'And besides--' said Manisty. + +He puffed away steadily, with his gaze on the mountains. + +'I wait,' said the Contessa. + +'Your Italy is a witch,' he said, with a sudden lifting of eyes and voice, +'and there are too many people that love her!' + +Lucy bent a little lower over her work. + +Presently the Contessa went away. + +Eleanor lay with eyes closed and hands crossed, very white and still. They +thought her asleep, for it was common with her now to fall into short +sleeps of pure exhaustion. When they occurred, those near her kept tender +and generally silent watch, joining hands of protection, as it were, round +her growing feebleness. + +After a few minutes, however, Manisty bent across towards Lucy. + +'You urged me once to finish the book. But it was she who told me the other +day she was thankful it had been dropped.' + +He looked at her with the half irritable, half sensitive expression that +she knew so well. + +'Of course,' said Lucy, hurriedly. 'It was much best.' + +She rose and stooped over Eleanor. + +'Dear!--It is getting late. I think I ought to call the carriage.' + +'Let me,' said Manisty, biting his lip. + +'Thank you,' said Lucy, formally. 'The coachman understood we should want +him at seven.' + +When he came back, Lucy went into the house to fetch some wraps. + +Eleanor opened her eyes, which were singularly animated and smiling. + +'Listen!' + +He stooped. + +'Be angry!' she said, laying a light grasp on his arm. 'Be quite angry. +Now--you may! It will do no harm.' + +He sat beside her, his head bent; gloomily listening, till Lucy reappeared. + +But he took the hint, calling to his aid all his pride, and all his +singular power of playing any rôle in his own drama that he might desire to +play. He played it with energy, with desperation, counting meanwhile each +hour as it passed, having in view always that approaching moment in London +when Lucy would disappear within the doors of the Porters' house, leaving +the butler to meet the demands of unwelcome visitors with such equivalents +of 'Not at home' as her Puritan scruples might allow; till the newspapers +should announce the safe sailing of her steamer for New York. + +He ceased to propitiate her; he dropped embarrassment. He ignored her. He +became the man of the world and of affairs, whose European interests and +relations are not within the ken of raw young ladies from Vermont. He had +never been more brilliant, more interesting, more agreeable, for Eleanor, +for the Contessa, for Benecke; for all the world, save one. He described +his wanderings among the Calabrian highlands. He drew the peasants, the +priests, the great landowners of the south still surrounded with their +semi-feudal state; he made Eleanor laugh or shudder with his tales of +the brigandage of the sixties; he talked as the artist and the scholar +may of the Greek memories and remains of the Tarentine coast. Then he +turned to English politics, to his own chances, and the humours of his +correspondence. The Contessa ceased to quarrel with him. The handsome +Englishman with the colour of a Titian, and the features of an antique, +with his eloquence, his petulance, his conceit, his charm, filled the +stage, quickened the dull hours whenever he appeared. Eleanor's tragedy +explained itself. The elder woman understood and pitied. As for Lucy +Foster, the Contessa's shrewd eyes watched her with a new respect. At what +stage, in truth, was the play, and how would it end? + +Meanwhile for Lucy Foster alone, Manisty was not agreeable. He rose +formally when she appeared; he placed her chair; he paid her all necessary +courtesies. But his conversation never included her. Her coming generally +coincided--after she was ceremoniously provided for--with an outbreak of +talk between him and Eleanor, or between him and Benecke, more eager, +animated and interesting than before. But Lucy had no part in it. It +was not the early neglect and incivility of the villa; it was something +infinitely colder and more wounding; the frigidity of disillusion and +resentment, of kindness rebuffed and withdrawn. + +Lucy said nothing. She went about her day's work as usual, making all +arrangements for their departure, devoting herself to Eleanor. Every now +and then she was forced to consult with Manisty as to arrangements for the +journey. They spoke as mere acquaintances and no more than was necessary; +while she, when she was alone, would spend much time in a silent +abstraction, thinking of her uncle, of the duties to which she was +returning, and the lines of her future life. Perhaps in the winter she +might do some teaching. Several people in Greyridge had said they would +employ her. + +And, all the time, during the night hours when she was thus wrestling +down her heart, Manisty was often pacing the forest paths, in an orgie +of smoke and misery, cursing the incidents of the day, raging, doubting, +suffering--as no woman had yet made him suffer. The more truly he +despaired, the more he desired her. The strength of the moral life in her +was a revelation, a challenge to all the forces of his own being. He was +not accustomed to have to consider such things in women. It added to her +a wealth, a rarity, which made the conquest of her the only object worth +pursuing in a life swept bare for the moment of all other passions and +zests. She loved him! Eleanor knew it; Eleanor declared it. Yet in ten +days' time she would say,--'Good bye, Mr. Manisty'--with that calm brow +which he already foresaw as an outrage and offence to love. Ah! for some +means to cloud those dear eyes--to make her weep, and let him see the +tears! + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +'Hullo, Manisty!--is that you? Is this the place?' + +The speaker was Reggie Brooklyn, who was dismounting from his bicycle at +the door of the convent, followed by a clattering mob of village children, +who had pursued him down the hill. + +'I say, what a weird place!' said Reggie, looking about him,--'and at the +other end of nowhere. What on earth made Eleanor come here?' + +Ho looked at Manisty in perplexity, wiping the perspiration from his brow, +which frowned beneath his fair curls. + +'We were here last year,' said Manisty, 'on that little tour we made with +the D.'s. Eleanor liked it then. She came here when the heat began, she +thought it would be cool.' + +'You didn't know where she was ten days ago,' said the boy, looking at him +queerly. 'And General Muir didn't know, for I heard from some one who had +seen him last week.' + +Manisty laughed. + +'All the same, she is here now,' he said drily. + +'And Miss Foster is here too?' + +Manisty nodded. + +'And you say that Eleanor is ill?' + +The young man had still the same hostile, suspicious air. + +Manisty, who had been poking at the ground with his stick, looked up. +Brooklyn made a step backward. + +'_Very_ ill,' he said, with a face of consternation. 'And nobody knew?' + +'She would not let us know,' said Manisty slowly. Then he added, with the +authority of the older man, the man in charge--'now we are doing all we +can. We start on Friday and pick up a nurse at Genoa. When we get home, of +course she will have the best advice. Very often she is wonderfully bright +and like herself. Oh! we shall pull her round. But you mustn't tire her. +Don't stay too long.' + +They walked into the convent together, Brooklyn all impatience, Manisty +moody and ill at ease. + +'Reggie!--well met!' It was Eleanor's gayest voice, from the vine-leafed +shadows of the _loggia_. Brooklyn sat down beside her, gazing at her with +his troubled blue eyes. Manisty descended to the walled garden, and walked +up and down there smoking, a prey to disagreeable thoughts. + +After half an hour or so Reggie came down to the convent gate to look out +for the ricketty diligence which had undertaken to bring his bag from +Orvieto. + +Here he was overtaken by Lucy Foster, who seemed to have hurried after him. + +'How do you do, Mr. Brooklyn?' He turned sharply, and let her see a +countenance singularly discomposed. + +They looked at each other a moment in silence. He noted with amazement her +growth in beauty, in expression. But the sadness of the mouth and eyes +tortured him afresh. + +'What is the matter with her?' he said abruptly, dropping her timidly +offered hand. + +'An old illness--mostly the heart,' she said, with difficulty. 'But I think +the lungs are wrong too.' + +'Why did she come here--why did you let her?' + +The roughness of his tone, the burning of his eyes made her draw back. + +'It seemed the best thing to do,' she said, after a pause. 'Of course, it +was only done because she wished it.' + +'Her people disapproved strongly!' + +'She would not consider that.' + +'And here in this rough place--in this heat--how have you been able to look +after her?' said the young man passionately. + +'We have done what we could,' said the girl humbly. 'The Contessa Guerrini +has been very kind. We constantly tried to persuade her to let us take her +home; but she couldn't bring herself to move.' + +'It was madness,' he said, between his teeth. 'And now--she looks as though +she were going to die!' + +He gave a groan of angry grief. Lucy turned aside, leaning her arm against +the convent gateway, and her face upon it. The attitude was very touching; +but Brooklyn only stared at her in a blind wrath. 'What did you ever come +for?'--was his thought--'making mischief!--and robbing Eleanor of her +due!--It was a bad bargain she wanted,--but she might have been allowed to +have him in peace. What did you come meddling for?' + +At that moment the door of the walled garden opened. Manisty came out into +the courtyard. Brooklyn looked from him to Lucy with a tight lip, a fierce +and flashing eye. + +He watched them meet. He saw Lucy's quick change of attitude, the return +of hardness and composure. Manisty approached her. They discussed some +arrangement for the journey, in the cold tones of mere acquaintance. Not a +sign of intimacy in manner or words; beyond the forced intimacy of those +who have for the moment a common task. + +When the short dialogue was over, Manisty mumbled something to Brooklyn +to the effect that Father Benecke had some dinner for him at the house at +the foot of the hill. But he did not wait for the young man's company. He +hurried off with the slouching and yet swinging gait characteristic of him, +his shoulders bent as it were under the weight of his great head. The young +man and the girl looked after him. Then Reggie turned impulsively. + +'I suppose it was that beastly book--partly--that knocked her up. What's he +done with it?' + +'He has given it up, I believe. I heard him say so to Eleanor.' + +'And now I suppose he will condescend to go back to politics?' + +'I know nothing of Mr. Manisty's affairs.' + +The young man threw her a glance first of distrust--then of something +milder and more friendly. They turned back to the convent together, Lucy +answering his questions as to the place, the people, the Contessa, and so +forth. + +A step, quick and gentle, overtook them. + +It was Father Benecke who stopped and greeted them; a venerable figure, as +he bared his white head, and stood for a moment talking to Brooklyn under +the great sycamore of the courtyard. He had now resumed his clerical dress; +not, indeed, the soutane; but the common round collar, and long black coat +of the non-Catholic countries. The little fact, perhaps, was typical of a +general steadying and settling of his fortunes after the anguish of his +great catastrophe. + +Lucy hardly spoke to him. His manner was soft and deprecating. And Miss +Foster stood apart as though she liked neither it nor him. When he left +them, to enter, the Convent, Reggie broke out:-- + +And how does _he_ come to be here? I declare it's the most extraordinary +tangle! What's he doing in there?' + +He nodded towards the building, which seemed to be still holding the +sunlight of the day, so golden-white it shone under the evening sky, and +against the engirdling forest. + +'Every night--almost--he comes to read with Eleanor.' + +The young man stared. + +'I say--is she--is she going to become a Catholic?' + +Lucy smiled. + +'You forget--don't you? They've excommunicated Father Benecke.' + +'My word!--Yes!--I forgot. My chief was awfully excited about it. Well, I'm +sure he's well quit of them!'--said the young man fervently. 'They're doing +their level best to pull this country about everybody's ears. And they'll +be the first to suffer--thank heaven!--if they do upset the coach. And so +it was Benecke that brought Manisty here?' + +Lucy's movement rebuked him; made him feel himself an impertinent. + +'I believe so,' she said coldly. 'Good-night, Mr. Brooklyn. I must go in. +There!--that's the stage coming down hill.' + +He went to tell the driver to set down his bag at the house by the bridge, +and then he walked down the hill after the little rumbling carriage, his +hands thrust into the pockets of his blue flannel coat. + +'She's not going to marry him!--I'll bet anything she's not! She's a +girl of the right sort--she's a brick, she is!'--he said to himself in a +miserable, a savage exultation, kicking the stones of the road furiously +down hill, after the disappearing diligence. 'So that's how a woman looks +when her heart's broken!--Oh! my God--Eleanor!--my poor, poor Eleanor!' + +And before he knew what had happened to him, the young fellow found himself +sitting in the darkness by the roadside, grappling with honest tears, that +astonished and scandalised himself. + + * * * * * + +Next day he was still more bewildered by the position of affairs. Eleanor +was apparently so much better that he was disposed to throw scorn on his +own burst of grief under the starlight. That was the first impression. Then +she was apparently in Manisty's charge. Manisty sat with her, strolled with +her, read to her from morning till night. Never had their relations been +more intimate, more affectionate. That was the second impression. + +Nevertheless, that some great change had taken place--above all in +Eleanor--became abundantly evident to the young man's quickened perception, +before another twenty-four hours had passed away. And with this new sense +returned the sense of irreparable tragedy. Eleanor stood alone--aloof from +them all. The more unremitting, the more delicate was Manisty's care, the +more tender was Lucy's devotion, the more plainly was Brooklyn aware of a +pathetic, a mysterious isolation which seemed already to bring the chill of +death into their little company. + +The boy's pain flowed back upon him, ten-fold augmented. For seven or +eight years he had seen in Eleanor Burgoyne the woman of ideal distinction +by whom he judged all other women. The notion of falling in love with +her would have seemed to him ridiculous. But his wife, whenever he could +indulge himself in such a luxury, must be like her. Meanwhile he was most +naïvely, most boyishly devoted to her. + +The sight of her now, environed as it were by the new and awful +possibilities which her state suggested, was a touch upon the young +man's nature, which seemed to throw all its energies into a fiery +fusion,--concentrating them upon a changed and poignant affection, which +rapidly absorbed his whole being. His pity for her was almost intolerable, +his bitterness towards Manisty almost beyond his control. All very well +for him now to be the guardian of her decline! Whatever might be the truth +about the American girl, it was plain enough that while she could still +reckon on the hopes and chances of the living, Eleanor had wasted her heart +and powers on an egotist, only to reap ingratitude, and the deadly fruit of +'benefits forgot.' + +What chafed him most was that he had so little time with her; that Manisty +was always there. At last, two days after his arrival, he got an hour to +himself while Manisty and Father Benecke were walking, and Lucy was with +the Contessa. + +He began to question her eagerly as to the future. With whom was she to +pass the remainder of the year--and where? + +'With my father and Aunt Pattie of course,' said Eleanor, smiling. 'It will +be Scotland I suppose till November--then London.' + +He was silent for a few moments, the colour flooding his smooth fair face. +Then he took her hand firmly, and with words and gestures that became him +well, he solemnly asked her to marry him. He was not fit to tie her shoes; +but he could take care of her; he could be her courier, her travelling +companion, her nurse, her slave. He implored her to listen to him. What +was her father to her--he asked her plainly--when had he ever considered +her, as she should be considered? Let her only trust herself to him. Never, +never should she repent that she had done him such an inconceivable honour. +Hang the diplomatic service! He had some money; with her own it would be +enough. He would take her to Egypt or the Cape. That would revive her. + +Eleanor heard him very calmly. + +'You dear, dear boy!' she said, when he paused for lack of breath. 'You +remind me of that pretty story--don't you remember?--only it was the other +way about--of Lord Giffard and Lady Dufferin. He was dying--and she married +him--that she might be with him to the end. That's right--for the woman. +It's her natural part to be the nurse. Do you think I'm going to let _you_ +ruin your career to come and nurse me? Oh! you foolish Reggie!' + +But he implored her; and after a while she grew restless. + +'There's only one thing in the world you can do for me!--' she said at +last, pushing him away from her in her agitation. + +Then reaching out from her sofa, she opened a drawer in a little table +beside her, and took out a double photograph-case, folded together. She +opened it and held it out to him. + +'There!--help me bring those two together, Reggie--and I'll give you even +more of my heart than I do now!' + +He stared, open-mouthed and silent, at the portraits, at the delicate, +illumined face. + +'Come here'--she said, drawing him back towards her. 'Come and let us +talk.' + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Manisty and Father Benecke were climbing the long hill, on the +return from their walk. There had been no full confidence between these +two. Manisty's pride would not allow it. There was too sharp humiliation +at present in the thought of that assurance with which he had spoken to +Benecke by the river-side. + +He chose, therefore, when they were alone, rather to talk to the priest +of his own affairs, of his probable acceptance of the Old Catholic offers +which had been made him. Benecke did not resent the perfunctory manner of +his talk, the half-mind that he gave to it. The priest's shrewd humility +made no claims. He understood perfectly that the catastrophe of his own +life could have no vital interest for a man absorbed as Manisty was then +absorbed. He submitted to its being made a topic, a _passe-temps_. + +Moreover, he forgave, he had always forgiven Manisty's dominant attitude +towards the forces which had trampled on himself. Often he had felt himself +the shipwrecked sailor sinking in the waves, while Manisty as the cool +spectator was hobnobbing with the wreckers on the shore. But nothing of +this affected his love for the man. He loved him as Vanbrugh Neal had +loved him; because of a certain charm, a certain indestructible youth and +irresponsibility at the very heart of him, which redeemed half his errors. + +'Ah! my dear friend,' Manisty was saying as they neared the top of the +hill--with his largest and easiest gesture; 'of course you must go to Bonn; +you must do what they want you to do. The Old Catholics will make a great +deal of you. It might have been much worse.' + +'They are very kind. But one transplants badly at sixty-six,' said the +priest mildly, thinking perhaps of his little home in the street of his +Bavarian town, of the pupils he should see no more, of the old sister who +had deserted him. + +'_Your_ book has been the success,' said Manisty, impatiently. 'For you +said what you meant to say--you hit your mark. As for me--well, never mind! +I came out in too hot a temper; the men I saw first were too plausible; the +facts have been too many for me. No matter. It was an adventure like any +other. I don't regret it! In itself, it gave one some exciting moments, +and,--if I mistook the battle here--I shall still fight the English battle +all the better for the experience! _Allons donc_!--"To-morrow to fresh +woods and pastures new!"' + +The priest looked at his handsome reckless air, with a mixture of +indulgence and repulsion. Manisty was 'an honourable man,' of many gifts. +If certain incalculable elements in his character could be controlled, +place and fame were probably before him. Compared with him, the priest +realised profoundly his own meaner, obscurer destiny. The humble servant +of a heavenly _patria_, of an unfathomable truth, is no match for these +intellectual soldiers of fortune. He does not judge them; he often feels +towards them a strange forbearance. But he would sooner die than change +parts! + + * * * * * + +As the convent came in sight, Manisty paused. + +'You are going in to see her?' + +The priest assented. + +'Then I will come up later.' + +They parted, and Father Benecke entered the convent alone. + +Five days more! Would anything happen--or nothing? Manisty's wounded vanity +held him at arm's length; Miss Foster could not forgive him. But the +priest knew Eleanor's heart; and what else he did not know he divined. All +rested with the American girl, with the wounded tenderness, the upright +independence of a nature, which, as the priest frankly confessed to +himself, he did not understand. + +He was not, indeed, without pricks of conscience with regard to her. +Supposing that she ultimately yielded? It was he who would have +precipitated the solution; he who would in truth have given her to Manisty. +Might he not, in so doing, have succoured the one life only to risk the +other? Were Manisty's the hands in which to place a personality so noble +and so trusting as that of the young girl? + +But these qualms did not last long. As we have seen he had an invincible +tenderness for Manisty. And in his priestly view women were the adjuncts +and helpers of men. Woman is born to trouble; and the risks that she must +take grow with her. Why fret about the less or more? His own spiritual +courage would not have shrunk from any burden that love might lay upon it. +In his Christian stoicism--the man of the world might have called it a +Christian insensibility--he answered for Lucy. + +Why suppose that she would shrink, or ought to shrink? Eve's burden is +anyway enormous; and the generous heart scorns a grudging foresight. + +As to Mrs. Burgoyne--ah! there at least he might be sure that he had not +dared in vain. While Lucy was steel to him, Eleanor not only forgave him, +but was grateful to him with a frankness that only natures so pliant and so +sweet have the gift to show. In a few hours, as it seemed to him, she had +passed from fevered anguish into a state which held him often spellbound +before her, so consonant was it to the mystical instincts of his own life. +He thought of her with the tenderest reverence, the most sacred rejoicing. +Through his intercourse with her, moreover, while he guided and sustained +her, he had been fighting his own way back to the sure ground of spiritual +hope and confidence. God had not withdrawn from him the divine message! He +was about to step forth into the wilderness; but this light went with him. + +On the stairs leading to Mrs. Burgoyne's rooms he met Reggie Brooklyn +coming down. The young man's face was pale and strained. The priest asked +him a question, but he ran past without an answer. + +Eleanor was alone on the _loggia_. It was past eight o'clock, and the trees +in the courtyard and along the road were alive with fire-flies. Overhead +was the clear incomparable sky, faintly pricked with the first stars. +Someone was singing 'Santa Lucia' in the distance; and there was the +twanging of a guitar. + +'Shall I go away?' he said, standing beside her. 'You wished me to come. +But you are fatigued.' + +She gave him her hand languidly. + +'Don't go, Father. But let me rest a little.' + +'Pay me no attention,' he said. 'I have my office.' + +He took out his breviary, and there was silence. + +After a while, when he could no longer see even the red letters of his +little book and was trusting entirely to memory, Eleanor said, with a +sudden clearness of voice,-- + +A strange thing happened to me to-day, Father. I thought I would tell you. +For many many years I have been haunted by a kind of recurrent vision. +I think it must have come, to begin with, from the influence of a +clergyman--a very stern, imaginative, exacting man--who prepared me for +confirmation. Suddenly I see the procession of the Cross; the Lord in +front, with the Crown of Thorns dripping with blood; the thieves following; +the crowd, the daughters of Jerusalem. Nothing but that--but always very +vivid, the colours as bright as the colours of a Van Eyck--and bringing +with it an extraordinary sense of misery and anguish--of everything +that one wants to forget and refuse in life. The man to whom I trace it +was a saint, but a forbidding one. He made me afraid of him; afraid of +Christianity. I believed, but I never loved. And when his influence was +withdrawn, I threw it all behind me, in a great hurry. But this impression +remained--like a nightmare. I remember the day I was presented; there, in +the midst of all the feathers and veils and coronets, was the vision,--and +the tumult of ghastly and crushing thoughts that spread from it. I remember +hating Christianity that day; and its influence in the world. + +'Last night, just before the dawn, I looked out; and there was the vision +again, sweeping over the forests, and up into the clouds that hung over +Monte Amiata. And I hated it no more. There was no accompanying horror. +It seemed to me as natural as the woods; as the just-kindling light. And +my own soul seemed to be rapt into the procession--the dim and endless +procession of all times and nations--and to pass away with it,--I knew not +where.... + +Her voice fell softly, to a note of dream. + +'That was an omen,' he said, after a pause, 'an omen of peace.' + +'I don't know,--but it soothed! As to what may be _true_, Father,--you +can't be certain any more than I! But at least our dreams are true--to +_us_.'... 'We make the heaven we hope indeed our home! All to the good if +we wake up in it after all! If not, the dream will have had its own use +here. Why should we fight so with our ignorance? The point is, as to the +_quality_ of our dreams! The quality of mine was once all dark--all misery. +Now, there is a change,--like the change from London drizzle and rain to +the clearness of this sky, which gives beauty to everything beneath it. +But, for me, it is not the first time--no, not the first--' + +The words were no longer audible, her hands pressed against each other, and +he traced that sudden rigidity in her dim face which meant that she was +defending herself against emotion. + +'It is all true, my friend,' he said, bending over her,--'the gospel of +Christ. You would be happier if you could accept it simply.' + +She opened her eyes, smiling, but she did not reply. She was always eager +that he should read and talk to her, and she rarely argued. But he never +felt that intellectually he had much hold upon her. Her mind seemed to +him to be moving elusively in a sphere remote and characteristic, where +he could seldom follow. _Anima naturaliter Christiana_; yet with a most +stoic readiness to face the great uncertainties, the least flattering +possibilities of existence: so she often appeared to him. + +Presently she dragged herself higher in her chair to look at the moon +rising above the eastern mass of the convent. + +'It all gives me such extraordinary pleasure!' she said, as though +in wonder--'The moon--the fire-flies--those beautiful woods--your +kindness--Lucy in her white dress, when I see her there at the door. I know +how short it must be; and a few weeks ago I enjoyed nothing. What mystery +are we part of?--that moves and changes without our will. I was much +touched, Father, by all you said to me that great, great day; but I was not +conscious of yielding to you; nor afterwards. Then, one night, I went to +sleep in one mind; I woke up in another. The "grace of God," you think?--or +the natural welling back of the river, little by little, to its natural +bed? After all I never wilfully hurt or defied anybody before--that I can +remember. But what are "grace" and "nature" more than words? There is a +Life,--which our life perpetually touches and guesses at--like a child +fingering a closed room in the dark. What else do we know?' + +'We know a great deal more,' he said firmly. 'But I don't want to weary you +by talking.' + +'You don't weary me. Ah!'--her voice leapt--'what _is_ true--is the "dying +to live" of Christianity. One moment, you have the weight of the world +upon you; the next, as it were, you dispose of the world and all in it. +Just an act of the will!--and the thing verifies itself like any chemical +experiment. Let me go on--go on!' she said, with mystical intensity. 'If +the clue is anywhere it is there,--so far my mind goes with you. Other +races perceive it through other forms. But Christ offered it to us.' + +'My dear friend,' said the priest tenderly--'He offers us _Himself_.' + +She smiled, most brightly. + +'Don't quarrel with me--with my poor words. He is there--_there!_'--she +said under her breath. + +And he saw the motion of her white fingers towards her breast. + +Afterwards he sat beside her for some time in silence, thinking of the +great world of Rome, and of his long conflict there. + +Form after form appeared to him of those men, stupid or acute, holy or +worldly, learned or ignorant, who at the heart of Catholicism are engaged +in that amazing struggle with knowledge which perhaps represents the only +condition under which knowledge--the awful and irresistible--can in the +long run safely incorporate itself with the dense mass of human life. He +thought of scholar after scholar crushed by the most incompetent of judges; +this man silenced by a great post, that man by exile, one through the best +of his nature, another through the worst. He saw himself sitting side +by side with one of the most-eminent theologians of the Roman Church; +he recalled the little man, black-haired, lively, corpulent, a trifle +underhung, with a pleasant lisp and a merry eye; he remembered the +incredible conversation, the sense of difficulty and shame under which he +had argued some of the common-places of biology and primitive history, as +educated Europe understands them; the half patronising, half impatient +glibness of the other.-- + +'Oh! you know better, my son, than I how to argue these things; you are +more learned, of course. But it is only a matter for the Catechism after +all. Obey, my friend, obey!--there is no more to be said.' + +And his own voice--tremulous: + +'I would obey if I could. But unhappy as I am, to betray truths that are as +evident to me as the sun in heaven would make me still unhappier. The fate +that threatens me is frightful. _Aber ich kann nicht anders_. The truth +holds me in a vice.'-- + +'Let me give you a piece of counsel. You sit too close to your books. +You read and read,--you spin yourself into your own views like a cocoon. +Travel--hear what others say--above all, go into retreat! No one need know. +It would do you much good.' + +'Eminence, I don't only study; I pray and meditate; I take pains to hear +all that my opponents say. But my heart stands firm.' + +'My son, the tribunal of the Pope is the tribunal of Christ. You are +judged; submit! If not, I am sorry--regret deeply--but the consequence is +certain.' + +And then his own voice, in its last wrestle-- + +'The penalty that approaches me appears to me more terrible the nearer it +comes. Like the Preacher--"I have judged him happiest who is not yet born, +nor doth he see the ills that are done under the sun." Eminence, give me +yet a little time.' + +'A fortnight--gladly. But that is the utmost limit. My son, make the +"sacrificium intellectus!"--and make it willingly.' + +Ah!--and then the yielding, and the treachery, and the last blind stroke +for truth!-- + +What was it which had undone him--which was now strangling the mental and +moral life of half Christendom! + +Was it the _certainty_ of the Roman Church; that conception of life which +stakes the all of life upon the carnal and outward; upon a date, an +authorship, a miracle, an event? + +Perhaps his own certainty, at bottom, had not been so very different. + +But here, beneath his eyes, in this dying woman, was another certainty; +erect amid all confusion; a certainty of the spirit. + +And looking along the future, he saw the battle of the certainties, +traditional, scientific, moral, ever more defined; and believed, like all +the rest of us, in that particular victory, for which he hoped! + + * * * * * + +Late that night, when all their visitors were gone, Eleanor showed +unusual animation. She left her sofa; she walked up and down their little +sitting-room, giving directions to Marie about the journey home; and at +last she informed them with a gaiety that made mock of their opposition +that she had made all arrangements to start very early the following +morning to visit the doctor in Orvieto who had attended her in June. Lucy +protested and implored, but soon found that everything was settled, and +Eleanor was determined. She was to go alone with Marie, in the Contessa's +carriage, starting almost with the dawn so as to avoid the heat: to spend +the hot noon under shelter at Orvieto; and to return in the evening. Lucy +pressed at least to go with her. So it appeared had the Contessa. But +Eleanor would have neither. 'I drive most days, and it does me no harm,' +she said, almost with temper. 'Do let me alone!' + +When she returned, Manisty was lounging under the trees of the courtyard +waiting for her. He had spent a dull and purposeless day, which for a man +of his character and in his predicament had been hard to bear. His patience +was ebbing; his disappointment and despair were fast getting beyond +control. All this Eleanor saw in his face as she dismounted. + +Lucy, who had been watching for her all the afternoon, was at the moment +for some reason or other with Reggie in the village. + +Eleanor, with her hand on Marie's arm, tottered across the courtyard. At +the convent door her strength failed her. She turned to Manisty. + +'I can't walk up these stairs. Do you think you could carry me? I am very +light.' + +Struck with sudden emotion he threw his arms round her. She yielded like +a tired child. He, who had instinctively prepared himself for a certain +weight, was aghast at the ease with which he lifted her. Her head, in its +pretty black hat, fell against his breast. Her eyes closed. He wondered if +she had fainted. + +He carried her to her room, and laid her on the sofa there. Then he saw +that she had not fainted, and that her eyes followed him. As he was about +to leave her to Marie, who was moving about in Lucy's room next door, she +touched him on the arm. + +'You may speak again--to-morrow,' she said, nodding at him with a friendly +smile. + +His face in its sudden flash of animation reflected the permission. He +pressed her hand tenderly. + +'Was your doctor useful to you?' + +'Oh yes; it is hard to think as much of a prescription in Italian as in +English--but that's one's insular way.' + +'He thought you no worse?' + +'Why should one believe him if he did?' she said evasively. 'No one knows +as much as oneself. Ah! there is Lucy. I think you must bid us good-night. +I am too tired for talking.' + +As he left the room Eleanor settled down happily on her pillow. + +'The first and only time!' she thought. 'My heart on his--my arms round his +neck. There must be impressions that outlast all others. I shall manage to +put them all away at the end--but that.' + +When Lucy came in, she declared she was not very much exhausted. As to the +doctor she was silent. + +But that night, when Lucy had been for some time in bed, and was still +sleepless with anxiety and sorrow, the door opened and Eleanor appeared. +She was in her usual white wrapper, and her fair hair, now much touched +with grey, was loose on her shoulders. + +'Oh! can I do anything?' cried Lucy, starting up. + +Eleanor came up to her, laid a hand on her shoulder, bade her 'be still,' +and brought a chair for herself. She had put down her candle on a table +which stood near, and Lucy could see the sombre agitation of her face. + +'How long?' she said, bending over the girl--'how long are you going to +break my heart and his?' + +The words were spoken with a violence which convulsed her whole frail form. +Lucy sprang up, and tried to throw her arms round her. But Eleanor shook +her off. + +'No--no! Let us have it out. Do you see?' She let the wrapper slip from her +shoulders. She showed the dark hollows under the wasted collar-bones, the +knife-like shoulders, the absolute disappearance of all that had once made +the difference between grace and emaciation. She held up her hands before +the girl's terrified eyes. The skin was still white and delicate, otherwise +they were the hands of a skeleton. + +'You can look at _that_,' she said fiercely, under her breath--'and then +insult me by refusing to marry the man you love, because you choose to +remember that I was once in love with him! It is an outrage to associate +such thoughts with me--as though one should make a rival of someone in her +shroud. It hurts and tortures me every hour to know that you have such +notions in your mind. It holds me back from peace--it chains me down to the +flesh, and to earth.' + +'Eleanor!' cried the girl in entreaty, catching at her hands. But Eleanor +stood firm. + +'Tell me,' she said peremptorily--'answer me truly, as one must answer +people in my state--you do love him? If I had not been here--if I had not +stood in your way--you would have allowed him his chance--you would have +married him? + +Lucy bent her head upon her knees, forcing herself to composure. + +'How can I answer that? I can never think of him, except as having brought +pain to you.' + +'Yes, dear, you can,' cried Eleanor, throwing herself on her knees and +folding the girl in her arms. 'You can! It is no fault of his that I am +like this--none--none! The doctor told me this afternoon that the respite +last year was only apparent. The mischief has always been there--the +end quite certain. All my dreams and disappointments and foolish woman's +notions have vanished from me like smoke. There isn't one of them left. +What should a woman in my condition do with such things? But what +_is_ left is love--for you and him. Oh! not the old love,' she said +impatiently--persuading, haranguing herself no less than Lucy--'not an +ounce of it! But a love that suffers so--in his suffering and yours! A +love that won't let me rest; that is killing me before the time!' + +She began to walk wildly up and down. Lucy sprang up, threw on some +clothes, and gradually persuaded her to go back to her own room. When +she was in bed again, utterly exhausted, Lucy's face--bathed in +tears--approached hers: + +'Tell me what to do. Have I ever refused you anything?' + + * * * * * + +The morning broke pure and radiant over the village and the forest. The +great slopes of wood were in a deep and misty shadow; the river, shrunk to +a thread again, scarcely chattered with its stones. A fresh wind wandered +through the trees and over the new-reaped fields. + +The Angelus had been rung long ago. There was the bell beginning for Mass. +Lucy slipped out into a cool world, already alive with all the primal +labours. The children and the mothers and the dogs were up; the peasants +among the vines; the men with their peaked hats, the women shrouded from +the sun under the heavy folds of their cotton head-gear; turned and smiled +as she passed by. They liked the Signorina, and they were accustomed to her +early walks. + +On the hill she met Father Benecke coming up to Mass. Her cheek reddened, +and she stopped to speak to him. + +'You are out early, Mademoiselle?' + +'It is the only time to walk.' + +'Ah! yes--you are right.' + +At which a sudden thought made the priest start. He looked down. But this +time, he at least was innocent! + +'You are coming in to tea with us this afternoon, Father?' + +'If Mademoiselle does me the honour to invite me.' + +The girl laughed. + +'We shall expect you.' + +Then she gave him her hand--a shy yet kind look from her beautiful eyes, +and went her way. She had forgiven him, and the priest walked on with a +cheered mind. + +Meanwhile Lucy pushed her way into the fastnesses of the Sassetto. In its +very heart she found a green-overgrown spot where the rocks made a sort of +natural chair; one great block leaning forward overhead; a flat seat, and +mossy arms on either side. + +Here she seated herself. The winding path ran above her head. She could be +perceived from it, but at this hour what fear of passers by? + +She gave herself up to the rush of memory and fear. + +She had travelled far in these four months! + +'Is this what it always means?--coming to Europe?' she asked herself with a +laugh that was not gay, while her fingers pulled at a tuft of hart's-tongue +that grew in a crevice beside her. + +And then in a flash she looked on into her destiny. She thought of Manisty +with a yearning, passionate heart, and yet with a kind of terror; of the +rich, incalculable, undisciplined nature, with all its capricious and +self-willed power, its fastidious demands, its practical weakness; the +man's brilliance and his folly. She envisaged herself laden with the +responsibility of being his wife; and it seemed to her beyond her strength. +One moment he appeared to her so much above and beyond her that it was +ridiculous he should stoop to her. The next she felt, as it were, the +weight of his life upon her hands, and told herself that she could not bear +it. + +And then--and then--it was all very well, but if she had not come--if +Eleanor had never seen her-- + +Her head fell back into a mossy corner of the rock. Her eyes were blind +with tears. From the hill came the rumble of an ox-waggon with the shouts +of the drivers. + +But another sound was nearer; the sound of a man's step upon the path. An +exclamation--a leap--and before she could replace the hat she had taken +off, or hide the traces of her tears, Manisty was beside her. + +She sat up, staring at him in a bewildered silence. He too was +silent,--only she saw the labouring of his breath. + +But at last-- + +'I will not force myself upon you,' he said, in a voice haughty and +self-restrained, that barely reached her ears. 'I will go at once if you +bid me go.' + +Then, as she still said nothing, he came nearer. + +'You don't send me away?' + +She made a little despairing gesture that said, 'I can't!'--but so sadly, +that it did not encourage him. + +'Lucy!'--he said, trembling--'are you going to take the seal off my +lips--to give me my chance at last?' + +To that, only the answer of her eyes,--so sweet, so full of sorrow. + +He stooped above her, his whole nature torn between love and doubt. + +'You hear me,' he said, in low, broken tones--'but you think yourself a +traitor to listen?' + +'And how could I not?' she cried, with a sudden sob. And then she found her +speech; her heart unveiled itself. + +'If I had never, never come!--It is my fault that she is dying--only, only +my fault!' + +And she turned away from him to hide her face and eyes against the rock, in +such an agony of feeling that he almost despaired. + +He controlled himself sharply, putting aside passion, collecting his +thoughts for dear life. + +'You are the most innocent, the most true of tender friends. It is in her +name that I say to you--Lucy, be kind! Lucy, dare to love me!' + +She raised her arm suddenly and pointed to the ground between them. + +'There'--she said under her breath, 'I see her there!--lying dead between +us!' + +He was struck with horror, realising in what a grip this sane and simple +nature must feel itself before it could break into such expression. What +could he do or say? + +He seated himself beside her, he took her hands by force. + +'Lucy, I know what you mean. I won't pretend that I don't know. You think +that I ought to have married my cousin--that if you had not been there, +I should have married her. I might,--not yet, but after some time,--it +is quite true that it might have happened. Would it have made Eleanor +happy? You saw me at the villa--as I am. You know well, that even as a +friend, I constantly disappointed her. There seemed to be a fate upon us +which made me torment and wound her when I least intended it. I don't +defend myself,--and Heaven knows I don't blame Eleanor! I have always +believed that these things are mysterious, predestined--matters of +temperament deeper than our will. I was deeply, sincerely attached to +Eleanor--yet!--when you came--after those first few weeks--the falsity of +the whole position flashed upon me. And there was the book. It seemed to me +sometimes that the only way of extricating us all was to destroy the book, +and--and--all that it implied--or might have been thought to imply,--' +he added hurriedly. 'Oh! you needn't tell me that I was a blundering and +selfish fool! We have all got into a horrible coil--and I can't pose before +you if I would. But it isn't Eleanor that would hold you back from me, +Lucy--it isn't Eleanor!--answer me!--you know that?' + +He held her almost roughly, scanning her face in an agony that served him +well. + +Her lips moved piteously, in words that he could not hear. But her hands +lay passive in his grasp; and he hastened on. + +'Ever since that Nemi evening, Lucy, I have been a new creature. I will +tell you no lies. I won't say that I never loved any woman before you. I +will have no secrets from you--you shall know all, if you want to know. But +I do say that every passion I ever knew in my first youth seems to me now a +mere apprenticeship to loving you! You have become my life--my very heart. +If anything is to be made of a fellow like me--it's you that'll give me a +chance, Lucy. Oh! my dear--don't turn from me! It's Eleanor's voice speaks +in mine--listen to us both!' + +Her colour came and went. She swayed towards him, fascinated by his voice, +conquered by the mere exhaustion of her long struggle, held in the grasp of +that compulsion which Eleanor had laid upon her. + +Manisty perceived her weakness; his eyes flamed; his arm closed round her. + +'I had an instinct--a vision,' he said, almost in her ear, 'when I set +out. The day dawned on me like a day of consecration. The sun was another +sun--the earth reborn. I took up my pilgrimage again--looking for Lucy--as +I have looked for her the last six weeks. And everything led me right--the +breeze and the woods and the birds. They were all in league with me. They +pitied me--they told me where Lucy was--' + +The low, rushing words ceased a moment. Manisty looked at her, took both +her hands again. + +'But they couldn't tell me'--he murmured--'how to please her--how to make +her kind to me--make her listen to me. Lucy, whom shall I go to for that?' + +She turned away her face; her hands released themselves. Manisty hardly +breathed till she said, with a trembling mouth, and a little sob now and +then between the words-- + +'It is all so strange to me--so strange and so--so doubtful! If there were +only someone here from my own people,--someone who could advise me! Is it +wise for you--for us both? You know I'm so different from you--and you'll +find it out perhaps, more and more. And if you did--and were discontented +with me--I can't be sure that I could always fit myself to you. I was +brought up so that--that--I can't always be as easy and pleasant as other +girls. My mother--she stood by herself often--and I with her. She was a +grand nature--but I'm sure you would have thought her extravagant--and +perhaps hard. And often I feel as though I didn't know myself,--what there +might be in me. I know I'm often very stubborn. Suppose--in a few years--' + +Her eyes came back to him; searching and interrogating that bent look of +his, in which her whole being seemed held. + +What was it Manisty saw in her troubled face that she could no longer +conceal? He made no attempt to answer her words; there was another language +between them. He gave a cry. He put forth a tender violence; and Lucy +yielded. She found herself in his arms; and all was said. + +Yet when she withdrew herself, she was in tears. She took his hand and +kissed it wildly, hardly knowing what she was doing. But her heart turned +to Eleanor; and it was Eleanor's voice in her ears that alone commanded and +absolved her. + + * * * * * + +As they strolled home, Manisty's mood was of the wildest and gayest. He +would hear of no despair about his cousin. + +'We will take her home--you and I. We will get the very best advice. It +isn't--it shan't be as bad as you think!' + +And out of mere reaction from her weeks of anguish, she believed him, she +hoped again. Then he turned to speculate on the voyage to America he must +now make, on his first interviews with Greyridge and Uncle Ben. + +'Shall I make a good impression? How shall I be received? I am certain you +gave your uncle the worst accounts of me.' + +'I guess Uncle Ben will judge for himself,' she said, reddening; thankful +all the same to remember that among her uncle's reticent, old-fashioned +ways none was more marked than his habit of destroying all but an +infinitesimal fraction of his letters. 'He read all those speeches of +yours, last year. You'll have to think--how you're going to get over it.' + +'Well, you have brought me on my knees to Italy,' he said, laughing. 'Must +I now go barefoot to the tomb of Washington?' + +She looked at him with a little smile, that showed him once more the Lucy +of the villa. + +'You do seem to make mistakes, don't you?' she said gently. But then +her hand nestled shyly into his; and without words, her heart vowed the +true woman's vow to love him and stand by him always, for better for +worse, through error and success, through fame or failure. In truth her +inexperience had analysed the man to whom she had pledged herself far +better than he imagined. Did her love for him indeed rest partly on a +secret sense of vocation?--a profound, inarticulate divining of his vast, +his illimitable need for such a one as she to love him? + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Eleanor and Reggie and Father Benecke waited breakfast on the +_loggia_. They were all under the spell of a common excitement, a common +restlessness. + +Eleanor had discarded her sofa. She moved about the _loggia_, now looking +down the road, now gathering a bunch of rose-pink oleanders for her white +dress. The _frou-frou_ of her soft skirts; her happy agitation; the flush +on her cheek;--neither of the men who were her companions ever forgot them +afterwards. + +Manisty, it appeared, had taken coffee with Father Benecke at six, and had +then strolled up the Sassetto path with his cigarette. Lucy had been out +since the first church bells. Father Benecke reported his meeting with her +on the road. + +Eleanor listened to him with a sort of gay self-restraint. + +'Yes--I know'--she said, nodding--'I know.--Reggie, there is a glorious +tuft of carnations in that pot in the cloisters. Ask Mamma Doni if we may +have them. _Ecco_--take her a _lira_ for the baby. I must have them for the +table.' + +And soon the little white-spread breakfast-table, with it rolls and fruit, +was aglow with flowers, and a little bunch lay on each plate. The _loggia_, +was in _festa_; and the morning sun flickered through the vine-leaves on +the bright table, and the patterns of the brick floor. + +'There--there they are!--Reggie!--Father!--leave me a minute! Quick--into +the garden! We will call you directly.' + +And Reggie, looking back with a gulp from the garden-stairs, saw her +leaning over the _loggia_, waving her handkerchief; the figure in its light +dress, tossed a little by the morning breeze, the soft muslin and lace +eddying round it. + +They mounted. Lucy entered first. + +She stood on the threshold a moment, looking at Eleanor with a sweet and +piteous appeal. Then her young foot ran, her arms opened; and with the +tender dignity of a mother rejoicing over her child Eleanor received her on +her breast. + + * * * * * + +By easy stages Manisty and Lucy took Mrs. Burgoyne to England. At the end +of August Lucy returned to the States with her friends; and in October she +and Manisty were married. + +Mrs. Burgoyne lived through the autumn; and in November she hungered so +pitifully for the South that by a great effort she was moved to Rome. +There she took up her quarters in the house of the Contessa Guerrini, who +lavished on her last days all that care and affection could bestow. + +Eleanor drove out once more towards the Alban hills; she looked once more +on the slopes of Marinata and the white crown of Monte Cavo; the Roman +sunshine shed round her once more its rich incomparable light. In December +Manisty and Lucy were expected; but a week before they came she died. + +A German Old Catholic priest journeyed from a little town in Switzerland to +her burial; and a few days later the two beings she had loved stood beside +her grave. They had many and strong reasons to remember her; but for one +reason above all others, for her wild flight to Torre Amiata, the +only selfish action of her whole life, was she--at least, in Lucy's +heart--through all the years that followed the more passionately, the more +tragically enthroned. + +FINIS + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Eleanor, by Mrs. Humphry Ward + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELEANOR *** + +***** This file should be named 9087-8.txt or 9087-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/0/8/9087/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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